Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five (6 page)

I opened the door a crack. “Go away,” I said. “You've got the wrong night.”

“Ta dah!” Al stood there in her red shoes, her AL(exandra) the Great T-shirt, and a billowy skirt that reached her ankles. She was smiling. “I think I've got it,” she said softly. “I really think I've got it this time.”

“Got what?” I whispered, afraid of breaking the spell.

Al looked over her left shoulder, then over her right. When she saw the coast was clear, she whispered, “Zandi.”

Was this the secret password?

“How do you spell it?” I asked.

“With a capital Z,” she said, “and an
i
at the end. How does that grab you?”

“Well,” I opened the door all the way, “it's different. I'll say that. The trouble is, with an unusual name like Zandi, nobody will know how to spell it. You'll get it spelled all kinds of ways. It's sort of far out, you might say.”

“That's what I like about it.” Al couldn't stop smiling. “This morning, when I woke up, a little voice said, right smack in my ear, it said, ‘Your name is Zandi.' Just like that.” Al looked closely at me to see if I bought that one. I kept my face inscrutable, which ain't easy.

“So then I hopped out of bed,” Al continued, “and looked in the mirror, and, sure enough, I looked like a Zandi.

“And you know something?” Al scrunched up her face. “It's perfect. I feel it in my bones, and my bones never lie.”

“You'll be the first in your crowd with that name,” I told her. “That's for sure.”

I swung the door back and forth, wanting to tell Al about the rib roast and the asparagus and figuring this wasn't the right time.

“You want me to start calling you that now?” I said. “Before your birthday, I mean?”

“That's OK,” Al said. “You can wait until the big day. I have to keep saying it to myself to make it seem real, though.”

And I watched as she walked down the hall and let herself into her apartment, repeating, “Zandi, Zandi,” over and over, until she got the hang of it.

chapter 10

“My mother's bringing the horses doovries,” Al announced.

“The what?” I said.

“You know, the stuff you eat with drinks before you get down to the serious eating,” Al explained. “She does this thing with pineapple and cream cheese and curry powder.”

I looked at her.

“The first time she made it,” Al continued, “I pulled a boo-boo. I pretended I liked it. My mother's no ace in the kitchen, as you know, and she needs reinforcement when it comes to her culinary efforts.” Al gave me a piercer. “From here on in, kid, take Mother Al's advice. Tell it like it is. If it's gross, say it's gross. Even if it hurts. In the long run, the truth will out. It cuts down on the pineapple and curry-powder jazz.”

She proceeded to pace, wearing a path on the already worn rug. “So do me a favor, OK? Pretend you like it. Even if it makes you want to barf. So she doesn't get hurt feelings.”

“Sure, Mother Al. Whatever you say. But I thought your name was Mother Zandi.” I couldn't help giggling. I could see Al dressed in a purple turban, bending over her crystal ball. In a deep, dark voice I said, “Beware the ides of September, Mother Zandi. Watch out for a tall, bald man, smoking a fat black cigar and carrying a teddy bear on his back.”

Al took it up.

“I, Mother Zandi,” she began in an even deeper and darker voice, “advise on all matters in life. There is no problem Mother Zandi cannot solve. I can tell you the color of your aura and warn of good and bad cycles you must pass through before you come out on the other side without harm.”

“What? Color of my aura?”

Al nodded, looking wise, if weary. “The atmosphere that emanates from any and all bodies,” she said.

I looked down at myself, at my body. Nothing.

“I don't think I have an aura,” I told her.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “All mortals have an aura. Perhaps yours is concealed beneath your skin and will show itself only when you reach puberty. Upon the receipt of certain fees, I, Mother Zandi, will reveal to you the color of your aura when the right moment arrives.” Al pulled down her bangs as far as they'd go and glared at me. “When Mother Zandi speaks, the world trembles,” she intoned.

“It's a good thing you changed your name,” I said. “Mother Zandi sounds classy, like the real thing, and Mother Al sounds like a new health-food line. Mother Al's Tofu would be good. Or how about Mother Al's Bulgar?”

