We hang back. “Watch out, Grandma!” I call.
Copernicus Street is famous for its double U-turns. That’s where a car going up the street makes a U-turn at the same time as a car going down the street. They slow down, then crisscross around each other in the middle of the intersection. It’s a kind of traffic ballet – a stately circle dance.
That’s what’s going on now. Only now there’s another ballerina onstage. Grandma. And she doesn’t know the dance.
“What the shell is going on?” She glares at the nearest driver. He has one of those ugly old cars, big as a boat. His window is rolled down, so he can call out to someone he knows on the street.
“Hey, axle!” That’s what it sounds like Grandma calls him. “Watch where you’re going!”
The driver stares at her. He has a cigar in his mouth, and it hangs out at a ludicrous angle. His car keeps coming. It’s getting close to Grandma.
She hoists the tree onto her shoulder. Good thing it’s a small tree. It’s between her and the big old ugly car. The car keeps coming. Closer and closer. Is it going to run her over? I’d be trying to get out of the way, but Grandma doesn’t. She stands her ground. When the car is close enough, she lunges forward and sticks the scrawny Christmas tree right in the open window. She uses both hands to ram the tree right into the car, point first.
The car swerves the wrong way, toward the oncoming traffic, which stops. The car keeps going, slowly, until it crashes into a streetlight. And stops. The Christmas tree is still sticking out of the driver’s window, bouncing from the impact.
Grandma walks back to where we’re waiting on the sidewalk. Her face is expressionless.
The driver opens his door and crawls out. His face is covered in pine needles. His cigar is still in his mouth. He’s upset. He yanks the tree out of his window and throws it on the ground. There aren’t a lot of needles left on the tree now. Most of them are on him.
“Hey!” says Bernie to me. “That’s our tree.”
“Sh,” I say.
“What are we going to do for a Christmas tree now?”
Grandma bends down. “We’ll get another one,” she says clearly. As she walks us back to the fruit store, people stare at us and whisper and chuckle. One word I recognize: “olé.”
That’s it! That’s what Grandma’s gesture reminded me of. A matador, when he’s sticking the bull.
The next tree we pick out is bigger than the first one. We load it into Bernie’s stroller and walk it across Copernicus very carefully. The big old car is still pointing the wrong way, blocking traffic.
We lean the tree against the side of the front porch, like we always do, and troop in for hot chocolate. There’s a surprise waiting for us in the hall. Dad. He says hello to us all, a bit shyly. “I saw you carrying the tree up the steps. Nice looking one this year. Did you have fun picking it out? Have you earned your hot chocolate?”
Funny to hear him say that – usually it’s Mom.
“Oh, yes,” says Bill. “Especially Grandma.”
“Got anything stronger than hot chocolate?” asks Grandma.
Dad starts to laugh, and then it turns into a cough, and he has to go to the living room and sit down. I go with him, and sit on the arm of his chair. “So, how are you doing, Daddy? How are you doing really?”
“I’m weak, but I feel a lot better.”
He smiles. He looks thinner and tireder than normal, but his eyes are the same as always. It’s him again. I lean over and give him a hug. It’s nice to have him back.
“I missed you.”
His bathrobe rides up his arms. His wrists look small and bony.
“I’ve missed you too. How’s my little girl? How’s the show going?”
“It’s going well. We might be on TV. I’m a little worried about Jiri, who may not be able to memorize his part, but everyone likes the play, except for Mr. Gebohm, who’s trying to kill us.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Dad, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, honey.” He settles back in the chair.
“I have a friend,” I say.
“Is this about your friend, or about you?” asks Dad. “I’m not going to give fatherly advice to your friend. I’m not her father.”
“Oh, it’s about me. But suppose my friend isn’t … well, suppose she seems to be not really my friend right now. How do I know if it’s forever, or if she’ll come back?”
“Go on,” says Dad. He clasps his hands together and listens.
