When we pull into the driveway, the house is dark except for a few table lamps left on downstairs.
"Tell me something—how can you keep track of all those cards?" he asks.
"Same way you keep track of period furniture, I guess. There are only fifty-two cards in the deck. You know the value of a least a hundred different types of clocks and chairs."
"But the cards are thrown down so fast. I barely had time to look at what everyone had showing."
"It's like that auction you took me to—I didn't know what was going on and yet you were bidding on lamps and bureaus and making notes in your book. You knew how much everything was worth and even what the other dealers in the crowd wanted and up to how much they'd pay. It's pretty much the same thing."
"When I had those three threes I should have raised more."
"You would have scared everybody into thinking you had a full house and they all would have folded. Two of them were showing and everyone else had a shitty hand."
"You don't know for sure that's what would have happened," he replies with the unshakable confidence of a first-time player.
" 'Night, Bernie," I say.
"Ha, ha," says Mr. Bernard." 'Night, Hellcat. You think I didn't hear that one?"
"Yeah, well, Hellcat is going to sleep thirty smackers richer."
"Just wait until next week," warns Mr. Bernard.
"You're kidding me, right? You really want to go back?"
"Absolutely. Only I believe next time I'll wear jeans with a black T-shirt and loafers. No socks. Much more dangerous, don't you think?"
"Yeah, your picture is in the dictionary under 'dangerous.' Right between 'daffodil' and 'delphinium.' "
Climbing the stairs to go to bed, I hear Mr. Bernard laughing to himself in the living room as he switches off the lights.
Chapter 54
Against the Odds «
Early the next morning I head over to the shop with Mr. Bernard because he's paying me to dust everything. While I clean he works on a new window display featuring antique tin toys, oil lamps, watches, and fountain pens. He claims they make good gifts for graduation and Father's Day.
Eventually we return to discussing my recent employment offer in the local gaming industrial complex. Now that Mr. Bernard sees himself as a card-carrying member in what he perceives to be society's romantic underbelly, he's waxing philosophical. Meantime I'm reconsidering my promise to take him to the racetrack this summer for fear that he'll soon be watching The Godfather and getting into the carting and hauling business.
"Listen, I'll never beat you at poker and I'll never be able to multiply and divide without a calculator. But forget about what I'm thinking for a moment and concentrate on what I'm saying. Of course I want you to go to college and get a respectable job, I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But if you proceed however you feel is appropriate for you, then we won't feel any differently about you. I promise."
"Yeah, well, you've never met Cappy. Much as he jokes about it, he's done hard time. You don't fool around with RICO."
"Who's Rico? A gambler? A hit man?"
"Worse. The laws against racketeering. Betting on the ponies is legit— well, the betting part is at least. What some of the owners and jockeys do is questionable. But making book on sports, oh boy.. ."
"Then you answered your own question. It's enough for me just to keep Mother out of the state pen. I'd much rather visit you at Penn State."
When we arrive home I help Mr. Bernard prepare Ottavio's arrival feast, which features sweet-and-sour pork with dates, pomegranates, and apricots as a main course.
"Tomorrow is Sassanid Arabian night," Mr. Bernard declares as he grinds a mound of fresh almonds onto wax paper. He chooses exotic dinner themes the way my mom chooses a Winnie the Pooh motif for our birthday parties and bedrooms at home.
"Couscous is a staple in Northern Africa and the Middle East," Mr. Bernard duly notes as he hands me a container of couscous that I assume I am supposed to boil.
"That was a good alligator story Officer Rich told last night." I laugh as I picture the slow-cornering Officer Rich trying to rope a gator. "You haven't told me a story from work in a while."
"I thought you'd never ask," Mr. Bernard replies cryptically. "Someone you know stopped in just the other day. However, I'm sworn to secrecy."
This is my cue to continue probing. Ms. Olivia and Mr. Gil have a saying: "Telephone, telegraph, tell-a-Bertie. Which is the fastest?"
"My parents?" I ask hesitantly. Maybe they're offering to buy me back, like at a slave auction. "Or perhaps someone from the administration offices at my old school?"
