Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  "Don't ask me, kiddo. Take your pick—the barricades and the evening news or Bernard Stockton, professional mediator and hostage negotiator. He cuts a mean deal on an antique armoire."

  The bell rings again. Oh damn. I don't know.

  "I'm going to answer the door. You stay here!" Mr. Bernard says to me. To Mr. Gil he says, "You go spy on Mother and report back to me all of her movements."

  Mr. Bernard straightens his posture, adjusts his shirt collar, and exits my new bedroom. Mr. Gil follows him. I quietly trail after them but stop at the top of the stairs so I can eavesdrop while my fate is being bartered away.

  It's impossible to hear every word, but Mr. Bernard sounds polite and helpful, just like he does with his customers, and Officer Rich sounds apologetic, just like he does when he wins at cards. It's possible to make out the words "so sorry" and "it's not up to me" and then "warrant for arrest." Warrant for arrest. Holy shit. I race back to my room and open the closet door to see if there's space for me in there. No dice. It's packed with rolled-up rugs, an antique wire birdcage, and about twenty old-fashioned wall barometers.

  I hear the gravel crunch again and wonder if Officer Rich might be leaving. Out of the window I can see the Channel 7 news van pulling into the circular driveway. So much for sliding down the drainpipe. My stomach is in knots and my legs are turning to soup. I wasn't made for the renegade life like Ms. Olivia. Playing blackjack at the hundred-dollar table never made me this nervous. I'm positively frantic. I dash back to the top of the stairs.

  "Mother!" I hear Mr. Bernard call.

  Mr. Gil trots up the stairs and practically trips over me, since I'm now crouched on the landing, chewing the cuticles off my fingers.

  "I was just coming to get you," he says calmly. "It's not you. They're arresting Livvy."

  "Ms. Olivia!" I stand up. "What for?" I ask. I'm dumbstruck.

  "The usual, Olivia Disobedience. Interfering with police procedure. She has a habit of going into town on Saturday afternoons and putting quarters in all the parking meters that are about to expire. Then she leaves a mimeographed note on the windshield explaining what she did and saying that before that driver leaves he or she should check the other meters and deposit a quarter in someone else's if it's about to run out. She calls it her traffic collective. Anyway, the town is losing money in ticket revenues. She's been doing it for years and they've been threatening to arrest her almost as long. But you know Olivia."

  I was certainly beginning to.

  "C'mon." Mr. Gil leads the way down the steps. "But brace yourself. Olivia is like a tea bag—she's very strong when placed in hot water."

  Out front there's a tremendous commotion under way. Ms. Olivia is insisting that Officer Rich drag her away in handcuffs and with his gumball lit and siren blaring.

  Mr. Bernard is courteously but firmly explaining that Ms. Olivia can't go to the courthouse because she must tend to her ailing husband.

  Ms. Olivia demands to be taken into custody, claiming that as an American citizen she's entitled to be arrested and read her rights and have due process.

  The crew from the news van is capturing the action on camera while a TV reporter approaches the porch carrying a big black microphone. A female journalist from the Cosgrove County Register arrives on the scene with a tape recorder slung over her shoulder and a notepad in hand. The front yard begins to resemble a presidential press conference.

  The TV reporter holds out the microphone and shouts questions. "Wasn't Olivia Stockton the lead activist for separation of church and school?" And "Mr. Stockton, are both of your parents currently suffering from mental illness?"

  Ms. Olivia automatically moves toward the microphone like a smart bomb approaching its objective. Mr. Bernard agilely pulls her back.

  The reporter aggressively continues. "Are you aware that your mother is known as the Cosgrove Car Angel?"

  "Yes, of course." Mr. Bernard raises his hands to silence them.

  Then the guy holding the klieg light for the cameraman suddenly swings around and fixes his gaze on me with more than a passing glance. "Who are you? His kid? The granddaughter?" While pointing a finger at me he hollers to the cameraman, "Hey, get a shot of the kid."

  "I'm just the yard person!" I say and shield my eyes from the blinding light that is now shifting in my direction.