I tell my dad about me and Patti. It’s been troubling me. I’ve known Patti since kindergarten, and we’ve always done things together. It’s a great comfort knowing who your best friend is. And now, suddenly, I don’t. I don’t call her when I get home. I don’t tell her the things that are on my mind. I don’t even hang out with her at recess. This is the first time I can remember when I didn’t know who I’d do my next group project with. It’s strange. I’m entering a new country, and I don’t know the language.
“It’s about trust, really,” I say. “I can’t trust Patti anymore. And that makes me sad.”
Silence from the chair. I look down. Dad is dozing quietly.
Hmm. I guess my problems are not that exciting.
“Hot chocolate in the kitchen,” Grandma calls. I give Daddy a kiss on his forehead and get up from the chair. His forehead isn’t hot. He sighs and keeps breathing steadily.
Bill and Bernie are fighting over the cup with Captain Hook on it. “Perfect for six-water grog,” says Bill. “Splice the main brace.”
“I want to splice the main brace too,” says Bernie.
“Splice it with the Winnie the Pooh cup,” says Bill.
“It’s not the same.”
I don’t care which cup I get. I take a sip – from Bart Simpson – and nearly spit it out. It’s lumpy. So’s my next sip. And the one after that. And the sips that aren’t lumpy are too watery. Grandma has found a way to ruin instant hot chocolate. I didn’t think you could do that.
Bernie’s kneeling in a regular chair. He leans over the table. “Grandma, do you want to play –”
“In a minute,” she says.
Grandma has a glass in her hand. She drinks, sighs.
“What’s that?” Bernie asks.
“Single malt hot chocolate,” says Grandma.
Sunday afternoon. Dad is upstairs, resting. His temperature is almost normal now. Mom is at the office, catching up. Grandma has gone back to her apartment to pick up something – she won’t say what.
Lunch is over. Bill and Bernie are fighting around the kitchen, using paper towel rolls for swords. Watching them, I can’t help thinking about the choreography of the fight scene in our Nutcracker.
“Yoicks!” says Bernie, swinging his sword wildly. “Yoicks! Yoicks! Yoicks!”
“Stop shouting, Bernie,” I say. “And slow down. They’ll never see you if you flail around like that.”
“Huh?”
“And Bill, could you come forward a bit. Maybe three steps. Left-right-left.” “Huh?”
“It’s stronger that way. Try it again, you guys.” I sit back.
They look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and go back to their fighting as if I had never opened my mouth. “Yoicks! Yoicks! Yoicks!” says Bernie.
Hard to be the director in your own home. The actors don’t have to do what you say. I miss my Nutcracker.
As if on cue, the phone rings, and the ident-a-call screen says OGILVY. It’s my Nutcracker: Brad. “Hello!” I say.
Only it’s not Brad. A strange woman’s voice on the other end of the phone says, “Is that Jane? Jane Peeler?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’m Mrs. Ogilvy. Brad Ogilvy’s mother. Tell me, dear, how are you?”
“Fine,” I say. “Um, how are you?”
“I can’t talk for long. Brad doesn’t know I’m calling.”
I don’t say anything.
“It’s about the project you and Brad are doing together. I
wondered how it’s going.” “Huh?”
“We talked about it when I saw you at the hospital a few days ago. A science project, wasn’t it?”
“Um.”
“You remember, don’t you, dear? About … nuts?”
“Oh, that project.”
My brothers are still fighting in the kitchen. Bill slashes with his paper towel roll at Bernie, who ducks and stabs blindly forward, hitting Bill in the nose. Blood spurts. Bill puts his hands to his nose. They come away bloody. Bill starts to cry. Bernie drops his sword. The look on his face is almost religious – a mixture of fear, awe, and surprised delight.
“Yes, dear. You were working on it after school on Friday, weren’t you? You and Brad.”
“I was with Brad after school, yes.”
“Can you tell me how it’s going?”
“Um … why can’t you ask your son – Brad?” I say.
And now she gets weird. All right, weirder. “Because, you see, dear, I don’t trust Brad,” she says. “I ask him about it and he says it’s going fine. But I don’t see any work in his notebook. I go through his school-work when he’s asleep, and I can’t find anything about nuts.”
