Nora (7 page)

“Chuck was just telling me about the 4H Club in Iowa,” I said.

The beeper beeped. I took out the last batch of cookies. “Want one?” I asked Roberta.

“Oh, I can't. I'm on a diet,” Roberta of the booming voice said so softly I could barely hear her. Behind Chuck's back I bugged out my eyes at her.

“These are special nonfattening cookies,” I said.

In a flash, Roberta snatched up a handful.

“Tell Roberta about your pig, Chuck,” I said. I don't know why I said that. It was stupid of me.

Chuck choked on a cookie. “Could I have a glass of water, please?” he said.

“You want ice in it?” I asked him.

“No thanks, this is great.” Chuck took a long time drinking the water.

“What about your pig?” Roberta said. She is a very curious person, Roberta. She immediately wants to know everything about a person she's just met.

Chuck told her.

Patsy burst in. “I
thought
that was your bike outside, Chuck,” she cried, grabbing a few cookies.
“Qué pasa?”

“He was just telling us about his pig,” Roberta said.

“Chuck has a pig? Well, hey, he can take it to show-and-tell next week. How about it, Chuck?” I thought Patsy was going to slap him on the back. Probably he'd get some crumbs stuck and start choking again, poor guy.

At times Patsy can get a little too hearty. She thought Chuck's pig was a huge joke. She was making fun of his pig because she was nervous. That was before she even found out its name was Nora.

“His pig won first prize at the 4H Club fair,” Roberta went on, liking it that she knew things about Chuck Patsy didn't know. “And guess what the pig's name was?”

“Hey.” Patsy ate a few trees. “Like your new skirt, kid. It makes you look positively emaciated. What was your pig's name, Chuck?”

“Nora,” Chuck said, probably wondering how he could get out of this joint in one piece.

Patsy's hand paused in midair over the cookie plate.

“How come?” she said.

“I liked the name,” Chuck said, shrugging. “I think it's pretty. And she was a pretty pig, so that's what I called her.” He didn't say anything about her tail, for which I was grateful.

“I didn't know there was such a thing as a pretty pig,” Patsy said. I could see she was jealous—she never had a pig named after
her.

Changing the subject with a clang, Patsy said, “I've just had the worst afternoon of my life. He reset my retainer, and now my teeth feel as if they're nestled up inside my nose. And I have to go back next week so he can reset it again.”

“Well, I have to go now,” Chuck said quickly. “Thanks for the cookies.”

When he'd ridden away, Roberta said, “He has very sexy eyes. I didn't know boys from Iowa had sexy eyes.”

“I bet he was disappointed I wasn't here when he got here,” Patsy said. “Wasn't he?”

“No,” I said, thinking before I spoke. “I don't believe he was. Roberta, did Chuck seem disappointed Patsy wasn't here?”

“Heck, no,” Roberta said. “Too many folks at the orgy is never a good idea. Right, Nora?”

Right.

Twelve

Men are like streetcars, Baba says. Miss one, you can catch the next one that comes along.

True or false, I myself think this is a sexist remark.

Baba says there was no such thing as a sexist remark when she was a girl.

When Baba was young, it was wartime. World War II, not the Civil War, she adds with a wry smile.

“We were all in love in those days,” Baba told us. “All the beautiful young men were in uniform, so brave, so patriotic, going off to God knows what. To defend their country. It was hard not to fall in love, I can tell you. And, I hasten to add,” Baba said, making owl eyes at us over the top of her glasses, “we were chaste. We did not fall into the hay with every Tom, Dick, and Harry. I think I can say, in all honesty and relatively speaking, we were, by today's standards, chaste.”

Wide-eyed, Patsy said, “What does ‘chaste' mean?” Patsy liked to put Baba on the spot. Baba was not of the generation that called a spade a spade, sexwise.

Baba blushed and gave a little laugh and plunged in.

“‘Chaste' means you treat your body with respect, which it deserves,” Baba said. “You only have one body. It is yours and no one else's. You are the boss of that body. You control it completely. You do not let strangers take license with your body. It is very precious and should be treated as such.”

Baba paused. How to proceed. What more to say to a rapt audience?

“Does that explain what ‘chaste' means, girls? Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Sure,” I said. I was embarrassed. I thought Baba had done a pretty good job and that Patsy should let her off the hook.

