by Renée Riva
“I’m not that young anymore. I’m turnin’ ten today. Didn’t you ever wonder about infinity when you were ten?”
“I thought I was the only one who thought about things like that at your age, ’til I talked to my grandma about it.”
“Your grandma? The one who died, you mean?” I was kind of afraid to ask, but I did.
“Yeah, she’s the one who helped explain it all to me.”
“How so?” I had to know.
“We were sittin’ out on her porch swing one night, lookin’ up at that sky, when I asked her the same thing you just asked. She said, ‘Danny, God didn’t give us minds to be able to understand everything. That’s part of the mystery. Now, you can drive yourself crazy tryin’ to understand somethin’ you were never meant to figure out down here, or you can just trust Him ’til He’s ready to let you in on it. ’Til then, just enjoy the mystery.’
“Then she told me, whenever I get scared about eternity, to just think of the most wonderful thing in the whole world, an’ know heaven will be even better than that.”
“So what do you think of?”
Danny looks at me with the most peaceful look I think I’ve ever seen on anybody. “The stars on a summer’s night,” he says, then looks up into that dark night sky.
After we find the Big Dipper, Danny says, “Hey, A. J., how would you like to see the stars from out on the water?”
“What? You mean swim out there?”
“No,” he says laughing, “the rowboat.” He points down the beach to the little dinghy pulled up onshore.
“You rowed here?”
“Sure did. So, what do you say?”
“S-sure, I’ve never looked at stars from a rowboat before.”
Once we’re all settled, with Sailor in his rightful place at the stern, me at the bow, and Danny in the middle, Danny asks, “Which way, A. J.?”
“Let’s just drift.”
So, we shove off with the oars, then lay them on the floorboards and “drift out to sea.” When we’re lookin’ at the Little Dipper, Danny says, “My grandma once told me that stars are just tiny windows into heaven.”
“You think your grandma’s up there with Jesus right now?”
“I know that’s where she is. I know it like I know my name.”
“How do you know that for sure?” I ask.
“Some things you just feel in your soul, an’ you know they’re so.”
We stay out driftin’ forever, it seems, just listenin’ to the silence. But in that silence, when I look up in that sky, I can hear the wonder of God louder than anything I’ve ever heard in all my life. Out on that dark lake, under those stars, somethin’ big is goin’ on. Somethin’ big, and mysterious, and holy.
And that’s where I turn ten.
8
Exposed
There is only one reason an entire family of seven would force themselves out of bed at the crack of dawn during the summer: Sunday-morning Mass. So, here we all are, piling out of our boat onto the main shore, and guess who pulls up alongside of us? The Oklahoma Fashion Squad from Bloomingdale’s … or so it seems, the way they all pour out onto the landing in their high heels, fancy hats, and shiny lipstick.
The Morgans have this old boat of Mr. Mueller’s that looks like a miniature tugboat. And here we are with our pink boat, dressed like we’re straight off the set of the Mickey Mouse Club. Someone needs to call a boat swap here.
I’m tryin’ to hide behind Mama so no one can see where I spilled my orange juice down the front of my culottes. I turn my head back to watch Danny and Jason tie up the tug, when my mama pulls a fast one on me. Sometimes I cannot believe that woman is my mother. She swoops on over to all those ladies and starts chattin’ up a storm. The next thing I know, she’s invited them all over after church for a potluck and challenged them to a bocce ball tournament.
What is this? The Catholics versus the Baptists? These Okies don’t stand a chance playin’ bocce ball against a bunch of Italians. For Pete’s sake—they probably don’t even have a clue what bocce ball is.
Turns out, they’d be “delight’d” to come. Then off they go, tippy-toein’ down the block to the Baptist church, right across the street from the Catholic church. Danny looks back and gives us a friendly nod. I wonder if there is anybody in the South who is not a Baptist. Don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a Southern Catholic before.
Our church service was better than usual today. Hardly anybody was lookin’ out the windows. The priest read from Psalm 19. The strangest thing, it sounded just like what was in my head that night I was lookin’ up at the stars and hearin’ the wonder of God:
The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.
Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.
There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.
Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.
Boy, don’t I know it.
After returnin’ home from church, I find Mama in the kitchen cookin’ up her favorite Italian dish, gnocchi, for the potluck. She just loves these little potato dumplins all smothered in sauce. She’s singin’ “O Sole Mio,” while she’s boilin’ up the pasta.
“What time is this shindig s’posed to start, Mama?”
“Around three o’clock. You’re planning to play bocce, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” I’m not real sure I want to take advantage of these nice folks.
“Of course you are. These are your kind of people, kiddo. You speak their language.”
Maybe, but it’s not very nice to whip the tar out of a bunch of Southerners who’ve never played bocce ball. I’m just not sure this is good sportsmanship.
“Hey, why don’t you go help your dad set up for the tournament?”
I’d rather play with my hamster, but I decide to go see if he wants any help. Bocce ball is an Italian lawn bowling game that Daddy grew up on. We have this dirt court all cleared out with sideboards for all the boundaries. There’s this little ball called the boccino, and the object is to get as many of your team’s balls as close to the boccino as you can. It takes years of practice to learn how to either roll your ball right up to that boccino or knock the other team’s ball away from it. I just hate the thought of humiliatin’ our comp’ny.
Three o’clock sharp, our competitors show up with armloads of food. Bowls filled to the brim with potato salad, Jell-O heaped with whipped cream, and fried chicken that makes my mouth water just lookin’ at it. Once all the food’s set out, I know which end of the table I’m sittin’ at. We all gather around, and Daddy leads us in grace. Jason grabs a seat right next to Adriana. Daddy ends up at the head by Mama. By the time Danny sits down, the only seat left is at the foot, catty-corner from me.
J. R.’s on the other side of Danny, so they start right up talkin’ about fishin’. That gives me the freedom to devour my potato salad and chicken without givin’ manners a second thought. I stop just short of lickin’ my fingers. Soon as I ask Danny to “please pass the Jell-O,” he starts talkin’ to me.
“Hey, found any star constellations yet with your new binoculars?” He talks to me like a real nice big brother would talk, not like mine talks to me.
“Nope. Don’t really look for the constellations much.” Please don’t ask me why.
“Why’s that?”
“Umm,” sigh. “Okay … last summer our Bluebird troop went on a weekend campout. We were all sleepin’ by the river under a sky full of stars, when Mandi Klowski started talkin’ about the Zodiac Killer. She said he follows the constellations, and whoever he finds sleepin’ right under the signs of the zodiac, he chops ’em all to bits.
“Well, bein’ that I was only a Bluebird, I wanted to go home. Instead, I was stuck out on this sandbar, sure that I was layin’ directly beneath those zodiac signs. Everyone else fell right to sleep, and there I was, jumpy as a baby jackrabbit, just waitin’ to get chop
ped up. All of a sudden, someone flung their arm across me in their sleep. I have never screamed so loud in my whole life. Woke up the entire Bluebird troop, as well as all the leaders. No one was very nice to me after that.
“So, the next day, I came home from camp and quit the Bluebirds. Mama told the Bluebird leaders that if she had wanted her eight-year-old daughter to hear stories like that, she would have sent me to Jack the Ripper Camp. She said she had expected something more from the Bluebirds of America and that they had better cut the killer stories before a lot more kids quit.
“That’s why I don’t like to look for the constellations. Just bad memories, I guess.”
Danny gives me an understanding nod. “Yeah, I can see what you mean. You should look for the Bear constellation sometime though; he’s not a part of the zodiac.”
“That’s a relief.”
Danny looks around the table, then leans over and whispers. “Looks like Jason and your sister have disappeared.”
He’s right. Everyone else seems to be talkin’ back ’n forth, but there is no Jason or Adriana anywhere in sight. “Oh brother, here she goes again.”
“Here she goes again … in what way?” Danny wants to know.
“Here she goes fallin’ in love again.”
“Man, I hope not.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because Jason already has a girl back home, and he’d better not be leadin’ your sister on.”
“Would he do that?”
