Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas Page 4

  I love maps. When we go traveling, I’m always in charge of the route. I love knowing exactly where we are, being able to point to a dot or a line on the map and say I’m here! Even better to be able to draw the map – to control the landscape, to draw the dot or the line in the first place.

  In another life, I’d be an explorer.

  “Psst, Jane,” whispers Patti, turning around in her chair. Her eyes are round; her eyebrows go down. “Where’s Northeast?”

  Hard to answer that.

  “Halfway between North and East,” I whisper back.

  “Huh? I mean, on my map.”

  Sunnyside School doesn’t have a proper cafeteria, so we all eat lunch in our classrooms. Today it’s – you guessed it – tuna sandwiches. Also an apple, some licorice, and grape juice to drink. Bill calls his grape juice grog.

  I shouldn’t complain about Mom’s lunch-making. She hasn’t had much practice. And the grog isn’t bad.

  Patti usually sits with me at lunch, but not today. She’s over on the far side of the room, next to Brad. Why does this bug me? I don’t know, but it does.

  Essa and Justin sit ahead of me. She wriggles when she speaks to him – I think she likes him. He finishes a bite, wipes his mouth, and turns around.

  “What do you think of my shirt, Jane?”

  “Very nice.” Not, you understand, that I care a whole lot. Justin wears a different shirt every day. This one is a bright green color. He looks like he’s wearing a billiard table.

  “Know what that is?” he asks, holding out his sleeve.

  “A button?”

  “Silly!” says Essa. “Of course it’s a button.”

  “See what it’s made of?” says Justin. “My mom and I were quite excited when we found it. See – real mother-of-pearl.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Truly beautiful.”

  Justin blushes like a doll, with a small red dot on each cheek.

  Library is right after lunch on Wednesdays. I take one look at the wide-open rectangular floor space between the bookshelves, and get an idea. I whisper my idea to Miss Gonsalves, who says she’ll ask the librarian. Miss Sucrete agrees at once. She’s a good sort.

  “Go right ahead,” she says. “I’ll close the doors to the rest of the school.”

  And so we have an impromptu Nutcracker rehearsal during our library period.

  Miss Gonsalves waves us into position. She has beautiful hands. Long slender fingers like the branches of a willow tree. “Jane, we missed you yesterday after school,” she says. “We had no one to tell us what to do.” Michael laughs, of course.

  “And Brad, our star: you too were missed. Eh, Patti?”

  Patti blushes.

  Miss Gonsalves nods to me, and makes the after you gesture. I open my notebook.

  “We’ll do the scene after Godfather Stahlbaum comes down from the clock. The doll comes to life, and the mice appear from all over. Okay? Michael, in position: say, on top of that chair. Patti, right where you are; Brad kneeling beside you. The rest of the class, in the wings, waiting. Remember your dance steps.”

  This is a tricky section. Patti’s doll turns into a real life-sized nutcracker. The mice attack. The toys defend. Hard to direct all this. I have to pay attention to lines; also to the flow of action across the stage. Before the battle begins, there’s a dance. Essa and Justin worked it out. They take dance classes together.

  I clap my hands. Everyone looks over. “Brad, you know what to do. Patti, your first line is ‘Good gracious!’ And … action!”

  Brad is at Patti’s feet (he’ll be under a table when we get onstage). He stretches out his arms, as if waking up, and then climbs to his feet. Not gracefully, though. He’s a nutcracker, a stiff-jointed mechanical thing. Brad is actually quite good. He gets into the part more than the other actors.

  Miss Gonsalves can’t play because there’s no piano, but she hums, and moves her hands in time to the humming.

  Patti puts her hand to her mouth – a lifelike gesture, this one, because she’s very conscious of her braces. She stares at Brad, then away again. I hope she’s confused because Maria is confused, and not because she doesn’t know her lines. She’d better know her lines with the performance less than a week away. She smiles at Brad.

  “Good … gracious. How can this be?

  Nutcracker looks so strange to me!

  A minute ago he was so small.

  Now he’d crack open a bowling ball!”

  Jiri laughs. He always laughs at this line. When he gets a joke, it stays got.

