"Can I come home and get my yard person job back if it doesn't work out?"
"Absolutely. And you may come here on weekends and vacations and any other time you want. We're not going anywhere. Except for Mother, of course. She's threatening to rent an atelier in Verona for the winter."
Mr. Bernard and I walk farther into the yard, past the marble fountain, the spiky herb garden, and Ms. Olivia's garden with its ivory-colored roses dotting the dark bushes like cotton balls. The fountain gurgles in the background. Mr. Bernard had placed daisies in the water for the party and they're still floating on top, though now loosened of some of their petals. We stroll all the way back to the orchard, the exact spot where I used to hide my bicycle when I was sleeping in the summerhouse. It seems like such a long time ago. A lifetime. So much has happened.
"Look up at the sky," says Mr. Bernard, and he stands behind me and places his hands on my shoulders.
"There are a lot of stars out tonight," I say. And it's true. It appears as if thousands of fireflies are winking in the sky, way up above our heads, and silvering the grass beneath our feet.
"Choose one," he says.
"A star?"
"Yes, a star. It doesn't have to be anything famous like Polaris or Vega. In fact, it's much better to find an innocuous star, a total unknown—one just waiting to be discovered."
"Okay, I've got one. Now what? Are we going to adopt it through NASA and name it the Chicken Deja Vu Quasar and send money every month?"
"Something along those lines. That's your lucky star. Now make a wish on it."
"But I don't think I'll ever be able to find it again."
"You don't need to. Just strive as hard as you can, and whenever you feel worried or confused go outside, gaze up at the sky, and know that it's out there somewhere."
"And this works?"
"Most certainly," he says. "So long as you realize that it doesn't matter so much where you live, but to live where you are."
So this was the secret behind Mr. Bernard always wanting to make every day special. "What if I try it the first week of college and it doesn't make me feel any better? Then what?"
"Then pick up a phone and call us collect."
"Deal." Cappy always says that there are three horses who never come in first, second, or third and their names are Woulda, Coulda, and Shoulda.
We turn toward each other and shake hands and then stroll back toward the house. Inside Ms. Olivia has put on her favorite Edith Piaf recording and we can hear "Avant Nous" drifting out over the freshly mown grass. An enthusiastic amateur chorus of Cosgrove County crickets accompanies the French chanteuse.
"And don't ever forget what I told you about Ethel Merman," Mr. Bernard says when we reach the back door.
I recite Mr. Bernard's collection of Mermanobilia by rote. "Ethel Merman never had a voice lesson, managed all her own affairs, and answered all of her mail because those weren't just her fans, they were her customers. She saved her money, lived within her means, and cared for her elderly parents."
"And what else?"
I think for a moment. Mr. Bernard had played so many Ethel Merman CDs and videos. "Oh yeah. She'd turn over in her grave if she knew that actors today use body microphones when performing live onstage."
"Exactly!"
Chapter 62
Run for the Roses ♣
The day after graduation I finally purchase a used car, a green '99 Volkswagen Cabriolet. Only it's not heading for Vegas, as I initially planned, but for college.
I carefully pack up my belongings, including the worn copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and a book of Shakespeare's sonnets compliments of Ms. Olivia. Inside the front cover she has pressed a small white rose from the garden.
As I take one last look around the room Mr. Bernard enters. "I still haven't found a place for that marble statue," he says as if it's been on his mind the entire time.
"Don't worry," I say. "It makes a good drying rack."
I'll miss my pink bedroom. I go over to the window and stare at the crescent of birch trees with feathery bark that line the driveway. Outside the sunlight is pure and clean as honey. Velvety bees hover around the long-lashed daisies underneath my window. Next to the driveway the merry-go-round stands still.
"There's something I need to tell you," begins Mr. Bernard. Only he's interrupted by the sound of tires crunching across the gravel beneath my window. It's Officer Rich's familiar blue pickup truck.
"Oh no!" I exclaim. "Now what?"
"Yes ..." Mr. Bernard says hesitantly. "That's what I was meaning to caucus with you about. It's just that..."
