Bummer Summer Page 2

  “Why did my mother give me a big party when I was four? Did I have a party every year? Did Mother like parties?”

  “Slow down!” said Dad, smiling gently, and adjusting his glasses. “Let’s see. Well, your mother…your mother was very social. She and I could not have been more different in that respect. Why she ever chose me, a stuffy old economics professor, I’ll never know.”

  “Oh, Dad,” I said. “You weren’t old then. And you are not stuffy,” I added quickly.

  “Well. At any rate, she was pretty, Kams, very pretty. You know the photo of her that sits on the piano? That was taken when she was nineteen. She had a lovely, soft face, and hair like sunlight, and an easy laugh. That was one thing I liked best about her. She laughed whenever something struck her funny. She never held back.” Dad sighed. “Anyway, she looked just as pretty when she was twenty, and when she was twenty-five, and when she was twenty-seven and died.”

  “Were you sad then?” I asked suddenly, without really thinking.

  “When? When she died?”

  I nodded.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I was very sad. I couldn’t even take care of you for a while. I sent you to live with your uncle Paul and aunt Adele for a couple of months. Do you remember that?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “And then I hired Mrs. Meade to help us out. I just couldn’t do everything myself.”

  “That’s O.K., Dad.”

  Dad patted my hand absent-mindedly. He was answering my questions, but I got the distinct impression he was talking to himself.

  “Anyway, your mother liked nothing better than a lot of excitement, a big whirl of fun and people. Before we got married she lived in Boston, and I bet she was the most popular girl there. A debutante, parties every weekend. And after we were married and moved here, she picked up where she left off, except she was the hostess, not the guest, at all the parties.

  “For every holiday, every occasion, your mother could be counted on to have a terrific party. Our friends and relatives looked forward to them. Annie would spend weeks going over menus, planning the table, inviting guests.” He broke off. “Yes. She was special.”

  “What about my birthday, Dad?” At times like this, when we’re talking and sharing ourselves, I want to call my father “Daddy” again, like I did when I was little, but I never do. I do not want to sound childish.

  “Oh, yes. Your fourth birthday! It wasn’t a children’s party like most four-year-olds would have, with pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and relay races, and a puppet show. Instead it was a huge dinner party. It was on a Sunday, I remember. Your grandparents came, all four of them, and lots of cousins and aunts and uncles, and neighbors with their children. It was a real event. And after the cocktails and the present-opening, most people sort of drifted away, until just the grandparents and a few close friends were left. They had all been invited for dinner.

  “I remember Annie, your mother, saying to you, ‘You’re the guest of honor, Mouse, so you sit at the head of the table and wear the crown.’ Do you remember that she called you Mouse?”

  I shook my head. I wished I did, though.

  “And she had a real tiara for you, not a paper crown. She would have made your childhood a fairy tale, if she could.

  “Annie and I sat next to each other at the opposite end of the table. She held my hand and smiled at me when the cake came, just as if she were the birthday girl. The party was as much fun for her as it was for you.

  “And that was our last big to-do. The car accident was just about two weeks later. Right after the funeral I went through the cupboards and chests in the dining room and moved all this party stuff upstairs. It was so much your mother, I just couldn’t have it around.”

  “But Dad, do you think,” I asked earnestly, “do you think we could use it today? Maybe not all of it, but a little of it?”

  “I kind of thought we should,” he said. “It’s a real party at last.”

  “We’ve had other parties,” I said suspiciously.

  “But no fancy ones. Just pizza parties or barbecues or eggnog get-togethers. This one is different. I’d like it to be special.”

  I decided it would be dangerous to pursue the subject, even though Dad was quiet, waiting for me to speak.

  I unwrapped another package.

  “I hope you have a good time today, Kammy.” Dad paused. “I want you to like Kate and her daughter.” He was twisting his handkerchief so tightly, the top of his index finger had turned bright red. “I like Kate a lot and I—”

  “Napkin rings!” I interrupted him. I was still exploring the contents of the box, and the tissue paper had revealed a china ring with a rose pattern matching the place cards. “Ooh, can we use these, too?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Dad. “Find the others. Or better yet, let’s just bring the box downstairs. We’ll probably need these things from time to time now.”

