Later that day, everyone returned to the clubhouse with the groceries and the store receipts. Tillie added, divided, and straightened out who owed and who was owed, and no one bothered to check because everyone knew that Tillie Nachman did not make mistakes. Then we had to check the grocery list against the menu and who was cooking what. I helped distribute the groceries to the proper households, using the new red wagon.
Fact: I did a wonderful job.
On the day of the wedding I was in great demand to take things over to the clubhouse in my wagon. The African violets alone took three trips, and the briskets took two. Next, Mr. Cantor and I delivered the orchid corsages to the bride and her maid of honor. In the real world, I had never met anyone who spent as much time with flowers as Mr. Cantor. Mrs. Draper’s maid of honor was to be her daughter, Mrs. Potter. Mrs. Draper used to live in my hometown, which is Epiphany, New York, and her daughter, Mrs. Potter, still does. Mrs. Potter bought a new dress and flew down for the wedding, but we didn’t fly down together. I had come weeks before—my first trip as an unaccompanied minor.
Mr. Cantor and I took flowers over to the groom and his best man to put in their buttonholes. Allen, who was Izzy Diamondstein’s son, was to be best man. They both live in Florida and have the same last name.
Allen Diamondstein still lived in the real world because even though he was Izzy’s child and even though he was full-grown, he was too young to live in Century Village. Fact: Allen Diamondstein was the most nervous human being I have ever seen in my entire life. Fact: His wife had left him. She had moved to Epiphany and taken a job with my father, who is the best dentist in town (fact).
Allen Diamondstein kept saying, “Isn’t it ironic? My father is getting married just as I am getting divorced.” This was not the greatest conversation starter in the world. No one knew what to say after he said it. Some cleared their throats and said nothing. Others cleared their throats and changed the subject.
I must have heard him say it a dozen times, and I never knew what to say either. At first I wondered if that was because I didn’t know the meaning of ironic. So I looked it up.
The meaning that best fits (and does not use the same word in its definition) is “the contrast between what you expect to happen and what really happens.” But after I looked it up, I couldn’t figure out what was ironic about Allen Diamondstein’s getting divorced and Izzy Diamondstein’s getting married. The way Allen Diamondstein acted, I can tell you that divorce would be the only possible thing you could expect from marriage to him. And the way Izzy acted around Margaret, marriage would not only be expected, it would be necessary. Sha! a shanda far die kinder. They were embarrassing to watch, but not so embarrassing that I didn’t.
Wedding cakes are not baked as much as they are built. In the real world, people don’t build wedding cakes. They order in. If you are going to build it yourself, it is not done in a day. It takes three. On the first day, Grandma Sadie baked the layers. On the second, she constructed the cake, using cardboard bases and straws for supports, and made the basic icing to cover the layers. On the third day, she made the designer icing for the rosebuds and put the little bride and groom on top. Fact: The cake was beautiful.
Fortunately, Grandpa Nate took its picture right after she finished it, so Grandma Sadie can remember how it looked for a little while.
Allen Diamondstein would tell you that the red wagon was the problem, but I would say that it’s ironic that he should say so. It definitely wasn’t. He was. How else were we supposed to deliver the cake to the clubhouse? It was too tall to fit in the trunk of the car, and since on an average day the outside temperature in Century Village is body temperature, there would be a major meltdown before the cake got to the clubhouse where the wedding was to take place. That’s when I got the idea to load up the wagon with ice, put a sheet of plastic over the ice, put the cake on top of that, and slowly wheel it over there, with me pulling and Grandpa checking the rear.
Grandpa Nate went to the Jiffy store and bought three bags of ice, and we loaded them into the wagon. Too much. Since we didn’t want the bed of the wagon filled right up to the edge, we emptied some, dumping it out on the cement of the patio. That’s where we were going to load the wagon so we wouldn’t have to wheel the wagon down any steps to get it to the meeting room.
Just after we loaded the cake onto the wagon, Allen Diamondstein came over to Grandma’s. He said his father wanted him to pick up a prayer book, but I think his father sent him because he was making the groom nervous.
