Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  "You," he says to Mr. Bernard, and points an accusatory piece of kindling in his direction, "are the only person in the United States who cannot operate a computer."

  "It's just a fad, like Ashtead Pottery and Kewpie dolls," Mr. Bernard says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  "The computer is the only reason they keep me alive," Ms. Olivia chimes in.

  "That's not true, Mother," Mr. Bernard says seriously. "You're the only one who knows how to replace the needle on the record player."

  "Bertie, you just push the old needle out and clip the new one in." She taps one more button on the keyboard. "There," she triumphantly announces. "All finished. Now it's cocktail hour and I'd like an Old-Fashioned, slightly muddled, please."

  "Excuse me." I finally manage to get a word in. "But do you have a stepladder? I'm going to put this washer on the screen door." I hold up the small metal ring. "To stop it from slamming."

  "There's a stepladder somewhere in Bertie's Museum," Mr. Gil says.

  "That's his code name for the garage," Mr. Bernard drolly explains.

  "Come on. I'll help you find it." Mr. Gil leads me out to the garage. He runs his fingers across a dusty armoire and then surveys all the furnishings piled up on top of one another. The stacked wooden chairs make it look like a house of cards about to tumble down from the slightest bump. I'd be afraid to use the electric garage door if I were him.

  "One of these days when he's at the Armory Antiques Show in Manhattan I'm going to have a gigantic garage sale. Have you ever seen so many gewgaws, lambrequins, and jardinières in one place? It looks as if everything was dropped by a flood."

  Just as Mr. Gil finishes speaking, he accidentally knocks an oversize wastebasket with a hunting dog painted on the front of it off the edge of a bureau. A thousand empty wooden spools of every size hurtle through the dank atmosphere, ricocheting off mirrors and china cabinets and raising a roar as if every gun owner in Ohio simultaneously shot off a round.

  "Duck and cover!" shouts Mr. Gil. We're both startled by the thunderous noise and have to catch our breath as the last ones eventually settle into dark corners, crevices, and open drawers.

  "What are we going to do with the Stocktons, Hallie?" He laughs as he surveys the scene. "Sometimes I wonder if the Judge isn't the only sane person here."

  I decide that I like Gil, too. They're all so much more interesting than my parents' friends. I keep feeling as if I'm an extra in one of those Masterpiece Theatre programs.

  "I suppose I'm senile for staying here," he adds. "It's a Catch-22. Have you read that book?"

  "Uh, no." I feel sort of stupid because these people seem to know so much.

  "It's a novel by Joseph Heller. The hero is in an impossible situation characterized by absurdity which he calls a Catch-22," he explains. "It's hilarious. You should read it."

  I kneel down and start gathering up the escaped wooden spools, though they're everywhere and it's obvious that it'll take all night to round them up.

  "Aha," says Mr. Gil. He forces an aluminum stepladder out from behind an old bulky steamer trunk with tarnished bronze fittings and peeling labels with names of exotic-sounding places like Istanbul and Ceylon printed on them.

  "Forget about the mess. In the spring all the furniture goes to auction and then I'll make a bonfire out of whatever's left."

  It only takes me a few minutes to replace the washer, adjust the spring, and add a little WD-40 so that the door closes less fitfully and doesn't make such a horrific bang.

  "Well done," says Mr. Bernard. "Yes, you are indeed good with your hands."

  And though I feel pleased to have his approval I modestly say, "It's just a washer. Ten cents at the hardware store."

  "But who knew?" he says. "We pay the doctor not for the fifteen-minute consultation but for all those years he spent slaving away in medical school."

  Just then Ms. Olivia enters the front hall with Rocky. She takes a key out of her dress pocket and unlocks the liquor cabinet. Rocky excitedly claps his hands and takes two clean glasses from off the top and holds them up to the light as if inspecting for dust particles. Then I see the most amazing sight of my life. The chimp chooses a lime from the fruit bowl and with a vegetable peeler removes the skin in a continuous spiral, taking care that no white fiber adheres to the peel. Once that's finished he sets it aside and from the liquor cabinet takes out bottles labeled gin, cherry brandy, and benedictine.

  I whisper to Mr. Bernard, "But I thought he's a, you know . .." not wanting the chimp to overhear me, since I'm not sure exactly how much he understands.