“Sorry to say, he probably would, and it wouldn’t be the first time.” Danny has a sad, faraway look in his eyes. Then, as if talking to himself, he adds, “Like father, like son.”
My daddy gets up and announces the teams for bocce ball. To my surprise, he mixes us Italians in with the Okies, probably to give them a fightin’ chance. I feel good about that. My team has Danny, his mama, Aunt Charlotte, and me. Daddy’s team has Mama, J. R., Aunt Rebecca, and himself. No one under ten is allowed to play because of the weight of the balls, just in case they drop one on their toes. The twins get to keep score, and everyone else just wants to watch anyway.
Danny goes first. Darned if he doesn’t land his ball right next to that boccino. “How’d you do that your first time?” I ask him.
He looks over at me and smiles. “Bocce ball ain’t a whole lot different from horseshoes.”
Of course. I realize right then that these Okies might be more of a match than I thought they’d be. By the end of the second game we’re one and one. We all decide to go game three for the Grand Championship or, as Danny calls it, the Rubber Match.
We weren’t doin’ so hot at first, due to Aunt Charlotte’s goofy aimin’. But thanks to Danny, we’re right back on top by the final play of the game. It’s my turn to make the winning score. Here we are, all three of our balls positioned for points. This is like bases loaded in baseball. If I can get my ball to knock out their one solid, I can win this game with honors for my team. It will be like a grand slam.
I’m all charged up like I’m in the World Series. I line myself up and eye that little boccino ’til I have it etched in my mind. I close my eyes for a split second and play it all through in my head. Then I swing my arm back and hurl that ball like I’m pitchin’ for the New York Yankees.
I watch my ball hit the other ball all right. The wrong ball. It hits the boccino and knocks it clear out of range from our other three stripes, then butts it right up to their cluster of solids.
“Done like a true Italian,” J. R. announces to the crowd.
“No.” I cry. This can’t be. I’m horrified. I lost the game for my team. We lost the Grand Championship. We lost the Rubber Match. How can I face Danny? How can I face any of them? I can’t. I take off running.
I head for the woods like I’m runnin’ for my life. I run ’til I can’t breathe anymore, ’til I just fall on my knees at the edge of my cemetery. I want to dig a hole in the ground and bury myself next to everything else I’ve buried there. Then I hear a rustlin’ comin’ from the clearing where all of my animals are laid to rest. I brush back a tree bough.…
“Get ouuut!” I scream. “Get away from my animals. You’re stepping on them—all over them.” I’m shakin’ like a crazy person. “How dare you kiss in my cemetery.” I’m shovin’ and pushin’ them. They’re tramplin’ my sacred buried animals.
Jason tries to stop me. “Hey, settle down, kid.” He tries to take me by my shoulders.
“You …” I glare at him. I can barely get my words out. “You … jerk. You leave my sister alone. You don’t love her … now get OUT.”
Jason walks out of my cemetery, then turns and waits.
“Stop it, A. J.,” Adriana yells at me.
“And you … he doesn’t love you. You let them all kiss you … Why?” I sob.
Adriana sneers at me. “You say anything about this, A. J., and Mom and Dad will hear all about your stinky little rodent hiding in the shed.” Then she turns and walks away with him, leaving me all alone.
I lie down on the ground, right there by my dead animals, and cry. I cry about makin’ a fool of myself at bocce ball. I cry for my sister and for believing it should all mean more. And, I cry that I’m not nine years old anymore. The best year of my life is over.
9
Mama’s Pink Villa
My Aunt Genevieve called Mama to try and arrange a family reunion in Tuscany at some ancient villa in the middle of a grape field. Mama told her that it wasn’t in a park ranger’s salary for a family of seven to tootle off to Italy to frolic through a vineyard. Daddy told Mama that he didn’t need to travel halfway around the world to be tortured by more of her relatives, when he got all he needed right here with Grandma Juliana. But he warned Mama never to invite them to our island either. He said the last thing he needed was to be the brunt of all of Uncle Nick’s jokes in his only place of refuge. The last time we went to their house, for Uncle Nick’s mandatory fortieth surprise party, he introduced Daddy to all of their friends as the Indian Lake Trailer Park Ranger, instead of State Park Ranger.