But Patsy was not as easily satisfied as I was.

Innocent as any two-year-old, Patsy said, “What does ‘fall into the hay' mean, Baba?”

“Give me a break, Patsy,” Baba said, losing patience. “It means ‘get into bed,' as you know perfectly well.”

Baba got to her feet. “I really must run,” she said. “I have a dinner engagement with an old beau.”

Baba had a lot of old beaus. She'd been engaged six times, she told us. “I had trouble making up my mind,” she said.

“Can I ask you one more question?” Patsy asked.

“All right, one,” Baba said.

“Were you chaste when you married Grandfather?”

I gasped. Patsy had gone too far. Patsy frequently goes too far, however far “too far” is.

Baba studied her image in the hall mirror. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to make them rosy.

“That's impertinent, Patsy,” she said. “And really doesn't deserve an answer. One rudeness, however, is no excuse for another. My answer is: Need you ask? Your mother would say the same if she were here. Listen to me because I know what I'm talking about.”

“You are too fresh, Patsy,” I said when Baba went to powder her nose. “She's our grandmother, after all.”

“At least she didn't say ‘Your body is your temple,'” Patsy said. “That's what some kids' grandmothers tell them. A temple!” Patsy hooted. “How does that grab you?”

“Just wait,” I said. “I can see you giving your daughter the straight skinny when she asks you about sex. You'll hem and haw, and when you're finished the poor little tyke won't know squat about the subject. You'll probably send her screaming from the room and she'll have bad dreams for about a month.”

“As I think I have said, I do not plan to have a daughter, or any other kind of child,” Patsy said firmly. “But if I do, I'll give it to her straight. No beating around the bush. I will simply tell her the facts of life, as I see them.”

“Ah, that's the key,” I said. “As
you
see them. You are warped, not to mention uninformed. You are also off the wall.”

“Buzz off,” Patsy said.

“I bet Chuck knows all about sex,” she said, shooting me a sly glance, “being a country boy and all, and a member of the 4H Club. There's probably nothing he doesn't know. The 4H Club is loaded with animals, and animals have very active sex lives.”

“So do plants, jerk,” I said. I didn't want to talk about sex. I had better things to think about.

“And insects,” Baba threw in, returning from powdering her nose. “And fish. I do believe, my dears, that sex is here to stay.”

“For a grandmother, Baba,” Patsy said, “you're pretty racy.”

“This is fine talk,” Baba said. She had come to our house for Tuesday dinner. She comes to our house for dinner a lot. Baba has many talents, but cooking isn't one of them. Patsy and I stuck an onion in the chicken and shoved it into a 350-degree oven. Nothing to it. Baba mashed the potatoes. Her potatoes have lots of lumps. She says she likes them with lumps.

Daddy bought an apple pie for dessert.

Our date with The Tooth is on, Daddy told us. For Saturday. We would all go in a merry little band to the dinner theater and have dinner and watch the show.

“Mrs. Ames said to tell you girls nothing would give her greater pleasure than to spend an evening getting to know you both,” Daddy told us.

Patsy excused herself. “I have to go burn off my bad karma,” she said.

After I went to bed I couldn't sleep.

There was too much else going on. I wondered why Patsy and I couldn't find someone to blast The Tooth out of Daddy's mind. Someone he would love and so would we. There must be plenty of people who'd
love
to marry Daddy. He is a very excellent and outstanding man.

Friday night we were going to Dee's wine and cheese reception, and Saturday we were all tied up with The Tooth and Daddy.

Life in the fast lane.

Maybe we could find the girl of Daddy's dreams at Dee's wine and cheese thing. I doubt it, though.

Thirteen

“Who's the babe in the hat?” I heard a man say. He had a droopy mustache and deep grooves on either side of his mouth. He meant Baba.

Her new hat, which she'd bought just for the wine and cheese one-man show, was eye-catching. It was black, with a flat crown and a wide brim. Getting into the artsy-craftsy spirit of the evening, Baba also wore her black cape with a red lining and her tall black boots.

“If only you had a mask, you'd look like Zorro,” Patsy had said as we piled into Daddy's car, bald tires and all.

“Zorro who?” Baba said.

“You know.
The Mark of Zorro.
We saw it last week on TV,” I said.

“I always say a hat puts the finishing touch on a costume,” Baba said. “I'm so glad hats are back.”

