For a moment or two, Mrs. Perkel looked the other woman in the eye. Then, slowly, between clenched teeth, she spoke.
“Considering the amount of wine consumed by folks in the Bible, including Jesus and his disciples on numerous occasions, holy and otherwise; considering the size of the goblets at the Last Supper, and how our Savior once miraculously transformed ordinary drinking water into the alcoholic beverage of his choice, I doubt that the Good Lord would turn an innocent five-year-old…”
Practically six, Gracie thought, but she kept her mouth shut.
“…out in the cold for merely mentioning a weaker substance like beer. Have you forgotten the part where we were commanded to ‘suffer the little children’? As for reincarnation, I personally don’t subscribe to it, but tens of millions of decent, intelligent people do, and you’d better pray they’re wrong, Miss Righteous. Because if they aren’t, you’re sure to come back as some hard-shelled pinchy old she-crab with the worst fishy breath in the whole damn ocean.” Over her shoulder, she added, “What do you do, eat cat food for breakfast?”
During most of the drive home, neither mother nor daughter spoke. Gracie, however, was beaming with satisfaction, so elated with the unexpected way her mommy had risen to her defense that she could scarcely hold back a giggle.
After a time, Mrs. Perkel herself made a noise that somewhat resembled a laugh, although it could just as easily have been a snort or a loud sigh. She shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t believe how much I sounded like Moe back there.” She rolled her eyes. “That radical bozo’s fancy smart-mouth has been getting on my nerves for seven years, and now I swear I’m starting to sound a lot like like him.” She laughed again, although it was hard to tell if she really thought anything was funny.
One block later, she abruptly stopped the car at a strip-mall Häagen-Dazs ice cream parlor, led Gracie inside, and proceeded to buy her a hot fudge sundae as big as the Ritz.
Before Gracie could take her spoon to the treat, however, Mrs. Perkel gripped the child’s wrist. “Young lady,” she said. Her tone was stern. “There’ll be no more nonsense about beer around here. Understood?”
“No more nonsense about beer,” Gracie vowed.
She meant what she said, but even as she downsized the sundae, she caught herself wondering what vinegar eels actually look like, and how they would react if one day a reincarnated Uncle Moe showed up in their midst.
7
For better or for worse, lots of kids these days have personal cell phones. Do you have a cell phone of your own? If so, is it one of those superphones, a genius phone that not only allows you to enjoy traditional audio telephone conversations, but sends text messages, takes photographs, checks e-mail, plays music, shows movies, tells time, protects you from vampires, wipes your bottom, and pumps up the tires on your bicycle?
The cell phone that Gracie Perkel wanted for her birthday had several attractive features besides its bubblegum color, including one that would have permitted her to watch Uncle Moe live, to look at his gravy bowl face and headless woodpecker mustache while she conversed with him. As it was, however, when Gracie dialed her uncle late Monday afternoon it was on a landline in the den, an extension as far away from her mom as she could manage at the time, because she knew there was no way she could prevent herself from describing for Moe the little drama that unfolded during and after Sunday school the previous day. It had been just too…well, dramatic.
Delighted that Karla Perkel had stood up to what he called “yet another obnoxious theological bully,” Uncle Moe suggested that people such as Gracie’s teacher are made smug by their absolute conviction that sooner or later they’ll be lounging night and day on a pile of puffy clouds up in Heaven. “Neither I nor anybody else has one pixel of verifiable evidence regarding what happens to us after death, but answer me this, my dear: supposing you die — and I hope you never do — would you, given the choice, rather come back to this life here on Earth as, say, a dolphin, or spend all of eternity as a cloud potato?”
Although concepts such as eternity meant little or nothing to Gracie, and even death seemed remote to her — as it must to you, as well — she didn’t have to deliberate very long before arriving at a conclusion. “A dolphin would be funner, I think.”
“I rest my case. Of course, you did mean to say ‘more fun,’ instead of ‘funner,’ but due to your tender age the grammar police won’t be writing you a ticket today. After your birthday, though, it could be a different story.”
“Uncle Moe, are you really gonna pick me up in a limo-scene?”
“Oops. Sorry, pumpkin, but I see by my crappy flea-market watch that it’s already six o’clock. Madeline will be arriving any minute.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dr. Madeline Proust.”
“Oh, your po-dock-a-mist.”
“Exactly.”
“She’s coming to your apartment to check on your hurt foot?”
Uncle Moe chuckled. “Yes, I suppose she’ll have a peek at my footsie, but mainly she’s coming to bust a crust.”
“Busta…?”
“You know. Break bread. Share a meal. She dined with me last evening, as well.”
“She must like your cooking.”
He laughed again. “I think she does. I think she does. When we parted last night…umm, well, let me put it this way: Madeline has a way of kissing that could give a bald man a Mohawk.”
Gracie squeaked a soft good-bye, and then just stood there holding the lifeless phone, puzzling once again over the mysterious customs of adults. What was the beautiful pok-a-dye-trist doctor doing kissing on Uncle Moe, who’s her patient and kind of unusual looking besides? It wasn’t merely their drinking habits that were weird, there seemed to be no end to adult strangeness. Would she be that goofy when she grew up? She remained standing there like that, lost in thought, until, from behind, she heard footsteps enter the darkened den.
“Grace Olivia Perkel!”
Uh-oh. When a parent suddenly hits you with your full birth-certificate handle — first name, middle name, and last — you know that what’s coming next is not likely to be pretty. Hasn’t that been your experience? It’s bad enough when they address you as “young man” or “young lady,” but when they serve up the whole enchilada (William Jefferson Clinton! Oprah Gail Winfrey! Thomas Eugene Robbins! or, in this case, Grace Olivia Perkel!) the odds are extremely high that you’re being strongly warned against the potential commission of some foul deed or other, if, indeed, you haven’t already crossed into the naughty zone.
(Have you ever heard an agitated adult or older child exclaim, “Jesus H. Christ!”? It’s a vulgar oath, but it may be worth mentioning here that Uncle Moe — full name Morris Norris Babbano, by the way — has offered a ten-dollar reward to anybody who can tell him what the H stands for.)
Mrs. Perkel switched on a lamp. In Seattle in October, the day is already so dark by six p.m. that the bats are out shopping for bug bargains and stars are striking wet matches in an attempt to mark a path through the gloom.