By the Numbers (20 page)

Damn it.

“Yes. The Hanovers are very excited. Apparently it's almost impossible to find something available in Vista Pines, especially
a home right on the fourteenth green. They told me to say hello to Marjorie and Max.”

“I'll do that,” I say.

I have a great deal of difficulty concentrating on anything Wyatt says for the rest of our time together. We touch upon his divorce, (amicable, no kids) and his job (amicable, no kids) and everything else he's been up to for the past twenty-five years (amicable, no kids). We part with a kiss on the cheek and the promise to get together soon for a proper dinner. I hustle off to the Camry, digging out my new phone before I even reach for my keys.

I stay parked while I call Foster.

“Hey, little sister, what's going on?” he says by way of greeting.

“Did you know Max and Marjorie sold their place in Vista Pines?”

“I'm sorry,
what?
Hello? Penny?”

“Yes, hi, it's me. So you didn't know.”

“Hell, no. We just bought our tickets to go down there for Christmas! Shoot. You think they're refundable? We booked on JetBlue. They have free in-flight entertainment and brand-name snacks.”

“Fos, I need you to focus. Do you find it odd that they sold their place without mentioning it to us? Don't you think that's worthy of a conversation?”

Foster doesn't seem too upset. “Eh, maybe a little? But we don't have the kind of parents who want to share their
feeeelings
with us. They're old-school, so it's not too surprising. I wouldn't read that much into it.”

I'm not satisfied with his lack of urgency here. “Have you spent much time with Max lately?”

“I've seen him at the club. Why?”

“Are you noticing any changes in him?”

“Hmm. His backswing's been for shit. Too short. The pro calls it ‘old man swing.' I think his rotator cuff's been acting up. I keep saying he should look into physical therapy, or at least get a massage to open things up, but no one listens to me.”

I try to remain calm. “
Mental
changes. I'm talking about his faculties. I'm worried he may have an onset of dementia.”

“Dementia? Definitely not. He just read me the riot act about the new payroll system I installed. Said I was nuts to change what had worked for so many years. He walked me through every part of why his old system was superior. Gotta tell ya, he was right. Turns out the new software is super-glitchy, so I went back to the old way.”

Huh. “Does he seem on edge at all? Agitated? Quick to escalate?”

“Yes. I've definitely witnessed that.”

“How long would you say he's been that way?”

“Every day for my entire life.”

“Foster, you're not helping.”

“What? I'm trying here. What do you want? Max seems completely normal, again, save for his backswing. I wonder if chondroitin would help? Or a cortisone shot?”

I begin to drum the steering wheel in agitation. “Give me something, anything. There's weirdness afoot he won't tell me about, and I can't figure it out. Until I get to the root of the problem, I can't help him. And until I can help him, I'm not sure I can get him out of my house.”

“Yeah, I could see how that'd be a problem. Judith lasted, what, a week with them?” Foster says. He's laughing, but I know Judith didn't think any of this was funny. “Marjorie called her a ‘harridan.' What is that, like, a belly dancer? Let's see . . . something.
Something about Max. Well, okay, here you go—my financial department ran across a weird recurring Accounts Payable to an M. Ramos, and I asked Max about it. He said he'd talk to his old accountant about it. He must have taken care of it, because it's off the books now. But that's it.”

“That doesn't seem like a big deal.”

“Exactly.”

I exhale so hard I fog a bit of my windshield. “This has been a useless phone call, Foster.”

“Hurtful language! You can make it up to me by having me and Judith over for dinner. Chris is up for visitors, right? Did he get the fruit basket I sent?”

“He did, but what do you expect him to do with
two dozen
cactus pears? He's one person.”

“I wanted to give him the most expensive stuff I could find to let him know how much I care.”

“Why didn't you send something with more of a shelf life, like wine or scotch?”

“Where were you Monday, when I was placing orders on the Internet?”

“Okay, Fos, I've gotta go. Tell Judith I'll call her this weekend.”

“Cool. Bye, sis. TELL CHRIS I MISS HIM.”

