H is for Happiness

by Barry Jonsberg

  I didn’t think I had been vague, but obviously I needed to explain.

  ‘I’ve made dinner,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we could eat it.’

  ‘But I’ve eaten. Spaghetti and meatballs. I left a covered plate for you in the microwave.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll put it in the fridge. Or maybe the bin. The food, not the microwave. Then you’ll eat my food.’

  ‘Why?’

  The way this conversation was going, we’d be here at eleven o’clock with the jambalaya a blackened mess stuck to the bottom of the pan. I decided I would have to confide in him.

  ‘I’ve cooked a special meal for Mum,’ I said. ‘To cheer her up. I bought all the ingredients and spent three hours cooking her favourite dish.’ [I exaggerated slightly, but the situation called for it.] ‘I thought it would be nice if, for once, we ate together as a family. Please, Dad? Your computer isn’t going anywhere.’ As opposed to this family, which is disappearing down the toilet, I thought. I was going to keep this to myself, but then reconsidered. ‘As opposed to this family, which is disappearing down the toilet,’ I added.

  ‘Your Mum’s in bed,’ said Dad. ‘Does she know about this?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I replied.

  ‘Not exactly?’

  ‘Well, not even not approximately,’ I confessed. ‘She has no idea. But I’m just about to wake her. It would be helpful if I could say we are both waiting around the dinner table.’

  ‘We have a dinner table?’

  ‘It is square, made of wood and has chairs around it.’

  Dad pretended to think things over, but we both knew he didn’t have a choice. He sighed, clicked something on his computer and put the headphones on the desk. He got to his feet with the air of someone wearied by life and burdened by worries. Dad is tall, thin and permanently stooped, probably from spending his entire life leaning forward and peering at a computer screen. If he had a hooked nose he’d look exactly like a vulture, but he doesn’t, so he doesn’t.

  ‘I hope you can wake your Mum,’ he said. ‘She’s been very tired recently.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘Now, if you could just put this string of onions around your neck …’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘No need to apologise.’

  ‘A string of onions?’

  ‘Yes. And this beret, preferably at a jaunty angle. Plus, it would be helpful if you could manage the majority of the dinner conversation in French.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There you go again. Here is a list of French phrases, with indications of correct pronunciation. This should help you deal with most topics of conversation. Of course, it goes without saying that these should be accompanied with shrugs of the shoulder and the occasional “Sacrebleu”.’

  Dad seemed on the verge of making a remark [possibly to apologise once more], but thought better of it. He put the string of onions round his neck [do you have any idea how difficult it is to thread onions together?] and glanced at the list I’d prepared at lunchtime with the help of the library English–French dictionary. I’d enjoyed that dictionary. It wasn’t as easy to understand as the English one, but much more romantic. Dad loped off to sit at the dinner table. I stirred the jambalaya, put the stereo on low and knocked on Mum’s bedroom door.

  It took time to rouse her, but eventually she sat up in bed with tousled hair and a matching expression.

  ‘What is it, Pumpkin?’ she said.

  ‘Il est dinner-time, je pense,’ I replied. I’d looked up the French for ‘dinner’, but had forgotten it. [‘Déjeuner’? Or was that lunch?] I had to accept that fluent French was beyond Dad and Mum and me, and that the occasional English word would have to substitute.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she replied.

  I had never received so many apologies in such a short time.

  ‘I’ve made dinner,’ I said. ‘Dad is sitting at the table and all we need is you. I cooked jambalaya. Votre favourite.’ I strung out the last syllable of ‘favourite’ so it would sound French, but I think it came out more like Mexican.

  Mum, obviously puzzled, swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. It was not formal wear, but I wasn’t going to push my luck. I decided against giving her a beret on the grounds that there would be a clash of styles. She put a hand against her eyes and shuffled out the door.

  Dad cut a dashing figure with his string of onions and the beret. Mum took one look at him and stifled a laugh.

  ‘What is going on?’ she asked.

