Beginner's Luck Read online

  "Those are chives." Mr. Bernard hands me another bag that is apparently rosemary. "Then add a pinch of ground pepper and drag the hens through it."

  Mr. Bernard appears to thrive on the entire cooking process. He becomes quite animated and hums and sings and dashes around whisking this and tasting that.

  "You see, Hallie, cooking is another art form. You combine different elements in an effort to coax your vision into a reality—just as a painting has light, shape, color, and texture, yet at the same time it's also purely the expression of the artist."

  After about an hour of dicing and stirring and broiling and basting, we actually have this incredible-looking meal. Though I have no idea how it will taste.

  When we finish laying the table in the dining room with what would in my home be considered the "good" dishes and flatware, Mr. Bernard lights some tall ivory candles in silver candlestick holders and switches the radio station from jazz to classical.

  "Call Mother to the table, please," says Mr. Bernard. "Hopefully she's not on some sort of fast to protest genetically altered crops. That's her latest."

  Ms. Olivia enters the dining room and peers skeptically at the beautifully garnished dinner that is carefully arranged on shiny black china plates with gold rims. "I know exactly what my son is up to. He told you cooking is a form of art, right—light, shape, and color and all that philosophical flapdoodle? Well, it's malarkey. Cooking is a job that you should get paid to do. And just because we're paying you to mow the lawn doesn't mean you have to play kitchen copilot for the Julia Child of Cosgrove County."

  "Mother, please!"

  "Well, I don't want Hallie to think that chopping celery is part of her job," Ms. Olivia replies and takes her seat at the table. "Not all women are domestically inclined."

  Mr. Gil enters the room and takes a seat at the head of the table. "Please say grace, Bertie," he says. "We don't want Hallie to think we're heathens."

  I quickly fold my hands and bow my head.

  "Yes, of course." Mr. Bernard briefly steeples his hands and quickly clears his throat. "Grace Kelly." Then he passes me the platter with the Cornish hens.

  , "Did I have a vision of Madeleine on the sun porch last night, or was it just my imagination?" asks Mr. Gil.

  I perk up my ears. Madeleine must be the resident ghost. The fact that I'm completely lost doesn't go unnoticed by Mr. Bernard. "Hallie, you know those shell-shaped cakes you arranged on the dessert platter?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, they're said to be named for their inventor, Madeleine Paulmier, a nineteenth-century pastry cook in France. Supposedly it was on a visit to his mother that the famous French author Marcel Proust was served the scalloped petite madeleine."

  Mr. Gil turns to me. "So the story goes that the taste of the petite madeleine brought back a flood of memories to Proust, and he went home and wrote his masterpiece, Remembrance of Things Past.”

  "Perhaps you'll write a novel someday, Hallie," Ms. Olivia says enthusiastically, as if this is a perfectly reasonable aspiration for someone who has just dropped out of high school and now mows lawns for a living. "Although Bertie tells me you enjoy creating collages."

  "I made a few for school projects and that sort of thing."

  "Then I'd love for you to fashion a large collage on the garage door," says Ms. Olivia. "In the spring there's a garden tour that comes down our street, and I want to make a statement next year. Preferably a political one—perhaps a representation of all the spirits of female Chinese babies using plastic dolls, victims of infanticide, or of women bleeding to death as a result of female circumcision."

  "Arghh," goes Mr. Gil.

  "Ugh," says Mr. Bernard and drops his fork so that it makes a clattering sound on his plate.

  Ms. Olivia dismisses them with a wave of her hand. "Pay no attention to those two. If it were up to them, the great Mexican fresco painter Diego Rivera would have had to earn his living sculpting Zapata miniatures out of driftwood and hocking them to tourists." She turns her attention back to me. "As the artiste, you must of course select a subject that speaks to you personally. It's not supposed to be about me."

  "And when is it not about you, Mother?" Mr. Bernard says dryly.

  "People who cook with glass mixing bowls shouldn't throw beaters," Ms. Olivia shoots back. "Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait."

  "If youth but knew, if old age could," Mr. Gil translates.

  When he's certain that Ms. Olivia's finished, Mr. Bernard pronounces, "I think a collage is a grand idea. Use anything you want from the garage."

  "Use everything in the garage," Mr. Gil chimes in. "I'm begging you."

