The Big Shuffle (30 page)

We hear a glass drop and smash on the floor right outside the door.

O
LIVIA AND OTTAVIO ARE LOADING THE CAR WITH BLANKETS
and big cardboard signs as I'm getting ready to leave. Bernard stands by the side of the driveway trying to talk her out of spending the night on a sidewalk in downtown Cleveland.

“Mother, what is the point of all this nonsense?” he asks, arms akimbo. “The legislature
can't
include a new shelter in the budget—there isn't enough money for the pensions they already owe.”

“Those people can advocate for themselves,” Olivia says tersely. “The homeless cannot.”

“Yes, Mother, I understand all that,” continues Bernard. “But this is a done deal—your legislation is
not
going to pass. People have already announced how they're voting. Tell your Unitarian jihadists to turn their efforts to something that has a chance.”

“We might still change some minds,” says Olivia. “Convincing Americans that we needed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 didn't happen overnight.”

“Then write editorials or get up another petition,” says Bernard. “Why do you have to sleep outside overnight and then personally attend the vote?”

Olivia suddenly comes to life and switches from a measured but dismissive tone to one of tremendous valor.
“Why?
For the same reason that Eleanor Roosevelt sat through the congressional session where they voted down the Anti-Lynching Bill—
to bear witness!”

Bernard drops his arms and throws his head back. “Fine, then what are you going to eat while
bearing witness?
It sounds like a real calorie-burner.”

“We'll be homeless people,” says Olivia. “Whatever we can scrounge up or nothing at all.”

Olivia and Ottavio climb into the cherry-red Buick, the ends of their picket signs sticking out the back windows.

“That's where I draw the line—at the two of you Dumpster diving or starving to death on the mean streets of downtown Cleveland,” says Bernard. “Wait just a minute. I made up a basket with eggplant, tomato, and mozzarella panini sandwiches, Tuscan white bean soup, and some fruit salad.”

Olivia appears to consider for a moment. “I'm not sure that wouldn't be cheating.”

“Don't worry,” Bernard assures her, “there's plenty of extra so you can share it with all your homeless friends.”

“Oh, I suppose that's all right,” Olivia replies gaily, as if they're heading off on vacation.

Bernard dashes inside to fetch the food before they can escape.

I wish them both luck and hop on my bicycle. On the way home I usually stop at the Star-Mart to pick up some groceries, but since I don't have a car today it's easier to stop at the convenience store.

“Hey, Hallie!” I hear from the far end of the aisle. “It's me, Auggie.”

“Oh my gosh! I-I thought you moved to Russia.” Last I heard,
my two dates with Auggie the previous summer had the effect of rocketing him back across the Atlantic and into the arms of his ex. Because unlike the women who drive men crazy, I drive them away. Far away.

He smiles sheepishly as if to say,
Oh yeah, that.
“I'm back,” he says, holding up an apple and bottle of iced tea as if to prove it.

“Here?”
I ask.

“No, no. Just passing through on my way to Iowa.”

I look further surprised.

“School—the University of Iowa.”

“Congratulations!”

“I'm going to study writing.”

“You should. That's wonderful.”

Only Auggie's preoccupied by the unusual necklace that June made for me. “Are those crystals?” He starts to laugh.

“Yeah, why?” I take them protectively in my hand. “You think they're stupid, right?”

“No, of course not. The universe is all about energy. It's just that, well, you're the last person I ever thought would be wearing them. You're just so—”

“So
what?”

“I don't know … mathematical,” says Auggie.

Frowning back at him, I uncomfortably kick at a piece of gum that's stuck to the floor.

“Come on, don't get mad. They're great,” he says sincerely. “And I was really sorry to hear about your dad.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Auggie nods toward his beat-up tan Chevy Cavalier out front with all his stuff packed inside and a box strapped to the roof. “I'm leaving early in the morning—but, uh, do you want to go out tonight?”

“Out? Okay, sure.” It's been so long that I don't even know
where out is anymore. I may as well have a court-mandated curfew.

“One of Grandpa's friends has this restaurant on a restored riverboat near Cleveland called Lolita's—ever hear of it?”

“Sure.” Lolita's was famous for being high class, expensive, and, well, Italian owned and operated. “It's sort of fancy, isn't it?”

