All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  Tiny, ridiculous Cuppie. Cupcake: her father’s name for her, like she was a sugary confection, gulped down and forgotten like her real but inappropriate name, Willow. His little sugar rush. Had she ever loved him? Maybe he had only been a way out of Red Vine, Minnesota. That at least made sense.

  He sat down on the bed beside his mother. “I wasn’t happy. Not for a long time.”

  A tear streaked down her cheek. This was why he hadn’t come home till now. He knew he would make his mother cry. “Happiness with your wife, or your husband, that’s something to work toward, a goal. I do want you to be happy, Jonny.” At the door she looked back. “It can be hard.”

  At the nursing home Jonny wondered about his parents. Were they happy? Did that even occur to them? What was happiness when you were sixty? A pension, a bowling team, a rose garden? He felt awful for making her sad. But a divorce in the family wasn’t the end of the world. If he could manage to muddle through, couldn’t she?

  His grandmother appeared in the doorway now, carrying a plate covered with foil. “Asleep again. Maybe the smell of pie will wake him up.”

  Nora held the uncovered plate under Reinholt’s nose. “Blueberry pie, Holti. First of the season.”

  He opened his eyes. “There you are, you crafty old fox.” She hit the button to raise the head of the bed. Round and rosy-cheeked in a blue track suit and tennis shoes, Nora had a busy crown of white hair and a smile for everybody, as long as they agreed with her. Her voice was husky, seductive— and annoyed. Reinholt had been her husband for more than fifty years. But his present condition was anything but pleasant. Even with him in the rest home, she doted on him, baked for him, visited every day whether he knew her or not. “Look. Jonny’s here. He’s come to play his accordion.”

  Was he ready to play for Holti? His grandfather looked blankly at him. “Who?”

  “Jonny. Your grandson.” Nora turned to him. “He loves music. Go ahead. Whenever you’re ready.” The urgency in her voice set his hands on the keys and buttons.

  “I’m playing this for the polka mass. It’s called ‘I Have Decided to Follow Jesus.’”

  Nora shook her head. “Something lively. Please.”

  “I know that—” Reinholt said. He pointed at the instrument with a shaky finger. “What’s it?”

  “An accordion. It was yours. You gave it to Jonny when he was a boy.”

  “Accordion,” his grandfather repeated. “My accordion?”

  Jonny launched into ‘Who’s Gonna Dance the Polka.’ He hadn’t thought ahead about the words— ‘when we’re old and gray.’ Awkward. But he wasn’t going to sing it and it was catchy. A tune he hadn’t practiced because the polka mass was slamming him at the moment, but it had stuck with him all these years. Reinholt had taught it to him when he was twelve, and it was funny then. When he couldn’t imagine being old and gray and still doing the polka.

  Reinholt’s face softened. Nora squeezed his hand. The accordion was loud in the small room, bouncing off the walls. Jonny tried to play softer, draw a little slower, but the accordion was what it was, a booming box of chords that announced Music, Baby, and Lots of It.

  His grandparents tapped their fingers on the blanket. Music had such power, to send you far away. Reinholt probably remembered a place he danced, listened to a polka, played a polka. A bandstand where he got everyone swinging around the dance floor, holding onto a pretty girl you might just marry if you played your cards right. Or maybe it was just the beat— that magical swing that touched a forgotten place where he wasn’t strapped to a bed, unable to remember who loved him.

  The music hung in the air as Jonny played the last notes, shimmering like the unknowable past. He closed his eyes. For a second Nora and Reinholt were young, dancing, laughing, and the roof of the music hall echoed with the promise of love.

  If polka is all that, he thought, can do that— I can love it, I will love it. Jonny opened his eyes. His grandfather was staring at him with happy concentration.

  “I like it,” he growled.

  Jonny carried the paper plate with blueberry pie down the hall. He was getting used to the retirement home; he could find his way around— and without getting creeped out. Patients like Reinholt were parked in wheelchairs and wandering with aides. Others were inert, mumbling to themselves. Most stared at him like he was from another planet. And he was, thank God, but one day he’d probably check into Hotel End-of-Life himself. What would his life be like from here to there? For once he didn’t know. The future was a misty blob of question marks. He felt guiltily young here, a child with smooth skin, a full head of hair, and good knees.

