Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

Ms. Olivia reenters the room carrying a cup of tea that smells of freshly sliced lemons. "That's a wonderful idea. Then come home and have chili and a hot toddy."

  "I don't feel like skating," Mr. Bernard announces like a sulky teenager.

  "How about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?" Mr. Gil suggests. "We haven't been there in a while. I'll give Hallie a guided tour of the Rolling Stones display."

  "After he ruined the Louvre?" Mr. Bernard raises his voice, as if he's suddenly awoken from a nap.

  "Mick Jagger trashed the Louvre?" I ask.

  "No, the architect I. M. Pei. I refuse to look at tinted glass pyramids while in an unmedicated state."

  "We could watch My Fair Lady again and look for more clues that Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering were more than roommates," I say. That was one of Mr. Bernard's favorites. He insisted there was a lot more to the song "A Hymn to Him" than the average viewer realized.

  "As if we need more proof. They can't show her boudoir enough, but never theirs."

  "Then what do you want to do?" asks Mr. Gil. "Because Livvy is right. We need to get out for a while."

  "If only Judy Garland were here," Mr. Bernard replies forlornly. "We could all go into the summerhouse and dress up and put on a show." Mr. Gil ignores his reference to Girl Crazy, which Mr. Bernard had made us all watch on video the day before. Mr. Bernard loves Judy Garland and claims he holds a master's degree in "Judyism," only he warns me not to use her as a role model because she didn't live a healthy lifestyle, and also, she let people take advantage of her.

  "I know!" Mr. Gil exclaims. "Let's play Jew-Christian. We haven't done that at all this year."

  Ms. Olivia arrives back at the bottom of the stairs carrying a stack of fresh linens. "Oh, that inane game! You don't even know the difference between the two."

  "Of course I do," says Mr. Bernard indignantly. "When the Messiah comes the Jews will say, 'It's lovely to see you,' while the Christians will say, 'It's so nice to see you again.' "

  "Very well, then," says Ms. Olivia. "Anything to get you all outdoors."

  "It's too homogeneous around here," Mr. Bernard complains. "Plastic Santas and those awful strings of white lights that are supposed to resemble icicles. We'd have to drive to the Cleveland suburbs."

  "Splendid!" says Ms. Olivia. "I'll pay for the gas. Now go and play your game in Shaker Heights."

  "Excuse me," I finally manage to interrupt the organizers. "But what the heck is Jew-Christian?"

  "You drive past a home and from the holiday decorations you see who can be the first to determine whether it's a Jewish or Christian home." Mr. Gil explains this as if it's the national pastime after the Super Bowl is over.

  I'm just glad to be doing something that Mr. Bernard is enthusiastic about. When he's depressed it drains all the fun out of the day. And I've never driven the Buick to Cleveland before.

  "Mother, I have a wonderful idea. Why don't you join us? I'll call Nurse Ratched to come over."

  "Thank you, dear, but I don't need anyone spying on me. And it's Nurse Radcliffe, Bertie, and you know it. Stop that name nonsense this instant or you're going to accidentally say it wrong in front of her," Ms. Olivia chides him. "Remember what happened with Esther Anne Dingman? She was one of your best customers, only you called her Esther Anne Dingbat around the house so often that you eventually said it right to her face."

  "Well, she didn't have good taste—always buying that dreadful Depression glass." He makes the face he reserves for when the liver pate for the beef Wellington has spoiled. "Nurse Radcliffe can sit with Father and we'll all go for a drive in the countryside and chop down a tree."

  "If you want I can stay here," I offer.

  "That's very considerate of you, Hallie, but the best thing you can do is get some fresh air." She eyes my open copy of Tolstoy's novel. "I'm sure you've had enough Russian tragedy for one afternoon." Ms. Olivia turns and starts back up the stairs.

  "You see, Mother, even Hallie's anxious about leaving you on your own here and she's never even seen Arsenic and Old Lace," Mr. Bernard calls after her.

  "Shush now, all of you," she says. "I'll see you after dinner. And not a moment before."

  After Ms. Olivia disappears, Mr. Gil says, "She can be a trial."

  "More like a jury," Mr. Bernard answers. But he rises and folds up the scattered newspapers, and I assume we're off to Cleveland in search of the holiday spirit.

