Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five (7 page)

“Yeah, well, mine makes me feel like Rhett Butler,” Al told me. But I could tell from the way her eyes sparkled she felt good in her new dress. “And frankly, my dear,” Al went on, “I don't give a you-know-what.”

“What's you-know-what mean?” Teddy asked.

“Next time
Gone with the Wind
's on the tube, Ted, catch it and you'll find out. I'm not allowed to swear around the junior jet set.”

“In October,” Teddy bragged, “I'm hitting the double digits. I'm gonna be ten. When you go from nine to ten, you hit the double digits.”

“Right you are,” Al said. “Going from nine to ten is almost as earth-shaking as going from thirteen to fourteen.”

“And going from forty to fifty is even more earthshaking,” my father said. “How's the birthday girl, Al? Do we call you Alexandra now? No more Al, I bet. You're getting too sophisticated for Al, so Alexandra it is.”

Al gave me a piercer and mouthed, “You told!” at me.

“I did not,” I protested. “He thought that up all by himself.”

“Thought what up?” my father asked. The bell rang again, and this time it was Hubie. Backpack, hiking boots, and all.

“Come on in, Spiderman,” I told Hubie.

Hubie's blond hair flopped into his blue eyes. His sweet, rosy little mouth smiled, and his dimples danced. Hubie was a terror.

“Don't anybody sit down,” my mother warned. “I just plumped up all the down cushions and everything's perfect. Leave it that way.”

“What's for supper, Mom?” Teddy asked.

“Hamburgers for you two.”

“I had hamburgers for lunch,” came from Hubie.

“I thought your mother doesn't believe in meat,” Teddy said.

“She changed her mind,” said Hubie.

Al headed for the door. “I better go home and get doozied up,” she said.

“I thought you
were
doozied up,” my father told her.

“I am, but I'm not finished yet.”

“You wearing those shoes?” Teddy asked, showing off for Hubie. Al had on her clunky red shoes. “I thought they made your behind wiggle,” Teddy said. He and Hubie broke into gales of laughter. Al blushed furiously. Teddy must've overheard Al and me talking about her red shoes, which did sometimes make her behind wiggle, but it was certainly none of Teddy's business.

“Get lost, troglodyte,” I said, and he and Hubie disappeared, probably to lay plans to blow up the Statue of Liberty.

The bell rang again. When I answered, the same old delivery boy said, “Hey, fate throws us together once more,” and thrust yet another bouquet of posies from Vivian into my hands.

“They're for you, Al,” I said. The delivery boy, feeling, by now, like an old friend of the family, stepped inside, leaned over my shoulder to read the card, and said, “Yeah, from somebody named Stan.”

“Holy Toledo,” Al said softly, looking slightly fuzzy around the edges, “and the party hasn't even begun.”

“This guy Stan really knows how to overdo it, doesn't he?” I said.

“Yeah, he sure does,” Al said, smiling. “But he overdoes in such a tasteful way,
n'est-ce-pas?”

chapter 13

Polly arrived at six-thirty, carrying the cake, which was done up to resemble an Egyptian mummy. “I took a cab,” Polly told us, “'cause I was afraid it might get crushed on the bus.”

Slowly, slowly, she peeled off the layers of tin foil and plastic wrap. We all stood silent, tongue-tied in admiration.

The cake must've had three layers, maybe more. Every inch was covered with a magnificent dark-chocolate frosting. Polly had decorated it with hearts and flowers and squiggles.
AL IS FOURTEEN
was written in pale pink icing.

It was a work of art.

“We won't eat it,” my father said. “We'll put it under glass.” We broke up, as if he'd said something hysterically funny. Excitement was high. It wasn't every day we gave a birthday party for Al, every day we had a rib roast in the oven, every day we had Al's mother coming to our house for dinner. My grandfather arrived shortly before seven. He had a present for Al, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. We were giving her a little black suede shoulder bag with a tiny rhinestone clasp. I would've loved such a bag. I never go anywhere, but still.