  Claude was lowering himself into his comfortable chair and pushing aside his walker. He settled the pie on his lap and praised Nora’s cooking. Her raspberry pie was the best, but second was blueberry, then gooseberry.

  “Put it in the little fridge,” he told Jonny. “I save it for later.”

  “I’m sure she’d bring you another piece.”

  Claude smiled. “Now, the last rehearsal is tonight? And are you ready?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hope? A thin little thing, is it not? It doesn’t lift you up to the heavens, does it? You need to be sure. Confident. That slays fear.”

  “And dominant seventh chords?”

  The old man chuckled. “Even dominant sevenths.”

  Dinner on Saturday was chaotic. Nora had been invited by Jonny, Lenny by Ozzie, and Wendy’s current admirer— they changed too often to be called boyfriends— a thick-necked thug named Zachary, had invited himself. Stumpy and his wife brought a sad lentil casserole and a chocolate cake. Ozzie heated a ham on the grill with his signature coating of marshmallow fluff toasted golden brown except for where it caught on fire. There were laughter and diet jokes; Stumpy took it all in stride. Jonny obsessed about some left-hand chords giving him grief. So much for pre-puberty genius.

  In the garage Jonny took the accordion out of the case and held it gingerly. The scratches across the pearly black case were almost like wrinkles. He felt self-conscious with Stumpy looking on so asked him for some pointers.

  “The thing is,” the big man whispered, “Wendy can’t blow that horn to save her life. She doesn’t play much but when she does, you’ve got to crank the accordion. Let ‘er rip.”

  Stumpy was as round and bald as a cue ball, with hands like baseball mitts. How he was able to hit single buttons with those fingers? Jonny was seized with an urge to see Stumpy play the squeeze box.

  “Could you show me that chord progression at the beginning of ‘One Day at a Time?’” It was a waltz, and slow, and Jonny had no trouble keeping up with the chord progression, but just then Ozzie clacked his sticks to bring the rehearsal to order.

  “All yours, Jonny boy,” Stumpy grinned, chocolate in his teeth.

  The rehearsal limped along for an hour. Ozzie argued with himself about the order of the songs. Wendy refused to take advice from drummers or anyone else. Jonny tried to focus and bit his tongue to keep from adding to the mayhem. Sitting up front, Lenny had ideas he had to share, about picking up the tempo mostly. He crossed his eyes at Jonny and slumped into his chair.

  Wendy announced she was leaving and the rehearsal broke up. Lenny walked out into the alley. “You’re my hero,” he said, clapping Jonny on the shoulder. “How you can play those old croakers with a straight face, and energy, I might add, is beyond me.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Just weirdly old school. I mean, polka. It’s so, shit, I don’t know what describes polka.”

  Jonny winced. “My dad loves it.”

  “Exactly. Remember when we played all those Springsteen songs on the squeeze box? I mean, you did.” Lenny wouldn’t be caught dead with anything as unhip as an accordion. High in a dark tree an owl hooted. “And Wendy? Jesus H. I hope the angel Gabriel isn’t listening up in heaven.”

  Jonny sagged against the picket fence. He just had to get through the mass, that was all. “How’s the campaign c
oming?”

  Lenny told him about a fundraiser he was working up for next weekend. He found out some state official would be in town. Supporters of moving the landfill would come out, and hopefully open their wallets for the young mayor-to-be.

  “Can you play? Add a little excitement to the putrid stinkwater debate.”

  “The whole band?”

  “Do we have to use Little Toot? I was hoping to leave her out of it.”

  “That might cause problems.”

  “Okay, all the Notable Knobels. Maybe your granny can play the tambourine like the old days.”

  “You know, she might like that.”

  “Okay, Jack,” Lenny said, throwing up his hands in mock dismay. “Bring ‘em on. The numerous and notable.” They walked around the corner of the garage as a beat-up orange VW bug was pulling into the motel lot. Lenny pulled Jonny back into the shadows.

  “Take cover, it’s the Queen Bee,” he whispered. The girl who had called the police on Jonny stepped out of the car. From the other side a man got out.

  “Who’s that with her?” Jonny whispered.

  “One of the dudes, there’s just two of them. Mostly hot college girls. I got my eye on a couple.” The two students disappeared into separate rooms. “She’s made quite an impression around town, let me tell ya.”

