We're surrounded by a yard that has exploded into a riot of summer. The birds bathe and splash in the low pool and have melodious arguments, accompanied by the constant thrum of insects. Shadows creep across the lawn and the quiet surface of the pool.
I honestly don't know what Bernard was hoping to accomplish by importing Ottavio. Well, I know what he was aiming for, but the scheme certainly failed—Olivia didn't exactly leap into Ottavio's arms now, did she?
“Itsa no use,” Ottavio finally says and looks up.
“Maybe you can do something to impress Olivia,” I suggest. “You know how she likes those Greek, I mean Roman, myths— something knightly, chivalrous.”
He's not getting it.
“You need to be a hero,” I explain.
“Ah si, eroe.”
Though I can't really think of any knightly quests appropriate for twenty-first-century Ohio. These days the really useful tasks—hooking up computers, programming cell phones, and downloading music off the Internet—are mostly undertaken by teenagers.
“Bernardo says he has idea,” announces Ottavio.
I'm aware that Olivia has agreed to come to Gil's birthday dinner and wonder if Bernard is planning to lock the two of them in a closet or else sprinkle their food with some sort of aphrodisiac.
I go inside and find Bernard busy chopping vegetables, slaving over steaming pots and sizzling woks while gaily singing “Blame It on My Youth.”
Bernard is smiling and in a wonderful mood. “Two cannibals were cooking dinner in a big pot out in the middle of the jungle and one says to the other, ‘I don't like my mother-in-law.’ The other cannibal replies, ‘So then just eat the vegetable.’ ”
I look around the kitchen for anything strange, but everything appears to be in order. The minute Olivia's cherry-red Buick pulls into the driveway, Bernard announces, “I forgot the bread.”
I offer to run to the bakery but Bernard insists that he'll go, though not before whispering to me, “The center cannot hold.”
“Huh?” I ask. “Can't hold what?”
“It's from William Butler Yeats's poem ‘The Second Coming,’ ” he says, and rushes out the back door.
There's something doubly mysterious about this errand, because in all the years I've known Bernard he's never forgotten anything for a party. The man has more lists for six people to come for dinner than most people make for an entire wedding. Just out of curiosity, I go into the kitchen and peek under the napkin covering the breadbasket. Sure enough—there are a dozen rolls.
When Bernard returns, we begin serving his version of a traditional Chinese dinner. While plating the dim sum he explains to us that in Cantonese these words mean, “To touch your heart.”
With Olivia and Ottavio not speaking to each other, the conversation lags slightly when Gil and Rocky go upstairs to put the girls to bed. Bernard takes the opportunity to regale us with a story about how the French singer Edith Piaf had once been a police suspect for the murder of her manager.
No one else really has a view on the matter so Bernard turns to ridiculing my T-shirt, which happens to be a giveaway from a pool installation company.
“Hallie, didn't you ever play dress-up as a child and put on your mother's clothes, makeup, and jewelry?” asks Bernard.
“Can't say that I did.”
“That was you, Bernard,” Olivia says icily.
We have a delicious German chocolate cake for dessert, which is Gil's favorite. Fortunately he managed to nix the green tea ice cream and honey walnuts that Bernard had originally planned.
I offer everyone coffee, but Olivia rises and announces that she'd better get going, seeing that she has to drive home. She and Ottavio exchange a terse farewell.
Just as his mother is leaving, Bernard appears in the front hall with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Oh Mother, I thought you'd be interested to know that Darius is wanted in Athens for arson.”
“That's a lie!” declares Olivia.
“Scout's honor.” Bernard puts up three fingers on his right hand. “It's all here—the report from the insurance company, an arrest warrant, a prior conviction for a hotel fire. I've even gone to the trouble of having everything translated into English for you.”
Olivia switches the hall light on and looks carefully at the papers, as if it would not surprise her in the slightest if Bernard had hired someone to create all these documents on a computer just for the purpose of chasing Darius off. “And exactly how did these come into your possession?”
It just so happens that Baron Von Boogenhagen is very popular with some prominent antiques dealers in Athens, and they were more than happy to do a little research in exchange for the baron's advice on a few matters.