  "Mother found some moderation program on the Internet that she's trying out on him. One cocktail a day and that's it."

  Rocky lifts the quart of Gordon's gin at Mr. Bernard and lets out a discontented series of hoots while holding the bottle up to his face as if using a cross to ward off a vampire.

  "I'm not going to the liquor store for you, you stupid monkey!" Mr. Bernard says to Rocky.

  Rocky curls back his lips if he's going to spit at Mr. Bernard.

  "Bertie, he's a chimpanzee, not a monkey, and considers the latter designation to be an insult."

  "Then let me point out that chimpanzees, along with baboons, are the only primates who regularly kill other mammals, intoxicated or not," says Mr. Bernard.

  "You're forgetting about us humans, dear." Ms. Olivia's smile indicates that she's quite pleased with her retort. She turns to me as if Mr. Bernard has ceased to exist. "Rocky always made Singapore slings for himself and Geral-dine using sloe gin, and so he prefers it."

  The chimp turns back to the bar and carefully combines the gin, cherry brandy, and Benedictine into a cocktail shaker, and then while holding it he jumps up and down for a moment. When that's finished he empties the mix into two crystal cocktail tumblers. Then he deftly opens the ice bucket and actually uses tongs to drop exactly three cubes into each drink, fills the glasses the rest of the way with club soda, and adds the lime peel, half to each. Finally he skewers maraschino cherries on toothpicks, lays them atop the glasses, and with a big smile hands Ms. Olivia her drink.

  "Thank you very much, Rocky." They clink glasses and both take a sip. Rocky looks to Ms. Olivia for a reaction. "Very nice. If Bernard won't buy sloe gin, then perhaps we should try it with ginger ale next time."

  "Mother, stop being ridiculous," says Mr. Bernard. "He doesn't understand a word of what you're saying."

  But Ms. Olivia ignores her son. "Would you like to stay for dinner, Hallie? We're having—what are we having, Bertie?"

  "Ruby-glazed lamb with oven-roasted new potatoes, Mother. And of course for you and what's-his-name I've prepared beans, haricots verts, and some other herbivore-friendly fare."

  Then he turns to me and announces, "Mother is a vegetarian," in a way that indicates she cannot possibly appreciate good food.

  "Leonardo da Vinci said there's no reason for our bodies to act as a tomb for other creatures," says Ms. Olivia defensively.

  "Yes, that's probably why Michelangelo outlived him by almost a quarter of a century," says Mr. Bernard, now sounding quite pleased with his comeback. "Hallie, you are welcome to stay. We can accommodate a vegan, meat-eater, omnivore, or gourmand. The only menu I'm afraid I can't accomplish on short notice is kosher."

  I'm hungry, but I also know that the law is closing in on me and I must prepare. It's doubtful that Joan of Arc was sitting around laughing and eating ruby-glazed lamb when she knew her trial could come up at any moment. "Thanks, but I have to go to the library for an hour before they close."

  "Feel free to drop back afterward," Ms. Olivia says. "I give the Judge his dinner at quarter after six, get him settled, and then we dine at around half past seven."

  I hesitate. Their suspicions will be aroused if they think I might not have another place to go. On the other hand, it's only a matter of time before the posse arrives and the Stocktons find out I'm between bedrooms anyway. Mrs. Muldoon must have reported her findings to my parents by now. But
hunger wins out and so I agree to return.

  Then I contemplate my other problem, a shower. I'd purchased some shampoo while doing Ms. Olivia's shopping and planned to bike over to the YMCA after the library, since my friend Donna works at the desk checking IDs and will let me in anytime I want. Only they close up shop at seven.

  "I'd hate to eat dinner all grungy," I say, trying to sound casual. "Would you mind if I take a quick shower?"

  "Help yourself," says Mr. Bernard. "There's a guest room—"

  "Junk room," interjects Mr. Gil.

  "Ahem." Mr. Bernard clears his throat for effect. "There's a guest room with an en suite bathroom."

  "Oh, Bertie . . . you have a three-hundred-pound Austrian neoclassical brass-inlaid fall-front secretaire sitting in the tub," Mr. Gil reminds him.

