Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas (3 page)

It’s not far to the hospital. We walk down Copernicus Street. When we pass the fruit store that sells Christmas trees, Bernie asks when we’ll get our tree, and Dad doesn’t answer. When we get to the big automatic door, Bernie climbs out of his stroller and runs ahead. He knows where to go. What with ear infections, stomach upsets, and sore throats, we’ve spent plenty of time at the hospital.

Today’s different. The glass doors with the picture of Goofy are locked. There’s a guard outside. “You folks looking for the kids’ clinic?” he asks.

“We were here yesterday,” says Dad. “We –”

“Down the hall,” says the guard. “Radiology.”

I notice a sign on the wall outside the clinic: CONTAMINATED AREA.

“I thought Bernie was getting better,” I whisper to Dad.

“Me, too,” he says. His face is pinched and gray.

Brad and his mom are ahead of us in line. I wave. He nods back. His mom turns to stare. She has her arm around him, as if she’s afraid he’ll escape. “Oh, it’s you,” she says. “The nut girl.”

Radiology is X-rays. Pretty cool. I get to wear a heavy lead apron and stand in front of what looks like a laser gun.
Zzzap.
Then it’s Bill’s turn. Then Dad’s and Bernie’s. Bernie has to stand on a chair.
Zzzap!
That’s it.

I don’t feel sick. I don’t look sick. I don’t see anyone who looks sick.

I check around for sweet pea, the ugly baby; can’t find her.

And then we go home. Tough work walking through the unshoveled stretches of sidewalk. Poor Dad – even tougher pushing the stroller through the snow. Bernie climbs in and out, trying to help. Bill slouches along. I’m preoccupied.

What if the X-rays show that I’m sick? What if I have to stay at home? I’ll miss rehearsals. I’ll have to miss the show. That can’t happen.

What if Brad is sick? No one else would be as good.

I wonder how rehearsal went without me and Brad? I hope Michael didn’t overdo his part. At the last rehearsal, he put on a “godfather” accent – as if he were making Fritz and Maria an offer they couldn’t
refuse. Miss Gonsalves laughed and laughed, and Michael actually blushed.

We’ll have to arrange a rehearsal schedule. The show is a week away. Five school days. At least two or three rehearsals will have to be onstage.

“There it is, Dad – see it?” Bill’s eyes are wide. He points.

In our front yard is a big old maple tree. It’s a great tree. I love the shade it provides in the summer. The leaves that fall off it in the autumn cover our small front lawn waist-deep. It’s a home for squirrels and bats and cicadas. It’s bare now, of course. I can see the house beside ours through the bare black branches.

On a low branch is a huge black bump – a lump bigger than any squirrel I’ve ever encountered. It’s practically the size of a small bear.

“Do you see, Dad?” says Bill.

“I see it,” says Bernie, looking in the wrong direction.

Dad frowns. “What is it?”

As I watch, the bump unfolds a gigantic pair of wings, and flaps slowly toward us. It’s a crow. A huge crow. Or maybe, a raven. Bernie shrieks, and hides against Dad. The crow looks big enough to carry him off.

“It’s a sign,” whispers Bill.

I’ve had enough of this.

“No, Bill,” I say.
“That’s
a sign.” I point to the
STOP
sign on the corner. “And
those
are signs.” I point to a telephone pole with
NO PARKING
and speed limit
signs. Bill doesn’t say anything. “What you’re pointing at, Bill, is a bird. Not a sign. Okay? Enough with this silly superstition.”

I don’t know why I’m so upset. Maybe it’s because superstitions are so negative. Walk under a ladder, break a mirror, spill the salt, cross a black cat – you could wreck your whole future in a morning. Why must evil always win?

“It’s in our front yard,” says Bill. “A bad luck sign. Someone is ill. Very ill.”

