Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas (12 page)

Both my parents are up early Monday morning. Both my parents are in the kitchen. Maybe this happens to you all the time, but for me it’s a real treat.

“I’m fine, dear,” says Dad. I wonder if he is fine. His voice is stronger, but he looks a bit shaky. “Eat up, Bernie. Breakfast doesn’t get better than this.”

Bernie looks up from his cereal. It’s chilly in our kitchen, and he’s shivering in his pajamas. “It doesn’t?”

Mom is putting on her overcoat. She peers at Dad, with her head on one side. “I don’t know, Alex. I’m worried about you. The doctor said to be careful you don’t try to do too much too quickly.”

“Doctors! What do they know?” says Dad heartily. “Hey there, Jane. Can I pour you some cereal?”

“I can get my own,” I say. “I don’t want you –”

“Nonsense. I’m in great shape. A bit of a cough is all I have.”

He does have it, too. He coughs as he’s pouring my cereal, so that some of it spills.

“No problem.” Dad sweeps up the cereal into his hand, and dumps it in the garbage.

“So is Grandma leaving now?” asks Bernie.

Both parents answer together.

“Of course,” says Dad.

“No,” says Mom.

Bernie looks at me. I shrug.

“Well, that settles it,” says Dad.

“Alex, you’re in no position to look after things here.”

“Yes, I am,” says Dad.

“You are not.”

“I am, I tell you.”

“Are not.”

Dad looks at me. “You’re supposed to say ‘am so,’” I tell him.

“Thanks.” He sticks out his tongue at me. A very Dad-like gesture. I have to laugh. Maybe he is all right.

“Let
me
see that.” Mom turns him around so that he’s facing her. “I don’t know how healthy that looks.”

“Hey, Dad!” It’s Bill. “Why are you sticking your tongue out at Mom?”

“She asked me to.” Dad stares at him. “You’re all dressed. Wow. Do you have socks on both feet?”

“Course. This is my number one shore-going rig.”

“It’s dress rehearsal day. The winter concert is tomorrow,” I say.

Bill moves to stand between me and Dad. “Our class is going to do way better than Jane’s class.”

“You are not.” I try to shift him. We shove each other.

“We are so!”

“Are not!!”

“Are too!!”

Actually, he may have a point. I have this momentary image of Jiri forgetting his big line in front of the parents and kids and
CITY TV
news cameras and everything….

“You’re supposed to say ‘are not,’” Dad reminds me in a whisper.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“And don’t be so competitive, you two,” says Mom. She doesn’t like it when we compare.

Not that there’s any contest. “I’m way less competitive than Bill is,” I say.

“No way!” he says quickly. “I’m less competitive than you are.”

“Yo
ho!
You wouldn’t know how to spell competitive,” I say.

“Yo ho
ho!
You wouldn’t know where to
look
for it!” He snaps his fingers in my face. Triumph.

“That,” I say quietly, “is because I’m not as competitive as you.” I smile.

“I … you….” His face turns three shades of red.

Got him.

“Is Grandma staying or not?” Bernie still wants to know.

“No,” says Dad. “I’ll drive her home this morning.” Then he starts to cough. A pretty good one. He holds on to the counter.

“I don’t think –” Mom begins.

“Good!” says Bernie. “I’m glad Grandma’s going.”

“Hurray!” says Bill.

“Oh, come on,” Mom sighs. “Try to be nice about Grandma. I asked her to come, and she said yes. She didn’t have to.”

“But you asked her,” says Bernie. “We always have to do what you say.”

“But –”

“Even Daddy does what you say.”

“The boy has a point there, honey,” says Dad. “You have a way of making people do your bidding.”

I think back to the gym, yesterday, with Mr. Gebohm. I
knew
I would get my way. Dad says that I remind him of Mom sometimes. Maybe that’s what he means. We don’t look alike. She’s tall and beautiful and has this amazing chestnut colored hair. I’m short for my age, and my hair is plain brown, unless I dye it. And no one has ever called me beautiful.