“I'm glad your grandfather's coming to the party.” Al spun off on another tack. “I think it's really cool of him to want to come. You didn't threaten him with anything to make him come, did you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “He likes you. My mother didn't even think to invite him. He invited himself.”

“That's really nice. I mean, a man of his age probably doesn't get asked to too many birthday parties. Probably most of his friends have retired to Florida or have died off,” Al said.

“Hey, he isn't that old. He's only sixty-six,” I said.

“A mere boy. What do you think we ought to plan for after dinner? Do you think we should play games or just talk?” Al pondered what to do after dinner, something I hadn't thought of. “Maybe we could have a stimulating conversation,” she said, frowning. “An exchange of ideas, discussing the latest books, the latest plays we've seen. How about that?”

“The latest book I read was
Misty of Chincoteague
,” I said. “And my grandfather took me to see
Cats
. We could zero in on
Cats
. Is that what you meant?”

“You are such a turkey.” Al sighed. “We have here a classic case of youth and age. And ne'er the twain shall meet. How about if we played bridge?”

“I don't know how,” I said. “Do you?”

“My mother tried to teach me and I freaked. You have to remember all the cards that have been played, and keep track of the cards in other peoples' hands. It's a real drag, if you ask me,” Al said. “How about
vingt et un?”

“Or better yet,” said I, “crazy eights.”

“You make it awfully hard to get off the ground,” Al told me in a cross tone. “After all, your grandfather's a man of the world. I can just see him, dressed in an opera cape and top hat, drinking champagne out of some showgirl's slipper.” A small smile creased Al's face. “I can see him cruising through Central Park at midnight in a horse-drawn carriage. His companion has skin like milk and wears diamonds around her throat, her wrist and her ankles. She has on so many diamonds she clanks when she moves.” Al got up and imitated the showgirl decorated with diamonds.

“And following your grandfather's horse-drawn carriage, in hot pursuit,” Al stomped her feet loudly, “is another horse-drawn carriage bearing a jealous suitor of your grandfather's companion. He is tailing them to their tryst and plans on challenging your grandfather to a duel.”

“I don't think my grandfather was even alive when they challenged people to duels,” I said.

But, oblivious to my protests, Al crossed her hands on her chest, and with a soulful expression on her face she broke into “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life,” which she'd picked up from some late late movie starring Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald.

When she'd finished and, exhausted, slumped onto my bed, I said, “There's always Monopoly,” but Al only sighed deeply and said, “Oh, to have been young when men were men and women weren't liberated.”

Then she sat up suddenly.

“But, when you come right down to it,” Al's eyes flashed angrily, “who wants some nerd drinking champagne out of their shoe? Brian would never do such a dumb thing.”

How come we always wound up back at the same old place, Brian city?

“Yeah,” I said, giving her a wide yawn, “they'd probably throw him out of the 4-H Club if he did.”

chapter 11

At dusk my mother and I watched the outbound traffic clog the streets. It was the start of Labor Day weekend and, like lemmings fleeing to the sea, the cars were fleeing to the country. The horizon wore a stripe of pale orange, which might mean rain. From where we stood at the window on the fourteenth floor we could barely hear the horns blaring, and the cars looked harmless, even quaint.

“Thank God we're not among them,” my father said fervently, on his way to the kitchen to make his special horseradish sauce. When he'd gone, I said to my mother, “What about Teddy?”

“Oh, he'll be fine,” she said in a vague way. My mother is hardly ever vague, and when she is, watch out. It means trouble.

“Whayda mean, he'll be fine? Where's he staying while the party's on?”

“Here,” my mother said. “And Hubie will be here to keep him company.” With that, she skimmed across the room, away from me. I skimmed after her.

“What gives?” I asked. “I thought you were farming Teddy out. Now we get Hubie thrown in for bad measure.
Quel
bummer.” I clutched my head, expecting no sympathy, which was good, as none was forthcoming.

“They'll be fine,” my mother said. “I'll feed them early, and we'll move the television into our room so they can watch it there. Hubie's mother asked if he could stay here since she has out-of-town visitors and needs all the beds. She's done so many favors for me I couldn't refuse. Don't worry.” She patted my shoulder. “It will be a grand party. One to make you proud. One Al will always remember.”

