by Jen Violi
“Don’t worry. She’ll be here.” Leaf flips back one of her two long mousy braids. Leaf, like Dr. Roger, is a nifty fifty, and this is her first Players show. Last fall, her husband left her after thirty years of marriage. Last fall also marks when she moved to Dayton, started tie-dyeing most of her clothes, and changed her name to Leaf because she “turned over a new one.” Leaf e-mails the other Players “Cutest Puppies” slide shows accompanied by quotes with dubious attribution to the Dalai Lama. Leaf makes me nervous.
Perched on a chair downstage right is ninety-two-year-old Keenie, a tiny wrinkly fairy princess with short silver hair and a pixie nose. She waves. “Hiya, sweet thing.”
I wave back.
“Thank Jesus God,” Dr. Roger says, and I turn to see seventy-two-year-old Linda sauntering into the gym with a bag from Milano’s. Linda owns heels in eight different shades of red—tonight’s are fuchsia—and always smells vaguely of liquor and brisket.
Linda’s blond hair, a hue she’s told me is Sunflower Cascade, looks like hay. Her red lipstick is cracked, as usual, and her false teeth are perfectly aligned. She sets the Milano’s bag down on the stage, and Dr. Roger leaves Leaf and Father Bill to finish the chairs. “I’m ready for my Italian special,” Dr. Roger says.
“I’ll just bet you are,” Linda says, and laughs her hacking laugh.
“Please,” Keenie says. “I’d like to keep my appetite.”
True to form, the Players almost help me forget to miss Dad, almost forget that someone has to figure out how to tell Mom I’m applying to mortuary school. I got my acceptance letter to UD a month ago, and Mom seemed thrilled to pieces that I was following in my brother’s footsteps, that I’d be close to home, that UD is a Catholic school. I know she’s not going to be happy about this new choice, and the dread of telling her already circles like a shark in my stomach. Unfortunately, how to do this is a mystery even Father Will can’t solve for me. I’m going to have to do it myself.
By seven thirty, we’re all ready to go, standing in a circle, holding hands, and praying to Saint Genesius and Saint Cecilia, respectively in charge of acting and singing. Father Bill beams at us. “You all break a leg. Especially you, Father Will.”
Richie sets his lips in a serious line. “I will do my very best.”
“We know you will, honey,” Linda says, although I think she secretly likes being one of the bank robbers and shoving Richie to the ground at the end of Act One.
At exactly eight o’clock, the curtain goes up, and we’re off. As I open the bank for the day, looking out the imaginary front window downstage, I find my family in the second row—Uncle Lou, Aunt Irene, Mom, B, and Linnie, who has removed the beret. And next to Linnie is Liz. She’s wearing a high-collared, short-sleeved shirt that looks silky and exotic, even from a distance. Her hair is swirled up elegantly on top of her head, held in place by what looks like two sticks, and she still manages to look cooler than anyone in her vicinity. I can’t believe she came, and I do my best to not think about it too much. It’s stressful enough that my family is here.
During the robbery, Dr. Roger, wearing a ski mask and, of course, his fedora, yells, “Don’t make any funny moves, and we’ll all get through this.” His shouting smells like his sandwich, passionate with ham and onion. And he gets so into the yelling that through the tiny mouth hole in his ski mask, a spray of spit arcs up and lands in my eye. Dr. Roger’s oniony saliva actually stings and makes my eyes water, which makes it seem like I’m so scared, I’m crying.
Offstage, after the scene, Richie says, “Oh my God, that was so realistic.”
I almost tell him what really happened, but instead I shrug, and he whispers a quick and meaningful, “Bravo, bravo.”
Keenie, as usual, is the best one of us all, stealing the last scene from Richie as she chides the bank robbers to go back to church and treat their mothers nicely.
After the show, my family clusters together near their seats, except for B, who of course found a brand-new friend in the audience to chat with. And Liz and Mom are also talking again like old friends. Uncle Lou scans the gym and keeps yanking at the lapels of his red-checkered suit jacket. He looks more like Dad than ever. Uncle Lou once told me that people used to ask if he and Dad were twins, growing up. “No way,” Uncle Lou would say, offended. “I’m older than that little shit.” While Dad was still alive, Uncle Lou called him his little brother. Or “that little shit.”
