I can’t resist cracking wise. “What about all your pals back on Broadway?”
Ms. O’Mara smiles. “They weren’t half as amazing as you guys. Okay, everybody, a little warm-up ritual. You, too, Colleen. Mrs. Yen?”
The stage manager and choreographer join our circle.
“Mr. Brimer?”
Our musical director protests. “They need me in the pit.…”
Ms. O’Mara will not take no for an answer.
“Come on, Jimmy. You’re a big part of this team and we need you here.”
“Oh, all right.…”
He rolls his eyes and plays along.
“Now,” says Ms. O’Mara, “those people out there are giving us two whole hours of their lives when they could be home organizing their stamp collections. So let’s do them all a favor and not completely bomb.”
We’re all cracking up, even Mr. Brimer.
“Put your hand in the center and repeat after me,” Ms. O’Mara whispers. “We’re not going to bomb!”
“WE’RE NOT GOING TO BOMB!” we whisper loudly as we all snap our hands out of the circle like a bunch of football jocks and get ready to go on.
Mr. Brimer straightens up his tuxedo jacket, then searches for and finally finds the edge of the curtain. He pulls it back and walks out onto the stage.
The audience applauds.
I peek around the velvet drapes and see Mr. Brimer trapped in a white circle of light. He takes a bow and scampers down the steps into the pit.
When he reaches his podium, he adjusts his tux coat one last time and raises his baton.
The band strikes up the overture.
I’m still peeking around the curtain, because there’s something odd about the front row. There’s one empty seat. Right in the middle. Probably the best seat in the whole auditorium.
It has a RESERVED sign taped to its back.
But whoever the VIP is, hasn’t shown up.
And then I realize, Maybe she has.
The best seat in the house is Nonna’s seat.
Ms. O’Mara did that for me.
CHAPTER 60
Okay, twist my arm.
I’ll tell you.
I WAS AMAZING AS SNOOPY!
I don’t want to say I stole the show, but, well, the little dog does have some of the best songs and funniest scenes, so, okay, I stole the show.
Meredith was amazing as Lucy. If The Voice had been around in 1990, chairs would’ve been spinning, trust me.
Everybody else was fantastic, too. Even Therese Wiese, the little sixth grader who had a walk-on part as Woodstock, the tiny yellow bird, was hysterical.
When our curtain call finally ended (can you say “standing ovation”?), we called Ms. O’Mara, Mr. Brimer, and Mrs. Yen up onstage and presented them each with a dozen roses.
The flowers were Beth Bennett’s idea. She’s come a long way since that morning the cast list went up and she went nuclear about not landing the part of Lucy.
I guess we’ve all come a long way in the weeks we’ve spent together in our Charlie Brown family. That’s what happens every time you do a show—on stage, on TV, or in the movies. You become this big, complicated family, full of love and jealousy and weirdness and quirks.
But no matter what, you stick together. Because there’s nothing like being out there together, creating something none of us could create alone, soaking up the love of strangers you can’t even see because the blindingly bright lights turn your unknown admirers into a hazy collection of shadows.
There’s a cast party at Ms. O’Mara’s apartment after the opening-night performance.
Bill, who was amazing as Charlie Brown, wants me to go.
“I hear she’s serving Cherry Mustard Pickle Pepper Slurpees,” he says.
That makes me smile, because I know he’s really forgiven me for my stupidity at the 7-Eleven. I guess that’s another thing backstage families do. Maybe it’s what real families need to do, too.
“I’ll come to the closing-night party next weekend,” I say. “Promise.”
“Sure,” says Bill. “I understand. How long before your mom has to ship out again?”
“Couple days, I guess. They only gave her a one-week leave.”
“So go on,” says Bill. “Hurry. Your family’s waiting for you.”
I head for home.
And pray that Jenny Cornwall’s little red convertible isn’t parked in our driveway.
CHAPTER 61
We need to celebrate!” Mom says when we pull into our (thankfully empty) driveway.
“Definitely,” says Dad.
“You were very good, Jacky,” gushes Hannah.
“You were,” says Victoria. “But I have a few notes.…”
Suddenly, another vehicle pulls in right behind us.
Dad glances up into the rearview mirror.
“Perfect timing,” he says.
We all tumble out of our minivan and discover a tiny VW Cabriolet (it’s like a convertible, only boxier) with a magnetic THREE BROTHERS FROM ITALY PIZZA sign slapped on its door.
We all look at Emma.
“I didn’t do it!” she says.
Dad walks over to the pizza guy. “Here you go.” He peels off several bills and takes five cardboard pizza boxes.
“Plain cheese, right?” says Emma.
“One,” says Dad. “For you and Victoria. Two pepperoni pies for Sydney, Hannah, and Riley. One Hawaiian, with pineapple and ham, for our star, Snoopy, and Sophia. And finally, saving the best for last, one with extra sausage and artichokes.”
Mom puts her hands over her heart. “My favorite. You remembered.”
The next morning, the fun continues. Mom makes everybody pancakes. Dad handles the bacon, sausage, and hot maple syrup.