"I'd never allow that. Anyway, I was surprised not to see you with this visitor."
"Oh-kay. Maybe you happened to run into Craig. . ."
"Funny you should mention it! He stopped by the store just this afternoon." Mr. Bernard is still acting as if he's just drawn an inside straight.
"Oh really?" Then it dawns on me. "If this is about the stupid junior-senior prom, then forget it. I'm not going. I told Craig that if he's that desperate to go, then he should take some other girl."
"It's obvious that Craig has no desire to attend the prom with some harridan. He wishes to go with you."
"So he went and spoke to you about it? I mean, what's that all about? I should be mad at him for that."
Mr. Bernard pours brown sauce into a sizzling wok and his face is momentarily obscured by smoke accompanied by a loud hiss from the stove.
"Apparently the young gentleman is under the impression that I hold some sway over you. Many people are of that mind. I can't help it. It's just my demeanor."
"I'm not going to the stupid prom. I told him we could do anything else he wanted that night but go to that stupid prom."
"Well, as long as you're going on a date that evening, then why not just attend the stupid prom? If this is about the money, then I could certainly—"
"No, it's not the money. It's just so stupid. Those stupid ugly dresses and corsages and pictures under a plastic arbor and standing around all night when nobody really knows how to dance together anyway."
"But what if when you're thirty years old you decide it wasn't so ludicrous, excuse me, I mean stupid, after all? By then it will be too late—no photos, no tiny pink flowers surrounded by baby's breath neatly pressed into a memory book, no flashbacks of a beautifully decorated gymnasium when you hear the old prom theme song."
No wonder Mr. Bernard is urging me to go—he wants to influence the prom theme. "You just want to use our votes to push through something like a Mongolian night."
"Oh, I love the idea of Mongolian night—some Genghis Khan curried camel, Kublai Khan steamed pork buns, and Marco Polo honey fritters. In any case, I have an incredible idea for a dress. When Gil and I were researching Suddenly, Last Summer costumes in Macy's, we saw this trés elegante full-length black shantung silk dress that Mother could hem to tea length and ixnay the tulle poufs on the sleeves [Mr. Bernard is the only grown-up I know who can successfully work pig Latin into a sentence]. It would be killer chic with a single strand of cultured pearls, black high heel open-toe sandals, and a Chanel clutch bag."
"Since when does Ms. Olivia sew? She has me take buttons that need to be sewn back on over to the dry cleaner."
"Mother is an accomplished seamstress. She sewed all the costumes for the school plays when I was a child. Once she made seventy-five leprechaun ensembles by hand and then dyed them emerald green in our washing machine. My underwear was shamrock-colored for a year."
"Mr. Bernard, I don't even know what size dress I wear anymore."
"Don't be ridiculous. You're a perfect size eight." He mixes the sliced pork strips into the wok and another round of spitting and hissing shoots toward the ceiling. "I picked it up just in case you want to try it on."
"Ugh. Just tell me something—did you go to your prom?" I figure I've found my way out.
"Most certainly. I was on the committee. It was delightful. We had a French Ri
viera theme, St. Tropez specifically. Of course, I originally lobbied for a Monte Carlo night so we could invite Princess Grace of Monaco. But the PTA put the kibosh on anything that hinted of wagering."
"You're making all this up," I say.
"It's the God's honest truth. Just ask Mother. In fact, I'll show you my album."
"And did you have a date for this Riviera Night?"
"Of course. Amy Block. But everyone called her The Block. She was the goalie for the varsity field hockey team and took the school right to the state finals that year."
"You dated the goalie of your women's field hockey team?"
"It made sense. I was the shy and cerebral captain of our TV quiz show team, while she exuded strength and physical vitality. Besides, her girlfriend was a lipstick lesbian and the star of the school's production of Bye Bye Birdie. We double-dated with the oboe player in the orchestra, who was handsome in a brooding and pensive sort of way. He reminded me of James Dean in East of Eden. If only I could recall his name ..."
The couscous is about finished, and so I place the saucepot on the back burner to simmer. "You really want me to go to this stupid thing?"