Aunt Irene stands about six inches taller than Uncle Lou, and always wears her salt-and-pepper hair in a bun. She looks a little like someone’s parole officer, which I guess is how I might look if I were married to Uncle Lou. Now Aunt Irene sees me walking toward them, and waves. “Nice job, honey!”
Uncle Lou shakes his head. “Well, that was a real piece of work.” Aunt Irene slaps his arm with her program, and Uncle Lou adds, “Oh, and happy birthday, kid.”
“It’s actually next week,” Mom says. “Saturday, remember?”
Aunt Irene swats Uncle Lou again. “Yeah, remember you said you’re taking her to lunch on Sunday? Jesus, Lou, get your head out of your ass.”
“Why don’t you get your head out of my ass?”
Aunt Irene pulls a pack of menthols out of her purse. “I’m going outside.”
“Can I come with you, Aunt Irene?” Linnie asks. Aunt Irene doesn’t respond, but Linnie follows anyway.
“Good riddance,” Uncle Lou says, and rolls his sharp blue eyes. Dad used to say how some Dago ended up with blue eyes was beyond him. Uncle Lou would respond, “Hey, I’m just like Sinatra,” and sing “My Way” until a vein popped out of the edge of his round bald scalp and zigzagged like a lightning bolt down his forehead. Our very own geriatric Harry Potter.
Mom, who looks somehow different than she did earlier, squeezes my hand, and I realize what’s different: her curly hair is now piled on top of her head, secured, interestingly enough, with two pencils. She and Liz look like twins.
I look from Liz to Mom. “What happened to your heads?”
“Liz did mine at intermission,” Mom says. “Our hair texture is the same.” They share a look and smile.
“What do you think?” Liz asks.
I am disturbed, but I have to admit that it looks good—on both of them. “It works.”
Liz smiles. “And you were great.”
“You don’t have to lie. It was kind of ridiculous.”
“Of course it’s ridiculous, but it’s fun,” Liz says. “And I think it’s really brave.”
I decide I’d like to have Liz follow me around everywhere.
Once we round up Aunt Irene and Linnie and B, we all go for ice cream, and Liz comes with us. Of course Aunt Irene and Uncle Lou like her just as much as everyone else. After Liz drives away, when we’re all saying good-bye in the parking lot of the Tasty Twist, Aunt Irene says, “That girl’s a real spitfire.”
I laugh. “Does that mean she’s like a dragon?”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it.” Aunt Irene often looks at me like Mom does, like I’m speaking another language that sounds like English, but isn’t quite discern-able. And at moments like these, I wonder if I should just stop talking entirely.
For a second, I get a little jealous. I don’t seem to make anyone light up the way Liz does. I’ve known all these people for years: shouldn’t I have figured out how to do that by now? Watching Liz work her magic almost feels like a reminder that I’m somehow damaged goods. If Dad hadn’t died, would I be more normal, friendly, interesting, a better conversationalist? Maybe I’d be more like Liz. My dragon friend.
Uncle Lou says, “Let’s hit the road,” and we all hug good-bye.
Looking out the window of the backseat on the drive home, I notice the shadows the streetlights cast on the dark lawns and sidewalks. I decide I like the idea of Liz as a dragon. One of my favorite storybooks was about good-luck dragons, how their arrival always means that something wonderful lies ahead. If that’s true, then, as far as I’m concerned, Liz can spit as much fire as sh
e wants. And if I stand near enough to it, maybe I’ll glow a little, too.
four
Sunday night, B drives back to his house on the UD campus. He lives with five other engineering guys, and even though that sounds pretty rotten to me, I’m guessing he’s glad to get away from our house and boring family things like my play. Or maybe just from his boring family members like me. We didn’t get to talk, not really, all weekend. Yesterday he helped Mom dig her vegetable garden all day, then he helped Linnie with her math homework, and after that it was time for him to go.
On Monday morning, I push my scrambled eggs around my plate and wonder how I’m going to break my mortician news to Mom.
Mom points to my food. “Are you not feeling well?”
“Just not hungry.”
“You should eat something.”
“I know. Breakfast is the most important meal of everyone’s life.”
