“There's always been a rumor that Pappy Cappy had fifty or so cases of whiskey made by a distillery in Canada in 1932, really good stuff, not the rotgut they sold to the public,” says Al.
“The flood opened up the hiding place, which appears to be around Main and Swan streets. At least that's where most of the bottles have been found,” says Officer Rich. “Probably in a back room or basement of one of the old buildings along that stretch.”
From his horse trough Mr. Cavanaugh lets out a huge whoop and hauls something in with his net. Mr. Blakely looks over from his washtub with envy. Up the street I can see cheap old Mr. Exner paddling along in an old birch bark canoe.
I look down and count three bottles lying in the bottom of Officer Rich's boat. “So are you guys confiscating it?”
“Hell no!” says Al. “We're collecting it. This is almost hundred-year-old hootch!”
“I talked to Cappy this morning,” says Officer Rich, who always does the right thing in such circumstances. “He said finders keepers.”
Some men outfitted in waders and yellow slickers ride by in an inflatable pool toy shaped like a giant lobster, obviously drunk from the way they're shouting and stumbling about.
Pastor Costello paddles up in the rowboat that's always been used for the Sunday school production of Noah's Ark. It still has some of the cardboard animals in front and a giraffe neck leans out over the side. His cheeks are flushed from rowing, and he's trying to catch his breath enough to speak. “I just wanted to make sure that you're okay.”
I see a bottle tucked under a cardboard cutout of a squirrel in the middle of the boat.
“There's trash everywhere,” he explains. “Just trying to do my part.”
Inside the house the phone rings. I wave to the brave seafarers and wish them luck as they cast off again.
When I answer it, Craig says, “Would you believe me if I told you that the reason I can't come over and make love to you is because of a flood?”
“You don't expect me to fall for that old excuse again, do you?” I ask.
“Sorry, Hallie. We must be the only family in town without a boat. I was going to swim over, but my mother put a stop to that. She insists that I'll die from typhus.”
“It doesn't matter since school is closed.” Our big plan had been to drop Lillian at the Stocktons’, send the twins over to Mrs. Muldoon's, and then have the house to ourselves.
“Officer Rich says the water is starting to go down and so maybe you can come over later,” I say hopefully
“Did you hear about the whiskey?” asks Craig. “My uncle Joe called at five o'clock this morning. He's out there on his son's surfboard and wanted my dad to join him.”
The twins start making noises in the other room, and I hear the scuffle of pajama-clad feet on the stairs. “I have to get the twins ready and make breakfast. Come over as soon as you can.”
Francie skids into the kitchen, yelling, “Uncle Lenny made the whole world flood!” Then her eyes grow wide and searching as she looks up at me. “Is it because we've been bad?”
My own theory is slightly different—that someone up there is trying to keep Craig and me from being alone together.
FORTY-FIVE
AFTER TWO DAYS THE WATER RECEDES ENTIRELY, LEAVING BEHIND a bitter springlike smell in the air. The earth has once again performed its miraculous annual ritual of renewal, with bright green buds almost everywhere. Off in the distance spring sunlight threads through soft, fluffy clouds. And soon there will be prairie dog-sized mosquitoes dive-bombing us from every direction.
Bernard has invited the whole family over for Easter dinner, but I decide there are too many of us. Eric and I agree to take Pastor Costello up on his invitation to be part of the church supper. No one mentions that it's for the parishioners who don't have anyplace to go.
On Friday I finally call Louise to see if she's coming home for the holiday. As Eric had said when we talked about it, “She's still part of the family.”
Louise informs me that she has a job waitressing at a catering hall and that working on Easter Sunday will pay time and a half, in addition to big tips. Apparently the Resurrection of Jesus is a cause for great generosity among the brunch crowd. From the hours she claims to be working it's obvious that
Louise isn't in school, so I ask about her taking an equivalency exam. Louise explains that she's not allowed to sign up for it until she turns eighteen, because the government doesn't want to encourage kids to drop out of high school, so her plan is just to earn some money between now and then. It must be working because she has her own car and a cell phone.
The majority of the parishioners who come to the church supper are old, and so next to almost every chair is a cane or aluminum walker. People love saying this town is a good place to raise children. But most young people finish high school, go away to college, and then off to the cities to build careers. Maybe after the new commuter train is up and running, things will change. It's supposed to be really fast—cutting the trip to downtown Cleveland from an hour and a half to fifty minutes.
At first not celebrating Easter in our own home seems strange—like we're an orphan family. But in the end I'm glad we decide to go to the church. It's better to stand behind a table and serve creamed onions to the cane and crutch crowd than to sit at Bernard's perfectly laid table trying to make all the little kids behave and keep them from breaking stuff. At church there's a playroom with a couple teenagers in charge where the kids are served some chunks of ham with French fries, followed by chocolate pudding. So they're happy, unable to cause a public disturbance, and I get a break from them until it's time to leave.