Mr. Bernard places his wok-ful of sweet-and-sour pork on the counter to cool. "I just think you're too young to be cutting yourself off from experiences. So what if you have a lousy time? At least you tried it. No regrets."
"All right already, I'll go. But Craig better not think this is his big chance to go all the way with me."
"Oh dear." Mr. Bernard looks as if he hadn't given any thought to that part of the evening. "How about we have a scrumptious breakfast back here early the next morning and that way you can tell Craig that you have to come home and help me prepare for it?"
Stuffing what appears to be a huge wad of yellow chewing gum into the bread machine, he sets the automatic timer. "Yes ... we'll fix up the dining room as a buffet area with lovely fresh pink panda fragarias floating in a punch bowl of mimosas and I'll serve strawberry blintzes and sun-dried tomato frittata and ..."
In the pantry I search for raisins to mix into the couscous. Mr. Bernard baked cinnamon raisin bread the day before, so they could be absolutely anywhere. The fact that he seems so pleased that I've agreed to attend the prom causes me to smile. I consider what would have happened if I'd had this conversation with my mother and how I would have dug in my heels and threatened suicide if I was forced to go anywhere near that high school gymnasium with the red and black crepe paper bunting dangling from the bleachers. And if she had picked out a dress for me I wouldn't have given her the satisfaction of even looking at it.
So why have I let Mr. Bernard talk me into attending the prom so easily? I don't know. Am I glad to be going? I don't know that either. However, it can occasionally be less exhausting to be part of the crowd instead of constantly arguing about everything.
"Now what about a theme for the breakfast?" Mr. Bernard calls to me from the kitchen.
"How about Joan of Arc?" I call back jokingly.
"Brilliant!"
Only I don't know if he's kidding or already looking up souffle recipes.
"We'll make cafe brulot in my big silver chafing dish and croissants with homemade marmalade, individual coquilles St. Joan omelets, and then an immense flaming orange dessert with Grand Marnier...."
There was my answer.
Chapter 55
The Game of Love ♠
While the Stocktons and Mr. Gil head off to the airport to welcome Ottavio Vespignani, I go over to my old house for lunch. We've reached an unspoken agreement that we won't talk about school or the Stocktons and that my mother won't ask me to stay the night or, worse, when I'm coming home for good.
It's funny, but I don't really mind my parents anymore. There's nothing for them to be annoyed or worried about since they're no longer in charge of monitoring my daily movements. For the most part we just yak about what all my brothers and sisters are up to and the baby that's due in two weeks. The ultrasound showed it's going to be another girl. On the refrigerator my mother has tacked up this grainy photograph of what looks like a jellyfish invertebrate preserved in formaldehyde. Mom wants to call her Grace. But Dad's in favor of Megan.
I'm astonished when they actually ask my opinion on the matter. Though just because we're getting along so well I don't see any reason to lie. I tell them that Grace sounds like the teacher's pet and Megan is too common these days. They both just frown and give me this look like, You'll never agree with anything we say or do, will you?
My mother sighs and says, "Well, do you have a name in mind?"
I suggest Arabella. Ms. Olivia has been teaching me some Latin while we read Ovid's Ars Amatoria. I explain that Ara means eagle and bella means beautiful. Only I hadn't meant to bring up life at Nuthatch Lane, since I can tell that my mother doesn't appreciate being reminded that, being of sound body and questionable mind, I'd actually chosen to go and live with another family.
Meantime Eric is beating his chest because he's received a full scholarship to Indiana University. My folks are of course pleased as punch about this, and not just for the educational opportunity, but also because he'll apparently have a good shot at playing a lot of football the first year instead of just warming the bench.
I'm pleased for Eric, too. It's a damn lucky thing for me that he's a sports star, because wherever my dad goes—office, grocery store checkout line, gas station—people always compliment Eric and say stuff like "a chip off the old block," as if Dad was a quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers before he was drafted into the Ohio civil service.