  "Storage is such a dilemma. Use Mother's facilities. Just watch out for all the vials and votive candles. She went through an aromatherapy phase last winter."

  My project at the library is to verify that the legal age to quit school and work full-time is sixteen and to find out at what age you can divorce your parents, if it's even possible, in the state of Ohio. The librarian helps me find the state legal statutes, and it turns out that child-parent divorce is called becoming an "emancipated minor" and that you have to petition the court in order to get one.

  After the copy machine I have exactly thirty cents left to my name. It's a good thing the Stocktons invited me for dinner. Because I've managed to break every rule of gambling, the last being that it's okay to eat your betting money but never bet your eating money. And my current state of famishment makes this lesson all the more memorable.

  Leaving the library, I carefully fold the documents for my defense and tuck them into my pocket. But before climbing on my bike, I have another thought and go back inside and locate the librarian who helped me with the law books.

  "Excuse me, but have you ever heard of a book called Catch-22?"

  "Of course. It's in fiction under H, for Heller. Joseph Heller."As I get on my bike, it starts to drizzle. Great, my first dinner with actual upholstery on the dining room chairs and I'm going to have a wet mud stripe up my ass.

  Chapter 16

  Where the Action Is ♦

  When I return to the Stocktons', Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil are having drinks in the warmly lit living room while violin music soars in the background.

  I'd not really taken a good look around this room during the daytime. It's long and wide and has a high ceiling with intricate molding along the top. In the middle of the wall opposite the entranceway is a cavernous fireplace surrounded by thick dark green marble, and standing on the floor in front is a brass screen with a complicated swirly design on a mesh background.

  Above that, resting on top of the mantel, are about a dozen three-inch-high figurines of Asian people that appear to be carved out of ivory. They were probably the Smurfs of the eighteenth century. And hanging on the wall above their heads is a painting of a country church. It's one of those pictures where small brush strokes of pastel colors make everything look fuzzy when you get close up. In fact, there are acres of pictures on the walls, mounted in chunky gold or shiny dark wooden frames. Most are oil paintings, but there's a set of six watercolors featuring those cherubs you see on Valentine's Day cards and also on the covers of books about angels. The paintings must be worth a lot of money. I wonder if the Stocktons worry about getting robbed, especially since I haven't seen a burglar alarm, and they don't bother to lock the doors during the day. Then I contemplate whether the artwork is "hot." Is it possible that the Stocktons are art thieves as well as drug dealers?

  It's hard to imagine a burglar robbing my house, so tastefully decorated in Early Rec Room. All he'd find is a bunch of action figures, some board games, and a Nintendo. In fact, the TV is so old and banged up that he'd probably leave it behind.

  Everything at the Stocktons', on the other hand, looks old but expensive— the maroon-and-chestnut-colored rug with its fancy floral patterns in blue, yellow, red, and beige whirling around as if someone tossed a gigantic bouquet down from the ceiling fan, and all the chairs and end tables and especially the luxurious down-filled couch and matching love seat with the dark wooden feet that resemble animal hooves. It's the kind of furniture you'd expect to be covered in thick plastic so as not to be ruined by people sitting on it and spilling their drinks.

  Quite frankly, I'm terrified to touch almost everything, especially the little footstools with their delicately embroidered cushions. But they don't seem to care. Nope, they walk right across that fancy rug in the same shoes they wore outside in the rain. Mr. Gil plunks his feet right up on the glass coffee table. With his loafers on! And the living room isn't dotted with circular red coasters the way mine is, as if the house has a case of measles.

  Mr. Gil must do some type of corporate training, because he's in the middle of a funny story about a big-shot executive whose colleagues are supposed to carry him over a mud pit but he's so fat that they accidentally drop him in. And when they finally hoist the boss out, his pants have slipped down enough to reveal a woman's name (not his wife's) tattooed on his rear end. It's hilarious the way Mr. Gil recounts the event and describes the sucking sound from pulling the guy out of the pit while his pants and shoes stick in the mud.

  Mr. Bernard catches me studying a framed needlepoint sampler on the coffee table. The picture is of a brightly-plumed bird against a background of sky and mountains, and underneath is stitched: Horas non numero nisi serenas.

