“There are a few things that aren’t in the books,” Bernard says, and shoots an appreciative glance toward my mother. “I had no idea that parenting is more of an art than a science.”
“You learn as you go,” Dad says with encouragement. Teddy reports for fort-removal duty and Dad gives him a pat on the head.
“Who dinged the car?” I ask Dad. I’d noticed it in the driveway. There isn’t much chance it was my father. Then again, he rarely lends his car to us kids.
“Louise. On the last day of summer school she missed the bus. Your mother says that’s what insurance is for.” He shrugs and gives a wry smile. “I’m just relieved your sister isn’t staying out until all hours and hanging out with those people anymore.”
“Yeah.” I say. “She did really well in her classes.”
“And this new boyfriend, Brandt, he doesn’t play sports but he’s going places. Very academic.”
Dad loves a young person who’s sensible and “going places.” Especially if the places happen to be high school, church, the library, and then college. And the fact that Louise is still hanging around with Brandt now that exams are out of the way and her science project is finished, not to mention introducing him to our parents, must mean that she truly does like him. Because I don’t think it’d be worth marrying him just for his Star Trek DVD collection.
Mom hands the sleeping Gigi back to Bernard. “She’s still a tiny thing. After every meal you have to keep bouncing her until you get that burp.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” Bernard is practically tearful with gratitude. I’m sure the day Mom first came to lunch at the Stocktons he never dreamed he’d be asking her for advice.
“Give us a call anytime,” says Mom. “The door’s always open. And fortunately babies aren’t as fragile as they look.”
“You think this is bad,” jokes Dad, “wait until the girls get to be teenagers.” He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
“Ha ha. Very funny,” I say. “Let’s keep in mind who will be choosing your nursing home.”
A fight breaks out at the top of the stairs and Mom looks over at Dad to indicate that he’s in charge of fights, the same way he looks at her when one of the kids pukes. My parents have been doing this so long that they don’t even need to exchange words anymore.
“Excuse me, but the troops are restless.” Dad hitches up his pants and heads toward the stairs. However, he steers me under the archway in front of him. In a quiet voice he says, “Al Santora was laid off six weeks ago.”
“Oh no,” I say. Oh no, I think. That’s why he was at Cappy’s poker game, probably trying to win money for the mortgage. His wife stays at home with the kids and doesn’t have any sort of income.
“It’s terrible.” Dad shakes his head. “The government is cutting money to the states left and right. This fall the school may only have a four-day week. And it’s a tough job market out there.”
“What’s he going to do?” I ask.
“He’ll get unemployment for a while and if worse comes to worst the church will help. I’ve spoken with Pastor Costello.” Then he brightens slightly. “But if things pick up and the state passes a new budget, he could eventually get his old job back, with all the benefits.”
The yelling upstairs suddenly becomes louder and there’s a crash followed by accusations. “Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .” Dad heads up the stairs while counting as a way of announcing his arrival, so hopefully they’ll break it up on their own and he can save his energy for stopping the pillow fights after lights-out.
I reenter the living room just as the ruckus upstairs stops, and Bernard observes, “Oh, I like the way he does the counting thing, very clever.”
As we head out the door, Mom advises, “Forget all the books. Threats and bribery are your two basic child-rearing tools. Remember that and you’ll be just fine.”
Threats and bribery? I can’t believe these words came out of the mouth of my Christian mother. People really aren’t kidding when they say that motherhood changes a person. Though I suppose by the time your ninth child is on the way you have to operate with an eye toward efficiency. And this doesn’t always incorporate taking into account the views of the child.
Chapter Sixty-eight
BERNARD STUMBLES INTO THE KITCHEN LATER THAN USUAL THE following morning, still wearing a bathrobe. With his face all blotchy and hair uncombed, he appears exhausted.
“The kids slept fine after we got home, didn’t they?” I inquire.
“I was up all night—worrying about them at age six and ten and fourteen and nineteen. They’re not allowed to wrestle, date, or drive. That’s all there is to it.”
