Mrs. Krupnik said yes, and told Sam that she would even do a three-color tattoo for him. So Sam agreed, and Mrs. Krupnik whispered to Anastasia and her father that fortunately Sam had forgotten that the sailor suit had long sleeves.
"But I won't take a bath before the wedding," Sam added. "Not unless Anastasia sells me the sloop."
"Anastasia?" Mrs. Krupnik gave her a questioning look.
"Nope."
"I'll give you fifty pennies!" Sam wailed.
"No sloop. Sorry," Anastasia told him. "I'll consider renting it to you for a day, but that's the best I can do."
On Saturday Daphne's mother, Caroline Bellingham, announced, as Daphne had predicted, that she would not attend the wedding because that man would be there. That man was John Bellingham, her ex-husband, Daphne's father.
Mrs. Halberg talked to Mrs. Bellingham very tactfully and explained that Reverend Bellingham would be there only in his official capacity, not as an invited guest.
Finally Mrs. Bellingham agreed to go, but only if that woman were not invited.
"Who's that woman?" Anastasia asked Daphne with interest. The four girls were at Sonya's house on Saturday afternoon, talking about hair styles for the wedding.
"You know, the woman my dad's dating. Her name's Frances Bidwell. She's in the church choir."
"So my mom assured her that Frances Bidwell wasn't on the list of invited guests," Meredith explained.
"But," she added guiltily, "what she didn't tell her is that Frances Bidwell is going to be in the church balcony, singing a solo right in the middle of the wedding. Don't you dare tell her, Daphne."
Daphne giggled. "I won't. But she'll probably freak when Frances Bidwell stands up."
Word had gotten out that Steve, Eddie, Norman, and Kirby were planning to bring skateboards to the wedding reception. So there had been a conference with Steve, Eddie, Norman, and Kirby's parents; now the skateboards were forbidden.
"That's so immature," Sonya had said, shaking her head. "I don't know how I ever liked Norman Berkowitz."
More presents were arriving daily at the Halberg house, and Mr. Halberg said he was spending every waking minute of every day signing UPS delivery slips for woks, then returning woks to the store they had come from. He was beginning to think that they were getting the same wok again and again, as new people bought it every day. Finally they decided to keep all the woks until after the wedding, returning them after Kirsten and Steve had left for their honeymoon.
"Or, of course, we could open a Chinese restaurant," Meredith pointed out.
Sam loved the word "wok." He used it whenever he could. In the evenings Anastasia could hear him in the bathtub, singing, "Wok, wok, wok your boat, gently down the stream..."
And he made up wok jokes. Some of them were pretty funny, actually.
"Why did the Chinese guy put a leash on his dog?" Sam asked one afternoon.
"I don't know. Why?"
"So he could take it for a wok! Get it?"
But his family tried to distract Sam from his wok infatuation because Kirsten Halberg said she never wanted to hear the word "wok" again as long as she lived.
"Sam," Mrs. Krupnik said one evening, "it's okay to talk about woks a little, here at home. But when we go to the wedding—"
Sam's eyes lit up. He was quite interested in the whole topic of weddings, now that he was going to have an anchor tattoo on his arm. "Why did the Chinese lady have a wedding?" he asked.
Mrs. Krupnik responded with a sigh. "I don't know. Why?"
"So she could wok down the aisle!" shrieked Sam. "Get it? Get it?"
"Sam," said his mother, laughing, "when we're at the wedding, it would be nice if—"
Sam interrupted her. "What did the Chinese lady sing to her baby?" he asked gleefully.
Mrs. Krupnik grinned. "'Wok-a-bye Baby'?" she asked.
Myron Krupnik and Anastasia both groaned. "You guys are terrible," Anastasia said to her mother and brother. "You'd never hear Dad or me telling—"
Her father held his hand up. "Listen! I've got one!" he said with a gleam in his eye. "What kind of music did the Chinese lady like best?"
They all looked at him. No one said anything.
"Wok-and-roll," Myron Krupnik said apologetically. "Sorry. I couldn't help myself."
"Here is what we've decided about hair," Anastasia announced at dinner. "And Kirsten approved."
