Parrotfish

by Ellen Wittlinger

  But the biggest problem was Mom. She wouldn’t get up. Laura had gone in several times to offer to help her get dressed, but had been met by a sleepy refusal. Finally, Dad had been sent to rouse her. He came out smiling. “She’ll be up any minute. Nothing to worry about.” Still, the rest of us worried.

  Laura put in a call to Aunt Gail. “When are you coming over? Mom won’t get up!”

  Apparently, Aunt Gail’s answer was something like, “We’re running late too. Michael was all dressed in that cute little outfit your mother made him, and then he pooped all over himself.”

  “Eww.” Laura made a face.

  “If we’re late, we’ll just pretend to be . . . guests who are late!” Gail said.

  “But what about Mom?” Laura asked.

  “Make some coffee. Hold it under her nose.”

  Not bad advice, we decided. Eve actually knew how to brew coffee too, so we wouldn’t accidentally make our sick mother sicker.

  As Laura went upstairs with the coffee mug, Sebastian peeped out the curtained front window. “Grady! There are a million people out there!”

  “Nah,” Charlie said. “Usually about a hundred, hundred and twenty. I bet nobody’s standing near those melting bears, are they?”

  “As far away as possible,” Sebastian said.

  I opened the oven, which I hadn’t dared to peek in for hours. The turkey didn’t look bad. Well, maybe a little bit burned on the very top, possibly because we’d turned the oven up to five hundred degrees. But basically it looked like a regular turkey, ready to carve. Amazing. I got the pot holders, and Sebastian helped me take it out and put it on top of the stove.

  “There’s a fancy turkey platter someplace,” I said.

  “I know where it is,” Eve said, heading for the dining-room pantry.

  The three of us managed, with pot holders, forks, and when necessary our hands, to transfer the turkey from the pan to the platter. Mom would have made gravy, but we were under no illusions that we could do that.

  The potatoes were mashed, the beans were cooked, the rolls were baked, and they were all waiting to be nuked at the last minute. The pudding was milked and stirred and refrigerated. We had actually made a meal that appeared to be edible.

  “She’s sitting up and drinking the coffee!” Laura announced as she came running back downstairs.

  “See, I told you,” Dad said. He’d just laid the fires in both rooms and was dusting off his pants. He checked his watch. “Almost time. Grady, where are our scripts?”

  “Upstairs—I’ll get them,” I said.

  “We should have had them sooner,” Laura complained. “So we could learn our lines.”

  “Don’t worry about the script,” I said. “I want it to be a surprise.”

  “God, you’re like Mr. Surprise these days,” she said.

  Had to give her that one. The past month had been one shock after the other, but I was beginning to like not knowing what would happen next. Now that I knew there were people who’d help me roll with the punches, it was kind of exciting.

  As I came out of my room with the scripts, Mom opened her bedroom door and shuffled out in her house slippers. She was still in her nightgown, her old, crummy robe thrown over it, the collar half tucked in, the hem ripped out in the back. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were puffy slits. She sipped from the coffee cup.

  “I’m up,” she said. “I feel better, but I’m not putting on that dumb dress. It’s too tight in the waist. And besides . . . I don’t want to.”

  I laughed and handed her a script. “Mom, I think you’re dressed perfectly for my version of the play.”

  “Why? Is it set in a hospital?” Her slippers made a shooshing sound on the steps.

  Although I could tell that Dad was a little taken aback by Mom’s appearance, nobody said anything about her showing up in ancient flannel sleepwear. Fortunately, she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t go out there looking like this!”

  We stared at her helplessly for a minute, and then Charlie had an idea. “Take off the robe and put on that big black overcoat of Dad’s!”

  Dad approved the change—what choice did he have at this point? The show must go on and all that. Laura found a bonnet and helped Mom tuck her straggly hair under it so she bore at least some vague resemblance to the rest of us.