Brandt is making trips back and forth to load his car with chemistry apparatus, notebooks, and a few T-shirts, while Louise slouches around behind him with a dejected look on her face. Yes, Brandt had turned out to be more than just a way to pass science, he’d become a way of life and she even admitted to me that she’s in love with him. I didn’t venture to ask how she finally came to terms with his fading but nonetheless ingrained geekiness, only she’d read my mind and declared, “Hallie, just look at Bill Gates!”
The whole crew gathers out front to wave Brandt off, and Bernard provides a hamper full of food for the drive to Massachusetts that should easily hold him through Thanksgiving. It’s hard to believe that only fourteen months ago this now confident young man pulled up in Officer Rich’s pickup truck hunched over and anxious. Brandt offers to drop Louise at home on the way out of town and so we end up seeing the couple off as if they’re newlyweds, shouting our version of science farewells, such as “Don’t break the sound barrier on the interstate.” Brandt honks the horn and Louise waves as they turn out of the driveway.
After they’ve gone we gather around the table for breakfast, and with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, Olivia announces that she has some news. Meantime, Ottavio appears ecstatic, practically waltzing through the dining room, offering to pour tea or coffee for everyone. If they were thirty years younger I’d lay odds ten to one that she’s pregnant.
“Let me guess,” says Bernard. “You’ve single-handedly managed to finally pass the Equal Rights Amendment for women.”
“Unfortunately, no,” replies his mother.
“Just tell us if we should be taking out more homeowner’s insurance,” jokes Gil, referring to the protesters and journalists who often mob the front lawn after one of Olivia’s famous editorials.
Olivia holds out her left hand. On her ring finger is an oval sapphire that perfectly matches her sparkling eyes, set in white gold and surrounded by ten small diamonds.
Ottavio is by now half-demented with joy and can no longer contain his excitement. He loudly proclaims, “Essere fidanzato!”
“We’re engaged,” Olivia translates for those of us who haven’t been keeping up with our Italian.
Bernard and I are actually more surprised than if she had single-handedly pushed the Equal Rights Amendment through Congress.
“Congratulations!” we all shout merrily.
Romance suddenly seems to be blossoming everywhere. It actually gives me hope that with Ray coming tomorrow, I might be next!
“Ottavio has even called the hospital to ensure that he’s allowed into the emergency room now that he’s my fiancé,” says Olivia.
Ottavio takes the hand with the ring and repeats, “Fidanzato,” as if to make sure everyone is clear about his elevated status. “Attsa good!”
Olivia gives Ottavio a passionate but not indecent kiss, which obviously pleases him even more. I’m always impressed by the way she manages her sexuality with such mature grace.
“And have you set a date?” There’s mischief in Bernard’s voice.
“Oh, no rush,” Olivia says hastily, and waves the hand with the ring through the empty air. “Perhaps winter.”
“Or maybe the spring,” suggests Bernard, and gives her a knowing smile, indicating that he understands this might be an extraordinarily l
ong engagement.
But questions about scheduling fail to dim Ottavio’s rapture. He’s clearly thrilled by the fact that when they arrive in Italy next month to visit his family, he’ll be able to introduce Olivia as his intended.
There’s a knock at the front door and I open it to find my friend Jane standing on the porch. “Hallie, my dad is moving out, and it’s so awful I just can’t stand to be there to watch.” Her eyes shine with tears. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“Of course not,” I say, and usher her inside. “It’s just the usual chaos around here—Gil moved back in, we have two Chinese babies, Brandt left for college, and he and my sister have agreed to try a long-distance relationship, I’m planning to lose my virginity over the weekend, and right now we’re having an engagement party.”
Her eyes widen with surprise. “Gil and Bernard?”
“Nope. Olivia and Ottavio.”
“Wow,” says Jane. “How old is Olivia?”
“I guess sixty-something. Bernard says that age is a number and hers is unlisted. I’m not sure that even he knows.”