  Chapter 38

  Losing Streak ♥

  "The day before Christmas the Judge is diagnosed with pneumonia. He won't eat or even take a sip of juice when Ms. Olivia puts the straw right up to his chapped lips. Eventually she has to dribble a teaspoon of water into his mouth every half hour or so. But I don't see him swallow. The water is only absorbed by his parched tongue. When the doctor arrives, Ms. Olivia and Mr. Bernard discuss inserting a feeding tube in hushed tones outside the Judge's bedroom door.

  Ms. Olivia blames herself for his illness and keeps insisting that the house is too drafty, that cold air is leaking in from all sides and we need new insulation. By now she has caulked the bottom of every doorjamb with a towel or bath mat, and then she has me go around and tape plastic over all the windows.

  This is all despite the doctor explaining to her that the Judge's sudden and rapid decline isn't anybody's fault. Sick people just contract pneumonia when their bodies can no longer fight everyday germs and the lungs can no longer filter air, he says. And even though the doctor hooks up an oxygen tank for the Judge and gives him shots filled with large doses of antibiotics, I understand that recovery isn't in the cards. At this stage of the game it's about comfort, not convalescence. I'm standing in the kitchen when the doctor murmurs to Mr. Bernard, "Pneumonia is a friend to the very old and to those who are suffering."

  Everyone quietly pads around, not at all filled with the Christmas spirit, but trying to fake it for the benefit of everyone else. Mr. Bernard distracts himself by whipping up a batch of highly decorated yet androgynous "gingerbread persons" for the Unitarians who regularly stop by to visit.

  After lunch Mr. Gil arrives home with a lovely and delicious-smelling Douglas fir tree so fresh that it still has lots of sticky pinecones hidden within its branches. He attempts to rally us into tree-trimming mode by building a roaring fire in the living room and then playing Angela Lansbury singing "We Need a Little Christmas" on the stereo. By working together, Mr. Gil and I somehow manage to unearth the boxes containing all the decorations from out of the bowels of the garage. Everything is gorgeous—antique hand-blown colored glass ornaments housing miniature Christmas scenes, individually wrapped in yellowed tissue paper and then packed in their own cardboard boxes. There are strings of lights where each bulb is surrounded by a hand-stitched red poinsettia and three dark green leaves. At the bottom is a porcelain angel in an ivory-colored moire gown trimmed with gold lace.

  Ms. Olivia and Mr. Bernard remain upstairs with the Judge while Mr. Gil and I set the tree in its stand. After we've watered it and strung the lights Mr. Bernard comes down, hangs one ornament, and then dejectedly goes back upstairs. Even Mr. Gil loses interest and excuses himself to go buy more starter blocks for the fireplace.

  I end up hanging most of the decorations by myself. It's the first time I've ever single-handedly trimmed a tree. At my house the installation of the Christmas tree is more like a seven-car pileup—kids accidentally smashing ornaments while crunching on all the candy canes that were supposed to be for the tree. Then there is the baby choking on tinsel and Dad stabbing himself while crafting makeshift ornament hooks out of paper clips.

  Though I must admit, it could be fun. Mom makes colored popcorn that we're supposed to string on red thread and hang on the tree, only we end up eating most of it or using it for ammunition in a war. I now realize how an only child must feel. Sure, you get to do everything all by yourself, but somehow it isn't quite the same.

  Eventually the tree looks festive enough, though it's still a far cry from the one in Mr. Bernard's sho
p window. After dinner we pull chairs around the Douglas fir and sip eggnog. Everyone appears slightly less pale in the soft pink glow cast by the tree lights.

  When Mr. Bernard is angry or upset he tends to prepare incredibly complicated desserts. The more layers of puff pastry, chocolate sauce made from scratch, and flambéing, the better. He's currently working his way through a Neapolitan cookbook, and so he goes out to the kitchen and comes back with slices of freshly made zuccotto on Christmas plates. It's an Italian dessert that's similar to a chilled pound cake, but with lots of nuts and basted with brandy. Mr. Bernard and Ms. Olivia take just one bite before abandoning their plates on the coffee table. Then Ms. Olivia heads back upstairs.

