... and Baby Makes Two (7 page)

“Well. You know what you do? You lie.”

“I can't lie—it'll be right there! On my chin!”

“No, no, no. You lie about how it got there. You tell them you got it when three guys jumped you in Chicago. One of them had a knife. But you got the others.”

He paused.

“No one will believe Chicago.”

“Okay. You tell me. What will they believe?”

It didn't take him long.

“That it's from playing hockey. A big hockey fight, and I won. It'll show that I'm tough and I'm good at sports.”

Dylan came up with three more Scar Stories and was having trouble choosing among them. Aunt Janie assured him that he'd use them all eventually.

“This ll be your Harrison Ford scar, Dylan. You can make up zillions of stories to explain it, and they'll all make you look tough.”

Dylan was about to have a sweet, hugging, thank-you moment when he noticed that the other kids had put down the bubble pans.

“My turn!” he shouted and flew into the kid-center of the yard.

“Jane!” shouted her mother. “Can you help us bring stuff out?”

Of course she could. She headed into the kitchen and found trays full of paper goods, every condiment known to the eastern seaboard, and the infamous deli platter.

“Can you go get the sugar bowl? I left it in the living room.”

Of course she could. Jane didn't question why the sugar bowl was in the living room, or why a diabetic woman would be using a sugar bowl there or anywhere. She retrieved it, along with the unopened birthday cards.

“Here. I'll bring these out with—”

“Jane, this is Peter. Peter, you remember my daughter Jane, don't you?”

After thirty-seven years, this was the first time Betty had tried to fix her daughter up. Jane had no experience, no preparation. She stared. Her mouth fell open. She looked like a particularly stupid fish.

“Of course I do. Hi, Jane. Um, I'll carry the tray,” said Peter. And, in a manly gesture, Peter lifted the heavy, condiment-laden super-tray and brought it outside. Jane turned her mute gaze to her mother.

“Help him!” Betty urged.

“Who is he?”

Betty wrapped one of Jane's ringlets around a finger and calmly explained, “He's Peter. Peter Mandell.” Betty searched Jane's face for a flicker of recognition, but Jane wasn't flickering. She was sure she had never met him before. Unless, of course, she had met him in—

“High school! He was in the class ahead of yours? Weren't you in AP Physics together? Or something like that? You were always so advanced. I figure you must have had some kind of class together.”

Peter Mandell. AP English. Twenty years ago. Jane's appetite was gone.

“Mom. I haven't seen this guy in a couple of decades. I don't remember him. Why did you invite him?”

“His parents still live in that house on Albemarle.”

“Why did you invite him?”

“He looks after his parents. He's so nice. When I saw him this morning, he was trying to figure out the trick windows. You know the little ones on the side? These old houses, I'm telling you. They should come with instructions, don't you think?”

Howard decided to help clarify things for Janie.

“Your mother had him over to dinner last week, and he was a very fine fellow. You should talk to him.”

Betty disengaged from her daughter's hair and began rearranging napkins in a fan shape.

“Look, Janie, there's no harm talking to him. He works in the city. His mother makes it sound like he's doing pretty well. Where's the harm in talking to him? Worst thing that happens, you find a new friend. Do you have too many friends, Janie?”

“Mom, do you keep single men in your pocket in case of emergencies or extra deli platters?”

Betty looked up from her paper products.

“I wasn't planning to invite him—it was an impulse! You didn't bring a date, and I had all that food, and he was right there on his front porch, so it was like a sign. Like he's supposed to come to my
party.
And
he's very, very, very nice.
And
he's good to his parents. But you're not being nice at all! He's outside and you're being rude. Go!”

Jane hesitated just long enough for Peter to return. He was back for more heavy lifting. He looked like he could handle it.

“Jane works at Argenti. Right in the thick of things,” said Howard.

“No kidding. I work in the same building. I'm with Metro House.”

“No kidding.” Jane was trying to think scintillating thoughts, but the only thing that played in her head was “Oh, my God.”

