“Bernard is working on the costumes and in quite a mood,” says Gil. “Apparently a few of the cast members were overly conservative when e-mailing their measurements.”
Gil's eyes fall on Louise. “Let me borrow you for Emily. In fact, you're exactly the right age.”
“I don't know anything about acting,” says Louise.
Gil guides her off and a moment later I hear, “Okay everybody, Act One, page thirty, Mrs. Webb and Emily are on stage next to the trellis. Emily, please begin with ‘Mama, will you answer me a question.’ ”
Normally I block out whatever is happening on stage, because they end up repeating the lines a million times and it drives me crazy. But I listen now because it's funny to hear Louise's familiar voice.
“Mama, will you answer me a question, serious?” asks Louise as Emily.
A woman replies, “Seriously, dear—not serious.”
“Mama, am I good-looking?” asks Emily.
“Yes, of course you are,” says the woman.
I stop what I'm doing and walk around to the back of the auditorium. Bernard and Gil are obviously having a similar epiphany as their eyes are fixed upon Louise, dressed in acid-washed jeans and a fitted T-shirt, but nonetheless poised, glamorous, and exuding star quality.
Heading back to my scenery I have a sneaking suspicion that we won't be hearing the name Paula Malone again anytime soon.
SEVENTY-SIX
BY THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER I'M FINISHING UP WITH THE YARD. After a solid week of raking, the house and garage are no longer engulfed by a tidal wave of dead leaves. It's not so pleasant to be outside anymore with sharp gusts of wind from the east and low, slate-gray skies that are nature's version of a hangover.
With not much left to do, I decide to set up the little greenhouse, which we've basically ignored for the past two years. Only when I go into the shed to see if that stack of small clay pots is still tucked away in the back corner I discover that the lawn mower is gone.
I can tell from all the cars with their engines waiting out front that Bernard is finishing up one of his Girl Scout meetings, and so I go inside to see if he knows anything about the missing mower.
Troop Bernard is gathered in the living room, and he's announcing that the next three meetings will be dedicated to holiday meals, music, and traditions. “Everyone wear skirts next week in order to practice sitting down properly.”
Bernard points to his one boy participant and says, “Andrew, you'll of course wear a suit.” This comes out not so much as reminder than a polite note of caution. The girls giggle and Bernard chastises them, “Wait and see, you'll all be fighting over Andrew soon enough.” Though if it will be as best friend, emergency date, extra man, or future interior decorator, Bernard doesn't make clear. “And on Saturday night everyone is welcome to come over and learn how to make cranapple pie and watch Grace Kelly in High Society.”
The kids pack their bags and put on their coats. However, Bernard suddenly claps his hands as if he's forgotten something important. “And ladies, how long should our skirts be?”
“Knee length,” one girl offers, though there's a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Anyone else?” asks Bernard.
Andrew raises his hand.
“Please proceed to enlighten us, Andrew,” says Bernard.
“Long enough to cover the parts but short enough to keep it interesting,” the boy states with conviction.
“Well done,” says Bernard. “Forget what all the magazines are showing and work with your natural figure, not against it.”
Following Bernard into the kitchen I ask him, “What's the story with Andrew? Is he an F.O.B.?” That's our code for Friend of Bernard.
“I'd hazard to say more of a B.I.T—Bernard in Training. With the way the world is these days, a little more gaiety might be just the thing.”
“You didn't by any chance borrow the lawn mower to use it as a centerpiece or something?” I ask. “I'd hate to think that I misplaced it.”
“Ottavio must have taken it into town,” says Bernard. “He has so many speeding tickets that they finally suspended his license.”
I guess I'm not surprised by this news. The only driving laws that Ottavio seems to follow are the laws of physics.
“So these girls don't mind that you've hijacked their Girl Scout troop and turned it into some sort 1950s cooking and etiquette class?”
“There's now a waiting list to get in. Although one child's grandmother pays her twenty dollars for every meeting she attends. Grand-mère feels it's a bargain for finishing school.”
