Surviving the Applewhites (4 page)

E
.D. had gone to her room to get away from Jake for a while. She must have fallen asleep. She was jolted out of a dream about fires and explosions by the sound of the crash followed by yelling, most of which seemed to be her father. She shook the dream images from her muddled brain and left her room just in time to run into her mother, who was emerging from her office, a pencil behind each ear and her computer glasses still resting on the end of her nose.

“Where’s Destiny? Has something happened to
Destiny? Somebody call 911!” she yelled.

By the time they reached the scene of the accident, it was clear that Destiny wasn’t involved.

Randolph, red-faced and fairly dancing with rage, was shaking his fist at a tall, thin, pale, pimply faced young man with a ponytail, shouting about incompetent drivers and refugees from a demolition derby. The young man, his hands up as if to ward off a blow, was protesting in a high, reedy voice that he wasn’t the one who’d been driving like a madman. His words were all but drowned out in a fresh deluge of verbal abuse. He kept glancing down at the thoroughly crumpled front end of an ancient and rusty Civic as if it were the battered body of a beloved family member. He looked, E.D. thought, on the brink of tears.

“Daddy’s car won! Daddy’s car won!” Destiny said.

It wasn’t clear to E.D. that either car could be said to have won, but there was no question that the smashed bumper of the Miata, even caught as it was in the tangle of wreckage, was far less devastating to the car’s future than the condition of the Civic’s front end. That reminded her of an aluminum can that had been smashed for recycling. Steam was rising from beneath the mangled hood, and greenish-yellow fluid was making a puddle on the gravel. It seemed impossible that one car could be so much more damaged than the other.

Zedediah, Archie, and Lucille were converging on
the bend in the driveway from different directions, all asking questions at once. The window of Hal’s room was thrown open, and his voice joined the general confusion. Winston began barking in his deepest and most threatening tone from beneath the bush where he had taken refuge.

Randolph was now threatening to bankrupt the young man with a lawsuit charging reckless driving and attempted vehicular homicide. The young man’s face drained of what little color it had.

Sybil, having assured herself that Destiny was unhurt, scooped him up in her arms. Zedediah, still wearing his sawdust-covered tool apron, stepped between the two men and rested a hand on each of their shoulders. Randolph stopped shouting, and in the silence the blood gradually seemed to return to the young man’s face, though he still looked ready to burst into tears.

Under Zedediah’s patient questioning, the young man explained that his name was Jeremy Bernstein, he was a writer sent by a literary journal to interview Sybil Jameson, and he’d had an appointment for that evening. He had, in fact, been invited to dinner.

“No, no!” Sybil said, putting Destiny down. “That’s not today! I distinctly remember that’s not until the sixteenth. I invited you for the sixteenth.”

“This
is
the sixteenth,” Jeremy Bernstein said. Everyone else nodded in agreement.

“Can’t anyone in this family keep anything straight?” Randolph said, his voice rising. “You can’t just go inviting the media to descend on the household to shatter everyone’s privacy. Not without at least warning the rest of us!”

E.D. could see her mother’s jaw going rigid. When she spoke, it was between tightly clenched teeth. “I am immersed in what is just possibly the most important, the most difficult and complex literary work of my career. I have left the Petunia Grantham mysteries behind; I am striking out into new and unexplored territory. But do you care? Except for this young man here, I doubt that any of you even knows what I’m embarked on. I get absolutely no support from this family—I can’t be expected to keep track of details!”

“Details! You can hardly call today’s date a detail! It’s the first sign of mental deterioration to lose track of the date.” Randolph shook away his father’s calming hand and looked at his watch. “This is an unmitigated catastrophe! I am supposed to have dinner with the president of the board of the Traybridge Little Theatre in exactly twenty minutes to talk about
my
work. These people are none too stable. When I don’t show up on time, she’s likely to panic and hire some lawyer to direct their show. Some accountant. That’s what they’ll do, they’ll hire an accountant to direct
my
production of
The Sound of Music
.” He pointed to his car. “Someone will have to take me. My car is ruined. Destroyed!”