“Hey,” Mom says, “it’s not like I’m slipping you arsenic to start the day. I just want you nourished.”
“I know. Sorry. Maybe I’m worried about our Spanish quiz.”
“Honey, you’re good at Spanish. You’ll be fine.”
On my way out the door to catch the bus, Mom calls, “Oh, and please tell Liz I said hi. You’re welcome to bring her over any time.”
“Okay I will,” I say, even though I won’t.
The weekend is over, and I’m wondering if it actually all happened, if Liz and I are really friends now. But she smiles when she sees me in homeroom.
Liz has lunch at our corner table on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, and it’s the most fun I’ve had at lunch here, well, ever. Until Thursday, when Becky smiles and grabs my arm. “Guess what? I got accepted to UD, too. Maybe we can be roommates!”
“Yeah, maybe.” I wonder when everyone will find out that I have other plans, and I’m hoping I’m not going to be there when it happens. Up until now it’s been easy enough to say I’m going to UD, even if I had no idea what that meant. Even if I didn’t care. Now, though, I’m not used to caring, and it makes me nervous. I fold my arms over my chest and slide a few inches away from Becky.
Patty makes a gagging sound and sticks her tongue out. “Don’t you guys want to get out of town? Why would you go to school here? It’s Dayton, for God’s sake. The most boring place on earth. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Erin—I mean Mom—says Dayton is actually a healing energy center,” Charlie says. “That’s why they had the Peace Talks here and stuff. So maybe it’s not such a bad place to be.”
“I’ve heard that too. And aren’t you going to school in Cleveland?” Liz asks Patty. “I heard on NPR that they officially christened it the armpit of America, which sounds so much better than Dayton.”
“What do you know?” Patty asks. “Have you even been accepted anywhere yet?”
“Actually, NYU and Carnegie Mellon.”
Patty hesitates to respond, like she’s deciding if it’s worth it to keep fighting Liz, since it turns out Liz might actually be the coolest person at the table. “Really?” Patty finally says. “Congratulations.”
Liz raises one eyebrow and stares at Patty. “Thanks,” she says slowly. What’s even stranger is that then they start talking about New York, where Patty’s always wanted to live and where Liz, of course, has visited many times. They talk through the rest of lunch, and it seems like Liz has worked her magic again, now describing her plans to travel the world and be a famous journalist. And I wonder if that’s it for me. Now Liz and Patty will be best friends. Maybe they can hang out with Mom.
While I pretend to read my history book and not watch Patty and Liz talk about the East Village, I hear Charlie say, “Hey, what do you think about living in Dayton?”
I turn and realize he’s talking to me. “Um, I don’t know.” I think about how much it seems to rain, how downtown rests under a perpetual coat of dingy, like it could use a fresh coat of paint. It’s not shiny like how New York City looks on TV, that’s for sure. But I also think about my favorite Sunday breakfast spot, the Golden Nugget, where Dad used to always take us after church. About summer picnics at John Bryan State Park or Wegerzyn Gardens and Dayton Playhouse shows—Dad loved those. Maybe he would have loved Players’ shows too. “I don’t know. It’s familiar.”
“Familiar’s not a bad thing.” Charlie smiles at me, which makes me remember what Liz said on Friday. There’s a softness in his eyes, like he sees something beautiful in me. And I don’t have the faintest idea what to do with that. He takes a drink out of the stainless-steel mug he uses for all beverages so as to reduce waste, and I find myself watching where the mug touches his lips.
I start to smile back, but suddenly worry I have something in my teeth, so I do this sort of half smile without opening my mouth that must make me look like a total idiot. Stop being ridiculous, Donna. No one likes anyone. We’re just talking about Dayton, for God’s sake. Say something. Ask a question already. “So where are you going?”
“Actually, I’m thinking UD. I just got accepted, and they have a new environmental studies program. With whole classes about making silverware out of potatoes.” Charlie smirks. “I can carve you your own set if you want.”
I force myself to have what feels like the most awkward conversation of my life with Charlie, and I don’t get to talk with Liz at all, which doesn’t seem to matter since she and Patty are so busy chatting. It’s easier, I decide, not to talk, not to want anyone to talk with me.