“Gosh, maybe there’s hope my mom will meet someone else one of these days,” says Jane. “She hates being alone.”
As we head toward the dining room, I whisper, “And don’t ask about the wedding date, either, because I’m not sure there’s ever going to be one.”
Chapter Sixty-nine
TOMORROW IS THE BIG NIGHT. THE PAST FORTY-EIGHT HOURS have felt longer than the seventeen years preceding them. We’ve all been running around like crazy trying to get the children set up with doctors, potty seats, and feeding schedules. I keep glancing toward the clock and there’s now only twenty-nine hours and forty-one minutes to go.
As soon as the girls are put down for their naps after lunch, Bernard collapses onto the sofa in the living room. In fact, I’m surprised he has the energy to pick up his menu-planning pad and pencil. Because if there’s going to be a dinner theme it should be “cream”—creamed corn, cream of wheat, and diaper-rash cream.
“Now, Hallie,” says Bernard, “Mother, Ottavio, Gil, and I have arranged to take the girls to eat out tomorrow night. So what were you planning to prepare for Ray? Perhaps I can offer some culinary advice.” And the way his pen is poised, it’s obvious he’s ready with more than just advice.
“I’m not making him anything for dinner. We’ll go to the pizza parlor. Or maybe over to that new Thai takeout place.”
It’s hard to say whether it’s the word pizza or takeout that provokes the expression of horror on Bernard’s face. Or else he’s having a stroke.
“Oh my! No, no, no, Hallie. The dining room is a theater . . . the table is a stage!” Bernard allows his pad and pencil to drop to the floor. “That was said by Chatillon-Plessis, a nineteenth-century French journalist who knew whereof he spoke. Mother, please tell her!”
“I’m afraid he’s correct, dear,” agrees Olivia, seating herself next to Bernard on the sofa. “Virgina Woolf famously said that one cannot think well, love well, and sleep well if one has not dined well.” Olivia has a Virginia Woolf quote for every occasion the same way that Hallmark has a greeting card.
“But I thought that Virginia Woolf filled her pockets with stones and then drowned herself in a river,” I say.
“She was a poet. They always have to take these things a step too far.” Bernard says this to me but he nods toward Olivia, as if she should take a lesson from that.
However, I still get the feeling that Bernard wishes Olivia would intervene further by suggesting that my amorous evening end on third base rather than home plate. If he’s not recommending sports to build my self-esteem then he’s leaving articles on my bed about how yoga can “nourish the body and soul.” Olivia claims it’s because Bernard romanticizes the past, particularly the outwardly chaste Victorians, partly as a result of dealing in the furniture from that period.
“If you’ve made up your mind to be a modern woman, then you must create a milieu that sets the stage for seduction, not a game of Nerf basketball,” insists Bernard. “You need to cook Ray dinner and eat by candlelight with Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque playing softly in the background.” He lifts his pencil and starts by writing “tapered ivory candles” at the top of the page.
I’m suddenly having a flashback to my high school prom, when Bernard more or less took over. Though I must admit that the results were excellent. The dress he chose for me was a dream and the post-prom breakfast back at the house was lots of fun, too. Kids are still talking about Rocky wearing the sombrero and matador’s cape to serve the gazpacho.
“You should start with a basil eggplant soup.” Bernard continues to write items on his list.
Meanwhile, Olivia takes over the commentary. “Basil was considered the royal herb by the Greeks. And in Haitian lore it comes from Erzulie, their goddess of love.”
“For the entrée you’ll make a honey-glazed ham,” says Bernard.
Gil looks up from playing chess with Ottavio. “Put pineapple chunks on it.”
“That’s soooo bourgeois!” says Bernard.
“What’s wrong with pineapple chunks?” I ask.
“Fine. If we’re becoming white trash then you may as well go all the way and stick canned pineapple circles on the outside using toothpicks topped with maraschino cherries. And why don’t we use pork rinds as garnish while we’re at it?”