  I handed out the rest of the scripts at the last possible moment so nobody would read ahead. Dad and Sebastian put on their frock coats, hats, and mufflers, and Sebastian stood on a chair while I helped hoist him onto Dad’s shoulders. We were always glad the Victorians wore so many layers of clothing, because Dad liked having the windows open so he could hear the spectators’ comments. At five thirty I turned on the microphones and slowly pulled back the curtains, as I’d done for ten years. Ten years is an awfully long run for any play.

  The audience applauded, although as we paraded through the dining room and into the living room, there were some audible remarks about the new costumes on display. “What’s she got on?” and “That’s not what they usually wear” and “Who’s that?”

  As always, Dad and Tiny Tim entered last, Dad heartily shouting out, “We’re home, Mrs. Cratchit. We’re home!” Unfortunately, Sebastian was holding his script in front of his face and didn’t duck soon enough when they came through the living room doorway. His cap absorbed most of the blow, but it made Dad stagger, and we could hear our audience laugh. Good. The fun was just beginning.

  Dad swung Sebastian down from his shoulders and improvised a line: “Are you fine as feathers, my good son?” Fine as feathers?

  “Fine as ever I have been, Father,” Sebastian answered, smiling and leaning on his cane. These two, I thought, belonged on Broadway.

  In Dad’s original version, Mom came flying up to him when he entered, gave him a kiss, then took the coats, hats, and mufflers from Dad and Tiny Tim and hung them up. Fortunately, my new script didn’t call for her to do any flying—the poor woman could barely walk. She read her lines in a tired voice from a chair by the Christmas tree while Dad and Sebastian took off their own outerwear.

  MRS. CRATCHIT: Mind you, Mr. Cratchit, are the reindeer on the roof again? And the singers at the front door? And the dollies still goin’ in circles? And the bears a-smellin’ up the neighborhood?

  MR. CRATCHIT: Yes, my dear. Things are just as they should be.

  Dad read his part in a booming voice, although he looked a little confused by the new lines. I stepped forward for my line as Mrs. Cratchit lapsed into a fit of coughing.

  GRADY: And yet, things do change, Father. You need only look at me to see the truth of that!

  EVE: Yes, this year has seen your Angela become your Grady and exchange her long dresses for his sturdy trousers.

  LAURA: And trade her long locks for the haircut of a boy.

  GRADY: Things as they should be, Father, are not things unchanging.

  [to the audience] We shall see many changes as this magical evening does progress.

  I wondered if the audience outside was as stunned as the one inside. I couldn’t hear much noise from the front lawn anymore, and the actors themselves were trying to surreptitiously read ahead to see what other surprises lay in store for them. Sebastian hobbled forward on his crutch.

  TINY TIM: As the sick may become well, so may the unsure become confident.

  Sebastian had written that line himself and was quite proud of it. Charlie stepped up next.

  CHARLIE: Perhaps before this enchanted night is through, you too will dance to a tune, Tim!

  TINY TIM: ’Twould be a timely tune that tickled the timid Tim to tap his toes!

  Fortunately, Sebastian had had the script all week, so he’d had time to practice this, his favorite line, which he delivered with relish. The audience really laughed this time. They got it now: This was not the quiet, somber fare of years past. Dad smiled nervously, then bent to light the fire, as he always did at this point in the performance, and t
he rest of us crowded around the tree, waiting for gifts. I could tell Laura was looking for the directions which would tell her who to hand which gift to, but they weren’t in her script. I stood again when the fire was lit.

  GRADY: Good people, this year the gifts you open are from me. These days past I have been given by you many gifts: foremost of all, the gift of understanding. And so I return what offerings I can to you.

  Dad nodded as I handed small packages to Laura and Eve. The only direction in the script for most of the gift-opening part of the show was “Respond however you would like.” Only Dad’s part had scripted dialogue. I knew that that probably made the girls nervous; they hadn’t done any improvising before.

  Eve pulled from her box an article I’d clipped from the newspaper. The headline, which she read out loud, was POLICE TO LEAD SELF-DEFENSE COURSE.

  EVE: [holding it up for all to see] Why, whatever is this, Grady?