“But Bernie’s better,” I say. “And what about all the good luck signs? Ever hear the one about the front porch? A sagging front porch is good luck – did you know that? So is a cracked front walk. So is a burnt-out lightbulb.”

“Is that really true?” asks Bernie, his eyes wide. He checks out the porch, the front walk. Our porch light has been burnt out for ages. Dad keeps saying he’ll have to change it one of these days.

“It’s as really true as anything Bill says about ravens. Gee, I wonder if we have a pizza coupon in our mailbox – you have no idea how lucky that is!”

I reach up to check and guess what? We do.

“Wow! We must be the luckiest family in the world!” says Bernie.

Dad is having trouble lifting the stroller onto the sagging front porch. He starts to laugh, then breaks off to cough.

Bill’s friend David is a familiar sight at our house. He doesn’t bother to knock. He practically has his own coat hook in the front hall. Today, though, Dad won’t let him use it.

“Go back home,” he says, taking the new parka off the hook and holding it out so that David can slide his arms back into it. “Maybe you can come over tomorrow. Better call first, to make sure.”

“What’s wrong, Mr. P?” he asks. He calls Dad Mr. P for Peeler. Bill calls David’s mom Mrs. B – for Bergmann. Dad thinks it’s funny.

“Bill may be sick, David. We all may be sick. We had to go to the hospital for tests this afternoon, to find out. You better stay away until the hospital calls us back.”

Bill is halfway down the stairs. He waves. David waves back.

“He doesn’t look sick, Mr. P.”

“And I don’t feel sick, Dad,” says Bill. “Can’t David stay? Please? We’re on the eighth level of
Norbert’s World. The Dog’s Nose.”

He’s talking about a computer game – you’re an alien from Jupiter and you have to find missing treasure. I don’t play those kind of games. I prefer the ones where you solve problems, or rule the universe.

“Sorry, son. We’re in quarantine here for a bit. Say hi to your parents for me, David. Maybe Bill will be in school tomorrow.”

David clumps down the porch steps. Bill waves, then turns excitedly.

“Quarantine? Did you mean it, Dad? Are we in quarantine?”

“Afraid so. There was a severe case of pneumonia in the clinic last night. They want to make sure there aren’t any more.”

“Cool! We can hoist the checkered flag! That’ll tell people to steer clear of us. We’ll be like the plague ship!”

“Great,” I say.

I am not sick. I am not sick. I am not sick.

Dad smiles wanly. “Are you sure you’re not getting quarantine mixed up with car racing, son?” he says. “In car racing, the winner gets a checkered flag. There are no winners in infectious diseases.”

Bill runs away upstairs.

Bernie wants to play a game. We decide on hide-and-seek. I start off counting in the kitchen. Dad can’t play because he has to make dinner.

“Feel like rice?” he asks me.

“You mean all gluey and burnt and stuck to the bottom of the pot? No, I feel fine. I’m not sick. I don’t feel like rice at all.”

Dad smiles, dumps some rice and butter into a pot of water and puts it on the stove to boil. Then he opens the fridge door and starts rooting around.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Leftovers to go with the rice.”

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen,” I say loudly.

The phone rings. Dad hurries to answer – which isn’t like him. “Hello – oh, hang on a second.” He gives the phone to me.

It’s Patti. She tells me that Miss Gonsalves didn’t bother to hold the rehearsal. They just read over their lines again, in class, and Jiri forgot his. “You’re going
to have to replace him,” she says. “I don’t like him.”

I don’t say anything. I’m thinking that we are going to have to find a way to get onstage really soon.

“Well, see you tomorrow at school,” she lisps. “You and … Brad.” She hangs up.

Dad is leaning over the counter. His eyes are closed.

“Twenty! Ready or not, Bernie, here I come!” I call.

