Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  She laughs. This appears to satisfy Mr. Bernard, and he finally smiles and takes a bite of his pie. Then he says, "Hallie, go and get Rocky." I'm surprised, because the two of them have been steering clear of each other the past few days.

  I find Rocky sitting in the chair at the Judge's bedside. When Ms. Olivia needs to get up he usually takes her place and mimics her exact movements, putting his hand to the Judge's cheek and then gently stroking his head. We come downstairs and Mr. Bernard hands Rocky a box. He sniffs it before ripping open the top and pulling out a bottle of Hiram Walker sloe gin. Rocky immediately recognizes the label and begins to hoot with excitement. He runs over to Mr. Bernard and embraces him with those long furry arms. Mr. Bernard hugs him back and says with ceremonious gravity, "I wish to formally apologize for the remark I passed the other day. You're a good chimp, and I'm only sad that Charles Darwin wasn't able to enjoy the fruit of his labors by watching you mix a Harvey Wallbanger."

  Chapter 40

  Lucky Stars ♠

  It's five o'clock when we finish talking and opening presents. Just as Mr. Gil is about to venture out and retrieve more firewood I hear the faint strains of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" approaching the front porch. Pushing back the thick brocaded curtains reveals a group of carolers bundled up in colorful hats and scarves and carrying old-fashioned oil lamps.

  "Let nothing you dismay, born is Christ our savior upon this Christmas Day."

  Ms. Olivia practically leaps from her chair to swing open the front door and welcome the impromptu performance. I've noticed that even though she claims to be against Christmas in principle, Ms. Olivia appreciates all the trappings—candles in the window, the lighted tree, watching a performance of The Nutcracker on public television.

  Aside from ruddy cheeks and fresh snow caked on the bottom of their pants, the carolers appear warm and cheerful. It's a clear evening, and though an early-morning snow blankets the neighborhood, it isn't too cold outside and a glorious winter sunset is painted across the sky.

  "Dad used to love to go caroling," Mr. Bernard says wistfully to no one in particular. "He used to pull me along in that old-fashioned wooden sleigh, singing dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh, laughing all the way, to Grandma's house we'll go. I believe he rather fancied himself a Clydesdale horse."

  "I saw the sleigh in the garage," I say. "With the bright gold stars painted on the sides."

  "That was my own added touch," says Mr. Bernard. "I think by then Father was getting the idea that I wouldn't be applying to law school."

  Ms. Olivia turns and gazes toward the staircase as the first verse of "O, Come All Ye Faithful" rises from the front walk.

  "I can't stand this anymore," says Ms. Olivia. "This is not the way your father would wish to die."

  "What are you talking about, Mother? He certainly wouldn't want to die in the hospital. There's nothing they can do for him there that we can't do here at home."

  "I don't mean that. We're going caroling," says Ms. Olivia, her airy voice rising with excitement. "Bernard, get his coat and find a warm blanket. Gil, fetch a couple of flashlights. Hallie, take the sleigh out of the garage."

  At first Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard and I just stand around like lawn ornaments and stare at one another. But then Mr. Bernard opens the closet door and Mr. Gil goes toward the cellar and so I throw on my coat and head for the garage. Outside the last pale colors of the day are crushed on the horizon. Dark will come quickly, as it always does in wintertime.

  Soon Mr. Bernard is gently arranging his father's frail body in the old wooden sleigh and Ms. Olivia carefully tucks a blanket around the Judge. Mr. Gil has dug up some old lanterns that he hangs on the back of the curved wooden handles.

  Then we put the rope around Mr. Bernard as if he's a team of oxen and he pulls the sleigh in the direction of the carolers. As we move down the driveway a string of rusty bells attached to a cracked leather bandeau ring out as they bounce against the tops of the runners. The sleigh glides easily across the snow-covered lawns, as if the Judge weighs hardly an ounce. In fact, the Judge doesn't weigh much more than a hundred and twenty pounds now, and I'd rubbed some cross-country ski wax onto the bottom of the runners.

