"I thought it was illegal to alter someone else's writing." Maybe Eric using Wite-Out on his school ID and me forging attendance notes wasn't so terrible after all.
"Or else they practice censorship by omission. For instance, they don't teach you that Percy Bysshe Shelley, who wrote this lovely poem 'Ode to the West Wind,' was an outspoken radical who championed free speech and vociferously attacked the death penalty, as well as Great Britain's subjugation of Ireland, and even Christianity."
However, Mr. Bernard is now in hearing range and he diplomatically chants, "Mother, teach to the test, please!" And I decide it's probably a good thing he wasn't around when Ms. Olivia was explaining how the ancient Greeks exercised naked.
Chapter 36
Front Runner ♦
True to her word, the final week in November Ms. Olivia prepares to meet Ottavio Vespignani in Florida. The days leading up to her departure are the first time I wished that I wasn't overhearing the squabbling between her and Mr. Bernard. Because this week I get the feeling that they're serious.
On this particular morning the war is being waged in the sunroom while I make chocolate and butterscotch chip pancakes in the kitchen.
"I should have named you Hector," Ms. Olivia barks at her son. "Because that's all you've been doing to me the past three days."
"Mother, how can you possibly abandon us like this?" Mr. Bernard soberly retorts.
"Call the Children's Welfare Society immediately," she scoffs. "Explain that I'm deserting my thirty-five-year-old son, his husband, and my own husband who hasn't recognized me in more than three years, to go on a five-day vacation."
"This is not a joke, Mother—you running off with some ... some Lothario. And leaving us to cope with everything."
"Bertie, Nurse Radcliffe is coming and your father will be in far better hands than he is with me. After all, she's a professionally trained care provider."
"But Mother, what will the neighbors say?"
"Oh, be serious! Since when have you ever cared what the neighbors think?"
Mr. Bernard trots out twenty more excuses why his mother shouldn't go on vacation, from the somewhat reasonable (how will he get his E-mail? answer: Mr. Gil or me) to the totally ridiculous (what will happen to the leftover Halloween candy?). But he can't sway her, or even lay a guilt trip on her, for that matter. In fact, Ms. Olivia appears perfectly at ease with her plans. After lunch she ushers me into her room to show me the two nightgowns she's purchased for the trip. One is a flowing floor-length silk negligee with a scoop neck, the color of cotton candy, and the other is a gold, tan, black, and cream leopard print.
"Wow!" I envision my mother in her sensible plaid flannel pajamas with a generous helping of Francie's yogurt smeared across the front of them.
"Whoever said love is blind was either extremely out of shape, incredibly hopeful, or a bit of both," Ms. Olivia remarks as she carefully wraps the dainty garments back up in their white and maroon polka-dotted tissue paper.
Even though the satiny leopard print with the spaghetti straps might be considered daring for a woman in her sixties, I imagine that Ms. Olivia can easily pull it off since she has a trim figure and moves so gracefully. Every delicate step and every turn of her head is worthy of attention, like that of a ballet dancer. And since her beau—that's what she prefers to call him—is foreign, I picture him having an appreciation of the exotic.
"Now, Hallie darling, please don't misunderstand me—those football jerseys, cotton Jockey underwear, and high-top sneakers you have a predilection for are perfectly fine—I don't believe women need to go around in lipstick and pearls all the time. And certainly if there's a fire you'll be the first one out, or if the Cleveland Browns suddenly need a quarterback you'll be prepared to hit the field running. But when you take a lover you must really treat yourself to a few nice peignoirs and undergarments. A boudoir ensemble that says 'come hither' as opposed to 'fourth down.' "
"I hate dresses and nightgowns. I can't take two steps without tripping."
"It's just something to keep in mind for later on. They were only able to convict Joan of Arc for wearing men's clothing, which was illegal for a woman back in the fifteenth century."
"They burned her at the stake for wearing men's clothes?"
"They were after her for other minor irritations—starting wars, crowning kings, and hearing voices saying the wrong side was going to prevail and the like. But I tend to think that if the Maid of Orleans had in her possession just one frock or a nice peasant skirt, she would have had a much better chance of getting off with just a warning."
