by Delia Ephron
So big mystery solved. No mold. Shaving cream. On Dad’s face. It must have congealed while he lay there.
Barbie One pulls my sleeve. “What about the egg?”
“After you make the parachute, you glue toothpicks together to make a basket. Paper it with tissue and glue the basket to the parachute.”
I remember, one leg forward, one back, Dad folded over, limp as tissue. “Then you glue the basket to the parachute, and put an egg in the basket. A raw egg. When you drop the parachute, you hope the egg doesn’t break.”
“Will it?” asks Beatrice.
“Probably.”
25
Mom hands me a hammer. “Smash the ends, honey.”
In case you don’t know—why would you?—when planning to use a tree branch in a flower arrangement, splinter the ends. It can drink water more easily.
While I do this, Mom untangles the branches from one another, carefully so the twiggy offshoots don’t break and the red berries don’t fall off. It takes patience and is remarkably tedious, which I point out, and to which she predictably replies, “They cost money.” Money is a major motivator with Mom—that is, saving money. She considers it a holy virtue, even though she is not religious. If she were, “Thou shalt save” would be right at the top of her own personal ten commandments.
Mom’s hair is falling into her face. She keeps blowing upward to get willful strands out of her sight line as she expertly twists wire around the branches, creating a wedding spray to decorate an arbor, the sacred place a bride and groom will marry (so they can get divorced five years later). Working since early morning, she’s completed dozens of identical centerpieces and a few gigantic flower fantasies as tall as I am. She’s up to her ankles in leaves and cuttings.
Suppose this is my last day on earth and I don’t know it?
I’ve been thinking about that for days, ever since I solved the mold mystery. Dad waking up, making coffee, walking into the bathroom, lathering up, dying. Wake, brew, walk, lather, die.
Mom wipes her hands on her apron. “Just a few more branches, Frannie.” She guides Andy and Carmen as they manipulate a particularly large creation out the door and into the truck. “Be sure to tell the Wilsons that the berries are poison,” Mom says. “We don’t want to kill Emmett.” Emmett is their cat.
I break off a berry and put it on my tongue. It sits there.
Meanwhile I read the small print on the insecticide spray: Kills 16 different kinds of bugs, including slugs and caterpillars, but is safe to use on fruits and vegetables. I wonder if I should give up fruits and vegetables. I like lettuce.
Does it seem odd that, on the one hand, I’m so worried that I’m going to die that I read the small print on plant spray while, on the other hand, I coddle a poison berry on my tongue? Does it seem like a petite contradiction: to be thinking of killing myself and afraid of dying simultaneously? What is that? What is that?
Maybe if I’m dead, I won’t be afraid I’m going to die. It would be such a relief not to worry so much.
Mom walks back in. “I heard about the poison collage.”
I tuck the berry into my cheek. “That’s over, we’re doing parachutes.”
She stiffens. “Parachutes. You can’t drop those campers in parachutes, what from trees? That’s, that’s—” She’s having an attack of the sputters. “You can’t build parachutes, do you understand? That’s completely dangerous. That’s insane, that’s what it is, insane. Does Harriet know? Oh, God, she’s going to call me. What was that poison thing anyway? What in the world were you thinking?”
“Art. It’s called art.”
“That’s something—”
“What?”
I’m waiting for her to say it—that’s something your dad would do—but she doesn’t. She throws up her hands in despair. “Why are you doing this?” The implication is “to me.” Why are you doing this to me?
“Mom, they’re tissue-paper parachutes. You put an egg in them. They don’t carry people, they carry eggs.”
“Oh.”
“Harriet’s idea.”
“Oh.” She smiles sheepishly. She picks up some wire, fiddles around, spinning it between her fingers. “I’m glad to hear that, Frannie. How’s that boy?”
I can’t answer because there’s a berry on my tongue.
She leans down to whisk up debris under the table, dumping it into an already bulging garbage bag. I take the berry out of my mouth.
Mom grabs my hand. “What’s that? A berry. You put a berry in your mouth?”
“Just testing.”
