Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (23 page)

Later that week, I meet up with Sherrie at her house and Paul drops by. When he says hi to me, I wonder if he’s thinking about what it would be like to fuck me. I look at Sherrie, and we both crack up because she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“What?” Paul says.

“Nothing, sweetie,” Sherrie says.

The three of us sit in the den listening to music, and within seconds, Paul’s creeping me out. Yes, he’s cute, in a Paul McCartney kind of way, but he’s so conceited, and he can’t keep his hands to himself. I mean, does he have to be pawing his girlfriend in public, playing with her hair and rubbing up against her like a dog in heat while I’m sitting there? What a pig! Can’t he wait till I’m gone?

Finally, I tell them I have stuff to do. Sherrie walks me to the door. “Isn’t he great?” she whispers.

“Great,” I say. “I bet your present was a real hit.”

Sherrie laughs. “You should call Ian.” She winks at me. “Remember what I said.”

“The Long and Winding Road”

As we pass through Belleville on Highway 401, fat lazy flakes begin to fall, and by the time we cross into Quebec, winter is as winter should be. Fresh snow softens the sharp edges of the world. We take the exit ramp off the highway into the Town of Mount Royal, and every house, hedge and tree is familiar to me. In front yards, kids are building snowmen with carrot noses and hockey-stick arms. Cars crawl along the white-matted roads. Finally, we pull up to our house, with the
FOR SALE
sign stuck in a snowbank.

The tires of my mother’s station wagon squeak over the hardpacked snow on the driveway. Bobby leaps out of the car and is immediately pelted with snowballs from the Liebermans’ yard. Next door, the ten-year-old Lieberman twins duck into the tunnels of their snow fort, cackling with glee. Bobby whoops a war cry and charges across the yard. The boys hurl snowballs back and forth, just as if we’d never left home.

I spend almost every day and night at Mollie’s, so I don’t really see how things are going between my parents. It isn’t until the evening Dad comes to pick me up on the way to
Grandma and Grandpa Cohen’s that I finally get a chance to be alone with him. If I’m going to bring up the topic of Dr. Katzenberg, this is the perfect opportunity. Mollie thinks I shouldn’t do it. She says that even if my mother is having an affair—which she doesn’t believe—there are some things parents have to sort out for themselves.

Dad turns on the radio in the car and says, “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’? I can hear the wheels of your brain grinding away.”

It’s an opening. I decide to test the waters. “I was just wondering what’s going to happen if you can’t sell the house.”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” Dad says.

“How can you say that? Things don’t work out just because you want them to.”

Dad laughs. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, sometimes you just don’t see things coming.”

“Like moving to Toronto?” he asks, mistaking my point.

“Or worse.”

Dad shakes his head. “You know what, poopsie? The difference between you and me is that I’m an optimist and you’re a pessimist. I’m having a good time, and you’re always worrying about everything. I’m the grasshopper and you’re the ant.”

“You know what happens to the grasshopper,” I say.

“Sure,” Dad says. “The grasshopper dies with a smile on his face remembering all the good times he had singing and
dancing with his buddies, while the uptight, miserly old ant dies of a massive heart attack and no one comes to his funeral.” I roll my eyes, but Dad continues. “So, who had a better life? Eh?” he asks, poking me in the ribs. “You only get one shot, so you might as well enjoy it.” He flashes me a big white smile. “California Dreamin’ ” plays on the radio, and he sings along with Mama Cass, full blast, off-key. I sigh. I could tell him about Dr. Katzenberg, but he probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

Dinner at Grandma and Grandpa Cohen’s is like old times: flowers on the table, polished silver and gold-rimmed china. My mom’s brother, Uncle Phil, has driven up from Boston with Aunt Dina and their three kids. Grandpa sits at the end of the table surrounded by his grandchildren. “How’s school?” he asks me.

“Good.”

“What did you get in chemistry this term?” He always asks about science classes because he wants me to be a doctor.

“Ninety-four.”

“What happened to the other six points?” he jokes.

Grandma gives Grandpa a look. “What’s your favorite subject this year?” she asks.

“Drama,” I say.

“Drama?” Uncle Phil asks, making a face. “You want to be an actress? You can’t make a living doing that.”

“Let her do what she wants,” says Aunt Dina.

“We’re studying
Hamlet
,” I say, trying to prove to them that it’s not all artsy-fartsy.

“Ah, yes,” Grandpa says. “ ‘To be or not to be—that is the question,’ isn’t it? Or is it: To eat dessert or not to eat dessert …”

The cousins squeal, “Grandpaaa!”

After supper, Grandpa pulls us kids into the hall and whispers that the change in his pockets is weighing him down and if he doesn’t get rid of it, he won’t be able to walk (it’s his shtick). He sprinkles coins into our cupped palms. When the others aren’t looking, he slips me a few extra two-dollar bills and says, “Here, go to the movies, but don’t eat popcorn kernels because they’ll crack the enamel on your teeth.”

The Epstein dinners are noisier and wilder than the Cohens’. We’re a big group: Bubby and Zadie, their three married kids and ten grandchildren. When we arrive, Bubby hurries out of the kitchen, arms outstretched. Bobby submits to her squishy hugs and then races off to join the cousins. Bubby looks me over, her brown eyes floating behind her thick glasses like huge dark cherries. “Look at how tall you’ve gotten!” she gushes. “Irving, she could eat soup off my head!” she says to my dad.

Dad says, “Ma, everybody can eat soup off your head.”

In the dining room, Aunt Connie and Aunt Rose, who is looking very tanned from the Florida sunshine, are arranging platters of food. In the kitchen, my little cousins are running around dressed up in Bubby’s old high heels and veiled hats. They’re practicing for a talent show they’ll perform later tonight. In the living room, Zadie, Uncle Mort, Uncle Seymour and my dad stretch out on couches and exchange jokes. Uncle Seymour says, “Hey, Irv, have you heard the one about Trudeau going to heaven?”

