Born Under a Lucky Moon (35 page)

I looked around at my exhausted sisters with a sudden clutching of my heart. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all of those horrible things.”

“No, what you shouldn't have done”—Elizabeth stroked my hair—“is make a woman who is seven months pregnant walk three miles in twenty-degree weather.”

My hands flew to my mouth. How could I have been so stupid and selfish?

“Lizzie, don't torment her,” Sammie said. “We didn't walk at all. We found the car keys pretty much right away.”

“Thanks to me,” Elizabeth said and poked Sammie to ease her off to a more comfortable position. “Sammie and Lucy were all set to race into that field and start mucking around. But I made Sammie stand where you had been. Then she threw a rock from there, and bingo, it landed right next to the car keys. You and Sammie both throw like girls.”

“I'm still sorry, you know, for everything,” I said into the cushion. My sisters had obviously made their peace with each other before I got home.

Lucy shrugged. “As Mom says, sometimes you gotta shake things out. I think it was a good thing we got everything off our chests.” It must be real love when you could say terrible things to each other and then accept it and move past it. After all, who is going to tell you the truth if not your family?

The phone rang and nobody moved. We were all afraid it could be Evan with bad news. Lucy finally got up on the third ring and answered it in the kitchen. When we heard her laugh, we relaxed. She came back into the living room and crowed, “I won the Squirrel Board!” She did a little dance around the table. “That was Tommy. It's the first time in BLT history that someone hit it smack-dab on the minute. Normally the celebration and crowning would be tonight, but Tommy is postponing it until tomorrow because of Dad.”

“He knew about Dad already?” Sammie said.

I thought about how fast bad—and good—news flies through our town.

Evan and Anna came in carrying casserole dishes and stomping the snow off their feet. “Didn't you see these piled up on the porch?” Evan griped good-naturedly as he pulled off his boots. “Half the town must have left food for us.”

“Did Dad wake up yet?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

“Yep. He squeezed Mom's hand and smiled at us. He managed to get out a few words before he fell asleep again.”

“What did he say?” I prodded.

“He asked if it was his turn in the bathroom yet.”

We all laughed in relief and joy.

“Did Father Whippet ever show up?” I asked.

“Yeah, but by the time he got there Dad didn't need last rites anymore. Father Whippet seemed kind of pissed off at that.” He yawned. “Anna and I gotta go. I have to prep for my show.”

After he left, I told my sisters, “I threw a Bible at Father Whippet and hit him in the head this morning.”

No one even asked me why. “Too bad it didn't knock any sense into him,” Sammie said.

We didn't discuss the grenades we had all thrown at each other. On some level, each one of us recognized the truth in each accusation. They were all things that stirred in the deep recesses of our subconscious. But the secret truths we think are safely tucked away are usually apparent to everyone else. It wasn't that Walker was mean to me. He wasn't. I knew he worried I would come off like a midwestern hick when I showed up at Princeton. But I figured he was worried
for
me, not
because
of me. I told myself of course he loves me. Why else would he want to get married?

Sammie yawned. “I'm going to bed.” We followed her upstairs. There, we jostled at the bathroom sink trying to brush our teeth and wash our faces. For the first time in a while, everything seemed right again.

Chapter Thirty-three
December 1986

I
want to thank everyone who called my family yesterday with good wishes for my dad. I just talked to my mom, and he's doing much better. She says he's up this morning and watching the show from his hospital bed. Hi, Dad. Good to have you back among the conscious.” Evan had big vats boiling away on the stove. “Today, we're making homemade summer sausage. As the name suggests, we should be making this in the summer. But I just got a great recipe courtesy of Mr. Frank Bukowski from way up in Iron Mountain. Seems he caught our show last time he was down here visiting his nephew.

“Frank says he separates out the shoulder, loin, ribs, and all the good stuff. You can put that in the freezer. You're not gonna need it. Now take the rest and remove the bone and cartilage. Toss that in the garbage or to your dog. What you have left is what you make the sausage with: you know, the stomach, the hooves, and the intestines for the casing. Frank writes that in his seventy years of cooking”—Evan grabbed tongs and lifted out a steaming, droopy-looking flesh-bag—“the most important thing he learned is patience.” He dropped the disgusting mess back into the vat, crossed to the fireplace, and stirred the logs.

“Damn, it's getting cold. The ice on Muskegon Lake is almost two inches thick now. Ice fishing shanties are popping up everywhere out there.” Evan shuffled back to the stove and I saw he had on his fuzzy moccasin house slippers.