  "A garage collage," I say.

  "More like a garbage collage," says Mr. Gil.

  "Okay," I agree. "If you're sure you don't mind."

  "Not at all," says Mr. Bernard. "We haven't had a decent crowd of photographers out front since Mother scribed an editorial protesting prayer in the public school system."

  "But it succeeded, didn't it?" Ms. Olivia states proudly. "Besides, I could have taken it much further. You know, the Pledge of Allegiance shouldn't even be allowed in public schools. It clearly states one nation under God. If they want to change the law, then that's fine, let them go ahead and try, but in the meantime it clearly calls for separation of church and state."

  "If you consider the school board suing us for seditious libel after you handed out those flyers a success, and your having to set up a legal defense fund, then I'd say that it worked very well indeed," says Mr. Bernard.

  "What I of course meant was that the resulting fracas forced the state legislature to become involved and start a debate over the issue. And a debate in the public forum is the seed of revolution. That's how the city of Boston started the Revolutionary War."

  As if Ms. Olivia isn't even at the table, Mr. Bernard turns to me and says, "Once a guest at a White House reception told Calvin Coolidge, 'I'm from Boston,' and the president replied, 'You'll never get over it.' Well, it's the same way around here."

  I'm grateful that I at least know who Coolidge is and that this time I can follow the conversation. I bought a pocket dictionary the other day just to look up the words they use—like ludicrous. Mr. Bernard constantly tells Ms. Olivia not to be ludicrous. Also, he said that the hearts of palm salad was salubrious. And that the way I edged the front walkway was splendiferous.

  "Hallie," Ms. Olivia turns to me, "I have nothing against praying privately, but do you think it's fair to have organized Christian monotheistic worship in a public institution where children are Muslim, Buddhist, Skeptic, and Zoroastrian?"

  "That's just the point, Mother, there aren't any Muslims or Buddhists or Zoroastrians in Cosgrove County."

  Honestly, I need a translator. There are two words in the question that I've never heard of before: mono-whatever and Skeptic. Forget about Zoroastrian. Do I ask, agree, or dodge the whole thing altogether?

  Mr. Bernard seems to sense my discomfort and kindly gives me an out. "Mother, I don't think it's necessary for Hallie to posit her political platform."

  I gather up my courage and ask, "What's mono-whatever and Skeptic?"

  "Monotheism is the belief in one God to which the majority of this country—Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and so forth—adheres. Polytheism is the belief in many gods," Mr. Bernard explains. "You'll find it in modern-day India and ancient Greece—you know, Zeus and Eros and all those characters."

  "India is an excellent example," Ms. Olivia enthuses. "Agni is the fire god, Vayu the wind god, and Indra is the god of storms."

  "And Skeptic?" I remind them.

  "Bertie!" Ms. Olivia says.

  "What?" Mr. Bernard asks.

  "You're a Skeptic," she says.

  "Yes, I suppose so. It means that you've not yet reached any firm conclusions about the existence of God, heaven and hell, and so forth."

  "Bertie's a fallen Unitarian," says Ms. Olivia.

  "There's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one," Mr. Gil
chimes in.

  They all laugh and so I fake a smile to look as if I, too, get the joke. But I figure I'd better look up the word oxymoron, even though it sounds like a new acne medication.

  "What's the difference between being a Skeptic and being a Unitarian?" I ask.

  "Very simple," Mr. Bernard states. "I mind my own business and that way I don't get arrested." He shoots an accusatory glance at Ms. Olivia. "Mother, your taking on the Boy Scouts is the last straw. Really, they tie knots and cook over campfires and help old ladies to cross the street."

  "They shouldn't be requiring boys to pledge themselves to God as part of the inclusion process. And I disagree with the requirements for earning the religion badge. I've told you before, most wars have been fought in the name of God. More people have been slaughtered in the name of God or Allah or Yahweh than anything else."

  "Here we go ...," says Mr. Bernard.

  "If they're going to pray in the schools, then they should offer all different kinds so that no one is left out," I say. "Like we sing Christmas and Hanukkah songs."

  "Sensible girl." Ms. Olivia smiles at me.