There’s a scratching noise in the hall. A mouse? Doesn’t sound quite right. I listen, but I don’t hear it again.

Mom is blushing. She makes herself busy, unbuttoning and then rebuttoning her coat. “Anyway, it’s not easy for Grandma, being here in a strange place with three – four – people to look after.”

“Thank
you”
says Dad.

“She doesn’t play with me,” says Bernie.

“She hates us,” says Bill.

They look at me.

I’m thinking back to last summer, when Grandma and I actually laughed together for a while – a very short while. We were on our way to Aunt Vera’s, and Grandma helped me smuggle a homeless guy named Marty into the back of the family van. She said I was full of moxie.

“What about the mousetraps?” I say. “She helped there.”

Bill nods, conceding the mousetraps. “Nothing in them this morning,” he says. He and Bernie have been checking every few hours since they found out about them.

“What mousetraps?” asks Dad.

“And the Christmas tree,” I say. “The first one, at the crosswalk. That was …”

“Not uncool,” says Bill.

“That big car went right into the pole,” says Bernie, with a smile that goes past his cereal spoon.

“What big car?” asks Dad.

“But she’s kind of a lousy cook,” says Bill. He pulls a loaf out of the bread drawer, and looks around for the big knife.

My turn to nod. No argument there. Saying Grandma is kind of a lousy cook is like saying that
the CN Tower is kind of tall, or that the Rolling Stones are kind of old.

“Well, I like her,” I say. “For all she’s grumpy and hard.”

“And she still smokes,” says Bernie. “That’s bad, isn’t it, Mom?”

“Yes, honey.”

“And she says words like –”

“Yes,” says Mom quickly.

“Let me, Bill,” says Dad, taking the knife from Bill’s hand.

I hear another sound from the hallway – a match being struck. A moment later I can smell the sulfur from the match head.

“So is Grandma going to stay or go?” Bernie still wants to know.

“Good question,” says Grandma herself, appearing in the doorway in her bathrobe, hairnet, and morning cigarette.

“Mother-in-law!” says Dad. “We were just talking about you.”

“Yeah?”

Did she hear? Did she hear us say how horrible she was? I blush deeply, thinking she may have heard all that. It’s awful to hear bad things about yourself. I know.

Hey. I
do
know.

Grandma is pouring coffee from the pot. Her hair is the color of iron filings behind the hairnet. There are dark stains under her eyes.

“Well, now that I’m here, I guess I better put together those school lunches. I started a mold last night. Unless I’m going home.” She puts down her cigarette to take a sip of coffee. “So, am I going home?”

“Well, I got up feeling much better this morning,” Dad begins. “But I don’t….” He pauses, screws up his face.

Grandma stands quietly, smoking and drinking coffee.

“Maybe it’s best if….” And he starts coughing.

Bill is over by the calendar. “Today is the first day of Chanukah,” he says.

“Gut yontiff,”
says Grandma, without looking at him.

“Hey, I didn’t know you knew any Yiddish.”

“A lot you don’t know about me, sailor boy.”

“I’m late for a meeting,” says Mom. “Alex, sit down!”

Dad slides into a chair. His face is the color of the snow outside – that is, whitish gray. Mom hurriedly rebuttons her coat. “Please stay, Mother.”

She heads down the hallway without waiting for an answer.

“Now, let’s see what you’ll be having for lunch.” Grandma reaches deep into the refrigerator, and pulls out a bowl of … something that wiggles.

“I don’t want mold,” says Bill.

“Don’t be silly. This isn’t mold, sailor boy. It’s
a
mold. A jelly mold. I made some calves’ foot jelly for your father’s lunch.”

Dad groans. Bill looks relieved and apprehensive at the same time. “What am I getting?”

“Don’t worry. There’ll be some left over for you too. Won’t that be tasty?”

Is there, or is there not, a suspicion of a gleam in Grandma’s eye?

Bill groans. The bowl wiggles. Dad goes back upstairs to bed.