  After clearing up, we all gather in the Judge's bedroom and take turns reading from A Christmas Carol. Every year as far back as Mr. Bernard can remember the Judge read the Dickens story aloud on Christmas Eve. As a boy Mr. Bernard took the part of Tiny Tim and Ms. Olivia would play Mrs. Cratchit and also the Ghost of Christmas Past.

  Outside the window dazzling fairy tale snowflakes fall gently to the ground like white ashes, while the Judge sleeps through most of the halfhearted performance. And when he's not dozing he only peers up at us sleepily. Mr. Bernard is becoming more stressed out by the minute. He wants to do something. Mr. Gil says that Mr. Bernard has what is known in business as an "activist" personality—in other words, he's not happy unless something is happening. But there isn't anything to be done.

  Ms. Olivia has spent the better part of the past few days sitting next to the Judge's bedside and stroking his forehead and gently running her fingers through his thick white hair. His features appear faded, as if his entire being is slowly vanishing before our eyes. Rocky usually sits on the bed and holds one of the Judge's hands between both of his, as if mourning the fact that they can no longer play their favorite game of placing hand over hand.

  "Do you think he knows you're here?" I ask, trying not to sound impolite.

  "He may not know it's me, but he's aware that someone is here with him." Ms. Olivia is looking drained, too. Her normally cheerful voice crinkles like wax paper.

  "Oh. I'm sure he knows it's you and not some nurse in a hospital," I try to reassure her.

  She places her finely boned hands around one of his. Just beneath the surface of his practically transparent skin are purplish veins knotted like earthworms.

  I hope that if I ever go senile someone will be kind enough to care for me, rather than leave me arguing with an imaginary friend on a park bench. How do you arrange such things, I wonder. Obviously it pays to be nice to people since you don't know how, when, or where the chips are going to fall. Would my mother and father take me in if I were sick, or even dying? I feel sure they would. In fact, my mother would probably give me one of her kidneys if I needed it. Maybe it's time to grow up and take the long view on the family situation. Though it would be a lot easier if they'd quit telling me what to do all of the time. Eric tried to negotiate a truce so I could visit them on Christmas. But my parents said yes only if I promised to spend the night, a major deal breaker.

  With a little luck I won't get terminally ill until my mid- to late twenties— giving me at least a few more years to iron things out.

  Chapter 39

  Covering All Bets «

  On Christmas morning the Judge is drifting in and out of consciousness. A few presents have appeared under the tree. Mr. Bernard is in the kitchen making meringue cookies and Mr. Gil is chopping wood in the backyard with Rocky, who is getting some exercise by climbing the trees.

  After a late lunch we sit around the living room listening to Mr. Bernard's favorite recording of the Messiah, by the Christ Church Cathedral Choir, and I enjoy a slice from one of his freshly baked pecan pies.

  For Christmas I give Mr. Bernard a large metal organizer grid that attaches to the wall in the kitchen. It has adjustable plastic hooks for hanging all the pots, pans, ladles, and colanders.

  Mr. Bernard appears to truly admire my gift and declares, "It's wonderful! I'll install it immediately."

  "Sure you will," Mr. Gil says sarcastically. "Hallie, I give you permission to put it up tonight. Bertie organizes the kitchen about as often as Livvy remembers to take care of her rose garden. Whatever did we do without this during last summer's gelled food phase when stainless-steel molds took over the entire first floor?" he says to me.

  "It was an unseasonably hot summer," Mr. Bernard defends himself.

  "Gelled food?" I ask. "Like Jell-O?" I can't imagine Mr. Bernard allowing the use of Jell-O in his sophisticated menus.

  "Gelatin, when used properly, is the basis for many epicurean delights. Past generations that were culinarily in the know feasted upon tomato aspic. And what about that vegetable terrine, Gil? You enjoyed that."

  "What about the smoked fish consomme and the shrimp jelly and the yogurt-cucumber gelatin and the jellied mango fruit soup?" Mr. Gil says and grimaces at the recollection.

  "You should be grateful I didn't prepare a repast of gellied eels. Back in the twenties they were considered a Sunday-morning treat for London's East End working class. I think this coming year Hallie and I will cook only for ourselves," harrumphs Mr. Bernard, "while you and Maman feast on Swan-son Hungry Man frozen dinners with tinfoil tops and little squares of peach cobbler held together by molecules of nuclear waste. Or perhaps Mother can whip you up one of her special vegetarian E. coli cassoulets."