“It's like he doesn't even bother getting dressed for this show,” I said to Elizabeth, who was up early with me. She gestured impatiently to me and I resumed rubbing her feet, which she had plopped in my lap.

Evan pulled something that looked like a cloven foot out of another vat and examined it, then tossed it back in. “Frank says you've got to have patience with sausage. Otherwise it won't turn out the way you want it to. That's the way it is with most things in life. You have to think things through. Plan ahead. Take these guys I heard about in Wisconsin. They drove a brand-new Toyota truck out on the ice, dragging their fishing shanty. Their big plan was to blow a fishing hole in the ice with a stick of dynamite instead of taking the time to ice-pick one out by hand. One of the guys gets out of the truck, lights the dynamite, and throws it as far as he can. Next thing you know, his yellow Labrador jumps out of the bed of the truck and races after it. The guys are screaming at the dog to stop. But the dog grabs the stick of dynamite and starts back to the truck. The guys are still yelling, and now the dog thinks he's in trouble, so he crawls under the truck, and
ka-blam
, everything blows. The dog goes sky-high and the truck drops through a nice, big hole in the ice and sinks.” Evan paused and took a sip of tea. “I think Frank is right about patience. And I say that even though he
is
from the U.P. You have to think things through, or they may not wind up the way you intended. That, and let it be a lesson not to buy a foreign-made car.”

Evan unfurled some paper and tacked it to a board. “We have a little time to wait while the ingredients boil, so I'm going to give a lesson in Japanese brush-painting.”

Evan dipped his brush in black ink and made a careful stroke on the paper. The phone rang on the set and the caller came over the speaker box. “So what happened? Was the truck insured? Were the guys killed, too?”

Evan continued painting as he answered. “Apparently the truck was insured but not for being blown up by dynamite. The devil is in the details, hmm? Oh, and the guys weren't hurt.”

“Those men should have been killed instead of that poor, innocent dog,” the caller insisted.

“Maybe. But that's never the way it goes, is it?” Evan murmured. “Hey, can you guys hold your calls for a sec? This painting takes concentration.”

I leaned on my elbows and watched Evan form a flower. He was surprisingly good at it. When he drew his brush away from the paper, the phone rang again.

“You done?” the caller asked. “Is it okay to ask a question now?”

“Yep.” Evan wiped off his brush.

“Aren't there some things you just can't plan for? Some things you never thought could happen in a million years?”

“I suppose you have a point there.”

“Things like your sister Lucy winning the Squirrel Board?”

“Just like that.”

“See you at the BLT tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, my dad says cow intestines are better for packing the sausage meat in than pig intestines. Are those cow intestines you're boiling there?”

“No, they're pig intestines.”

“Okay, then. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Later that morning, the five of us went to see Dad. The doctor warned us that we could only stay a few minutes. We approached the bed quietly. Dad looked pale and small and helpless. His eyes were closed. I think it was only at that moment that reality hit us. Dad had really come close to dying. I had never seen him look so weak. My throat tightened and I saw that Evan's eyes were shining with tears behind his glasses. Lucy stroked his hand, careful of the IV drip. His eyes fluttered open and he managed a half smile.

“I'll do anything to get my kids to come home, huh?” he croaked. Anxious laughter and more silence followed. We took turns holding his hand and kissing his forehead. Evan whispered to him, “December tenth, 3:42 p.m., Black. Guess who won? Lucy.” Then the nurse came in to usher us out.

Dad smiled.

The Bear Lake Tavern was jammed that night. We had to park along Ruddiman Drive because the lot was overflowing. Slipping and sliding across the bridge, we made our way toward the bright lights and laughter.

“I'm the Queen! I'm the Queen!” Lucy skipped and sang next to us.

“Couldn't they have saved a special parking place for the Queen, then?” Sammie groused. Elizabeth had stayed home to nurse her feet, and Anna stayed with her to keep her company. A car went by, honking loudly. We saw a bumper-hitcher at the back. Bumper-hitching is a singularly dangerous and singularly fun activity. The road conditions have to be just right: icy. Then an intrepid soul crouches at the back of a car and hangs on to the bumper for dear life while he is dragged, squatting, on the soles of his boots down the road. This particular bumper-hitcher let go of the car at the curve and flew into a snow bank, howling with laughter. “It's Squirrel Board night! Wahoo!”

As we entered, Evan shouted, “The Queen is here!” Cheers went up from the masses—it was the King or Queen's responsibility to buy the first round of drinks. Tommy signaled for Lucy to ascend the throne. As usual, that meant sitting on top of the bar. Lucy waved like she was the Queen of England: elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist. Tommy held up his hands for everyone to settle down. He was the sports announcer at all of our high school football and basketball games and had developed a sports personality somewhere between Red Barber and Harry Caray.