Auggie glances down at his T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. “I guess I'd better wear a jacket. But you look good in anything. What time should I pick you up?”

My mother is not especially judgmental, but I decide that in view of the last few months, her precarious mental health might be upset by Auggie's peace sign earring, long hair, and beaded necklace.

“Why don't we meet there?” I quickly suggest.

“It's kind of a long drive,” says Auggie.

“How about Cappy's office at the pool hall?”

“I'm spending the night at his place,” says Auggie. “Can you come over there at about six?”

“Is that on the dirt road off Millersport?”

“Yeah, it's the only turnoff. You can't miss it.”

“It's a date,” I say.

“Then don't be late,” says Auggie.

L
OUISE CAN'T BELIEVE HER EARS WHEN I ASK TO BORROW A DRESS
and some shoes. “If you need cash that desperately I can give you a loan,” she offers.

“I'm flattered that you think I could make money as a prostitute, but I actually have a date. Only don't tell Mom. He wears an earring and has a ponytail.”

“It sucks being the oldest girls,” says Louise. “Mom is not going to give a shit if Francie and Lillian's boyfriends have tattoos and nose rings and do lines of cocaine on the coffee table.”

“Are you kidding? Mom is so cheap, can you imagine her watching someone put five hundred bucks up their nose?”

“You're right,” says Louise. “Nervous breakdown numbers two and three.”

We both giggle. Of course we know it's terrible to make fun of everything that's happened. On the other hand, Louise and I have become much closer since she's moved home.

Louise holds up a green sundress that doesn't look too much like a shower curtain and hands me a pretty white silk cardigan to wear over it. She rummages around her jewelry box and pulls out some opal earrings set in gold. “Here, these will look nice with it.”

I put them on and check the mirror. “Thanks,” I say.

“You look really pretty,” she says.

“I look as if I'm eloping in a pickup truck,” I say.

“Having people always tell you that you're pretty is nice,” says Louise. “But after a while you begin to wonder if they'd still want to be your friend if you weren't considered attractive, or, worse, if you were suddenly disfigured in a horrible fire. Or scarred by bad acne. Or mauled by a bear.”

Obviously she's given some thought to this.

“You mean, like rich people have to wonder why people want to be their friend?” I ask.

“I suppose.”

“I guess we're pretty lucky that we don't have to worry about that!” I joke.

“Amen to that!” we both imitate Pastor Costello, in word and enthusiasm.

“Why is your hair so dry? Can't you ever wear a hat when you're out in the sun?”

“My hair would be dry if I lived in an underwater cave with Ariel the mermaid,” I report. “My system has a conditioner deficiency.”

Louise picks through her magic potions and selects a tube of something to squeeze into her palms and apply to my straw head. She doesn't look overly pleased with the results and tries adding more.

“Oh, for God's sake,” says Louise in frustration and grabs the bottle of hand lotion off her night table. She pours white glop into her palm and styles my hair anew. Suddenly she looks pleased. “Better.”

I take a quick glance in the mirror. “Not bad. Definitely got rid of the frizzies and flyaways.”

“Just don't let anybody touch it,” she adds.

“Great, now you tell me.” Putting my hands to my head I
have to admit that there's a certain Bundt-cake-mold feeling to it.

While grabbing my car keys it occurs to me that I have to tell Mom
something.
If I say that I'm going on a date, she might ask me about Craig. At first I figured one of the church ladies or Pastor Costello would spill the beans, but I've quickly learned that when you are just out of a mental institute people concentrate on delivering only happy news.

“Oh, Hallie! You look lovely!” Mom surprises me at the bottom of the stairs.

“Thanks,” I say. “So do you.” She's wearing a housecoat and white canvas shoes and so this is pretty stupid.

“Why, thank you,” she says. “I feel well and I guess that's the main thing.”

“Amen to that!” The phrase is still ringing in my head.

“You're going out, I take it?”

“A party,” I lie. “With some friends from college.” Another lie.

“You couldn't have a nicer night for a party,” she says. “Have fun.”

Interrogation over. She knows I'm lying.

I
T'S A WARM EVENING AFTER A HOT DAY. SUMMER IS FADING AWAY
, drifting into a green haze. The sky is streaked with purple, and a fresco of light and shadows play across the lawns as the sprinklers rise and fall.