At the end of lunch, Liz asks if I can come over to her house after school, and I’m so relieved she still wants to talk to me that I almost hug her. “I have a present for you,” she says.
Liz’s basement has a fireplace, a big shaggy rug, and a wooden bar in the corner with a sink and everything. It’s hard to know where to look first. All over the walls are pictures of her parents in these exquisite costumes—silvers and golds and rich burgundies and indigos—on elaborate stages with sparkly sets, which are a far cry from the painted bedsheet backdrops the Players use. Written below each of the photographs is a tantalizing location—Amsterdam, Paris, Naples, Rio de Janeiro.
Next to the fireplace stands a wrought-iron statue with a number of arms. Liz tells me it’s Shiva, Hindu god of creation and destruction. She likes the symbolism of his fireplace proximity. I’d like to see him juggle bowling pins. The basement also has big sliding-glass doors that open onto a back patio with umbrella tables and a hot tub, which makes me a little envious.
I call home to make sure Mom doesn’t worry about where I am, but no one answers. Instead the voice mail picks up, and it’s Dad’s voice, in his fake almost-British accent. “You’ve reached the Parisis—Brendan, Donna, Linnie, Martha, and Nicky. If you leave a message with our answering service, we’ll be sure to ring you back. Ta, ta.” No matter how many times I listen to it, hearing Dad’s voice makes something hopeful lift in me, some kind of outrageous notion that he’s still here. But then I lose equilibrium as the thought falls quickly away, like riding the Drop Tower at Kings Island. I leave a quick message and hang up, staring for a minute at Liz’s hot tub to catch my breath.
We all used to get excited to change the message every few months and make Dad use a different accent and say something else. Since he died, it’s stayed the same. That first year, I called all the time when I knew no one was home, just to hear Dad say my name. Once, when B asked Mom if she wanted to change it, she replied with an emphatic “No.” One time last fall, when Aunt Irene and Uncle Lou were over for dinner, I overheard Uncle Lou bring it up with Mom, and she said, “It’s my voice mail, and I’ll decide what to do with it.” I wonder if she calls to hear his voice, too.
I join Liz on the shaggy rug and sit cross-legged, examining the package she hands to me. I squeeze it and crinkle the white tissue paper, feeling the bulky and pointy parts. I smile at Liz.
“Open it, already,” she says.
I untie the thin red ribbon and pull apart the tissue paper concealing a twelve-inch p
lastic skeleton mounted on a silver rod and stand.
“Well, do you like it?”
I stop smiling long enough to say, “Perfect,” and, “I think I’ll call him Maurice.”
Liz nods. “Yeah, he looks like a Maurice.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“ ‘Thank you’?”
“Oh, yeah, thank you.”
“Happy funeral home,” she says.
I run my fingertip over Maurice’s smooth skull and tap my fingernail against it. Click. Click. “Hey, um, you and Patty seemed to be getting along today.”
“Her bark is worse than her bite.” Liz leans back on her hands and pulls at the carpet. “She’s not so bad when she’s not worried about what everyone else thinks.” I’d never thought about Patty as anything other than the Evil Twin. I guess Patty worries too, like me.
Liz shrugs. “But I guess everyone can’t be like us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We know who we are.”
I want to say, We do? Then tell me, who am I? But instead I pick up Maurice by his base and watch his arm and leg bones swing at the joints. “Yeah.”
On Friday, Liz tells me she’s going for a long weekend trip to Pittsburgh to visit CMU with her parents, since seniors have Monday off as a college prep day. “I’d ask you to come,” she says, “but I know you’ve got birthday plans with your family.”
“I could cancel them.”
“I don’t think your mom would like that.”
“It’s my birthday,” I say. “But you’re right.”
After school, I say a quick hi to Mom and tell her I’m going to my room to take a nap and do some studying, which I hope she knows means, leave me alone. I really just want to start working on my application.
“Dinner at six. So be up by then. Are you feeling all right?”
“Yep,” I say. “I’ll see you for dinner.”
In the basement, I read the catalog again and imagine myself using paintbrushes in restorative art. Maybe restoring bodies is like restoring frescoes from the Renaissance, uncovering some kind of beauty. Understanding Grief sounds interesting, and Cemetery Issues sounds good too.