Paint by Magic (4 page)

"Meal?" Dad asked. "You mean dinner? And we're eating it all together?"

"Together," Mom affirmed pleasantly. Her frown had disappeared. "Come on now, let me take your coat and briefcase, and you just come with me. How about if I pour you a nice glass of wine to go with your meal? Now that Prohibition is officially over!" She giggled. "No need for bootlegging. You can drink your wine right out in the open. Here—just a little one. Now, the children must wash their hands. And Ashleigh, will you please light the candles?"

I didn't have a clue what Mom was talking about. I looked at Crystal. She was looking at Dad. Dad raised his eyebrows at Ashleigh. Ashleigh smiled at me and gave a tiny shrug. We all followed Mom down the hall in silence.

The table wasn't set in the kitchen. Instead, Mom led us to the formal dining room. I think I've eaten in that room only once or twice in living memory. The table was large and round, and now it was covered with a white cloth. Mom had set it with the silverware and plates and glasses that usually stay in the china closet. On a normal day we just grab forks from the drawers in the kitchen and eat in there. And we always,
always
watch the news or whatever while eating.

We all sat down. Crystal had her arms crossed like she meant to keep them that way. Dad was looking intrigued, as if this might be a surprise birthday party or something. Only Ashleigh had a little smile on her face, but she could afford to because it wasn't
her
mom who was being so strange.

I felt like we were out visiting people we didn't know very well. My knees bumped Mom's under the table. She turned to me and nodded. "Connor, will you please say grace?"

What was she on about now? "Grace," I said obediently.

"No, honey," replied Mom patiently. "It's a prayer. A prayer thanking God for our food."

I looked to Dad for help, but he was looking at Mom. So was Crystal. So was Ashleigh.

"Go on," prompted Mom.

"Okay." I remembered a movie I saw where there was a preacher or a rabbi or something standing up in front of a lot of people. "Dear Lord," I said in a loud voice that would reach to the very back of that kind of huge room. "Thank you for all this food. It smells really good." I glanced at Mom.

She smiled encouragingly. "Amen."

"Oh yeah.
Amen
," I added.

Crystal cleared her throat. "I'm getting really freaked out."

Mom started passing around platters of food that smelled, well,
heavenly.
Roast chicken with a tomato sauce, and mashed potatoes that I knew were the real thing, not the dried cubes or fake potato flakes that you mix with boiling water. I'd seen Mom with those potato peelings as proof. And there were green beans—real, fresh ones, not the frozen kind—cooked with lots of onions, and fluffy rolls and butter.

For a strange, shivery second I felt like I was in that painting in the art book. I looked at the door to the kitchen like maybe that grandma from the painting would waltz in with a big birthday cake. Then Crystal passed me the potatoes and broke the spell. Mom poured herself a glass of wine and held the glass up to the candlelight.

"Ah," she said. "Look at that sparkle." She took a sip. "Lovely, really delicious. That's what those Temperance folks forget—how perfectly delicious wine is. In moderation, of course. All things in moderation."

Crystal kicked me under the table. I kicked back because how was
I
supposed to know what Mom was talking about?

Dad raised his glass to Mom in a toast. "Kids, Mom is referring to the Temperance Movement," he told us. "In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century, there was a push to do away with alcohol because it was thought to erode decent family values. The movement led to Prohibition—the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution—banning the sale and consumption of alcohol. It went into effect in 1920, I think I remember learning, and was repealed in 1933 or thereabouts."

Mom raised her glass to him. "Is that when they finally got rid of it? Such a silly law. One of the few bad things about the good old days."

"What good old days, Ms. Rigoletti?" asked Ashleigh.

Mom set down her glass. Her expression was composed, as if she'd been waiting for just such a question. "My dear ones," she began in her firm, lawyer voice, "we're going to turn right
now
into the good old days. I feel we've been missing out on a lot of things because we don't really see each other much, do we? I mean, we're a family, but we all keep to our own busy schedules..." Here she appealed to Dad. "Grant, you know how you and I haven't exactly been getting along lately? I'm sure it's because we haven't been spending enough time together."

