Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  "How about an after-dinner drink?" Mr. Bernard suggests, an obvious attempt at a delaying tactic. "Perhaps some Amaretto di Saronno or Cointreau?"

  "No, thank you, dear," Ms. Olivia answers for both of them.

  "Then what about a little more dessert?"

  "Oh, I couldn't eat another bite," Ms. Olivia says politely.

  Ottavio smiles appreciatively and gently takes Ms. Olivia's arm in his, and together they ascend the staircase. Mr. Bernard, Mr. Gil, Rocky, and I all stand there in stunned silence.

  "Good gravy!" Mr. Bernard says when they're out of hearing range. "Get the ammonium carbonate. I'm about to have a spell." He dramatically throws his arms in the air and lets himself fall backward into the down-stuffed couch cushions. Rocky mimics him by dramatically throwing up his arms and falling backward onto the couch right next to Mr. Bernard.

  "Oh my gosh ...," I say, equally alarmed. "Do you think he's just taking her up to bed, or do you think he's actually going to spend the night in there?"

  "I think he's taking her to bed, all right," Mr. Bernard replies gravely and closes his eyes again for emphasis. He clutches at his heart with his right hand. "I'm too old to have a sixty-something, sexually active mother."

  "I thought children were supposed to give their mothers the heart attacks," I say. "Haven't you got it reversed?"

  "Lighten up, will you both?" Mr. Gil says and laughs. "He's a terrific guy. And certainly better than anything creaking around the Cosgrove County golf course in plaid pants and an aqua-and-tangerine-striped polo shirt."

  Mr. Bernard's eyes suddenly open and flare with light, and he sits up as if he's just had a brainstorm. "Would it be terribly indelicate if I went into the pantry and listened through the vent that goes up behind her headboard? Perhaps they need an extra blanket and are simply too exhausted to go and fetch it."

  "Bertie, don't you dare!" Mr. Gil says sternly, the way you would threaten an eight-year-old not to light matches near a tank of gasoline.

  Just then Ottavio appears on the staircase, and Mr. Bernard leaps to his feet as if he doesn't want to miss the opportunity to make up a spare room or drive him to a local bed and breakfast.

  " Un poco warm latte for Ohleeveeah, per piacere.” He gestures to indicate a small amount with his fingers.

  "Of course," says Mr. Gil. "Due warm lattes coming up. Why don't you go back upstairs and I'll bring up a tray in just a moment."

  "Zhank you, Gilberto. Zat is so kind of you. You're just like a zon."

  As soon as Ottavio disappears upstairs, Mr. Bernard jumps into action.

  "Brilliant!" says Mr. Bernard. "You're a genius, Gil. Go and get a silver breakfast tray and some cookies. I'll put on the coffee. Hallie, you warm up some milk."

  But Mr. Gil pushes him back down onto the couch. "No. You're staying right there. I'm bringing up the tray." Once again Mr. Bernard leaps up and Mr. Gil pushes him back down, and for a second I think they're going to have a full-blown shoving match.

  "Who are you kidding?" Mr. Bernard says. "You can't make a tray. You almost killed me the last time I was in bed with the flu."

  "Forget it, Bertie. Besides, you heard what he said. I'm just like a zon.”

  "Fine, be that way. Only be sure to include those nice marble pinafore cookies and use a doily, for heaven's sake."

  Mr. Bernard sinks into the couch cushions and crosses his arms like a petulant student waiting out the last fifteen minutes of detention. "And add a shot or two of brandy. I want him to sleep well. Very well."

  By the time Mr. Gil returns with the tray I've managed to distract Mr. Bernard with a few hands of blackjack. Only just as Mr. Gil is about to venture upstairs Mr. Bernard leaps to his feet with alarm and shouts, "Smoke! Something's on fire!"

  We all look to the top of the stairwell and see a murky cloud of spinning particles surrounding the bright overhead lamp. Mr. Bernard makes another dash for the stairs, but Mr. Gil effectively blocks him with an outstretched leg and his free hand. "Calm down," says Mr. Gil. "Nothing is on fire. It's just cigarette smoke."