  GRADY: I thought it would be a good activity for the two of us to engage in together, my dear friend. It has no cost, and yet the benefits for meek ones such as you and me will, I think, be great. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me? I have already set our names down on the scroll at the police station.

  EVE: Oh, this notion fills me with . . . glee. Thank you ever so much.

  I nodded to her and waited for Laura’s reaction. Laura took a small silver square from her box and pulled it open. Eye makeup in twelve shades with two tiny brushes.

  LAURA: [confused] I have never seen such a thing, dear brother.

  GRADY: Oh, surely you have, Laura. It’s eye shadow. Your favorite kind.

  LAURA: But, I did think . . .

  She glanced out the window, clearly at a loss for words. I helped her out.

  GRADY: . . . that eye shadow was not invented in the nineteenth century? Women have always found ways to decorate themselves, dear sister. The pursuit of beauty was not invented yesterday. And though it is of little interest to me, I know that it is quite important to you.

  And besides, there’s no use trying to change people until they’re ready to change. You pretty much have to do that particular hard work by yourself. Laura whispered a thank-you and sat daintily back on her heels.

  Sebastian’s box was larger than the others. He was surprised by it, I could tell, and he began to improvise.

  TINY TIM: You know, dear brother, there is not a worldly thing I need when I have my whole family around me like this. That is the best Christmas present.

  Boy, was he laying it on thick—Dad must be ready to adopt him. He kept ripping at the paper, though, and eventually got down to my carefully chosen gift: a T-shirt with a picture of Napoleon Dynamite on it and the words I’VE GOT YOUR BACK.

  TINY TIM: Awesome! [then, remembering who he was and where] Thank you, dear brother, for such a warm article of clothing, which also proclaims my devotion to a true champion!

  GRADY: As Father always taught us, one good geek deserves another.

  That got a nice laugh too. Next I handed small boxes to Mom and Dad. Charlie looked pissed off at having to wait for his. Mom smiled weakly and opened the lid on hers.

  MRS. CRATCHIT: Why, ’tis a scroll of paper. A proclamation, perhaps. [reading it] “I, your son Grady, promise to help you cook dinner two nights a week, thereby saving several nights for other persons in my family who might also want to learn the non-gender-specific ritual of preparing the evening meal.” Goodness, this is a gift I am most grateful for, my dearest . . . son.

  Mom gave me a wink, and I knew she really was happy. It was an obvious gift, but one I hadn’t come up with until that morning as I was paging through the cookbooks. It cost me nothing but time, and in fact I did want to learn more about cooking. Maybe someday I’d learn how to make pudding that didn’t come in a box.

  MRS. CRATCHIT: Our son has given thoughtful gifts. I await impatiently the opening of Mr. Cratchit’s box. [another bout of coughing]

  Dad opened his box and lifted out the flyer I’d taken from the bulletin board at Atkins Pharmacy the last time I was there. He unfolded it carefully, held it near a candle, and began to read it.

  MR. CRATCHIT: “Buxton Little Theater needs help! We are particularly in need of volunteers who can build sets for our productions. We’re also looking for more talented actors to help us with our spring show, Oliver! If you can use a saw, carry a tune, or project to the balcony, please come to our auditions on January fourteenth.” Well now, does my son think this description fits his father?

  GRADY: I do indeed, Father. Both the sawing and the projecting.

  MR. CRATCHIT: Not the singing?

  MRS. CRATCHIT: Children, your father sang quite a lovely baritone in days of old.

  GRADY: Well then, he’s a perfect fit! And of course, we know that the original Oliver, Oliver Twist, was written by our favorite storyteller, Mr. Charles Dickens himself.

  MR. CRATCHIT: [back on script now] It does sound like a vocation I would enjoy. And yet, it could take time away from my family obligations.

  MRS. CRATCHIT: [thoughtfully] Yes. Father might have to give up doing some of his productions around the house. What would you children think of that?

  GRADY: I think Rudolph would miss us more than we’d miss him.

