Nora (5 page)

Daddy? A sweet talker? Patsy and I exchanged looks. Adult dialogue can be very revealing. I've decided no one is precisely the person they seem.

Most of Baba's friends have had little tucks taken here and there, she said.

“Tucks? Like sewing? With a needle and thread, you mean?” I said.

“When the face starts to sag, they have tucks taken,” Baba explained. “To make themselves look better. But I am as God made me,” she said proudly, lifting her head and retying her pink silk scarf. “A bit of color around the face distracts the eye and also conceals wrinkles in the neck.”

“God made you a handsome woman and you remain one,” Daddy said. “Now let's see about the portrait.”

It was Sunday. After church we went out for brunch—a special treat. When we got home Dee Dulin had asked Daddy if she could borrow Mother's portrait to hang in a one-man show she was having in a local art gallery, and Daddy had taken it down from its accustomed place. We all stood looking at the bare spot, which seemed stark and empty without it.

“What do you think, girls?” Daddy had said. “Is it all right with you?”

“It's only a loan, right; not for keeps?” I said.

“Only a loan,” Daddy said.

We watched as Daddy put the portrait against the wall with great care, as if it were made of glass. “It's a wonderful likeness,” he said softly, running his hand over Mother's red shawl, her face.

“This room could stand a coat of paint,” Baba said, hands on hips, lips pursed. “Gray would be nice, with a touch of green to it, perhaps. Gray's a lovely soothing color.”

“I like red. How about red?” I said.

“No, yellow,” Patsy piped up. “Yellow's a happy color.”

“So's red.”

“Later, girls,” Daddy said.

“It's none of my business, Sam,” said Baba, “but you really should get someone in to wash the windows. The longer you let them go, the harder it is to get them clean.”

“Maybe later,” Daddy said again.

“And furthermore,” Baba said, “I know it's none of …”

“My business!” Patsy and I cried in unison.

“Girls,” Daddy said sternly.

Baba pulled a hurt face. “I only want to be of some help,” she said. “Why not let me call my little man, the one who's so reasonable, and have him come out and give you an estimate, at least.”

“I'm very busy at the office right now. It'll have to wait.” Daddy spoke in a voice that ended the discussion.

“Far be it from me to tell you how to run your life, Sam,” Baba said.

“Ooops.”
Daddy patted his pockets. “My wallet must be upstairs.” He took the stairs two at a time. We listened as he closed the door to his room, listened to the little
ping
sound the telephone makes when someone makes a call from the upstairs phone.

“How's the romance going?” Baba asked us, straightening the pillows on the couch.

“What romance?” Patsy and I said, wide-eyed. We like to tease Baba. She's extremely teaseable.

“You two are a tough lot, that's all I can say,” Baba said, in a huff. “It's not as if I'm a gossip, after all. I'm your grandmother.”

When Daddy came back down, he ran Baba home on the bald tires while Patsy and I started to do our homework. Baba had had her driver's license suspended, due to an excess of speeding tickets.

“You know what Daddy means when he says ‘later,' I trust,” Patsy said. She didn't even give me a chance to say “yes” or “no.” She plunged on. “He means later, when he brings The Tooth home as his bride and carries her over the threshold. When that happens, I'm outta here.”

“Where will you go?” I said.

Patsy shrugged. “Maybe I'll join the army. Or the marines. Or maybe I'll sign up as an
au pair
and go to Switzerland so I can go skiing on my day off.” A girl we know did that the summer she was a junior in high school.

“Yi-yi-yi,” I said. Patsy skis the way Baba drives, totally out of control at all times.

“You're too young,” I said. “The army doesn't want you, or the marines, either. You're only twelve.”

“In the Civil War there were plenty of kids my age in uniform,” Patsy said. “Drummer boys and nurses and all.”

“So? Different days, different times,” I said, knowing perfectly well if Patsy decided to join the army, she'd probably find a way.

I tuned Patsy out. If Daddy brought The Tooth home as our stepmother, I planned on asking Dee if I could move into her studio and be a caretaker, fix tea for her, wash out her brushes and sweep the floor, and be a general handyperson. In exchange she'd let me sleep on her beat-up couch and fix soup and stuff for me on her hot plate.