Since it’s Sunday, we all go to church. And, somehow, we all fit in the same pew. I guess this is what they mean about families being close.
My prayers on this particular Sunday are filled with gratitude and thanksgiving.
For Mom’s safe return home.
For Nonna’s wonderful life.
For Ms. O’Mara putting up with me and putting me in her play.
For Mrs. Turner insisting that I give that speech, because I got to tell the world about my incredible mother and have her hear what I think about her, too. That’s a rare opportunity. Kids don’t get to say nice things about their parents in public too often.
After church, we all pose for our annual Christmas card photo, even though it’s not even Halloween.
We just don’t know when we’ll all be together again.
Even Sandfleas cooperates and actually looks at the camera instead of licking herself like she usually does when you take her picture.
Our best Family Sunday ever takes a very weird turn, however, around three o’clock.
Dad’s napping on the living room sofa, sleeping off all that maple syrup.
Mom taps me on the shoulder.
“Come on, Jacky,” she whispers mysteriously. “I want you to go for a ride with me.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see. Come on. Don’t wake your father.”
We tiptoe out of the house, climb into the van, and head west. Just the two of us.
We cross the causeway bridge to the mainland and take Route 37 over to a town called Toms River. Yes, the river is named Toms River, too. Maybe the toothpaste guy from Maine used to own property in New Jersey.
Anyway, pretty soon, we’re pulling up to a small house. I notice a tricycle with pink handlebar streamers lying sideways in the lawn. There’s a football in the rock-lined flowerbed, too.
“So, who lives here?” I ask.
“Friend of the family,” says Mom, unbuckling her seat belt. “Come on. I want to introduce you.”
We walk up the concrete path and Mom rings the doorbell. A few seconds later, the front door whooshes open.
Mom won’t have to make any introductions. I already know the lady.
She knows me, too.
> It’s Jenny Cornwall. The prettiest girl on the beach.
CHAPTER 62
Okay, girls, brace yourselves.
This is where your humble narrator, your mom, admits something I know you two will find extremely hard to believe: Sometimes I make mistakes. And sometimes they’re huge, gigantic, enormous, elephant-sized mistakes.
This was one of those times.
“Hello, Jacky,” says the prettiest girl on the beach.
“Uh, hello,” I say. “So, have you, uh, ever met my mom?”
“We’ve been friends for years,” says Mom. “Mind if we come in, Jenny?”
“Not at all.”
We head inside, sit down in the kitchen, and, finally, I learn the truth.
Jenny Crawford wasn’t “dating” my dad, she was tutoring him.
She’s a former police officer, remember? Well, it turns out my father is studying to become a cop. And he’s doing it for us—his family.
If Dad passes the test and starts earning a police officer’s salary, Mom won’t need to reenlist with the marines for us to “make ends meet.” That would mean she could come home, maybe find a part-time job, and have pancake Sundays with us every Sunday. Forever!
“Why didn’t Dad tell us?” I ask Mrs. Cornwall (yes, she’s married and has two little kids—a boy and a girl, or, as I like to refer to them, the football and the tricycle).
“He was afraid,” she explains.
“He took this same test seven years ago,” says Mom.
“I don’t remember that,” I say.
“Because you were five, Jacky. Anyway, Mac failed. He was afraid he might fail again. So he made me promise to keep this a big secret.”
“Me too,” says Jenny.
“But,” says Mom, “that was probably a mistake.”
I nod. “Dad says adults make ’em, too.”
“We do,” says Mrs. Cornwall. “Mac didn’t want to get everybody’s hopes up just to disappoint you guys.”
Sounds like somebody I know who didn’t want to make a speech or act in a school play because she was afraid she might embarrass her whole family.
That would be me.
“It’s why he worked so hard,” says Mrs. Cornwall. “Late at night, Saturdays and Sundays. You know your father. He’s the straightest arrow I’ve ever met. No way would he study while he was on the clock in Seaside Heights. He said it wouldn’t be right.”
“He told me it would be stealing,” adds Mom.
“And then, when he did become a cop,” I say, “he’d have to arrest himself.”
Mom and Mrs. Cornwall smile.
Yes, I have found that, sometimes, making a joke can be the best way to ease into an apology.
“I guess I didn’t make it any easier for you guys to hit the books,” I say. “I’m sorry I acted like such an idiot.”
“That’s okay, Jacky,” says Mrs. Cornwall. “By the way, that night at the Ferris wheel?”
“Yes?”
“Your father was extremely impressed with your climbing ability.”
“Really?”
“I think he was sort of proud. But don’t you dare tell him I told you that!”
I hold up my right hand and make another solemn vow. “Never. I promise.”
We all chuckle a little.
“So,” I ask. “Did he make it? Did he pass the test?”
“We don’t know yet. They won’t post the scores for another two weeks.”
“Well, can I at least thank Dad for trying?”
Mrs. Cornwall nods. “I think he’d like that.”
Mom pushes back from the table, stands up.
“Thank you, Jenny, for your time today. And for helping Mac.”
“It was my honor. Your husband is a very good man.”
“I know,” says Mom. “Handsome, too. Best-looking boy on the beach.”