  By the time we reach the next house the dull cast to the Judge's eyes seems to have been replaced by a faint glimmer of recognition and a smile, as if the shock of the cold air has momentarily sparked his system back to life. He gazes up at the snow-crusted pine trees and then at the moon rising and the frosty stars beginning to wink overhead. Ms. Olivia trots a few paces ahead, humming "Angels We Have Heard on High" along with the carolers.

  We only follow the merry band to the end of the street. They turn left down Sandpiper Lane and we swing around and head for home. By the time we carefully put the Judge back into bed, he falls into a peaceful slumber.

  Everyone is exhilarated from the outing and it feels as if the spirit of Christmas has finally come to 48 Nuthatch Lane.

  Chapter 41

  The Final Round ♦

  The Judge fades away an hour past dawn on the morning of December 26. The funeral is scheduled for Friday, in two days' time. The forty-eight hours leading up to it are a blur of preparations, phone calls, running errands, and making lists. There's a tremendous sense of relief in no longer waiting around. We're like a battalion of soldiers that has finally received orders and, though not cheered by the cause, are thankful to be mobilized.

  Ms. Olivia unplugs her computer from the second phone jack and sets up an auxiliary telephone which she uses to deliver the sad but inevitable news to friends and relatives, organize the newspaper obituary, and arrange the order of the service with her minister. I notice she's making a lot more trips to the backyard, and I can smell the leathery richness of her French cigarettes when she comes back inside.

  Mr. Gil mans the constant stream of deliveries to the front door— flowers, food, fruit baskets. And he answers a continuously ringing main phone line—condolence calls, people needing the details of the funeral, and out-of-towners wanting directions.

  Meanwhile I shuttle back and forth to town, picking up whatever items appear on the lists that the three of them keep feeding me. Mr. Bernard plans to have family members and select funeralgoers back to the house, and so there's a great quantity of provisions needed. Having completed one list, I am immediately de-bagged and sent back out with the next one. I must admit, I feel like a grown-up standing in line at the delicatessen asking for fresh pork tenderloin and three pounds of Norwegian smoked salmon. "Anything else for you today, ma'am?" the counterman asks, as if I'm thirty-two years old.

  When I return from a mission to the Party Place in order to load up on paper cocktail napkins and to the hardware store for Sterno cans to put underneath the chafing dishes, Mr. Bernard is waving a hanger holding one of his father's blue serge suits at Ms. Olivia.

  "So what if it's too big," Mr. Bernard is saying. "No one will notice the length of the sleeves when he's lying down."

  "Why waste a good suit that we can otherwise donate to the Helping Hands so that some young man can use it for a job interview or wear it to his arraignment?" Ms. Olivia argues. "It's going to be a closed casket anyway."

  "If it's all the same to you, Mother, I'd rather have an open casket."

  "I'm sorry, dear, but it's already been settled," Ms. Olivia says firmly.

  "Well, I'll just call the funeral director and change it and run the suit over," says Mr. Bernard.

  They're arguing in the dining room, but I don't want them to think I'm eavesdropping and so I enter the kitchen and allow the clatter of the Sterno cans hitting the sink basin to announce my arrival. It's the only available space left.

  "Oh, Hallie's back," Mr. Bernard says. "She can run his clothes over to the funeral parlor right now.

  "Hallie ..." Mr. Bernard calls into the kitchen.

  I enter the dining room, still wearing my winter coat and carrying a fistful of dry cleaning.

  Mr. Bernard turns to me. "H
allie, would you mind taking Dad's suit, a clean shirt, and his good patent leather shoes over to the funeral parlor? Let me just dash upstairs and find his favorite cuff links—the ones shaped like gavels."

  "Bernard, I'd really rather leave things as they are." Ms. Olivia frowns and glances down, clasping and unclasping hands as fragile as moth wings.

  "Mother, 1 don't understand what difference it makes. I would like to see my father one last time if it's all the same to you. And to see him as I remember him."

  I gently remove the suit from Mr. Bernard's hand, since he's only using it to gesticulate and emphasize the points of his argument. Besides, if he wins I'll be the one to take it to the funeral home. If Ms. Olivia wins, I'll take it back upstairs with all the dry cleaning.