“I didn't know they'd been away,” Daddy said. “We'd better get a move on. I've noticed that people who go to art galleries for a one-man show tend to be very big eaters. They gobble up everything in sight. I think it's because most of them haven't had a square meal in a week. So if we want some wine and cheese, we'd best move fast.”

When we got there, sure enough, everyone was eating and drinking. No one was paying any attention to the paintings, the artwork. There were long lines at the refreshment tables. Mother's portrait had the place of honor. Some people wandered over to it with their drinks and studied it intently, tilting their heads from side to side, squinching up their faces.

“Who is that woman?” Patsy said in a loud voice, to no one in particular.

A woman with a baby strapped to her back turned and said, “She's a mystery woman. Isn't she wonderful?”

A man with a baby strapped to
his
back came over, and he and the woman discussed whether or not the woman should nurse the baby here or in the ladies' room.

“I don't think this is a nursing type crowd,” the man said, looking around critically. “It looks pretty suburban to me.”

Both babies roused themselves as if on signal, raised their little heads, and started bawling.

“Mention food and those kids go crazy,” the man said proudly.

“Are they twins?” I asked the man.

“Not that I know of,” the man said.

A man wearing a hairy cowboy hat and hairy sideburns and high-heeled cowboy boots slid into the space left when the man and woman went off with the babies.

“Would that go with my draperies or would it clash?” He meant our mother's portrait. “I have absolutely no eye for color.” The man turned to me. “My furniture is upholstered in a beige fabric, sort of nubby, and my draperies are red and green and beige. What do you think?”

“It's not for sale,” Patsy said.

The man's eyes snapped open and looked as if they might explode. “What do you
mean,
not for sale? I never heard of such a thing! They got me all the way out here and then tell me it's not for sale? That's practically fraudulent. I have never been so insulted in my entire life.”

Patsy and I watched him stomp off on the high-heeled cowboy boots.

“My horse, my horse, my kingdom for a horse,” I said.

“Those heels take a lot of practice,” Patsy said. “That dude'll be lucky to make it down the steps. You know,” Patsy said, smiling, “I think I like these wine and cheese affairs. There are more weirdos at them than you usually see at parties. I think I'll have a glass of wine. How about you?”

“You better not,” I said. “Daddy will scalp you if he finds out you're drinking wine.”

“There she is.” A pretty woman smiled at Mother in her red shawl. “That's Buffy, all right. Dee told me she was here. It's a glorious likeness. We were friends when we were children.”

That's what they called our mother, “Buffy.” Her real name was Elizabeth.

“She's our mother,” Patsy said.

“Of course. Of course. How absolutely perfect that I should run into you.” The woman put out her hands and each of us took one.

“My name is Jane Morris. Your mother was like a sister to me when we were children. We lived on the same street, went to the same school. Then my family moved to the West Coast and we lost touch. Is your father here? I'd like to tell him how sorry I was when I heard your mother had died. Dee wrote me, but I was out of the country and didn't get the letter for ages.”

“I think he's over there,” Patsy said, standing on tiptoes, scanning the crowd. “Nora, go see if you can find Daddy, tell him a friend of Mother's is here.”

“You go,” I said. “I'll stay here and keep her company. You're much better at finding people than I am.”

I talked to Jane Morris while Patsy went for Daddy. She told me she had her own public relations firm in Chicago and was in New York on business. Dee had sent her an invitation, never thinking she'd come out from the city for this party.

“I had to come,” Jane Morris said. “Something made me come.” She told me all sorts of things about our mother I'd never heard before. About how they used to play baseball in the schoolyard every day after lunch. “Your mother was a terrific second baseman,” she said. “And you should've seen her when we started to go to boy-girl parties. That was in fifth grade, I think, maybe sixth. We played Spin the Bottle. Oh, how she spun that bottle.” Jane Morris rolled her eyes. “It was a sight to see! No boy in the place was safe. She'd just grab hold of whoever the bottle pointed to and kiss him until she was ready to let go. She was very strong. The boys didn't have a chance. I used to watch in awe and admiration. I was kind of a goofy kid, young for my age. But your mother was a ringleader. And when we went to dancing school, all done up in our velvet dresses and white gloves, Buffy'd dash across the floor and nab the boy she wanted to dance with.”