Car Trouble Page 11

  The grown-ups gathered near the stove and the sink. Uncle George draped his loden overcoat over the back of a chair and kissed Mom on the cheek and then Aunt Julie. Mom was wearing a white apron over her red wool skirt. She was mashing potatoes in a large pot with her usual gusto, eyeglasses pushed up on her forehead. She dropped in a stick of butter. Aunt Julie, in gray slacks and a navy wool cowl-neck sweater, was stirring gravy in a black roasting pan. Over at the counter, Uncle Tim sliced the prime rib with an electric knife. He may have been the youngest of the three brothers but he was the first to go gray, a thick crop that shone silver as he bent his head toward the overhead light.

  Now that I saw we were probably ten minutes away from diving into this feast, I was starving.

  “Tim, get Georgie a drink,” Aunt Julie said, arranging the cut meat with a fork on a bone china platter. “I think this is enough for now.” She was a tall, chunky woman with short straight brown hair and she was forever on some kind of diet, the kind found in women’s magazines. The rules were always taped to the side of the fridge. She’d already tried the banana diet, the blender diet, and even the breakfast diet, but she always looked the same.

  “I’ll just have a club soda,” George said.

  Uncle Tim took a bottle of White Rock seltzer out of the refrigerator, an Amana upright the color of Coca-Cola. All the appliances were the same color and coordinated with the wallpaper, red with a busy print of yellow and white flowers that covered every inch of wall space. I was thinking everyone’s here except Himself, when he appeared in the doorway like the neighbor in a TV sitcom. He was holding a yellow cocktail with a maraschino cherry floating on top. I could tell from the watery look in his blue eyes that it wasn’t his first. “Auf wiedersehen. Where’re Linda and the girls?”

  It was a whole story, as my mother would say. One of George’s kids had the flu and his wife, my aunt Linda, stayed behind. Uncle George sipped his drink. “It seems like I got on the plane a day and a half ago. But it’s so good to see everyone.” He chugged the contents of his glass like it was a cold beer and caught me looking at him when he put it down. “Hey, Nicky.” He stuck out his hand. He had one of those Flynn grips of death like Himself.

  I wondered how long he’d been in AA and how he felt when everyone was knocking them back, oblivious to his abstention.

  “Nicky, do you mind taking the suitcase up to my room?” Aunt Julie said. “Before someone trips over it.”

  “And then you can help your sister set the table,” Mom said. “And don’t forget to take off your coat.”

  I lugged the Samsonite upstairs to the master bedroom, which took up half the floor. Aunt Julie had a game-show bedroom set, with matching night tables and a chest of drawers. I left the suitcase at the foot of the king-sized bed and went downstairs to the dining room. Maureen was choosing forks from a brown silverware chest. She was wearing her latest homemade dress, cut from a Butterick pattern and sewn on Mom’s Singer at the kitchen table: dark green velvet with a high lace collar and a thin black belt.

  “Mom said I should help you.” I unzipped my parka and tossed it over one of the chairs.

  “Damned decent of you to show up,” Maureen said, in her Brooklyn battle-ax voice. She liked to imitate the gravel-voiced ladies who worked at Ann’s Gift Shop, our neighborhood junk store, where the sales help wore bullet bras and sleeveless Orlon shells and talked with lit cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. “How was the beach?”

  “Great. I think it’s going to snow later.”

  “Your ears are really red. Good thing you didn’t get frostbite. Then we’d have to cut them off.” She handed me a fistful of forks and knives from the green plush interior of the case. “I’ll do the spoons.” She pointed to the crystal goblets at each place setting. “Watch out for the Waterford. It’s from the old country.”

  We started at opposite ends of the table, moving counterclockwise. The dining room was papered in a dark navy with white and yellow flowers, large and heavy as peonies. We never ate in this room in the summer, and now it seemed intimidatingly small and formal.

  I had to ask. “Did you see Uncle George? Do you think he’s here to check up on you-know-who?”

  “Now you’re crazy.”

  “Do I look like I’m crazy?” Now that Grandpa wasn’t around, I couldn’t help think it.