Dad took a careful bite of chicken. "Listen, Pam," he said, chewing, "that might be true. But don't you think it's something we might discuss better alone? I mean"—and he cast his eye around the table at me and Crystal and Ashleigh—"like
in private?
"

"All right, dear," agreed Mom. "But I've been doing a lot of thinking over this past year or so—I mean, well, anyway, I know it might not be easy to change, but it's got to happen. For the sake of our family, some things are going to change around here."

"Like you've changed your clothes, Mom?" demanded Crystal. "And your hair?"

"First of all," continued Mom, ignoring the interruption, "I'm going to work only part-time. I'm going to cut back so that I can leave for work in the morning and be back home in Shady Grove by the time the first school bus comes by. So I'll be here, Crystal and Connor, when you get home from school."

"But—" began Crystal. "But I don't usually get home till nearly dinnertime, anyway."

That was true, but I didn't see why she was objecting. I kind of liked the idea that Mom would be around—especially if she would keep making cakes and stuff for after-school snacks.

"That's another thing," said Mom. "All these after-school classes have to stop. It's just too much—and it's not necessary. Now, children, I want you to think of all the classes and extracurricular clubs and sports you two. are involved in, and pick
one or two
that are most important to you."

"What about the other ones?" I asked, seeing for a moment all my. "extras" stacked up like building blocks in my mind. Soccer and karate and piano. Swimming and gymnastics and computer graphics. Baseball in the spring.

"The other ones we'll drop," said Mom simply. "You're both doing far too much."

My tower of blocks crashed onto the table. In my mind, I mean. But I could see them—all labeled
SOCCER
and
KARATE
and
PIANO
and everything. Which ones did I like best? Would I be sad without the others? I didn't really know.

"Don't we get any say in this?" demanded Crystal. "Don't we get to vote?"

"Women do have the right to vote now," Mom acknowledged, with a nod. "But you're not old enough yet. As your mother, I am making this decision for you."

"You're totally crazy!" cried Crystal.

Dad shushed her. "That's no way to talk to your mother." But he was darting apprehensive little looks over at Mom. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked even more exhausted than he had earlier. "Is this about money, Pam?" he asked. "Are you worrying we can't afford these things? Because even if you cut back to part-time, we can certainly still pay for the kids' classes and extras."

"It's not about money," Mom said tightly. She took a bite of mashed potato. "It's about
family.
"

Ashleigh winked at me across the table.

She wasn't winking after she heard what Mom said next. Ashleigh's eyes popped like somebody's in a cartoon, and her mouth—full of nasty, chewed-up chicken—hung wide open.

"And we're going to cut back in other ways. The gardener's, Mrs. White's, even
your
services, Ashleigh, as our baby-sitter—these must go."

"But—what about my apartment here?" spluttered Ashleigh. "And the kids—who's going to get their meals and drive them places and everything?" I saw little flecks of chicken fly out onto the table. Good thing the cloth was white. She appealed to my dad. "Mr. Chase—what will I
do
?"

"You may still live in your apartment over the garage until you graduate," Mom assured her before Dad could say anything. "You know you're like one of the family. But we won't need you for Crystal and Connor anymore because
I
am going to be home with them. You can earn your keep by helping us out in other ways. You can help the children with the gardening, if you like, or the housecleaning. We can talk about specific duties and chores later."

"
Earn my keep?
" Ashleigh was frowning down at her plate now.

"
Duties and chores
?" squawked Crystal. "
Housecleaning?
You've got to be kidding!"

"Pam," said Dad in that tone I always think of as his heavy voice. "Pam, Pam. These are all big steps. Are you sure you've thought them through?"

"And what about the TVs?" I mumbled.

Crystal checked her watch.

"Grant, I'm as sure as I can be that these will be changes for the better. Toward a simpler, happier way of life. A happier family." Mom looked at Dad while she spoke, but I knew she meant what she said for all of us at the table. She folded her napkin (a
cloth
napkin?) and laid it next to her plate. "Things have to change. And we're going to go cold turkey."

"Turkey?" I blurted out, totally confused, because we were eating
chicken.
Even though they're sort of the same thing.