But I'm not even paying attention to Mr. Bernard. My gaze is fixed on the easily recognizable heft of Officer Rich as he shifts his weight from the cab seat to the gravel and then goes around to the passenger side and swings open the heavy door. I can see the outline of another person, but he or she doesn't jump out.
"It's just that Officer Rich has informed us that Mrs. Shaeffer's trial has become rather complicated," Mr. Bernard continues. "And it's going to move to Cincinnati, where the head office of the brokerage firm is located."
The word "trial" certainly catches my attention.
"And then she'll probably have to serve twelve months, even if all her customers don't press charges, which they probably won't."
Uh-oh. Is that who I think it is? I turn back to the window and watch as Officer Rich finally encourages his passenger to exit the truck. Brandt Shaeffer drops to the ground holding a knapsack in one hand and an orange bowling bag in the other.
"Branch!" I practically shout. "What's he doing here?"
"Well, that's what I've been trying to tell you ... He doesn't have anywhere to go at the moment. To move in with his relatives would mean transferring to a high school in Philadelphia, and he only has one year—"
"You mean Brandt is coming to live here!" I interrupt him. I can't tell if I'm shocked, jealous, or just plain horrified. "Are you kidding me? Do you know anything about this geek?"
"Now, Hallie, Officer Rich said he's a nice boy and is just in need of some proper guidance and a good—"
"But he has ears!" I yell. And then put a hand to each side of my head as if doing some kind of Mouseketeer call to arms.
"Well, I should hope so," says Mr. Bernard.
"No, I mean big rubber Vulcan ears!"
But Mr. Bernard just smiles as if he's seen kids with worse baggage than a set of rubber Vulcan ears. And I suddenly realize that I showed up with no food, the law on my tail, and God only knows what else. What would have happened if I hadn't met the Stocktons and Mr. Gil when I did?
"Now come downstairs. I've prepared a special luncheon. You're leaving a bit early to have dinner, and besides, it's my poker night." Mr. Bernard says this as if I need reminding that he has become a regular at the Monday night church card game. And lest anyone should try to forget, he regularly works into his conversations such lingo as "ante up" and "niner from Carolina."
Mr. Bernard and Ottavio serve an elaborate farewell meal of chicken Belarus, mashed potatoes, creamed onion cassoulet, and white asparagus. Mr. Gil once told me that Mr. Bernard collects the memories of special meals the way others collect coins.
"Wow, everything is like really white," says Brandt, as if he's just discovered a new element to add to the periodic table.
"Yes, it's a White Russian theme," explains Mr. Bernard to his newest culinary acolyte.
"But I thought Russians ate borscht," says Brandt.
"Well, yes, they're certainly known for their borscht and vodka and pickled cabbage, but under Peter the Great cooks were brought in from all over Europe. So you see, a Russian theme is open to interpretation."
"Bertie, not everyone is interested in the color-coding of food," says Ms. Olivia.
"And not everyone thinks that Surf and Turf results from mixing Hamburger Helper with Tuna Helper. Mother has no appreciation of the gastronomic epic," Mr. Bernard says, mostly to Brandt. "For instance, did you know
that Russian dressing isn't Russian at all?"
"No, really?" says Brandt, ever the budding chemist.
"It was only given that name because the earliest versions contained mayonnaise, pimento, chives, ketchup, and spices, including a distinctly Russian ingredient. Can you guess what that was?"
Brandt enthusiastically raises his hand as if we are back in school. I could just die with embarrassment for both of us—him for being so weird and myself by prior association to such weirdness.
"Yes, Brandt," Mr. Bernard officially calls on him.
"What is caviar?" states Brandt in perfect Jeopardy! format.
"Caviar is the roe of a large fish, usually sturgeon."
Obviously Mr. Bernard thought Brandt was asking what is caviar. Perhaps I am going to have to stay after all in order to interpret.
"No, Bertie, the boy knows what caviar is," explains Mr. Gil. "He was just answering in game-show style."
