By now the lights on the rides twinkle against the sky, and the smell of fresh caramel being melted onto apples fills the evening air. A barbershop quartet wearing red-and-white-striped vests and blue pants strolls past singing “Lida Rose.” As I walk toward the midway, bells ring, shots go off, megaphoned barkers shout at passersby enticing them to play, and the winners whoop it up when they succeed. Above the games can be heard the screams of people riding the salt and pepper shakers as they hurtle and spin through the air. I look away. If you've been to enough fairs, you know that this is the point where “motion” equals “sickness.” And in my book the only thing worse than vomit is flying vomit.
After making my way through the bustling midway and deafening arcade, I head back toward the handicrafts barn. A band made up of an accordion, banjo, and harmonica sets up on the wooden stage for the crowning of the Cherry Queen (yes, the boys have fun with that one). Bursts of raucous laughter come from the beer tent, while a few feet away strains of “Blessed Be the Ties That Bind” issue from the revival tent. Directly above the tent is the large and indifferent yellow stare of a great August moon.
Just before turning left toward the soft but insistent lowing that issues from the Mooternity barn, I spot Craig and Megan climbing onto the Ferris wheel together. The scream is silent, but it's there, all the same.
SIXTY-THREE
AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING I WAKE UP AND CAN'T FALL back to sleep. Not wanting to rouse anyone by starting a car, I ride my bike toward the Stocktons’. Morning is still part of night, and everything is a different shade of gray. The beauty of four in the morning is not its furnishings and décor, but its aim-lessness and stolen quality. I suppose that's why Cappy always calls it “The Convict Hour.”
I lean my bike against the side of the house and slip into the yard. The wind sighs in the birch trees and the butterfly bushes drip moisture from their leaves. Sitting by the edge of the pond I stare down at the fish, serene and barely moving, as if their alarm clocks haven't yet gone off.
Somewhere between the breeze and the faraway sound of a train comes a single line of birdsong. As the sun peeks above the horizon, light begins to spread like a flower of fire. A cardinal flits from one tree to another, making a bright red brushstroke in the air.
Soon the gray sky is a cool timeless blue and the golden sunshine has turned the pond surface into a hundred flashing diamonds. I hear sounds coming through the open windows of the house but no voices.
That is until a voice directly behind me says, “Don't mind me, I've just come to pick some rosemary for a loaf of bread I'm making.”
I continue lying in the grass, looking up at early morning sky that's still gauzy with starlight. “Do you ever think about death, Bernard? How you're going to die? When? And what happens afterward?”
“Never. I'm very much opposed to the idea,” he says. “Now come inside, and I'll make you some popes Benedict.” This is Bernard's latest creation—a mushroom, goat cheese, and dill omelet cut into the shape of a cross.
I follow him inside and watch while he fills the bread machine and brews a fresh pot of coffee.
“You're up early,” he says.
“Couldn't sleep.” I rummage through the fridge for a chocolate Yoo-hoo.
“Well, the headline here is: Duel resolves dueling boyfriends. We have fled madness and found gladness.”
“And exactly how did you know that Darius would take off rather than call your bluff?” I slump down at the kitchen table and chug directly from the bottle.
“I think the fact that I included a plane ticket helped to sway him just a teensy bit.” Bernard gives me a wink. “Plus I mentioned that Ottavio was not only a master dueler, but also a war hero.”
“War hero?” I ask. “He's never even been in the military.”
Bernard waves his arms as if I'm trying to sabotage him, pretends to pull at his hair, and then clamps a hand over my mouth. It would be an understatement to say that he's addicted to the dramatic gesture.
“The main thing is that they're back together!” concludes Bernard. “Like two peas in a pod!”
I want to be happy about this turn of events but it's not my day for happiness. Plus I can't be sure that Bernard's not exaggerating the reconciliation. “And where is the happy couple?”