“Testing? Testing what? That doesn’t make sense. Don’t do that.” Mom smacks her hand into her forehead. Her face is flushed. “Do you know how much you mean to me? Do you, Frannie?”
God, she overreacts to everything.
“What would I do if—”
I distract her by clamping the stem of a rose between my teeth. I’m a Spanish dancer. I wag my head so the rose flops up and down.
“I’m serious, Frannie.”
I keep wagging.
Her shoulders slump, her arms hang by her sides. I remove the rose. “Are you tired?”
She shakes her head.
“Are you all right?”
She goes to her mini fridge for a bottle of water. She presses the bottle to her forehead and to each cheek before unscrewing the top and gulping some. I take the hammer and splinter another branch. Maybe she’ll follow my example and get back to work. Come on, Mom, do what I do. “So how is that nice boy?” she asks again. “The one at camp.”
“I never said he was nice.”
“Are you sure? I thought—”
“He ate a leaf.”
She smiles. “Why?”
“Because he’s a Neanderthal.”
“Maybe he likes you.”
Maybe he likes me? Is she talking to a baby? Maybe he likes you, honey, that’s why he threw a rock at you. I change the subject. “Was Dad ever in Italy, Mom?”
She plays with her bottle of water, swinging it back and forth. She takes another swig. Her cheeks inflate. She’s buying time. Finally she swallows. I study her face. Scrutinize it. Hmm, a hint of amusement. Gear up, here comes a frenemy moment—she’ll say something super-innocuous about Dad, a futile attempt to conceal her condescension from me, truth finder.
“So was he in Italy?”
“He was, he absolutely was.” She grins.
“What’s funny about it?”
“What made you ask?”
“I don’t know.”
She cracks up. She’s tickled to death at the thought of Dad in Italy, and when she’s finished chuckling, she ruffles my hair to the extent that hedge hair can be ruffled. Her face softens as if she’s ooing and aahing over a kitten, as if I’m Emmett.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. What made you ask, sweetie?”
“No reason, absolutely none.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Tough.”
Mom takes a step back. “Don’t be rude.”
“I hate this place.”
“My shop?” Mom looks around.
I rip my hand down a branch, spraying off twigs and berries. “I hate where I am.” I spit out the words. I spit them right at her.
Mom looks at the naked branch, and the berries rolling around. She’s going to start screaming about what a nightmare I am, about the waste of money and how hard she works and something about the stupid wedding. But she doesn’t. She puts out her arms. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Frannie.”
“I don’t want you.” Why doesn’t she get that? I back out of the workroom and make it out the door in time to flag down the truck as it leaves the lot.
26
Andy gives in to my plea to make a quick stop at the bookstore before he drops me off, and he forces me to listen to country music, which turns out to be a mind-calmer. When I walk into the house, I hear the vacuum. Rosanna must be here. It’s not
her usual day.
I make my leisurely way up the stairs leafing through my new English-Italian phrase book. Although it’s impossible that Mr. Super Chef might be right—not Ireland, Italy—I bought a book, just in case.
Good grief, she’s vacuuming my room.
The board has been spun from under the bed over to the window. Piles of sorted pieces stacked around the edge of the puzzle have toppled, perhaps from a quick swivel or the force of Rosanna’s yank. Jigsaw pieces are far flung, like shattered glass.
“Stop!” I shout. It’s one of her English words. Por favor, I also shout, which everyone knows means “please,” but Rosanna, oblivious, on her knees, is ramming the vacuum nozzle into every nook and cranny under the bed. I hit the OFF switch.
The silence takes a second to register; then Rosanna sits back on her heels. “Frannita.” She hops up and begins scolding me in a torrent of Spanish. I get the message but not the words, except possibly “dirty” and mucho. She’s talking about my room. “Surprise,” I tell her, “Sorpresa. Sorpresa for Mom.” I gesture toward the puzzle. Puzzle is not a word I know in Spanish, I’ve only studied for two years. I close the bedroom door and put my finger to my lips. This is hush-hush. Secret. Secreto. Mom does not know. Mel does not know. I tell her that in Spanish. Thank God he hasn’t wandered in. Thank God on summer Saturdays he shops at the farmers’ market. Right this second he’s probably feeling up corn. He claims that when you buy corn on the cob, you can tell if the kernels are small and plump by squeezing the husks. Isn’t that fascinating?