  Brad bows stiffly to Patti. She smiles back, and brushes her blonde bangs away from her face. Another very Patti gesture.

  Miss Gonsalves is wearing red today – a sweater and skirt combination, with a bright yellow shirt and a rope of pearls. “Great!” she calls out. “Nice chemistry, you two.”

  The dance sequence starts with the appearance of the evil Mouse King, who jumps out from behind the clock with the line:

  “Woe to happiness and joys.

  Woe to little girls and boys.

  Woe, oh woe, to all their toys.”

  Then Maria shrieks and, on her shriek, the rest of the mice come running out of hiding places in the walls. They attack the toys, who retreat sideways: left-right-left-right. Essa calls it a grapevine. The toys attack back, and the mice retreat in another grapevine. Then the Nutcracker breaks his sword, and the mice come charging back. Maria throws her shoe, scattering the vermin. One of them bites her on the arm, and she faints.

  The sequence starts well today. Justin stands beside me, frowning at the dancers. “Left, no left, you stupid cow!” he mutters. I don’t know who he means – to my eyes, the dance looks pretty good.

  At the height of the battle, when the Nutcracker has broken his sword (today, a ruler), Michael shouts, “Hey, look at that!” He points past me. The dancing toys turn to look. One of them trips. Justin groans, then turns to look himself.

  “Wow!” he says.

  The first dolly goes past me. Dolly, not doll. A two-wheeled dolly loaded with big cardboard boxes – the kind TV sets come in. Another dolly is coming through the library door. And another.

  Crisply shaved strong men in blue winter overalls, with flapped caps on their heads and gloves on their hands, push the dollies. Principal Gordon comes in with the last one. He wears a red sweatshirt on his round belly and a pleased expression on his round baby face. He rubs his hands together. “Put them over there for now,” he tells the strong men, pointing at our stage area.

  Them – computers. In their boxes.

  “It’s the surprise!” squeaks Essa. “Remember the announcement this morning.”

  “Cool!” says Michael.

  Gordon beams at us. He explains that the Board of Education offered our school a deal on some used computers.

  “How many?” asks Michael.

  “Used?” says Justin. “Used by whom?”

  The men stack the computers on the floor, at the far side of the library. The boxes are folded at the top, not sealed. These are, after all, used computers. Box after box, all marked MONITOR. Then box after box, all marked TOWER. Then box after box, all marked PRINTER. They have a compulsive power. I feel it myself. I’m upset that our rehearsal has been interrupted – yet again – but I still find myself staring, counting the boxes.

  So much power. So much knowledge. It’s easy to understand the pull of the computer. Thirty towers – enough data in those boxes to run the whole country.

  “Can you sign for these, sir?” asks the man with the first dolly. He reaches into his pocket for a bill. Yet another dolly wheels through the door. The boxes are all marked KEYBOARD ETC. The man in charge of it has no hat or gloves. He shivers.

  Mr. Gordon takes the bill. The shivering guy trips on something. His dolly flips over, and the boxes go flying at us. “Sorry,” he calls out.

  “Help!” cries Patti. “Help!” The top box is open, and the contents are pouring out on her.

  “S
orry, there!”

  “Ouch!” cries Patti.

  “Careful, there, Curly!” calls the guy in charge.

  “I tripped,” says Curly. “It’s these new safety boots.”

  “Well, watch where you’re going. Here, little girl, how are you?”

  “I’m hurt!” She is too. Her arm is bleeding, from a sharp edge somewhere. Justin, beside her, seems very concerned with his shirt. He checks the sleeve for rips.

  No keyboards in this box. It was full of etceteras. You know the kind of etceteras they mean: speakers, connectors, surge protectors, mouse pads – and the pointing, clicking animals that roll on them.

  That’s right. Patti, our heroine from long ago, has been attacked by a horde of modern-day mice.

  “Mom, I’m going to David’s. Okay?”

  Before Mom can reply, Bill’s back out the front door. The knapsack on the floor in the hall is the only indication that he was ever in the house at all.