I don’t have anyone to tell my mouse-in-the-toaster story to at school. Normally I’d tell Patti, but now I don’t want to. I keep hearing her voice telling Brad how bossy I am. Her smile for me today, her concern for my dad, seem false. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe she still likes me, sort of. But I don’t like her as much as I used to. I tell her my dad is doing fine.

Miss Gonsalves has moved us around. Now I’m sitting beside Zillah. Zillah the dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-souled girl. She’s tall and thin, and wears black clothes and a frown most of the time. Her nose and eyebrow are pierced. I’m afraid of her, a little. There’s a power around her, like a dark mist. She was a natural to play the part of Dame Mouserink, the wicked mouse queen in our
Nutcracker. When
I asked her, she didn’t thank me or smile or anything, in fact she spat, but after she spat she nodded her head.

We walk out of class together at morning recess, and stay together. Zillah doesn’t have many friends. Patti runs off to be near Brad. He’s playing basketball with a bunch of other guys and girls. Patti watches.

Mr. Gebohm is on playground duty. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, the way you watch a wasp in the room. He circles away, toward Jiri, who’s playing catch with a little kid. Gebohm watches the ball for a moment. When he sees me, he comes over. I shrink inside. Zillah stands impassively. I’m glad she’s here.

“Peeler.” That’s all he says.

“Yes, sir.”

He shakes his head. There’s a faint red mark on his cheek from Friday night.

“So, Peeler, you are going to take away my gym again.”

“Me?” I say.

“Yes. You. You took it away from me once already. Don’t You Realize That I Have A Basketball Team To Train? Basketball.” He closes his eyes on the word. Holds his hands out in front of him, cupped around a basketball-sized chunk of December air. His intensity is uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” I say.

“I tried to tell Mr. Gordon, but he won’t listen. Enjoy your rehearsal in my gym this afternoon. And good luck tomorrow night at your
performance.”
He laughs – a very sinister laugh – and stalks off.

Oh, no. And I thought our rehearsal problems were over. Now the specter of Mr. Gebohm hangs over the next two days. “What do you think he means?” I ask Zillah. “Is he going to wreck our performance?”

She shrugs.

“What can I do? Should I tell Miss Gonsalves? She’ll never believe me. She’ll ask what he said, and I’ll say he wished me good luck. But I know – I just know – he’s going to try to wreck the show.”

Zillah shakes her head at me, and sounds those three chords you hear on
TV
when something bad is about to happen:
dah duh
duhn. I stare at her – this is a joke. The first joke I’ve ever heard from her. She’s not worried about Mr. Gebohm. Not the least bit.

That makes me feel better. I almost laugh. She almost smiles. I’m about to tell her about Grandma and the mouse, only the bell rings to end recess.

Miss Gonsalves makes it official at the start of our dress rehearsal. A videographer from
CITY TV
will come tomorrow night to film our
Nutcracker
for a spot on the ten o’clock news. There are permission forms for our parents to sign.

We all react in our different ways. I swallow, and feel cold inside, but warm outside. Like a hot butterscotch sundae, I guess. I worry about Mr. Gebohm. Patti is blushing like mad. Michael yowls like a cat.
Justin smooths his hair unnecessarily. Zillah reacts by not reacting. Jiri looks puzzled.

It’s 3:30. I start the rehearsal by getting everyone onstage. We’ll do five minutes of stretching exercises. Then I’ve allotted ten minutes to get into costumes, so we’ll start promptly at 3:45. “Everyone touch your toes,” I yell. “That means you, Michael. Limber up.”

“I’m doing my best.” He bends a little bit, grimacing mightily.

“Come on! You look as limber as a piece of wood.”

“That’s not limber. That’s lumber. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”

The gym door swings open lazily, and Brad enters. I didn’t notice he wasn’t here.

“Sorry I’m late.” He vaults onstage and takes his place between Justin and Patti.

“My, aren’t you limber, Braddie!” says Patti.

