She rushed over with a gleam in her eye and what my uncle later described as a "murderous smile."

Uncle Mickey muttered, "Lord help us, we're in for it now!"

---

 

13. The Long-Lost Uncle
 

"Why did you introduce yourself as Juliette?" Mom demanded as soon as the bellhop left our room.

"What else was I supposed to say?" I replied. "I sure wasn't going to tell him that I'm Victor — not with all those people around."

Mom sighed heavily and ran her hands across her face. She sat on the edge of her bed.

"Is it really a problem?" I asked. "He never sees us. For all he knows, you really could have a daughter Juliette."

"Stop, Victor," Mom told me. "You don't know what you're talking about. It really *is* a problem. You may not know him, but that's the fault of your father and his brothers. Your uncle is very close to his sisters, and to pretty much all the adults you know, including Lou's mother."

"Okay," I said. "Still, it's not a big deal. As soon as we get back downstairs, I'll tell him that I'm Victor."

Mom let it go at that. Then she "freshened up" in the bathroom and touched up her makeup. She studied herself in the mirror from every angle, until I finally told her, "Dahling, you look mahvallous."

She gave me a cautionary look and grabbed her handbag.
 

Back in the lobby, we found Uncle Mickey in a small sitting area. He smiled at me and patted the couch next to him, so I obediently sat down.

Before Mom could take a seat, her cell phone went off. She looked at it and blushed. "Sorry," she said, "I have to take this. It's Jim." And she went off to a more private corner of the lobby. (In case you don't know, Jim is my father, and my mother's name is Carly.)

"So," Uncle Mickey began, "You must think of me as your long-lost uncle."

I smiled and shrugged.

"I'm not *so* lost, you see. I live right here in Boston, up that street, in Beacon Hill."

"Oh, that's where I'm going trick-or-treating!"

"You couldn't have picked a better place! My neighborhood is famous for pulling out all the stops, year after year. It's a wonderful place already, and when you add all the decorations, the costumes, the lights and sounds... it's unforgettable."

"Great!" I enthused. "I love Halloween. It's my favorite holiday."

"Good for you. Why don't we see whether we can make tonight special, as well. Not as special as your Halloween, I'm sure, but I hope I can take advantage of our accidental meeting. I'd like to take you and Carly to dinner."

"I'd love to, but we'll have to see what Mom says when she comes back."

"Yes, Mom," he repeated. "You know, Juliette, you may not have seen me much, but that doesn't mean I'm not around. And I have a little question... which I hope is not indelicate. However... just to be sure, while you were upstairs, I called my sister Mary to see how all my nieces are doing. Don't worry, I didn't give anything away. I didn't say that I'd seen Carly, and I didn't mention any Juliettes. Oddly enough, my sister didn't mention any either!"

"Yes," I agreed.

He frowned. "Yes, what? The point is, I didn't want to embarrass myself by not remembering one of my nieces. And now that I'm quite sure who you're not, I'd like to know who you are." He studied my face as he spoke, he finished by saying, "You *do* look like a Samson, though. Are you?"

"Yes, I am," I said. "In fact, I was just going to tell you who I am. I'm Victor Samson. Mom– Carly *is* my mother. She got all nervous when I told you I'm Juliette, but I couldn't tell you the truth back there."

"Ah," he said, stroking his beard. "You're Victor, but you prefer to be called Juliette. I see."

"No," I countered. "This is just for Halloween. I don't want to be a girl or dress like a girl."

"I understand," he said, and his eyes twinkled. "Halloween makes a fine excuse, doesn't it. You look quite natural, I must say. I was utterly confused when I met you. Knowing that there was no Juliette, and yet here you are. How long has this been going on?"

Without thinking, I replied, "A couple of weeks." And then, "Oh, no, no. I didn't mean–"

He interrupted me by putting up his hand in a grand, magnanimous gesture. "Please," he said. "Don't trouble yourself. I don't judge; I don't assume anything. If this is the life you've chosen, God bless you, and good luck with it. I'll always be your uncle, child. It's good that you're doing this now, while you're young."