“How could you let this happen, God?” I asked.

“Beats me,” Teddy piped up.

I swung at him and missed. My hand grazed the wall. I yelped, and Teddy grinned and fled. I escaped down the hall.

I rang Al's bell three times. They must be out. Just when I had about given up, the door opened slowly. A disembodied hand bearing a small square of white crept toward me. It said, “Mother Zandi, Swami. By appt. only.”

“I have an appointment,” I said in a loud voice. The door creaked open farther. Al had painted a huge, gleaming red mouth over her own pale lips. Her eyes, ringed with mascara, peered blearily out at me. A black satin turban hid all her hair, except for a couple of wisps of bangs. When she smiled I saw her mouth had leaked onto her teeth and made them pink. She looked about fifty years old.

“Enter,” she said in a swami voice. “Mother Zandi says watch for false friends today. Mother Zandi also says do not spend money you don't have, as this leads to bankruptcy.”

“Hey, I know all that,” I said. “I was just coming up for air. It's getting pretty hairy at home. You look great. Not a day over thirteen and a half.”

“Come in, my child, and we will sit in the hot tub for a spell.” I followed Al inside. The living room was dim, curtains drawn. Candles sputtered on a table.

“You are some nut,” I said.

“Disrespect of Mother Zandi will lead to mayhem,” she whispered. “Mother Zandi's bunions are buzzing, and she must sit down. Sit with me, and I will tell you your future.”

The doorbell rang. We both jumped.

“Sign here,” the delivery boy said, looking at his pad. When Al signed, he handed over the long thin bundle.

“What is it?” Al said.

“Flowers. By Vivian. ‘Every posy a poem,' Viv says. But these days who knows? Maybe it's a cobra lying inside waiting for you weirdos to unwrap him so's he can take a chomp on you. Have a good day,” and he tipped his hat and whistled his way to the elevator.

We zapped inside and laid the package on the table.

“I think I saw it move,” I said.

“Smell it,” Al suggested.

“What does a cobra smell like?”

“Like any old snake. Here.” Al slit the wrapping open with a scissors. A dozen long-stemmed roses lay inside.

Al picked out the card and read, “Sorry to miss the party. All love, Stan.”

“Oh, boy,” Al said. “What does ‘All love' mean? Is that the same as ‘All my love,' or does it go deeper than that?”

“I have to split,” I said. “My mother will be combing the bullrushes for me. Have a good day, like the man said.”

“Have a weird day, comrade,” Al told me, and filled a vase with water for the roses.

chapter 12

A party is always more work than you think it'll be. My mother whirled around like a dervish, my father worked on his horseradish sauce, aiming for perfection. Teddy twisted his hair into corkscrews, the way he does when he's coming down with something, and made listless passes at the freezer compartment, threatening to start in on the ice cream. Just before six, the bell rang. It was the same delivery boy who'd delivered the roses to Al's mother.

“Hey,” he said when he saw me, “long time no see. More posies from Viv.” It was a centerpiece for the table from Al's mother. My mother stood back to admire it and said she'd never seen anything so exquisite.

“I think I oughta be videotaped,” Teddy whined, conscious of losing center stage.

“What for?” I asked.

“On account of if anybody ever kidnaps me they'll know how to find me if I'm videotaped. I saw it on TV. Hubie says he's already been videotaped.”

“Anybody ever kidnaps you, kid,” I reassured him, “they'll have you back within the hour. Don't worry about a thing.”

My mother rested her cheek against the back of Teddy's neck. “He hasn't got a fever,” she said, “but he looks flushed.”

“It's all the excitement,” my father said.

The doorbell rang again, and I said, “more posies from Viv, probably.” But it was Al. Cheeks flaming, she wore her party dress, brand-new for the big event. “She just gave it to me,” Al said.

“We'll almost be twins,” I told her. Her dress was a lot like mine except that it had blue stripes instead of black, and different sleeves.

“I love the way it whispers when I walk,” I said. “It makes me feel like Scarlett O'Hara.”