In case you’re wondering why Rosanna hasn’t vacuumed in here since I brought the puzzle home weeks ago, I told her not to. I announced it in front of Mom, who nodded approval. Nodded vigorously—Mom doesn’t speak much Spanish, and even when she can say something, she indicates instead, or overindicates, to make the point. Because Mom believes it’s character building for teenagers to clean their own rooms, I was able to keep Rosanna away from the puzzle and my beautiful carved box.
The box. Where is it?
“Box,” I say to her. Do I know that word in Spanish? I can’t remember. Rosanna waits. It’s hopeless. I flatten to look under the bed. Not there.
“Box?” Rosanna shakes her head. I speed-hunt through the room, flinging up sheets she stripped off the bed, pillows, dirty clothes. Oh, there it is. In a safe place, cushioned by Dad’s shirts, it’s nestled in one of the open cardboard boxes. Box, I show her what I was referring to. Secreto muy grande.
Rosanna beams and says something that I don’t understand.
“Uscita.” I toss it up and see if it lands.
“Who?” she replies in English.
So uscita is not Spanish. In fact, I’ll look it up right now. There it is, in my Italian phrase book, under “Signs & Public Notices”: Exit: uscita.
For sure, the puzzle is Italy. Dad has been in Italy, in this ancient town, whatever it is. And mom thinks that’s funny. Obviously he didn’t think it was funny, or he wouldn’t have made me this puzzle.
In an attempt to hustle Rosanna out of the room, I collect her dust towel and cleaning sprays (poison for sure). She swipes her finger across my bureau. Dust, she shows me. She moves some big boxes, revealing crumbs from old sandwiches, crushed peanuts. She points out an empty cellophane bag (red licorice) and a shriveled plum under the bureau.
“I’ll vacuum,” I say. Yo vacuum. Please, Rosanna. I give her a big hug. I hear Mel pull into the driveway as I maneuver Rosanna out the door.
After flipping my Italian phrase book onto the bed, I hit the ON switch. While the vacuum roars, a decoy, I get on hands and knees and hunt for jigsaw pieces, combing the shag one small area at a time. Suppose a piece got sucked up in the vacuum? I can’t think about that. I don’t even want to consider it. Good grief, here’s one on the bathroom floor.
I’d better check out the vacuum bag: hold it over the trash basket and rip. This is disgusting. It’s packed with dust balls and food bits, but fortunately, no puzzle parts.
I must make a decision about going back in.
Control. I have no control. But…but, but, I have noticed that my going into the puzzle happens late at night after hours of puzzle work, a consequence of dizziness and near-hypnotic concentration.
I don’t want to go back in until I’m absolutely ready.
So I’ve given up working nights. That’s why I stayed home from camp for an entire week. “Toodleoo,” I told Mel every morning and pranced out the door. “Tooth infection,” I fibbed to Mr. DeAngelo. The bus rumbled on, and I sped behind the garage and waited, giving Beastoid time to retreat to his study. After about a half hour, I snuck back in through the kitchen door.
It was risky. Mel can get sidetracked by the most boring things. Once Mom saw this book about coal. The History of Coal. She bought it for him, and you know what he said? “I’ve already read that.” No kidding. There is always the possibility that he’ll get obsessed with something in the newspaper, something endless and dreary like an article about peach pits, and put off serfs until later. “Oh, I couldn’t put the paper down, freestone peaches are so riveting.” But mainly he’s reliable. “I could set my watch by that man.” I once watched a TV show about an old man who did everything the same way every single day, and when he got murdered, that’s what his landlady said. “I could set my watch by that man.”
Hide in plain sight. Ever heard that expression? I wasn’t in plain sight, but my bedroom was hardly deep cover either. Knowing there was no reason for Mel to enter my room (and that he did not venture out of his study until six), I worked days undetected for a week. Kept myself alert at all times, too. If I got loopy or droopy—so close to the puzzle that I could lick it—I took a break.