"Decided about hair?" her father asked, looking mystified.
"For the wedding, Dad," Anastasia explained patiently. "For the junior bridesmaids' hair styles."
Myron Krupnik shook his head. "Oh," he said, and went back to his lasagna.
"We're all going to wear it up on top of our heads, Mom," Anastasia explained. "Sonya thought hers wasn't long enough. But we tested it out on everybody over at her house Saturday, and it looked just fine. So it will be up on top of our heads, with a small blue ribbon tied around it."
"Sounds lovely," Mrs. Krupnik said.
"Lovely," Sam said solemnly.
"At first we thought pink ribbons, to match the bouquets. But Sonya just can't bear wearing pink, with her red hair. So we decided on blue."
"Nice. I'm sure it will be just wonderful."
"And the ribbon will have a little streamer down the back so that when we walk down the aisle—"
"Wok down the aisle," Sam interrupted.
"Right. When we wok down the aisle, we'll look interesting from the back."
"How shall I wear my hair, I wonder. Is it long enough for a ponytail?" Anastasia's father asked. "I certainly want to look interesting from the back." He pulled his shaggy hair away from his bald spot and held it bunched in his hand at the back of his neck.
"Myron," Mrs. Krupnik said in a meaningful voice.
"And guess what! There's a rehearsal the day before the wedding, just as if we were going to be in a play. And after the rehearsal, there's a rehearsal dinner just for the families and the members of the wedding party. So that includes me!"
"Sounds great, sweetie. Myron, want any more lasagna? Or are you ready for dessert?"
"I'll have some more, thanks. My first plate was just a rehearsal dinner. Now for the real thing." He handed his empty plate to his wife.
Anastasia got up to answer the telephone, which was ringing in the kitchen.
"Do you know of any diet that makes you thin in a week and a half?" Sonya asked over the phone. "I just realized that there's only a week and a half till the wedding, and I forgot to go on a diet."
"Can't you ask your father? He's a doctor," Anastasia reminded her.
Sonya groaned. "He'd just make a big speech about the danger of crash diets. He'd make me read brochures about anorexia. I was thinking of maybe calling Oprah Winfrey, though. She'd know, don't you think?"
"Yeah, probably she would. But, Sonya—"
"What?"
"If you went on some diet now and lost of lot of weight before the wedding, your dress wouldn't fit!"
Sonya was silent for a minute. "I hadn't thought of that," she said.
"And your dress looks terrific the way it is. You look terrific in it. You don't need to lose weight."
"You're sure?"
"Positive," Anastasia assured her. "When you walk down the aisle—"
"Wok," Sonya corrected. She sounded, for a moment, like Sam. It was weird, the way they were all automatically incorporating wok into their conversation, Anastasia thought. She laughed.
"Sorry. I meant wok down the aisle, of course. You'll look fabulous. Forget the diet idea."
"Okay. I'll go on a diet after the wedding. At the reception I'll start."
"Just a week and a half left," Anastasia reminded her happily.
"A wok and a half," Sonya replied, giggling, and hung up.
"By the way, Dad," Anastasia said when she went back to the table, "I know you're sick of hearing about the wedding, but there is one truly important detail that Mom may not have told you about yet. And this will definitely interest you."
"What's that?" her father asked politely.
"All of us junior bridesmaids are supposed to wear little pearl earrings. In fact, Kirsten made us each a gift of little pearl earrings. Actually, she didn't officially make the gift yet. She's giving them to us at the rehearsal dinner. That's traditional: the bride gives gifts to the bridesmaids at the rehearsal dinner."
Her father looked at her while he chewed slowly on a mouthful of lasagna. Finally, he said, "Well, that certainly is a truly important detail which definitely interests me. It's right up there with—oh, let's say world peace, maybe."
"No, no, Dad," Anastasia went on, laughing. "I know you're not fascinated with pearl earrings. Here's the interesting thing. Kirsten bought earrings for pierced ears. Meredith has pierced ears, and Sonya has pierced ears, and Daphne has pierced ears, and I'm the only one who doesn't have pierced ears. Yet," she added meaningfully.