I put away my phone and pull out of the parking space to head for home. Regardless of what Foster thinks, something major is up with my father, and I'm making it my job to find out what it is.

May 1974

“P
enelope, darling, can you please answer the door?”

“Yeah, Mom!” I run down the stairs as fast as I can in my shiny church shoes.

“Say ‘yes,' not ‘yeah,' Penelope, and walk down the stairs like a lady, not a charging bull, please,” my mom instructs me from the depths of her bedroom, where she's setting her hair with hot rollers.

How does she know I was running when she can't even see me? Still, I slow to a walk.

She's been extra-bossy since we moved to this house. Lately I feel like she's trying to create this image that we are some kind of perfect family from a magazine. She used to be more easygoing. Now she's always all, “I don't want the neighbors to get the wrong impression!” when I do stuff like yell out a window to tell Foster to come inside for supper.

Since when is that not okay?

She used to do that on our old street, like, all the time!

Oh, and we're not supposed to call supper “supper” anymore—it's “dinner” now.

She hates when I throw my bike on the lawn instead of parking it in the garage now, too. Sometimes I forget, and I swear that whenever I do, she automatically knows and sends me back outside to put it away right.

The weirdest thing is she doesn't call me “Penny” anymore. I'm always “Penelope” now, and she only used to use my full name when I was in trouble. My first thought is always that I've somehow screwed up when I hear her say my name.

Still, I'm real happy we moved, even with the changes. Our new house has a double set of front doors, which is pretty neat. They open extra-wide. Our old house just had the one door, which was way less exciting. We didn't move very far from our old neighborhood, and I didn't even have to change schools, but my parents tell me this is a giant leap for mankind, like the astronaut Neil Armstrong says. I'll say—we have one hundred percent more front door now! Our last door was made mostly from aluminum, so it was real light, but these big wooden dealies weigh about a million pounds each. I really have to yank to get 'em open.

When I finally pry the big ol' wooden guys apart, Karin is here. Karin goes to my school and is in my fifth-grade class. We always got along, but now that I live down the street from her, she's become my best friend. Her mom and dad are divorced, which makes me sad for her. I feel like that would be lonely, but she says she is great friends with her mom and it's fine. I can't imagine being friends with my mom because she's too busy telling me what to do.

“Hey! Wanna come outside? A bunch of kids are playing TV
tag, and I figured you wouldn't want to miss it.” Karin's wearing dungarees and a T-shirt, so she's ready to play.

I
love
TV tag. Even though I'm not the fastest runner, I have a really good memory, so I can always come up with the name of a television show that hasn't been used. I'm smart because most of the other kids only call out Saturday-morning cartoons. Once they run through
Scooby-Doo
,
The
Yogi Bear Show
, and the
Harlem Globetrotters
, they're fresh out of ideas. But I make sure to read the
TV Guide
so I can throw out crazy stuff like
60 Minutes
or
Mannix.

“I wish,” I say. I point to my ugly ruffled dress with the weird, stiff petticoat underneath. I feel like one of those creepy Victorian dolls with the glass eyes. Nobody wears outfits like this. My mom wanted me to look fancy to impress my gam-gam.

Here's a news flash: An expensive party dress is going to have the opposite effect. Gam-Gam gets real mad and kind of resentful when things are too nice. I just don't see her appreciating a dress with this much lace for no good reason, especially since I'm not getting confirmed in it. Might be what she calls a venal sin, if I remember my CCD classes right? (No one has told Gam-Gam we go to the Episcopal church now instead of the Catholic one. I suspect it's a very bad idea to bring up the subject.)

I tell Karin, “I have to go to a Mother's Day brunch at our new country club with my grandmother and my aunt and uncle and stuff. Maybe I can play when I'm done.”

Karin slumps against the doorframe. Even her pigtails droop with disappointment. “Aw, man. I won't have any fun without you.”

“I'm not going to have any fun, either. My gam-gam is a big crab. I thought grandmothers were supposed to be nice old ladies
who make cookies and stuff, but she mostly just smokes and says things that hurt people's feelings. I don't know why we have to go eat waffles with her. Mom and my auntie Marilyn will be all excited for Gam-Gam to be here, and then she will say awful stuff to both of them the whole time until she leaves. Then my mom will be in a bad mood for a couple of days. It's like everyone loses.”

