The Big Shuffle (29 page)

Davy and Francie pet the steer very gently, as if it has the same low threshold for being mauled by children as the kitten. Gwen's uncle Vernon and her aunt Sharon arrive with some shish kebabs for the family. The minute Uncle Vernon sees my little brother and sisters he tosses out one of his famous
(for being bad) jokes that he's collected over the years as an elementary-school gym teacher. “Hey there, in what school do you learn to greet people?”

“Cow school?” guesses Davy.

“Horse school?” Francie also proceeds along the barnyard line of thinking.

“Good try!” Uncle Vernon says to both of them with such enthusiasm that you'd think they'd just answered correctly
and
won a million dollars. “But the answer is
Hi
school! Get it?”

I can tell that Uncle Vernon is gearing up for another twenty jokes, so I quickly announce that we'd better see if Jane is with her mom in the handicrafts barn. In truth I know that Jane would rather be dead than get caught up with the Mad Quilters, as she calls them. However, we use the excuse to move on. Outside the barn you can pay five dollars to ride in a buggy pulled by enormous golden Clydesdale horses with creamy white manes.

Admittedly, the handicrafts barn is pretty boring, but it's a good place to finish digesting all the food we've eaten. A dozen or so older women are quilting at a big table in the center. On the surrounding tables are cakes, jams, soufflés, jars of pickles, and quiches, many waiting to judged, some already displaying ribbons. These are interspersed with trophies for cherry preserves, given that it's the fruit for which the county claims to be famous. Along the far side of the barn Mennonite women in long gray dresses and white bonnets run a stand selling pies, but otherwise keep to themselves, and when not taking care of business they congregate in tents behind the barns.

Jane's mom is working at a booth showing quilted bags and embroidered pillows. They say stuff like,
OLD LAWYERS NEVER

DIE, THEY JUST LOSE THEIR APPEAL
and
I'D RATHER BE SEWING.

Her own T-shirt is hand stitched with the words,
SEW MANY
QUILTS, SEW LITTLE TIME.
I ask if Jane is around, and Mrs. Thompson reports that she's playing Skee-Ball next to the gallery with the artwork made from seeds. Jane has a Skee-Ball addiction that's definitely more serious than any penchant I might have for playing poker.

After determining that the food is firmly anchored in the kids’ stomachs, I allow them to go on the pony rides. Then we watch a pie-eating contest and are surprised to see a petite Asian woman beat a very large man for the grand prize.

Inspired by watching all that consumption, the kids beg me for cotton candy. Lillian is tired and I carry her while Davy and Francie pull at each other's pink and blue cones. Suddenly I spot Craig holding hands with Megan, heading directly toward us. Megan O'rourke. I should have known. She's been after Craig since high school, at least according to Gwen. I hope she's happy with her sloppy seconds.

There's only an instant to decide whether to grab the kids and quickly turn around, or to stay where we are, in which case they'll surely see me. Looking down at the blue Slushee all over my T-shirt and the general grubbiness of our merry little band of fairgoers I decide to try and hide. However, Megan sees me and starts waving. There's no choice but to wait for them to pass by.

It's an awkward moment when we all say “Hello.” I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that Lillian has pulled out half my ponytail while I was carrying her and that I probably have powdered sugar stuck to my face, in addition to the stained clothes. Meantime Megan looks perfect in a filmy powder-blue silk blouse and an immaculate white skirt that is shrink-wrap tight. She politely asks us to join them. I say that we have to help Jane's mom in the handicrafts barn because she's showing one of her quilts. What a stupid lie—how do you help someone show a quilt?

Craig and Megan continue in the direction of the midway. A buzzer goes off a few feet away and it startles me. A booming voice yells that he'll guess anyone's weight and if he's off by two pounds they win a prize. A woman goes by with a display of pinwheels and helium balloons. I look down and Francie is gone!

“Where is she?” I holler at Darlene and Davy. One points vaguely in the direction of the midway and the other toward the restrooms, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. We search for twenty minutes and then head to the main office. Sure enough, Francie is sitting there eating a Popsicle and happily petting someone's rabbit.