Eric is home, but he's with his new girlfriend, Elizabeth, and after the church supper they head off to a party with all his old football friends. He's going to visit Mom in the morning and then they're driving to see Elizabeth's family in Indianapolis. Elizabeth is pretty with short dark hair, large expressive doe eyes, and creamy skin. My only complaint is that she smells as if she's been dipped in a vat of perfume. On the other hand, Eric always reeks of Ben-Gay, so maybe she's just trying to counteract his own distinctive stink.
Later that night, after the kids are all in bed and I've cleaned up most of the Easter grass that the kitten has dragged all over the house, Gwen and Jane stop by for a visit. Originally Jane had said to meet them at the pizza parlor. That's a laugh. It was necessary to explain that life has changed just slightly since the days when I used to ride my bike around at all hours.
I admit that for a while I was kind of mad at them. They haven't called much since Dad died and I've been under serious house arrest. But I eventually decided that Gwen and Jane probably didn't want to have to tell me about all of the fun they were having, knowing it would only make me feel bad. And I didn't exactly phone them a lot either, not wanting to tell them how miserable I was, knowing it would just make them feel bad. It was easier not to call than to lie.
The great thing is that now I can honestly tell my friends that even if money is tight, life is much better since Pastor Costello arrived and Craig came back for spring break. And also that Mom is coming home soon.
“So when can you go back to school?” asks Jane.
There it is, the million-dollar question. “I guess I might have to wait until Eric graduates next year,” I manage to say without bursting into tears.
Fortunately Gwen, who is always looking to get the low-down on everyone's love life, changes the subject. “I thought that Craig would be here tonight.”
“He had to go to his aunt Dolly's in Akron,” I explain.
Both girls then proceed to say what a fantastic guy Craig is and how lucky I am to have him as my boyfriend.
“Because we know what total jerks guys that age can be,” adds Gwen.
Jane and I are aware that she's referring to her ex-boyfriend, who is now sleeping with her roommate. But we don't say anything, afraid that she'll start crying over that one, again.
I know they're right about Craig. And
if I can finally see him alone, if only for an hour, everything will be even better.
FORTY-SIX
WHEN SPRING BREAK ENDS, LIFE RETURNS TO BEING MEASURED not in days or months, but by the number of lunches packed and spoonfuls of strained squash with rice launched into the mouths of the twins. Sometimes between loads of laundry and vacuuming Cheerios out of the rug, I'll stop and interview myself with the furniture wand.
So, Ms. Palmer, what do you do with all of your spare time?
Mostly I knit blankets for earthquake victims and shop for the housebound elderly after I've finished up at the women's shelter. Though when it's autumn here, that means spring in East Africa and so I'm of course busy sending over packets of seed corn and organizing local bake-offs to raise money for basic farm implements. My altruistic reverie is interrupted by a phone call from Mrs. Muldoon. She's at the Star-Mart and Land O Lakes butter is on sale. Should she pick up one of the large tubs for me?
These days Davy and Darlene don't arrive home until five o'clock due to various after-school activities. Francie is now attending a program at the YMCA where the kids are allowed to play games and roughhouse on mats in the gym. It was suggested by her school nurse—okay, threat or recommendation, everybody has a different take on things. It's a little more driving for me and costs twenty-five dollars a week, but I must admit the new routine has certainly helped reduce Francie's excess energy and cut down on fights and injuries, self-inflicted or otherwise.
The only problem now is that every time one of the kids walks out the door he or she needs money for something— activity fees, uniforms, field trips—or some type of baked good for the never-ending stream of fund-raisers and class parties. Plus all the kids are now required to have organizers (which they lose during every vacation) that cost eight dollars apiece.
On top of all that, Darlene's speech therapist had the brilliant idea that she should take up the clarinet—which costs forty-four dollars a month to rent, after a one-hundred-dollar deposit, and that doesn't include sheet music and reeds.
And then Teddy needed train fare every day during vacation. He'd spent practically the entire week researching depression at Case Western Reserve's medical library in Cleveland.
Thank goodness the insurance money finally arrived. But that goes in the bank for paying the mortgage. And we now get a social security check every month. Only after the groceries there's not a dollar left over. Forget putting money aside for educations, Mom's old age, and another minivan. The guy at the garage said the station wagon will never pass inspection without our putting at least eight hundred dollars into it.
The only bright spot on the financial horizon is that Eric landed a job at his university to be assistant coach for a girls’ basketball camp this summer. I'd hoped he was going to help with the kids, but right now the money is more important.
Pastor Costello comes by during the morning rush, and if he doesn't have vespers or a counseling session, then he stops back for dinner. Craig usually arrives around ten in the morning, and while I clean the house he's been getting the yard in shape and fixing some shingles on the roof.
Finally, on Wednesday, Craig and I actually find an hour to spend together, just the two of us. With the house empty of children and the windows open to usher in the spring, we merge effortlessly like two raindrops. It feels like Craig has pulled my body out of the swirling floodwaters and resuscitated me by placing his lips to mine. An almost physical sense of lightness washes over me, as if all the boxes and bags I was carrying have been put into ministorage.