At five past seven, the doorbell rang. It wasn't Al's special ring, so I thought, Oh, no, more flowers. But there they were: Al and her mother. Al looked beautiful. Her hair was off her forehead and swept to one side. She looked about sixteen. Her cheeks flamed, her eyes shone, her feet wouldn't stay still. She had on black suede shoes with little heels. They would be perfect with the bag. She had on panty hose, and they didn't even wrinkle at the ankles. She looked
soignée
. When we got a minute alone, I'd tell her so.

Al's mother, dressed in a floaty red dress, also looked
soignée
, but then she always does. Al stood aside to let her mother enter first. Al's mother smelled delicious. She must've taken a bath.

Why? Is one missing?

That was one of my father's golden oldie jokes.

Did you take a bath? No, is one missing? The things they laughed at, back in the dark ages!

As Al, guest of honor, followed her mother into our living room, I heard her say, so softly only I could hear, “Ta dah!” That almost broke me up.

Polly was a tremendous guest, small-talking with the oldsters like a real pro. And I was proud of my grandfather. He looked positively ambassadorial in his striped suit that, he told me once, he wore only to weddings and funerals. Well, this was neither. As Al pointed out, he probably didn't get invited to too many birthday parties. At his age.

Everybody, including me, I thought smugly, looked elegant. Except Teddy, who was chained to the TV set with his buddy, Hubie. At first everybody also seemed to be moving in slow motion, like in a dream. Then they relaxed. The grown-ups had drinks while Polly, Al, and I slurped iced tea. I watched Al watching her mother out of the corner of her eye. She wanted her mother to have a good time and get along with my parents. That's only natural. When you have a best friend, you always want her mother to get along with yours. It's very unrealistic, however, to think that your parents and your friend's parents will socialize. The chances of them having anything in common are about zilch. Still, it would be nice if they did.

I was interested to see that Al's mother was slightly on edge at first. I didn't know that grown-ups sometimes become unraveled, just the way kids do, in a new and strange situation. I thought all grown-ups were cool. But I could tell she wasn't quite comfortable. Not at first, that is. And my own mother and father were also slightly off kilter. It was Polly and my grandfather who pulled things together. Both of them were real pros: Polly because she'd led such a sophisticated life—traveled so much and lived in lots of exotic places. And my grandfather because he was a kind man, a real gentleman, who knew how to make people comfortable. My mother, I knew, was worried about the dinner turning out right, and my father was the host and so preoccupied with his job of filling glasses and passing things that he couldn't be totally concerned with the guests.

My grandfather liked Al's mother. I could tell. Every time she said something, he gave her his complete attention, leaning toward her, his eyes on her face. He made her feel like a star, I think. I'd never seen my grandfather with a total stranger before. Only with Mrs. Oakley, whom he'd known a while, as well as with other people he'd known for some time. He'd only just met Al's mother. What a scene. I loved it. Once I caught Al looking at her mother and my grandfather, and she was smiling. Her mother was having a good time, and that made her happy.

After a certain amount of scurrying back and forth to the kitchen to check on things, my mother announced dinner was served. Not only did we have candles and flowers and linen napkins and tablecloth and roast beef, we also had place cards. That was my idea. I thought place cards were the cat's meow. It was like being at the palace when you had place cards. I don't know
what
palace, exactly, but you know what I mean.

My mother had me do the place cards, since my handwriting is much better than hers. When I go slowly, take my time, mine's quite classy. Hers is like chicken tracks.

Despite the place cards, my mother said, “You're here, Virginia,” to Al's mother. I didn't know she even knew what Al's mother's name was. “And Dad, you're next to Virginia. Polly, dear, will you sit here, please, and Al, you're here.” My mother indicated the chair next to my father.

Out in the kitchen, I hissed, “Don't you think Al should open her presents now?”

“No,” my mother hissed back. “After dinner. More festive.”

The rib roast was carried out with ceremony. And reigned like a visiting dignitary. The little roasted new potatoes, which I'd coated with my finely chopped parsley, plus the asparagus, brought forth a chorus of oooohs and ahs. Even Polly looked impressed. My father's special horseradish sauce, heaped into a little silver bowl, was splendid.

My father said grace, as he always does. Then everyone drank a toast to Al's health and happiness and continued longevity. “And may you always be as happy as right at this minute, Al,” my father told her. Al blushed. The dinner commenced. My father began to carve. Slice after slice of the beef, paper thin and done to the perfect shade of pink, fell under his knife.