  Meantime, Officer Rich appears to be refusing to arrest Ms. Olivia. And he seems alarmed by the sudden media frenzy, anxious to make it disappear at any cost. Ms. Olivia, on the other hand, is visibly energized by all the commotion. No stranger to the power of the press, she takes the newspaper reporter aside and gives her an earful.

  Mr. Bernard eventually ends the circus by waving his hands and shouting at everyone. "Okay, you've got your footage. This is private property and everyone must disassemble immediately."

  Then he turns to Mr. Gil. "Take Mother inside, please."

  But Ms. Olivia is enthusiastically conversing with the female reporter, and so he takes them both by the arm and steers them toward Mr. Gil and the front hall. "My alleged mother can finish making her proclamations over a cup of tea at the dining room table."

  To me he says, "Hallie, please go retrieve the checkbook out of Mother's secretary and bring it to me. I'm going down to the precinct with Officer Williamson in order to straighten out this misunderstanding.”

  To himself he mumbles, "Après Mom, le déluge."

  When the TV crew realizes that they're not going to witness a white-haired old woman being forcibly dragged off to a squad car in handcuffs, they pack up their equipment.

  Mr. Bernard walks over to the cruiser accompanied by an obviously relieved Officer Rich. Meantime, Mr. Gil graciously escorts Ms. Olivia and the reporter into the dining room. Only instead of discussing her near-arrest, I hear Ms. Olivia congratulating the young woman on her choice of career and for having the courage to speak out on behalf of the oppressed at the hands of a greedy municipality.

  I don't like the look of the woman and wish that she would leave. But then I realize it's impossible to dislike her because I've never met her and don't know a thing about her. Perhaps it's just the idea of Ms. Olivia having another student that I resent. I vow to try harder in my studies. I don't want her to find a more willing pupil.

  Next I hand Mr. Bernard his checkbook through the window of the police car and am pleased to find that he's sitting in the front seat, and not behind the Plexiglas partition and the wire cage. No, they're chatting amiably and Mr. Bernard is shaking his head in disbelief and Officer Rich is nodding as if he understands. Like we all have a nutty relative and what can you do?

  "Don't worry," Mr. Bernard reassures me. "I'll get it knocked down to a fine."

  But I feel better knowing that due to his father having worked in the courts, the family must still have connections and maybe the fix is in. I mean, I know Ms. Olivia was hoping to go to prison and all, and that I should probably respect her wishes, because essentially I'm in the same boat. Only she wants to go where everyone doesn't want her to go, while I don't want to go where everyone wants me to go.

  "I think you'll have to agree with me that she costs us more in fines and bail than she saves anyone in parking tickets." Mr. Bernard opens the checkbook to glance at how much money is in the account.

  I assume he's talking to Officer Rich because of the way he says "we," but when he looks up from the leather folder he's staring right at me. I'm the other person in "us," and I nod my head in agreement to both his proposition and to us being us.

  "Hi, Hallie," Officer Rich says to me as he turns the key in the ignition and starts his engine. But he says it with a dismissiveness that makes me feel like an outsider. I suppose he can see my relief that he isn't there on my account.

  "Hey," I say.

  "I'll be in touch." He starts pulling away.

  And I know that he will be, too. Officer Rich has made it quite clear that I don't have much time left to either produce the money or come up with a good explanation for where i
t went. Or else ...

  Now that I think I've figured out who did it, all that's left is to prove it. The only problem is that I need to be eighteen in order to execute my plan. There's always Eric. Though he would probably squeal to Mom and Dad and they'd call Officer Rich. Craig is eighteen. Only I'm probably still on his shit list for borrowing the money for the racetrack, even if I did pay it back eventually. But it's worth a try.

  Chapter 29

  In or Out? «

  Saturday night Mr. Gil invites me to watch Gigi with Mr. Bernard, Ms. Olivia, and the Judge. The Judge has been weary lately, and so Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard set up the VCR in their bedroom and bring up some chairs from the living room. I politely decline, because it's time to finally get to the end of the missing money trail.