No one answered when he rang the front doorbell because we were all in the back loading the cake into the red wagon, so he walked around back to the patio. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the wagon handle, so he tripped on it, slid on the wet concrete, fell in the puddle of melted ice and, unfortunately, toppled the wedding cake.
The little top layer was totally smashed; it fell in the same puddle as Allen, and the little bride and groom were seriously maimed.
So was Allen’s ankle. Which fact I detected when he grabbed his foot and started to moan while still sitting in the puddle on the patio. Grandpa Nate called 911. Grandma Sadie returned to the kitchen to whip up a repair batch of icing. Grandpa Nate took the remains of the cake to the clubhouse, and I sat with Allen until the ambulance came. He was not good company.
The groom called to see what was taking Allen so long. I answered the phone, and I thought I would have to call 911 for him, too. “Don’t panic,” I said. “I’ll be your best man.”
I did not tell Izzy what had happened to the couple on top of the wedding cake because people get very superstitious at weddings and no one wants a wounded bride and groom sitting on top of the cake with which they are to start a happy marriage. I had seen that sort of thing often enough in the movies: A close-up of the shattered little bride and groom floating in a puddle of melted ice signifying the fate of the real bride and groom. So although I had to tell Izzy Diamondstein what had happened to Allen, I didn’t say a word about the top of the wedding cake. I didn’t think I could convince him that having the little bride and groom fall into a puddle was ironic.
He seemed to calm down when I volunteered to be best man, which was about the same time that we found out from the ambulance driver that Allen would be back at Century Village in time for the wedding even if he probably wouldn’t be able to walk down the aisle.
As soon as the ambulance took Allen away, I ran over to Mr. Cantor’s place and asked him to please, please find another orchid for the top of the cake although it would be better if he could find two since the second layer was now the top layer and was bigger. Mr. Cantor found two beautiful sprays of orchids, which Grandma Sadie artistically arranged around the new top layer.
Since I had promised to be best man, not having a tux was a problem. I couldn’t fit in Allen’s, not that I would have wanted to if I could. That’s when Grandpa Nate called Bella Dubinsky.
In her former life, Bella had been an artist. She painted the pictures that went into the pattern books for people who sew their own clothes. In the real world I had never met anyone who sewed her own clothes, but in Century Village, I had met three. Bella had a supply of fabric paints, and within two hours, we had painted a T-shirt that looked like a tuxedo with a red bow tie. I say we because I helped color in the lines she drew. It’s not easy filling in the lines on T-shirt material; it scrunches up under the weight of the brush, leaving skip marks. You have to go over it again and again. Fortunately, the paints dry fast, and by four o’clock, it was ready to wear.
Repaired, the wedding cake looked beautiful. If Allen had not told, no one would have guessed that those orchids didn’t belong on top. But Allen told. He told everyone. He also apologized for my being best man. I didn’t think that I was someone he had to apologize for. I had helped a lot, and I looked totally presentable in my tuxedo T-shirt, which was a real work of art.
Fact: Being best man is not hard. You walk down the aisle with the maid of honor. Who, in this case, was a ma
tron of honor because she is married. I admit that having the son of the groom, Allen, as best man would have been a better match, size-wise, for the daughter of the bride even though one is married and the other divorced, but the essential fact is that I did a very good job. I stood beside the groom. Mrs. Potter stood beside the bride, and the four of us stood in front of the rabbi, and all five of us stood under the bridal canopy, which I know is called a chupah and which I think is spelled the way I spelled it. I didn’t yawn, sneeze, or scratch any visible thing. I held the wedding ring until the rabbi nodded, and I handed it over.
I did an excellent job of being best man even though when I was under the chupah, I was under a lot of pressure trying to think of surprises for the cat’s paw invitations. The idea came to me at the very moment Izzy smashed the glass and everyone yelled mazel tov. Even before Izzy stopped kissing the bride, I knew what I could do. (Fact: It was a very long and thorough kiss.)
It wouldn’t be easy. It would mean giving up things I loved, but I had to do it.