  Maureen was the only sister who knew about the Big Book, although I couldn’t show it to her because I didn’t know if it was still in the house.

  “Well, he came at the right time. Daddy’s on his third.”

  On occasions like these Maureen and I would meet and share the cocktail count. The alcoholic weather report. I was thinking maybe my aunt and uncles wouldn’t be as aware of the changes in his behavior as we usually were. I kept vigil but I wasn’t alone. Uncle George sat next to Himself at dinner, slyly glancing at his never empty wineglass.

  He asked my father to pass the meat platter. “Hey, Pat, when I pulled up I saw this jalopy outside and I knew it had to belong to you. Where’d you find that?”

  Uncle George broke into a wide grin and I laughed too.

  “That’s a 1958 Pontiac, pal,” Dad said, right hand on the stem of his glass. “And not just any Pontiac. It’s a Pontiac Parisienne.”

  Uncle George laughed, as if he was surprised that his brother could correctly pronounce a French word. “But it’s 1970, Pat. What do you get, ten miles a gallon? You’ve got to step up, get a real car.”

  “I will when someone gives me a deal as good as the NYPD.”

  Everything was so delicious I cleaned my plate: the prime rib, the mashed potatoes, the green beans amandine, and, always, the creamed onions. Dee Dee and Mary Ellen were in the kitchen at the kids’ table. My two eldest sisters and I were a captive audience while the adults at the grown-up table told stories. Uncle Tim relived his youth as a lifeguard at Breezy Point, diving for fish at Rockaway Point, way down at the western end of the island, where the bay met the Atlantic. In the middle of one of his stories, Uncle George leaned over to whisper in Himself’s ear. Dad nodded slowly, meaningfully, flexing his jaw like he really wanted to clock his brother in the face.

  Uncle George was staying a week. He had brought gifts from Germany, and in between courses he asked me to help get them out of the car. It sounded like he had a lot of presents but when he opened the trunk, there were just two cardboard boxes covered with a lot of masking tape. He took out the larger one, handed me the other box, and didn’t shut the trunk.

  “I wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

  Now that we were face-to-face, I saw I was taller than he was, about an inch. “Okay. What’s up?”

  “So, how’s everything going? We haven’t seen each other in a while. Your father says you’re taking French. Parlez-vous?”

  I got a 95 on my last test, my last of the semester. “Oui, monsieur. But I’m off for the next two weeks. I don’t even want to think about school.”

  “How’s your dad doing?”

  In all matters regarding Himself, I took the fifth with outsiders. Even when I was related to them.

  “I think he’s doing great today.”

  That was one word too many. “Today. How about other days?”

  My uncle didn’t have Himself’s laserlike blue eyes, but he could still look through you pretty good. As the eldest kid in the family and the only boy, I was expected to know and remember everything. I hated it.

  The cold pinched my shoulders and the box felt heavier than when I first picked it up. I stared at the car fender. “Not every day’s the same.” Especially the days he didn’t come home.

  “He ever go to any meetings? I talked to him about it.”

  Oh, Jesus. I almost said: That would mean he’d read the AA book you gave him. I was going to get my head handed to me if I said another word. “You know, you can always ask him yourself.”

  He gave me a surprised smile and backed off. “Listen, I’m gonna be here a week, spend some time here, spend some with y
our dad. If you want to hang out, I can pick you up.”

  That actually sounded like fun. “But we have to talk about something else besides my father.”

  He stuck his free hand out for me to shake. “Deal. Let’s go back inside.”

  He gave out the presents in the living room, next to the huge Douglas fir. Uncle George was stockier than the last time we saw him, though still fit. He handed the cousins—Timmy, Jane, and Erica—their gifts first: handpainted wooden dolls from the Berlin Christmas market.

  “Say thank you,” said Uncle Tim, pulling the mahogany coffee table away from the sofa so we could stretch out our legs. The children, towheads all under the age of six and born a year apart, followed orders.

  The presents were mostly small and wrapped in shiny blue paper; the few bigger ones were wrapped in Santa Claus paper. Uncle Tim got a beer stein from Oktoberfest, stoneware with enameled scenes of German life and a hinged pewter lid. Aunt Julie opened a box of Asbach Uralt chocolates, shaped like bottles and filled with brandy. Aunt Julie and Mom got Hummels.