I push open the swing door into the family room. I look behind the door and under the dresser with the
TV
on it and behind the long curtains and under the piano bench, with all the discarded sheet music and scraps of paper that have fallen off the piano. I even check – carefully, from a distance – the tall skinny bookcase. (Bernie recently discovered that he could climb the bookcase, using the shelves as a ladder. One afternoon he perched there, like an eagle, nearly scaring the life out of me when he leapt down on me.) I can’t find Bernie.

Dad wanders in. He’s sweating, but it isn’t that hot. “I think I’ll have a little rest,” he says, making for the couch. “Keep an eye on things, would you, Jane? And call me when the rice is ready. I’ll take it off the stove.”

“How will I know the rice is ready?”

“It’ll be all gluey and burnt and stuck to the bottom of the pot.” He smiles. “That should be in about half an hour.”

“Dad, are you all right?”

“Oh, sure.”

Bill comes running downstairs carrying a big piece of poster board. He shows it to us: a series of black and yellow diamonds. “It’s the plague flag,” he explains. “Fly that in the front window and all the other ships’ll steer clear.”

Plague. Great.

“Very nice,” says Dad. He settles himself slowly onto the couch. It’s green and shiny, and it sags in the middle. He sighs, sort of scrunching himself against the pile of pillows at one end. His feet go up, his head falls back, and his eyes close – momentarily.

Then they fly open again.

“Help!” A muffled voice coming from nearby. I can’t tell where, exactly. “Help, Daddy! Help, Jane!”

Bernie’s voice.

“What the –” says Dad.

“Bernie!” I cry. “Where are you?”

I wonder if he’s gone away somewhere to lie down. Maybe he has the plague.

Bill is staring around the room. “I saw a show once, where aliens hid a girl inside the
TV,”
he says. “The family turned on the
TV
and there she was.”

Bill and I cross the room to our
TV.
“Bernie! Bernie! Are you in there?” Bill turns the set on. A game show. We look carefully. Bernie is not one of the contestants.

“Hey! Help, Bill!”

Where is Bernie’s voice coming from?

“The radio!” Bill dashes into the kitchen.

Dad is struggling up into a sitting position.

“Keep talking, Bernie!” I call.

“Are you in the radio?” Bill asks loudly.

“No,” says Bernie’s voice.

“Where are you?”

“I’m underneath Dad! Help!”

Dad is sitting up now. There’s a commotion in the pile of pillows behind him, and a head covered in tousled brown hair pops out. Bernie was hiding in the sofa cushions. Dad must have almost squashed him.

“Sorry, little guy,” he says.

With difficulty, Bernie climbs out. “Whew!” he says, and then sniffs. “What’s for dinner?” he asks. “Rice pilaf,” says Dad. “What’s pilaf?”

I can answer that. “Leftovers,” I say.

They turn out to be pretty good. The rice isn’t overcooked. Mom’s home in time for dessert, which is brownies and ice cream. Like I said, pretty good.

Mom’s a little worried when we tell her about visiting the hospital. She reaches across the table to feel Bernie’s forehead and asks how he’s feeling.

“Still a bit squished,” he says.

“Squished?”

“Ah, that would be my fault,” Dad explains. “I sat on him.”

Mom spoons some ice cream carefully. She’s still wearing her work clothes. She doesn’t want to get them dirty.

I’m wide awake in the dark. My heart is pounding. I’m scared. Something woke me – something familiar, but I don’t remember what. I want to go and see Mom and Dad. Then I remember I can’t.

The hospital called before I went to bed. Good news: I don’t have pneumonia. Neither do Bernie and Bill. Bad news: Dad does. He’s really sick.

Because this pneumonia is infectious, he’s supposed to stay in isolation. By himself. Mom has set up the third-floor office as his sick headquarters. Dad tried to help her, carrying some bedding up the narrow rickety stairs. He started coughing and coughing, so hard that he couldn’t breathe.
Ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack.
After that, Mom wouldn’t let him help anymore.

So now when I wake up scared, I don’t want to bother Dad, who’s sick; and I don’t want to bother Mom, who’s tired out.

