There's pounding and yelling on her end of the line.
“I have to get back to work,” says Louise. “See you on Saturday.”
I return to the kitchen and report back to Mom. “Louise will be home on Saturday.”
Mom smiles as if she knew all along.
“She's moving into the basement because she sleeps better down there.” I make it a point not to add, “Away from all the kids.”
The phone rings and I fear that Louise has changed her mind. Maybe her boss offered her a raise. With her double-take good looks, I'm sure that Louise is good for business. There's no shortage of older men swooning over Louise who, with some makeup and heels, can easily pass for twenty-five.
“I'm going to kill him!” comes Bernard's voice. “He doesn't lift a finger unless Mother is watching. Meantime, she claims that his good looks are so natural—well, I found under-eye cream in the bathroom! I have a bad feeling about this one, Hallie.”
It's safe to assume he's talking about Darius. Mom is standing a few feet away and so I reply, “WWJD?” This is our code for, What Would Judy Do?
“I don't know—I'm so riled up I can't channel Judy Garland or Ethel Merman,” says Bernard. “What would you do?”
Pastor Costello's number at the church is next to the phone, and so I recite one of his favorite lines, “Hate the sin but not the sinner.”
“Thanks a lot!” says Bernard and hangs up.
However, Mom looks over at me and appears to be quite pleased, as if her lost sheep has returned to the flock.
FIFTY-FOUR
THE TOWN IS OVERBURDENED WITH SPRING. RAIN HAS LEFT THE grass bright green and as soft as velvet while the light falls in great sheets through the trees. The dandelions are in full flower, and among the bushes hover orange butterflies trimmed in black.
Mom now has enough energy to deal with Darlene and Davy when they come off the bus, and so I'm able to stay and work in the garden until late afternoon.
On Thursday I plant cucumbers, cauliflower, and green beans. Bernard has decided to start home pickling this summer. At around half past three cars begin pulling up and eleven-year-old girls skip toward the house. I assume that Troop Bernard is assembling for a crash course in braising, blanching, or bread making.
After an hour it begins to rain, and so I head inside to scrub up and collect Lillian. From the dining room I hear Bernard announcing, “Permit me, if you will, to quote that great British lady of screen and stage, Isabel Jeans, in the musical Gigi—‘Bad table manners have broken up more households than infidelity.’ ”
Peering through the archway I see ten girls seated around the table and four more in chairs set off to the sides. They wear white shirts or blouses with khaki pants or jeans, and a few have green sashes containing an array of badges and gold pins. Underneath their seats are thick Scout handbooks and small spiral notepads.
Hunched over a three-ring binder in the corner is a solitary boy hanging on to Bernard's every word. The table is set for a dinner party, complete with individual saltcellars, napkins folded like swans, and beeswax candles in the center. Bernard's hectic cheerfulness is infectious, and the kids lean forward with big smiles on their faces.
Olivia comes up behind me and we both watch as Bernard holds forth on the correct way to lay the silverware.
I whisper, “I thought the Girl Scouts are supposed to go camping and braid leather into key chains.”
“Not Bernard's troop,” says Olivia as we watch him demonstrate how to fold a napkin into a swan. “I think this is the closest they'll get to any actual wildlife. Besides, I'd much rather Bernard be a Girl Scout leader. They're very inclusive compared to the Boy Scouts.”
“What's with the boy in the corner?” I ask. He looks about two years younger than the girls.
“That's Andrew. His sister Gretchen is in the troop and claims that he has to come along because no one is home to watch him.” Olivia gives me a knowing look and then adds, “It would appear that Bernard has awakened Andrew's dinner party gene.”
I go into the kitchen, remove a chocolate Yoo-hoo from the fridge, and relax at the kitchen table for a moment. In the next room I can hear Bernard calling his troop to attention, “Listen up, ladies, gentlemen, undecideds.” He claps his hands. “We're working to create the appropriate atmosphere for a dinner party. Who can tell me why we dim the lights?”