  Mom sat on the couch with us to open her gift, with Maureen and Dee Dee hovering on either side. “Oh my god,” she said, removing a figurine of a little boy, seated, and holding a brown umbrella that covered his entire body. “Oh, George, this is beautiful.”

  “Let me see, let me see,” said Dee Dee, leaning on Mom’s lap, her corn-silk hair escaping from its rubber band. Mom let her hold the Hummel, and she turned it over and over. “I want one too,” she said.

  “I’ve got something even better for you,” said Uncle George. “Well, it’s for you and your sisters, and your brother, although it might not be cool enough for him.”

  I laughed, and Patty elbowed me. George crouched and reached into the cardboard box and produced two gifts identically wrapped in gold paper. “Now I’m going to open these for you because they’re a little involved, but one is for the Rockaway, or maybe I should say the Flynns of Queens, and the other is for the Brooklyn Flynns.”

  He carried the packages to the coffee table and carefully peeled back the paper, in almost as dramatic a fashion as Himself, who had vanished. I mouthed, “Where’s Dad?” to Mom and she shrugged.

  “What is it?” Patty said when the packages were finally unwrapped, gold paper tossed on the floor.

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Julie said. She was standing next to the tree, which had to be seven feet tall and smelled like it was cut down yesterday.

  “It’s a Christmas pyramid,” he said. “It’s very common in German households. We got one last year and the girls just loved it. So now, we’ll all have something to share on Christmas, even though we don’t live near each other.”

  The pyramids stood about a foot tall and were made of blond wood. Each had three tiers surrounded by dark wooden fences fitted with candleholders; a small propeller, also wooden, was fixed to the top, like the star on a Christmas tree, by way of a pole in the center. I was trying to figure out how everything worked when Uncle George took a small plastic bag out of the cardboard box and placed thin red candles on the lower two tiers and lit them with a match. The heat from the flames rose and turned the propeller blades, and with them, the tiers. It was like a carousel. Now we could see the brightly painted wooden figures within. On the bottom level, Mary, clad in a blue veil, and Joseph, in a brown cloak, stood on either side of a manger with beige straw and a golden-haired baby Jesus. In the middle, the Magi in white robes carried tiny foil-wrapped gifts to the Christ child. Finally, three blond angels holding red horns in front of their faces rang out the news on the top tier.

  “Look at that!” Mom said, touching her face.

  We had never seen anything like it. So simple, and yet magical. It was the gift everyone would remember. And cool enough for me.

  Mom turned to Maureen. “Where is your father? Pat, come look at this.”

  Himself wandered in from the dining room with a red-wine refill. He staggered a bit, stepping back to adjust his footing or prevent the precious grape from spilling on the carpet. His face was flushed now, his eyes like blue headlights. He stood perilously close to the coffee table. “What have we here?”

  “Presents,” Mom said, biting off the word. “Your brother brought them from Germany.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  I looked up at him. He had that tone. The switch inside him had turned the wrong way and now he was going to do something, say something we would regret. I braced myself.

  He was rocking back and forth on his feet, the wine running through his veins like the cars on the Cyclone, straight downhill from the summit. I thought he might fall on one of us. “Dad, why don’t you take my seat?” I stood up, making way for him to sit next to Mom on the couch but he stood there, lost in some reverie.

  Uncle George glanced uncomfortably at him while the fans were spinning, the candles flickering, and the tiers turning. “What do you think, guys?” he asked my cousins, finally standing up with a perceptible creak. He rubbed his hands on his knees. “Did anyone else hear that?”

  My little cousins, the Flynns of Rockaway, sat in front of the tree, rapt by the spectacle of color, motion, and light.

  Aunt Julie touched Uncle George’s arm. “They’ve totally forgotten about their new toys.”

  Dad took a sip of wine and stared down at the pyramids, a smart-ass grin on his face. “Do you think Hitler had one of these as a little boy?”