I scold her for getting lost and suggest that if we can't stick together then maybe we should go home. The kids beg to stay for the fireworks and swear on their favorite toys not to get lost again. As we walk out of the aid station the merry-go-round kicks up its dizzying theme song. Coming around the corner I see someone who looks like Mom. It
is
Mom.

“I was hoping to find you!” she says, smiling.

We hurry over, and the kids all yell at once about the rides and the pie-eating contest. Fortunately no one finds the fact that Francie got lost exciting enough to include in their report.

Pastor Costello appears carrying two sugar waffles. “Your mom was all alone, and so I suggested we come look for you,” he says cheerfully, and some powdered sugar spills down his T-shirt, which says:
JESUS—THE ORIGINAL SUPERMAN.

“Hallie, maybe you can go and catch up with some of your friends,” suggests Mom. “We'll take the children.”

“I wouldn't mind seeing if Jane is still in the arcade,” I say.

As we part ways it registers in a corner of my mind that Mom looks rather happy. I'm glad that she came to the fair. Pastor Costello has been so good to us. And I decide here and now that I should stop feeling sorry for myself. Things could be
a lot
worse. With the little bit of insurance money, Dad's modest pension, and social security, Mom will never be wealthy, but we'll manage.

By now the lights on the rides twinkle against the sky, and the smell of fresh caramel being melted onto apples fills the evening air. A barbershop quartet wearing red-and-white-striped vests and blue pants strolls past singing “Lida Rose.” As I walk toward the midway, bells ring, shots go off, megaphoned barkers shout at passersby enticing them to play, and the winners whoop it up when they succeed. Above the games can be heard the screams of people riding the salt and pepper shakers as they hurtle and spin through the air. I look away. If you've been to enough fairs, you know that this is the point where “motion” equals “sickness.” And in my book the only thing worse than vomit is flying vomit.

After making my way through the bustling midway and deafening arcade, I head back toward the handicrafts barn. A band made up of an accordion, banjo, and harmonica sets up on the wooden stage for the crowning of the Cherry Queen (yes, the boys have fun with that one). Bursts of raucous laughter come from the beer tent, while a few feet away strains of “Blessed Be the Ties That Bind” issue from the revival tent. Directly above the tent is the large and indifferent yellow stare of a great August moon.

Just before turning left toward the soft but insistent lowing that issues from the Mooternity barn, I spot Craig and Megan climbing onto the Ferris wheel together. The scream is silent, but it's there, all the same.

A
T FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING I WAKE UP AND CAN'T FALL
back to sleep. Not wanting to rouse anyone by starting a car, I ride my bike toward the Stocktons’. Morning is still part of night, and everything is a different shade of gray. The beauty of four in the morning is not its furnishings and décor, but its aim-lessness and stolen quality. I suppose that's why Cappy always calls it “The Convict Hour.”

I lean my bike against the side of the house and slip into the yard. The wind sighs in the birch trees and the butterfly bushes drip moisture from their leaves. Sitting by the edge of the pond I stare down at the fish, serene and barely moving, as if their alarm clocks haven't yet gone off.

Somewhere between the breeze and the faraway sound of a train comes a single line of birdsong. As the sun peeks above the horizon, light begins to spread like a flower of fire. A cardinal flits from one tree to another, making a bright red brushstroke in the air.

Soon the gray sky is a cool timeless blue and the golden sunshine has turned the pond surface into a hundred flashing diamonds. I hear sounds coming through the open windows of the house but no voices.

That is until a voice directly behind me says, “Don't mind me, I've just come to pick some rosemary for a loaf of bread I'm making.”

I continue lying in the grass, looking up at early morning sky that's still gauzy with starlight. “Do you ever think about death, Bernard? How you're going to die? When? And what happens afterward?”

“Never. I'm very much opposed to the idea,” he says. “Now come inside, and I'll make you some popes Benedict.” This is Bernard's latest creation—a mushroom, goat cheese, and dill omelet cut into the shape of a cross.

I follow him inside and watch while he fills the bread machine and brews a fresh pot of coffee.

“You're up early,” he says.

“Couldn't sleep.” I rummage through the fridge for a chocolate Yoo-hoo.

“Well, the headline here is: Duel resolves dueling boyfriends. We have fled madness and found gladness.”