  Mom and Bernie are in the family room. Mom is in the big chair. Bernie is bouncing on the couch. He says hi to me, and keeps on bouncing. Is Mom sleeping? I can’t tell.

  “It’s not fair,” I say. “They delivered some new computers right in the middle of our library period. We didn’t even get a chance to finish our scene in The Nutcracker.”

  Bernie bounces up and down, talking to himself. “Once upon a time,” I hear.

  “At least Brad is healthy. But there’s something going on with Patti. She doesn’t want to talk to me. I think she likes Brad. I don’t like him. He’s too …”

  I don’t know what he’s too. He smiles at me, and his smile is nice. When I tell him and Patti to move downstage, he says sure. Patti doesn’t. She sulks and pouts, as if this is the stupidest idea in the world. Or she asks Miss Gonsalves if my idea is any good. And Miss Gonsalves, bless her, says Jane is the director. Better do what she says. And Patti pouts, and moves slowly downstage.

  She used to be my best friend. I don’t like to tell her what to do, but the play is better if I do it my way. It’s hard being the boss.

  Upstairs I can hear coughing. “How’s Daddy?” I ask Mom.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “The doctor was here,” says Bernie. “Daddy is taking a whole bunch of pills. I saw them.” He holds out two hands with eight spread fingers. “This many pills,” he says. His eyes are wide.

  “Wow.”

  “Mommy cried,” he confides, whispering.

  “Oh.” I go over to her, and stroke her arm. She turns her head and smiles without opening her eyes.

  “When did you cry?” I ask. She doesn’t answer.

  “I spilled the juice on her computer,” says Bernie. “And there was a big spark, and the lights went out.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mommy went down to the basement, and the lights came back on, but the furnace wouldn’t start. Mommy tried and tried, but she couldn’t start it.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s when she started to cry. The furnace man came. He let me help him. He had a lot of tools. When I dropped one, it made a big noise.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mommy cried some more. Then she got a call from work, and I had a nap. I wasn’t tired, but I had to have a nap anyway. Would you read me a story, Jane?” he asks.

  “Sure.” I have math homework, but I don’t feel like rushing to do it. It’s all about patterns. You know: what number comes next in this sequence? Somehow the numbers I choose are not the same ones as the textbook. “Sure, Bernie.”

  We’re halfway through a story about a little baby named Bun Bun, when Bill comes back from David’s house.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asks, as he comes in the front door. Even before the front door closes, in fact.

  Dinner. Good idea. I’m hungry. The picture in the story shows baby Bun Bun sitting on top of a birthday cake. Bernie is staring at the picture and licking his lips.

  Mom’s asleep in her chair. She wakes up. “Dinner,” she groans. “Dinner.”

  The pizza place is on speed dial, right under the pharmacy. Mom gets through and then pauses with the phone in her hand. “What do we usually get?” she asks.

  I stare at her. How can she not know? “Double cheese, pepperoni, and mushrooms for Bill and me, Hawaiian for you and Dad, and plain cheese for Bernie.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait,” says Bill. “I want to try one without the pepperoni this time.”

  I stare at him now. Mr. Impulsive. “Okay,” I say. “I can take it. How about bacon instead? Or sausage?”

  He shakes his head. “No bacon,” he says.

  “Sausage?”

  “Just cheese and vegetables.”

  “No meat? What kind of weak pizza is that?”

  “Weak? Extra onions,” he says, staring at me like a challenge. Bill and I can be competitive about some things. About all things, actually. “And anchovies.”

  “Extra anchovies,” I say.

  “Okay, okay. And I bet I can eat more than you.” “Oh, yeah?”

  Mom waves her hand, telling us to be quiet. She gives the order and hangs up.

  “What is Hawaiian, anyway?” she asks.

  “Ham and pineapple,” I say.

  “You’re kidding. Who’d want to eat that?”

  “You do. You eat it all the time. Don’t you remember?” She shakes her head. “I don’t usually pay attention,” she says. “Besides, your father eats most of it.”

  After dinner we all troop up to the third floor. We stand on the stairs outside the office and talk to Dad. He sounds weak.