Daddy told Uncle Nick that he has a few friends in the Mafia he’d like to introduce him to, if he keeps introducing him that way.
Another thing that drives Daddy crazy is listenin’ to Uncle Nick say, “There’s nothing money can’t buy.” Daddy says he can think of two things it hasn’t bought Uncle Nick and Aunt Genevieve: class and tactfulness, and in Uncle Nick’s case, it would be nice if it could just buy a muzzle.
The tough part for Daddy is that Uncle Nick is … well, family. When Uncle Nick married Mama’s sister, he was instantly propelled into “The Family Dynasty,” which connects you for life to everyone else in The Dynasty. It also commits you to a whole set of rules and obligations that only Mama’s family knows about. That’s why when Mama says we are spendin’ a weekend with the Sophronia cousins, you just nod and pack your bags. It’s not a suggestion open for discussion. And that’s how Mama got Daddy to agree to hook up with the cousins for a weekend at the Potholes in Eastern Washington. There’s somethin’ mandatory in The Dynasty Rule Book about seein’ your relatives at least once a year, and our time for this year is up.
Daddy loved to go to the Potholes as a boy, so Mama figured she could at least offer that as a consolation prize for him havin’ to go along with the plan. And that’s where we’re headin’ for the weekend, so Mama can see her sister, while the rest of us “serve our time,” as Daddy puts it.
Daddy says the Potholes are these gigantic sand dunes that rise up out of the reservoir, like little sand islands. Each mornin’, you launch your boat out on the reservoir and make a mad dash to pick out your own island for the day. Once you stake your umbrella in the sand, it’s like sayin’, “This is our island; go find your own.” Usually, you get the island all to yourself, but sometimes, if you find a big island, you might end up with only half of it. After you’ve marked your territory, you unload your boatload of food and coolers, then you go water-skiin’, swimmin’, and inner-tubin’ ’ti
l the sun goes down. Then you pull your boat back to the motel and launch it again the next day.
This mornin’ I snuck out to the shed and loaded Ruby up with a weekend’s supply of food and a peanut butter cracker. She wasn’t real happy about gettin’ woke up when she had just gone to bed for the day. She looked awful—like my Grandma Juliana looks in the mornin’ when her eyes are all squinty. She must’ve had quite a night last night. I wish I could clock her wheel for mileage; I have a feelin’ she runs about five miles at a sprint. I’d hate to get woke up after a night like that too, but it was the only time I could say good-bye before appearin’ for duty on the dock at o-seven-hundred to help load everything into the boat. If you’re late for that, you automatically get stuck with the worst seat in the car for the trip.
At exactly o-seven-hundred sharp, Daddy had us all line up in an assembly line to toss in the inner tubes, skis, fishin’ poles, coolers, tons of pop, chips, beach towels, you name it, everything went in the boat except us kids and the dog. Actually, we went in too, until we got to the mainland. Then we hooked the boat up to the hitch and piled into the station wagon for the long, hot road trip to Eastern Washington. We drew straws to see who’d get the front seat with Mama and Daddy, the window seats, and the way back with Sailor. The loser got stuck in the middle of everybody else. Guess who lost? Thank you very much.
We started out pretty happy, but once we were on the road for about an hour, we’d all had enough of Twenty Questions, and counting peanut cars, and findin’ the letters of the alphabet in all the road signs and license plates. That was just about the time Dino decided to asked the forbidden question: “Are we there yet?” It’s things like this I look forward to most, if for no other reason than it helps to break up the monotony, and you never know what’s gonna happen, because no one has had the guts, until now, to ask that question.
Once the words spill out of Dino’s mouth, Daddy pulls right over on the side of the road. He warned us from the get-go that if we started to whine, fight, or ask, “Are we there yet?” he would pull over and put us all in the boat for the duration of the trip. I am so excited because I would really love to ride in the boat, especially if Dino’s the one who gets in trouble for askin’ and not me.