“Noel glub C blub all. . .I glub new. . . .” Mrs. Carillon repeated.
“Never could understand those method actors,” complained Mr. Banks.
Noel was a very mixed-up character who felt he could only bring you unhappiness. He was going to ask you to forget he ever existed; but, at the last moment, he came down with a bad case of stage fright. That’s when I entered the picture.
I’m afraid it was a poor job of casting; the role was much too difficult for an inexperienced actor. As soon as the curtain went up, I forgot my lines (that’s why I let you think I was Noel).
I proceeded to botch up one scene after another, and before the last act was over, I ran.
That, Mrs. Carillon, was the worst performance of my life. You will be happy to learn that my acting has greatly improved since then.
Best wishes,
Newton Pinckney
“Newton Pinckney is a ham,” said Tony.
A Gift Horse
“Well, that seems to clear things up, except for my job,” Mr. Banks rose from his chair to go to the dinner table. “I’m going to have plenty of work straightening up that estate. Why, the horse alone is worth. . .”
“I have a letter, too,” said Tony.
“Another letter!” Mr. Banks sat down again.
Mrs. Carillon was the only one not taken by surprise. She gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Tony began to read.
Dear Tony:
I am sorry that I don’t know you, for you sound like a son I’d be proud to have. . .
“Let me see that,” Tina said. This time Tony had to wait for Tina to compare the handwriting with Augie Kunkel’s letter before he could continue.
...but I’m afraid it’s too late to start being a father. Augie Kunkel will take better care of you, Tina, and Mrs. Carillon than I could ever hope to do.
“Augie Kunkel!” shouted Mr. Banks. “I’m the one who’s been looking after this family.”
Augie Kunkel turned a deep red. Tony quickly resumed reading.
I do have a son of sorts: Christmas Bells. He is a great horse with a most gentle nature. I will race him one more time, then send him to a farm near-by where you can visit him. He deserves the pleasures of the pasture and should make a fine stud.
I’ve been feeling poorly of late and have to go away for a long rest. Christmas Bells is the one thing in the world I love and the only thing I have to offer. He belongs to you and Tina now.
“Christmas Bells!” Tina shrieked with delight. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Carillon, Christmas Bells!”
Mrs. Carillon’s lips moved to form the words “Christmas Bells” but no sound came out. She rose slowly, walked to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her.
“She’ll get over it,” Dr. Stein said. “Just leave her be.”
10* A Time for Thanksgiving
Leave Her Be
Days went by when Mrs. Carillon didn’t utter one word. She barely ate and scarcely slept; her purple-flowered dresses sagged where once they were snug; and an inch of gray rimmed the roots of her hair.
Augie Kunkel took her to the zoo, but she wasn’t interested in feeding what he called “sea lions.” Mr. Banks, to everyone’s surprise, suggested she buy some new clothes; but she wasn’t interested in shopping. Even stories about Christmas Bells fell on deaf ears.
“She’ll get over it; just leave her be,” Dr. Stein said every time Tina consulted him on Mrs. Carillon’s condition, and lingered to thumb through his books.
So they let her be, and waited; and finally it happened.
It was a month to the day of Noel’s death. Augie Kunkel was there for dinner, and Mr. Banks (as usual). Tina and Tony were talking about visiting Christmas Bells in December.
“Christmas Bells?” Mrs. Carillon mumbled, trying to remember where she had heard that name before.
“That horse had better make a good stud. Why, you wouldn’t believe what it costs...”
Mrs. Baker set the roast duck on the table with a disapproving thud, and Mr. Banks switched to a more pleasant subject.
“By the way, Mrs. Carillon, I do have a bit of good news. Mineola Potts will be paroled soon, now that I’ve found her a job.”
“Did you hear that, Mrs. Carillon,” Tina said. “Mineola Potts is getting out of jail.”
“Mineola Potts?” Mrs. Carillon looked puzzled.
“I have good news, too; though not as good as Mr. Banks’,” Augie Kunkel said modestly. “I’ve won third prize37 for inventing the most difficult crossword puzzle.”
