Falling into Place (10 page)

But it didn't matter. The audience loved her. With the long tables pushed against the wall, they were lined up in ragged rows, packing the house. There were people in wheelchairs and people leaning on walkers mixed in with the rest of the crowd. The level of conversation was so loud, it was hard to hear. Then Mrs. Nightingale stood up on the stage with a microphone in one hand and her body swaying back and forth to the music, and they couldn't get enough of her.

They loved her bright green caftan with her matching head scarf and eyelids. They loved the way her little plump feet were stuffed into her narrow green shoes so that it looked as if they would explode like a trick snake out of a can when she took the shoes off.

And they loved her smile. It was bright enough to light up the entire room. Which was fortunate, because the strobe light kept shorting out and plunging the stage into darkness.

Nothing stopped Mrs. Nightingale. She sang one song, then another, then another. Every time a song ended, the audience begged her for more. When she finished the fifth number, she told them she simply had to rest or she was going to fall over dead right here and now, and they'd all have to deal with it. She got down off the stage and came bustling over to Margaret and Roy where they were sitting with Gran. When they stood up to greet her, she smothered them both in a hug that smelled of bay rum.

“I did it!” she said. Her forehead was covered with small beads of sweat, and her lipstick was starting to travel down the fine lines around her mouth. But she was radiant. “I couldn't have done it without you two,” she said. “Margaret, you look dazzling. You, too, Roy.”

Roy hooked his thumbs in the pink suspenders with the yellow palm trees he had chosen from the box, and grinned.

“Mrs. Nightingale, this is our grandmother,” said Margaret. “Elizabeth Mack.”

She felt as if she was going to burst, watching them. With pride, because Mrs. Nightingale was so brave, and with love, because Gran, with her beautiful white hair smoothed back into a bun and a blue dress bringing out the startling blue of her eyes, looked so much like her old self again.

“I haven't heard ‘Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree' since my husband and I were dating,” Gran was saying as they shook hands. “You were wonderful.”

“I wasn't,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “I was terrible. But let's face it.” She leaned toward Gran conspiratorially. “Most of us are deaf by now, anyway.”

She slapped her hand to her chest and laughed with such delight, Gran had to join her. Margaret and Roy stood by watching, proud as mother hens.

“You're a very lucky woman, having grandchildren like these,” Mrs. Nightingale said at last. “You'll have to let me know the next time they're coming. I'll call my son and tell him to bring Henry. I think you two will like Henry. He's right between you in age.”

“Am I mistaken, or has your front door changed color, Mrs. Mack?”

It was Mr. Whiting, resplendent in a blue blazer and polka-dot bow tie. He gave a courtly little bow. “How do you do? I'm Roland Whiting.”

“How do you do, Mr. Whiting,” Gran said pleasantly. She raised her chin defiantly. “How do you like it?”

“I think it's magnificent, although I'm not sure what the rest of the Steering Committee is going to say.

“I think it's wonderful, Roland.” Mrs. Tudley came up to them and slipped her arm through Roy's. “I don't care what the Steering Committee says. It did my heart good, seeing Mrs. Mack's door this afternoon. I think we should all paint our doors different colors. We could make a poster, like the one they have of the doors of Dublin, Ireland.” She beamed around the circle at them all. “We could call it The Doors of Carol Woods.”

“We might even sell it for our fundraiser for the community garden,” said Mr. Whiting. “We still need money for a water line.”

“A community garden?” said Gran. There were red spots on both her cheeks.

“Roland has been fighting for one for more than a year,” said Mrs. Nightingale. “You wouldn't believe what he's up against. He's had a lot of opposition, but I do think he's worn them down.”

“There's an empty lot on Jasmine Street,” Mr. Whiting told Gran. “We want to turn it into a garden where any resident who is interested can have a space and share water.” He looked wistful. “I haven't been able to grow my Jerusalem artichokes since I moved here.”

“I have an old rototiller I'd be happy to share,” said Gran. “Perhaps we could build a small shed to store things in so everyone could use them.”