She managed to come out with “I'll get the napkins,” and she headed out to the yard. The kids were having their burgers and hot dogs now, and her brothers had started singing. This mesmerized the kids and kept them in their seats long enough to finish a decent meal. The brothers were harmonizing on Betty's favorite song, “How High the Moon.” Betty emerged from the kitchen, beaming with delight at her boys. She settled into a lawn chair. Their voices were similar, the harmonies perfect. Jane hugged the napkins and listened.

“Do you sing too?” asked Peter.

“Yes. I mean, I can.”

“Why don't you do the next number? Do you take requests?”

Singing was the boys' province. Jane didn't sing at family functions. Come to think of it, Jane hadn't sung in a long time. She had no reason to.

“No, I don't want to crowd the boys. It's their show.”

Peter turned out to be the fine fellow that Howard had claimed he was. A research analyst, very successful. Loved golf, which accounted for his tan and for the not-fake highlights in his sandy hair. She tried not to stare, but she needed to, if she was going to capture any kind of coherent memory of him in high school.

“You don't remember me, do you?” he asked.

“Of course I do. You're Peter. Peter Mandrell.”

“Mandell.”

“I suck.”

“Burgers are ready! Grown-ups! Come and get 'em!”
Dylan was shouting while he herded the grown-ups over to the table, as if he were a sheepdog. That done, he rallied the children for a game of tag. Grown-up dinner started with an awkward silence. Jane wished she were hungry.

“Did Peter tell you that he used to live in California?” Betty asked very energetically.

Peter smiled and said, “I used to live in California. Came back after my dad had a stroke. He's doing okay but I just didn't like being so far away.”

“Good children look after their parents. Peter's a good son.”

“Except that I broke that trick window. That house may be charming, but it's falling down like a pup tent. I could spend the next two years trying to make all those repairs.”

Aha! Jane found a conversational opening: fixer-uppers. She questioned him about his planned renovations. She offered advice based on her own experience renovating her apartment in Manhattan. Peter wanted to know where this wonderful space was located. As they narrowed down to her exact address, he laughed.

“I don't believe it. I live half a block away from you.”

“I don't believe it.”

Peter lived in the high-rise doorman building with the potted plants by the door, half a block away from Jane's prewar, walk-up, fixed-up apartment.

“Mom, did you know that?”

Betty shook her head and turned to Howard. “It's a sign,” she whispered loudly enough for all to hear.

“Peter Mandell!” Jane shouted. The group stared and waited.

“Present.”

“I remember you now. You played basketball. You were a total hotshot.”

“I played basketball. With hotshot fantasies. And I'm afraid I don't remember what sports you played.”

“Chess. And field hockey. And I ran the drama club. I directed
Our Town
the year that your team lost a big game. What was it, Penn-wood High?”

“We lost a lot of games. We weren't a great team.”

Betty smiled. This looked like success, right until Jane said, “You ruined my show”

“No way. I never did anything.”

“You shaved your head.”

Peter blushed as he remembered it. The team had vowed that they would beat Pennwood High, or they would all shave their heads. They lost. They shaved. Maybe that was why he wore his hair a little longer than corporate America dictated, Jane thought. He liked feeling a bit shaggy.

“How did my shaved head ruin your play?”

“It wasn't just you. All the men in Grover's Corner were bald. It was ridiculous. The audience couldn't stop laughing.”

Jane's brothers were laughing. They remembered too, didn't they? The jerks. Jane knew it was stupid to get mad about something that happened twenty years ago, but did that stop her?

“Jane. Don't get mad about something that happened twenty years ago,” said Peter. “Please.”

“Even though it looked like Grover's Corner was next to a nuclear power plant.” And with that, she eased into finding it funny, twenty years later. She tried to remember what Peter looked like without hair, but she only remembered him returning from summers at the beach, with hair as yellow as a Post-it note. If Jane had been a sensible girl, she would have had a crush on Peter in high school. Did he always have those dimples? They left parentheses around his mouth. Why did boys get such impossibly long eyelashes? Jane wondered. That's when she realized she was staring. She needed conversation items, and, hey, she could talk to her new neighbor about so many things, like: “the new Ethiopian restaurant” and how it was doing, or “that amazing store that sells chocolates and eyeglasses” that was doing very well.