“Great!” Tony exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Carillon? Mr. Kunkel won a prize.”
“That’s nice,” Mrs. Carillon said, to everyone’s relief. At least she hadn’t asked who Mr. Kunkel was.
“Crossword puzzles,” remarked Mr. Banks. “Now that might be a nice profession for you, Tina.”
“I’m going to be a doctor.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, young lady, you’re a girl. Now, maybe a nurse. . .”
“I’m going to be a doctor!”
“Veterinary, now there’s a profession. If you saw the bills from that horse doctor. . .”
Tony sensed that Mr. Banks was going to question him next. He tried to decide quickly what he wanted to be, but couldn’t make up his mind.
“I’m going to be a real doctor!” Tina insisted.
Mr. Banks shook his head and turned to Tony.
Tony still hadn’t made up his mind. All he could think of was sitting through another one of Mr. Banks’ lectures. In desperation he shouted, “Mrs. Carillon!” at the top of his lungs.
Tony’s piercing yell startled everyone at the table. Even Mrs. Carillon looked up as if aroused from a deep sleep.
“Yes, Tony?” she said.
Duck!
“Uh, Mrs. Carillon,” Tony repeated in a lowered voice, red-faced over his unexpected outburst, “uh . . . you’re not eating your duck.”
“Duck?” she said, inspecting the piece on her plate. “Duck?” Mrs. Carillon looked around the table. For the first time since she learned the true meaning of the glub-blubs , Mrs. Carillon smiled.
“Remember the last time we had duck?” she said, “. . . and the lace underwear . . . and Augie’s poor head....” Mrs. Carillon couldn’t continue; she was laughing too hard.
Mr. Banks thought he must be listening to the babblings of a lunatic.
Tina, Tony, and Augie Kunkel were laughing, too. They laughed at Mr. Banks’ frightened face, and they laughed because Mrs. Carillon had “gotten over it.” They laughed even louder when Augie Kunkel wiped his glasses with the greasy napkin and displayed his dirty spectacles; and when Mrs. Baker served the Camembert cheese, they laughed so hard they almost fell off their chairs.
Mr. Banks, realizing that all was well and back to its normal silliness, began eating again. He was the only one to have dessert; the others were too exhausted, and their cheeks hurt too much to eat.
Mrs. Carillon leaned back in her chair and returned the happy smiles that welcomed her back to reality.
“What day is today?” she asked.
“Tuesday, November 19,” Augie Kunkel replied, wiping his glasses with a clean napkin. “It’s almost Thanksgiving.”
Mrs. Carillon paled. She brushed the back of her hand across her forehead and swept away the memory of an earlier turkey-less dinner.
“Let’s really celebrate this year,” she said, smiling again. “I have so much to be thankful for.”
Turkey and Trimmings
The guests were expected at three o’clock. Mrs. Baker was chopping and mincing, grating and dicing, and singing away in a loud soprano. The twins were trying to figure out how many places to set at the table, but the noise from the kitchen made them lose count. They had never heard their cook sing before.
“She’s happy because her sister is getting out of jail today,” Tony explained.
“Then why is she singing ‘I Love You Truly’?”
The doorbell rang between a “t
ru-” and an “ly,” and in came Mr. Banks carrying a battered suitcase for a thin, smiling, gap-toothed woman. Spikes of red hair poked out from under her drooping hat. The frayed lining of her threadbare coat reached the heels of her shoes, which were so worn down on the sides she stood bowlegged.
“Tony, Tina, this is Mineola Potts,” Mr. Banks said.
Mineola Potts smiled widely at the twins, revealing even more toothless gaps; then she tiptoed across the room and peeked around the open kitchen door.
“Boo!” she said.
The twittering and giggling from the kitchen was even louder than the singing and chopping had been. Mr. Banks had to shout to make himself heard.
“Where’s Mrs. Carillon? I’ve got a stack of bills here that will send us all to the poorhouse. She must have bought out every store in town.”
“She’s getting dressed,” Tina said. “Besides, can’t that wait until tomorrow? We’re supposed to be celebrating.”
“Help us count, Mr. Banks,” Tony said, putting what he hoped was the last plate on the table.