Rehearsal goes well tonight, until the very end. Almost everyone gets almost all their lines right. Zillah is especially good. A lot of animation – for her. Brad seems a bit low. I try to get him to smile. Michael is an overactor. A ham. But he knows his part so well, I can’t really yell at him. And, besides, Patti nudges Brad whenever I open my mouth at all. I feel self-conscious.

And everyone’s brought costumes and props from home. Godfather Stahlbaum’s gift box in the first scene is huge – a washing machine came in it – and
has a big red bow on top. Justin, playing Fritz, capers about the stage.

Justin remembers the speech, then loses his concentration when he notices a missing button on his own costume. “Ooh!” he says, his face falling. Michael laughs and claps him on the back, which is in character both for him and for the Godfather. Justin stumbles.

When the Mouse King enters a few scenes later, I gasp. I’ve not seen the costume before. It’s a giant construction of cardboard and cloth. Trinley’s mom has done an amazing job. Scary heads glare in all directions.

Justin screams and jumps away. Very convincing. The Mouse King lunges after him, then stops.

“Help, I can’t see!”

Essa is inside the mouse king costume. She has a high-pitched mousy voice, which is one of the reasons I cast her. Also because she’s very shy. She’s better inside a costume.

We all laugh. I make a note in my book. I’ve used almost all of it now.

*

The last scene starts badly. The Candyland backdrop doesn’t fall correctly when Michael pulls the twine holding it up. (I make a note to check it.) Mind you, it looks lovely when we do get it down. Everyone moves slowly and dreamily as the music builds. Patti and Brad walk like a bride and groom through the arch of swords and into the Nutcracker’s kingdom, where they are greeted by Jiri, the Herald of Candyland. Jiri moves very gracefully in his costume – a long striped robe that used to be curtains, and a turban made from a big blue towel. He smiles at me because he knows he’s at the right place at the right time. He waits for the
dweedle-dweedle-dee
cue, opens his mouth and – nothing comes out.

The music is over now. We’re waiting for his lines. But he isn’t saying them. Brad and Patti smile at each other. Brad takes her hand and strokes it, playing for time.

I prompt Jiri. “Hail, Prince …”

Brad keeps smiling. Patti groans. Jiri’s face clears and he starts:

He doesn’t finish the line, but goes on to the next one anyway:

No, they’re not. Wrong line. At the piano. Miss Gonsalves is shaking her head.

Well, that fits in, but they’re not the words I wrote. Jiri can’t think of any others.

“I … I … ding it!”

After the rehearsal I take him aside. He smiles sheepishly down at me.

“I am sorry, Jane. I forgot my lines. I am sorry. I will study. I will.”

Miss Gonsalves comes over to put her hand on his arm. She’s so comforting. I expect her to offer encouragement, but she surprises me.

“Jiri,” she says, “it might be better if you didn’t say any lines in the play.”

“Huh?”

“You’d still be onstage. In your costume.” Her face is full of sympathy. “You just wouldn’t say anything.”

He turns to me. Miss Gonsalves turns to me too.

“Are the lines too hard, Jiri?” I ask. “Would you like someone else to say them?”

“Oh, no.” His big face is horrified. “They are
my
lines. I will learn them.”

Patti runs over in her overcoat. She ignores Jiri. “Give his lines to someone else,” she says to me,
shrugging herself into her knapsack.
His lines.
Like Jiri isn’t there. “He won’t learn them in time. The show’s tomorrow. I don’t want my
TV
debut wrecked.”

Jiri shuffles his feet. Patti notices him now. “Look, Jiri, I’m sorry. But it’s not working, you know. It’s better for the show if you don’t have anything to say. Don’t you think so, Jane?”

Patti. Miss Gonsalves. Jiri. They all stare at me, waiting for my decision.

I wonder what I should do. What’s best for Jiri? For the play?

The eyes decide me. Not Patti’s or Miss Gonsalves’ eyes, but Jiri’s – they’re hot, focused, deeply involved. I can’t look away from them. I can’t let them down.