“Tubby wore a hat just like that,” said Mrs. Tudley, patting Roy's arm. She held her hand out to Gran. “I'm Nelly Tudley, Mrs. Mack. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, too,” said Gran. “You made quite an impression on my grandchildren.”

It was like watching a play, Margaret thought contentedly. Everyone was saying the right things. Everyone was being polite.

Dominoes, she thought suddenly, falling into place.

“You must be thirsty, Mrs. Nightingale.” Gran took control in her reassuring, brisk way. “Why don't we all go back to my house for that party?” She put her arm around Margaret's shoulders. “Mr. Whiting? I believe you're going to join us?”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Mack. I might stop by my house and collect my accordion, if it's all right with you. Maybe Agatha will favor us with another song. Agatha?” He held out his elbow. “Has anyone ever told you, you sing like a nightingale?”

“Oh, all the time, Mr. Whiting,” she said, winking at Margaret and Roy. “All the time.”

The party was a huge success. By the time the guests left, Roy was half-asleep on the couch. Margaret followed Gran into the kitchen with a dirty glass in each hand. “I think Mr. Whiting has a crush on Mrs. Nightingale, don't you?”

“I don't see why not,” said Gran. “It's a good thing she stopped him, though. He would have played all night. Put those in the dishwasher, Margaret. We'll worry about the rest in the morning.”

“Is anybody home?”

“Dad!” Margaret didn't even think about it. She ran to the front door, threw her arms around his waist, and pressed her face into his chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against a rush of sudden tears. She had never been more glad to see anyone.

“Who have we here?” he said, holding her away from him to get a good look. “This glamorous lady is my daughter?”

“Oh, Dad.” She felt ridiculously pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you a surprise.”

“Margaret, look! My new dress!” Claire leaped out from behind Mr. Mack and twirled so that her dress billowed out around her like the umbrella in a fancy drink. It wasn't pink. It was blue, with yellow flowers.

“I can't believe it,” said Margaret. She looked at her father in amazement. “How did you talk her into it?”

“We didn't have to. It passed the twirl test.”

Claire stopped spinning and threw her arms around Margaret's waist. “Emily and Sarah got one, too! And so will you, as soon as you come home, because of the baby.”

“The baby's here?” said Margaret.

“Oh, Matthew, why didn't you call?” Gran came hurrying out of the kitchen with a dishtowel in her hands. “Is everyone all right? Wendy? The baby?”

“Everyone's fine, Mom. Everyone's great,” said Mr. Mack, kissing Gran on the cheek. “I didn't call because Claire wouldn't rest until she could tell Margaret herself. In person. Right, Claire?”

They all looked at Claire.

“It's a boy,” she said proudly.

“A boy?” said Margaret.

“Margaret said Wendy only has girls,” said Roy. He sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes.

“Not anymore,” said Mr. Mack. “This time, she had a nine-pound two-ounce boy.”

“I have a brother,” Margaret said. It seemed amazing. It seemed impossible. Her heart gave a tiny lurch, like growing pains.

“Oh, Matt, how wonderful,” said Gran. She sat down suddenly, her eyes bright. “What does he look like?”

“You mean,
who
does he look like.” Mr. Mack rested his hand on Margaret's head. “He looks exactly the way Margaret did when she was born. Do you remember, Mom? She looked like a boxing glove in a black wig.”

“The poor little thing,” said Margaret. She felt fierce, like a mother lion. “Don't you dare make fun of him.”

“What's his name?” said Roy.

“He doesn't have one!” shouted Claire, jumping up and down.

“Why not, Matt?” Gran said.

Her Dad turned to look at her. “Wendy and I think Margaret should be the one to name him. After all, she's the oldest.”

“Me?” said Margaret, stunned.

It felt like the most important job she had ever been given. What did
she
know about naming a baby? She'd never had one before. And a boy? Who looked like her? She could feel Gran and her dad watching her.

Well, for one thing, he was going to hate his hair. She knew that. And no matter how much she tried to protect him, Emily and Sarah were going to want to dress him up in doll's clothes all the time, and Claire was going to be after him to play horses with her. . . .