I've never been to Cappy's house before. It's the only driveway along a road that makes up the northern edge of town. Or at least it used to. Now after two hundred yards you get to a development of brand-new McMansions with names like Shady Glen and Idyllic Forest, basically a description of what was destroyed to build them.

Finally I come to a big rambling Spanish-style hacienda with wide stone walkways and a red tile roof. There's a similarly styled guesthouse in the back with Auggie's hunk-of-junk car parked in front, and so I pull up next to it.

Adjacent to the main house is an enormous swimming pool surrounded by a wrought-iron fence decorated with big bronze suns. At both ends of the pool are tiled fountains that make pleasant trickling sounds. Large painted clay pots stand in every corner decorated with glazes of intense cobalt blues, radiant yellows, and rusty reds.

It's quite a surprise, almost like a mirage. Cappy's office down at the pool hall contains some old metal furniture that looks like it was found out by the curb on garbage day. The walls there are a sickly yellow color, and whether it's paint or smoke, or more likely a toxic combination, is hard to tell.

The door to the guesthouse is ajar, and I can see Auggie standing over a mound of laundry wearing a nice black suit with a maroon shirt underneath. Now that he's showered and changed it's clear that Auggie is still as attractive as ever, with his smooth face, slim hips, and fine features. On the other hand, I don't know why I'm bothering to notice after our last date was such a disaster—me falling in love with him while he was longing for another woman. And that's not even touching on the part of the evening when he casually announced his bisexuality.

“Just give me a minute to throw in some wash,” he says.

The guesthouse contains its own washer and dryer behind some tall shutters next to the bathroom. In the kitchen area hang a dozen or so bright copper pots, and along the far wall is a fireplace big enough to cook in. With the tiled floor and exposed-beam ceiling, the interior looks like a set for a movie that takes place in the old Southwest.

“This place is unbelievable!” I say.

“Grandpa has dealers in Mexico and South America send native crafts and handmade furniture. That way he freshens up his money and invests at the same time. Cappy says the stock market is up and down like a whore's drawers.”

We both giggle because no one else
would
say such a thing but Cappy.

I suddenly hear what sounds like someone crying for help. I'm aware that Cappy runs a thriving bookmaking operation, but he supposedly retired from certain moneylending aspects of the business a long time ago.

Seeing the look of alarm on my face, Auggie quickly explains, “Peacocks.”

“Peacocks?”

“That's the way the males sound. Cappy hates them. But this guy couldn't pay for a bet, so he gave Cappy peacocks instead,” explains Auggie. “I told him you were coming. Go over to the house and say hi.”

Everywhere I look are graceful arches, palm-dotted gardens, and big terra-cotta urns decorated with flowers, geometric patterns, and Spanish writing. If Cappy ever decides to head south of the border, he's doing a good job acclimatizing himself.

“Hey, Red, what's the word?” I hear before I've even had a chance to knock on the screen door.

C
APPY IS IN HIS STANDARD SUMMER OUTFIT OF A CHECKED BOATING
cap, white shirt, white shoes, brown socks, and Bermuda shorts. He acts as if it's perfectly normal for me to be standing in a sundress at his door. “I've been meaning to stop by and see how you're getting along, but I'm terrible with stuff like that.”

“Thanks for the food basket,” I say. It was about ten times bigger than all the others and from some fancy place in New York.

“It was the least I could do. You can't eat flowers, right?”

Cappy doesn't ask me about Auggie. He never asks who you're dating. Cappy says that when a person comes looking for a spouse or family member, perhaps with court papers in hand or a sawed-off shotgun, he likes to be able to honestly say that he doesn't know anything.

“This is quite a place!” I say. On the far wall is a mural of galloping horses that look as if they're about to plow us right over. Leading up the spiral staircase hangs a tin mask collection. All that's missing is a herd of piñatas.

“Come on, I'll give you the grand tour.”

Everywhere I look there's ornate wrought iron and delicately carved wood, colorful tiles, and arched pueblo doorways. The upstairs hallway glows from a combination of golden-hued plaster and brightly colored tapestries. The master bedroom features a wooden bed built right into the wall that's covered with a brown and red Indian blanket.