Aces Wild (16 page)

“Grandpa, it’s”—I squinted at the clock—“three a.m. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I asked.

“SOMETIMES IT IS BETTER TO BEG FORGIVENESS THAN TO ASK PERMISSION,” said Ace. “YOU KNOW WHO SAID THAT?”

“You’re not supposed to be using the stove, are you?” I replied.

“YOUR MOTHER WORRIES TOO MUCH,” said Ace.

I couldn’t argue with that.

“What are you making now?” I asked.

“YOUR GRANDMA BUBBLES’ FAMOUS NOODLE KUGEL.”

“Grandpa, you know the Stanleys aren’t Jewish, right?”

“EVERYBODY LOVES KUGEL!” he insisted. “IT’S LIKE JEWISH LASAGNA.”

For emphasis, he dumped a container of sour cream in a big bowl that appeared to have milk, eggs, and sugar in it. It looked like a wet, white, slimy mess. It did not look like any lasagna I’d ever seen, Jewish or otherwise. Then he rolled up his sleeves, and before I could stop him—

“Grandpa, what are you—”

He grabbed both my hands and plunged them deep into the bowl of cold, slimy goo. At which point I realized there were noodles in there too.

“WHAT DOES IT NEED?” demanded Ace.

“Fewer hands?” I said.

“WISE GUY,” said Ace. “WHAT ELSE?”

I wiggled my fingers slowly. The mush felt cool and slippery. Ace let go, but he didn’t take his hands out of the bowl. Instead, he moved them in circles, like they were mixing spoons, the goop slipping through his speckled, gnarled old-person fingers.

“More eggs?” I tried again. “Sour cream?”

“AND?” he repeated. “WHAT’S THE MOST IMPORTANT SEASONING, THE ONE THAT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE?”

The most important seasoning? I closed my eyes and thought about Bubbles making noodle kugel. She carefully brushed butter on the top of it before putting it in the oven, using a thick wooden brush she kept in a kitchen drawer so it wouldn’t get mixed up with her paintbrushes. Even so, she looked like a painter when she had a brush in hand, and Ace would always say “NOW
THAT
IS A WORK OF ART” when Bubbles slipped on her oven mitts and took the burbling, brown-crusted, cinnamon-good-smelling casserole out of the oven.

“COME ON, KID. THINK.”

“Butter? Brown sugar?” I guessed.

“TZEDAKAH,” he said.

“The Japanese girl?” I asked.

“WHO?”

“Sadako. We read a book about her at school.”

Now it was Ace’s turn to look confused.

“She was this girl,” I said quickly. “This Japanese girl who got sick and wished she’d get better, and she tried to fold a thousand origami cranes so her wish would come true.”

“SO?”

“So what?”

“SO NU? WHAT HAPPENED?”

“Sadako folded six hundred and forty-four paper cranes.” I wished I hadn’t started telling him, because all of a sudden, it made me think of Bubbles. She had cancer like Sadako. And Bubbles didn’t get her miracle, either. “Her friends folded the rest after she died,” I said quickly. “It’s a true story. There’s a statue of her in Japan.”

Ace nodded. It seemed like maybe he was thinking about Bubbles too; that’s how quiet he was. Ace said, “EXACTLY. THAT’S TZEDAKAH.”

Remembering what Jeremy had said about O.J., I said, “I don’t think so, Grandpa. Jeremy says
tzedakah
means ‘spare change.’ ”

Ace shook his head. “YOU TELL JEREMY IT’S NOT THE MONEY. OR THE CRANES OR THE KUGEL, FOR THAT MATTER. TZEDAKAH IS WHAT YOU GIVE OF YOURSELF TO MAKE ALL THOSE THINGS MEAN SOMETHING.”

I was tempted to point out that “Jewish lasagna” didn’t have anything to do with Japanese origami birds or an old orange juice jug full of coins. Instead, I sprinkled some more brown sugar—and a healthy dose of tzedakah—on top.

Just like Bubbles used to.

In the morning, Mr. Stanley called to invite our whole family over for what he called “a little wake of sorts.” “Nothing fancy,” he added. “Come if you can.”

“What’s a wake?” I asked my mom when I hung up the phone.

“IT’S SHIVAH, ONLY WITH DRINKS,” announced Ace, who never missed an opportunity to provide definitions.