  Ms. Olivia fingers the tattered address book she's been using all afternoon to make phone calls and then puts it back down on the sideboard and sighs. "Bertie ..." she begins tentatively, "your father is gone."

  "I know that, Mother. I'm not entertaining the idea that he's going to leap out of the casket and dance a jig. I just want a proper funeral, that's all."

  "Bertie dear, I mean he's gone. The casket will be empty."

  "What do you mean he's gone?" Mr. Bernard asks, stunned. He places both hands on the dining room table for support and leans forward.

  "Gone where?"

  "I donated him to the University of Ohio for Alzheimer's research."

  "But the hearse—"

  "The hearse took him to the university."

  "Jesus Christ, Mother! How could you do this without telling me?!" He yells at her like I've never seen before, all the distress of the last few days finally coming out in a torrent of rage. Even his forehead is clenched.

  But Ms. Olivia remains perfectly calm. "I didn't want to upset you."

  "Upset me?" he shouts.

  "Yes," Ms. Olivia says. "Upset you. And I'm sorry, Bertie, but there's nothing to be done about it now. You must think of your father as a flower that propagates by dying." She glances up at the black mahogany grandfather clock. "He arrived at the university late this morning. His brain is already in a jar of formaldehyde with a masking tape label on the top."

  "Mother, don't make jokes. This isn't funny. I can't believe you did this! Get him back!”

  "Bernard, darling, your father didn't know he was going to get Alzheimer's disease, so this wasn't something we discussed. But you must believe me when I say that I based my decision on what I know he would have wanted."

  Mr. Bernard collapses into the nearest dining room chairs as if his legs have suddenly given way.

  "Do you remember that time when you were a boy and your father ran in front of a streetcar and saved the life of that little girl?" Ms. Olivia continues. "And a photographer happened to be nearby and his picture was on the front page of the newspaper the next day?"

  "Of course. The title was the verdict is in: judge is local hero."

  "Your father didn't know that little girl from Eve, Bernard. He didn't know her parents or anything about her. And he never saw her again after that day. The family wasn't even from Ohio. Are you going to tell me he risked his life to have his picture in the newspaper?"

  "Certainly not. But that's different." He appears to regain his composure slightly. "I—I only wish that you had discussed this with me."

  "I'm sorry. I was wrong not to do so. But you know as well as I do that by donating his brain to medicine your father will be helping others. And someday it could be one of us who has Alzheimer's disease, perhaps you or Gil or Hallie, or even Hallie's children."

  "Or you," Mr. Bernard adds philosophically.

  "Perhaps me, too," she says brightly. "Only I'm afraid that I'm a little old to benefit from the current round of medical advances. In fact, why don't you donate my brain to the university as well? That way your father and I will be together."

  "Ohhhh, Mother," Mr. Bernard exhales for a long moment, "I highly doubt the government is going to permit anyone to go poking around inside that mind of yours once you've finally finished with it. Were it to fall into the wrong hands it would most certainly constitute a threat to our national security."

  Chapter 42

  The Fix Is In ♣

  The morning of the memorial service dawns blustery and gray. An ice pick of a wind is screaming off Lake Erie and a storm is forecast for the afternoon. It's slow going to the funeral parlor, and Mr. Gil says he regrets not bothering to put chains on the tires.

  Inside the funeral parlor it's humid and there is an aroma of 409 cleansing spray combined with my grandmother's Chantilly perfume. As we walk into the room reserved for the Judge I have a sneezing fit. There aren't any other names spelled out in removable white plastic letters on the black felt board other than Stockton, and so I assume that Christmas is a slow time for death, unlike the Fourth of July, when lots of people drown or blow themselves up with fireworks.

  Mr. Bernard ushers me into the small private grieving alcove where there's a cubbyhole for personal belongings and strategically placed tissue boxes. He whispers that he's not convinced the casket is empty and wants me to go up and peek inside.

  "Why me?" I whisper back.

  "Because you're the reformed con artist," he says. "You can appear nonchalant while casing a coffin."

  "I never did anything illegal," I argue. "I was just underage, that's all."