“So people can't see the food,” says one girl.
I briefly choke on my Yoo-hoo and a little bit trickles out of my nose.
Bernard quickly retorts, “I hope that's not the case, Samantha, unless something has gone horribly wrong in the kitchen! But every cook knows that you can cover a number of errors and doubts beneath a good sauce.”
Another girlish voice chimes in, “To create the mood?”
“Yes,” Bernard enthuses. “In large part. And what else?”
“So we appear more attractive,” says Andrew.
“Indeed, indeed.” Bernard claps excitedly as if the boy has correctly answered the final question on a quiz show. “Because we often invite people we wish to impress—your future law firm colleagues or the parents of your significant other or—”
“But how do we know if he's the right one to be our husband?” a girl interrupts Bernard. “I mean, significant other.”
I imagine Bernard starting to stutter and turn red in the face. But he sails on effortlessly, without missing a beat. If anything, he becomes even more articulate.
“It's the same way you feel when you experience a piece of great art,” he says. “Giovanni Bellini's Madonna of the Trees, Giorgione's Sleeping Venus, or Mary Cassatt's The Mirror. Sometimes you feel disturbed by it, like Francisco de Goya's Disasters of War and Picasso's Guernica. And occasionally we desire a painting or piece of sculpture because we know that someone else wants it.”
“My mother says it's best to marry a doctor or a lawyer,” offers one girl.
“The thing to remember is that the right one is not necessarily the most expensive, raved about by the critics, or displayed in a gallery or museum. It might be at a local shop or even a garage sale. It doesn't matter if it's new or old, though of course you don't want to look foolish by having a child's toy.”
I'm quite certain this was said for Olivia's benefit, as Bernard emphasizes the last line.
Bernard dramatically wraps up his soliloquy. “It's the one that makes you feel good inside, and you know that if it hangs on your wall for the next sixty years you'll never become tired of it.”
First one tear falls onto the kitchen table and then another. It suddenly becomes crystal clear that I've gone and ruined the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Another young voice in the other room pipes up. “What's the right age to get married?”
“It's not like a soufflé. You can't time these things,” says Bernard. “Now let's concentrate for a moment on candles. The wicks must be trimmed to a quarter of an inch so flames aren't licking the ceiling and leaving black smoke on the brows of your guests.”
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes four times. “Where do the hours go?” asks Bernard. “Next week we'll be discussing proper skin care, and so everyone bring a pumice stone.”
FIFTY-FIVE
ON MONDAY MORNING I'M ABOUT TO LEAVE FOR THE STOCKTONS’ when Bernard calls and asks me to stop at his store. He's sold a tortoiseshell scent bottle over the Internet and says that June will have it all packed up.
I park in front of the plaque marking the spot where two generals faced off during the War of 1812. Something is different and I realize that the Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon next door has a new neon sign.
When I enter Bernard's shop, little bells tinkle above my head. The sound of New Age music more or less disguises the noise from all the clocks ticking. The harp and guitar combination is pleasant, but I can't help think that if you listen long enough your thoughts could conceivably turn to homicide.
June has frizzy purplish red hair that ends just above long complicated wind-ch
ime earrings. She's wearing a bright yellow knitted top over a diaphanous paisley peasant skirt with enough crystals suspended from her neck to ensure that at least one of them could paralyze Superman. June has a heavy hand with the cosmetics; it's safe to say that she doesn't just love gold-flecked purple eye shadow—she wants to marry it and have its children.
The shop is the same as ever except the glass case that was previously filled with cloisonné snuffboxes and silver cigarette cases is now home to black felt-covered trays holding different colored stones. And instead of the usual smell, which was basically your grandmother's living room, there's a forest aroma. I notice a few incense sticks burning on a refectory table that send curls of smoke into the air. June sits behind the counter bent over a piece of jewelry, using tweezers and a magnifying glass.