“But aren't they supposed to learn how to tie knots and survive in the woods?”
“I think flower arranging comes in handy considerably more than knot tying. Why, when I took the poor creatures under my wing, they couldn't tell the difference between silver and silver plate! And I hardly think they'll need to know how to find what side of a tree moss is growing on so much as when to use oregano versus paprika.”
Olivia enters the kitchen from her den and says, “I see that Bernard is describing some of the new badges he's added to the scouting curriculum.”
“But aren't there existing guidelines?” I ask.
“Scouting is very much up for interpretation,” says Bernard. “Just look at Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scouts. He specialized in putting on Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, loved playing women's roles on the stage, for which he made his own dresses, and designed embroidery patterns for the wives of army officers.”
“You've forgotten the most important thing, Bernard,” says Olivia.
“That he was an early fan of scented soap and enjoyed choosing fabrics and furnishings?”
“No, silly.” Olivia places her hand on Bernard's arm. “He gave his mother the credit for all of his success!”
“Very funny, Mother,” says Bernard and carefully lifts her hand off his arm. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to work on the Thanksgiving menu.”
“Oh Bernard, please don't have a turkey this year,” says Olivia. “Poultry animals are excluded from the humane slaughter laws.”
“Not to worry, Mother,” says Bernard. “We'll have plenty of vegetarian dishes for you and your kind.”
“That's not the point,” Olivia states firmly. “Massive animal factories produce those turkeys. Thousands of them are crammed together in a single shed with less than three square feet of space apiece.”
Bernard flees toward the basement with Olivia shouting after him, “Gandhi said a nation's progress can be judged by how they treat their animals!”
“Well, I say that if you eat too many natural foods, then you'll soon die of natural causes!” he calls up the stairs.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
THE THIRD WEEK IN NOVEMBER ERIC ARRIVES HOME WITH HIS girlfriend, Elizabeth, for Thanksgiving. After great hesitation, Mom has finally accepted the invitation to dinner at the Stocktons’. Now that the basement playroom is finished, Bernard is planning to have a separate table for the children down there.
When all twelve of us pour through the Stocktons’ front door, the scene is not unlike opening day at a Six Flags amusement park. Because dinner isn't until half past five, Pastor Costello joins us after he finishes presiding over the church supper in the early afternoon. Bernard has organized it so that my mother and Pastor Costello will sit in the dining room with the grown-ups while he and I take charge of the basement.
The new playroom is an explosion of Hello Kitty, from the wall coverings, beanbag chairs, and throw pillows, right down to the toilet seat and tissue holder in the bathroom. Bernard's plan for a more Chinese feel of “pastels and peonies” was heavily vetoed, though he claims that Hello Kitty still counts as Asian culture because it's originally a Japanese design. Yeah, and Euro-Disney is French.
Once all the kids are gathered in the basement it's a madhouse
My little brothers and sisters are faced with a whole new array of toys, while Rose and little Gigi have a fresh set of rambuncti
ous playmates.
“Don't worry, it's all childproof,” Bernard reassures me.
“Oh really.” I point to where Francie is climbing the side of the hot water tank. “Including that?”
“Whoa!” Bernard races over and gently brings her back down to the floor.
Bernard has set a nice table for the kids with ceramic turkeys as centerpieces, and we serve from warming trays plugged in underneath the stairs.
The kids dive into their turkey, as they can't wait to get back to Bernard's indoor jungle gym complete with a slide. Just as they're finishing up, Gil calls down the stairs, “Pastor Costello will be there to say grace in just a minute.”
Bernard and I look at each other as if to say, Oops!
I run up the stairs and fetch the baby walkie-talkies. Placing one on the dining room table I tell Pastor Costello that he can just say one grace and we'll listen from downstairs. That way his food won't get cold.