  I can't help but giggle. I love it when Ms. Olivia and Mr. Gil torture Mr. Bernard about his cooking and he finally retaliates by threatening to send them to the Wendy's drive-thru for a Frosty with a taco salad for their Sunday dinner. He loves to tell me that Ms. Olivia never uses four-letter words—specifically cook, wash, iron, and dust.

  Mr. Bernard presents me with the Victorian Christmas shadow box that I'd admired in his store way back in the fall, the first week I worked for the Stocktons. He's wrapped it beautifully in black tissue paper and a wide silver lame ribbon. I'm flabbergasted.

  "This is worth a lot of money!" I exclaim. "You could sell it."

  "No, no. I want you to have it. We antique dealers are a funny lot. When it comes to a special piece we're like dachshund breeders—the most important thing is that it goes to a good home where it will be cared for and appreciated."

  "Speaking of dog breeders," Ms. Olivia interjects, "did you read about the three puppy farms that the police disbanded outside of Dayton? Squalor, neglect, and inbreeding. It's all so terrible. I don't understand why more people don't adopt from animal shelters. There are so many unwanted pets."

  "They want purebreds, brand names," explains Mr. Gil.

  "Well, if it's good enough to take potluck when you have a child, I can't see why we need genetically engineered pets."

  It was the first I'd heard Ms. Olivia rail about any of her causes since the Judge had taken ill, and frankly I was more than a little relieved to hear the start of one of what Mr. Bernard referred to as her "fireside harangues." I've heard stories about people who've been married a long time, where one gets sick and dies and then the other person croaks right afterward.

  "I think we should organize a boycott of the pet stores that patronize these horrible places," Ms. Olivia states.

  "A capital idea, Mother," Mr. Bernard says diplomatically. "But let's rather just try and make it through to Groundhog's Day without having you placed in a maximum-security rest home."

  "Sometimes I don't know why you bother living in a democracy when you never want to participate in it," says Ms. Olivia.

  "I'm registered to vote, and I think the public library is a wonderful institution," says Mr. Bernard.

  "Bertie would much prefer a monarchy," says Mr. Gil. "More commemorative tea towels and spoons and hot plates to sell to tourists down at the shop. All with a royal seal on them."

  "How would you like that, Hallie?" Ms. Olivia asks. "A monarchy?"

  "I don't think so," I reply. "There's a saying in poker, you know, that you shouldn't put your tru
st in kings and queens because three of a kind will take them all."

  They all think this is amusing, though I don't quite understand why. Obviously they've never dropped a whole pile of money to some jerk's three deuces against their pair of cowboys in a poker game, or else they wouldn't be laughing so hard.

  And although Mr. Bernard jokes that he's renewed Ms. Olivia's membership in the Revolution of the Month Club, she doesn't give or receive any holiday presents. At first I assume it's because she's been preoccupied with the Judge's condition. Only it turns out that she never gives Christmas presents. Ms. Olivia believes that gift giving is preposterous and that people should exchange tokens of their affection when they feel moved to do so and not because of some holiday on the Gregorian calendar. Also, she insists that Christmas is discriminatory to minorities.

  Mr. Bernard informs me that back when Ms. Olivia was in her prime, she actually managed to get a referendum placed before the county in order to declare public institutions "Yule-Free Zones."

  "It'd be a better idea to install Yule-Free Zones in the stores," offers Mr. Gil. "Pity the poor Jew or Hindu who is trying to buy a tube of toothpaste on December 24 and having to wait in line behind fifty Christians with all of their double-sided Scotch tape, honey-glazed hams, and mistletoe."

  Mr. Gil presents Mr. Bernard with a singing bird clock. It's in the shape of a cuckoo clock, except instead of a bird popping out every hour you're treated to a nine-second live recording of one of twelve North American bird songs. Fortunately a built-in light sensor hushes the tweeters when the room goes dark.

  Mr. Bernard adores the clock and claims that it will make a wonderful conversation piece for the front of his store—right up there with the pair of antique Van Erp lamps that Mr. Gil had jerry-rigged with clappers. "Perhaps my next window display will be Chia pets grown in porcelain marriage pieces from the Ming dynasty." He looks up at Ms. Olivia in what I think is a rather hopeful way in order to gauge her reaction to this silly suggestion.