There’s the sound again, unmistakable. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s only Cisco, playing in his room next door. Rolling his marbles up and down, up and down.

Marbles at midnight. I’m going to have to talk to him, or his mom. What kind of bedtime is midnight for a kindergartner? I go back to sleep.

I get up as if this were any winter morning, frost on the window, old snow on the ground. I brush my teeth like normal, and dress for school. The hospital said that Bill and I can go. We’re healthy. Bill isn’t pleased to be healthy, but I am. I’ve got to talk to Principal Gordon about rehearsals.

I do hope Brad isn’t infected. What would we do for a hero? There aren’t too many guys in our class. Michael is all wrong for the Nutcracker, and besides, we need him for the Godfather. Jiri would never remember all the Nutcracker lines. Justin – no. He’s a nice guy, but a bit too … well, not exactly a nutcracker. A nutbender, maybe.

I run downstairs. And get a surprise. Mom is in the kitchen, in her bathrobe. Bernie’s in his booster seat, fiddling with a bowl of oatmeal.

“Hi, Mom!” I run over and give her a hug. I almost never see her in the morning. She has an important job, telling city hall what they ought to do about housing. Advising, she calls it. Most days she’s out of the house before I’m awake.

She kisses the top of my head. “Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“Still in bed.” She spoons oatmeal into a bowl for me.

“Did you make this, Mom?” I ask. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

She gives me a funny kind of smile. “Of course I can cook,” she says.

“Great,” I say.

“I used to cook all the time. Who says I can’t cook? Does your father say I can’t cook?”

“No, no. It’s just that … well, you don’t cook. Not much.”

“Well, I made this oatmeal. I also made your lunch.”

“Thanks,” I say. “What is for lunch today? I hope it’s not tuna.”

Tuna is what we get when Dad hasn’t time to think of anything interesting. There’s always a can of tuna in the cupboard. Bill doesn’t like tuna either. Cat food sandwiches, he calls them.

Mom doesn’t say anything.

Bernie coughs, and pushes his bowl away. “Mom,” he begins.

Bill clatters downstairs calling out that he can’t find any clean shirts. His skinny arms and chest are covered in goose bumps. He stops at the sight of Mom. And opens his mouth.

“Isn’t there anything in your drawer?” she asks. Her voice reminds me of the frosted kitchen window: beautiful, but cold.

“Mom,” says Bernie. “This cereal is bumpy.”

The phone rings.

“Eat it,” she says.

“Do I have to eat oatmeal?” asks Bill, shivering.

“Dad usually makes toast for Bill,” I explain to Mom’s back.

“Hard tack,” he says. “Not toast.”

The phone rings again. Mom picks it up.

I take a bite of oatmeal. Bernie’s right. It tastes terrible. Full of bumps. I make a face and swallow.

“How’s Dad?” Bill asks.

Mom frowns. “They can’t do that,” she says into the phone. “They don’t have permission from the council. I circulated a memo.”

“How’s Dad?” Bill asks.

“Still in bed,” I answer.

Mom looks over. “Hurry, Bill. Get dressed and eat your breakfast. School starts in half an hour.” She goes back to the phone. “You tell them that from me,” she says.

“But my long-sleeved shirts are all dirty,” says Bill. “And I don’t like ordinary oatmeal.”

“And if you thought you didn’t like ordinary oatmeal,” I mutter, “wait until you try this.”

Mom doesn’t hear me. “I won’t be in this morning,” she says into the phone.

Bernie’s been quiet for a while. Now he squinches himself around, and slides out of the bottom of his booster seat. He’s been practicing that move for a while.

“I have to go now,” he says.

He doesn’t mean he has to leave. And he doesn’t mean he has to go to school; he’s not old enough. What he has to do is go to the bathroom. He’s pretty good about remembering. This past summer we went on a trip to Auntie Vera’s, and he kept forgetting. He’s much better now. He doesn’t wear a diaper, and he almost never makes mistakes.