  Mr. Gil goes up the stairs, but we gallop up after him and crouch around the corner so that we can observe the door to Ms. Olivia's bedroom. From this position the aroma of cigarettes escaping from under her door is unmistakable, commingled with the distinct but sweet smell of a strong cigar. For a brief moment as Mr. Gil passes in the tray, Mr. Bernard and I spy Ottavio standing in a silvery satin bathrobe and, behind him, a mirage—Ms. Olivia silhouetted by a haze of smoke and the flickering light of a dozen votive candles, lounged across the bed in a filmy scarlet negligee with her head tilted slightly back as she laughs at something that Ottavio must have just said.

  As Mr. Gil gently closes the door, from over my shoulder I hear a muttered en flagrante quickly followed by the full weight of Mr. Bernard's body as he slumps on top of me and we both sink to the floor with a tremendous thud.

  Chapter 56

  A Done Deal ♦

  By the middle of June the air is tangy with the aroma of manure spreaders working overtime on the wheat farms off to the west and the sweet but pungent lilac bushes that exploded just three days ago in our own yard. It's now become necessary to start the day with a baseball cap in order to shield my face from an ever-strengthening morning sun.

  The garage door mural is finally completed. When my mother arrives to deliver my SAT scores, she asks if the two marionettes that I'd fashioned out of the hundreds of tan wooden spools in the garage are supposed to be Raggedy Ann and Andy.

  I say, "No, they're just dancing marionettes. They're being controlled by people you can't see. It's the Marionette Dance. Ms. Olivia told me about it."

  "Aren't you going to paint them?" she asks.

  "I'm leaving them plain, because I painted the background and I'd rather have that stand out instead." There is a sailing ship and a tropical island with lots of palm fronds and the things I imagine fill most people's dreams. I'd even added a layer of pachysandra at the bottom just for good measure.

  My mother scrutinizes the garage door and gives me a look that I've seen before. It's the one that says, You're either going to be president or you're going to land in jail, and this is one more reason I'm not going to get my hopes up.

  I actually enjoy these little visits from Mom now that she's no longer attempting to bribe, threaten, or kidnap me. And I can tell that she enjoys snooping around the Stockton place. Not that she's really interested in what Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard do for a living or what political party they belong to. She's more curious about what they eat, what kind of houseplants we grow, and what kind of soap and towels they put out for guests. Mom somehow changes into a social anthropologist when she visits, poking through stacks of magazines and studying the framed photographs on top of the piano as if they might yield clues to some great mystery of the universe. At least she doesn't do anything embarrassing like wear gloves or refuse to drink out of the glasses.

  "Aren't you going to check your SAT scores?" She glances down at the envelope I've been holding on to for the past ten minutes.

  "Okay." I tear it open. "Fourteen-ten," I say. "Seven hundred eighty on math and six hundred thirty on verbal."

  "Oh," she exclaims. "Eric got twelve hundred and twenty, mostly language points, I think. But then, he arrives home so late from practice or work that I don't know where he finds the time to study in the first place."

  "Yeah," I say, "it's an achievement that Eric managed to find the cafeteria where they were giving the test." But fortunately my mother doesn't catch the sarcasm and takes it as another compliment for Eric.

  "Have you applied to college?" she asks hopefully.

  "The Cleveland Institute of Art has a special program where you can make a portfolio and then apply to the regular four-year-degree program after that. I'm thinking of becoming a graphic artist. But I haven't decided anything for sure yet."

  "Of course not. You're not even seventeen. There's plenty of time for all that."

  "Maybe I'll take
a year off and travel—you know, go to France for a while. Or maybe just work here and save some money."

  Before she leaves I give my mother a tour of the gardens, which by now have begun to bloom. Underneath the apple trees there's already a dusting of pale pink and white blossoms that hover and skip in the spring breeze. Mr. Bernard is of course pleased with the warm weather we've been having, because he wants the yard to look nice for the postprom breakfast.

  Across from the summerhouse is a lovely new white hexagonal gazebo that Ned the carpenter completed last weekend. To decorate the white lattice overhang Mr. Bernard and I planted smooth green vines dotted with pea-like flowers in purple and blue and white, called vetches. Around the sides we arranged window boxes filled with pink peonies, and leading up the path we put in handsome slender plants called blazing-stars, in both magenta and violet, which lend a feathery and ethereal appearance to that entire corner of the backyard. Miniature red and white roses cascade over the trellis like waterfalls. I've decided that if fairies truly do live in the bottom of gardens, like in that silly old Bea Lillie song that Mr. Bernard is always singing, then it's right here that they'd make their home.

