4
MY MOTHER WAS STANDING on the porch steps when I parked at the curb. She was waving her arms and shouting. I couldn't hear her over the roar of the engine, but I could read her lips. “SHUT IT OFF!” she was yelling. “SHUT IT OFF!”
“Sorry,” I yelled back. “Broken muffler.”
“You've got to do something. I could hear you coming four blocks away. You'll give old Mrs. Ciak heart palpitations.” She squinted at the car. “Did you have it decorated?”
“It happened on Stark Street. Vandals.” I pushed her into the hallway before she could read the words.
“Wow, nice knees,” Grandma Mazur said, bending down to take a closer look at my ooze. “I was watching some TV show last week, think it was Oprah, and they had a bunch of women on with knees like that. Said it was rug burn. Never figured out what that meant.”
“Christ,” my father said from behind his paper. He didn't need to say more. We all understood his plight.
“It's not rug burn,” I told Grandma Mazur. “I fell on my roller blades.” I wasn't worried about the lie. I had a long history of calamitous mishaps.
I glanced at the dining room table. It was set with the good lace tablecloth. Company. I counted the plates. Five. I rolled my eyes heavenward. “Ma, you didn't.”
“I didn't what?”
The doorbell rang, and
my worst fears were confirmed.
“It's company. It's no big deal,” my mother said, going to the door. “I guess I can invite company into my own house if I want to.”
“It's Bernie Kuntz,” I said. “I can see him through the hall window.”
My mother stopped, hands on hips. “So, what's wrong with Bernie Kuntz?”
“To begin with . . . he's a man.”
“Okay, you had a bad experience. That don't mean you should give up. Look at your sister Valerie. She's happily married for twelve years. She has two beautiful girls.”
“That's it. I'm leaving. I'm going out the back door.”
“Pineapple upside-down cake,” my mother said. “You'll miss dessert if you leave now. And don't think I'll save some for you.”
My mother didn't mind playing dirty if she thought the cause was worthy. She knew she had me locked in with the pineapple cake. A Plum would suffer a lot of abuse for a good dessert.
Grandma Mazur glared out at Bernie. “Who are you?”
“I'm Bernie Kuntz.”
“What do you want?”
I looked the length of the hall, and I could see Bernie shift uncomfortably on his feet.
“I've been invited for dinner,” Bernie said.
Grandma Mazur still had the screen door shut. “Helen,” she yelled over her shoulder, “there's a young man at the door. He says he's invited to dinner. Why didn't someone tell me about this? Look at this old dress I'm wearing. I can't entertain a man in this dress.”
I'd known Bernie since he was five. I'd gone to grade school with Bernie. We ate lunch together in grades one through three, and I would forever associate him with peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread. I'd lost touch with him in high school. I knew he'd gone to college, and that after college he'd gone to work selling appliances in his father's store.
He was medium height, with a medium build that had never lost its baby fat. He was all dressed up in shiny tassel loafers, dress slacks, and sports coat. So far as I could see, he hadn't changed much since sixth grade. He looked like he still couldn't add fractions, and the little metal pull on his zipper was sticking out, creating a tiny tent with his fly.
We took our seats at the table and concentrated on the business of eating.
“Bernie sells appliances,” my mother said, passing the red cabbage. “He makes good money at it, too. He drives a Bonneville.”