  Mr. Gil interrupts. "It's time for some Breakfast at Tiffany's and Givenchy. Let's save the Boy Scout jamboree debate, nuclear nonproliferation, and global warming for a breakfast summit, if that's agreeable to all the delegates."

  Ms. Olivia leans across the table toward me and speaks softly, as if she doesn't want Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil to hear her, but of course she really does. "You see, Hallie, what Gil and Bertie don't understand is that it's our differences that bring us together, and in the end, it's our shared convictions that tear us apart."

  After the movie ends and Holly Golightly and her handsome new boyfriend return to the alley and find Cat, I decide that this Audrey Hepburn has some nice clothes for a person who makes only fifty bucks every few days for going to the powder room.

  "Why does the older woman give Holly's boyfriend clothes and money?" I ask. "Is he working on a writing project for her?"

  "He's a male escort," says Mr. Gil.

  "A walker," adds Mr. Bernard.

  "He's being kept by her," further explains Mr. Gil.

  I must still look confused.

  "She pays his bills," says Mr. Bernard.

  "Oh." I think about that for a second and wonder how he found such a job. It's doubtful there was a sign at the Star-Mart for that. "I like that song she sang on the fire escape."

  "It just goes to show you what idiots directors are," Mr. Bernard says knowingly. "They were going to cut 'Moon River' from the film."

  When it's time to say good night we act out the charade that I'm going to climb on my bike and ride somewhere other than the backyard. Because we all realize that if they don't acknowledge my living here then they're not really lying to the authorities.

  "Get home safely," Mr. Bernard says with a twinkle in his eye.

  Since the following day is a Sunday, I'd been considering taking some time off and heading out to the track. After all, it's the last racing day of the season.

  "Uh, did you want me to start painting tomorrow?"

  "You may have the weekends off. Or if you want to earn extra funds, then you can work," he says. "It's completely up to you."

  "Okay, I'll see what I feel like in the morning. If it's nice weather, I might take off and go for a bike ride."

  Back in the summerhouse the trees sift the moonlight so that nightfall covers the walls like an intricate tapestry. Drifting off to sleep, I hear the song I liked from the movie playing over the speakers: We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin 'round the bend, my Huckleberry friend, Moon River and me.

  I know what a drifter is, but what's a Huckleberry friend ... I wonder? Walkers and Zoroastrians and a feisty old lady who sells drugs out of her summerhouse. Wow. There are so many different occupations. Who knew?

  Chapter 22

  Leaving It to Chance ♣

  The temptation to begin my garage collage is too great, and so I skip the final day at the racetrack even though it's the Thurber Stakes. While sanding the peeling paint off the old wooden doors, I contemplate what type of a statement to make. Unfortunately an enlarged photo of Just Call Me Dick with bars painted over his face to make it appear as if he's trying to escape from prison is out of the question. I'm in enough trouble. About hitting a streak of bad luck Cappy always says: "Know when to cash in your chips."

  It's a big space to fill. I've never seen a real-life collage the size of a garage door. Though I'd seen murals on the sides of buildings and on water towers. If only I had a thousand marbles or seashells or even pennies. Not that I had to cover every last inch of it. Less is more, as my mother likes to say. Though obviously this maxim doesn't apply to having children.

  Mr. Bernard comes out to get the newspaper and invites me in for breakfast. Rocky is in his usual spot sitting next to the Judge and playing that hand game that little kids often enjoy, where you keep lifting your hand off the bottom and putting it on top of the other person's. Only today Rocky is actually dressed in a suit and tie. He looks just like a small human except for the extended tan snout and big ears.

  In the dining room I eat some of Mr. Bernard's French toast, which is very thick and tasty. He makes it from special bread called challah. "Um, why is Rocky all dressed up?" I ask.

  "He's a practicing Catholic," says Mr. Gil seriously but unable to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up.

  "Rocky took Geraldine to church every Sunday for years," explains Ms. Olivia. "He has a lot of friends at Our Lady."

  "Friends," scoffs Mr. Bernard. "If one of the deacons hadn't vouched for Rocky after Geraldine died, the humane society would have put him to sleep on the spot. He went on a bender the likes of—"

  "Now, Bernard," Ms. Olivia interrupts him.

  "Well, let's just say the only thing missing was Giuseppe Verdi's drinking song from La Traviata," Mr. Bernard says with a you know what I mean roll of his eyes.