I hear Mr. Bernard's agitated voice echoing in the stairwell. "At least leave me a phone number so that when they find your pocketbook floating in the Gulf of Mexico I can give the information to the police."
"He's coming around," Ms. Olivia whispers to me. "N'entrez vous pas!" Ms. Olivia calls out toward the closed door. "J'ai en déshabillé."
"Don't tell me things like that!" His voice fades down the hallway. "I don't even want to know about it."
I sit in the small chair with the heart-shaped back in front of Ms. Olivia's vanity table and watch as she finishes packing. She removes the red satin case from the pillow on her bed and places it in her carry-on bag and then zips up her luggage. "Well, that should do it."
Up until the very last minute Mr. Bernard is dashing around banging doors and cupboards and emitting the sighs of one who is overworked and exasperated in order to appear as if he has no time in his busy schedule to accompany us to the airport.
It isn't until Mr. Gil and I put on our coats and load the car that he performs a mock capitulation and says that he supposes the garage sales can wait. Then he begins clucking like a mother hen: "Tickets? Sunscreen? Tylenol? Passport? Rain bonnet?"
"Rain bonnet?" Ms. Olivia and Mr. Gil say in unison.
"Of course. A woman of a certain age should always carry a rain bonnet and have a twenty-dollar bill pinned to the inside of her sweater in case she has an altercation with her escort and needs to hail a taxi."
"It's Florida," Ms. Olivia reminds him. "It's sunny, I don't need a passport, and I have traveler's checks in my purse."
"And what if you're at sea and The Individual kidnaps you and sells you into white slavery in South America?"
All week Mr. Bernard has been referring to Ottavio as "The Individual" or "The Swarthy Individual." However, Ms. Olivia only chastises him for the latter depiction since she doesn't mind defamation of character for personal habits or backward beliefs, but she vehemently disagrees with stereotyping along the lines of race, religion, or gender.
After we arrive and gather to say good-bye at the departure gate, Ms. Olivia turns and addresses us wistfully: "I love you all very much and I know you think that I'm deranged and irresponsible. But you're all young. The bluebells and the hollyhocks, the dogwood trees and the iris spears all bloomed this year, but not for me. For me it's been winter for the past six years." And with that she waves a book of D. H. Lawrence poetry at us, gracefully turns, and disappears down the jetway.
On the escalator Mr. Bernard actually sheds a tear and doesn't bother to wipe it away. Mr. Gil places his hand on Mr. Bernard's shoulder.
"I just wish she wasn't so blithe about leaving," Mr. Bernard says sadly.
At least I now know that blithe means "carefree." And Ms. Olivia wasn't so excited about her vacation that she'd forgotten about our tutorials. While she's away I'm supposed to read The Cherry Orchard and a thirty-page chapter in The American Pageant about the Spanish-American War. Then I have to E-mail her my questions and observations and she's going to find a cyber-cafe in Florida where she can retrieve them, make comments, and suggest an essay topic. The Age of Technology definitely has its drawbacks.
"Your mother has a point, Bertie," Mr. Gil eventually says. "We don't live this thing day to day the way she does. Olivia is sixty-two," he pauses, "by her own count," he adds doubtfully, "but she looks fifty-five and has the energy of a forty-year-old."
>
"That's because she doesn't eat her own cooking and she possesses the common sense of a teenager."
"Hey!" I say. "I'm a teenager and I have common sense."
Mr. Bernard looks over and smiles at me. "Excusez-moi, I meant the common sense of a ten-year-old. Your ear is so close to the ground that it probably has ticks in it."
"Thank you," I say.
Mr. Bernard mumbles something about "growing old disgracefully."
"Yes, but what would we do without Olivia?" says Mr. Gil.
"The more appropriate question is what do we do with her," replies Mr. Bernard.
We walk the rest of the way through the airport and out to the parking lot in stony silence, concentrating on stepping over pools of salty slush and avoiding small but murderous patches of ice. Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil clamber into the backseat of the QE2.