"Oh, yes, of course," says Mr. Bernard.
Ottavio trots around the table, smiling and refilling everyone's glass.
"Un altro bicchiere de Yoo-Hoo cioccolata?" He shows me a new bottle of chocolate Yoo-Hoo as if I might be interested in sniffing the plastic lid or inspecting the bright yellow label.
"Si, per piacere, grazie," I say. When Ottavio first arrived I just assumed that his English would get better and better. And he does throw in some English. However, Ms. Olivia insisted it would be "less xenophobic" for all of us to learn some Italian.
Mr. Gil suggests that I show Brandt up to my old room while they clear the dishes and lay the table for dessert.
"Of course, it must be redecorated," Mr. Bernard reassures Brandt. "We'll do the space over in a deep russet or possibly indigo."
"Don't be ridiculous, Bertie," Ms. Olivia pounces on him. "The poor child will be addicted to antihallucinogens after only one night. A boy's room is either taupe or light blue."
"Delia Robbia blue!" exclaims Mr. Bernard.
I lead Brandt up to my old room and show him how he can store shoes and extra clothes under the bed since the closet is still loaded with Mr. Bernard's junk. The big marble statue of the angel catches Brandt's eye and he stares at it for a long time.
"It makes for a good towel rack," I offer. "And the fingers hold belts."
"They're a little weird," says Brandt, his voice thinned by adolescent shakiness.
"Well, you know," I reply, "lots of people say the same thing about you and me."
"Yeah, I guess so." But he says it in a way that suggests being thought of as weird is not an ideal way to go through life.
"They're weird in a good way," I say. "Trust me."
"Then why do you want to leave?" asks Brandt.
I'm not entirely sure myself why I'm leaving. But I know that it's really hard. And yet I'm not about to tell this to Brandt.
"I have to go out and have experiences," I say with a confidence I don't at all feel.
Brandt sits down on the bed. "It's funny that I'm taking your old room. I mean, it's like a sign that, you know, that we're living parallel lives and are destined to be connected in some way, don't you think?"
Now I'm a firm believer in signs. After all, it was through a sign down at the Star-Mart that I met the Stocktons and Mr. Gil. However, under the circumstances, I really hope this isn't one of those kinds of signs, that it's more like, say, a stop sign. On the other hand, I wouldn't mind having Brandt as a friend.
Before decamping I store my bike in the back of the garage. It will definitely be safe there. And also, I know that I'll be back. Taking one last look at my mural, I consider the household I'm leaving behind. It is truly amazing— six of us at lunch and only Mr. Bernard and Ms. Olivia are kin. If somebody asked who these people were to me, I wouldn't be able to begin to describe it. We aren't related. Or pledged to one another on paper. And they're much more than friends. Now that I think of it, I don't know that such a word for us even exists in the English language.
Or maybe there is one. My mind wanders back to one of the first nights I stayed for dinner at the Stocktons' and we watched Breakfast at Tiffany's and Audrey Hepburn sang "Moon River." We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin 'round the bend, my Huckleberry friend, Moon River and me.
And that's when it becomes clear to me. They are my Huckleberry friends. We are not bound together or beholden to one another through accident of birth, legal documents, or vows recited before clergy.
No, it is much more. Because a body can so easily turn his back on all that. The magic of the Huckleberry friend arises from the fact that there is no covenant to be broken. Our connectedness endures solely as a result of the stirrings within our own hearts, and continues whether we are near to one another or far apart.
Craig has left work early to come and say good-bye. And my parents and Gwen and Jane also arrive to see me off. When I return from the garage everyone is gathered in the living room talking and laughing as if they've been friends forever, as if the standoff on the front porch just nine months ago never happened and the golf money never went missing.
Mr. Bernard presents me with a microwave cookbook. He tried most of the recipes and then inserted notes and corrections in the margins with a red Flair marker. Next Mr. Gil gives me one of his Rolling Stones CDs along with instructions to blast "Ruby Tuesday" immediately upon my arrival at college to ensure that I make the right kind of friends.