“Ah, like we put the speakers in the narthex on Christmas Eve.” He nods approvingly. Anything to help spread the word more efficiently is viewed as a welcome innovation.
When I arrive back downstairs, Pastor Costello launches into how thankful we should be. There are two pauses when I think he's finally finished, but it turns out he's just catching his breath. If this were an award show, the band would have started playing him off a while ago.
Finally Pastor Costello concludes by saying, “We make a living by what we earn, but we make a life by what we give. Amen.”
Through the intercom I'm pretty sure that I hear Olivia conclude with, “Ah-women.”
Bernard says, “I'm impressed—Winston Churchill.”
“What?” I say.
“We make a living by what we earn but we make a life by what we give.”
“I just assumed it was Jesus.”
Now that the kids are done, we fill our plates. Bernard's food is a real treat. He's made pumpkin dip with pita toast, mushroom bisque, arugula and goat cheese salad, sausage and sage stuffing, maple-glazed butternut squash, baked leeks in mustard cream, mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and fresh horseradish, and, there's no escaping it, Chinese eggplant purée on daikon rounds. There's also a vegetarian dressing of apple and walnut for Olivia and any other vegetarians, though I don't know what she's supposed to dress since she doesn't eat turkey. We're just lucky she hasn't started in with her description of how faster assembly lines cause more fecal material to get on the carcasses and so thirty-six percent of turkeys are infected with salmonella.
When Olivia attempted to feel out Pastor Costello for his views on the unnecessary slaughter of animals, he happily replied, “I love all of God's creatures, especially with mashed potatoes.”
I wouldn't have thought that Pastor Costello would be such a hit as a dinner guest, but when I go upstairs to the kitchen, more often than not he's telling a story and everybody around the table is laughing like crazy. At one point Bernard and I happen to be listening in on the baby walkie-talkie while Pastor Costello is speaking, obviously after enjoying more than a communion portion of wine. This story is about how he did a funeral where the deceased fancied himself quite the woodworker and made his own coffin, only to have the bottom fall out as the pallbearers carried it out of the church. Everyone upstairs erupts into gales of laughter. Bernard is splitting his sides as well, though I think it's more from Pastor Costello's use of the word folderol and describing the body and casket as “the whole shebang.”
Bernard tells me about a funeral he recently attended for one of his customers, an avid collector of Art Nouveau ashtrays, who died at age ninety-nine and was a chain smoker since the age of fifteen. “Guess what music her children had played after the service?” he asks.
“‘Memories’?” I guess.
“No,” says Bernard. “ ‘When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes!’ ” He pounds the table as he laughs at the thought of it.
Finally we bundle the kids up against the cold and head for home. Thanksgiving worked out okay, and I wasn't constantly imagining Dad standing at the head of the table carving the turkey. It's Christmas that I'm really dreading.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
TO THE KIDS, THANKSGIVING BEING OVER MEANS ONE THING AND one thing only—Santa will be here soon.
“How long until Santa comes?” Lillian asks first thing the following morning.
“A month,” I say.
“What's a month?”
I sit down with the younger kids and we write letters to Santa. Lillian draws a picture of herself surrounded by dolls. According to the rest of the letters, this past year I've had the pleasure of living with model children, i.e., Santa, I have been very very good!
“Since Santa knows everything, don't you think an honest appraisal would be better rewarded?” I ask them. “What if Santa calls and asks me if you've been good all the time? I just don't think I could lie to him.”
They all take back their letters and add a postscript in tiny letters saying that they've been bad sometimes.
“But there's a middle category,” announces Francie. “Right, Hallie? It's not just naughty or nice.”
“Let me say that I have known children to be very far down on the nice list at the beginning of December and by Christmas Eve they were at the top. So yes, there's still plenty of time to be good, if that's what you're wondering.”
“What are you asking Santa for?” Francie peers over at Darlene's letter.
Darlene covers her letter with her arm. “You're not fupposed to tell, other than when you whithper it into Fanta's ear.”