And then Peter brought up “that children's store, the clothing place? They have shirts that cost more than mine, and I buy all of mine at the Barney's warehouse sale, so, hey,
I
can't even afford mine. Why do New York parents spend so much money on stupid things? Can a toddler really appreciate Betsey Johnson's sense of whimsy?”

There really was no escaping this baby haunting thing, was there? Peter went on to explain that he had overheard two mothers talking about how Betsey's sense of whimsy was conducive to language development. Suckers.

Jane had no defense for these foolish mothers, and she probably wouldn't have liked them if she met them. Still, she felt compelled to defend them. It wasn't easy.

“I guess, when you have kids, you can get caught up in any effort to help them. They may be suckers, but their motives are basically good.”

Kevin and Neil pounced on the argument. After loyalty, Irish people love arguments.
Love
them.

“Janie-Painie, you know you're wrong. They're not helping their kids—they're pumping up their own self-image.”

“We haven't even met these people, but we already know how shallow they are. Good for us.” Jane should have backed down, joked it off, and changed the subject. Instead, she stood her shaky ground. Peter seemed impressed. Jane was misguided, but strong. He had no idea how true that might be.

“Are mealtimes always so lively around here?”

Neil answered for her. “Janie wouldn't know. She only visits under pain of guilt.”

Betty shot him the Look. The one that warned him of airing family flaws in front of People. There are People here and they can hear you. Is that what you say around People? I don't think so.

Neil looked up and around. “Is that the baby? Did you guys hear the baby? I'll go check on her.” Neil had a sixteen-month-old child who never slept for more than two hours at a pop, so Neil deserved
some slack from the family. His wife usually made him get up at night, since she had the child all day. The baby was fast asleep that evening. Right up until Neil went off and—oh, God—woke his sleeping daughter when he shifted her into a more comfortable-looking position. Oops.

Kevin was older, warmer, friendlier. He sang the melodies, usually, while Neil harmonized above. Kevin had three children, and he insisted that his children all slept through the night within the first week. He and his wife, Kitty, were just naturals at parenting, what could they say? Some people just didn't get it. He felt sorry for Neil and his sleep deprivation. But he swore he couldn't identify.

“Janie-Painie, how's life in the big city? How do you stand it?”

This was intended as a compliment. He continued. “I never go to the city. I stay right here, right where I belong. Last time I was in the city was—”

It was Sam's memorial service. Please don't let him say it.

“God, I can't even remember how long it's been—”

Please don't let him say it.

“I think it was Sam's memorial service. And he's been gone, what, three, four years now?”

“Six.”

And that's when Kevin figured out that Peter (People) was at the table, that he was some kind of fix-up for Janie-Painie, and that introducing the topic of her dead boyfriend was stupid. And everyone hates feeling stupid, not just the Irish. So he got mad.

“Jesus Christ, why are we still sitting here at this table?” he raged. “There's a cake, there's ice cream, there are presents and cards. It's getting dark. Let's get this show on the road, people!”

Kevin's face was red. He went inside and returned with gifts and cards. Kitty followed after him with a lumpy sheet cake. The children followed her, pied-piper-style, to the yard. Evening sunlight added a sleepy glow to the candles. Neil's daughter twisted in his arms for a futile lunge at the cake and the flames.

They sang, they ate. Betty loved her
Failte
carving and wanted Jane to hang it on her front door tonight.

“I'm old. I can't wait for these things.”

Jane sat at her mother's feet, and Betty played with her curls while Jane opened the gift certificate from her brothers and the CD of Irish ballads from her parents. There were hugs and kisses all around. There was the stack of birthday cards, including one addressed to “Bitty” Howe. Betty's family had always called her Bitty. It prompted Ray to refer to her as Bitty-Betty