Her father nodded. "And I suspect that you're going to tell me that that means—"
"Right!" Anastasia grinned. "Mom said okay. And tomorrow I'm going to get a lobotomy!"
Her father started to laugh. About time, thought Anastasia. About time he took an interest in the preparations for the wedding. But what was so funny, for Pete's sake?
Then he explained. "Sorry, sport, for laughing. But a lobotomy is a kind of brain surgery."
"Oh," Anastasia said, a little embarrassed. "Well, as far as I'm concerned, lobe-piercing is pretty much the same."
"By the way, Anastasia," Mrs. Krupnik said as she began to clear the dinner plates from the table, "did you check through the mail in the front hall? You got a letter this morning from your pen pal."
Dear Swifty,
I'm sorry It has taken me so long to reply. You can envision, I'm sure, the height of a stack of 416 letters. My computer letter did narrow it down. The lady from Sitka did not respond, of course. Nor did the lady with the Siamese cats. So I had only 414 replies, plus your additional two letters, which made the new stack 416 again.
Now, after reading all of those and looking at 402 photographs (several ladies chose not to send any), I am sending personal letters only to two. And frankly, I chose the two ladies who have sloops. I am very attracted to sloops, I have to confess. Please tell me more about yours.
In addition to your sloop, I find your handwriting interesting. You did not mention your profession. But I am speculating that you may be a doctor. Your handwriting looks very much like that of a doctor.
And your nickname is appealing. What is the origin of "Swifty"? I am guessing that you race. I have participated in the Monhegan and Bermuda races myself, so I think we may have a real interest—or even a passion—in common.
Your location is also advantageous. The other lady who owns a sloop is in California, and Boston is so much closer to New York. I go to Boston fairly often. In fact, I will be there early in May—goodness, a couple of weeks from now—but unfortunately you indicated that your social calendar was full that week, so we will have to meet another time.
Thank you for the photograph. I received all sorts of photographs, including three that could be considered X-rated. I liked yours for its almost old-fashioned quality.
You asked what kind of work I do, and I am a little embarrassed to tell you that I don't work at all. Does that bother you? It takes me a great deal of time simply to manage my portfolio.
I look forward to hearing from you again.
Sincerely,
Septimus Smith
9
"I'm a little bit nervous about this," Anastasia confessed to Daphne as they made their way through the crowds at the shopping mall. Her friend was accompanying her to the large department store where she was to have her ears pierced.
"It's no big deal. It only takes a second, and it doesn't hurt. They use a gun."
Anastasia stopped walking. She stood still in front of a video rental store.
"A gun?"
Daphne giggled. "Not a real gun. A special earlobe-gun."
"An earlobe-gun," Anastasia repeated to herself in a dubious voice. "Great." But she started walking again.
"I'm thinking of getting more holes punched in my lobes so I can wear maybe three earrings in each ear. But my mom freaks out when I mention it. She's afraid I'd wear safety pins."
"Would you?" Anastasia asked. Nothing Daphne did would really surprise her.
Daphne shrugged. "I might," she admitted. "Anyway, I don't see why my mom is freaked out by that. She has a tattoo."
Anastasia stopped walking again, this time in front of Casual Male. "Daphne," she said. "Gimme a break. No way does your mom have a tattoo. Up until a few months ago she was a minister's wife."
Daphne grinned. "Yeah, she really does. Her dad—my grandfather—was a doctor. And when she was a baby, he thought it would be a really smart thing to have his kids' blood types tattooed on them, in case they were ever in an accident. She has this little teeny blue tattoo on her butt."
"Gross."
"She thinks it's gross, too," Daphne went on, "but not because it's a tattoo. Because of her blood type—B negative. They write that like a B minus. And her sister was A plus! Mom says she wouldn't mind having A plus on her behind, but she hates being a B minus!"
"What if she was an F!" Anastasia said.
"You can't be. Blood types are only A, B, AB, and O. We learned that in Science, remember?"
"Yeah. I forgot."
"Come on, Anastasia. There's the store. Let's get your lobes done, and then we can go to the record store and look at albums."
"Okay." Anastasia headed toward the entrance of Jordan Marsh. She was still a little nervous. Her mother had been, too. She had agreed to the ear-piercing on the condition that Anastasia have it done by a doctor under absolutely sterile conditions. Her mother had read once about an earlobe that had gotten infected and fallen off, or something.