We head out of Mrs. Cornwall’s house and take the long, silent walk to our van.
When we’re both buckled in, Mom turns to me.
“Okay, Jacky?”
“I’m really, really, really sorry.”
“I know, hon. But don’t tell me. Tell your dad.”
CHAPTER 63
So, even though I’m more nervous than I was before I gave my speech or when I made my first entrance in the show, I do just that.
I march into the house and ask everybody to “please step outside for a few minutes so Dad and I can talk. In private.”
“What?” moans Sophia. “That cute boy Chad from Rutgers Prep might call!”
Hannah gasps. “What about Mike Guadagno? Don’t you break his heart again!”
Then Victoria chimes in. “I’m ready to go over my show notes with you, Jacky.”
“Girls?” Mom bellows in her best staff sergeant voice. “Outside. On the double.”
Everyone listens. Remember, my mother is a marine. People listen to marines.
It’s just Dad and me in the living room.
Me and the toughest audience I’ll ever face.
“Dad?” I say. “I’m sorry. For saying those mean and horrible and nasty things about you and Mrs. Cornwall. I’m sorry for even thinking them.”
“I love your mother, Jacky. No matter where she is, no matter how long we’re apart… I’ll always love her. And I’ll always love you.”
He stops for second, like he’s trying not to get choked up. Dads don’t like to cry. But I’m already halfway there. When he tells me he’ll always love me, I just nod, because I can’t even speak.
Then he goes on to say something even harder. “And, Jacky… I shouldn’t have let you go on thinking the worst about me and Jenny. I’m sorry. I know I made mistakes when all I was trying to do was be a good father. Some pretty whopping big mistakes. But I promise, that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop loving you.”
“I love you, too, Dad!” I say, all croaky and teary. “More than ever. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trying so hard. For trying to make everybody else’s life better even if it means making your own life miserable.”
“My pleasure,” he says with a wink. “That’s what dads are for.”
Have I mentioned that my dad has a wicked sense of humor?
“You know what?” I say.
“What?”
“You and me. We have a lot in common.”
“Well, I’ve never actually climbed a Ferris wheel. Thought about it, but…”
“I mean we’ve both been working extra hard, trying to make our lives better when it would’ve been a whole lot easier for either one of us just to call it quits and keep doing what we’ve always done.”
“I guess that’s true.…”
“So if anybody ever asks me, ‘Hey, Jacky, where’d you get all this drive and ambition?’ You know what I’ll tell them?”
He shakes his head because, I can tell, he’s already choking up.
“I’ll tell ’em I got it from you! The best-looking boy on the beach and the best dad in the whole world.”
At this point, we’re both crying.
And, two weeks later, we found out that he passed the test.
That’s why your grandfather, as you know, is now the top cop in the whole state of New Jersey.
EPILOGUE
And so we come to the end of the story, which was also the beginning.
Actually, I’m writing this at three in the morning.
After the Oscars ceremony. And the after-party. And the after-party after the after-party. My feet are killing me. Your mother does not wear heels very often or well, ladies.
Your aunt Hannah was there. She and her husband, Mike Guadagno, drove down from San Francisco to be with me.
Now, I know you two stayed up past your bedtime even though I told your grandparents not to let you. Both of them are usually strict police officers (yes, after the war Mom became a cop, too), except when it comes to you two. But I’ll let it slide this one time—because your mother, Jacqueline Hart, won the Academy Award
for Best Actress in a Motion Picture last night for my “bittersweet portrayal of a down-and-out boardwalk busker in the dramatic comedy Cracking Up.” I still can’t believe it.
I improvised my acceptance speech, of course, but it started off like this:
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
Yes, my diction was very clipped and precise on that line. Every syllable was its own continent. I figured people in the audience would be eager for a little Priscilla the Prude, seeing how it was the most popular character I ever created during my run on Saturday Night Live. (Thank you, Mrs. Jordan, wherever you are, and whatever you’re overenunciating.)
“First of all, I want to thank the people who first called what I had talent instead of what everybody else called it: trouble. Or ADD. That would be you, Ms. O’Mara. And you, too, Mrs. Turner. Two amazing women from my middle school in Seaside Heights, New Jersey, who refused to give up on me long after I’d already given up on myself. I hope you ladies liked the muffin baskets I sent. If not, I’ll mail you the gift receipts.
“I, of course, need to thank our director, my cowriters, our cast and crew. You guys were my family on the set of Cracking Up and I love you all. And let’s not forget my best friend since forever, Meredith Crawford. Thank you for singing our title song for us… and congratulations on your Oscar tonight, too. Now, please, somebody tell me how to stop that melody from getting stuck in my brain!
“Finally, and most importantly, I want to thank my real family. My six incredible sisters, who are the best friends any girl could ever wish for, even in a Disney movie. And our mother and father, who taught us that there’s always something in the world much more important than ourselves.
“Extra thanks to my husband, Bill Phillips, and, most especially, my two beautiful daughters, Tina and Grace. You’re supposed to be in bed, but if you’re not, I hope you’re proud of your mom. Because I’m definitely proud of you two!”
Jacky Ha-Ha Page 13