  “O.K.” I put the unwrapped pieces carefully on top of the box. But I didn’t get up. Dad and I just looked at each other. Finally I said, “This is nice stuff.”

  Dad moved over next to me and put his arms around me. “Yeah. Nice stuff.”

  I hugged him as hard as I could.

  Mrs. Parker and Melissa (that’s what I called them then) showed up near noon on Thanksgiving. Right away I had three shocks. When Mrs. Parker handed her coat to my father and turned to face me, I saw that she was pregnant. For sure. No joke. I mean, you could tell. She wasn’t fat anywhere except one place, and she was wearing a very loose jumper with no belt or tie.

  The next two shocks came during the introductions. Mrs. Parker held out her hand and said to me, “I’m Mrs. Parker. Please call me Kate. And this is Melissa. Everyone calls her Muffin.”

  Muffin? She was the first person I had ever met who was named after a breakfast food.

  And Kate. In some ways that was worse. I am not allowed to call anyone over twenty-one by his or her first name unless the person’s a relative. This is a hard-and-fast rule. Breaking it meant one of three things. Kate was under twenty-one. (False.) She was a distant relative. (Probably also false.) She was going to become very close to our family. (I hoped that was false, but I had my doubts.)

  My father stopped a deadly silence by saying brightly, “Well, why don’t we all sit down?”

  So we trooped into the living room, where I’d put out these bowls of salted nuts and this plate of cheese slices and Ritz crackers.

  Dad and Kate immediately squeezed themselves into our antique green velvet love seat, and Muffin pounced on the miniature rocking chair that Dad had made me drag out of the attic that morning. My old chair.

  I dumped myself on the far end of the couch and surveyed things. Four people in their good holiday clothes, sitting in the spacious living room of an old colonial home, with an early snow falling outside the bay windows. Except for me, it would have been a nice family scene. Mr. and Mrs. America and their perfect little child.

  Kate was truly beautiful, even if she was pregnant. In fact, she was just a bigger version of Muffin, with rosy coloring and blond (almost white) hair, which she coiled up on her head. She was very tall, I had noticed, and sitting down, she and Dad looked just the same height. What a couple….Couple.

  The day went fairly well. Muffin and I went up to my room and watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade on TV. Muffin was sweet. She giggled a lot, but she didn’t say much.

  Dinner was all right, too. At least until near the end. Kate had been asking me all these dumb questions, like did I enjoy school, did I play sports, did I have a best friend? I was sitting across the table from her, and suddenly, as I listened to her talk and watched her cut Muffin’s turkey and mash up her carrots, I found I wasn’t seeing Kate at all. I was seeing my own mother, my pretty blond mother cutting my food and asking me about nursery school.

  “Excuse me,” I said quickly and dashed into the kitchen. I stood there for a minute resting my forehead against the cool refrigerator. Then I spla
shed some water on my dress like I had to get out a spot or something, and walked bravely back into the dining room.

  Just as I got to my place at the table, Muffin knocked over her milk.

  “Oh, Melissa,” sighed her mother.

  It must have been really important that Kate called her Melissa, because Muffin started to cry.

  I waited patiently for someone to ask her to apologize or give her a napkin so she could mop up. It was, after all, our good damask tablecloth that was getting stained, and Dad and Mrs. Meade had always taught me to be responsible for whatever I did. It was an unspoken rule. If you break something, you fix it; if you tear something, you sew it; and if you spill something, you clean it up.

  So I was more than a little surprised when my father said sharply, “Kammy, for heaven’s sake, go get the paper towels.”

  I felt like he’d hit me. I stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed the paper towels, and slammed the cabinet door shut. Then I flounced into the dining room and jabbed away at the wet place. No one even paid attention. Both Dad and Kate were fawning over Muffin as if they’d just paid the ransom and gotten her back from kidnapers. It was only milk, for pete’s sake.