"I just pray that he's not a psychopath," Mr. Bernard finally says, exhaling loudly. "We should have made her leave behind that photo of him that she has in her computer in case we need to file it with Interpol."
"I don't think Ottavio is a psychopath." Not only have I seen his picture and read some of his letters, but I've even talked to him on the phone for a few minutes. He sounds normal enough to me, aside from the broken English and heavy Italian accent.
Mr. Gil states in what I assume is intended to be a reassuring voice, "I'm sure he's quite affable, and a real gentleman."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Mr. Bernard forlornly admits, then suddenly perks up. "To the Garden of Eatin'! We will drown our collective sorrow in blueberry blintzes with sour cream and Barry Manilow ballads from the wall-mounted jukebox. It's the only suitable course of action to take at a time such as this."
We pig out on blueberry blintzes and then go back to the house. Almost as soon as we walk in the door the phone rings. Mr. Bernard frets that Ms. Olivia's plane has gone down but then is elated by the possibility that she's changed her mind about the trip.
But it turns out to be Craig. "Your plan is working." His voice is eager with excitement. "I just received another statement. All three stocks have gone down in value, and one sunk by almost half. Now what?"
"Time for phase two," I say softly. "After school tomorrow, go to the brokerage firm and say you want to cash out your account." I look around to make sure that Mr. Bernard isn't within earshot. "Then ask for a check to be mailed to you for however much is left."
"What if they ask why I'm closing the account after such a short time?"
"It's your money, you can do whatever you want with it."
"You mean it's your money," says Craig. "Are you sure you can afford to lose it? Don't you want to wait and see if the stocks come back?"
"I can't imagine they will, at least not in our lifetimes."
"Do you want to go out on Friday night?"
Do I want to? Oh, I want to a lot, but I hesitate. "I promised Mr. Gil I'd help paint one of the backdrops for his play. What about Saturday?"
"Basketball," says Craig.
Just then Mr. Bernard enters the kitchen.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I say and hang up the phone.
Mr. Bernard wears a funny expression, as if he's got some big secret on me.
"What?" I say defensively.
"Lots of mysterious phone calls lately," he says. And then he starts teasing me by singing a song from Gigi using a fake French accent: Zhank heaven, for little girls! Zhey grow up in ze most delightful way. Those little eyes so helpless and appealing, one day will flash and send you crashin’ through the ceilin’.
Pretending to ignore him, I walk out of the room, but my face feels hot all of a sudden, so I glance in the mirror only to discover that I look as if I've just blown twenty bucks at the rouge counter in Nordstrom's.
Chapter 37
Playing Close to the Vest ♣
It's been almost a month since Ms. Olivia returned from her vacation with eyes sparkling like blue cake-icing and a mysterious extra tote bag. However, because of Bernard's feelings about Ottavio the subject of the trip is never mentioned.
On the Sunday morning before Christmas, which falls on Tuesday, we all lounge around the living room in our pajamas. Normally Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil would have bounded out of the house by 7:30 a.m. on a holiday weekend, but there won't be any more garage sales until January. Instead they just lie around exchanging sections of the Sunday Cleveland Plain Dealer while I plow through Anna Karenina, since Ms. Olivia hasn't seen fit to declare a Christmas break from our tutorials.
When Mr. Bernard hears her delicate step on the stairs, he looks up from the magazine section as if he's been waiting for her. "Did Dad eat anything?"
"Not a bite."
She detours toward us, still carrying the silver tray that holds a glass of orange juice, a plate of scrambled eggs, and toast, all untouched.
"He took a few sips of water, but I think that's only because his mouth was dry."
"Do you think he's in any pain?" Mr. Gil looks up from the sports section. "Should we call the doctor?"
"No, no. We've hit bad patches like this before. But we must accept the fact that he's declining faster than the doctor predicted."
Ms. Olivia sighs and appears tearful, but then moves her fluttery hand up to her mouth, takes a deep breath, and composes herself. "I think it's partially because he no longer comprehends what food is ... why one needs to eat."