  ‘A French-themed déjeuner,’ I said, putting on my own beret and necklace of onions. Actually, they were incredibly powerful. The onions, not the berets. I worried that Dad and I would spend the evening crying softly into our jambalaya, but it was worth the risk. I lit candles and turned up the volume on the stereo. A plaintive saxophone swirled through the air. Well, actually it didn’t. That could only happen in a Harry Potter movie. The sound of a plaintive saxophone swirled through the air.

  ‘What have you done to your hands?’ asked Mum.

  ‘The latest in oven gloves,’ I replied. I opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass for Mum and Dad. I’d found the wine at the back of the fridge. Once upon a time my parents would sit in the back garden and share a bottle. That was so long ago I wasn’t sure it was a genuine memory. I worried the wine might be off. I had an image of Mum and Dad kneeling side by side and retching down the same toilet, but then I thought if anything was going to do that it would be my cooking.

  ‘But before we eat,’ I said, ‘voulez-vous dance avec moi, Papa?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Dad.

  ‘That has been established. Would you like to dance with me?’

  ‘I can’t dance,’ he said with the conviction of a career computer geek.

  ‘Then now is the time to learn.’ I stood and held out my arms. Mum giggled. For a moment I couldn’t place the sound because it was so unfamiliar. I hadn’t heard her laugh for years. Dad got to his feet. Even he was smiling. He took my arms and we shuffled around the floor for a minute. My head was buried in his stomach. In a world’s worst dancer competition, it would have been a close run thing whether he or I would have scored first place. Four left feet moved without any idea of timing.

  ‘Giant steps, Dad?’ I asked.

  He groaned. When I was little I used to stand on his feet and he’d lurch around while I screamed with laughter. I was heavier now, but I’m not what you would call a porker. I slipped off my shoes, stood on his insteps and we swayed drunkenly around the dining room. At least we had reduced the left feet by fifty percent. Mum laughed and clapped as the song finished and we juddered to a halt.

  ‘Merci bien,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Dad.

  ‘Papa! Parle Francais!’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He dug the piece of paper I gave him out of his pocket and looked it over. His brow scrunched up in concentration.

  ‘Votre grenouille a mangé mon déjeuner,’ he said.

  ‘Bien sur,’ I replied.

  ‘What does that mean anyway?’ Dad said.

  ‘“Your frog has eaten my dinner.” Or it might be lunch. A useful phrase, I’m sure you will agree.’

  Mum’s giggles increased to the extent that she was choking. I turned towards her, but she waved me away with a hand.

  ‘Enough,’ I said. ‘It is time for dinner. Asseyez, s’il vous plait.’ To assist them with comprehension, I sat at the table and indicated they should do the same.

  The jambalaya looked like the recent contents of the bucket on Rich Uncle Brian’s yacht. It didn’t smell quite as bad, however, so I served it up. I placed brimming plates in front of Mum and Dad with what I hoped was panache [another French word!]. Dad gazed at the food as if confronted with roadkill. He poked the jambalaya with a fork, possibly to establish if it was still alive.

  ‘What’s in it, Candice?’ he asked.

  ‘Chicken, smoked sausage, onions, capsicums,
tomatoes, prawns, chicken stock and rice,’ I replied. ‘Though not necessarily in that order.’

  ‘You didn’t peel the prawns before cooking them?’

  ‘The recipe said to de-vein them, but I am not skilled at micro-cosmetic surgery, so I didn’t. Should they be peeled?’

  ‘It’s lovely, Pumpkin,’ said Mum. She took a mouthful and chewed slowly. One of her veins stood out on her forehead. ‘Such an unusual taste! Where’s your plate?’

  ‘After all that cooking, I’m not hungry,’ I said.

  I think Dad mumbled something about ‘wise’, but I could be mistaken. I put another jazz CD on the player and watched them eat. It was strange, but when they finished there seemed to be more on their plates than I’d served in the first place.

  ‘Delicious,’ said Mum.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Dad.

  ‘What made you choose this dish, Pumpkin?’ asked Mum.

