Saturdays with Hitchcock

  “Why would anybody dump you?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why would they?” Mom says. “An unemployed actor who waits tables for a living. Every girl’s dream.”

  I can’t believe it. Uncle Walt is barely off the plane, he’s injured and in pain, and Mom still can’t stop running him down. “He’s not unemployed! He’s an actor between jobs,” I say.

  Uncle Walt laughs good-naturedly. “Well, your mom’s right that it’s more or less the same thing. Until you get your big break.”

  “But you’re in a movie with Kristen Bell. That’s big!”

  “Was in a movie,” he says. “Past tense. I really blew it this time.” He winces and moves his neck in a circle, as if it hurts.

  The carousel whooshes to life, and bags start tumbling out.

  “Here it comes. That blue duffel,” Uncle Walt says. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to carry it, Cindy.”

  “I know.” Mom grabs the bag when it comes close, and heaves it up over the side of the conveyer belt. “Jeez, what’s in here? Rocks?”

  “Gold doubloons,” Uncle Walt says, winking at me. “That’s how they paid us on the last Pirates of the Caribbean movie.” He didn’t have any lines, but he was the pirate who accidentally knocked Jack Sparrow overboard. Cyrus and I saw it three times.

  Mom hoists the bag onto her shoulder and starts walking all bent over. “Why can’t you get a wheeled suitcase like a normal person?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to be a normal person,” I say. “Right, Uncle Walt?”

  “Right, Hitchcock.” He always calls me that, ever since I told him two years ago that Alfred Hitchcock was my favorite director. Actually these days I’m more into Howard Hawks and Wes Anderson, but I still like Hitchcock and I love the nickname. I’d probably like any name Uncle Walt gave me.

  He rests his left hand on top of my head as we slowly follow Mom out to the parking garage. I’m sorry he’s hurt and everything, but I’m so glad he’s here. His hand on my head feels like it’s steering me. As always, Uncle Walt points me in the right direction.

  Grandma is waiting at our house. The minute the car pulls into the driveway, she throws open the front door and comes running out.

  “Walter!” she screams as we open the car doors. It takes Uncle Walt a minute or so to figure out how to hoist himself out of the front seat with the least amount of pain, but Grandma can’t wait. He’s barely upright before she’s trying to hug him.

  “Ma!” Mom yells. “Don’t squeeze him, for God’s sake. He’s got broken ribs!”

  “Hey, Ma,” Uncle Walt says, grimacing. “Careful there.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you’re home!” Grandma says, tears running down her cheeks. “Please tell me you’re back for good. Those movies are no good for you! They’re killing you!”

  “Ma, calm down. I just broke a few things.”

  “It’s a sign you should stay here now. With us. If Cindy hadn’t moved me into that little condominium place, you could stay with me.”

  Mom sighs as she holds open the front door, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “I thought you wanted to sell your big old house, Ma,” Uncle Walt says gently. Even I remember when that happened. She couldn’t wait to get into a condo where somebody else was in charge of fixing the plumbing and mowing the grass.

  “Well,” Grandma continues, pushing Uncle Walt into the house, “at least Cindy and Dennis have room for you here.”

  “Not forever, we don’t,” Mom says. “Maisie has to sleep in the den.”

  “Hitch,” Uncle Walt says, “you’re my hero.”

  “I don’t mind,” I assure him. I would sleep in the garage if it meant Uncle Walt could stay longer. In the garage underneath the car, even. Of course, I don’t want him to stay here forever like Grandma does. I want him to go back to Hollywood and get his breakout role and be famous. I want his dreams to come true.

  “Oh, who needs a den?” Grandma says. “What do you do in a den, anyway?”

  “My piano is in the den,” Mom says. “There’s no other place—”

  But Grandma isn’t listening. Whenever Uncle Walt is around, he’s the only one Grandma seems to be able to hear.

  “Sit down!” she orders him. “Cindy, go get him a beer or something. You want a beer, honey?”

  Uncle Walt sits carefully in a big chair and looks up at Mom. “Sure. That would be great if you’ve got one, Cin.”

  “It’s barely two o’clock in the afternoon,” Mom says.

  “He’s hurt!” Grandma yells. “Get him what he wants!”

