Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six (9 page)

“What are you doing here?” I asked my grandfather.

“Looking after your mother,” he said. “Your father called me to let me know she was under the weather. I thought I might be of some help. She's asleep now. I look in on her now and then. Now that you're home, I'll take myself off.”

My grandfather is extremely handsome. He's a young sixty-six. That's an oxymoron, which means a contradiction in terms. I looked it up. How can anyone sixty-six be young? It's possible. He asked Al's mother out on a date a while back. Al told me that if they got married she and I would be related. Give her the ball and she really runs with it. One date and she's got them tying the knot.

She's too much.

My grandfather put his hat on. He always wears a hat, even in summer.

“Your mother's asleep now,” he said. “I just looked in on her. If you need me, call.”

“Thanks a million,” I said. “It was very nice of you to come.”

“She'd do the same for me,” my grandfather said. He kissed me and he and Al shook hands.

When he'd gone, Al said, “Know who he reminds me of?”

“Cary Grant,” I said.

“No.” Al shook her head. “Mr. Richards.”

“Mr. Richards! You're cuckoo,” I told her. “Mr. Richards had blue eyes and my grandfather's are brown. Plus Mr. Richards didn't have a cleft in his chin.”

“So what? None of that matters. Your grandfather's a class act,” Al said, very serious, “and Mr. Richards is a class act.”

“Was” I almost said, then let it alone.

The more I thought about it, the more I knew she was right. Mr. Richards and my grandfather
were
alike. It was a new and strangely comforting thought.

Fourteen

That night I made eggplant parmigiana for dinner. Teddy hates eggplant parmigiana in the worst way. That's not my fault. I found a withered eggplant in the fridge and a bottle of spaghetti sauce in the cupboard. Polly would have a fit. She thinks bottled spaghetti sauce is the pits. Anyway, I put them together with plenty of cheese and it wasn't bad. My father ate hastily without really knowing what he ate. Teddy made a small gagging sound and I nailed him with a super-duper piercer, so he shut up and pushed the eggplant around on his plate.

It's funny about eggplant; they tell you to salt the slices then let them sit for half an hour. The eggplant sweats. You have to rinse it off. I bet Al doesn't know that eggplant sweats. She thinks she knows practically everything, but there are a couple of things she's missed.

My father excused himself to go sit with my mother. He took her some tea and toast.

“I'll do the dishes and you sweep the floor,” I told Teddy.

He took the broom and started waving it around like it was a sword.

Al rang her ring.

“I'll get it,” I said. Teddy hit me on the head with his broom and I swatted him on the behind with the dishcloth.

“I said I'd get it,” I told Teddy, brandishing the rolling pin, which I'd snatched from the drawer. “Don't forget Mom's sick and Dad's home. Just keep your nose clean, buddy, and all will be well.”

“I hope I didn't wake your mother if she was sleeping,” Al whispered. “I rang the bell as quietly as I could.”

“Come on in,” I said. “It's O.K. My father's with her. What's that on your head?”

She beamed. “Isn't it strappy?” she said. “I made it. It's a sweat band.”

Her bangs stuck straight out like a porcupine's quills.

“I think you've got it on wrong,” I said. “Your hair looks funny. Why don't you stick your bangs under instead of over?”

“This is the way you're supposed to wear a sweat band,” Al said.

“I've got KP duty tonight,” I said. “Come on out. You can help me clean up.” Teddy had disappeared. With any luck, maybe he'd locked himself into the refrigerator. Either that or he was in the broom closet sniffing glue.

“How'd you make it?” I asked Al because I knew she wanted me to ask.

“I read it in a magazine. I cut off the bottom of my old sweatshirt,” she said, “and then I sewed on buttons and glitz and stuff around it. Whadya think, is it gorge or is it gorge?”

“You look sort of like a porcupine,” I told her. “With your bangs sticking out like that.”

“How do you know what a porcupine looks like?” she said in a cross voice.

“I saw a TV special about porcupines. They have these quills, and when a dog or some kind of animal attacks them they fire the quills and boy, do they hurt. You have to take the dog to the vet and he puts the dog out and pulls the quills out one by one.”