  Dinner ended after I’d finished mopping up the table and Kate finished mopping up Muffin’s face. She held a hiccupping Muffin in her lap and said, “Robert, this has been so nice. Really. We’ve enjoyed ourselves very much, haven’t we, baby?” For one horrifying moment I thought she was referring to my father, but she meant Muffin.

  Muffin gave one final hiccup and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  “I think Muffin’s ready for a nap,” said Kate. “Let me help you clear up, and then we’d better be on our way.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. Kammy and I will clean up later. Muffin looks pooped.”

  Ten minutes later we stood at the front door saying our good-byes.

  “It was certainly nice to meet you, Kammy.” Kate smiled. “I’m glad I finally had the chance.”

  “Me, too,” I lied, speaking directly to my feet.

  Kate took Muffin’s hand and whispered, “What do you say, honey?”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled to no one in particular. She looked straight into my father’s eyes and produced her famous smile. I thought Dad might actually cry.

  Then Dad drew Kate to him and kissed her. On the mouth. It wasn’t one of those long goopy kisses like in the movies, but it was no quick peck either.

  They hugged briefly, and I just stared. Finally Dad walked them out to their car. When he came back in I was standing where he had left me, my head bowed.

  He lifted my chin so I had to look at him. “What did you think?” he asked gently.

  “About what? Mrs. Parker and Melissa? They’re O.K.”

  “You can call them Kate and Muffin, Kams.”

  I’d been calling them those names in my head, but it was harder to say them out loud. “Why? Why can I call her Kate?” I asked. “She’s over twenty-one, and I bet she’s not a relative.”

  “Because she’s very special to me, sweetheart. Very special. I tried to tell you that bef—”

  I pulled away from Dad, turned and walked into the kitchen. It was cleanup time.

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  I looked up, startled. I had dreamed my way right through the exchange of rings and everything.

  Dad and Kate were in each other’s arms. Then they turned around, grinning broadly. I once heard someone say something about a radiant bride. Well, that was Kate. Radiant.

  Muffin ran over to them, uncertain about what she was supposed to do, even though we had been through all that several times at the rehearsal last night. What she ended up doing now was disgusting. We had decided that she would walk out of the church in front of Dad and Kate, strewing petals all down the aisle. Instead she put her basket over one arm and, smiling adorably, held out her hands to Dad and Kate. They each took one, and the three of them walked out of the church together, Muffin in the middle. I could have strangled her. Everyone, of course, thought she was charming. The lady with the blue hair started to cry.

  My uncle took my arm, and we walked out behind the Three Musketeers. I don’t think anybody except Uncle Paul even looked at me. I could have been wearing a rain barrel.

  Dad and Kate stepped outside, let go of Muffin, who was taken over by the Wedding Queen, and stepped right into a waiting car. It was covered with shaving cream and crepe paper and had a bunch of tin cans tied to the back. A large, tacky sign on the hood said JUST MARRIED (no kidding, I thought) and an ugly Kewpie doll bride was stuck on the radio antenna.

  My father and Kate waved to us all through the front window and drove off. There wasn’t going to be a wedding reception. There weren’t any good-byes either. Not even for Muffin and me.

  They just drove off. They were headed for their honeymoon in Puerto Rico. The lucky stiffs.

  Muffin started to cry.

  I waited until I got to the ladies’ room before I did, too.

  Chapter 2

  Moving Day

  EXACTLY ONE WEEK AFTER the wedding I was sitting alone on the front stoop of our house. It was a perfect June day. Our yard was green and shady and smelled good. Ordinarily I’d have been sitting on the lawn, except that it was caterpillar season. I don’t mind the caterpillars but I hate the webs they spin when they swing around in the trees. You can never be sure you’re not walking into a spider’s web.

  So today was the day. I was waiting. Just waiting. Mrs. Meade was the only other person at home. Our house was cool and dark and big and empty-feeling. I should have been inside enjoying all the emptiness because it wasn’t going to last much longer, but the weather was too beautiful to miss. Besides, Simon, my new orangey-tan kitten, was sound asleep in my lap, all his little legs and his tail in a big bunch. I didn’t want to disturb him, so I sat.