Karin's eyes grow huge. “Really? My grandma knits me fuzzy sweaters and sneaks me candy when my dad says I can't have any more and sends me fifty dollars for my birthday.”

“See? That's what they're supposed to do,” I say, monkeying with the itchy lace hem of my dress, yanking on it so hard I think something might have ripped underneath.

“Penelope, leave your dress alone!” I hear my mother call.

“Okay!” I say.

How does she know?

To Karin, I say, “Gam-Gam always tells me I'm lucky to not be working in a button factory. What does that even mean?”

Karin kicks at the welcome mat with the toe of her Buster Brown oxford. “I dunno. Well, call me when you get home.”

“I will. Hey, for your game, use
Doctor Who
,
Nova
, and
Monty Python's Flying Circus
. You will win. See you later!”

“Ooh, those are
good
.” She runs down our cobblestone walk to a waiting group of kids farther down the block. The ones who see me wave and I wave back.

I really like this neighborhood. I liked our old one, but this one is so much nicer; plus I still see my old friends at school, so I'm not missing anything. The houses are a lot farther apart and they are much bigger, with more trees and flowers. When we pulled up here for the first time, I thought maybe my parents were joking that this was ours, because it is huge.

Auntie Marilyn is the only other one of Gam-Gam's kids who even lives in the suburbs—everyone else is still in the city. The way all the brothers and sisters talk about Glencoe, you'd think we had cows or something out here! That's crazy. We're less than a mile from the grocery store, and we can walk to the train station and to buy ice-cream cones—that's hardly the boonies. We're still in Cook County!

Anyway, that day, my mom and dad took out their key and opened the door and let us in and then the movers showed up with all our stuff. If our being in this house is a joke, it's a really elaborate one that's gone on for two whole months.

While I'm standing outside watching everyone start the game, Auntie Marilyn, Uncle Leo (he works for my dad—that's how he and Auntie Marilyn met), Cousin Patrick, and Gam-Gam pull into the driveway in their Country Squire station wagon. From the expression on Patrick's face, he is not having a fun time with our grandmother. He practically bolts out of the car.

“Kool-Aid. Now. Please. I need some sugar to wash the drive from picking up Gam-Gam out of my brain,” he demands. He looks very handsome in his plaid pants and double-breasted, belted vest. I like the long lapels on his silky shirt, too. “Why is she convinced we should be working in a button factory? It's 1974, and (a) we're in grade school and (b) there are child labor laws.”

I hold up my hands. “Maybe because our fingers are small?”

He takes a look at my dress and says, “I hate everything about what you're wearing, up to and including the ankle socks. Especially the ankle socks.”

I nod in agreement. “Me, too. Come on in. I think we have red Kool-Aid,” I say.

“Perfect.”

“Should we wait for everyone else?” I glance back to see Gam-Gam dawdling at the front of the house.

“No. Gam-Gam will want to spend some time criticizing the landscaping before moving inside. She's going to have a field day with the shag carpet and all the wood paneling. I'd say we have a few minutes.”

Oh, no. Is Gam-Gam really going to be nasty about the new house, too? My parents are so proud of how nice it is, with the automatic dishwasher that's the same mustardy gold as the fridge and the stove and the trash compactor. Dad can't stop talking about how great his custom cabinets look in there, too. He may even use pictures of our kitchen in a magazine ad! Plus, we have the built-in kind of air-conditioning here instead of the window units like in the old house. We haven't had a real hot day yet, but when we do, I bet we won't have one room that is stifling.

You should hear my dad when he shows everybody the den with his hi-fi system and reel-to-reel audio player. When he played “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” it sounded like Jim Croce himself was in the room singing to us! My dad bought a horseshoe-shaped bar and stocked it with a bunch of bottles of scotch. (Which does not taste like butterscotch
at all
. Ask me how I know.) (Well, ask Foster, technically.) He said he heard our fancy neighbors the Cushmans really like scotch, so if they ever want to come over, he will be ready to entertain them.