  ‘New Orleans,’ I said. ‘I remembered you said you wanted to see it before you died. The jazz, the French Quarter, the jambalaya and the gumbo, the saxophones on street corners. Do you remember?’

  Mum’s eyes clouded and a smile played around her lips.

  ‘I’d almost forgotten,’ she said. ‘Yes. The dreams. The dreams I had when I was young.’

  ‘It wasn’t when you were young,’ I replied. ‘It was only a few years back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘they don’t have to remain dreams.’

  ‘You are kind, Pumpkin,’ said Mum. ‘And I am very proud of you. Thank you.’

  ‘French,’ I said.

  ‘Merci,’ she said.

  I washed the dishes, and when I came back into the dining room, I discovered a small miracle. Mum and Dad were dancing. He had his arms around her waist and they swayed gently to a slow rhythm. Her head was pressed against his chest. Their eyes were closed, but their lips were smiling. I watched for a few moments and then Mum opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Her eyes were smiling as well.

  Dear Denille,

  I have learned a lesson.

  I learned it from Miss Bamford, my English teacher, which, on the face of it, is not surprising. But I am not talking about spelling, punctuation and grammatical structure. I am talking about language, laughter and life. Let me tell you what happened…

  Actually, I won’t, if it’s all the same to you. I have just written it down for an English assignment and I am tired and can’t face repeating myself. So I’ll cut to the chase (you won’t need reminding that I am making considerable efforts with American idioms). I made people laugh today and it was wonderful. I didn’t intend to. In fact, it wasn’t part of my thinking at all. All I wanted was to make the people in my life a little happier, but for some reason they found my actions funny.

  I am NOT, Denille, a funny person by nature.

  I cannot tell jokes.

  I would not win any talent contests for humour. Actually, I wouldn’t win any talent contests for anything.

  Let me give you an example of how my mind works when it comes to humour. Miss Bamford, my English teacher, she of the independently gyrating eyeball, once quoted something to my class. We were doing silent reading and had to bring along our own books (I brought my dictionary) and she said that someone (an American, I believe) had remarked that ‘outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside a dog, it’s too dark to read.’ She laughed in an uproarious fashion. I understood how the joke operates (it’s the two meanings of the word ‘outside’ – literally on the outside of something and ‘apart from’ or ‘excluding’). But some things about the joke bothered me. I would have put my hand up to ask her, but that would have taken too long, so I did what I always do under these circumstances. I ripped out a sheet of paper and began to write.

  Dear Miss Bamford, I understand the joke and think it is a clever play on words, but I have a few questions. How did someone get inside a dog in the first place? It seems a physical impossibility. Furthermore, if one accepts that it is possible (which I doubt) then the circumstances of the ingestion would be important. Was the person intending to enter the dog or was it against that person’s will? If the latter, then it is unlikely that the person would a) be carrying a book and b) have the composure to read once he or she was inside the dog (presumably within the stomach)? Even I, who loves reading, would be looking for escape, rather than curling up for a good read. If, on the other hand, the person entered the dog willingly, book in hand, then we would reasonably expect them to have the foresight to be carrying a torch or one of those battery-operated lights that clip on the page.

  I know you will accuse me of being too literal, but I can’t stop questions from entering my mind where they worry away at me until answered satisfactorily.

  Yours,

  Candice Phee

  Of course, she only laughed when she read it.

  I digress, but only slightly.

  You see, it appears I can make people laugh without intending to. I gave my teacher an eye patch to solve the out-of-control eyeball problem. She laughed. I tried to recreate New Orleans in our dining room for my mother. She laughed. Laughter is good. Laughter is wonderful. I often don’t understand where it comes from, but I like the effect it produces.

  My family does not have enough laughter in it. All the laughter evaporated when my sister died.

  Anyway, I don’t know how I make people laugh, but I want to continue doing it.