So Anastasia had agreed, and asked her mother to call the doctor for an appointment. Anastasia hated calling doctors. She had had to do it once when her mom was away on business and Sam got chicken pox.
She had sat in the kitchen stirring a marshmallow into a cup of cocoa while her mother called the doctor's office and explained to the receptionist what they wanted.
"What did she say?" she asked her mother after the receptionist replied.
"She's getting the doctor so I can talk to him. Yes? Hello?" She turned back to the telephone and Anastasia listened while her mother explained the whole thing again.
Her mother listened for a minute and then said, "Oh, I see. Well, that's what we'll do, then. Thank you."
She hung up, looked at Anastasia, and shrugged. "He said he doesn't have the slightest idea how to pierce ears and we should go to the jewelry department at Jordan Marsh. They have a special instru ment, and it's sterile, and quick, and painless, and inexpensive."
"Why do you look so miserable? Want a sip of my cocoa?"
Her mother nodded and took a sip, which left her with a marshmallow mustache. "I'm embarrassed," she said. "He made me feel dumb."
Anastasia sympathized. "People make me feel dumb all the time," she said. "Here. You can have my whole cup of cocoa. Cocoa always makes people feel better."
"Thank you. Promise me one thing, Anastasia."
"What?"
"You won't get big dangly earrings. Or rhinestones. I can't bear the thought of seeing you with rhinestone earrings."
"I promise," Anastasia had told her.
It turned out to be accurate, what the doctor had said. And what Daphne had said, too. It was like a little gun. It was quick, painless, and presumably sterile. ZAP. And: ZAP.
Anastasia looked at herself in the mirror, there at the store, and beamed. She had a little gold stud in each ear. She pictured herself on the following Saturday, when she would replace them with the tiny pearl earrings, put on the beautiful blue dress, and tie the narrow ribbon around her upswept hair.
She wondered for the fiftieth time whether she would qualify, next Saturday, as beautiful.
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***
"They're lovely. They don't hurt, do they?" her mother asked.
"Nope. I can't even feel them." Anastasia dropped her hair back down around her ears and leaned over her mother's drawing table, looking at the nearly finished illustration of the farmer and his cows. "Why don't you put earrings on the female cows?"
Her mother studied the picture. The cows were carrying pocketbooks and shopping bags, and several were wearing high-heeled shoes.
"All cows are female," she reminded Anastasia. "A male cow is a bull. There's going to be a bull farther along in the book. I was thinking of making him look like Rambo."
Anastasia giggled.
"But I like the idea of earrings. It's not too late to add them. Maybe even rhinestones." She picked up a pen.
Anastasia glanced around the room. Suddenly she was reminded of something.
"Mom? You know that big leather case you use when you take your drawings to the publisher? That one there, against the wall."
Her mother glanced over to where Anastasia was pointing. "My portfolio. What about it?"
Anastasia frowned. "Well, I was just wondering. Do you ever have trouble managing it?"
"Yeah, lots. I don't dare check it with my luggage because I'm afraid it might get lost, or bashed around. So I have to carry it on the plane when I go to New York, and it never fits in the overhead compartment. So the stewardess always gets mad, and has to stick it in with the garment bags, and it holds everybody up. So I'm always apologizing for it. And once I left it in a taxi, and that was a big problem, getting it back. Yeah, I guess I'd say I do have a lot of trouble with it."
"But would you say that you have to spend all your time managing it?"
"Good grief, no. It's not that big a deal. Why?"
"Well, I know this person who says he has to spend all his time managing his portfolio. He can't even work, because it takes so much of his time, just managing his portfolio. Isn't that kind of weird?"
Mrs. Krupnik put down her pen and began to laugh. "Weird in a very interesting way. He's—did you say it was a he?"
Anastasia nodded.
"Well, he's talking about something different. What he means is that he owns a whole lot of stocks and bonds. That's called a portfolio, but it's a different thing. Someone who has to spend all his time managing that kind of portfolio is very, very rich. Goodness, where did you meet someone like that?"