  After dinner I drive over to Craig's house. I don't know what made me think he'd be home on a Saturday night. He must get invited to tons of parties just like my brother Eric and sister Louise. I can tell his mother is reluctant to help me locate her son. Obviously she's heard about my colorful resume. But she gives me the name, address, and phone number of where he is, which I find totally fascinating. My mother would need a computer and a full-time assistant to keep track of where all her children are. But I suppose if you only have one kid then surveillance is much easier.

  I drive to Scott Kirkland's house. He's in my brother's class and also on the football team, so I know him well enough to knock on the door. It's cold outside and he invites me in. Craig is there watching one of the Scream movies along with a bunch of guys and Scott's older sister, Trish, who is visiting from college and has one of her high school girlfriends over. Either they're too involved in the movie to say much or they've heard that I'm the town exile. I suppose I should just be flattered that the women don't grab for their purses and hide their jewelry.

  I ask Craig if I can talk to him privately, and so we go to the kitchen together and he offers me a beer. Scott is the youngest of four, and so his parents treat everyone like grown-ups. And both his parents smoke, so you can smoke and drink and watch adult movies and they don't run around banging on locked doors, turning on lights, and carding everyone.

  Craig looks more perplexed than pleased to see me, and so I wonder what he's heard. The stories about me being abducted by aliens were fun in the beginning, but I'm getting tired of people treating me like some sort of freak in addition to a hardened criminal. I can't decide which is worse. I mean, you always hear about people writing to prisoners and wanting to marry them, and in movies the bad characters are often sexy. But who wants to date a freak?

  "So what's going on?" asks Craig.

  "Depends on what you've heard," I say. "There's an ugly rumor going around that I cadged some cash from the sporting goods store."

  "I heard that," he says. Then he raises his right hand and ticks off with the forefinger on his left while presenting the rest of the list. "I heard you were involved with the Mafia. I heard that you dropped out of school to become a jockey at the racetrack." He eyes me skeptically. "Though you appear tall for that." He pauses, and I think he's finished.

  "That's all?" I ask sarcastically.

  "Actually, no. I heard that your parents threw you out of the house because they found pot in your room."

  "You have to wonder how 1 find the time to fit it all in," I say. "Especially with my glamorous full-time job as a housepainter."

  It isn't the welcome wagon I'd hoped for, but Craig is my best shot at a partner in reversing crime.

  "I sort of need to ask you a favor."

  "Okay, but why me? Why not Eric or your boyfriend Seth?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It was pretty obvious you two were an item at Gwen's party."

  I'm surprised he even noticed me, he was so busy spoon-feeding What's-Her-Name, but I figure that mentioning this is not going to score any points.

  "Yeah, well, Seth is over," I say. "And I need your help, because you're eighteen. You are eighteen, aren't you?"

  He nods affirmatively but hesitantly, like an impatient loan shark being forced to wait through another tale of woe.

  "This is going to sound really weird," I say. "And I'll understand if you don't want to do it."

  "It's nothing illegal, is it? Because, you know, I'm sending out college applications and my parents—"

  "No, no. Just the opposite actually." I remove eight hundred dollars from my coat pocket and Craig puts his hand out as if to stop me from going any further or else he'll be forced to call the police.

  "Just hang on a second. If this is the money you stole—"

  "No," I practically shout. "I mean, that's what I have to ask you—I didn't steal the money. I need you to help me prove that I didn't ..." My voice breaks and I'm practically in tears. Craig still looks skeptical. After composing myself, I explain what I think happened to the money and that what I need now is for him to open up a stock-trading account.

  He appears to believe my explanation, although I can tell he thinks the whole scheme sounds pretty far-fetched. "All right," he agrees.

  Craig offers to give me a ride home, and so now I wish that I hadn't brought the Buick. I consider lying and saying okay and then doubling back later to pick up the car.

  "So, uh, how come, you know, where's what's-her-name, Julia?"

  "Julietta," he corrects me. "She's a good friend."

  Good friend. The two most misunderstood words in the language of love. But I'm not about to ask.

  "That's nice, just like you and Sheryl," I say. "So anyway, I'd better get going. I borrowed a car." He probably assumes that borrowed is a euphemism for carjacked.