  "Rocky wasn't born knowing how to mix a cocktail, though I admit he's quite a gifted bartender," says Ms. Olivia. "Someone taught him those behaviors."

  "I hope they keep him away from the communion wine," says Mr. Gil and releases a suppressed giggle.

  "I hope they don't suddenly start believing in evolution, realize that they're descended from his ancestors, and excommunicate him," says Ms. Olivia, joining in the spirit of fun. "I've always found there to be an uncanny resemblance between Rocky and Monsignor O'Flaherty, especially around the jaw."

  The church bells begin to chime "Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus," indicating that Mass begins in fifteen minutes, and sure enough, Rocky passes through the dining room in his gray slacks, navy blue jacket, and red tie, looking absolutely presidential, but for the fact that he isn't wearing shoes, and heads out the front door.

  I return to the garage door, and after about two hours of scraping and brooding Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard exit the house carrying a jumble of newspapers covered with red Magic Marker Xs and thick neon yellow highlighter circles and a pile of haphazardly folded road maps. At first I worry that they're off to hunt for a new house. But I can't imagine Mr. Bernard giving up his herb garden or Ms. Olivia her Druid Circle. And besides, we'd just planted fifty tulip bulbs on Wednesday.

  "Oh my, look here, if it isn't Hallie Longstocking!" Mr. Bernard says as he passes my ladder. I assume this is a reference to Pippi Longstocking because my hair is tied up in two braids to keep it from collecting paint crud. He and Mr. Gil open the car doors.

  "Now wish us luck," says Mr. Bernard.

  "Where are you going?" I ask.

  "Picking," Mr. Gil answers.

  "Please." Mr. Bernard scoffs at him. "We're scouting for undiscovered and underappreciated treasures."

  "More like underpriced treasures," Mr. Gil corrects him.

  Mr. Bernard amiably disregards this comment. "And we must hurry if we are to arrive before the vultures."

  "Yard sales," Mr. Gil informs me. He comes over as if to inspect
my work and whispers, "Use everything you can from the garage and throw the rest away. I'll pay you a bonus to dispose of it all."

  "Come along, Tonto," Mr. Bernard says impatiently. "I have a presentiment that somewhere out there in this great land of ours an old dowager who accidentally drove her car through the back of the garage is being forced into a twilight home by her mendacious offspring and her Regency mantel clock with the satinwood balloon case, sunburst inlay, and pineapple finial is slightly dusty but priced to sell. And I intend to be the best offer."

  Before Mr. Bernard backs his silver Alfa Romeo roadster out of the driveway, he pulls right up next to my ladder and rolls down the window. The car is incredibly cool and he says I can drive it anytime I want. But I'm afraid to. Mr. Bernard claims it's a "vintage automobile," though Mr. Gil says it's more like "previously owned."

  "Be sure and join Mother for lunch. I've made some absolutely brilliant stuffed peppers and a lentil soup. And if you can talk Mother out of rendezvousing with the Italian gigolo in Cuba this weekend, there's an end-of-the-month bonus in it for you." He turns the radio up full blast and I can hear some opera singer blowing out a lung. Then they speed out of the driveway at about forty miles an hour, a cloud of gravel dust like a desert sandstorm rising behind the wheels.

  He can't seriously expect me to change Ms. Olivia's mind or travel plans, can he7. And I don't know—if she wants to go off and meet a boyfriend somewhere I guess that's her business, isn't it? I can't exactly blame Ms. Olivia for wanting a friend her own age.

  Inside the house I find her serenely filing the Judge's nails and trimming his cuticles while harp music plays softly in the background. It's rather sweet to watch the two of them together. The Judge sits there like a complacent three-year-old and lets her fuss over him. Yet it's also sad. This man must have gone to school forever to become a lawyer and a judge, and then he made so many important decisions and now he doesn't remember any of it, or even know what's for breakfast, or worse, who's feeding him breakfast. Ms. Olivia speaks to him as if they're going to enjoy a special day together and he needs to look his best. Once I watched her comb the Judge's hair and then hold up the hand mirror for him to check the results. And I felt sure that she was hoping against hope for a response, some small sign of acknowledgment. But the Judge only stared vaguely past the glass to the television set, even though it was turned off.