“Oh.” I say. I’m definitely not comfortable with this. I don’t think she should be going through Brad’s notebook. I don’t think he should be lying to his mom. I don’t think I should be having this conversation.
“I know about the maps you’re all making for geography. I know about the 1950s artifact. Brad is going to bring in a BAN THE BOMB button we found in the basement. But I can’t find anything about nuts. So, what’s going on?” Mrs. Ogilvy asks. Her voice is getting harsher. “What’s he up to? What secret is he keeping from his mother?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Bill is sniffing. His shirt is sprinkled with bloody drops. Bernie reaches up to touch one.
“Aha!” Mrs. Ogilvy’s voice rings down the phone like a trumpet. “So there is a secret!”
“Huh? I mean, there is?”
“You just admitted it.”
“I did?”
“What is it? What is Brad’s secret? Tell me. I have a right to know. Tell me what he’s hiding from his mother!”
“I think I have to go,” I say. “My brother is bleeding.”
“What? What was that?”
“Bill’s hurt,” I say.
She doesn’t hear me. “Filbert?” she says. “What about filberts? Is that what the nut project is about?”
I hang up.
Bill and Bernie both have blood on their hands. I don’t want to wake up Dad. I’m supposed to be responsible. “Are you okay, Bill?” I ask.
“No.”
“How about you, Bernie?”
“Yoicks!” says Bernie.
Both my parents are up early Monday morning. Both my parents are in the kitchen. Maybe this happens to you all the time, but for me it’s a real treat.
“I’m fine, dear,” says Dad. I wonder if he is fine. His voice is stronger, but he looks a bit shaky. “Eat up, Bernie. Breakfast doesn’t get better than this.”
Bernie looks up from his cereal. It’s chilly in our kitchen, and he’s shivering in his pajamas. “It doesn’t?”
Mom is putting on her overcoat. She peers at Dad, with her head on one side. “I don’t know, Alex. I’m worried about you. The doctor said to be careful you don’t try to do too much too quickly.”
“Doctors! What do they know?” says Dad heartily. “Hey there, Jane. Can I pour you some cereal?”
“I can get my own,” I say. “I don’t want you –”
“Nonsense. I’m in great shape. A bit of a cough is all I have.”
He does have it, too. He coughs as he’s pouring my cereal, so that some of it spills.
“No problem.” Dad sweeps up the cereal into his hand, and dumps it in the garbage.
“So is Grandma leaving now?” asks Bernie.
Both parents answer together.
“Of course,” says Dad.
“No,” says Mom.
Bernie looks at me. I shrug.
“Well, that settles it,” says Dad.
“Alex, you’re in no position to look after things here.”
“Yes, I am,” says Dad.
“You are not.”
“I am, I tell you.”
“Are not.”
Dad looks at me. “You’re supposed to say ‘am so,’” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He sticks out his tongue at me. A very Dad-like gesture. I have to laugh. Maybe he is all right.
“Let me see that.” Mom turns him around so that he’s facing her. “I don’t know how healthy that looks.”
“Hey, Dad!” It’s Bill. “Why are you sticking your tongue out at Mom?”
“She asked me to.” Dad stares at him. “You’re all dressed. Wow. Do you have socks on both feet?”
“Course. This is my number one shore-going rig.”
“It’s dress rehearsal day. The winter concert is tomorrow,” I say.
Bill moves to stand between me and Dad. “Our class is going to do way better than Jane’s class.”
“You are not.” I try to shift him. We shove each other.
“We are so!”
“Are not!!”
“Are too!!”
Actually, he may have a point. I have this momentary image of Jiri forgetting his big line in front of the parents and kids and CITY TV news cameras and everything….
“You’re supposed to say ‘are not,’” Dad reminds me in a whisper.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“And don’t be so competitive, you two,” says Mom. She doesn’t like it when we compare.