“And exactly how did you know that Darius would take off rather than call your bluff?” I slump down at the kitchen table and chug directly from the bottle.

“I think the fact that I included a plane ticket helped to sway him just a teensy bit.” Bernard gives me a wink. “Plus I mentioned that Ottavio was not only a master dueler, but also a war hero.”

“War hero?” I ask. “He's never even been in the military.”

Bernard waves his arms as if I'm trying to sabotage him, pretends to pull at his hair, and then clamps a hand over my mouth. It would be an understatement to say that he's addicted to the dramatic gesture.

“The main thing is that they're back together!” concludes Bernard. “Like two peas in a pod!”

I want to be happy about this turn of events but it's not my day for happiness. Plus I can't be sure that Bernard's not exaggerating the reconciliation. “And where is the happy couple?”

“Upstairs preparing to attend a vigil for the homeless in Cleveland.” Bernard suddenly turns growly. “It's too much for Mother to admit that I was right, and so she's aggravating me by sleeping outside all night and will most likely get arrested for vagrancy. Only she's going to be surprised when I don't come to her rescue with the bail checkbook.”

“She'd love nothing better,” I say. It's a well-known fact that Bernard has had to literally drag Olivia out of prison on more than one occasion after she's been arrested while marching or protesting. She likes being incarcerated because it gets more publicity for her cause of the week.

Bernard stares at my face for a long moment, as if it's the first time he's noticed me in weeks. “What is going on with you? You look
terrible.”
He takes my ponytail in his hand. “Holy hairpins! Are you using a two-in-one shampoo conditioner?”

“Whatever is on sale,” I say, and free myself from his grip.

“Are you still wallowing? The Craig breakup was months ago! It's time for a comeback.”

“I'm turning nineteen in two weeks. Isn't that a little young to make a comeback?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” scoffs Bernard. “Every time Judy Garland returned from the powder room the press called it a comeback.”

“It's no use,” I say. “I ruined my life.”

“I hardly think so,” says Bernard. “Let's take a page from Dinah Washington's songbook, shall we?”

He disappears into the living room and after a few minutes I hear the song “What a Difference a Day Makes” playing on the stereo.

Bernard reappears and announces, “Dinah was accused of selling out by the critics as well as her contemporaries, and she married seven times.”

“And the last marriage was terrific?” I ask hopefully.

“Not exactly. She struggled with a weight problem and died from an overdose of diet pills mixed with alcohol at age thirty-nine. But Dinah was still in peak voice, singing at a blues club in Los Angeles just two weeks before the end!”

“And what am I supposed to do with
that
information?”

“Change your perfume, find a new hobby, learn a language,” Bernard reels off suggestions.

“My routine is baby-sitting and weeding,” I say. “And I don't have time for hobbies or new languages.”

Bernard sighs as if I'm a hopeless case. “Shop at a new mall. Do
something!”

We hear Olivia humming as she comes down the stairs, followed by the shuffling of papers in her den.

“She's probably searching for her copy of the Declaration of Independence to read aloud at the protest,” says Bernard. He pushes me toward her den. “Go have Mother give you one of her stop-cursing-the-darkness-and-light-a-candle speeches.”

“But I'm not
cursing
about anything.”

“You're moping. It's ten times worse, and I can't take it anymore.”

I enter Olivia's den and close the accordion door behind me. Though it's more to escape Bernard's frantic cheerfulness than anything else.

“Welcome home,” I say.

“Thank you, Hallie. But a lot of people don't have homes or even the basic level of housing, and that's why we're organizing an overnight vigil in front of city hall. They can no longer keep us quiet with bread and circuses.” She raises her left hand above
her head as if the protest has already begun and the floor lamp is the mayor.

“Is Ottavio going with you?”

“Yes, we've kissed and made up,” says Olivia. “And as much as it pains me to admit this, Bertie was right. Darius was too young for me.”

It sounds very much as if a self-satisfied harrumph comes from the other side of the door, even though running water can be heard in the kitchen, indicating that Bernard, the inveterate eavesdropper, is only pretending to wash dishes.

Olivia glances in the direction of the noise and adds, “It's just as well. He wasn't very good in bed.”