“Jiri stays in,” I say.

“Oh, no!” Patti appeals to Miss Gonsalves. “You’re the boss. Can’t you –”

“Are you sure, Jane?” Miss Gonsalves is surprised at the decision. Was it the wrong one? I want to do what’s right, and I respect her so much.

“I’m sure,” I say. She nods gravely.

Patti makes a little hiss of disgust and flounces away.

Jiri’s face clears. “Thank you, Jane. Thank you. I will know them … soon.”

“Tomorrow,” I say. We’re running out of soon.

“Tomorrow.” He nods. “You are nice, Jane.”

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a snapshot. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like one of
them?” The picture shows three kittens in a basket. Two black-and-white, one tabby. A ham-sized hand is stopping the tabby from climbing out of the basket.

“Very cute,” I say.

An awkward moment at the dinner table. Big chocolate chip cookies for dessert – Grandma must have visited the bakeshop up the street. One cookie for Bernie, one for Bill, one for me, one for Grandma. We all thank her and dig in. She doesn’t touch her cookie. It sits there on a plate in the middle of the table, a small piece of paradise. Is she going to wrap it up? Is she going to eat it herself? Bill and Bernie, finished already, eye the cookie. I’m chewing slowly, savoring, but I’m interested too – these are really good. Maybe we could have second helpings of paradise.

The radio is tuned to Grandma’s station. Someone is explaining why the lady is a tramp. The cookie sits in solitary splendor. Mentally, I’m dividing it into three pieces. The boys lick their lips, leaning forward, like … I was going to say, like baby birds waiting to be fed, but I think they look more like pigs. Bernie especially, with his chocolate chin.

“You finished, William? Bernard?”

The boys look at each other, swallow, nod doubtfully.

“Then put away your plates.” She helps Bernie out of his booster seat, hands him his plate. He walks to the counter. He looks back over his shoulder, then
leaves. Bill has already gone. Now it’s just me and Grandma, and the guy on the radio who loves Paris in the summer, when it sizzles.

Grandma hums along. I finish my cookie, every crumb.

“Thanks again,” I say. “That was wonderful.”

“You want the last cookie?” she asks.

I stare at it. Paradise all to myself. So why do I feel funny about accepting?

“I don’t know,” I say.

It’s not that I mind having stuff all to myself. I don’t need to share everything. But I haven’t … well …
earned
the cookie. That’s the word. If Bill and Bernie and I had flipped coins or counted fingers or played rock-paper-scissors, and I’d won, I’d be eating the cookie now. I might even be gloating as I ate it. But without any of these little rituals – part of my family life as far back as I can remember – then I don’t deserve the cookie. It wouldn’t be fair.

“I guess I’m not hungry,” I say.

“Well, I wanted to let you know that I appreciate what you said this morning.”

“When?” I don’t know what she means.

“Say, do you like this song? This singer?”

I can see that she likes him. “He’s okay,” I say.

She takes a cardboard packet out of her pocket, opens it, and puts a mint in her mouth. A striped mint. Then she holds the packet out to me. “Humbug?”

“Um … sure.” I’m not used to Grandma being nice to me. I take the humbug.

“Good.”

For some reason I can take the humbug but not the cookie. Maybe because there are enough humbugs to go around.

Grandma starts rinsing the dishes. I suck away on my mint in silence for a moment, and then grab my knapsack and go up to my room.

On my bed is a record – not a
CD,
an old vinyl album. I know what they are, even though I don’t have any. There’s a picture on the front – a drawing – of a guy in a gangster kind of hat, holding hands with a lady in a long dress.
Sinatra Sings
is the title of the album. Whoever that is.

I don’t understand. It must be Grandma’s record, but what’s it doing in my room? Why does she want me to have it? I turn it over. There’s a song on the back called “I Love Paris.”

I read the liner notes. I find out that Sinatra is the singer and his first name is Frank and he was pretty famous a long time ago.