“Sounds good to me.” Gil grins, always proud of his country roots.
“One eight-pound ham,” Bernard says as he writes it down.
“What’s romantic about ham?” I ask.
“Nothing if he’s Jewish,” observes Olivia.
“Whoops, I forgot about that,” says Bernard. “Is he Jewish?”
“Ray Vincent Bolliteri? I don’t think so.”
“Italiano!” Ottavio shouts with obvious delight.
Good, I think. Maybe this will keep Ottavio from shooting him when he goes back to the summerhouse with me.
“The honey is what makes it a passion food,” explains Olivia. “Honey has been connected with sensuality going back to the Kama Sutra and even the Bible. In the fifth century B.C. Hippocrates prescribed it for sexual vigor. And in India a bridegroom is often given honey on his wedding day.”
“Attila the Hun drank himself to death with honey on his honeymoon, ” adds Gil. One of Gil’s hobbies is collecting stories about weird deaths, like the motorcycle gang that met at the top of a hill by arriving from different directions, collided, and all died. And the man who was hit with a department-store angel that blew off the roof in a high wind.
“King Solomon said, ‘Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride; milk and honey are under your tongue,’ ” recites Olivia. “And also, ‘I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey; I have drunk my wine and my milk.’ ”
“We need a vegetable,” Bernard speaks directly to Olivia, as if I’m no longer in the room. “Artichokes or asparagus?”
“Definitely asparagus,” says Olivia. “The great French lovers of yesteryear dined on three courses of it the night before a wedding.”
“Why asparagus?” I ask.
“The Law of Similarities,” Olivia continues. “The theory says that if one thing is reminiscent of another, then it will improve or aid that which it looks like.” And to think people are always saying that she doesn’t know anything about science.
“Roasted white asparagus.” Bernard jots several more ingredients down on his fast-growing list. “And a chocolate torte for dessert.”
“Absolutely,” agrees Olivia.
“The Aztecs and Mayans were the first to recognize the potency of chocolate, celebrating the harvest of the cacao bean with festivals of wild orgies,” explains Bernard. “The Aztec ruler, Montezuma, reportedly drank fifty cups of chocolate each day to better serve his harem of six hundred women. And in the Mayan empire payment for a night at a brothel cost one handful of cacao beans.”
“During the seventeenth century, chocolate was considered to be suc
h a sexual stimulant that church officials deemed it sinful to partake of it.” Olivia always seems in favor of doing anything the church has prohibited, no matter what the century.
“Grapes,” suggests Gil from across the room.
“Goes without saying.” Bernard taps his pen to indicate that they’re already on the list.
“The ultimate aphrodisiac,” says Olivia. “Thank goodness the boycott was eventually settled.”
“I wasn’t allowed to have a grape until I was ten,” explains Bernard. “Mother and her Unitarian cohorts were protesting the insufficient wages earned by the grape and lettuce pickers.”
“Bertie, what about those grapes you make with a thin layer of cream cheese rolled in almonds and crystallized ginger?” asks Olivia.
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten about those. They take forever to prepare but are certainly delicious.”
I may as well be out watering the gardens the way these two have taken over the planning of my date.
“How about caviar?” asks Olivia.
“Too advanced,” says Bernard. “Like oysters.”
“Yuck,” I say right back.
“See, I told you,” Bernard tells Olivia. “Same with strawberries.”
“But I like strawberries,” I say.
“Stop being so contrary,” says Bernard. “If we’d said you couldn’t have the grapes then you would have wanted those.”
“But how can eating strawberries be too advanced?”
“For the same reason they don’t teach Milton in grammar school,” says Olivia. “It would be wasted on the young. Besides, we all need something to aspire to.”
“But how will I know when I’m ready for caviar and strawberries?”
Bernard laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m sure that Mother will tell you.”
He passes me a clean copy of the final menu. “But I don’t know how to make any of this stuff,” I protest.
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