But rather than thank Bernard for all his hard work, Olivia hurls the papers at him and storms off to her car.
He glances down at his watch and says, “She'll be back.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
Bernard stands in the vestibule staring out at the empty driveway, watching the cloud of dust settle. Suddenly he doesn't look nearly as pleased with himself, but actually rather sad. “Because this is her home.”
SIXTY-ONE
BERNARD WASN'T KIDDING. I'VE JUST FINISHED DOING THE dishes and putting away the platters when a car pulls into the driveway.
Olivia tosses a black leather case onto the couch and opens the lid to reveal two antique pistols resting on a lining of plush but worn blue velvet. “What are these?” she demands to know.
“Why, they would appear to be pistols,” says Bernard.
“And this?” she waves a piece of paper in Bernard's face.
“I believe that's a note challenging Darius to a duel with Ottavio at sunrise,” he says calmly.
“A duel ?” Olivia repeats incredulously.
“Well, of course,” says Bernard. “That's the way two gentlemen typically resolve their claims on a lady.”
“Bernard, you can't manipulate people's emotions,” Olivia states sternly.
“I'd never do anything of the sort,” insists Bernard. “Wasn't it your beloved Franklin Delano Roosevelt who said, ‘Remember you're just an extra in everyone else's play’?”
Olivia scowls at him the way she does whenever Bernard uses his mother's own favorite quotes against her.
“Please, Mother, you can't make me believe that you're going to stand by a convicted criminal!”
Ottavio enters the room and appears puzzled, though I can't tell if it's a language barrier or the actual drama that he finds confusing.
“Ottavio, did you challenge Darius to a duel?” asks Olivia, rather brusquely.
“Non!” answers Ottavio, and frantically waves his hands in front of his chest while looking at the pistols.
“I didn't think so,” says Olivia.
“What's the big deal?” asks Bernard. “It was a little joke. I'll call Darius right now and apologize.”
However, I detect a gleam in Bernard's eye.
“Darius is gone!” states Olivia.
“Then when he gets back,” says Bernard, oozing nonchalance.
“He's left for good,” says Olivia.
“Oh my!” Bernard claps his hand to his mouth. “If he's absconded, then you'd better check your valuables.”
“Nothing is missing,” says Olivia. “Only your head is going to be missing, Bernard, you snake in the grass, you …”
“I believe it was Winston Churchill who so famously said, ‘We are all worms. But I do believe I am a glow-worm.’ ”
Olivia, normally the one with a quotable quote for every occasion and situation is speechless.
Ottavio uses the moment of silence to produce out of his pocket the engagement ring that Olivia used to wear.
“Per piacere Oh-leevia!” Ottavio drops down before her on bended knee. “Mi dispiace!”
“Oh Ottavio, not now!” Olivia turns and heads out the door again.
Ottavio dashes after her.
However, I notice that this time sh
e doesn't immediately get into her car. In fact, they turn at the side of the house and walk in the direction of the gardens. And why not? The night air is warm and fragrant and full of cricket concerts and frog serenades.
SIXTY-TWO
THE COUNTY FAIR SETS UP SHOP EIGHT MILES NORTH OF TOWN the last week in August, as it's been doing for over a hundred years. Attending the fair has been a Palmer family tradition as far back as I can remember.
Mom says that she's going, but over breakfast changes her mind. I suppose it's because Dad isn't here and she's afraid that it will only make her sad. Mom has never missed a fair. In fact, the first set of twins, Darlene and Davy, were almost born there when they arrived five weeks early. As Dad liked to tell the story, they went directly from the midway to the maternity ward.
We all clamber into the minivan following a big lunch at home, the thinking being that we'll save money on food and still get to enjoy the fair at night when all the lights are on. I review the troops and decide that between Louise and Teddy and me, we should be able to handle Darlene, Davy, Francie, and Lillian.
As soon as the Ferris wheel comes into sight the kids are squirming and ready to jump out of the car. “Don't unlock the doors until we're parked!” I yell at them at least three times.
Teddy disappears the second I hand him ten dollars, and the moment Louise sees a gang of her friends she begs to go and join them. The little kids, of course, want to go on all the rides first thing.