Eric's scholarship will also act as a big assist to the family finances. In fact, my father is looking at minivans since they'll need room for two car seats, and so he offers me the old station wagon. The discussion gives me chills, since in a way the car issue is what started this whole chain of events in the first place. Although Ms. Olivia says that despite the fact that most significant upheavals can be traced back to a single catalyst, if it hadn't been that particular incident then it would have eventually been something else. For instance, even though the American Revolution was precipitated by the British slapping the colonies with the Intolerable Acts, the pot was already bubbling and it was just going to take one more grievance to make it boil over, which could have been about almost anything.
I thank my father for his generous offer. I truly believe that he wants to give me the car. When I say I don't need it since I can use the Buick whenever I want, he appears disappointed. However, my parents make it clear that if I want to attend college, and they're of course hoping that I will, they'll be more than happy to help out with the tuition.
Usually after returning from my parents' house Mr. Bernard will say something like "So, was the prodigal daughter welcomed home?" But tonight is different. He's too preoccupied with everything being absolutely perfect for Ottavio. The house is alive with music, brimming with laughter, bathed in candlelight, and decorated with overflowing vases of tall exotic-looking orange and purple flowers called birds of paradise. From out of the kitchen wafts the smell of baking bread. However, I happen to know that Mr. Bernard made the bread more for the smell than for toasting. He read in a decorating magazine that a whiff of fresh bread makes a house more inviting.
Ottavio is seated on the couch next to Ms. Olivia drinking tea, and they've just starting nibbling on Mr. Bernard's homemade scones.
"Bernard dear, I'm detecting a hint of chili powder in your scones," Ms. Olivia says and puts hers down on the edge of her saucer.
"Mother, that's cinnamon with a touch of—" But a look of horror suddenly crosses Mr. Bernard's face and he lunges for all the remaining scones, piles them back onto the serving platter, and dashes off to the kitchen. Mr. Gil and Ms. Olivia and I just laugh. After we break the ice, Ottavio happily joins in. Ottavio couldn't possibly look more different from the Judge. For one thing, he's about an inch shorter than me and slightly round, or built close to the ground, you might say. His hair is still dark but thinning on top
, though he's not attempting a comb-over. My guess is that he's in his late fifties, but because the few extra pounds serve to smooth out any wrinkles it's difficult to tell exactly. Not that it matters. Mr. Gil says that Ms. Olivia is young for her birth year, which no one seems to know for sure anyway.
At dinner Ottavio appears to enjoy the food and accepts second helpings of everything. He has a friendly smile and his eyes sparkle when he laughs, which is often. Ottavio beams at just about everything. When I ask how his trip was or if he wants another roll, he flashes me that 100-watt smile. Mr. Bernard hovers around the table like an expectant father, frowning and tsking and saying that the pork is overdone and that the sauce is too thin. And so we have to keep insisting how wonderful everything is.
Ottavio's English isn't terrific, but that doesn't stop him from barreling ahead with the conversation and either filling in the blanks with a few hand gestures or a French word that Ms. Olivia then translates into English. He refers to us as Bernardo and Gilberto and somehow I'm Hallonia. But when Ottavio says it, like when he says Oh-leev-eah, it sounds pretty, like the name of a star.
It is apparent that Mr. Bernard truly enjoys Ottavio, even if he isn't thrilled with the idea that his mother is entertaining a gentleman caller. At least he now refers to him as her Gentleman Caller as opposed to Casanova or The Individual. He asks Ottavio questions about places I've never heard of, such as Perugia and Portofino. And they talk about making something called tapenade from fresh olives for what seems like an hour.
A few minutes after ten, Ms. Olivia and Ottavio rise from the couch and cheerfully bid us all good night. One at a time we step forward to shake hands and hug Ottavio, and he grins and laughs like Santa Claus and kisses everyone on both cheeks. We keep saying what a pleasure it is to finally meet him, and he keeps agreeing and wagging his head and beaming that high-octane smile. But, of course, all we can think of is whether they're going to retreat upstairs to Ms. Olivia's bedroom and close the door or if Ottavio is expecting us to recommend a nearby hotel.
Beginner's Luck Page 31