“You were talking to Moe, weren’t you?”
Gracie hurried to replace the receiver. “Yes, Mommy.”
“May I be confident, young lady, that you didn’t share any private information with him? Such as my little meltdown after church yesterday?”
So still was Gracie that she could hear her own heart banging. And banging. And banging.
“Because, number one, I’m embarrassed by my outburst, and, number two, the whole mess got started by more of your beer talk, and you’ve promised me you’re keeping your mouth shut about beer from now on. So? Did you tell him or not?”
Oh dear. Gracie didn’t want to fib. Fibs were wicked, slippery things. Fibbers start out as spiders and end up as flies. On the other hand, she was equally reluctant to give an honest answer. A truthful response would lead to nothing good. What could she do? Then she remembered something she’d heard from a kid at kindergarten: if you cross your fingers when you’re saying words that aren’t strictly true, it cancels out the fib; the angels, when they notice your crossed fingers, are tipped off that you don’t really mean to be lying, so they sort of wink and let you get away with it.
Encouraged by that information, Gracie slipped her left arm behind her back and crossed her fingers there. “No, Mommy, I didn’t say nothing. We were just talking ’bout bald men getting Mohawk haircuts.”
Mrs. Perkel rolled her eyes. “Good Lord! That sounds like something that fruitcake would be blabbing about. Give us a break, Moe. Okay, honey, go wash your grubby hands. Your daddy’s working late, so you and I are gonna eat our tuna casserole in here where I can watch the news.”
Examining her face in the bathroom mirror, Gracie saw a liar staring back at her. Apparently, crossing your fingers doesn’t necessarily guarantee protection against a guilty conscience. In her defense, we might console her with the reminder that her fib, while definitely wrong, hadn’t really harmed anybody; that it was only a teeny white lie, not one of those huge, black-hearted wholesale lies like the ones important, powerful men are always telling; lies that can cost people money, their reputations, their freedom, or even their lives.
Nevertheless, Gracie was convinced that she was paying the penalty for lying when, four days later, the very day of her birthday, the wings fell off of her dreams, and her bright and bouncy little life seemed to lie scattered in pieces, like a disco ball after an earthquake.
8
A disco ball after an earthquake? Let’s get serious, kids. Needless to say, that’s a ridiculous exaggeration. Yes, but as we’ve observed, Gracie Perkel did have a bit of a flair for drama, and that’s how she might well have described the dismal situation on her birthday — provided, of course, that she knew what a disco ball was. Do you? If not, your parents can tell you. That is, if your parents are cool. Or were cool, once upon a time. Back in the day. In the event your grandpa happens to be reading this book to you (everybody’s aware that you’re quite capable of reading it all by yourself, but let’s face it, grandparents are simply mad for reading aloud to their grandkids), there’s just no telling what response a question about disco balls might arouse in him.
Anyway, the first thing to go wrong was the party. It had to be canceled. It’s no secret that every school in the country is a three-ring germ circus, and it seems there was an outbreak of stomach flu at Gracie’s kindergarten. The friends she’d invited were either home puking or had been grounded in order to prevent further exposure to the virus.
Then there was the matter of the absent father. Gracie’s dad had to go to Tucson on urgent business. Mrs. Perkel rolled those big blue eyes of hers, eyes that her daughter had inherited, and remarked that he was probably playing “urgent golf” with a bunch of Arizona lawyers. Gracie was sure it was a business trip, though, because otherwise why would he have taken his secretary along?
In any case, Mr. P. called to say that he’d ordered Gracie a puppy, but he’d lost the name of the pet store where they were to pick it up. “Next week, for sure,” he promised. It was Gracie’s turn to roll her eyes. So hard did she roll them that a couple of teardrops fell out and crawled down her cheeks like sow bugs from under a log.
Following vanilla ice cream (she’d requested rocky road) and chocolate cake (why only five candles?), shared with her mommy’s girlfriend who lived next door, they spent most of the afternoon driving from mall to mall — the Northgate Mall, the Alderwood Mall, even up north to the Everett Mall — searching for one of those neon-pink cell phones for which Gracie had been pining. Alas, every store was sold out of them, and it was unclear when they would receive a new shipment.
Back home, Mrs. P. served Gracie another slice of cake to comfort her, then went out into the yard to discuss something important, so she said, over the fence with her friend. Gracie was sure that that “something” was her daddy. Had it been a different subject, one they didn’t mind Gracie overhearing, they could have discussed it on the telephone. She glanced at the phone then, and noticed that its red light was blinking.
Thinking the recorded message could possibly concern the whereabouts of the misplaced puppy, Gracie punched the voice mail access button. Sure enough, someone began to speak, to speak in a voice that stretched out its words with exaggerated attention, as if it were applying suntan lotion to the bare back of a Hollywood starlet, although sometimes it sounded more like it was milking a snake. True, she hadn’t been around much, but so far as she knew there was only one person in the world who talked that way.
“Stand by for a bulletin. A bull has just been seen entering a china shop. How’s that for breaking news? Ha ha! Greetings, earthlings. Moe Babbano speaking. I’m out at Sea-Tac Airport, international terminal, passport in hand. Yes, yes indeed, I’m leaving the country again, and this time I don’t think I’ll be coming back. So to Charlie Perkel, my esteemed, ever-insensitive halfbrother, and to his weary, long-suffering, lovely wife, Karla, I now say, adios and thanks for all the opportunities you provided for me to fresco my tonsils with the cardinal brush: that is to say, to drink your beer. Mainly, however, this communiqué is for the birthday girl. “Gracie, you won’t remember this, but when you were an infant, six long years ago, I used to read the encyclopedia to you. It always lulled you to sleep. Especially the volume containing the Z ’s.
“I don’t know if I’m exactly gaga over children, but I do respect them. I respect their deeper feelings and deeper thoughts, layers to which many adults, even the most doting of parents, too often seem oblivious. At any rate, my dear — and this is the point — I’ve never ever talked down to you, and I have no intention of starting now.
“Here’s the deal. Madeline Proust and I have fallen passionately, wildly, crazily in love. A great many birthdays will surely come and go before you’ll experience anything remotely resembling this. Indeed, some people never experience it, although they’re pretty good at fooling themselves that they do. I can’t explain this love, I couldn’t explain it to you even if you were twenty-six or thirty-six. The fact that it’s totally irrational is part of its appeal.
“This much I can tell you. We’re so nuts for each other that Dr. Proust is abandoning her medical practice and I’m skipping out on my apartment — although the postcard collection I’m leaving behind should more than compensate the landlord for any back rent — and in less than an hour we’ll be flying off to Costa Rica, where we’re intending to permanently reside.