After being twirled and flown around in miniature airplanes and rocked and smashed in small boats, they're finally ready for some of the more tranquil pursuits the fair has to offer. We head to where the contests are held for dung throwing, best bread, biggest boar, and longest beard (45 inches). The kids marvel at the 875-pound pumpkin and the chickens with wild hairdos. In the refrigerator gallery a big crowd is gathered around 600 pounds of butter sculpted into a motorcycle on one side and the Last Supper on the other. I can only imagine what kind of remark Bernard would have for that—the things you see when you don't have a blowtorch.
Then it's time for snacks, which consist of everything you can shake a stick at on a stick, as Dad used to say. There are pickles, sausage, pork chops, and caramel apples. The men and women serving grilled corn wear caps and T-shirts that say, i’m so corny. Then there's the hiss, fizzle, and splatter coming from the enormous vat of oil that produces the kids’ favorites— deep-fried Twinkies and Snickers bars. I'm more of a funnel cake person myself.
Davy orders a blue Slushee and then he can't hold his Twinkie, so while I'm carrying the drink for him, Darlene knocks into my leg and it spills down my shirt. Now it looks as if I have blue vomit all down my front.
We pass by the tent where the gospel choir alternates singing “It's Me, O Lord” and “Give Me the Wings of Faith” with a fiery sermon by one of those hell-and-damnation revival preachers attempting to convert the sinning masses. Oddly enough, it's right next to the beer tent, where men (and a few women) regularly stumble out and appear disoriented for a moment as they shield their eyes from the bright afternoon light.
Next stop is the Mooternity Barn and the Swine Shed, which is a collection of stalls and pens that house livestock of the bovine and porcine variety. People stand by their animals wearing cowboy boots and work boots—real ones, the kind used for riding and roping, not for creating a fashion statement.
This is where Eric used to hang out, trying to make time with the farm girls. In the first aisle we run into Gwen's younger brother Billy, who won a prize for the steer he raised on their farmette, only now he's miserable because it's going to be slaughtered. Gwen's parents are both trying to console Billy. His grandfather has even offered to buy the beast, but apparently such interventions are against the rules.
“Glad you could all make it,” says Mr. Thompson. “Your dad was always a judge for the heifers.”
“A blessed memory,” says Mrs. Thompson. I assume she's referring to my dad and not all the cows that ended up as hamburger.
“He was a darn good judge, and we miss him,” says Mr. Thompson.
Dad had grown up on a farm and was regularly asked to be a livestock judge because no one in our family entered the competition. And Mom was always invited to judge the baked goods. When people asked why she didn't enter her own delicious pies and cakes, Mom always joked that with so many children underfoot they didn't last long enough to make it to the fairgrounds. Fortunately for us, this was the truth. Mom had surmounted the number one curse of baking—if it looks good then it must taste bad, and vice versa.
Davy and Francie pet the steer very gently, as if it has the same low threshold for being mauled by children as the kitten. Gwen's uncle Vernon and her aunt Sharon arrive with some shish kebabs for the family. The minute Uncle Vernon sees my little brother and sisters he tosses out one of his famous (for being bad) jokes that he's collected over the years as an elementary-school gym teacher. “Hey there, in what school do you learn to greet people?”
“Cow school?” guesses Davy.
“Horse school?” Francie also proceeds along the barnyard line of thinking.
“Good try!” Uncle Vernon says to both of them with such enthusiasm that you'd think they'd just answered correctly and won a million dollars. “But the answer is Hi school! Get it?”
I can tell that Uncle Vernon is gearing up for another twenty jokes, so I quickly announce that we'd better see if Jane is with her mom in the handicrafts barn. In truth I know that Jane would rather be dead than get caught up with the Mad Quilters, as she calls them. However, we use the excuse to move on. Outside the barn you can pay five dollars to ride in a buggy pulled by enormous golden Clydesdale horses with creamy white manes.