"Oh," I groaned, crumbling. Now I could add yet another name to my list of people who thought I liked doing this. Clearly, I wasn't going to convince him that I didn't like wearing dresses while I was wearing one, so I gave it up. I'd have to wait until I went back to being Victor. In time it would all work out. Once this endless Halloween was over.

"So," Uncle Mickey asked, in a confidential tone, "How does your father feel about all this?"

I blushed. "It upsets him. He gets all confused and stuff when he sees me this way. He doesn't like it much."

"Of course not! He's a small-minded lout. He's a bumpkin. Look here — take comfort in this: in a few short years, you'll be out of that house, and you can do whatever you like. Nothing he can say or do can stop you. Do you understand?"

"I guess," I said, uncertainly.

"In the meantime, you've got to stand up and do what's right for you."

"Okay," I said, "but I want you to know that I don't want to be a girl, okay?"

"It's not important," he replied. "What's important is to be yourself. Whatever that means. Full steam ahead, damn the torpedoes."

"Alright," I said, hoping to get off the subject. "Uncle Mickey, can I ask you something?"

"Of course! Anything!"

"What happened between you and your family? Why don't you and my Dad speak to each other?"

"Ah," he breathed with an irritated frown. "I said you could ask me anything, didn't I. Well, you can ask me anything but that. It's a long, unpleasant story, and in the interest of time and my feelings, I'll simply say that whatever your father's told you about me is completely wrong."

He pulled out a handkerchief and, turning his head away from me, soundlessly blew his nose. Then he refolded the handkerchief with extraordinary care. As he did, I took him in. I don't know much about clothes, but I'm sure that everything he wore was expensive. His shoes were black and they were so shiny, they looked as though he'd just bought them five minutes ago. His suit was of light wool, black in color, and fit him perfectly. His shirt was a tailored, starched white, and his tie was red silk with tiny blue triangles. He glanced at his watch, and I noticed it had no numbers on its black, gold-rimmed face. Even his haircut was elegant, every hair in place, and his facial hair was trimmed into a neat circle beard.

Uncle Mickey looked away from me for a bit, and his eyes wandered around the lobby, until they came to rest on my mother, who was still on the phone. He looked at her for a few moments, then jerked his head away, to look behind him. There was nothing there, but he kept his eyes in that direction for several seconds. Then he turned back to me, and in a low voice said, "Listen. Let's play a little joke on your mother. She wanted to straighten out this Juliette business, to tell me that you're really Victor, am I right? Good. Let's pretend, you and I, that we didn't get to talk: that I believe you really are my niece Juliette; that I'm completely clueless and fooled. Can we do that?"

"I don't think so," I said, feeling uncomfortable. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"If she begins to explain to me about Victor and Juliette, one of us has to change the subject ... to make it impossible for her to explain. I'll steer her off the subject any time she brings it up. It'll keep her on her toes the entire night."

He chuckled to himself, but I made a look of disapproval. I couldn't agree.

My uncle frowned in a strange, distressed way and asked in a softer, almost pleading voice, "But ... it's just a game, a joke. It would be our little secret. You can keep a secret, can't you? You can tell her after. There won't be any harm done."

"Look," he went on. His face had a pained, almost desperate expression. "I need to know that you can keep a secret, because I need your help with something. Something that your mother cannot know. It would upset her greatly." He broke off talking and turned his head abruptly toward the front desk. He stared intently at ... nothing that I could see.

"Listen to me," he commanded in a low voice, and took one of my hands in his. "Do you see the red-headed man at the front desk? Go ahead. It's fine, just turn your head and look at him."

I turned but there was no one with red hair in the room at all, as far as I could see.

"You don't see him, do you?"

I shook my head.

"No, of course, not. Because he's not there. But *I* see him. And that, in a nutshell, is my great difficulty. You see, I have what our ancestors would call the second sight. In plain English, we'd say I'm off my trolley. Not that far off, mind you. I'm a few bushels short of hen house, in other words."