“I think it's pretty cool,” Al said. Meaning her sweat band.

“What did your mother say when she saw it?” I asked her.

“What she always says: ‘It doesn't do anything for you, Alexandra,' Al said in an imitation of her mother's voice. “What she refuses to recognize is that
nothing
does anything for me. How's your mother feeling?”

“About the same. It usually takes two or three days for her to feel like herself. She should be fine by Saturday.”

“You know, when my mother was in the hospital,” Al said, turning somber, “I planned what I'd do if she didn't come out.”

“Come out? You mean if she died?” I said, astonished. There had never been any suggestion that Al's mother would
die.
At least, not that I know of.

“Yes. If she died.” Al pronounced each word with great care. “I don't have that many relatives, you know. Of course, there's my father. He's a relative.”

“Yeah, that's true,” I said. “A father's a relative, all right.”

“But don't forget he has another family now,” Al said. “And even though they like me and we're all friends, that doesn't mean they want me living with them. Visiting is one thing, living is another. Everybody needs his space, right?” Al peered out at me from under her sweat band and she looked so mournful I almost laughed. But I've learned not to laugh at Al when she's mournful, so I just nodded and kept quiet.

“When you live with people, all sorts of little irritating things happen,” Al went on. “Like you leave the top off the toothpaste, for instance. Or you hum while you're eating. Or you talk with your mouth full. You get on people's nerves without even knowing you're doing it. That can spoil a beautiful friendship. So I'm not sure I should go live with my father and Louise and the boys if anything happens to my mother. She's used to me, after all.”

“Hey, give your mother a break,” I said. “She's doing fine. You said so yourself. She looks great.” I wondered why we were having this conversation.

“So I planned what I'd do.” Al went on as if I hadn't spoken. “If my mother died, that is.”

“O.K.,” I said. “Spit it out.”

“I thought I'd join a cloistered order of nuns,” she told me, her eyes huge.

“But you're not even Catholic,” I said.

“You don't have to be born Catholic,” she said. “You can convert.”

“What do cloistered nuns do?” I said.

“They take a vow of silence,” Al said. “They spend—”

“A vow of silence!” I said. “You'd flip if you took a vow of silence. You'd absolutely, positively go out of your brains. And you know it.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Al said, in a huff. “Just because you couldn't take a vow of silence doesn't mean
I
couldn't handle it. I'd probably make a pretty good cloistered nun.”

“Yeah, I can see you now,” I said. “You've got this thing you have to tell me. I mean, it's burning a hole in your mouth if you can't spit it out, if you can't zip down the hall and lay it all out. Yeah, some cloistered nun you'd make,” and I burst out laughing.

“That's all you know,” Al said, still in a huff. Then the corners of her mouth began to twitch and lift, and before she knew it she was rolling on the floor, clutching her stomach, laughing so hard she couldn't stop.

When we'd calmed down, Al said, “Do you think a mother should die before her children do?”

“Holy Toledo,” I said. “I don't know. I never thought of it.” Which wasn't strictly true. I have thought of it. There was a girl in my class whose mother died last year. It was the saddest thing I ever saw. Her face was without any joy, any fun, and before, she'd been very lively and full of mischief.

My mother says she wants to die before we do, Teddy and I. She says she's not sure about dying before my father does, but she definitely will not put up with us dying before she does. She jokes when she says this, but I can tell she means it. “But if I die before your father does,” my mother says, fooling around, “I want you to make sure no designing female gets her mitts on him. If, after a suitable span of time, you can find him a nice, kind woman who's a good cook and fond of you children, well, all right. But keep your eyes out for conniving women. There are lots of them around.”

“How did we get on this subject, anyway?” I said. “Your mother's in great shape and so's mine.”

“It doesn't do any harm to think things through and make plans,” Al said. “If I didn't become a cloistered nun, I might go to work in an old-people's home, like the one Mr. Keogh's father's in.”

“Yeah, then you could tell fortunes and be Mother Zandi,” I said.