“Upstairs preparing to attend a vigil for the homeless in Cleveland.” Bernard suddenly turns growly. “It's too much for Mother to admit that I was right, and so she's aggravating me by sleeping outside all night and will most likely get arrested for vagrancy. Only she's going to be surprised when I don't come to her rescue with the bail checkbook.”
“She'd love nothing better,” I say. It's a well-known fact that Bernard has had to literally drag Olivia out of prison on more than one occasion after she's been arrested while marching or protesting. She likes being incarcerated because it gets more publicity for her cause of the week.
Bernard stares at my face for a long moment, as if it's the first time he's noticed me in weeks. “What is going on with you? You look terrible.” He takes my ponytail in his hand. “Holy hairpins! Are you using a two-in-one shampoo conditioner?”
“Whatever is on sale,” I say, and free myself from his grip.
“Are you still wallowing? The Craig breakup was months ago! It's time for a comeback.”
“I'm turning nineteen in two weeks. Isn't that a little young to make a comeback?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” scoffs Bernard. “Every time Judy Garland returned from the powder room the press called it a comeback.”
“It's no use,” I say. “I ruined my life.”
“I hardly think so,” says Bernard. “Let's take a page from Dinah Washington's songbook, shall we?”
He disappears into the living room and after a few minutes I hear the song “What a Difference a Day Makes” playing on the stereo.
Bernard reappears and announces, “Dinah was accused of selling out by the critics as well as her contemporaries, and she married seven times.”
“And the last marriage was terrific?” I ask hopefully.
“Not exactly. She struggled with a weight problem and died from an overdose of diet pills mixed with alcohol at age thirty-nine. But Dinah was still in peak voice, singing at a blues club in Los Angeles just two weeks before the end!”
“And what am I supposed to do with that information?”
“Change your perfume, find a new hobby, learn a language,” Bernard reels off suggestions.
“My routine is baby-sitting and weeding,” I say. “And I don't have time for hobbies or new languages.”
Bernard sighs as if I'm a hopeless case. “Shop at a new mall. Do something!”
We hear Olivia humming as she comes down the stairs, followed by the shuffling of papers in her den.
“She's probably searching for her copy of the Declaration of Independence to read aloud at the protest,” says Bernard. He pushes me toward her den. “Go have Mother give you one of her stop-cursing-the-darkness-and-light-a-candle speeches.”
“But I'm not cursing about anything.”
“You're moping. It's ten times worse, and I can't take it anymore.”
I enter Olivia's den and close the accordion door behind me. Though it's more to escape Bernard's frantic cheerfulness than anything else.
“Welcome home,” I say.
“Thank you, Hallie. But a lot of people don't have homes or even the basic level of housing, and that's why we're organizing an overnight vigil in front of city hall. They can no longer keep us quiet with bread and circuses.” She raises her left hand above her head as if the protest has already begun and the floor lamp is the mayor.
“Is Ottavio going with you?”
“Yes, we've kissed and made up,” says Olivia. “And as much as it pains me to admit this, Bertie was right. Darius was too young for me.”
It sounds very much as if a self-satisfied harrumph comes from the other side of the door, even though running water can be heard in the kitchen, i
ndicating that Bernard, the inveterate eavesdropper, is only pretending to wash dishes.
Olivia glances in the direction of the noise and adds, “It's just as well. He wasn't very good in bed.”
We hear a glass drop and smash on the floor right outside the door.
SIXTY-FOUR
OLIVIA AND OTTAVIO ARE LOADING THE CAR WITH BLANKETS and big cardboard signs as I'm getting ready to leave. Bernard stands by the side of the driveway trying to talk her out of spending the night on a sidewalk in downtown Cleveland.
“Mother, what is the point of all this nonsense?” he asks, arms akimbo. “The legislature can't include a new shelter in the budget—there isn't enough money for the pensions they already owe.”
“Those people can advocate for themselves,” Olivia says tersely. “The homeless cannot.”