“Don’t be stupid, Randolph,” Archie said. “It’s nothing but the bumper and running lights that are smashed. If the headlights still pop up, we’ll just rip the bumper off and you can be on your way in three minutes.” He got into the car and popped up the headlights. “See? You’ll be fine.”

“Rip the bumper off my Miata—I have no intention of defacing this car—”

“It’s already defaced. Do you want to get to your dinner or not? The way you drive, no sane person would let you borrow their car. I’ll get the crowbar.” Archie headed for the barn. E.D. thought he seemed particularly pleased with the idea of taking a crowbar to his brother’s car.

Zedediah took a cell phone from a pocket of his tool apron, blew off the sawdust, and handed it to Randolph. “Call the restaurant and tell the woman you’ve been delayed.”

“Yes, Randolph dear,” Sybil said. “You go keep your precious appointment and leave the rest of us to clean up after you. I’m sure someone will take care of whatever we need to take care of with this young man’s insurance company.”

“Our lawyer will take care of that!” Randolph roared.

“We don’t have a lawyer—remember? He quit after you—”

“We’ll get another!”

“Fine, dear. Meantime, after you’ve made your call,
perhaps you’ll call a tow truck to take Mr. Bernstein’s car to be fixed.”

Archie, who was on his way back with the crowbar, shook his head. “No point in that. It’s totalled. Dead. Kaput. The condition it was in before the wreck, it’s a wonder there’s anything left but a handful of rust.”

Now Jeremy Bernstein did burst into tears.

“Why is that man crying?” Destiny asked. “Did he get hurt in the crash? Is he going to be all right? Will he have to go to the hospital? Is he going to die? If he dies, what—”

Sybil gestured at Cordelia to take Destiny into the house. Cordelia took him by the back of the shirt, and he went, protesting all the way.

Lucille had meantime hurried to comfort the weeping young man. She patted him on the back and assured him that he could have dinner with them and that someone would take him to his hotel afterward.

“I—I don’t—have—a hotel,” he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He took the handkerchief Zedediah offered him and blew his nose. “Thanks. I was going to find a place to stay after I’d finished the interview.”

“Then you’ll stay in one of the guest cottages,” Lucille said. Archie had begun prying the Miata’s bumper loose from the car. “E.D., please show Mr. Bernstein to Dogwood Cottage. We can deal with insurance issues in the morning.”

E.D. turned and saw Jake leaning against the trunk of a tree. Winston was sitting at his feet, leaning against his legs. The look on Jake’s face seemed to suggest he was actually enjoying himself. Car accidents must be right up there with fires for excitement.

J
ake stared at the serving dishes on the table. Visions of starvation rose again in his mind. There was a casserole of zucchini and onions, there were sliced tomatoes, cooked carrots, green beans, beets, and a bowl of something dark green and slimy looking that Lucille identified as beet greens. “All from my garden,” she told Jeremy Bernstein proudly. She didn’t elaborate on nature spirits or dream communication.

When Archie came from the kitchen with a huge platter, Jake’s hopes rose. There had been bacon at
breakfast. These people did eat meat. But when the platter was set down in front of Zedediah, who was seated at the head of the table, Jake sighed. There were a couple of hot dogs, one bratwurst, a handful of breaded shrimp, a chicken thigh and drumstick, and a couple of indeterminate patties that might have been meat or might have been veggie burgers.

“This was it, eh?” the old man asked Archie. Archie shrugged and nodded.

“I planned a really nice dinner, honestly I did. I just thought you were coming next week,” Sybil Jameson said to Bernstein. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Randolph forgot to do the grocery shopping,” Archie explained as he sat down. “This was all that was left in the freezer.”

Bernstein shook his head. “No problem. Honestly. No problem. I’ve been thinking of becoming a vegetarian anyway.”