And on weekends, when Daddy was home, I'd go over and we'd have cozy talks while The Tooth was out shopping. Maybe we'd even toast marshmallows. That way, I wouldn't have to see much of her, and Daddy and I could have quality time together, the way parents are supposed to have with their kids. Which means they don't see much of the kids, but when they do see them, everyone is friends. Nobody fights or shouts or is mean. Nobody pulls a scene or anything. There's nothing but love and goodwill.

I don't see anything wrong with having quality time with your father.

Suddenly, Patsy went into her Groucho Marx crouch, knees bent, eyes wild, as she staggered around the kitchen carrying an imaginary person. She slipped a dill pickle out of the jar on the table and stuck it in her mouth for a cigar. She was imitating Groucho imitating Daddy carrying The Tooth over the threshold, I knew. Tears stung my eyes.

“He better watch it,” I said, “or his bad back will go out on him again.”

“I bet she tips the scales at a good one-thirty or so,” Patsy said. “And I'm talking
nekkid
here
,
Nor, nude!”

The telephone rang.

“Tell Sam when he comes in,” Baba's voice said, “that I managed by a stroke of luck to reach my little man, name's Mr. Pepper, and he says he'll stop by tomorrow to give your father an estimate for the painting and the windows.”

“I'll tell him, Baba,” I said.

Patsy went into the dining room to set the table and I opened a can of cream of mushroom soup. Mushroom soup covers a multitude of casseroles, I've discovered. Roberta pours it on a can of tuna fish and noodles and tops the mess with crushed potato chips. She swears the crowd goes wild.

The telephone rang again.

“Hello,” Chuck Whipple said.

“Oh, hi, Chuck,” I said. “Just a sec. I'll get Patsy.”

“That's okay,” Chuck said. “I really wanted to talk to you.”

“What?” I said.

Patsy was at my elbow, snapping her fingers for me to hand over the receiver.

I said “What?” again, not believing my ears.

Patsy grabbed the phone from me. “Hi, Chuck,” she said. “What's up?”

I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my hot cheeks. I washed my hands awhile, until my fingertips began to wrinkle. I waited for Patsy to holler, “He wants to talk to you, Nora!” But she didn't.

When I came out of the bathroom, Patsy said, “I really like Chuck. He likes me, too, I can tell.” She grinned at me. “Hey, Nora, I just got an excellent idea. When he asks me on another date, you talk Daddy into letting me go. Okay? Tell Daddy what a super guy Chuck is, how responsible and adult he is, all that crap. Only it's not crap. I think Chuck is responsible and adult. He's much more sophisticated than the guys around here. Maybe it's because he's from Iowa. I bet you could talk Daddy into letting me go. Please, Norrie, please,
please.”
Patsy grabbed me and tried to swing me around in time to the music coming from the radio.

“Stop it,” I said, close to tears. “Let me alone!”

“What's your prob?”

“And don't say ‘prob,'” I said. “I hate it. The word's
problem.”

“Boy,
you
certainly are in a foul mood,” Patsy said.

I went to my room, put on my nightgown, and went to bed. It was too early to go to sleep, so I lay there, thinking. I had no one to talk to. Patsy didn't have an idea in the world that I might like Chuck, too, or that he might like me. She was very wrapped up in herself, all right. She was what they call self-absorbed. I hoped she'd grow out of it. Fast.

I heard Daddy come home. He'd gone out for some cigarettes. I saw the lights of his car on the ceiling. I heard him slam the front door extra hard, making sure it was locked. Then I heard him talking to someone. Patsy, I guess. My bedside clock said it was ten-fifteen. No, he probably was on the phone to The Tooth. It was no good, waiting for him to get off so I could talk to him. I loved him more than anyone, but after a long day he wouldn't want to listen to me talk about Chuck Whipple and how selfish Patsy was.

I lay there, thinking about breast cancer and dying, and how it must be to be in love and about Daddy getting married. It was all a jumble in my head. There were so many things to figure out, to understand, and so far, I was coming up zero on all of them. I felt alone—very, very alone.