“Good for you, Bernie,” I tell him. He goes over to Mom. Tugs on her robe.

“Can I have toast too, Mom?” I say. “I’ll make it.” I take a loaf of bread from the bread drawer, and a bread knife from the cutlery drawer.

“Hang on!” says Mom. To the phone or us? I can’t tell.

“Please, Mom,” says Bernie. “Now.”

Mom stands there in the middle of the kitchen. The phone quivers in one hand. The wooden spoon quivers in the other hand. Porridge drips onto the floor.

Bill is shivering. Bernie is tugging on her bathrobe. I am cutting a slice of bread from the loaf.

“STOP!” Mom cries. “Everybody, stop right now!”

We all stop moving. The ticking of the clock is very loud.

She bangs down the phone.

“Jane, put
down
that knife. Right away. Put away the bread and eat your porridge. Bill, put on yesterday’s shirt. Right away. Then eat your breakfast and
go to school. Bill and Jane, your lunches are on the table.” She picks up Bernie.

“What’s for lunch?” Bill asks.

Mom runs out of the kitchen without answering. I catch sight of Bernie’s face over her shoulder. It’s all scrunched up. I know what that means – she’s
too late.

I catch Bill’s eye. “Tuna for lunch, I bet,” I say.

He sighs. “Cat food sandwiches.”

I look all around for Brad on the playground before school. Don’t find him. I do see Cisco from next door, playing on the wooden climbing apparatus. He and a bunch of kindergarten friends are rolling along the upper level of the climber toward what used to be a slide. The school board took the slide down because it was dangerous, and put up a ladder instead. No one uses the ladder. Now there’s a drop-off to nothing. Closer and closer the little kids roll. I wonder if they’ll stop in time.

One of the girls doesn’t. She rolls off the edge of the platform, and drops right in front of me, on her bottom. She laughs heartily. So do all the other kids. Kindergartners are pretty tough.

“Hey, Cisco,” I call.

He’s lying down covered in snow, from his tuque to his toes. “Hi,” he says.

“Cisco, were you up late last night? Real late?”

I think he frowns. His scarf is in the way. “How did you know?” he asks, getting slowly to his feet. He’s on
the platform, so he’s taller than me. My head is level with his knees.

“I heard you,” I say. “You were rolling marbles up and down the hall. You’ve done it before, too. Why were you doing that?”

But he’s shaking his head. “Wasn’t,” he says.

“Trucks, then. Or bowling bowls. You were rolling something.”

“Nuh-uh.”

The little girl who fell is climbing up the ladder to the platform. She slips on one of the rungs, and falls back onto the snow at my feet. She laughs, then climbs back to her feet and attacks the ladder again.

I help her up.

“Cisco, I live next door. I heard you.” He keeps shaking his head.

I see Brad across the school yard. He’s not infected. Good.

He’s talking to Patti. She’s real close, and leaning closer. As I watch, she puts her hand on his arm.

“At Homey’s,” says Cisco. Or something like that – it’s hard to hear past his scarf.

“What?”

He says the word clearer this time. “I stayed at Omi’s. All night.”

I stare. “So you weren’t even home?”

“Nuh-uh,” he says.

“What about your mom? Was she home?” Cisco doesn’t have a dad. At least, I suppose he does, but I’ve never seen him.

“Nuh-uh.”

“The house was empty? Your whole house?”

He squinches up his eyes. “Uh-huh,” he says, and trudges away.

I think about the house next door to mine, separated from me by only a thin wall. I think about the sound I heard last night, and the night before. Could I have imagined it? Could it all be fake? I think back.

Nope. Or, in Cisco’s words, nuh-uh.

So I am forced to think about a strange presence on the other side of that wall. Burglars? Ghosts? What? I don’t know.

Whatever it is, that
thing
on the other side of the wall is playing marbles.

The bell rings.