“If God had wanted humans to be vegetarians,” Zedediah said, “He’d have given them cow’s teeth and an extra stomach.” He passed the platter down the table. “Get what you want first, young man—no telling what would be left if you waited your turn.”

By the time the platter got to Jake, all that was left were the patties. Jake’s stomach growled as he put one between the tiny mounds of vegetables on his plate. He wondered what sort of food was served at Juvenile Hall.

As everyone began to eat, Zedediah asked Bernstein about the magazine he wrote for.

Bernstein’s eyes lit up, and he looked fully alive for the first time since he’d emerged from his ruined car. “
The New World Literary Review
. It won the Brohmer East Coast Arts Foundation award for three years in a row for its arts criticism and”—he turned to look at Sybil, who was at the end of the table opposite Zedediah—“in-depth interviews of the literary geniuses of our time. It’s that sort of interview that I came to do.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the Petunia Grantham mysteries could get anyone classified as a literary genius,” Zedediah said. “The books sell like potato chips, but—”

Bernstein choked on a bite of carrot. “Haven’t you told them?” he asked Sybil. He looked around the table. “It must be difficult for the family of a writer of Ms. Jameson’s stature to fully appreciate the jewel they have in their midst. The Petunia Grantham mysteries are splendid examples of their genre, of course. But our readers are getting a sneak preview of her
new
work. The first two chapters of what will no doubt be heralded as the literary masterpiece of the new century will be printed in the next issue. I’ve been sent to do the interview that will accompany those chapters. Everyone at the
Review
is terrifically excited. It’s an event of enormous interest to the whole literary
community when a writer as popular as Ms. Jameson stakes out new artistic territory. The world is awaiting the coming Great American Novel with bated breath.”

“It must be getting blue in the face by this time,” Cordelia said. “If it’s the book she started when I was in kindergarten, the world’s been waiting for this particular Great American Novel for more than ten years.”

“And well worth the wait,” Bernstein said, “judging from the opening chapters, which I’ve been privileged to read. One can’t rush a work of art.”

“Who would have guessed that Debbie Applewhite would turn into a literary genius before our eyes,” Zedediah said.

“Debbie Applewhite?”

“Zedediah!”
Sybil said, her face flushing red. She turned to Bernstein. “That’s off the record! I’ve been Sybil Jameson for nearly twenty years. My parents named me Debbie. For Debbie Reynolds. I can’t imagine what they were thinking of.”

“But he said Applewhite?”

“My married name, of course.”

Jeremy Bernstein looked from Sybil to Zedediah and back again, his eyes at least twice as big as normal. “Applewhite? Your married name is Applewhite! Then your husband, the man who crashed into me—the man I crashed into—is Randolph Applewhite? The theater director?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“I reviewed his off-Broadway revival of
Time Remembered
for my college newspaper! It was magnificent. Randolph Applewhite. I didn’t realize. I didn’t—” Bernstein stopped and looked back at Zedediah. His eyes, Jake thought, looked about to pop out of his head. “Applewhite. Zedediah Applewhite? Of Zedediah Applewhite handcrafted wood furniture?”

Zedediah nodded.

“Good heavens! And Lucille—Archie—”

“It’s quite a clan,” Zedediah said.

“Lucille Applewhite, the poet! This is so amazing. I own both of your chapbooks. And Archie Applewhite—I’ve visited your website. And I saw your
Chair with Ottoman
in a gallery just last month. It was stunning. So original and inventive.”

“I hope you had the good sense not to try to sit on it,” Archie said.

“Applewhite. Jameson. I had no idea. No one at the
Review
had any idea.” Bernstein put his hand over his heart and took a deep breath. His cheeks had gone pink. “I apologize for my ignorance. I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea that all the Applewhites were the same family. Or that Sybil Jameson was—”

“An Applewhite as well—by marriage of course,” Zedediah said. “As patriarch of this clan I can’t really take credit for her—or Lucille, for that matter. Except that my sons had the good sense to choose them.”