"Cold turkey," repeated Mom. "That means just quitting. Just stopping—just like that." She snapped her fingers. "Like Mrs. White quit smoking. One day she smoked, then one day she'd stopped. No gradual cutting back, no weaning herself away from her addictive habit—just cold-turkey quitting."

"Like, you think we're drug addicts?" snapped Crystal. I just sat back and listened, letting her fight this particular battle. Not because I didn't mind losing the TVs—I did. But because I had this gut feeling we were going to lose the battle. Lose the whole war, in fact.

"TV is addictive," Mom replied calmly. "Things are going to change around here. The Rigoletti-Chase family is turning over a new leaf."

When she said that, I pictured the big book, its pages turning slowly.

"But
why
?" Crystal demanded urgently. "What's wrong with the way we are already?"

Mom laughed, but it wasn't a cheerful sound.

"We're
fine,
Pam," said Dad impatiently now. He pushed back his chair, leaving his salad uneaten, and stood up. "If you want to talk about getting into family counseling or something, I suppose we could. I mean, I sure don't see the need, but if it's what you want—"

Mom sighed. "Every Thanksgiving," she said softly, "we eat our feast in a restaurant."

I stared at her. What did that have to do with anything? My teacher, Ms. Rose, would have said that was a non sequitur. That's what she always tells kids when they just blurt out something that doesn't have anything to do with anything.

"Yes," said Dad, nodding cautiously. "We all agree Hannigans is the nicest place to eat." He sat down again.

Mom twisted her wedding ring on her finger. "There we are at a lovely, expensive restaurant, eating food some chef has prepared for the crowds, surrounded by people we don't know. I used to think it was just fine—a fine way to celebrate. But I've had time to think, and I want some changes around here. We never eat together as a family at home—never! Not even on Thanksgiving. We have this dining room and never use it. We're never home at the same time, Grant, except to sleep. I hardly even remember how to cook, and I hardly see my kids because other people are taking care of them..." She looked down at her hands and twisted her ring a few more times. The diamonds sparkled in the candlelight.

Slowly she reached for her wineglass and lifted it. She held it out slightly, as if to make a toast, and she smiled, as if she were about to speak. We waited. And waited. We were all silent, staring at her. The whole house seemed so quiet. No TV babbling in the background. Just us, just breathing. All of us just like the family in the painting, frozen for all time.

I could hear the clock ticking in the hallway. Mom still sat there, glass held aloft, smile fixed, not moving. But then I saw her terror-filled eyes—arid I realized that she
couldn't
move.

A shiver pounced down my spine.

"Pam?" Dad said softly. "Pam?"

"Ms. Rigoletti?" whispered Ashleigh.

"Do something, somebody!" Crystal yelled, but she was staring at me.

I stood up and took the wineglass out of Mom's rigid fingers. I held her hand in mine and squeezed it. It felt cold, like the hand of a hard plastic doll. Sucking in my breath to hold in my own growing terror, I reached out and put my arms around her in an awkward hug. "Mom?" I said. Then louder, right in her ear: "
Mom!
"

She jumped as if waking from a bad dream and let out a little shriek. "Goodness, Connor! Lower your voice. There's no need to use such a strident voice in the house. Save that for the playground, if you please."

"But, Mom—" I began.

"Pam, what happened to you?" My dad came to her side as I stepped away. "I think you were having some sort of seizure!"

She turned her face to his. "Oh, Grant. I don't think so..." But her voice was trembling. There was a long silence. Then Mom shrugged. "It seems to have passed, anyway. I'm fine now."

"So, can I watch my show about Prince Charles, Mom? It starts in just a few minutes. Maybe we can all watch it. together. You know, the whole family together, really cozy and everything?" Trust Crystal to be the one to bring things back to normal.

Mom shook her head. "No, Crystal," she said. "We're going cold turkey. That's the way I broke my own habit—and it's the best way—"

"Wait a sec—
when
did you break your habit?" I interrupted. "I heard your TV on in your bedroom just last night!" I turned to Dad. "Wasn't she watching TV last night? Or the night before?"