“Not exactly,” said my mom. “It’s a Christian tradition. People get together after a loved one dies to pay their respects.”

“So, Grandpa’s right. It is like shivah.”

“ONLY WITH BOOZE,” added Ace.

“Dad!” said my mom sharply.

“WHAT?” said Ace innocently. “THAT’S JUST HOW IT IS. THEY DRINK, WE EAT.”

My mom gave Ace a look. But she didn’t correct him.

“Zelly, come in! You’re our first guest,” said Mrs. Stanley.

“My family will be here later, but my mom told me to bring this early so you could warm it up. It’s called kugel,” I explained, handing her the glass pan. It was wrapped in foil and secured by Ace with several rubber bands. “My grandpa and I made it. He calls it Jewish lasagna.”

“That sounds delicious,” said Mrs. Stanley. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should go home and come back, but Mrs. Stanley said, “Any chance I could rope you into staying here and helping me set up? Bob ran out to the store, and guests should be arriving any minute.”

“Sure.” I kicked my boots off, then stood awkwardly in the Stanleys’ front hall while Mrs. Stanley excused herself to go set the coffeepot up. I’d never really spent any time at their house. Usually, I would grab Bridget at the door to take her out and deliver her back to the same spot. I glanced into the Stanleys’ living room and noticed something surprising. When Mrs. Stanley returned carrying an oversized coffeepot, she saw where I was looking and shook her head.

“That’s all Bob,” she explained. “He puts the tree up the day after Thanksgiving every year. At least last year he went out and splurged on an artificial one. Before that, we’d end up with needles all over the carpet by the first week in December!
Bob loves having Christmas as long as possible. I just let him go crazy and stay out of his way.”

“It’s really pretty,” I told her. There were all different kinds of ornaments: shiny colored balls, glistening snowflakes, carved angels, even a tiny folded paper crane—and beagles. Many, many beagles. There were easily a couple of dozen hound dogs on the tree. Round ornaments with pictures of beagles, little china statues of beagles, a
BEAGLE CROSSING
sign, and even what appeared to be a beagle made out of bread dough.

“Are those all Bridgie?” I asked.

Mrs. Stanley chuckled. “No,” she said. “Bob’s had beagles ever since he was a boy, and we’ve had many beagles over the years while our kids were growing up. Each of the pups we’ve had has at least one ornament. Some have a whole bunch. Let me see if I can find Bridgie’s.”

She walked around the tree hunting for it. It was a small oval frame with a photograph of a beagle puppy in it. On the back, someone had written the words
Merry Christmas
and a date.

“Wow,” I said. “She was six years older than me.”

Mrs. Stanley nodded. I followed her into the kitchen, then helped her carry soda, juice, and quite a few bottles of wine into the dining room. She added two big bottles—one clear and one brown—from their liquor cabinet and went to fill a bowl up with ice. Maybe Ace was right about wakes after all.

“Bridgie was a treasure,” said Mrs. Stanley. “We’re going to miss her something terrible.”

Mrs. Stanley began to cut up a ring-shaped cake. She looked like she was going to cry.

“She loved having you take her for walks, Zelly. I hope you know that.”

“I’m going to miss her too. So is Ace.”

“Ohhhh, Ace. That little rascal picked up her spirits in her twilight years, that’s for sure. You know she’ll be watching over him.” Mrs. Stanley passed me a plate of assorted cookies and a stack of colorful paper napkins.

I hadn’t thought about that. Bridget was up there with Bubbles now. Even though Bubbles preferred cats and didn’t believe in pets, I could picture the two of them spending time together and becoming friends. That was a happy thought.

“Definitely,” I said. I set the cookie tray on the table. Then I picked out one for myself and took a bite.

“And you know she’ll be looking down and cheering when he passes his obedience test.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about the passing part,” I told her, but the doorbell rang, so Mrs. Stanley hurried to answer it.

The ornamental beagles stared at me from the tree. All of them, including Bridget, gave me knowing looks back.

Neither are we
, they seemed to say.

The day of Ace’s test had been coming up for so long it didn’t seem like it would ever arrive. December was a million years away. And then, all of a sudden, it was December first. Then December fourth.

Then December eighth: one day to go.