“Laadies and geentlemen, your attention please. Tonight marks several milestones. For the first time in history, a Squirrel Board contestant has hit the First Snow at the exact date and time.” Tommy was interrupted by more shouts as the throng hoisted their beer mugs. He paused until they quieted down. “And the astounding sum of $2,810 is the largest Squirrel Board pot of all time!” There were more whoops before Tommy continued, “And lastly but certainly not leastly, for the first time since 1968 we have a Queen!” This brought cheers from the women and some boos from the men. “I think this proves that females truly are the stronger, smarter sex!” He laughed. “My wife told me I had to say that.”

“Before I crown our Queen,” Tommy continued, “I ask for your thoughts and prayers for Harold Thompson. He can't be here tonight because he's knocking back a couple of cold IVs at the hospital. Rose is with him and says he's doing better. So, please, a round of applause for our Queen's father!” The Blit exploded in clapping hands and stomping feet.

“Now, the moment you have been waiting for. Twelve! Ten! Black! Three! Forty-two! Your Queen, Luuuuucy Thompson!!!” Then Tommy solemnly took the black construction-paper crown that had been decorated with Elmer's glue and silver glitter and placed it on Lucy's head. It was a little too big and she had to hold it with one hand so it didn't fall over her face. Then she stood up on the bar and waved her other arm wildly. That signaled the round of free drinks to be served and the crowd went nuts. Lucy disappeared into a wave of well-wishers and celebrity hangers-on. I clapped madly for her.

It was then that I realized I was mashed up against Teeni. I tried to get away from her so I could see the formal signing of the Squirrel Board logbook by Lucy, but it was too packed. Teeni half turned and saw me. “I ga' here early to ge' a good place,” she slurred. Quite a bit early, I thought, enough time to get loaded already. “Say, wha' you got against John?” She staggered against me. At least the crowd was holding her up.

“Who's John?” I got jostled and sloshed my beer down my shirt.

“Whippet, ya know? Johnny. He says you won' leave him be.”

“I just keep walking in on him at, say, inopportune times.” I saw Teeni's brain working out the word “inopportune.” Anything over two syllables right now was going to be a challenge.

“He won' see me an'more,” she said about two inches from my face. I moved sideways to get away from her. She grabbed my shirt and pulled me back. “You tell an'one else about us?” she asked with her hundred-proof breath.

“No,” I lied.

That's when she threw her vodka tonic in my face and lunged at me. We both went down in a heap, taking a few people with us. She was on top of me, and she clearly had a weight advantage.

“Girl fight!” some guy cried with delight. We weren't fighting. Teeni seemed to have passed out cold on top of me. Evan fought his way through the circle around us and hauled me out from under her. Tommy and two other men picked Teeni up like a sack of potatoes and took her off to the kitchen to pour coffee into her.

Evan grabbed a bar towel and handed it to me. It reeked of grease and stale beer as I wiped the liquor from my face. Evan looked more amused than sympathetic at my embarrassment, so I elbowed my way through the crowd until I could see Lucy. She was laughing in a carefree way I hadn't seen in years. She was also leading a game of Quarters. You play it by bouncing a quarter into a shot glass full of beer. If it goes in, you pick someone to drink the shot. If it doesn't, then you drink it. Not a whole lot of skill is required, which is why it's a drinking game.

I finally found my coat on the floor, where it was being trampled. Leaving the lights and the laughter behind me, I walked home in the quiet hush of the falling snow and the squeak it uttered under my boots. I was shivering when I finally walked up the steps at home. I shed my coat and boots and found Elizabeth reading in the family room.

“How'd the crowning go?”

“Lucy was glowing. I don't think she's had that much fun in a while. Did Mom call?”

“Yeah, they think he'll be able to come home in about a week. And, more good news, Ron will be here tomorrow.” Elizabeth was beaming.

“Did you guys make up?”

“I called him after we girls had our, uh, discussion. Turns out he's been missing me terribly. He's saved up enough money for me to have the baby in Los Angeles.” Elizabeth looked so happy that I didn't burst her bubble with a rude comment. “We'll all be here together for Christmas and then we'll go home.”

For Elizabeth's sake I tried to look happy. I knew Sammie was staying on in North Muskegon because it was so close to Christmas anyway. Lucy and I were going to head back to Michigan State in the morning if the snow stopped. I told Elizabeth that I was sorry we'd have to leave before Ron's arrival. Then I beat it upstairs to snag a bed before anyone else got there first.