"Oh," I commented. There was nothing else I could say.

"But I'm lucky, and do you know why? If I take a certain pill, it makes all the imaginary people go away. I don't know where they go, but they're gone. Unfortunately, I've let my supply lapse, and I desperately need them. That's why I'm sitting here. I'm waiting for the pharmacy to call so I can pick up my medicine. It's not some anti-reflux nonsense, as I told your mother before. It's a head-shrinking pill."

"And you don't want Mom to know?"

"I don't want anyone to know," he replied. "See, once I take one of those pills, it will be an hour or two before it kicks in. Until then, I'll be vulnerable to all the tricks and japes and foolishness of those imaginary folk. You'd think that if they're not real, they couldn't do me any harm, but oh, no! They're always trying to lead me down some primrose path. They live to humiliate and embarrass me."

"What I can I do?"

"Good girl! I knew I could count on you!" He smiled conspiratorially, and glanced at my mother, who seemed to be wrapping up her call. "See this? This will be our signal." Uncle Mickey pointed his left index finger toward the floor and moved it in a small circle, as if he were stirring a drink with his finger. "When I do that, I'll point in some direction and you tell me a number, from zero on up, so I know how many people you see. I can almost tell when someone's imaginary, but if you can tell me for sure, it'll save me from a mountain of embarrassment in the next few hours."

We practiced for a bit, and when Uncle Mickey was satisfied that we understood each other, Mom came back to sit with us. She had a huge smile on her face.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said. "Jim's getting in at about ten, tomorrow morning."

"Good for you," Mickey said. "Listen, I have to stop at the pharmacy, but would you like to take a walk with me around the nearby sights? Afterward, I'd love to take the two of you to dinner. It's been quite a while since I've had *two* lovely ladies on my arm."

"Yes, about that," Mom began, coloring slightly, "I–"

"Please don't say no," Mickey cut in, and he turned on the charm. "For old times sake! I never see you, Carly. I often think of you and wonder how you are. You and I can catch up, and I can get to know my lovely niece here, who's just the cutest child imaginable."

Mom glanced at me and took a breath. "Look, Mickey, there's something you should know ..."

"Fine, fine. I want you to tell me all about it, whatever it is ... over dinner. Can we do that?"

---

And so we did. We followed Uncle Mickey to the King's Chapel, the Old State House, and the Customs House.

Every so often, my uncle would jerk his head in one direction or another, then make our secret signal. I'd look and tell him a number. Mom caught these exchanges, and gave me a quizzical frown a few times, but she didn't say anything.

We went on to Fanueil Hall and Quincy Market, which was full of people. There was a "living statue," a girl with (painted) golden skin. She wore a golden dress full of ripples and folds. Across the square from her was a man who escaped from a straitjacket while hanging upside down by a chain. Around the corner from them a contortionist/juggler/comedian tried to pull me into his act, but we moved on.

Uncle Mickey was about to make some observation about the street performers, when Mom burst out, "Durgin Park! I forgot that it was over here! Oh, we have to go to dinner there! Do you know it, Mick?"

"No," he replied with a frown. "Never heard of it."

She gestured to a red sign with yellow letters, reading DURGIN PARK. It hung over a dark doorway. "It's one of the oldest restaurants in Boston, and it's SO famous! Jim and I went there when we were seniors in high school. It's such a hoot!"

"A hoot?" my uncle asked in a suspicious tone. "Should a restaurant *be* a hoot?"

Mom laughed. "It's home cooking. You sit at long tables with people you don't know, and the waitresses are very rude* — that's what it's known for!"

"And how could any of that be considered good?" Mickey asked. Clearly, the more he heard of Durgin Park, the less he liked it.

I have to admit, Mom's description didn't make it sound attractive at all. But she was so enthusiastic and insistent, my uncle finally agreed to go.
 

The entrance is small, and leads to a dark anteroom. One open door leads to the bar, and another leads upstairs to the dining room.