I can't exactly explain, but it was beautiful. All the vibes were good. It was one of those perfect times you remember. Al talked and laughed, and once or twice I caught her just sitting still, looking around the table at all the faces, all of us gathered here in her honor. Maybe she was thinking of her father, wishing he and his gang were all here. Maybe she wished Brian was here, too. Anyway, it was great.

Polly and I cleared the salad plates. We wouldn't let Al help. Then we put the presents in front of Al. She looked a little embarrassed to be the cynosure of all eyes.

“This will give you a chance to work up an appetite for the ice cream and cake, Al,” my mother said. My father tapped a spoon against his glass and said, “Hear ye, hear ye,” and Al opened her presents. Ours came first. She nearly went ape. “I've never had one like this!” she gasped, and got up and kissed my mother and father, saying, “Thanks, thanks.” For one awful moment, I was afraid she might kiss me, too. But she didn't.

My grandfather gave her a copy of
You Know Me Al
, a book by Ring Lardner, which he'd mentioned to Al the first time he met her. She loved that. Her mother gave her a birthday card with a check inside. “Oh, Ma, you already gave me the dress,” Al said. Al's mother busied herself with a handkerchief, careful of her mascara. The long thin package done up in brown paper with Al's name and address on it turned out to be from Louise and Al's father and the boys. It was a needlepoint picture Louise had done of the farm, with the family members lined up: Al's father, Louise, Nick, Chris, and Sam. And Al.

“See! That's me, on the right, the tall one,” Al said gleefully. “Louise did it all by herself.” She read the enclosed note. “Isn't that clever of her! It's all of us in Ohio. Isn't that too much!”

I think that needlepoint picture was her favorite present. Al's mother was a good sport. If Al's obvious enthusiasm for the picture hurt her, she didn't let on.

Polly not only made Al's cake, she also gave her a length of material from Africa, which, Polly said, could be worn as a dress or a sarong or anything you chose. She'd show Al how to wind it around herself, Polly promised.

We put fifteen candles (one to grow on) on the cake. Al blew them out in one breath as we sang “Happy Birthday to You.” Her wish will come true. We had vanilla, as well as mocha chocolate-chip ice cream. I took vanilla because I was afraid we'd run out of mocha chocolate chip. Al ate slowly. Eating slowly cuts down on caloric intake, she told me.

After, we played charades. My grandfather was hysterical acting out the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Al's mother stood staring at the ceiling, hands clasped, supposedly Joan of Arc. No one guessed her. My mother acted out Charlie Chaplin as the Little Tramp. My father got to do Marilyn Monroe. He walked around with his mouth half open and his eyes half closed. He was a riot. Polly acted out Julia Child. I guessed her right away. I was Abraham Lincoln. I pretended I'd been shot, and staggered around quite a lot. Al said I should've given the Gettysburg Address. I hate know-it-alls, I told her, even if it was her birthday.

Al got a tough one to act out: the Wizard of Oz. She gazed into an imaginary crystal ball. I was the only one who knew what she was doing. Nobody guessed her.

My grandfather took Polly home in a taxi. Al and her mother thanked us many times. “I've never enjoyed an evening more in my life,” Al's mother said, pressing cheeks with my mother.

“All I can say is,” Al said, “this party makes the Rainbow Room look like the Automat.” Then they left. My mother slipped her shoes off and lay down on the sofa. The bell rang. “Who on earth is that?” my mother said, slipping her shoes back on.

“She forgot this.” Al handed me a tray with a large stuffed pineapple reclining upon it. “The horses doovries. My mother says forgive her, she's so embarrassed she forgot it. Good night and thanks again.”

“What's that?” my father asked, coming out of the kitchen, pointing at the pineapple.

“It's Al's mother's horses doovries,” I explained. “She forgot them.”

“Too bad,” said my father, circling the pineapple as if it were a live hand grenade.

“Say what you will,” my mother said, “those little boys were wonderful. Not a peep out of them.”

Speak of the devil. Wearing pajamas and a fuzzy look, Hubie staggered in. “I think I'm walking in my sleep,” he mumbled. “Where's the cake?”