“Don’t they teach you anything in that school?” The words were the same, but Mr. Banks did not seem to be as grumpy as usual. “All right, I’ll help you count. Tell me who’s coming.”
“Mrs. Carillon, Tina and me, and two of our friends, you and Mineola Potts, and Augie Kunkel and his Aunt Martha.”
“That makes ten,” Mr. Banks said.
“I counted nine.”
“Ten,” Mr. Banks insisted. “You forgot Mrs. Baker.”
“Mrs. Baker? Then who’s going to serve?”
“We can serve ourselves. Mrs. Baker has worked long and hard for you. She’s as much a member of this family as anybody here.”
“Why, Mr. Banks, that’s socialism!”
“That’s enough of your sass, young man. . . .”
Luckily for Tony, the doorbell rang.
“You must have the wrong apartment,” Mr. Banks said curtly to the two young men at the door. One had long hair flowing from a beaded headband and a fringed beard that matched his fringed suede jacket. The other had a large puff of black hair and wore a serape and sandals.
“Harry! Joel!” Tina ran to the door. “These are our friends, Mr. Banks.”
Mr. Banks was so dumbfounded that he was still holding the door open when Augie Kunkel and Aunt Martha arrived.
Aunt Martha was a short, hefty woman with close-cropped white hair. She, too, was wearing a fringed suede jacket.
“Glad to meet you,” she said, grabbing Mr. Banks’ hand and cracking every bone in his fingers.
The New Mrs. Carillon
Augie Kunkel introduced Aunt Martha to Tina, and Tina introduced everybody to everybody else. They all sat down, except Augie Kunkel, who stood in the center of the room waiting for Mrs. Carillon to appear. He was holding a bouquet of yellow roses.
“Yellow roses,” remarked Mr. Banks. “I haven’t seen anything but violets and purple anemones in this house since she moved in.”
“Mrs. Carillon!” Tina gasped. Eyes popped and jaws dropped in amazement. A stunned silence greeted Mrs. Carillon as she circled the room welcoming her guests.
“It’s so good to see you again, Joel. Harry,” she said. “And you must be Aunt Martha.”
Mrs. Carillon’s hair was short and brown and softly waved. She was wearing an elegantly tailored, beige wool dress, a string of pearls, and brown calf shoes.
“Augie, how thoughtful. Yellow roses, my favorite38 flower.”
“You look b-b-beautiful.”
Mr. Banks thought so, too. “I must say, if that’s what you spent all that money on, it was worth it.”
“Mrs. Carillon!” Mineola Potts dashed out of the kitchen into the arms of her old cellmate.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mrs. Baker announced. She herded the guests to the lavishly spread table and took her seat among them.
Mr. Banks carved the turkey; the plates were passed and filled high to overflowing; and Mrs. Carillon asked Augie Kunkel to say grace.
Augie Kunkel didn’t know how to say grace. He just named the dishes and let the delicious smells inspire the proper reverence:
Patate douce, dindonneau truffée,
airelles en couronne, petits oignons,
pointes d’asperges au beurre,
purée de marrons.
“Amen,” said Mr. Banks, who didn’t understand French; and the eating and the chatting and the celebrating began.
The Eating and the Chatting
Tina asked Mineola Potts to describe every horrible detail of her miserable life in the “pest-hole”; and Mrs. Carillon told Aunt Martha how sorry she was that her house was falling down around her ears.
“Delicious,” said Mr. Banks, tasting the turkey. Mrs. Baker beamed.
Aunt Martha replied that it was just awful, because now she would have to move in with Augie. “Not that I’m not fond of Augie, I am; but he doesn’t have room for my work.”
“Aunt Martha is an artist,” Augie Kunkel explained.
“Delicious,” said Mr. Banks, tasting the stuffing.
Joel said he understood Aunt Martha’s problem very well, for they had just lost the lease to their loft and would soon be without a place to work, too.
“Rats as big as cats,” Mineola Potts said to wide-eyed Tina.
“Do you paint in oils or watercolors?” Harry asked Aunt Martha, more in politeness than interest.