When everyone except Allen was dancing the hora, I slipped out of the clubhouse and ran back to Grandma Sadie’s. I took off my tuxedo T-shirt, folded it nicely, and put it in my red wagon. I found the package of Post-it notes, my calligraphy pen, and bottle of ink and after making sure that the ink was tightly closed, I put those in the wagon, too. When I returned to the wedding party, the dance was over, and everyone was sitting around looking exhausted. My moment had arrived.
I tapped a glass with a spoon as I had seen grown-ups do, and I said, “Ladies and gentlemen, will those lucky few who have the specially marked invitations, please come forward. It is time to choose your surprise gift.” I saw them pick up their cat’s-paw invitations and walk over to the band where I was standing beside my red wagon. “First,” I said, “we have one hand-painted T-shirt, which is an original work of art done by Mrs. Bella Dubinsky. In addition, we have a calligraphy pen, almost new, and a bottle of ink, almost full. These are the perfect instruments for beautiful handwriting. We have one packet of Post-it notes, complete except for five.” I swallowed hard and added, “And we have one red wagon.”
Tillie Nachman, who could count precisely, said, “But that’s only four gifts, and there were five cat’s-paw invitations.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “the fifth gift is the best gift of all.”
Everyone asked at once, Whatisit? Whatisit? Whatisit? I sucked in my breath until my lungs felt like twin dirigibles inside my ribs. “The best gift of all is … the very best … the very best gift of all is … to give up your gift.”
A thick silence fell over the room. Then Tillie Nachman started clapping. Soon the others joined in, and I noticed Grandma Sadie and Grandpa Nate looking proud.
At first everyone who held a cat’s-paw invitation wanted to be the one to give up his gift, but I did not want that. If they didn’t take my presents, I would feel as if they didn’t matter. Mr. Cantor stepped forward and took the Post-it notes. He said he could use them for labeling his plants. He said that he was donating an orchid plant as the fifth gift. Then Tillie promised calligraphy lessons to the person who took the pen and ink, and Bella promised fabric painting lessons to the person who took the tuxedo T-shirt. In that way each of my gifts kept on giving.
Four cat’s-paw gifts were now taken.
Only the red wagon remained. Guess who had the fifth cat’s-paw invitation?
Allen, the son of.
Allen said he didn’t want the little red wagon. He said that he had no use for a wagon in the real world where he was an accountant.
When Izzy, the groom, rose from the table to make a toast, he lifted his glass of wine and said, “Margy and I want to thank all our friends in Century Village. We don’t know if we can ever thank you enough for giving our life together this wonderful start. As you know, Margy and I have pooled our resources and bought a little condo on the ocean. Not exactly on the ocean. It is, after all, a high-rise. We will miss the community life here, but we don’t want to miss our friends. We’ll visit. We want you to visit us. Our welcome mat is out. Always. We leave many memories behind. And we are also leaving this little red wagon. Every time you use it, please think of this happy occasion.”
Izzy started to sit down, but halfway he got up again and added, “Consider it a gift to everyone from the best man.” He never said which best man he meant, but I’m pretty sure he meant me.
Now back in the real world, I sat at my desk and crossed every single item off the list. I didn’t have the wagon, the Post-it notes, the T-shirt that Bella Dubinsky had designed, or the pen and ink that Tillie Nachman had bought me. I did have a new pad of Post-it notes and a new calligraphy pen—both of which I had bought with my own money when I got back to Epiphany.
I never had to write a B & B letter when we stayed at Disney World or Sea World. Of course, Century Village is not exactly Disney World or Sea World either. Century Village is not like any other place in Western Civilization. It is not like any other place in the entire world.
I picked up my pen and filled it properly, the six-step process that Tillie had taught me. She had said, “You must think of those six steps not as preparation for the beginning but as the beginning itself.” I knew then that I had started my B & B. I let my pen drink up a whole plunger full of ink and then holding the pen over the bottle, I squeezed three drops back into the bottle.