Admittedly, the handicrafts barn is pretty boring, but it's a good place to finish digesting all the food we've eaten. A dozen or so older women are quilting at a big table in the center. On the surrounding tables are cakes, jams, soufflés, jars of pickles, and quiches, many waiting to judged, some already displaying ribbons. These are interspersed with trophies for cherry preserves, given that it's the fruit for which the county claims to be famous. Along the far side of the barn Mennonite women in long gray dresses and white bonnets run a stand selling pies, but otherwise keep to themselves, and when not taking care of business they congregate in tents behind the barns.
Jane's mom is working at a booth showing quilted bags and embroidered pillows. They say stuff like, OLD LAWYERS NEVER
DIE, THEY JUST LOSE THEIR APPEAL and I'D RATHER BE SEWING.
Her own T-shirt is hand stitched with the words, SEW MANY QUILTS, SEW LITTLE TIME. I ask if Jane is around, and Mrs. Thompson reports that she's playing Skee-Ball next to the gallery with the artwork made from seeds. Jane has a Skee-Ball addiction that's definitely more serious than any penchant I might have for playing poker.
After determining that the food is firmly anchored in the kids’ stomachs, I allow them to go on the pony rides. Then we watch a pie-eating contest and are surprised to see a petite Asian woman beat a very large man for the grand prize.
Inspired by watching all that consumption, the kids beg me for cotton candy. Lillian is tired and I carry her while Davy and Francie pull at each other's pink and blue cones. Suddenly I spot Craig holding hands with Megan, heading directly toward us. Megan O'rourke. I should have known. She's been after Craig since high school, at least according to Gwen. I hope she's happy with her sloppy seconds.
There's only an instant to decide whether to grab the kids and quickly turn around, or to stay where we are, in which case they'll surely see me. Looking down at the blue Slushee all over my T-shirt and the general grubbiness of our merry little band of fairgoers I decide to try and hide. However, Megan sees me and starts waving. There's no choice but to wait for them to pass by.
It's an awkward moment when we all say “Hello.” I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that Lillian has pulled out half my ponytail while I was carrying her and that I probably have powdered sugar stuck to my face, in additio
n to the stained clothes. Meantime Megan looks perfect in a filmy powder-blue silk blouse and an immaculate white skirt that is shrink-wrap tight. She politely asks us to join them. I say that we have to help Jane's mom in the handicrafts barn because she's showing one of her quilts. What a stupid lie—how do you help someone show a quilt?
Craig and Megan continue in the direction of the midway. A buzzer goes off a few feet away and it startles me. A booming voice yells that he'll guess anyone's weight and if he's off by two pounds they win a prize. A woman goes by with a display of pinwheels and helium balloons. I look down and Francie is gone!
“Where is she?” I holler at Darlene and Davy. One points vaguely in the direction of the midway and the other toward the restrooms, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. We search for twenty minutes and then head to the main office. Sure enough, Francie is sitting there eating a Popsicle and happily petting someone's rabbit.
I scold her for getting lost and suggest that if we can't stick together then maybe we should go home. The kids beg to stay for the fireworks and swear on their favorite toys not to get lost again. As we walk out of the aid station the merry-go-round kicks up its dizzying theme song. Coming around the corner I see someone who looks like Mom. It is Mom.
“I was hoping to find you!” she says, smiling.
We hurry over, and the kids all yell at once about the rides and the pie-eating contest. Fortunately no one finds the fact that Francie got lost exciting enough to include in their report.
Pastor Costello appears carrying two sugar waffles. “Your mom was all alone, and so I suggested we come look for you,” he says cheerfully, and some powdered sugar spills down his T-shirt, which says: JESUS—THE ORIGINAL SUPERMAN.
“Hallie, maybe you can go and catch up with some of your friends,” suggests Mom. “We'll take the children.”
“I wouldn't mind seeing if Jane is still in the arcade,” I say.
As we part ways it registers in a corner of my mind that Mom looks rather happy. I'm glad that she came to the fair. Pastor Costello has been so good to us. And I decide here and now that I should stop feeling sorry for myself. Things could be a lot worse. With the little bit of insurance money, Dad's modest pension, and social security, Mom will never be wealthy, but we'll manage.
The Big Shuffle Page 22