“Mmm, it smells nice in here,” I say.
June closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and exhales. “Roman chamomile.” She points to a little blue bottle that looks like it was designed to hold a magic potion in a movie about witches. “It helps maintain alertness. I'm a Pisces, and when entering a strong sign like Cancer I become very accident prone.”
I nod my head as if this makes perfect sense.
“What's your sign?” asks June.
“Oh, I'm not much of one for astrology.” I chuckle a little bit. “I mean, what if your mother has a caesarean and the doctor schedules it on a Thursday because he wants to play golf on Friday and that ends up changing your sign?”
June looks as if she's been startled by a burglar. “The soul is always born at exactly the right time, even if there's medical intervention involved! Were you a C-section?”
“Um, no. Actually, Mom says I was right on time—September eighth.”
“Virgo! How interesting! Virgos are creative, delicate, and intelligent.”
“I thought it meant virginal,” I say. Which is appropriate since I'm apparently destined for a life of celibacy. I may as well start signing myself “Sister Hallie.”
“It means that the sun shone in the sixth house of Virgo, which is an earth sign, on your birthday. So you're shy, like a virgin waiting to find the perfect lover. Virgos are responsible— you can always give a job to a Virgo and know that it will get done. And although you're idealistic, you're almost always logical when it comes to everyday life.”
“I guess that sounds like me.” I must admit, I'm rather intrigued.
“But you have to be careful that disappointment doesn't harden you into a cynic,” June warns.
She opens a large book next to Bernard's old-fashioned cash register, which wasn't employed for charm so much as that it doesn't keep a record of sales for the IRS. June turns to a complicated diagram and points to a particular section. “Your ruling planet is Mercury, your lucky colors are green and dark brown, and your lucky numbers are two, five, and seven.”
“How interesting,” I say.
“If you have an hour, we can do your chart,” June offers.
“What will that do?” I ask.
“Tell you more about yourself, your past lives, when you should make important decisions, when you shouldn't—those kinds of things.”
“Does it say what's going to happen to me in the future, like if I'm going to get married?”
“There are indications,” says June. “The romantic character of the Virgo is very complicated. Your heart can lead you into unpleasant situations and also from one affair to another. That's because you like to use your creativity and imagination in a relationship. If you're currently worried about a specific situation, then the best thing to do is wear a crystal to address that particular purpose.”
“I don't know, I should get going,” I say. “Bernard is waiting for that scent bottle so he can go to the post office.”
However, June is already removing some pendants from the display case. “You see, the essence of the body is energy, and crystals function as transformers and amplifiers of various energies that rebalance the system on a cellular level, as well as your emotional, mental, and spiritual levels.”
I'm skeptical that all this mumbo jumbo is simply an effort to make a sale.
June places a bright blue stone in my hand. “Clearing is the process of changing negative emotions into positive ones. Anyone who holds a crystal while experiencing bad energy can imprint those feelings onto the crystal. Repeat the following light invocation three times.” June clasps one of the crystals hanging from her neck, closes her eyes, and chants: “I invoke the Light within. I am a clear and perfect channel. Light is my guide.”
I look out the window to make sure that no one I know is walking by. And I certainly don't close my eyes or chant. But funnily enough, I also feel a tingling. Maybe it's from squeezing the stone so hard, or inhaling too much of the pine-heavy air.
“By the time you've completed the third repetition, the negative emotion should be gone!” June flips open her gold-flecked purple lids. “You see, negative emotions are transferred to the crystal, where they can no longer affect you. Bad energy, whether it's environmental or emotional, can cause you to separate from your body and feel disorientation.”
“That's it!” I practically shout. “I've felt separated from my body ever since my dad died!”
“You can ground yourself back to Mother Earth by being in tune with your crystal at all times.” She selects a few stones and opens a wooden box that contains silver jewelry settings. “I'll make you a pendant with a few different crystals, and that will bring the two yous back together.”