  “Oh, shut up, you big boob,” Mom said. She handed the cardboard box containing the Hummel to Patty and got off the couch. Her arm was already outstretched when she walked over to him. “Give me your glass.”

  Aunt Julie started for the kitchen. “I’m going to make the coffee,” she said, backing away, taking her boxed Hummel with her.

  Maureen followed. “I’ll start the dishes.”

  Everyone was looking for an exit. Mom tried to grab the wineglass but Dad hugged it to his chest, where a red splotch bloomed on his new white shirt, over the left pocket. He looked down at the wet spot, teetering over the turning tiers, and stumbled into the coffee table.

  “He’s going to fall on them,” Mary Ellen said. “Mom!”

  And so the Flynn pyramid toppled over, flames licking at Aunt Julie’s coffee table. “Stand up, I got a bet on you,” Himself said.

  The little kids screeched and Timmy cried out, “Mom, there’s a fire!”

  I watched the flames singe the table, backing away. Uncle Tim ran into the kitchen and came back with a newspaper, folded in half. My cousins also stood back, horrified, as the flames burned a black ring into the wood. With several swift strokes, he beat out the fire, swatting away the smoke curling up. Uncle George quickly righted the pyramid, blowing out the candles. Aunt Julie rushed back into the living room and surveyed the mess.

  “For crying out loud, what the hell happened?” She glared at Himself. “Did you do this?”

  “I stand accused,” he said, nodding.

  “We had a slight accident but it’s under control,” Uncle Tim said. “You never liked this table anyway.”

  I appreciated him trying to make light of the moment, since no one else knew what to say. One of the fences on the bottom tier of the pyramid had snapped in half.

  “C’mon, Pat,” George said, shaking his head. “I told you to knock it off already.”

  “Yes, you did,” he said, smiling.

  “Give me that glass before I break it over your head,” Mom said, finally wresting the goblet out of his hand.

  Patty leaned over and picked up the broken pyramid. She smiled unconvincingly and said, “I’m going to take this in the kitchen for a minute. Anyone want to come with me?”

  Three blond heads followed her out of the room. Uncle Tim joined them, asking, “Hon, do we have any wood glue?”

  Aunt Julie smoothed her hands on her long apron, transfixed by the ruined table. “Check the drawer next to the dishwasher,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Pat, why don’t you sit down?” George said, reaching out
as if to steady him.

  “Stick it in your ear,” Himself said, teetering.

  My uncle went over and grabbed my father by the shoulder, saying something in his ear. And that’s when Himself shoved him, not once, but twice, until my uncle staggered back, eyes widening before he broke his fall.

  “I said, that’s enough, for God’s sake,” he shouted. “Why do you have to be so belligerent?”

  I wasn’t going to intervene, not as long as I was on Himself’s good side. When he was wound up, it was best to remain invisible. But I was worried about Mom, still holding the crystal goblet. I took it out of her hand and set it down on an end table.

  “C’mon, Pat,” she said gently. “Let me get that stain out of your shirt.” She gestured toward the staircase.

  Something about her delivery did the trick because he followed her. By the time she came down, we were eating dessert in the dining room. Our mortification was so extreme that no one could enjoy the chocolate éclairs, Napoleons, or apple pie. Mom took her seat, but only ate two bites of pie. She lit a cigarette, eyes boring into the embroidered red holiday tablecloth.

  “Well, I think it’s time we went home,” she said when Mary Ellen, the slowest eater among the five of us, finished her last forkful.

  Patty went upstairs to use the bathroom. When she came down, she said Himself was sprawled out on Aunt Julie and Uncle Tim’s bed. I vowed not to be the one going upstairs to get him when it was time to leave.

  That task was left to Uncle George. We overheard them having a loud discussion about who was going to drive us home. Technically, I could drive everyone home, but I had never driven at night. I didn’t know if I could do it.

  Everyone helped clear the table and load the dishwasher. The leftover prime rib was still out on the cutting board. Now that we had polished off half of it, it looked gross, a cold, greasy, red slab that made my stomach tighten. Aunt Julie flicked on the radio on the counter, and we heard the Ronettes’ tinny voices singing “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”