“Yes, Mother, I understand all that,” continues Bernard. “But this is a done deal—your legislation is not going to pass. People have already announced how they're voting. Tell your Unitarian jihadists to turn their efforts to something that has a chance.”
“We might still change some minds,” says Olivia. “Convincing Americans that we needed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 didn't happen overnight.”
“Then write editorials or get up another petition,” says Bernard. “Why do you have to sleep outside overnight and then personally attend the vote?”
Olivia suddenly comes to life and switches from a measured but dismissive tone to one of tremendous valor. “Why? For the same reason that Eleanor Roosevelt sat through the congressional session where they voted down the Anti-Lynching Bill— to bear witness!”
Bernard drops his arms and throws his head back. “Fine, then what are you going to eat while bearing witness? It sounds like a real calorie-burner.”
“We'll be homeless people,” says Olivia. “Whatever we can scrounge up or nothing at all.”
Olivia and Ottavio climb into the cherry-red Buick, the ends of their picket signs sticking out the back windows.
“That's where I draw the line—at the two of you Dumpster diving or starving to death on the mean streets of downtown Cleveland,” says Bernard. “Wait just a minute. I made up a basket with eggplant, tomato, and mozzarella panini sandwiches, Tuscan white bean soup, and some fruit salad.”
Olivia appears to consider for a moment. “I'm not sure that wouldn't be cheating.”
“Don't worry,” Bernard assures her, “there's plenty of extra so you can share it with all your homeless friends.”
“Oh, I suppose that's all right,” Olivia replies gaily, as if they're heading off on vacation.
Bernard dashes inside to fetch the food before they can escape.
I wish them both luck and hop on my bicycle. On the way home I usually stop at the Star-Mart to pick up some groceries, but since I don't have a car today it's easier to stop at the convenience store.
“Hey, Hallie!” I hear from the far end of the aisle. “It's me, Auggie.”
“Oh my gosh! I-I thought you moved to Russia.” Last I heard, my two dates with Auggie the previous summer had the effect of rocketing him back across the Atlantic and into the arms of his ex. Because unlike the women who drive men crazy, I drive them away. Far away.
He smiles sheepishly as if to say, Oh yeah, that. “I'm back,” he says, holding up an apple and bottle of iced tea as if to prove it.
“Here?” I ask.
“No, no. Just passing through on my way to Iowa.”
I look further surprised.
“School—the University of Iowa.”
“Congratulations!”
“I'm going to study writing.”
“You should. That's wonderful.”
Only Auggie's preoccupied by the unusual necklace that June made for me. “Are those crystals?” He starts to laugh.
“Yeah, why?” I take them protectively in my hand. “You think they're stupid, right?”
“No, of course not. The universe is all about energy. It's just that, well, you're the last person I ever thought would be wearing them. You're just so—”
“So what?”
“I don't know … mathematical,” says Auggie.
Frowning back at him, I uncomfortably kick at a piece of gum that's stuck to the floor.
“Come on, don't get mad. They're great,” he says sincerely. “And I was really sorry to hear about your dad.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Auggie nods toward his beat-up tan Chevy Cavalier out front with all his stuff packed inside and a box strapped to the roof. “I'm leaving early in the morning—but, uh, do you want to go out tonight?”
“Out? Okay, sure.” It's been so long that I don't even know where out is anymore. I may as well have a court-mandated curfew.
“One of Grandpa's friends has this restaurant on a restored riverboat near Cleveland called Lolita's—ever hear of it?”
“Sure.” Lolita's was famous for being high class, expensive, and, well, Italian owned and operated. “It's sort of fancy, isn't it?”
Auggie glances down at his T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. “I guess I'd better wear a jacket. But you look good in anything. What time should I pick you up?”
My mother is not especially judgmental, but I decide that in view of the last few months, her precarious mental health might be upset by Auggie's peace sign earring, long hair, and beaded necklace.
“Why don't we meet there?” I quickly suggest.
“It's kind of a long drive,” says Auggie.
“How about Cappy's office at the pool hall?”