  Mom throws up her hands and stalks out of the room. “Sorry. I forgot for a minute that His Majesty, Prince Walter the Great, had returned. His wish is my command.” Even though Mom acts like it’s Uncle Walt she’s mad at, it’s really Grandma, I think. Nobody gets on Mom’s last nerve faster than Grandma does.

  I perch on the arm of his chair, and Uncle Walt winks at me. “Hey, Cindy,” he calls to Mom, “it doesn’t have to be a beer. Iced tea is fine too. Just something to wet my whistle.”

  There’s a knock on the front door, and I know who it is. Cyrus was probably watching for our car to pull into the driveway.

  “Come in!” I holler.

  “Maisie, get up and answer the door,” Mom says. She hands Uncle Walt his beer without really looking at him.

  But by the time I get to my feet, Cyrus has already opened the door and walked in. And then I see who’s with him. Ugh. It’s Gary Hackett. Wouldn’t you know? It’s like he’s Cy’s stalker these days.

  “Um, Gary was at my house,” Cyrus says. “He wanted to know if he could come over too.”

  “Hi, Maisie,” Hackett says.

  I glare at Hackett, but I speak to Cy. “Why’d he ask you if he could come to my house?”

  “Maisie! You’re being very rude,” Mom says. “Come on in, Gary. Hi, Cyrus. Would you boys like something to drink?”

  “Dr Pepper?” Cyrus looks hopeful. Hackett just nods like a bobblehead doll.

  “I think I’ve still got some.” Mom turns around and goes back to the kitchen.

  “Can I have some too?” I call after her.

  “You can get your own.”

  I follow Mom into the kitchen, though I hate to leave Cyrus and Hackett in there with Uncle Walt for long. The only thing Hackett wants to talk about lately is the movie Blade Runner, and I don’t want him to get Uncle Walt all tired out talking about science fiction movies, which he and I don’t even like that much. There’s not enough Dr Pepper left, so I just get myself a glass of water and race back into the living room.

  Too late.

  “You’re lucky you live in Los Angeles,” Hackett says. “I love how LA looks in Blade Runner. All rainy and gloomy and weird.” He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning way over into Uncle Walt’s airspace.

  “It doesn’t really look like that,” I say. “It’s hot and sunny most of the time.”

  “I know.”

  “Why do you always want to talk about that one movie?”

  “I can talk about other stuff,” he says. “I just like talking about Blade Runner.”

  “Well, maybe my uncle doesn’t,” I say.

  Uncle Walt winks at me. “Ease up, Hitch. It’s fine.”

  I’m not sure why Hackett bothers me so much these days. He’s been in school with Cy and me for years. We played together sometimes when we were little kids, but the past few weeks he’s been hanging around Cy all the time, and it’s really annoying. Cyrus is too nice a person to ignore him, so I have to put up with him too. Also, Hackett’s gotten really tall all of a sudden, which is weird because now I have to look up to him, which I don’t like. He doesn’t seem like the same kid he used to be. These days he reminds me of Logan Lerman in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a movie I didn’t think I’d like, but then I did.

  I’m kind of on the short side, and I look like—well, imagine Alyson Hannigan in her Buffy the Vampire Slayer days, only with short brown hair. Anyw
ay, I’m used to Cyrus, who’s about the same height as me and looks kind of like Noah Hathaway, who played Atreyu in The NeverEnding Story, which has been one of our favorite movies since forever. I always feel right with Cyrus, but when Hackett’s around, everything feels different. Off balance.

  Uncle Walt’s good arm is trapped in both of Grandma’s hands. She’s pulled her chair so close to his that she’s practically tipping over into his lap.

  “You’ve seen Blade Runner, haven’t you?” Hackett asks Uncle Walt.

  “Oh, sure,” he says. “I liked it.” I’m sure he didn’t. He’s just being nice.

  And then Cyrus jumps in. “Do you think Deckard was really a replicant too? I don’t think he—”

  “Yes, he was!” Hackett yells. “There are clues all through the movie!” This is their favorite argument and one of the reasons I don’t like to hang around with Hackett. He gets Cyrus talking about stuff I’m not even interested in.