  Ms. Olivia is doubly pleased with the gazebo and surrounding flora because Ottavio says it reminds him of his house back in Italy. In the late afternoons after Ms. Olivia finishes my lessons, they've made it a habit to sit in the gazebo or on the white-painted wrought-iron bench near the fountain and read poetry to each other and sip lattes or Campari with club soda. Or sometimes they just talk and hold hands and smile a lot. It's very sweet.

  Ms. Olivia also made Mr. Bernard find someone to install a fountain. It isn't very large, but it gurgles pleasantly around a statue of Pan holding his flute and the birds like to land on the edge of the white marble to take a drink, dip their wings, and generally refresh themselves. Mr. Bernard got his merry-go-round out front, too, though he didn't exactly order it. I tell the story to my mother, but I'm not entirely sure she believes me. I'm beginning to sound like Mr. Bernard with his factual but far-fetched narratives.

  A week ago Mr. Bernard purchased a lot from an auction house sight unseen because one of his "operatives" called at the last minute to say that a dozen nineteenth-century hand-painted pine rocking horses were being sold in Dayton. He was assured that they were in excellent condition, complete with glass eyes, finely modeled neck muscles, and the original brass-studded leather harnesses. Mr. Bernard has some connection with a toy collector in Vancouver who leases antique rocking horses to Los Angeles filmmakers, so he bought the entire lot. Only when the truck arrived there was also a fiberglass three-horse carousel that plays carnival music when you switch on the power. Ms. Olivia considers the carousel a wonderful addition and immediately named the horses Burns, Joyce, and Kipling. Mr. Bernard decided it was kitschy enough to keep and that we can dress the horses up for the prom so that they'll be in keeping with the theme.

  When my mother eventually leaves Ms. Olivia and I begin my lessons. Ms. Olivia has been slightly frantic about my upcoming exams, so in addition to the usual afternoons we've been having review sessions for an hour after every night in her den while Ottavio and Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard play cards. I'd done so well on the practice tests that the school recommended I sit for the advanced placement exams that are administered three weeks prior to the regular finals.

  Aside from the current exam tension and Mr. Bernard's prom breakfast planning frenzy, life is tranquil and Ottavio's cheerful presence has gradually incorporated itself into the daily rhythms of Nuthatch Lane. And Mr. Bernard has relaxed about the fact that Ottavio is officially his mother's beau, in every sense of the word.

  That evening, when the bottom of the sun starts to sink behind the orchard, Ms. Olivia and Ottavio sit out in front of the summerhouse smoking while Ottavio patiently works at teaching her Italian. In the air lingers the scent of freshly mown grass and also hyacinth, which are just starting to bloom along the back fence. Off to the side Queen Anne's lace blankets the Druid Circle like a bridal veil.

  Mr. Bernard and I are busy in the garden erecting tall green wire cages around the budding tomato plants, and we can occasionally overhear what Ms. Olivia and Ottavio are saying. Every few minutes Ottavio leans over Ms. Olivia and attempts to reshape her mouth with his hand and then has her repeat some Italian phrase such as selvaggia femmina or nel parlare. And at regular intervals they simultaneously burst into laughter over her mispronunciations.

  Eventually Mr. Bernard stands up, stretches his back, glances up at the setting sun, and then contemplates the two of them for a long while. Above us, birds swoop like arrows into the folds of the trees.

  "I can't believe what an ass I was," says Mr. Bernard.

  "How do you mean?" I ask. Though I think I know how he means it. "Regardless of how you initially felt about Ottavio you were always courteous to him. And he likes you. He tells me all the time how talented you are."

  Mr. Bernard smiles at this. "Really? He does?"

  I've already said this to Mr. Bernard on several occasions, but he enjoys hearing it, in detail, like a favorite childhood bedtime story. However, this evening he has something more serious on his mind.

  "Well, I've learned a lot. You see that..." He nods to indicate where Ottavio and Ms. Olivia are sitting in front of the summerhouse in the last square of available sunlight. "I can never be that person to my mother."

  "You mean that she has needs," I say.