I never fell in.
Here’s a puzzle piece on the shelf. Boy, Rosanna creates a mighty wind. It landed right next to Dad’s unfinished sculpture, my precious wavy bird. Perhaps the bird was guarding it, keeping it safe.
I place the jigsaw piece on my palm and blow off specks of dirt. It’s plain, yellow with white letters: VIA. No other piece has had letters on it. I wonder where it goes.
I cruise the empty spots. The hulk of the church is gray, but the dome glows a bright lemon. No match for the muddy yellow in my V-I-A piece. Along the cove, buildings in different shades of rose and maroon have yellow stripes, but all as pale as tapioca. Jumping to the other side of the puzzle, I work my way down from the top: the restaurant, garden, stone steps, rooftops. Is there a dot of mustard by that building? The faintest smudge? I don’t hear the satisfying click because the vacuum is blasting, but the puzzle surface is smooth, interlocking curves in perfect harmony. I love it when I make a match.
I celebrate by turning off the vacuum.
Break time. Study Italian time. James was right. Chef Man tells the truth. Hard for third wheel to accept. Puzzle must be Italy. I try to get into Dad’s head about this. Why would Dad give me Italy? He didn’t like opera. He loved pizza. Did he tell me about Italy? Was it a bedtime story? Did I forget?
I know my dad. Don’t I?
I’d better keep this phrase book with me at all times in case I fall into the puzzle by accident. Since it’s the size of a chocolate bar, it will slip easily into my pocket.
When I pick up the book and roll onto the bed, something stabs my back. Another missing piece. More letters, and, like the other, mustard yellow with white lettering: GRAVINO. I fall off the bed and, in a second, make the match: VIA GRAVINO. A place? A street?
I hope that is truly the last of the missing pieces. Suppose my 1000-piece puzzle is now a 999-piece puzzle? Worse, a 989-piece puzzle? The way to my father, if this is the way, could be blocked.
Don’t think about that.
Study.
Prepare.
I prop up my pillows, sock them a few times, sit back and wiggle to get truly comfortable, then thumb through the book. Father. Padre. “Is there a campsite nearby?” C’è un camping qui vicino? Camping? I hate camping. I hope I don’t need to c
amp. “Can I buy ice?” Si puo comprare del ghiaccio? Ghiaccio? How do you pronounce that word? I’m passing on ice. Dov’è? Where is? Dov’è mio padre? Where is my father?
27
The sky is dumping rain.
An enormous yellow slicker and black rubber boots splash into the barn. Slung over its shoulder, a bulging plastic garbage bag clangs when it’s swung down and hits the floor. An arm flies up and knocks back the hood, and out springs the screaming red hair. The Honker’s face is wet. From the bottom of her somewhat pointed chin, water drips like a leaky faucet. She hunts around in a big patch pocket, produces a red kerchief that she rubs over her face.
In strolls Simon, sopping wet in a T-shirt and cargo shorts. He stops, shakes his head, spraying water in every direction, and wrings out his shirt by twisting the front. Crowding in behind is a group of campers. He herds them over to a corner where they shed their rain gear. Not that I’m paying attention. I’m too busy and too miserable. The hot, sticky air reminds me of a sauna Jenna and I once took because she insisted it was good for the skin. I flap Dad’s shirt for air-conditioning while I supervise parachute construction. Except for Simon’s little corner, where he settles his campers in a circle, I’ve taken over the barn. My kids, on the floor, wield scissors, dip brushes in vats of glue, and bathe volumes of tissue paper with it. I’m counting the hours until I can get back to the puzzle.
This morning I wondered if I had made a mistake. A colossal mistake. Suppose by working sensibly, keeping alert at all times, I blew my chance to enter the puzzle again? Suppose I blew my chance to see Dad? I have no control. Why do I think I have control?
“I don’t know what kind to make, Frannie. What kind of parachute should I make?” Pearl trails me, tugging on my shirt, driving me nuts.