  The thing is, although laughter might be the best medicine, it cannot cure the cancer that took my mother’s breasts, it cannot cure sudden infant death syndrome, it cannot cure depression and it cannot cure the bitterness within two brothers’ hearts. It cannot move us back in time to when all was well.

  I don’t know how to do these things, but I know I must try. The laughter will be a bonus.

  There is another problem that has been weighing heavily with me recently and it concerns another friend I have already referred to. Earth-Pig Fish. You may remember that, in a previous letter, I told you my concerns regarding her religious temperament and how she might regard me as a deity on account of my occasional seemingly mystical appearances where wonders are performed (like fish food on the surface of the water – a sort of fishy manna). I do not want to be a god to Earth-Pig Fish. I want to be her friend. What if she is praying to me to grant her immortality? I cannot do that (mind you, neither can God, apparently, but I’d feel guilty, whereas He, it seems, doesn’t). What if she believes that if she does die, she will be brought, in a fanfare of heavenly trumpets, to my bosom and live in eternal bliss when in actual fact she’s almost certainly destined to be flushed down the toilet? I want Earth-Pig Fish to become an atheist.

  I do not know how to do this.

  It occurs to me I could remove myself from her consciousness by wrapping her bowl in black plastic, but this would also condemn her to darkness (and would she then interpret that as a form of Hell for sins unknowingly committed?) So I have been considering developing an automatic feeding system whereby her granules are dispensed daily but without human involvement. I am not mechanically minded, but I suspect Douglas Benson From Another Dimension, who is a scientist, might help. Of course, this raises another problem. How can I be her friend if she doesn’t know I exist? Maybe I could be her friend regardless – invisible, but doing the right thing by her, looking out for her from a distance, catering for her every need and ensuring her world is comfortable and secure.

  The trouble is, that sounds like I am setting myself up as a god, which brings me full circle.

  Americans know about religion, I have been assured, so I welcome your theological insights.

  Your penpal,

  Candice

  Today is Friday, 14 June.

  I will be thirteen on Sunday. I am looking forward to that. Twelve seems very young, whereas thirteen carries with it the implication that you have completed your apprenticeship as a child and can do teenagery-type things without appearing a fraud. Not
that I think I will be able to do teenagery-type things.

  Jen Marshall can.

  Remember Jen Marshall? [see ‘A Is For Assignment’].

  She has a tattoo.

  She has a pierced belly button.

  She has eye make-up.

  She has love bites.

  She has in-your-face boobs.

  She has an iPhone in one hand and an iPod in the other.

  She is permanently bored.

  It is rumoured she drinks a lot of cider.

  All the girls in my class want to be just like her.

  I, meanwhile, have a flat chest and a pernickety pencil case.

  Not only does no one want to be just like me, no one wants to be anything like me. And who can blame them?

  A few years ago, I used to dread my birthday. Mum and Dad would go to considerable effort to make it a happy occasion. There would be streamers around the house and a cake with candles. Nicely wrapped presents. But there were always two dark and brooding clouds looming over us. One was Rich Uncle Brian, even though he doesn’t look much like a cloud, dark, brooding or otherwise. Mum and Dad never had much money, but they would buy lovely gifts for my birthday – pens, dictionaries, sensible shoes, fluffy socks. I did enjoy unwrapping them. Rich Uncle Brian has loads of money and bought me an expensive sound system [that I never used] or a plasma TV [that I never plugged in] or glittering jewellery [that I never wore]. Dad would gaze from his present [nice gel pens] to Rich Uncle Brian’s present [a limited edition solid gold Cartier fountain pen] and his face would sag, like he was carrying two kilos of potatoes in it. He’d smile, but it came out crooked. Within minutes, he would wander back to his shed, muttering darkly. My birthday would effectively be over. Two years ago, however, I took Rich Uncle Brian to one side and we had a frank conversation.

  ‘I do not want you to buy me any more birthday presents, Rich Uncle Brian.’

  His face sagged. That probably wasn’t his fault. There must be a dominant gene responsible for face-sagging that runs in the male line of the family.

  ‘Why ever not, Pumpkin?’