  "Yes." He smiles, obviously recalling the last time this subject came up. "And it was selfish and ridiculous of me to imagine that I could ever fill them all." As if on cue, Ottavio laughs his exuberant and infectious laugh at something Ms. Olivia must have said, or not said.

  "Well, for starters you'd have to learn Italian," I say.

  The phone rings, and Mr. Bernard glances at the offending handset that we've left near the back door in case Mr. Gil calls from his cell phone. I answer it.

  "Someone's calling for Buster Stockton," I yell to Mr. Bernard, though loudly enough so that Ms. Olivia can also hear. She and Ottavio rise and pick up their Camparis and stroll over to where Mr. Bernard is still bent over, caging the last tomato plant.

  I've never before heard any reference made to a Buster Stockton, and I can no sooner imagine Mr. Bernard allowing such a nickname for himself than he would ask people to call him Zippy or Bubba.

  "What do they want?" Mr. Bernard says.

  "They're offering Buster a free dental exam and X rays," I reply.

  "Tell them that Buster is deceased," Mr. Bernard says nonchalantly. "Pushing up lilies, literally."

  "All right, Bernard," Ms. Olivia says. "That will do."

  Oh dear. I can't help wondering if Buster was the Judge's nickname. Though it would seem a bit of a leap for someone with the given name of Abelard. I notify the salesperson that Buster has passed away, and he offers condolences and apologizes and says he'll remove Buster from their list.

  "Buster hasn't had a call in almost a year," observes Ms. Olivia.

  "Remember the lawn service people—offering a golden retriever a consultation on how to improve his grass!" Mr. Bernard recalls.

  "A golden retriever?" I ask hesitantly.

  "Buster was our dog when we moved into the house," Mr. Bernard explains. "I didn't want people calling at home about the business, and so we requested an unlisted number. But then Gil found out that you could list the phone under any old name, even a fake one, and that way avoid paying the fifty dollars to be unlisted."

  "So your number is in the phone book under Buster Stockton?"

  "Buster D. Stockton. The D was for dog."

  "Buster expired at home of natural causes with his family and favorite squeaky toys around him," Ms. Olivia assures me. "He was a centenarian in dog years."

  "So did you bury him out here in the yard?" I ask.

  "Heavens no," responds Ms. Olivia.

  "As a matter of fact," Mr. Bernard pauses and gives his mother a sideways glance, "if I recall correctly, Bus
ter's body was left at the animal hospital in order to study the effects of some arthritis wonder drug he'd been taking."

  "That's right," Ms. Olivia chimes in. "All for the greater golden retriever good."

  "I should have known that Father was next," says Mr. Bernard. "I sincerely believe that Mother is planning on donating us all to science. Hallie, I wouldn't take any catnaps on the living room couch if I were you."

  Chapter 57

  Dressed to the Nines ♣

  The following morning is Saturday, and from the top of the stairwell it's possible to hear Mr. Bernard and Ms. Olivia arguing down in the kitchen, their usual battleground. I can only assume that Ms. Olivia has dropped some sort of bomb—such as she's planning to marry Ottavio and decamp to Tuscany. I occasionally wonder if Mr. Bernard isn't so much threatened by Ottavio as he is afraid that Ms. Olivia is going to desert us. And that's why he goes to extra lengths to prepare delicious meals and why he built Ms. Olivia her gazebo and installed her fountain, to keep them both here in Cosgrove.

  "Running away from one's troubles never solved anything," I hear Ms. Olivia say.

  "You ran away to New York when you were eighteen and then off to Paris," Mr. Bernard counters.

  While listening to the voices I quietiy descend the stairs. I know I shouldn't stand in the hallway and eavesdrop, but I'm also interested in finding out who ran away or is at least threatening to do so. I remove one of Mr. Bernard's architecture magazines from the pile next to the stairs and pretend to browse through it just in case Mr. Gil or Ottavio should walk past.

  "Ah, but I wasn't running from anything," Ms. Olivia scoffs. "I was running to something. Or rather, after something."

  "Just as Hallie is. Or should be. She just doesn't know what that something is yet."

  "Make sure you're not playing God, Bernard," Ms. Olivia warns him. "More often than not we operate out of self-interest rather than in the best interests of others, no matter what we may tell ourselves."