“My mother's going to a gala affair on Saturday,” Al said.

“So are we,” I said.

“We are?”

“Yeah. At Sparky's mom's place,” I said. “I'm going along as your chaperone in case the nephew gets rowdy.”

Al did a few bumps and grinds. “You think that's a possibility?” she said.

Fifteen

Friday was a school holiday, because there was a teacher's convention. My mother was feeling much better. She thanked me for taking care of her and being such a big help. She thanked Teddy too, but I figure she sort of had to.

“I'm proud of you,” she said. “You really took over and ran the house.”

“Yeah,” Teddy said. “We sure did.”

“Why don't you and Al do something fun today? You deserve a break.” She gave me five dollars and said, “Don't spend it all in one place.”

“Let's go check the mink coats at F A O Schwarz,” I said.

Ever since Al's mother brought home an F A O Schwarz catalogue that advertised, among other exotic playthings, mink coats in sizes 2T, 4T, and 6T, we'd planned on going down to inspect the joint. F A O Schwarz has got to be the most fantastic toy store in the world.

T stands for toddler, I told Al.

“Surreal,” Al said.

“Let's go,” I said.

We took the bus. It was raining.

The driver was an old crank. Sometimes the drivers were really nice. They sing and make little jokes and are kind to old ladies who don't walk very well. This one slammed the brakes on and snarled at anyone who asked him for a transfer or whether this bus stopped at Forty-second Street.

We sat in the back, right over a heater that was sending forth blasts of hot air.

“Get the picture,” Al said, waving her hands to send the heat my way. “This four-year-old kid who is spoiled rotten, due to the fact both parents are lawyers and making big bucks so they believe in quality time instead of quantity time and give the kid anything she wants, gets a mink coat for her birthday. It's a 6T on account of even rich folks like their kids to get two seasons out of their outerwear. So the kid goes to the park with her nanny in her mink coat. All kids wearing mink coats have to have a nanny. That's a rule. The kid's also got a power bike with a V-8 engine, which she plans to enter in the Grand Prix when she grows up.

“And in the park lurks this nefarious guy who keeps tabs on kids wearing genuine mink. He hangs out there and chats up the nannies while they're sitting tatting on the park bench, demure as heck, hoping some bigwig TV producer will discover them and put them in a sit com.”

“Tatting?” I said.

“Yeah. It's like knitting only it's tatting,” Al said. “So the guy chats up the nanny, tells her he's a retired bank president or something soothing like that. He says isn't her charge a little doll, stuff like that. He even carries a bag full of sour balls that he hands out. Then, while he's got the nanny's attention, his cohort sneaks up on the kid, who's riding her power bike in her mink coat and really working up a sweat.

“Talk about sweat!” Al rolled her eyes and her eyebrows went flying up underneath her bangs. “Try riding a power bike while you're wearing a mink coat. Man, it's the most! Anyway, the cohort walks right in front of the kid's bike so the kid brakes, and the cohort, who is very swift, rips the fur coat off the kid before she even gets her thumb out of her mouth. By the time she catches on and starts hollering, the cohort's over the river and through the woods with the goods.”

Al took a breather. Story telling is very draining work, she says.

“So what does the cohort do with the size 6T mink?” I asked her.

“Well, he hands it over to his own kid, who's only two but fast growing. But when the kid's wicked stepmother gets a load of the coat, she goes ape. She says if he doesn't get her a mink coat in her size, she'll rat to the fuzz. The End.”

“No,” I said. “That's not what happens. This is what happens.”

Al watched me closely. She's very jealous about her stories. She wants them to go her way. Before I knew Al, I never made up stories. Now I'm getting pretty good at it.

I cleared my throat.

“The guy who rips off the kid's coat owns a doggy boutique,” I said. “They sell doggy silk pajamas and bikinis and plaid bathrobes for lounging in. The guy cuts up the kid's mink coat and makes it into little muffs and belly bands for tiny dogs about Sparky's size. Dog lovers go beserk. Sparky's mom buys him a complete outfit. Sparky and his mom go on TV talk shows, the whole bit. They're instant celebrities.”