  “With that hair?”

  “Hair?”

  ”The dye job or whatever.”

  “Maybe she’s bald. The first day they were here a bunch of the students got drunk at the Owl. They didn’t get carded, of course. Walter needs the business. But the Queen Bee marches in, tells Walter he shouldn’t have served them. That she’ll have his bar shut down if he keeps serving them.”

  “Nice.” Walter had been happily serving minors for decades.

  “The place was so quiet you could hear the mice in the walls. She ripped him a new one.”

  “She called the cops on me the first night I was here, practicing in the garage.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Mike said she was complaining about the noise.”

  “She’s out to make friends.”

  A shadow flashed by her window. “What’d you call her?”

  “Queen Bee. Walter came up with that. Says she acts all high and mighty.”

  As they walked through the rose garden the Queen Bee was at her window. Her strange hair lay lank on her shoulders and her face was sad, almost lonely. Weeks on end at the Rainy Days Motor Inn could do that. As Jonny stepped around the picket fence she snapped her blinds closed.

  Lenny snorted. “Stuck-up college kids. And we’ve got four more weeks of them.”

  Chapter 4

  Father Teddy’s voice rang through the church, strong but comforting, like a well-knit mitten. A large congregation was assembled in the 115-year-old St. Bernard’s with its soaring gothic ceiling, but half the pews were empty. Red Vine had been the county seat when the church was built, and nothing but good times were expected. But the interstate highway passed them by, the railroad shut down. The county seat moved twenty miles away to Beinhorn. Sleepy little Red Vine was left to its apple orchards, its undistinguished lake, a bunch of Lutherans, handful of Catholics, and an oversized Catholic church.

  Ozzie had the high position on the landing with his drum set. Wendy and Jonny balanced on wide red-carpeted steps to the altar. The accordion straps pulled Jonny down, into the earth. He took a deep breath and pictured his feet anchored to the floor. The carpet was covered with plastic runners. With a few prayers the carpet would last through the apocalypse, which Jonny’s stomach felt could be any minute.

  Ozzie tapped out the beat to the ‘Just for Today Polka’ and they were off.

  Jonny kept his eyes up on the stained glass window in the choir loft. If he saw anybody he knew— if Lenny came to make faces at him— he didn’t think he could make it. Why these nerves? These were his people, folks he’d known all his life. His third-grade teacher, Miss Atkinson, probably ninety by now. His Little League coach and all his children. He tried to keep his mind away from Catholics of his acquaintance. Walter, from the Owl, with his St. Christopher’s medal. Ozzie was brought up Catholic and Margaret didn’t seem to care that much either way. Jonny’s church attendance, mostly Lutheran, was spotty. He liked church music though, the hymns that carried you through the roof.

  Jonny forced his mind back to the music. You’ve done this a hundred times. You could do this in your sleep. He tried to smile, or at least not grimace.

  Ozzie and Wendy paused for his solo. Jonny pumped the accordion, in and out, fingers moving madly. His hair fell across his forehead. Concentrate. He kept his eyes on a tear in the plastic runner a step down, bent to his task. A murmur of appreciation as Wendy came back in, only a few beats late, and Ozzie rat-a-tat-tatted through the last stanza.

  Father Teddy stood up again for a prayer. A few in the pews followed suit. Others looked confused. The polka mass was so far from the traditional mass, all bets were off. No chant and response, no rules at all. It was almost civilized.

  “Here we sing along,” the priest said. “If you will take your song sheet? Please stand for ‘I Have Decided to Follow Jesus.’ Once again the Notable Knobels.”

  The congregation rose, hunting for the sheet. Jonny took his first glances at the people out there. His mother and her sister Aunt Irene sat right up front, despite saying that her side of the family wouldn’t attend. Margaret gave him a covert wave by her knee. Three rows behind her sat wizened Miss Atkinson. Who were those people in the back? Bunch of white-hairs.

  At the rear of the sanctuary a metallic yawn broke the silence as the door opened. Three women in slacks and one man slipped in. Standards may have slipped but even Wendy was wearing a skirt (short, tight, and purple but still a skirt) in St. Bernard’s today. The college students: blond hair, a safari shirt, black pigtails, funny hat.