  And waited.

  They’d be arriving any minute. Kate, Muffin, and Baby Boy. It was moving-in day. Dad had rented a U-Haul and driven it over to their apartment early in the morning. While he was gone I was supposed to be doing some stuff to the room that would be Muffin’s and Baby Boy’s, but I just couldn’t. It was too hard. It had been our special guest bedroom with yellow flowered wallpaper, the old canopy bed, and the window seat with cushions that matched the wallpaper.

  But not anymore. The furniture had been moved to a room on the third floor that we’d never bothered to fix up. The pretty wallpaper had been stripped off because it was too sophisticated for children. I didn’t see why Muffin and Baby Boy weren’t just put in the third-floor room without going through all the furniture moving and wallpaper stripping, but Kate said it was too far away. (Twelve steps away, for heaven’s sake.)

  Dad and Kate asked me if I wanted to help fix up the new bedroom. (There were three new bedrooms to fix up, in fact. The kids’ room, the new guest bedroom, and another little room at the end of the second floor hall which eventually would be Baby Boy’s.) I said I’d be glad to work on the new guest room. They said we were doing Muffin’s and Baby Boy’s first. I said I’d rather not help. They said I should help anyway. I suggested wallpapering it black, and they left me alone.

  Until yesterday. Then Dad insisted I pitch in. I was supposed to take down the old curtains and put them and the window seat cushions upstairs, get that darn rocker back out of the attic for Muffin, and line the bureau drawers. So far I had put the cushions upstairs.

  The front stoop was becoming highly uncomfortable. I shifted position, being careful not to disturb Simon.

  Dad and Kate had been on their honeymoon until two days ago, while Mrs. Meade had stayed at our house and taken care of me. The Wedding Queen had stayed with Muffin and Baby Boy in Kate’s apartment. So I hadn’t seen much of Kate or the kids recently, which was fine with me. But now they were moving in. What on earth would that be like?

  The U-Haul turned onto our street and pulled up at the curb in front of our house. Well, I thought, they’re here.

  Everyone w
as climbing out of the station wagon. I sat where I was and watched as Muffin, dressed in a pink sunsuit and new white sneakers, her hair in ponytails (how cute could you get?), jumped out the back door and turned around to reach in for Rose-up, her rag doll.

  Kate struggled out of the front seat with Baby Boy in his Snugli and the ever-present diaper bag, which held a lot more than diapers and seemed to be necessary whenever they were going further than the front yard.

  “Hi, Kammy!” Muffin called cheerfully. “We’re here!” She waved and I waved back. Then she waved Rose-up’s hand and continued waving it until I yawned and said, “Hi, Rose-up,” in my most bored voice.

  “Hi, sweetie!” sang out my father. Everybody certainly was cheerful. “Come on and lend a hand.”

  “Hi, Dad,” I said. I knew I had to help now. I placed Simon gently on the steps, hoping he’d stay asleep. But he didn’t. He woke right up, took one look at all the people and boxes and bags, and made a scrambling dash for the shrubbery.

  I took my time getting to the car. “Hi, Kate,” I said, in a supreme effort at politeness. “Want me to take the baby?” As nuisancey as Baby Boy could be, I sort of liked him. When he wasn’t crying, he was sweet and cuddly. I liked to hold him.

  “Oh, no, that’s O.K.,” Kate answered quickly. “I’ll take him. Why don’t you grab some of the things in the back of the car? The bags are pretty light.”

  “I’m strong,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “I said O.K.”

  Two hours later, Dad, Mrs. Meade, Kate, Muffin, and I sat huffing and puffing on the back porch. The car and the U-Haul had been emptied, and each box, bag, and piece of furniture had been deposited in the appropriate room. Now everyone was sprawled in porch chairs (except for Baby Boy, who was reclining in his infant seat, holding his left foot with his hands, smiling, and drooling out of the corner of his mouth). Mrs. Meade had made lemonade, and we all sipped quietly, trying to cool off.