“Who do you think I am, Grandma Moses?” she replied. “Kinetic sculpture, that’s what I do. You know, where everything moves. . . .”
“But the people were nice,” Mineola Potts said. “That is, all but one. We avoided her like the plague. In for child-beating, she was; name of Anna Oglethorpe.”
“Miss Anna Oglethorpe! In jail?” exclaimed Mrs. Carillon.
Mr. Banks looked up from his plate. “Not again?”
“No, not again,” Mrs. Carillon had little sympathy for her former governess. “Miss Anna Oglethorpe can stay right where she is.” 39
“I had a show a few years back,” Aunt Martha said, “but, just my luck, it opened the very day of the blackout. No electricity. All my pieces are motor-driven, so nothing worked.”
Mr. Banks said “delicious” five more times, while Joel, Harry, and Aunt Martha discussed techniques and consoled each other over their loss of working space.
“I have a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Carillon said to the artists. “My big old house. There’s plenty of living room and working room there for all of you. That is, if you don’t mind overlooking a soup factory.”
“Sounds great,” Joel said, “but I don’t think we could afford it.”
“The house is a gift—to the three of you. It’s little enough for what you did for the twins and me,” Mrs. Carillon said to Joel and Harry, then turned to Aunt Martha, “and for all you’ve done for Augie. Mr. Banks, would you draw up the papers tomorrow?”
Tina and Tony cringed, expecting Mr. Banks to spoil the party with a loud “No!” They couldn’t believe that he said, “Of course, fine idea.” And he was smiling.
“Well, Miss Tinglehof, it seems we’re partners,” Harry said.
“Who’s Miss Tinglehof?” Tina asked, looking around the table.
“That’s me, Martha Tinglehof.” Aunt Martha raised her glass of wine. “To Tietelbaum, Tinglehof, and Wells. That’s alphabetical.”
“Who’s Tietelbaum? Who’s Wells?”
“Harry Tietelbaum.”
“Joel Wells.”
The three artists clinked glasses.
“Artists?” Mr. Banks said. “You sound more like a law firm.” He poured a little wine into the twins’ glasses.
“Maybe that’s what I’ll be, a lawyer,” Tony said, in appreciation of Mr. Banks’ sudden good humor; but Tina still eyed his cheerfulness with suspicion.
The Celebrating
Mr. Banks returned to the head of the table and clinked a knife against his wineglass.
“As most of you know,” he began wh
en he had everyone’s attention, “I have served Mrs. Carillon as trustee for many years, and, in return, was always warmly welcomed as a friend.
“Today, I am pleased to announce, I am here at this festive occasion, not only as trustee and friend, but as a proud and happy husband.”
Tina slumped down in her chair. Tony bit his lip to keep from crying out. Augie Kunkel turned as white as the tablecloth had been before the wine stains and gravy spots.
“I know this comes as a surprise,” Mr. Banks continued, “but since it is the second marriage for both of us, Bertha and I...”
“Bertha? Who’s Bertha?” shouted Tina, Tony, and Mr. Kunkel at the same time.
“Why, Mrs. Baker, of course; I mean Mrs. Banks.” Mr. Banks wondered what all the confusion was about. “As I was saying, Bertha and I went down to City Hall yesterday, and...”
“I don’t think anyone is really interested in the details, Bertram,” Mrs. Banks said to her new husband.
“Bertram?” laughed Tony.
Glasses were raised in a happy toast to the newlyweds. Tony offered them a gift of the remaining five months’ supply of Camembert cheese, and Mr. Banks accepted. Augie Kunkel wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow and sighed a deep sigh of relief.
“Mr. Kunkel has something to say,” Tina announced.
“Yes, Mr. Kunkel, go ahead,” coaxed Tony. “Ask her!”
Everyone at the table—except Mr. and Mrs. Banks, who were staring into each other’s eyes—noticed Augie Kunkel’s embarrassment and understood what the twins wanted him to say.
“I d-d-don’t think this is the p-p-proper t-t-time.”
“Yes, it is, Augie,” Mrs. Carillon said. “I think this is a lovely time.”