  There was Claude, three-quarters of the way back, one hand on the metal walker, his mouth open wide, ready to sing. The old people probably couldn’t hear way back there. And his grandmother, she had come of course. With— was that Reinholt?

  Before Jonny could get a good look, Ozzie cleared his throat. The cue to get moving. “One, two, three—” Jonny channeled Lawrence Welk and the squeeze box exploded into the song. The voices began, weakly. Jonny stepped up to the microphone. “I have decided to follow Jesus,” he sang. Lots of that, it was an easy song. “No turning back, no turning back.”

  The voices got stronger, rising. Jonny smiled, urging them on. “Let’s hear it for Jesus!”

  His mother called out, “Amen, brother!” Wendy rolled her eyes.

  The music faded. People smiled at each other. They had done well. They began to sit again when a voice came from the back.

  “She likes kielbasa!”

  People froze, halfway into their seats.

  “What?” Ozzie asked. Father Teddy stopped midway back to the lectern.

  Muffled voices. “No! No! Let me go.”

  A ruckus broke out in the back of the church. The congregation turned as one. Near Claude’s walker, down the pew, three or four people stood clustered— Grandma Nora, her neighbor Faye, Faye’s husband Roger.

  “Kielbasa! She likes kielbasa! Let go!”

  An old man’s voice. Jonny saw his grandfather’s tangle of white hair and one arm flailing. He broke free, pushing, climbing over the back of the pew in navy sweatpants and a green cardigan. He ran hunched over like a fugitive toward the aisle. Shouting from Nora, Faye, Wendy: “Stop him!” Across the aisle Gus Heideger leaped into action, grabbing Reinholt’s sleeve. There was a tussle. Feet, hands, hair flew. The plumber had fifty pounds and fifty years on the old man. He pinned Reinholt in a bear hug, arms to his sides, spinning to show his handiwork to all.

  As the shouting died down Father Teddy’s mouth hung open. He blinked, looking carefully at Margaret, then at Ozzie, entreating them with his eyes. He was a mild, soft-spoken man, a childhood friend of Margaret’s. Commotion in the san
ctuary? Not his bag.

  The crowd held its breath. Reinholt muttered, twisting his head from side to side. Jonny leaned into the microphone. “We have a request from the gentleman, Mr. Reinholt Knobel. Polka fan and former band member.” He turned to his father at the drums. “Reinholt requests ‘The She Likes Kielbasa Polka.’” Ozzie shrugged and twirled a drumstick. “Stand back, Wendy, this is a new one.”

  Jonny dredged up the chords for ‘She Likes Kielbasa’ from the deep recesses of his polka memory. They were basic, with the familiar oompah beat. His grandfather had taught it to him when he was fourteen, old enough to appreciate the naughty references to the ubiquitous Polish sausage. Sure, she likes it. Reinholt, the scamp.

  Ozzie remembered the words. That’s her dish. Jonny grinned as his old man picked up the lines. She won’t eat fish. Never let it be said the Knobels forgot who kielbasa was for. Father Teddy picked nervously at his vestments.

  Down the aisle the plumber loosened his grip on Reinholt. The old man began to clap his hands. Gus let him sway to the music. Nora stepped into the aisle. Then, just like that, Nora and Reinholt were dancing, a shuffling, stiff sort of polka. The plumber sat down, squeezing his wife’s hand.

  Wendy put her horn under her arm and clapped along to the song. Soon everyone in the church was keeping the beat, watching Nora and Reinholt dance. Then the song ended. Jonny turned to his father to reprise the last stanza, and launched back in for one more verse. Then, it was truly done.

  The grandparents stopped, hands on each other’s shoulders as if waiting for more. Reinholt blinked, spots of color in his cheeks. Nora dropped her arms, took Holti by the hand, and led him out of the church, solemn and joyful as the day they were married.

  ——

  Isabel had hoped to slip out before the congregation but got caught up in a crowd waiting for a busload of old people to shuffle, roll, and push walkers out the doors and down the steps. She had come to the polka mass with Dana and Kate out of boredom. When he heard the girls were going, Terry invited himself. Isabel was getting used to having him around, a nebbish her father would have called him. Last night she’d gone to the bar with him, and discovered his interests ran from carrion beetles to World of Warcraft. Hygiene, not so much.