  LAURA: I’d rather see a performance than be in one.

  CHARLIE: It’s time to retire the old bears anyway.

  TINY TIM: Father! Could I go to the auditions with you?

  Okay, that line wasn’t in the script. Clearly, Sebastian felt comfortable throwing in whatever he wanted. I was glad he did, though. I think it got my father over the hump of realizing what we meant. He swallowed, then spoke, his voice a bit thick.

  MR. CRATCHIT: Of course, Tim. We’ll sally forth together. Things do change, as your brother has rightly said, and I’m glad to find this new challenge. Thank you, Grady.

  MRS. CRATCHIT: Yes, we all thank you, son.

  Meanwhile, Charlie was getting really tired of waiting.

  CHARLIE: I say, Grady, haven’t you forgotten someone?

  GRADY: No, I don’t think I have, Charlie.

  CHARLIE: I don’t even see another box under the tree for me!

  GRADY: [standing] Of course not. Your gift couldn’t fit under the Christmas tree, dear brother. Let me get it from its hiding place.

  I was so excited. I’d been waiting for this moment all day. Nobody but me had gone out to the garage, and, as they’d assured me at the shelter, Betsy was not a barker, so the surprise would be complete. I clipped on her leash and let her out the back door to pee before her introduction to the family. She was so happy to see me again, she leaped up and stuck her tongue right in my mouth. In case you were wondering, French kisses from a dog are not really that desirable.

  Betsy had been angelic in the car on the drive home, but I guess being locked in the garage alone all afternoon had driven up her energy level. As soon as we walked through the kitchen door, she began to pull on the leash, her nails skittering across the floor. She yanked me through the dining room and into the living room, as the outdoor audience howled and laughed, and the indoor actors screamed, all of us completely breaking character.

  CHARLIE: It’s a dog! I got a dog!

  GRADY: This is Betsy—she’s a—sit down, girl. Sit down. Betsy, sit!

  CHARLIE: [grabbing Betsy around the neck] Grady got me a dog!

  MRS. CRATCHIT: Grady, are you out of your mind?

  MR. CRATCHIT: You know your mother is . . . oh, what a friendly puppy!

  TINY TIM: I didn’t think you’d really be able to find one—

  GRADY: There’s an Internet site where all the shelters post what dogs they have. You just plug in your zip code and you find out where the nearest one is.

  LAURA: This is why you drove to Connecticut? To get this mutt?

  MRS. CRATCHIT: [cringing in her chair by the fireplace] What were you thinking, Grady? I’m allergic to dogs! Get her off the couch!

  CHARLIE: [clinging to Betsy’s neck] She’s my dog!


  GRADY: Listen to me a minute. Betsy is a standard poodle. Aunt Gail was telling me the other day that some dogs don’t shed, so I went online and found out that poodles don’t shed, and that some people who are allergic to other dogs aren’t allergic to poodles. I explained the situation at the shelter, and they said we can bring her back if Mom has a bad reaction. But I thought we could at least try it. Charlie wants a dog so badly, and he needs a buddy to hang out with, too.

  CHARLIE: I do, Mom, I do!

  EVE: This is a poodle? It doesn’t look like one.

  GRADY: She isn’t shaved. You don’t have to shave them with those silly puffs of fur around their tails and ankles. This is how they look naturally.

  There was actually a moment of near silence as Charlie and Betsy climbed all over each other and the rest of us watched. Then, suddenly, we remembered that we had an audience. One by one, we turned to look at them. They were staring right back at us, as if we were the newest reality TV show. Dad tried to get us back on track.

  MR. CRATCHIT: Well, Mrs. Cratchit, I suppose we shall see what we shall see. The animal will spend the night in young Charles’s room. And now I’m sure dinner is ready and waiting for us. We mustn’t let it get cold.

  MRS. CRATCHIT: [still staring at Betsy] I suppose so. I have no idea.

  GRADY: Yes, Father and Mother, please take a seat at the dinner table. Your children will serve you your Christmas feast tonight!