  "Mother designed that," Mr. Bernard explains. "When father became ill she took up needlepoint for a time and decided that we needed a Stockton family crest and motto. That's Latin for 'I count only the happy hours.' Apparently she saw it on a sundial while traveling in Italy, somewhere outside of Venice." He pauses to glance at the needlework and then continues, "Palmer sounds like an aristocratic English name. Does your family have a crest or motto?"

  I've never seen any crest lying around the house, aside from the toothpaste. "If we have a family motto, I guess it would be Does the salad come with the meal?"

  Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil both chuckle at this, and once again I'm not sure if they're laughing with me or at me.

  "Don't worry, Hallie," says Mr. Gil. "Bertie's real crest is the letter S with two vertical lines running through it."

  "What's another name for box?" Ms. Olivia's voice comes from her den in the alcove off the back of the living room.

  "What?" Gil calls from the living room.

  "What is a synonym for pussy?"

  "Oh dear," Mr. Bernard says.

  My cheeks turn warm with embarrassment, but he only bursts out laughing along with Mr. Gil and almost drops his glass in his lap before setting it down on the end table for safekeeping. "Mother!" he calls into the den. "Hallie's here. Puh-leeze!"

  "Wonderful. I'm sure she'll know a word. Ask her."

  Mr. Bernard pulls himself together and with an air of mock sincerity states, "Hallie, Mother scribes pornography for Milky Way magazine ..."

  But Mr. Gil is still laughing too hard for Mr. Bernard to continue.

  "Will you hush already," Mr. Bernard scolds Mr. Gil.

  Mr. Bernard clears his throat and begins again. "Hallie, Mother is a poet and has had much of her work published in literary journals. Only the compensation isn't very good and she requires the validation of earning an income. Thus for many years she's written erotic narratives."

  "Well?" Ms. Olivia impatiently calls out from the den. "It's for a new piece I've titled 'Thong of Myself.' "

  "How about snatch?" Mr. Gil shouts back.

  "I already used that," Ms. Olivia states matter-of-factly.

  "And Mother is wondering if you have an idea for a synonym for the female reproductive organ," Mr. Bernard continues. "Only a little less clinical. More risqué, if you will."

  "How about beaver?" I yell in the direction of the den.

  We hear a "hmph" and the sound of more clicking on the keyboard, as if sh
e's trying it out. "No good."

  "Or love muscle," I add.

  "Wonderful!" Ms. Olivia calls back. "I've never used that before. You see, gentlemen, we need a young person around to keep us up to date."

  "You're a woman of many talents," Mr. Bernard says to me. "We'll have to show you some of Mother's work." He picks up his drink. "I mean her poetry... of course."

  "Of course," I reply.

  After dinner I help clear the dishes and clean up. Mr. Bernard doesn't try to stop me, but he doesn't turn the job entirely over to me either. He stands in front of the sink rinsing and loading the dishwasher and lets me bus everything from the table and pile the dirty linen napkins in the laundry room.

  Ms. Olivia and Mr. Gil sit at the dining room table sipping cappuccinos and animatedly discussing a play that Mr. Gil is directing at the Community Center. It's called The Glass Menagerie and it sounds like it's rated X. There's a part for "a gentleman's call girl," and so I imagine that's why he wants Ms. Olivia's expert opinion.

  Once everything is straightened up I thank the Stocktons and Mr. Gil, cheerfully say good night, exit through the front door, and ride my bike down the driveway as if I'm heading for home. After about fifteen minutes, I cut back through the woods behind their house and lean my bike against the side of the summerhouse.

  However, it's obvious that someone has been inside. Most noticeable is that the box with the drugs and the stack of pamphlets is gone. And there's an afghan sitting on one of the chairs that I didn't remember seeing the night before. Although there's so much stuff jammed into the small room that I could have missed it. I retrieve the flashlight I'd stowed in the drawer of the table and then settle into one of the couches and begin to read Catch-22. It opens during a war with a guy named Yossarian who is a patient in the hospital. He no longer feels like writing to his family and friends and so he tells them he's going on a dangerous mission and he'll write when he gets back. Then he gets bored and inks out all the adjectives in the letters written by the enlisted men. And even though there's a war going on it seems as if it's going to be a funny book.