Mr. Bernard sets down his newspaper and clears his throat as if he's about to say something but doesn't. Instead he just stretches out on the floor and stares up at the ceiling as if he's always envisioned himself as being marked for tragedy and the moment is finally upon us. Ms. Olivia shifts her concern from the Judge to her son. "Bertie, I want you to get out and do something this afternoon. You sat around here all day yesterday, and it's making me feel as if we're holding a death vigil. Go to the art gallery."
"The gallery is closed. It's Sunday, Mother. If you'd been brought up in a proper churchgoing family, you'd know that."
Ignoring him, Ms. Olivia rests the silver tray on top of the banister. "Then go look at the store windows or else see a film."
Mr. Bernard places his hands behind his head and addresses the ceiling. "I shop for a living, Mother. I own a shop. And I'm certainly not about to patronize one of these holiday blockbusters where a hundred million dollars is spent on explosives detonated to a backdrop of movie stars making cops and robbers quips."
Just then Rocky comes down the stairs and appears worried at the sight of Mr. Bernard sprawled on the floor. He scampers over and checks his wrist for a pulse and puts his ear to Mr. Bernard's chest.
"Get out of here, you drunken gorilla," snaps Mr. Bernard and pushes Rocky away. The chimp whimpers and retreats to where Ms. Olivia is standing and hides his face behind her skirt.
"That wasn't necessary, Bernard!" she says in a terse voice that I've never heard before. "I will not tolerate unkindness, especially to animals. Now, I'm telling you once and for all, I want you out of here today. And that goes for you as well." She lifts the tray slightly and aims it at Mr. Gil. "And you, too." She points her silver tray in my direction as if it's a cattle prod.
Mr. Bernard abruptly sits up, scrutinizes his mother, and then narrows his eyes. "Are you sure you don't have some euthanasia scheme up the sleeve of your flowered housedress?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" replies Ms. Olivia. "However, I'd better see a car pulling out of the driveway in exactly one hour! I'm not kidding," she says and stalks out of the room.
"Mother, I'll have you locked up if you're planning a murder! I swear to God I won't cover for you. It's not like slipping quarters in expired parking meters. You'll do hard time!"
"Bertie, you're being paranoid," Mr. Gil states calmly. "She's not going to knock him off. She loves your father."
"I know she does. That's what I'm afraid of... she doesn't want him to suffer."
"You've been in his room today. Does he appear to be in pain?"
"No."
"And she
certainly isn't trying to organize an elopement with Ottavio."
"My nemesis. The swarthy soldier of fortune waiting in the wings of the stage drama that has become my life."
"Good heavens. You really are losing it. Livvy's right. Let's go somewhere. I'm getting dust mites in my Docksiders from sitting around here. What do you think, Hallie?"
I'm actually thinking how yesterday Ms. Olivia confided in me that she and Ottavio did indeed meet on the Internet, but it wasn't about art; it was about her looking for a new courier for the morning-after pills. Ottavio was more than glad to oblige. He started sending them by mail. And then after they met in Florida Ms. Olivia arrived back with a fresh supply in her extra tote bag. Only I had a feeling he'd become much more than a courier and a poet to her.
"Hallie, what do you think we should do?" Mr. Gil asks again.
I don't know what to suggest, because I haven't a clue as to what gay guys in their thirties do for recreation. They both enjoy the ballet and garden shows and Mr. Gil likes baseball, but I don't exactly have any ideas for a cold December afternoon two days before Christmas.
"Want to go look at the decorations in the mall?" I ask.
"Too crowded," says Mr. Gil.
"Too much materialism," laments Mr. Bernard.
Then I do get an idea. Bernard is always telling me that I should learn how to apply makeup and discover my feminine wiles. So I offer to get a makeover from one of those painted ladies down at the cosmetics store.
"You're pretty the way you are," Mr. Bernard tells me. "Don't get involved with those Lancôme Jezebels. You'll only end up overplucking your eyebrows and developing an eating disorder."
Boy, Mr. Bernard is really in the dumps if he's rejecting the quest for greater cosmetology. He loves to bring home magazine photos of hairstyles for Ms. Olivia and me to try.
"Does anyone like to ice-skate?" I ask halfheartedly.
Beginner's Luck Page 22