A sudden current of air skittered across the floor like a live thing. I wasn't sure if I was awake or asleep, but I know I heard something. It could be a mouse, I thought. Mice didn't bother me. The moonlight coming in the window was pale and thin, and the curtains billowed wildly as if a high wind had come up. I hugged myself and said, “Mother.”

I knew I was getting slightly loony on the subject, but I couldn't seem to stop. I pulled the covers up to my chin and, though I was getting very sleepy, I forced my eyes to stay open in case she gave me some kind of a sign she was there.

Someone sighed. Probably it was me. I sigh a lot. I thought about getting up and closing the window. Then something brushed against my forehead, something cold, on the exact spot where Mother had always kissed me good-night. Masses of whispers swirled around my head like fog.

“Sleep,” the whispers seemed to say. “Sleep, sleep, sleep.”

Next thing I knew, it was morning.

Nine

The thought occurred to me even before I opened my eyes:

If ghosts returned to the ones they loved, how come Mother hadn't shown herself to Patsy? Or Daddy? Or Baba?

I think it's because I need her and they don't. Well, of course, Daddy
needs
her. We all do. I just think right now I need her more than anyone else. And she knows it. Someday I will discuss this with Daddy and Patsy and Baba. Maybe. In the meantime, I'm hanging on to Mother's ghost for dear life.

Patsy and I would like for Daddy to marry Dee. Dee and we get along very well. Dee has no children, which is a shame, as she treats children with the greatest respect and never talks down to them. This is rare in an adult with no children. Or even with. Dee loves us and we love her, so why can't Daddy love Dee, too?

Dee's studio is one of my favorite places. It is a large, light, square room. It is also very messy. Dee says it is organized chaos, which I somehow doubt. She says she knows exactly where everything is in that studio. One of the main reasons I like the studio so much is its smell. It is made up of several ingredients: paint, chalk, and turpentine. To me the smell of turpentine is very exciting. It is a kind of greasy smell that makes my nose itch. Once when I was younger, I put a dab of turpentine behind my ears when Dee wasn't looking, the way I'd seen my mother do with her Shalimar. I put a few drops on my wrists, also. And later, everywhere I went, people scrunched up their faces and sniffed and wondered out loud what it was that smelled so peculiar.

Turpentine is my Shalimar, I decided.

“You are weird, Nora, just plain weird,” Patsy said when I told her what I'd done. But I think she was jealous she hadn't thought of it first. It was a Patsy kind of thing to do, which made it doubly special.

The invitation to Dee's reception at the art gallery arrived. It said Wine and Cheese Reception on Friday. Five to Seven. I was still mad at Patsy, but she didn't pay any attention so I got over it.

As usual Patsy had it all planned.

“I will wear a beret and suck on a cigarillo,” she said. “I will wear my black tights and lots of eye makeup. I will drink wine and eat cheese and look at all the art stuff with narrowed eyes so people will think I know what I'm doing. They will probably think I am an artist myself.”

Daddy, who was doing the crossword puzzle, which always makes him tune out the rest of the world, said, without looking up, “That's what you think, guys.”

We like it when he calls us “guys.” It makes him seem very young and jaunty and carefree, none of which he is. Although we have tons of snapshots of him when he was in college and he was all of those things. Back then.

Baba's little man had come and gone. When he gave Daddy his estimate on how much it would cost to paint the living room, Daddy whistled and said, “Maybe later, Mr. Pepper. I'll be in touch. Thanks for coming over.”

“I will meet a tall, thin dark man with a beard,” Patsy continued. “This bozo has been giving me the eye for some time. At last he speaks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Turns out he wants to borrow ten bucks.”

“This man is a world-famous artist whose works hang in every museum in the country,” Patsy said. “He would like to paint me. In the nude, of course.” She looked at me, but I refused to look back. “That's what artists do, they paint people in the nude,” Patsy said. “They think nothing of it.”

“Who, the nude people or the artists?” I asked. “I have always heard that artists' models develop chilblains from posing in the nude and die of malnutrition and/or pneumonia.”

“You are a killjoy, Nora,” Patsy said. “And also a pill.”

Daddy looked up from his puzzle with unfocused eyes.

“Bare
blank
choirs where late the sweet birds sang,” he said in a dreamy way. “Five letters.”