  “Are you really taking eight pills?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Whole bunch, anyway.”

  “Are you better?” asks Bernie. “Mommy can’t look after us.”

  “Hey!” says Mom. She’s frowning.

  “But that’s what the furnace man said.”

  “He said you needed looking after, Bernie. That’s not quite the same thing.”

  “I can help,” says Bill. “I’m practically a man.”

  I elbow him in the ribs.

  “I am,” he says.

  “You’re eleven,” I say.

  “David is already studying to be a man. He told me all about it. When he’s thirteen he’ll be a man.”

  “Well, I’m thirteen,” I say. “I guess I’m a woman already.”

  He elbows me in the ribs.

  “Stop it!” says Dad. It’s scary, hearing him say stop it, which he only does thirty times a day, in a voice that doesn’t belong to him. It’s like his normal voice strained through a sieve, taking out all the strength and humor. Like an old man’s. He starts to cough. Ack ack ack ack ack ack.

  “We miss you, Dad,” I say.

  “Me, too,” he whispers.

  I wake up late at night. Not because of bowling from next door. I hear the sound no kid likes to hear. Mom is crying.

  I’m scared. The whole idea of your mom crying is a scary idea. I’m the one who should be crying. Or Bill or Bernie. Mom’s the one who should be saying there, there. I’m scared to go to her bedroom and say there, there. Scared I’ll start crying too. I want to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep, but I can’t. I sit up in my bed and listen.

  It’s I2:30 by my clock. Apart from Mom, the house is quiet. She’s not bawling her eyes out or anything, just weeping. The sound of her weeping trickles down the hall toward me, like water trickling out of the bath.

  “Can’t,” she says.

  She’s talking. I get up and tiptoe to my bedroom door. Is she talking to Dad?

  “Work calling me all the time, and I can’t help them. I don’t know how to run a house. I can’t cook, and I can’t do laundry, and Alex is so sick. I’m scared,” she says.

  My mom. Scared. I’m used to her being busy and far away. I’m used to her working hard, and being tired at the end of a long day, or at the end of a business trip. I’m used to her in her suit and makeup, looking calm and beautiful while Dad
is screaming at us. Now, Alex, she’ll say, it’s not fair to expect too much of them. They’re only children. Dad will gibber and throw his arms in the air the way you do when you score a touchdown. Children? They’re fiends, I tell you. Fiends from the pit! We’re already laughing, of course. Then he’ll start laughing too, and the whole episode blows away.

  Smart. That’s my mom. Distant, too. I didn’t know she was ever scared.

  But she is. She’s scared right now. And I don’t know what to do for her. I take a step into the hall. I want to … I don’t know what. But I want to see her. I know I’ll feel better if I can just see her. I glide down the hall toward the big bedroom. The door is open.

  Mom’s voice gets louder. “I have a huge proposal that I have to get ready. They need me downtown. I can’t help Alex. He needs rest. And I can’t take another day here. Bernie said I can’t look after them and he’s right. I didn’t do anything today except run up and down stairs, and call the furnace repair people. I fell asleep before dinner. I’m tired right now, and I can’t sleep. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I don’t know who else to call.”

  She’s pacing up and down in her robe. There are some papers on the bedside table. Her reading glasses are there too. The single light throws harsh shadows against the far wall. I stand still in the doorway. Her back is to me. She presses the phone against her ear. With her free hand she covers her eyes.

  “Mother, I’m so scared,” she says.

  I wake up because Bernie is bouncing on my bed.

  “Jane, guess what?”

  He lands on my leg. I sit up. “What time is it?”

  “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

  I grab my clothes in one hand. “Who?”

  He puts his face right up to my ear and whispers as hard as he can. I can’t understand him, but I don’t have to. I hear a familiar voice from downstairs.

  “Jane Peeler? Get the shell out of bed, you lazybones! Breakfast!”

  Sounds like it might be a cheery voice, but it isn’t. It’s scratchy and gruff, and there’s a spitty kind of cough at the end of it. And the actual word isn’t “shell.” It rhymes with shell. I’m changing her words here because if I write down the words she actually says, I’ll get in trouble.