“I’m an Applewhite!” Destiny said. “My name’s Destiny Applewhite. Destiny is my first name and—”

“But this is too wonderful!” Bernstein said. “An artistic dynasty. Like the painters…ah…um…you know…the Wyeths! Or the writing Brontës. Or the acting Barrymores. Except that you each do such different work.” He turned back to Sybil. “You never gave so much as a hint.”

Sybil was sitting very still. When she spoke, her voice was chilly. “I was under the impression that you were coming to interview me. It didn’t occur to me to mention my family. Any more than it would have occurred to any of them to mention me.”

“Ah!” Bernstein said. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “But I have to tell you it’s exciting to be sitting here at a table in the midst of so much talent. It’s like expecting to find a diamond and stumbling into an entire mine. The children? Do they—”

“The children are still exploring their artistic potentials,” Sybil said. “Destiny shows signs of talent in the visual arts. He has a real eye for color.”

“That’s me, Destiny,” Destiny said. “I gots lots and lots of finger paintings. You want to see my finger paintings?” He got down from the table and went off toward the schoolroom.

Sybil went on. “Hal, whom you haven’t met—”

“Nor are likely to, unless you’re planning to put down roots,” Archie said. “None of us has laid eyes
on him for months.”

Sybil frowned at Archie. “Hal is something of an introvert, but I’m sure you understand the sensitive artistic temperament.” Bernstein nodded, his face serious and sympathetic. “He was passionately into painting for a while, but judging from the new sign on his door, the materials he’s been ordering on the Internet, and the sounds coming from his room, he seems to be expanding his range. We all respect his artistic privacy, of course, so we won’t know what he’s working on until he’s ready to show us.”

“
I’m
composing and choreographing an original ballet,” Cordelia said. “I also play the music and will dance it. It’s a solo ballet called
The Death of Ophelia.
From
Hamlet,
you know.”

“Ah. Ophelia. Unrequited love, madness, drowning! Superb material for a ballet. An opera even.”

“I don’t sing.”

“That’s the Achilles heel of the whole Applewhite clan,” Zedediah said. “If there’s a singing gene, we don’t have it. Applewhites don’t sing.”

“I do!” Destiny had come back in, carrying a large sheet of paper covered with red and green smudges. “I sing all the time.” He put down his finger painting and launched into “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” at the top of his lungs, walking his fingers up an imaginary water-spout. Destiny proved Zedediah’s point, Jake thought.

From then on the conversation went on around
Jake so fast and furiously that he wasn’t sure he could have followed it if he’d wanted to. It was all about art. Mostly Applewhite art. He did his best, in spite of his total loathing of cooked vegetables, to eat enough to keep body and soul together, slipping bits of zuchini and beet and cooked carrot to the dog at his feet under the table. Though he was apparently willing to eat anything, Winston seemed to enjoy beet greens in particular.

“You’re very lucky to be invited to participate in this amazing educational opportunity,” Bernstein said to Jake at one point. Jake realized the conversation had come around to the Creative Academy. He nodded dutifully. He hadn’t been listening, so he didn’t know whether Bernstein understood why he’d been “invited to participate.”

“You know,” Bernstein went on, addressing the whole family now, “I have a friend who’s a producer for a magazine show on one of the television networks. He’s always looking for stories with enough of a hook to interest the network executives. I’ve never had one to give him before, but I think this could be it. The Applewhite artistic dynasty and the home school designed to perpetuate it. If I may borrow a computer, I could e-mail him the idea tonight. I know it would be an invasion of your privacy, but I think those of us who understand the importance of the arts owe it to the rest of America to give them a
taste of what it’s all about.”

Later, while Bernstein and the adults carried the conversation into the living room and Cordelia put Destiny to bed, Jake and E.D. were sent to rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. E.D. said nothing at all as they worked, but she crashed plates and glasses into each other so ferociously, Jake was surprised that nothing broke. What’s her problem? Jake wondered, setting the meat platter on the floor for Winston to lick.