“I'm spending the night at his place,” says Auggie. “Can you come over there at about six?”
“Is that on the dirt road off Millersport?”
“Yeah, it's the only turnoff. You can't miss it.”
“It's a date,” I say.
“Then don't be late,” says Auggie.
SIXTY-FIVE
LOUISE CAN'T BELIEVE HER EARS WHEN I ASK TO BORROW A DRESS and some shoes. “If you need cash that desperately I can give you a loan,” she offers.
“I'm flattered that you think I could make money as a prostitute, but I actually have a date. Only don't tell Mom. He wears an earring and has a ponytail.”
“It sucks being the oldest girls,” says Louise. “Mom is not going to give a shit if Francie and Lillian's boyfriends have tattoos and nose rings and do lines of cocaine on the coffee table.”
“Are you kidding? Mom is so cheap, can you imagine her watching someone put five hundred bucks up their nose?”
“You're right,” says Louise. “Nervous breakdown numbers two and three.”
We both giggle. Of course we know it's terrible to make fun of everything that's happened. On the other hand, Louise and I have become much closer since she's moved home.
Louise holds up a green sundress that doesn't look too much like a shower curtain and hands me a pretty white silk cardigan to wear over it. She rummages around her jewelry box and pulls out some opal earrings set in gold. “Here, these will look nice with it.”
I put them on and check the mirror. “Thanks,” I say.
“You look really pretty,” she says.
“I look as if I'm eloping in a pickup truck,” I say.
“Having people always tell you that you're pretty is nice,” says Louise. “But after a while you begin to wonder if they'd still want to be your friend if you weren't considered attractive, or, worse, if you were suddenly disfigured in a horrible fire. Or scarred by bad acne. Or mauled by a bear.”
Obviously she's given some thought to this.
“You mean, like rich people have to wonder why people want to be their friend?” I ask.
“I suppose.”
“I guess we're pretty lucky that we don't have to worry about that!” I joke.
“Amen to that!” we both imitate Pastor Costello, in word and enthusiasm.
“Why is your hair so dry? Can't you ever wear a hat when you're out in the sun?”
“My hair would be dry if I lived i
n an underwater cave with Ariel the mermaid,” I report. “My system has a conditioner deficiency.”
Louise picks through her magic potions and selects a tube of something to squeeze into her palms and apply to my straw head. She doesn't look overly pleased with the results and tries adding more.
“Oh, for God's sake,” says Louise in frustration and grabs the bottle of hand lotion off her night table. She pours white glop into her palm and styles my hair anew. Suddenly she looks pleased. “Better.”
I take a quick glance in the mirror. “Not bad. Definitely got rid of the frizzies and flyaways.”
“Just don't let anybody touch it,” she adds.
“Great, now you tell me.” Putting my hands to my head I have to admit that there's a certain Bundt-cake-mold feeling to it.
While grabbing my car keys it occurs to me that I have to tell Mom something. If I say that I'm going on a date, she might ask me about Craig. At first I figured one of the church ladies or Pastor Costello would spill the beans, but I've quickly learned that when you are just out of a mental institute people concentrate on delivering only happy news.
“Oh, Hallie! You look lovely!” Mom surprises me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Thanks,” I say. “So do you.” She's wearing a housecoat and white canvas shoes and so this is pretty stupid.
“Why, thank you,” she says. “I feel well and I guess that's the main thing.”
“Amen to that!” The phrase is still ringing in my head.
“You're going out, I take it?”
“A party,” I lie. “With some friends from college.” Another lie.
“You couldn't have a nicer night for a party,” she says. “Have fun.”
Interrogation over. She knows I'm lying.
SIXTY-SIX
IT'S A WARM EVENING AFTER A HOT DAY. SUMMER IS FADING AWAY, drifting into a green haze. The sky is streaked with purple, and a fresco of light and shadows play across the lawns as the sprinklers rise and fall.
The Big Shuffle Page 23