  "Okay, I take it back. You're the one who's skilled at sneaking into betting parlors, pool halls, poker games, casinos, and other places where you're not supposed to be. You're the one who can pick the window lock when I forget my keys. You're the one who knows how to get free long distance on any pay phone."

  He says all this in a complimentary manner; therefore, I feel more inclined to help him.

  "All you need to do is lift the casket lid slightly and see if you can identify an arm or an ear or something. I'll distract Mother so that she doesn't see you."

  "Okay, but I want a raise."

  "Deal."

  "And an electric hedge trimmer."

  "And an electric hedge trimmer."

  I put out my hand and Mr. Bernard shakes it. Then I head toward the front of the room and Mr. Bernard walks quickly to the rear, where Ms. Olivia is greeting the attendees as they slowly file in through the vestibule.

  Sidling up to the casket I consider how to negotiate the huge memorial wreath with the big molded-plastic spray- painted gold scales of justice wired to the top of it. It's pretty tacky. In fact, it looks like the logo for the Libra astrological sign that they use on the horoscope vending machine at the 7-Eleven. I doubt that Mr. Bernard has seen it. If he had, it would have been discreetly relocated behind the pulpit.

  Apparently the Judge's sister, Nora, converted to Catholicism upon marrying and had nine children and so a lot of relatives have sent Mass cards. One in particular has a foot-high cardboard cutout of a bare-chested Jesus affixed to the cover, and I wonder if inside there are different outfits for him, like you get with paper dolls.

  On closer inspection, the wreath appears heavy enough to hold its own and not slide off the casket, and so I face out toward the gathering mourners, slide my right hand behind my back, and attempt to raise the wooden lid with my fingers. But it's much too heavy to move with one hand, and so I check to make sure that no one is staring directly at me. Mr. Bernard has captured Ms. Olivia's attention, and he's waving his left hand behind his back like a coach signaling me to steal second base. I turn so that I'm facing the casket and use both hands to raise the top an inch.

  But it's dark in there and so far I can't see anything. I lift the heavy lid another few inches. Damn, I wish I had a penlight. Suddenly the wreath slides off the back of the casket. It hits a low-slung silver candelabrum and then tumbles to the ground with a loud crash. The domino effect goes to work, and as the candelabrum strikes the floor it slides into the base of the aluminum Mass card stand and knocks that over with another round of heavy-duty clattering which echoes like buckshot fire throughout the chape
l. Mass cards fly across the casket like a flock of seagulls coming in for a landing. Shit! I drop the lid and it slams shut with a voluble thwack.

  I feel the eyes of every person in the room on my back. The minister is already running toward me from where he was organizing his papers behind the podium. I start making sobbing and wailing noises in an effort to appear distraught. It's the only dodge that comes to mind on such short notice. Flinging my entire upper body across the top of the casket, I stretch my arms above my head like an Olympic diver. The sound of people gasping resonates throughout the room.

  Azure-haired old ladies arrive at my side from every corner, embroidered hankies flying behind them like flags. They all try to console me at once. When eventually I rise, a woman with white hair towering on her head like a wedding cake shoves a bottle of smelling salts in my face. Other lavender-scented dowagers dig tissues out of their sleeves and sweater pockets, and our expanding huddle of suffering starts to resemble a giant wad of toilet paper. Meanwhile, the men busy themselves gathering up the wreath and collecting all the scattered Mass cards. It looks as if I just finished playing a game of fifty-two pickup beneath the casket.

  A rotund middle-aged woman I've never seen before hugs me so close that her pocketbook feels like an overinflated football being jammed into my rib cage. In a thundering whisper that arises from somewhere in her vast bosom, she announces: "There, there now, it's going to be all right. Come have a sip of seltzer and a breath of fresh air." Over her bulky shoulder pad I spot Rocky sitting in the front row all dressed up in his suit with his hands covering his face like the see-no-evil monkey.

  During the car ride home, Mr. Bernard endeavors to be serious and suitably mournful, but he keeps bursting into laughter and then apologizing.

  "I'm sorry. It keeps reminding me of the funeral for Chuckles the Clown on The Mary Tyler Moore Show. You know, after the minister explains how poor departed Chuckles was trampled to death by a rogue elephant while dressed as Peter Peanut."