Not that there’s any contest. “I’m way less competitive than Bill is,” I say.
“No way!” he says quickly. “I’m less competitive than you are.”
“Yo ho! You wouldn’t know how to spell competitive,” I say.
“Yo ho ho! You wouldn’t know where to look for it!” He snaps his fingers in my face. Triumph.
“That,” I say quietly, “is because I’m not as competitive as you.” I smile.
“I … you….” His face turns three shades of red.
Got him.
“Is Grandma staying or not?” Bernie still wants to know.
“No,” says Dad. “I’ll drive her home this morning.” Then he starts to cough. A pretty good one. He holds on to the counter.
“I don’t think –” Mom begins.
“Good!” says Bernie. “I’m glad Grandma’s going.”
“Hurray!” says Bill.
“Oh, come on,” Mom sighs. “Try to be nice about Grandma. I asked her to come, and she said yes. She didn’t have to.”
“But you asked her,” says Bernie. “We always have to do what you say.”
“But –”
“Even Daddy does what you say.”
“The boy has a point there, honey,” says Dad. “You have a way of making people do your bidding.”
I think back to the gym, yesterday, with Mr. Gebohm. I knew I would get my way. Dad says that I remind him of Mom sometimes. Maybe that’s what he means. We don’t look alike. She’s tall and beautiful and has this amazing chestnut colored hair. I’m short for my age, and my hair is plain brown, unless I dye it. And no one has ever called me beautiful.
There’s a scratching noise in the hall. A mouse? Doesn’t sound quite right. I listen, but I don’t hear it again.
Mom is blushing. She makes herself busy, unbuttoning and then rebuttoning her coat. “Anyway, it’s not easy for Grandma, being here in a strange place with three – four – people to look after.”
“Thank you” says Dad.
“She doesn’t play with me,” says Bernie.
“She hates us,” says Bill.
They look at me.
I’m thinking back to last summer, when Grandma and I actually laughed together for a while – a very short while. We were on our way to Aunt Vera’s, and Grandma helped me smuggle a homeless g
uy named Marty into the back of the family van. She said I was full of moxie.
“What about the mousetraps?” I say. “She helped there.”
Bill nods, conceding the mousetraps. “Nothing in them this morning,” he says. He and Bernie have been checking every few hours since they found out about them.
“What mousetraps?” asks Dad.
“And the Christmas tree,” I say. “The first one, at the crosswalk. That was …”
“Not uncool,” says Bill.
“That big car went right into the pole,” says Bernie, with a smile that goes past his cereal spoon.
“What big car?” asks Dad.
“But she’s kind of a lousy cook,” says Bill. He pulls a loaf out of the bread drawer, and looks around for the big knife.
My turn to nod. No argument there. Saying Grandma is kind of a lousy cook is like saying that the CN Tower is kind of tall, or that the Rolling Stones are kind of old.
“Well, I like her,” I say. “For all she’s grumpy and hard.”
“And she still smokes,” says Bernie. “That’s bad, isn’t it, Mom?”
“Yes, honey.”
“And she says words like –”
“Yes,” says Mom quickly.
“Let me, Bill,” says Dad, taking the knife from Bill’s hand.
I hear another sound from the hallway – a match being struck. A moment later I can smell the sulfur from the match head.
“So is Grandma going to stay or go?” Bernie still wants to know.
“Good question,” says Grandma herself, appearing in the doorway in her bathrobe, hairnet, and morning cigarette.
“Mother-in-law!” says Dad. “We were just talking about you.”
“Yeah?”
Did she hear? Did she hear us say how horrible she was? I blush deeply, thinking she may have heard all that. It’s awful to hear bad things about yourself. I know.
Hey. I do know.
Grandma is pouring coffee from the pot. Her hair is the color of iron filings behind the hairnet. There are dark stains under her eyes.
“Well, now that I’m here, I guess I better put together those school lunches. I started a mold last night. Unless I’m going home.” She puts down her cigarette to take a sip of coffee. “So, am I going home?”
Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas Page 10