“Tad.” She looked at her father with conviction. “His real name can be David, but we'll call him Tad.”

For a second she was afraid
his
eyes were bright with tears. But then he grabbed her and held her against him so tightly, she could hardly breathe. “That's my girl,” he said into her hair. “Mom? Is that okay with you?”

“It's wonderful,” said Gran. “Your father would be so pleased.”

Claire started to twirl around the room again. “Now Emily has Sarah, and I have Margaret, and we all have Tad,” she sang. “Emily has Sarah, I have Margaret, and we all have Tad.”

“And Roy, you can have all of us, anytime you want,” said Mr. Mack.

“Tad sure is going to need another boy around,” said Roy.

“I'd better tell Wendy so she can stop calling him Baby Mack,” said Mr. Mack.

“Let me,” said Margaret. “I want to be the one.”

“Matthew, you come and open the champagne,” said Gran. She held out her hand. “And Claire, you and Roy can help me make the Shirley Temples.”

Margaret could hear Claire's excited voice in the kitchen as she listened to the phone ringing at the other end. Then she heard Wendy's clear voice. “Hello?”

“Hi, Wendy, it's me. Margaret.”

“I know who it is, silly,” Wendy said. “How are you?”

“I'm good.” Margaret didn't know why, but she suddenly felt shy.

“Did Dad tell you?” said Wendy. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“Yes. Do you want to know what his name is?”

“What?”

“Tad. Well, David, really. But we're going to call him Tad.”

“Tad,” said Wendy. There was a catch in her voice. “Gran must be very happy.”

“Oh, no, don't
you
start crying.”

Wendy laughed shakily. “Why, has Gran been upset?”

“She was, but she's okay now. I'll tell you about it when I get home.”

“When are you coming? We've missed you. Claire has been beside herself.” Margaret heard Wendy's voice change. “Oh. Speaking of Claire.”

“What?”

“Your dad and I talked about it after you left,” said Wendy. “He was very upset with me about the way I handled the whole business of her sharing your room. And he was right. Not only should I have talked to
him
about it first, but I should have talked to you. I'm sorry.”

“That's okay, I don't mind,” Margaret said quickly, and was amazed to find that it was true.

“No, it's not okay. But don't worry. Dad's already fixing up the small room off the dining room for Claire. It'll be perfectly fine until we can add on.

“You can't do that,” Margaret said. She was appalled. Claire downstairs, by herself? Listening to the sounds of life from upstairs while she lay in the dark alone?

“You can't do that,” she said again. “She'll be lonely.”

Wendy laughed. “Can you imagine being lonely in a family as noisy as ours?”

“If Claire moves downstairs, I move downstairs,” said Margaret firmly. “I want her to stay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Oh, Margaret, you're so good. When are you coming home?”

It's a good thing I know how to handle weepy people, Margaret thought as she walked into the kitchen. Wendy was getting to be as bad as Gran.

“Wendy wants us home, first thing in the morning,” she announced. “She wants us to bring Gran and Roy, too.”

“Here.” Her dad handed her a glass. “We were waiting for you to give a toast.”

They all raised their glasses. “To Tad, the newest member of the Mack family,” said Mr. Mack. “May he be tough enough to survive with four older sisters, poor tyke.”

“You can say that again,” said Roy.

Claire was spinning around the room, knocking against their chairs. The baby, the dress, seeing Margaret again—it was too much for a six-year-old to take sitting down. The next step beyond elation would be tears.

“Claire, come sit down,” said Margaret in a bossy, older sister voice. Claire dutifully climbed into her lap and snuggled down against her. Margaret rested her chin on the top of Claire's head and closed her eyes.

They'd be like bookends, she and Tad. The way Tad and Gran had been for her. A Mack on either end, with the three little girls in between.

Gran was laughing in the background now. Margaret could hear her telling Dad about her plans for her plot in the community garden.

It's a good thing Gran is making so many plans, Margaret thought, yawning contentedly. She'll have to take care of herself a lot more from now on. I'm going to have my hands full.