  "Are you sure you don't want to watch the rest of the movie?" he asks.

  "Uh, no thanks. Actually we're watching something back at the Stocktons'." .

  "Oh, you guys probably have one of the Chucky movies. We tried to rent those, but they were all out."

  "Probably. It's impossible to get a good horror film on a Saturday night."

  Craig walks me to the front door.

  "You've got the money?" I ask.

  He dutifully reaches his hand around and pats his back pocket.

  "Okay, well then, uh, thanks," I say.

  "No problem," he replies.

  I look up at him, way up, since he's so tall. He reaches out his hand, and I shake it. But it feels as if we're sealing a business deal. I highly doubt that this is what Ms. Olivia was talking about when she said that I'd have lovers and experiences and write poetry. I suddenly want to say something to express the way I really feel, not just some platitude or jokelike sarcastic remark.

  "You know, I can really use a friend right now," I finally say. "Will you be my friend?" No sooner is this gem out of my mouth than I decide it probably won't become a tag line in any romantic comedies.

  "Of course," says Craig. And fortunately he doesn't say, "I'll love you like a sister." Because that isn't what I have in mind.

  When I arrive back at the Stocktons', Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard shout for me to come upstairs and watch their favorite number with Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold singing "I Remember It Well." The Stocktons look like the three bears. It's actually quite funny. The Judge, Ms. Olivia, and Mr. Bernard are all squeezed together in the big sleigh bed with Rocky sound asleep at the bottom, and Mr. Gil is right next to them in a chair with his feet up on the bed across Mr. Bernard's shins. And except for the Judge, who's just smiling vaguely in the middle, they're all three happily singing right along with the television: We met at nine. We met at eight. I was on time. No, you were late. Ah yes! I remember it well.

  But all I can really think about is how this stock scheme better work, and work fast, since I doubt any musicals are shown in reform school.

  Chapter 30

  House of Cards ♠

  On Sunday morning Mr. Bernard rushes around the house frantically searching for his bank card and car keys in preparation to storm the rest of the weekend garage sales, while Mr. Gil and I sit at the dining
room table and finish eating our Eggs Bernard on toast. I'd agreed to go over to the Community Theater with Mr. Gil and paint the sets while he organizes the box office.

  "Hallie, your mother phoned last night," Mr. Bernard calls out from the front hall. This is followed by a series of crashes—the familiar sound of everything tumbling from the flimsy overloaded shelf above the coats and onto his head. A silk scarf sails through the entranceway to the dining room like a magic carpet and settles on the rug.

  "Oh horrors!" he yells out in dismay. "My cloisonné for a map of Cleveland Heights."

  "It's in the glove compartment," Mr. Gil calls out. "And just leave everything in the foyer. I have to reorganize that closet anyway."

  "Hallie, please do ring Mamacita back. She's been calling with telemarketer reliability," Mr. Bernard continues. "I can no longer bear to hear the sorrow in that woman's voice."

  Three days ago I'd written my mother a letter explaining that I didn't steal the money, and that I knew who did, but it was going to take me a little while to prove it. Because if I'm murdered between now and then I'd rather not go to my grave with her believing I'm guilty. I don't care so much about the rest of the town. As a postscript, I'd reminded her of the time she'd accused Eric and me of drinking the brandy and it turned out that Aunt Vi had used it to bake fruitcakes.

  Mr. Bernard appears wearing his normal weekend outfit of chinos, light blue cotton button-down collar shirt, and tweed blazer, only dangling from his ears are an enormous pair of orange and red rhinestone earrings shaped like ripe peaches. They're the size of silver dollars and heavy enough to weigh his earlobes down so that the fruit is practically bouncing up and down on his shoulders.

  Mr. Gil chokes on his coffee, and I find Mr. Bernard's clownish appearance so unexpectedly hilarious that I allow myself to slide off the chair and onto the floor, since it's easier to laugh this hard lying down, especially after having eaten three eggs.

  "What's wrong?" Mr. Bernard inquires with a perfectly straight face. He uses his hands to still both earrings and then lightly touches the top of his head with his fingertips. "Is my coiffure out of place?"