It's very tempting, but all this stuff looks expensive. “Thanks, but money is sort of tight right now.”
June appears horrified. “Don't be ridiculous! It's clear now that when my horoscope showed a stranger on the horizon and I was worried about something catastrophic happening, it actually meant that you were arriving with all of your bad energy! So this is quite a relief. No charge.”
June begins placing different stones into my hand one by one. The first is dark black, smooth, and shiny. She gives an explanation that sounds like an earth-science course taught by a teacher dropping acid.
“Black agate brings the Great Spirit into one's life and attracts good fortune. It also helps overcome fears and loneliness, and has even been known to remove jinxes. It's a hot stone, and so it encourages fertility.”
“I definitely don't think pregnancy would be a good idea at this moment in time.”
Undaunted, June replaces the black agate with a light purple stone. “Amethyst calms and protects the mind. It's called ‘nature's tranquilizer’ by many healers.”
I close my eyes and hold the stone in my hand. No matter how long my palm surrounds it I can still feel the coolness. “Yeah, this is a nice one.”
June is enthusiastic. “Amethyst is also very good for dealing with edginess, emotional despair, and ineffective communication.”
“Check, check, check,” I say.
June places a moss agate in my hand. The stone is dark grayish-green but translucent, with specks of minerals that look like moss or foliage. “This one increases trust and is good for freckled skin.”
“I don't feel anything, and freckles are the least of my problems right now.”
She exchanges the moss agate for a stone that is smooth and dark red.
“Red jasper facilitates astral travel and organization,” says June.
She can see from the look on my face that nothing is happening. June takes off the pendant from around her neck and removes a stunning pink crystal that captures the light from every angle. It's pale and pearly, like clouds at sunset. She places the crystal in the palm of my hand, closes my fingers around it, and bends my arm inward so that my hand is pressed against my chest.
“Rose quartz,” says June in a hushed voice. “It opens and soothes a wounded heart.”
My knees are suddenly weak and I think I'm going to cry.
June guides me to a nearby hoop-back Windsor armchair so that I can sit down before I fall down. I watch as June fashions
a necklace with the two stones on a black silk thread and then ties it around my neck.
“You have to let me pay you,” I insist.
“Good karma is my reward.”
“Don't you need the rose quartz for yourself?” I ask.
“Not anymore.” A big smile crosses June's face. “I've recently begun a new chapter in my romantic life and I'm ready to wear green aventurine. It's a prosperity stone that brings luck in love once you've found it.”
Exiting the store in a crystal-induced daze I completely forget about Bernard's package. June has to run out to the car and hand me the little box wrapped in brown paper. So much for Virgos being responsible.
FIFTY-SIX
OH MY PAULETTE GODDARD—JUNE GOT YOU!” SHOUTS BERNARD the moment I enter the house. “Take that nonsense off right now. You can't tell me that you actually believe in her spiritual claptrap.”
Olivia and Darius are reading the newspaper in the living room, and they both look up to see if I'm wearing an Indian headdress.
When Olivia spies the crystals around my neck, she says, “Leave Hallie alone!” Although there's none of the usual bickering warmth in her voice. Ever since Darius moved in, mother and son have become increasingly frosty toward each other.
The gravel crunches in the driveway and a taxi pulls up. Between people coming for Olivia's stash of morning-after pills that she freely distributes and Bernard's antique drop-offs and pickups, this is not unusual.
A short balding man pays the driver and collects his suitcase from the trunk.
“If it isn't Ottavio!” exclaims Bernard.
Only I get the feeling he's not nearly as surprised as he pretends to be.
Olivia rushes to the window. “What is he doing here?”
“He's here for Gil's birthday, of course,” says Bernard.
“That's not for another two months!” she replies.
“The airlines are so unpredictable,” counters Bernard.
Olivia is staring daggers at Bernard, and I honestly think she's considering sonicide. “That's it. We're leaving.”
The Big Shuffle Page 20