  “Who cares?” I say. “It’s a dumb movie! I mean, what’s that stupid unicorn doing in the middle of it, anyway?”

  Hackett starts to open his mouth to answer me, and I realize I’ve made a serious mistake by asking a question. Fortunately Mom interrupts him.

  “Since you’ve got an audience already,” she says to Uncle Walt, “I’m going into my useless den to play the piano.”

  “Okay. Thanks again, Cin.”

  Mom grunts and disappears. I can see Hackett is dreaming up another idiotic question for Uncle Walt, but this time Grandma derails him.

  “Walter, you should go lie down and rest,” she says, petting Uncle Walt’s arm like it’s a small animal. “This has been a tiring day for you. I’ll tuck you in and then go on home and see what Art’s up to. I don’t know why he didn’t come with me this afternoon.”

  The room goes quiet and nobody moves. Uncle Walt looks up at me, and his eyes ask a question I can’t answer. Art was my grandpa, and he’s been dead for three years.

  Grandma shakes her head as if she’s trying to get everything to fall back into the right place. “Oh, my goodness, what am I talking about? Art’s gone, isn’t he?” She looks embarrassed and sad at the same time. “I forgot. Just for a minute. Isn’t that silly?”

  Uncle Walt takes her hand in his. “Happens to the best of us,” he says, smiling. But it’s not his easy smile, his gorgeous one. It’s a tight, scared smile, like the one I’m forcing onto my face too.

  Just then Mom starts banging away on the piano in the next room, playing “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie. She’s an excellent piano player and sometimes plays for weddings, but today she’s pounding those keys as if she’s hammering them into place. The sound bounces off the walls of the quiet living room.

  I’m trying to think of a way to turn the conversation away from my grandma’s weird forgetful moment (without getting it back onto Blade Runner either) when Grandma starts crying. Which is also weird because Grandma never cries, and now she’s done it twice in the last hour.

  “I miss your daddy, Walter. I get so lonely sometimes.” She grabs Uncle Walt around the neck in a crooked hug, and he lets out a surprised yelp.

  Cyrus stands up and pulls Hackett by the back of his shirt collar. He wants to get them both out of here fast, and I don’t blame him. If I didn’t live here, I’d run for it too. But Hackett’s not quite on his feet when Cy gives him a jerk toward the door, and he trips on the chair leg and knocks over the coffee table, sending a glass of beer and two Dr Peppers flying through space.

  Which is when Dad walks through the front door. The coffee table’s lying on its side; Hackett’s hopping around on one foot, groaning; Grandma’s crying onto Uncle Walt’s sore shoulder; Uncle Walt’s eyes are popping out of his head from pain; and Mom is musically looking forward to tomorrow as if she can’t wait for this day to be over.

  Dad shakes his head. “I knew I should have stayed at the bowling alley.”

  At least the spilled-drinks mess gives us kids something to do besides stare at Grandma. I run to get some rags from the utility room while Cy and Hackett pick up the coffee table and the empty glasses.

  Mom stops playing for a minute and calls out, “Is anybody bleeding out there or going to the hospital?”

  “No,” I yell back.

  She stays in the den and launches into “It’s a Fine Life,” the song the ragamuffin pickpockets sing in Oliver! I guess she’s into orphans today.

  Uncle Walt fills Dad in, sort of, on why Grandma’s crying. “She got a little confused about Pop. I guess all the commotion about my accident tired her out.”

  “Yeah, that’s tired us all out,” Dad says, then turns to Grandma. “Evelyn, let me drive you home, okay? You can lie down a little while.”

  She finally lets go of her choke hold on Walt’s neck, and the crying tapers off. “He was a good man, Art was,” she says. “Picky about his mealtimes, though. Five o’clock, he wanted to eat supper.”

  “I remember,” Dad says as he gets her to her feet and puts an arm around her waist.

  “I don’t miss that part,” Grandma says. She rallies and shakes Dad off. “I’m not an invalid, Dennis. I can walk to the car by myself.” Dad gives a quiet laugh. He always says Mom gets her feistiness from Grandma.

  “Walter,” Grandma continues, “I want you to promise me you’ll go rest as soon as I leave.”