So I guess what I'm saying is I will be mad if Gam-Gam craps on this for my parents, especially because they try to be so generous with her, except she won't ever take anything from them. Why is that? I once overheard my auntie Marilyn say that if Gam-Gam allowed them to do nice things for her, she'd be giving up control and it wouldn't be worth it. That Gam-Gam would rather
be miserable. I didn't understand what any of that meant—who would ever choose misery?

Sometimes I don't understand people.

Patrick and I walk inside, and I yell up the stairs, “They're here! I'm getting Patrick a cold drink!”

Mom replies, “No Kool-Aid for you, Penelope! I don't want you to stain your dress before brunch!”

How does she always know?

• • • •

The eight of us are seated in the main dining room at Centennial Hills, having just taken a walk around the grounds. Everything is so pretty and green here, and you can see the lake! I hadn't been anywhere but the dining room before today. This place is so big, with a pool and a golf course and lots of racquet courts and a stable, and there's even a shooting range!

My mom says now that the weather is getting warm and school will be out, there are lots of activities she expects me to participate in. She says it's important for our futures for her to meet “the right kind of moms,” and she'll do that if Foster and I get involved in all the kids' sports here. A lot of the stuff sounds fun, so I am up to try. I do pretty good in PE when we have sit-up and pull-up challenges, but less so when there is a ball involved, so I guess we'll see. I start tennis lessons next weekend. I already got new sneakers and a white skirt outfit with little shorts sewn in underneath and some cute, short socks with fuzzy pom-poms on the back of them. Karin says tennis is hard and I should do gymnastics with her in Wilmette, but they don't offer gymnastics at the club, so my mom says no. I wonder if that's because Karin's
mom is divorced. The way my mother talks, divorce is worse than cancer.

A very nice man named Miguel is waiting on us. My dad gave him a real big smile and a handshake when he seated us at the table, so I guess my dad likes him, too. When Miguel was taking drink orders, he offered to bring Shirley Temples for me, Patrick, and Foster. A Shirley Temple is ginger ale and grenadine, garnished with maraschino cherries, and it's the best thing I've ever tasted. Foster has put away three so far.

“What do you think about the country club, Bernadette?” my dad asks. I can tell he's trying to sound real casual, but he's sitting there with his chest all puffed up and I know how proud he is of finally becoming a member. He's talked about belonging here for a long, long time. I don't know what changed to make the snooty people finally let him in, but they did, and then it was like ten thousand Christmas mornings for him. When he found out our family was accepted, he and my mom danced around the kitchen holding hands for about five minutes. I think he even cried a little.

Patrick and I give each other the side-eye. We know what's coming. We can tell you what Gam-Gam is going to say. In school, I've been learning about how math helps predict patterns, which lets you know what's going to happen next. But I don't need arithmetic to predict that my dad's about to have his feelings hurt, because it happens every time.

Gam-Gam's steel-gray eyes dart around the room, taking in all the other families enjoying their Mother's Day brunch. There's nothing about her that's relaxed or friendly. For example, her hair is all scraped back into a bun that's so tight it must make her whole scalp ache. Maybe that's why she's cranky. (I know I don't like it when my mom pulls my braids too tight, but I tell her and she
loosens them, so it's okay.) Her mouth is all small and pinched into a bitty little dot in the center of her face. She's got that flappy arm skin that you think would make her feel soft and doughy when you're forced to hug her, but no. The flaps are more like something she'd use to suffocate her prey. She kind of reminds me of a lizard, except a lizard might be more warm-blooded.

“Ridiculous,” she spits. “This club is ridiculous.”

My dad looks like he's had the wind sucked clean out of him. My mom's teeth are still smiling, but none of the rest of her face is.

“Mama, membership here is everything Max has been working toward!” Mom calls him Max now. She used to call my dad “Sully” because his middle name is “Sullivan.” Everyone in his old neighborhood where he grew up still calls him Sully, but he doesn't go there much anymore. “The connections he's made already are invaluable! The new business tipped the scales and helped us buy the house!”