And I thought—a B & B letter is giving just a few drops back to the bottle. I put away the tiny notepad and took out a full sheet of calligraphy paper and began,
Dear Grandma Sadie and Grandpa Nate,
Thank you for a vacation that was out of this world …
2
The contest had warmed up, and so had Mrs. Olinski. From her seat on the aisle she waited.
On her left sat Dr. Roy Clayton Rohmer, the District Superintendent for Clarion County. Both Dr. Rohmer and Mrs. Olinski paid strict attention to the commissioner, the man at the podium. There could be no mistake: This was the man of the hour, king for the day.
He wore a navy blue, precision fit pin-striped suit and a white-on-dazzling-white shirt. An edge of his French cuffs showed beneath his jacket sleeves. Mrs. Olinski was not sure how much the correct amount was, but she knew that if she put a spirit-level to his, they would be exactly right. The French cuffs were held together with onyx cuff links, and his collar was tied with a red-striped power necktie. The television lights beamed down on his crown of hair, which was tinted the color of peach pits. He was dressed, brushed, coiffed, and blow-dried not just to be seen but to be looked at.
Dr. Rohmer could not, would not take his eyes off the man at the podium, and Mrs. Olinski thought of Alice in Wonderland. “Don’t look at me like that!” said the King to the Cheshire Cat. “A cat may look at a king,” said Alice. Mrs. Olinski wanted to tell Dr. Rohmer that a cat may look at a king. But why bother? The audience was not permitted to speak.
After The Souls had won the Epiphany Middle School championship, Dr. Roy Clayton Rohmer paid a visit to Mrs. Olinski and asked—guess what?—why had she chosen this team. She still did not know (and wouldn’t until after it was all over), but by that time the success of The Souls (even if she did not yet know that they were The Souls) had made Mrs. Olinski less timid.
Dr. Rohmer had announced that he had just completed a three-day workshop on multiculturalism for ed-you-kaytoars. Mrs. Olinski had always been amused by educators who called themselves ed-you-kay-toars. So, when he asked her how she had chosen the four members of her academic team, Mrs. Olinski knitted her brow and answered with hushed seriousness. “In the interest of diversity,” she said, “I chose a brunette, a redhead, a blond, and a kid with hair as black as print on paper.”
Dr. Rohmer was not amused. He gave Mrs. Olinski a capsule lecture on what multiculturalism really means.
“Oh,” she said, “then we’re still safe, Dr. Rohmer. You can tell the taxpayers that the Epiphany Middle School team has one Jew, one half-Jew, a WASP, and an Indian.�
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“Jews, half-Jews, and WASPs have nothing to do with diversity, Mrs. Olinski. The Indian does. But we don’t call them Indians anymore. We call them Native Americans.”
“Not this one,” she replied.
“Mrs. Olinski,” Dr. Rohmer asked, “would you like it if people called you a cripple?”
Mrs. Olinski gave up. Everyone believed that she could be wounded by the word cripple. She could never explain to Dr. Rohmer, nor would she try to, that the word itself does not hurt, but the manner of its delivery can. For all of his training, Dr. Rohmer would never believe that cripples themselves are a diverse group, and some make jokes.
Nadia was the redhead of Mrs. Olinski’s diverse group.
Had she been born five hundred years sooner, Raphael would have chosen her as a model for his cherubs. Tendrils of bright red hair framed her face, a spray of freckles powdered her nose, and she was as plump as a perfectly ripened peach. Raphael probably would have painted out the freckles, and that would have been a mistake. Like brushing the cinnamon off cinnamon toast.
For the first few weeks of the new school year, Nadia hardly spoke. All the sixth graders—like Mrs. Olinski herself—were new to Epiphany Middle School, but Nadia—like Mrs. Olinski herself—seemed most disconnected. Both were watchers and waiters, cautious about being friendly, about showing themselves.
Then on the middle Monday in October, Nadia Diamondstein arrived in class with a smile and addressed her teacher. “Don’t you think, Mrs. Olinski, that autumn is the most glorious time of year?” Mrs. Olinski confessed that it was her favorite season and told Nadia that she sometimes felt guilty because she thought she ought to prefer spring, with its pledge to make the lilies bloom again.
The View From Saturday Page 2