My mother pointed us up the stairs while she went off to find the "little girl's room."

I think I've mentioned that my uncle is short, like me. He's actually an inch or so taller, but by anyone's estimation, that still makes him short. As the two of us stood side by side at the top of the stairs, a waitress caught sight of us. She rushed over with a gleam in her eye and what my uncle later described as a "murderous smile."

Uncle Mickey muttered, "Lord help us, we're in for it now!"

"Oh, my, will you look at the pair of you!" she gushed, and to me she asked, "Where's your white dress, darling?"

Confused, I could only think of my princess costume, so I blurted out, "In the hotel room."

"Oh, and what's it doing there? You should have worn it, you dear little thing!"

"Why?" I asked.

"So we could put you two on top of the wedding cake!"

Like any good comic, she didn't laugh at her own joke, but everyone else in earshot did.

When the laughter died down, she asked, "Now where's Mommy and Daddy? They didn't leave you on your own, did they?"

"There are three of us," my uncle replied, ignoring her remark. "My sister-in-law will be up in a moment."

"Umm, she'll be up, will she?" the waitress repeated, but not finding an opening for a sharp remark, she led us to a table.

She sat us between two ladies who were obviously deep in gossip, and two middle aged men, who were talking quietly. Then she left without a word, only to return a moment later. She dropped knives and forks at our places with a loud, careless clatter, and tossed an unfolded napkin in front of me and at my mother's place. She threw one at my uncle. It landed on his head and covered his face. She didn't apologize or even seem to notice.

He pulled it into his lap with look of long-suffering patience.

The waitress then produced a huge red-and-white checked cloth, which she proceeded to tie around the neck of the man next to me. Then she went around the table to do the same to his friend. Once that was done, she straightened up and admired her handiwork.

"Well, don't you two look cute!" she laughed. "I'll be right back with the side dishes — I mean, your pacifiers and bottles — just give me a minute."

"Does everybody have to wear those bibs?" I asked.

"Only if you order lobster," the man next to me replied.

The waitress cut in, speaking as if to a little child, "If baby wants a wittle bibby-wibby, I can bring baby a wittle bibby-wibby. Oooh!"

"No, thanks," I replied, as she left again.

The two men chuckled, and one said, "You've gotta brace yourselves. She's been riding us ever since we sat down."

Mom came at that point, and we took a look at the menu. Although my uncle didn't say anything, I could tell he found the choices uninspiring. It was definitely not his kind of place. His clothes, his grooming, his bearing, were all a cut above the rest of the room. He would have fit in better at a quiet, elegant restaurant, not at a noisy, bare-wood floor, working-class place like this.

While I was marveling at the contrast between my uncle and the environment, the waitress suddenly appeared behind me with one of the enormous red-and-white cloths, which she quickly tied around my neck. "There you go, snookums!" she cooed. "And if you need your diaper changed, just take that off to let me know. I'll have the manager do it."

My face turned an deep, intense red. The woman on my left gave me a quick glance, and looked as if she was about to cry. Then she let out a high-pitched eep! and sputtered briefly before grabbing her glass of water.

"Are you okay there, dear?" the waitress asked theatrically. "You all right? Are you sure? Do we need to call 911?"

"No, I'm fine," the woman said, smiling and coughing, "I just — whew! You made me laugh, and I swallowed a whole scallop!"

"Aw, geez," the waitress said. "And here I was, hoping to do the Heimlich maneuver! Imagine my disappointment! Come on, try swallowing two scallops, and maybe we'll have better luck. It that doesn't work, try three. If at first you don't succeed..."

---

* Durgin Park is a real restaurant in Boston's Quincy Market, and Carly's description is fairly standard. However, the rudeness of the waitresses, which is fairly comic when you're seated at a long table with strangers, seems to be a thing of the past. A few weeks ago, I went to refresh my memory and found the waitresses uniformly polite and attentive. A man at my table asked why she wasn't abusing us, and she replied, "I can't do it. It's not in me."

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way