“Just remember what I said about the twins,” I remind them all.
“There were lotth of twinth born thif year and tho we can only athk for one thing a piece,” recites Darlene.
“That's right. If you ask for more than one thing, Santa won't have enough gifts and somewhere a child won't get a present.”
Davy says, “I don't believe in Santa anymore.”
“Don't be stupid,” says Francie. “Uncle Lenny is Santa. That's why he left—to go back to the North Pole and make toys for Christmas.”
“Once there was a boy in my class who didn't believe in Santa,” I say. “But I'd rather not tell you about him since the story has a very sad ending.”
“What happened?” Darlene and Francie both demand to know.
“Well … he woke up in the morning and there were lots of presents for his brothers and sisters but none for him.”
“I was just kidding,” says Davy.
“You were not!” says Francie. “Santa is going to know.”
Davy frowns and appears worried.
“No, he won't, because he'll get Davy's letter.” I scoop up the correspondence addressed to the North Pole for “mailing.”
Together we choose a tree from the lot at the edge of town and set it up in the usual place in the living room. Then on Sunday after church the kids string colored popcorn and cranberries to decorate it and add the various handmade ornaments that have accumulated over the years. There's a tendency to eat more popcorn than we string, and most of the cranberries are used for wars. Meanwhile, the cat becomes infatuated with a snowball made out of tinfoil and knocks the entire tree over while attempting to play with it. The kids scream and I hoist the pine tree back into place.
I decide against the outdoor lights this year. They'll only make the electric bill go sky high. And the neighbors appear to have us covered. It's like the arms race out there—the Lochlans installed a sleigh with reindeer on the roof while the Kozlowskis have what must be the entire North Pole on their front lawn, complete with a sound track of toys being hammered and elves (actually the Seven Dwarfs) singing “Whistle While You Work.” A pilot would be hard pressed to tell the difference between the Kozlowskis’ yard and the municipal airport a few miles away.
SEVENTY-NINE
GIL WAS CERTAINLY RIGHT ABOUT EVERYBODY COMING TO SEE Our Town. On opening night I'm backstage adjusting the scenery as the house fills up.
While Louise worries abou
t her makeup, I worry that since the Catholic Youth Organization has started rehearsing their Christmas pageant here, the little town of Bethlehem is going to suddenly drop down onstage, rather than Grover's Corners.
I'm straightening the map for the opening scene when I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. Bernard is in his tuxedo.
“You look like a groom!” I say.
“Bride or stable?” he asks.
I'm in my denim stagehand overalls, and Gil is wearing his director's outfit of a black turtleneck with black wool slacks. The stage manager shouts for everyone to take their places and the houselights dim.
“There isn't one empty seat,” I tell him excitedly.
That doesn't change the fact that its Our Town, says Bernard. “The theater is supposed to help us escape!”
“But practically the whole town is here,” I say.
“Of course they are,” Bernard says grimly, “it's about the horrible pointless lives of people in a small town.”
Bernard wishes us all luck and heads out to his place in the audience. He likes to sit in the last row so that he can see how the costumes work from far back.
The orchestra strikes up and the audience falls silent. The curtain rises and the Narrator begins his speech about the predictable rhythms of the town. That's when I spot Mr. Phillips fumbling around near the props. Mr. Phillips plays the drunk choir director Simon Stimson, and he's been getting more convincing with every rehearsal, to the point that tonight I could actually smell whiskey on his breath. Suddenly he trips and sends the baby Jesus, which has a skateboard as its base, flying out onto the stage.
Fortunately the Narrator is on his toes, literally, and stops the skidding baby Jesus by extending his boot and, without missing a beat, continues, “Right here's a big butternut tree, and over here is the baby Jesus from the annual Christmas pageant put on by the CYO.” Then he goes right back to the script, talking about how no one remarkable has ever come out of the town. It's such a masterful transition that at least a few audience members must think it was part of the play.
The Big Shuffle Page 27