FORTY-SEVEN
ON THE DAYS THAT BERNARD TAKES LILLIAN, CRAIG ACCOMPANIES me to the grocery store and afterward we usually stop at Custard's Last Stand for ice cream. If the weather is good, we'll drive around before heading home, stopping on a dirt road to make out in the car like teenagers. I guess that technically I still am a teenager, even if I sure don't feel like one anymore.
Friday afternoon is a particularly nice day. Once we're a mile outside of town, it looks like a scene from an Andrew Wyeth painting—windswept, golden, and lonely.
Craig and I lie across the roof of the car and hold hands while staring up at the gauzy clouds hanging in the air overhead.
“You're going to be twenty next week,” I say. “In another year you'll be old enough to have your first beer.”
He laughs. “I drank so much beer the first two years of college that I'm planning on giving it up for my twenty-first birthday. When the guys in the frat house tell you they have a three-point-oh, you'd better be sure to ask whether that's a grade-point average or their blood alcohol content.”
“What do you want for a present?” I ask. “Anything in the world—so long as it doesn't cost more than five dollars.”
“Just you,” he says.
“How about a small child?” I joke. “I have all different shapes and sizes, and the best thing is that they're just like pets—they all have their own little personalities.”
“Then I'll take Roddy,” says Craig.
I've let him in on my little secret about losing track of the identities of the boys.
“I have a better idea,” I play along. “I'll put the twins behind my back and you'll pick one.”
“Deal.” He shakes my hand and then seals the bargain with a kiss.
We get back into the car and head for home to put away the groceries before the eggs start to hatch.
“Why don't we have a birthday party at my place,” I suggest. This is something I might actually be able to do. Mom has all sorts of decorations, and I can bake a cake from a mix. (Who am I kidding? I'll just invite the Stocktons and Bernard will take care of everything.)
“That would be terrific,” says Craig. “My mother will call you for a list of vaccinations they should get before coming over.”
The kids have given Craig two colds back to back and one stomach flu in the three weeks he's been home.
“How about Saturday night?” I ask. “What time do you have to leave for school on Sunday?”
Craig looks out the window for a long while. Eventually he mumbles, “School already started.”
“What do you mean it started?” Is Craig taking a semester off to stay and help me?
“I dropped out,” says Craig. “It's not for me.” And then he laughs as if it's all a joke.
“But why?” I ask. “I thought you liked college, and your parents are paying for everything.”
“Well, I don't,” he says. “I cleaned out my room at the fraternity house and I'm not going back.”
“If it's the school you don't like, then just transfer,” I say. “Your parents could easily afford a private college anywhere in the country.”
“I don't want to go to another school. I have no idea what I'm doing there or what I should be studying. As soon as I pick a major I change my mind.”
“Take more classes until you find something you like,” I say. “You can always go for a summer session or an extra year to earn enough credits to graduate.”
“But I don't want to do the whole corporate thing like my dad, and I don't want to spend all my time gathering samples and looking at slides under a microscope.”
“That's the whole point of college—to find out what you do like,” I argue.
Craig's face becomes red and he balls his big hands into fists. “Hallie, will you listen to me? I dropped out! I would think that you of all people might understand.”
I'm becoming angry as well. Though I don't know if it's more because Craig quit or that he didn't tell me until now.
“Why did you wait until now to tell me?” I think back to all those nights we talked on the phone until one o'clock in the morning. “Surely you've been planning this for some time.”
“Because you had your own problems,” says Craig.
“But we're together!” I practically shout. “That's why I felt okay bothering you with my problems, and not Gwen and Jane.”
“Okay then, because I knew what you would say.” Craig stares s
traight ahead.
Instinctively I realize that this is the critical hand right now and whatever I do could substantially impact my future fortunes
It's the moment to be supportive. Only I can't bring myself to play that card. Not while I'm sitting at home while everyone else is in school, where I desperately want to be, and Craig is dropping out for no apparent reason.
In a calm voice I say, “Why don't you at least finish the semester and then make the final decision. That way you won't waste any money.”
“Everything isn't always about money, Hallie! What about being happy? Sorry if it sounds cliché to you, but I'm trying to find myself.”
“Dammit, Craig, you're right here. And you have parents who not only gave you a new car, but will pay for college and even graduate school. I'm sorry if I just don't understand the problem.”
“You had your phase,” says Craig.
“I was sixteen. And at no point was I not earning any money, I might add.”
“So what does that mean?” asks Craig.
“It means how are you going to be responsible if you can't do something just because it's not providing you with maximum enjoyment? It means that you're going to be twenty in a week and you're throwing your whole life away!”
“Thanks for all your understanding!”
We drive along in silence until it becomes so uncomfortable that I hit the button on the CD player. It's a secondhand car and the radio never worked to begin with.
“The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” blares from the dashboard. I switch it off and we continue with only the noise of the wind rushing in through the open windows.
The shortest way home involves driving past several new developments where it appears the contractors are all working from a single set of plans. Soon families will be moving in and grass will be growing out front. Meantime, the elusive riddle that is my future seems further away right now than ever before. Once we're in the driveway Craig gets out of the car and leaves without saying a word. After all this worry about a long-distance relationship, it was the short-distance one that killed us.
The Big Shuffle Page 17