Craig kisses me good-bye and says he's going to come and visit as soon as he gets a day off from his landscaping job. For my dorm room he's been carefully sculpting a bonsai tree in the shape of Just Call Me Dick. In fact, it's already so lifelike that his mom thinks it's supposed to be a mosquito that was sucked into a jet engine. He kisses me one more time, and after he's finished Rocky comes up and mimics Craig by also giving me a big smooch, and this makes everyone laugh.
Finally it's my parents' turn. Dad hands me an envelope containing two thousand dollars. I can tell how much it is just by glancing in the top, because the stack is fifties and it's a quarter of an inch thick.
"It's two thousand dollars," says Dad. "A graduation gift."
"The money we were going to give you toward a car," says Mom.
"Thanks," I say and kiss them both. "It's very kind of you." And I mean it, too.
"Now, don't gamble it away," my father warns, as if there's already a gleam in my eye indicating that I'm going to scare up a game of five-card draw at the first gas station I see.
"And don't talk to strangers," my mother adds, not one to relinquish the final word of parental advice to my father.
Now, under normal circumstances, or perhaps I should say under the old circumstances, I would have started an argument about this. For instance, that every choice one makes in life is actually a gamble, and that every potential new friend is at this moment still a stranger.
However, I don't. When dealt a hand with no obvious merit, it is the immediate inclination of the cardplayer to want to exchange as many cards as possible in the hopes of getting something better. Yet I've learned that sometimes the existing hand doesn't need throwing in so much as careful rearranging in order to transform it into a winner.
"I promise," I say. "No playing cards with strangers. And no talking to gamblers."
My parents appear pleased that I seem to agree with them and are thus satisfied that I have finally come around to their way of thinking. We hug one last time and my mother wipes away her tears. But I'm not as sad as I'd thought I'd be. Perhaps the past is not what we leave behind, after all, but what we take with us.
"Break a leg!" Mr. Bernard shouts after me as I step over the threshold.
Outside it's a perfect spring afternoon, blue as eternity, with wild geese honking overhead as they travel north for the summer. It's the kind of day that can make you feel lucky, if you believe in luck.
************************************
Beginner's Luck
Laura Pedersen
A Reader's Guide
A Conversation wi
th Laura Pedersen
Julie Sciandra and Laura Pedersen have been friends for years and worked together at various times. They recently sat down to talk about life and Laura's book Beginner's Luck after bowling. (Julie won, but only by a few pins, and there will definitely be a rematch.)
JS: You shouldn't have asked me to do this. I know too much.
LP: That's the reason I can't get rid of you.
JS: Let's start with the cooking. There's a picture of you in the kitchen with a big red X through it. You're the one who blew up the potato because you didn't know enough to poke holes in it!
LP: You should talk, Miss Lipton Cup-a-Soup. Anyway, that's why it's called fiction. I can write about food even if I can't cook it myself. Nothing bad ever happens to a writer. It's all material.
JS: Same with the flowers. You're allergic to almost anything outside.
LP: But I love to look at them. Pictures are best. However, feel free to bring me chocolate anytime. The Irish have a saying: "You can't eat flowers."
JS: I've noticed that all your stories involve these large families and yet you grew up as an only child. Are you stealing from the Pyne family again?
LP: Mostly. They lived behind me and had two parents, nine kids, two dogs, and a cat. I spent a lot of time over there when I was growing up. It was a predominantly Catholic neighborhood, and several families had enough kids for their own football teams.
JS: And what about these Christian families? Your parents divorced when you were a teenager and are so liberal that they probably vote left-handed.
LP: Buffalo, where I grew up, is a melting pot of every ethnicity and religion. When immigrants came to New York from Europe, many headed upstate to work in the grain elevators and steel mills. At my public high school we had everything—Baptist, Jewish, Catholic, Presbyterian, Greek Orthodox. I believe that truth can be found in almost all religions but that no one religion holds all the truth.
Beginner's Luck Page 36