My cousin Joe is in the den, and I’m surprised by how much he’s changed in four months. His hair is down to his shoulders now, and he’s wearing a puka shell necklace.

“You’ve turned into a hippie,” I say.

“That’s Florida for you,” he says. “On campus, they call me a radical just for listening to music with the black kids. So, I guess I’m a radical.” He grins.

Over dinner, the adults discuss Quebec politics: Will the Parti Québécois win the next election, and if they do, will Quebec really separate?

“Sun Life is moving their head office to Toronto,” Uncle Mort says to my dad.

“When the big money leaves town, you know things are bad,” Uncle Seymour says.

“I don’t see why everyone has to panic,” says Aunt Connie.

“Maybe because René Lévesque is the most popular man
in Quebec right now,” Aunt Rose says. “And if he holds a referendum on separation, then—”

“Let him put it to a vote,” my dad interrupts. “It will never pass.”

“How can you be so sure?” Mom asks.

Everyone starts talking at once.

“Let’s go,” Joe whispers. We’ve heard enough. We head up the creaky spiral staircase to the unlit second floor. When we were little, we used to be scared to come up here because the furniture is covered in dusty white sheets, like a haunted house, but as teenagers, the upper floor became our refuge. Tonight, we stretch out on my dad’s old lumpy bed. Joe lights a cigarette, and the smoke curls above our heads into the inky corners of the room.

Joe tells me about life in Gainesville. “The whole place is bizarre,” he says. “For one thing, football is like a religion there. If you’re not into football, you’re un-American. And there’s this huge right-wing culture: military guys in crew cuts, blonde sorority girls and these Holy Roller Christians with their pro-Jesus, pro-war, antiabortion, racist pamphlets.” Joe takes a drag and slowly exhales. “It’s enough to turn you into a commie.” He grins.

I laugh. “I bet you wish you were going to McGill.”

“I’ll never become an American, that’s for sure,” Joe says. “What about you? How’s life in Toronto?” From the way he glances at me, I can tell there’s been talk.

“What have you heard?” I ask.

“That you’re a pain in the ass.”

I smirk. “Guilty as charged.” I tell him about school, but I don’t mention Dr. Katzenberg. Not that Joe would tell anyone. It’s just a line I can’t cross.

When it’s time to go, Joe scribbles down his Gainesville phone number. “It’s the floor phone in the dorm. Someone always answers it, and they’ll come get me if you ever want to shoot the shit.” When he passes me the paper, I get this bad feeling. It’s like he’s writing down the number of a crisis line, just in case something blows up in my face.

“No Sugar Tonight”

There’s nothing worse than spending New Year’s Eve in front of the
TV
watching a bunch of drunk people in Times Square singing “Auld Lang Syne”—which is a dumb song because no one understands what the hell it means anyway. Unfortunately, the only party I know of is Sandy Kirkpatrick’s, and Sandy is friends with Jim Malone, and if Jim’s going, Ian will be there too.

“I don’t want to be in the same house as that jerk,” I say, nibbling on a slice of prosciutto. Deb, Mar and I are in the kitchen fixing hors d’oeuvres for Ma’s annual New Year’s Eve bash.

“Maybe Ian’s out of town,” Marlene says.

“We could always check it out,” Debbie says. She wants to go to the party to show off her Mexican tan, even if it
is
peeling.

“Well, I’m not going, but feel free to go without me,” I say flippantly. Deb and Mar look at each other, disappointed.

“I guess we don’t have to,” Mar says.

“I guess not,” Deb sighs.

Ma marches into the kitchen carrying a jar of homemade antipasto. “And what’s wrong with
my
party?” she says. “There’s food, wine … and everyone’s invited.”

“Is Mrs. Epstein coming?” I ask, smirking at Deb and Mar behind Ma’s back. The last time we saw Mrs. Epstein was at the movie with Loverboy.

“Of course she’s coming,” Ma says.

“Is she coming alone?” I ask, winking at Deb and Mar.

“I told her to bring Julia and Bobby,” Ma says. I groan. Nonna shuffles into the room. Ma gives me a fierce look. “Carla, be nice to Julia,” she says. “When you’re the host of a party, it’s your job to make everyone welcome.
Capisci?
”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say.

Nonna wags a finger at me and says,
“Non sputare in aria; che ti ricade in testa.”

I translate for Deb and Mar. “Don’t spit in the wind; it might land on your head.”

For the party, I wear my absolutely favorite Christmas present of all: a pair of stunning, knee-high, brown suede lace-up boots. I love my new boots! It takes forever to do up the laces, but I don’t care. The boots are so soft, they make me feel like Hiawatha, Indian princess.

When Marlene and Debbie arrive, I pour us all glasses of wine.

“Your parents don’t mind?” Mar asks, taking a glass.

“We’re Italian,” I say. “Wine with food is no big deal.”

“Anyway, it’s New Year’s Eve,” Deb says.

“Yeah,” I say. “So let’s get drunk.”

After two glasses of wine, I decide that the best way to get through the evening is to pretend I’m Queen Gertrude.
Hamlet
auditions are coming up, and I could use the practice. Mr. Gabor told us that in order to get into character, you have to understand how a person moves, so I stroll around the living room pretending I’m wearing a velvet gown loaded with pearls and jewels. I nod and smile, greeting the local peasants, saying, “Hello, so nice to see you,” in a hoity-toity English accent. By the time the Epsteins show up, I’m on my third drink and I’m having fun. I sail over to Mrs. Epstein and say, “Ah, Mrs. Epstein, don’t you look lovely this evening.”