  “I promise, Ma,” Uncle Walt says.

  “I’ll be back later with beef stew for dinner tonight. That’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Ma,” he tells her, though I know for a fact he eats more sushi these days than beef.

  She kisses the top of his head, pulls herself up to her full height, which is maybe five feet, and leads Dad out the door.

  “Wow,” Uncle Walt says, “that did me in. Has she gotten confused like that before?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  He nods, then grimaces as he hauls himself out of the chair. “Listen, guys, I do need to rest. Your room, right, Maze?”

  “Yeah. I changed the sheets for you.”

  “Thanks, Hitchcock. You’re the best.” He ruffles my hair as he passes, and I don’t mind one bit. I stand there with a bunch of dripping-wet rags in my hand and watch him go.

  “He calls you Hitchcock,” Hackett says softly. “You’re lucky he’s your uncle.”

  Oh, right. Hackett’s still here. I take the rags out to the utility room and drop them in the deep sink. Cyrus and Hackett follow me.

  “What should we do now?” Cyrus asks.

  “We can go watch a movie at my house!” Hackett pipes up.

  “I’m not watching Blade Runner again,” I say.

  “You’ve only seen it once,” Cyrus says.

  “Once was enough.”

  Hackett’s face droops. “We could watch something else.”

  “Like what?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve got The Matrix and all the Star Wars stuff.”

  I make a face. “I don’t like movies where you’re supposed to believe some dopey, mumbly guy gets it together long enough to save the world.” Actually I really liked the Star Wars movie The Force Awakens, where the hero is a girl—it’s just that being nice to Hackett feels like walking across hot coals.

  There’s a red flush creeping up Hackett’s neck from under his collar. “Well, I don’t have any girl movies!” he says.

  I’m kind of surprised that Hackett can actually get mad about something. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen that before. Still, he’s not getting away with a crack like that.

  “I don’t watch girl movies!” I tell him. “I watch great movies! Movies you can believe in! Have you ever even seen The Princess Bride?”

  He smirks. “You’re saying The Princess Bride isn’t a girl movie? Come on!”

  Ha! He walked into my trap. The Princess Bride is one of Cyrus’s favorites.

  Cy’s eyes bug out of their sockets. “Are you kidding, Gary? That movie’s a classic!” He
points an invisible sword at Hackett and says, “ ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’ ”

  Hackett looks confused. I can’t believe he doesn’t know the most famous line from one of the best movies of all time. It’s sad, really. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m going home. You two can watch princess movies without me.” He bangs out through the back door. “I’ll see you later, Cy, when she’s not around.”

  Which makes me feel a little bad. I’ve never actually been so mean to Hackett that he’s gotten mad at me. But all I say to Cy is, “Good. He’s gone.”

  Cyrus starts running water in the kitchen sink so he can wash the empty soda and beer glasses. He likes to be helpful. “Gary’s not that bad, Maisie. Why do you hate him so much? He’s the only other movie geek we know.”

  I shrug. “He doesn’t like the movies I like. Besides, he acts so dorky.”

  “Only when you’re around. You make him nervous.”

  “I make him nervous? Why?”

  “Because you’re so hard on him.”

  “Well, he acts like he’s our new best friend, and I don’t like it. I already have a best friend.” As soon as I say that, I feel a little nervous. Cyrus and I always said we were best friends when we were little kids, but it occurs to me we haven’t said it much lately. Are we still best friends?

  Some people think a boy and a girl can’t be friends when they get to be our age, but I don’t see why that should be true. Harry Potter was friends with Hermione without wanting to kiss her or anything. Veronica Mars was best friends with Wallace. Buffy never dated Xander, at least not in the four seasons I’ve watched. It’s not like we invented the idea.

  “Well, sure,” Cy says easily. “We’ll always be best friends, Maze, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have other friends too.”

  I’m so relieved that Cyrus is still my best friend, I feel a little less aggravated about Hackett. I get a dish towel and start drying the glasses while Cyrus moves on to scrubbing the lasagna pan Mom left soaking in the sink last night.

  “I guess you’re right,” I say. “Okay. You can be friends with Hackett if you want to, as long as I don’t have to spend too much time with him.”