I slept terribly that night, worse than before any test I’d ever had for school. And every time I woke up during the night, I looked for Ace and found him snoozing happily.
Must be nice
, I thought.
To not know or care what was coming your way
. Because even if he had known, he would have wagged his tail at the idea. He loved seeing his dog friends at class, even Rosie, who didn’t want to get anywhere near him. Ace loved the treats and hearing that he was a good boy. But he still seemed to love it when he messed up too. For him, it was all one big game. So if I gave him the command and marched
away only to turn and find him right behind me, he’d be wagging his whole body, beaming up at me as if to say
Gotcha!

“Today’s the big day, huh?” said my dad the next morning at breakfast.

“Ugh,” I answered. My mom brought me a bowl of oatmeal, but I pushed it away. “I’m not hungry,” I told her.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Actually, maybe I should just go back to bed?”

My mom put the underside of her wrist to my forehead and stared into space for a moment. Then she shook her head. “You’re cool as a cucumber,” she said. “I’ll make you some tea, but you’re going to school.”

On my way out the door, my dad encouraged me to think of school as a “welcome distraction” from my dog obedience worries. Instead, it was the other way around, but without the welcome part. All day long, I couldn’t stop thinking about the test. I rehearsed it in my head, tracing my pencil eraser along my desk slowly like it was on a leash. Heel, sit, down, stay, come. My pencil eraser, even with no practice, was a model of obedience. Too bad I couldn’t take the test with it instead of Ace.

After school, I took Ace for a long walk, both to practice and to tire him out. I figured if he was exhausted, doing things like sitting, lying down, and staying in one place would sound extra-attractive. Plus he’d lack the energy to mount a full-scale doggie disobedience disaster.

When it was time to go, I clipped Ace-the-dog’s leash on and went to knock on Ace-the-grandpa’s door. No answer. I knocked again.

“Grandpa?”

“NU? COME IN ALREADY.”

I turned the handle and opened the door. Ace was watching the local news on TV.

“Are you ready?” I asked him.

“AM
I
READY? THE QUESTION IS, IS
HE
READY?”

“Ready as he’s going to be,” I said. Which was true. “Whether that’s ready enough remains to be seen.”

“HE’LL DO FINE, KID. ZORG ZIG NICHT. I LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING ALL ABOUT HIS VICTORY.”

“I’m not worried,” I answered, like I always did when he told me to zorg zig nicht. “But what do you mean, hearing about it? You’re not going?”

Ace tried unsuccessfully to look nonchalant. “NAH, I THINK I’LL STAY HOME FOR A CHANGE.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. But when he didn’t budge, I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re serious? You’re not going? Why?”

“I’D RATHER NOT SAY,” said Ace.

“You can’t not say! We’ve been working on this for months, Grandpa. You’re not just going to quit.”

“IT’S NOT LIKE THAT, KID,” said Ace. “LET’S JUST SAY A CERTAIN LADY FRIEND OF MINE HAS LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I SHOULD ‘GIVE HER SOME SPACE.’ IN DEFERENCE TO HER WISHES, I THINK IT WOULD BE BEST IF I BOWED OUT TONIGHT,” said Ace, turning his gaze back to the screen, where the weatherman was pointing to a map of Vermont and New Hampshire.

“What? Mrs. Wright? When did you talk to her? What
did she say?” My heart started to beat double time.
Oh no
, I thought.
Was this because of what I said to her about Ace?

“If you must know, kid,” he said, not yelling for once, “she said she was starting to develop feelings for me. I know that might seem hard to believe, but there you have it. And for whatever reason, she seems to think it would be better if we didn’t spend time together.”

Because of me
, I thought. Which made me sad. Because I was no longer sure I didn’t want Mrs. Wright dating my grandpa.

“Do you?” I asked him cautiously.

“Do I what?”

“Have feelings for her.”

“WHAT KIND OF MESHUGGE QUESTION IS THAT?” His usual volume came back, like pushing the plus sign on a remote.

“It’s okay if you do,” I told him. “Admit it, you do.”

“Even if I did,” he said, volume back down again, “it’s probably for the best. I can’t do … 
this
. I’m an old dog. No new tricks left in me.”

“You are
not
an old dog!” I shouted, surprised by the force of my response. “You’re Ace, Grandpa. You can do anything! You dance merengue. You go to hot yoga class, for crying out loud!”