Cling Peaches in Heavy Syrup(Barry) “I met with the school psychologist earlier today,” Harriet Curtis noted. She was bent over the living room table inserting eight candles in the birthday cake. “There’s both good news and bad news.”

Her husband, who was laying out the paper plates and plastic forks, looked up. “Bad news first.”

Mrs. Curtis winked at Teddy, who was sitting on the ottoman legs crossed twiddling his thumbs. “Our son scored in the fiftieth percentile, which is exactly average for his age in every respect. The boy is neither a child prodigy nor an Einstein in the making.”

Finishing with the tableware, Mr. Curtis turned his attention to napkins and plastic cups. “Good news?”

Mrs. Curtis went and hugged her third grade son. Planting a myriad of sloppy kisses on both cheeks, she wiped the wetness away with the heel of her hand. “According to Dr. Rosen, our birthday boy is normal in every respect… well adjusted and a credit to humanity.”

* * * * *

A month into the school year, Teddy’s English teacher, Mrs. Fulton, began introducing poetry to the third grade class.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

After a brief discussion of the Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, Mrs. Fulton challenged the students. “Anyone who, over the weekend, memorizes the first eight lines of the poem and can repeat them to the class will win a special prize.

The beginning of the week, Mrs. Fulton brought a tin of chocolate cupcakes to school.

Once upon a midnight dreary,…
Several of the more accomplished students muddled their way through the lyrical verses before Teddy Curtis stood in the front of the class to the right of the teacher’s quarter-sawn oak desk. The boy ignored the lines altogether replacing them with full-blown stanzas. A dozen stanzas into the poem Mrs. Fulton waved the boy off. “Teddy, you memorized the whole poem?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Okay.” She blinked several times as she gawked at the brown haired boy with the hazel eyes and wistful, unassuming smile. “You can sit down now.”

Later that day the school psychologist, Dr. Rosen, called Mrs. Curtis. “I’d like to test your child.”

“What type of test?”

“Stanford-Binet.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“Your son appears to have an amazing capacity for memory, and we’re wondering if Teddy might be an exceptional child.” The psychologist recounted the incident with the Edgar Allen Poe poem. “The Stanford-Binet is an IQ test.”

“Teddy rides his bike. He fishes at the local pond and skate boards in the park on weekends. He’s no brainiac… just a happy-go-lucky eight year-old.”

“To qualify for Mensa,” the psychologist noted, “Teddy would need to score at the ninety-eighth percentile.”

Three weeks later the psychologist completed his reports. Teddy scored the mid-fifties. The boy, who could memorize a dozen stanzas of a previously unknown poem in no time at all, was perfectly average and ordinary in every other respect. Dr. Rosen could offer no explanation for the child’s amazing photographic recall. “Teddy’s well adjusted in all other respects and that’s all that really matters.”

* * * * *

“Time to address the elephant in the room,” Mrs. Curtis had finished with the birthday cake and was staring rather pointedly at her husband.

“Which elephant might that be?”

“My sister, Gwen.”

“Three-hundred-pound elephant,” her husband corrected with a spiteful sneer.

“When Gwen gets here,” she announced, ignoring the sarcasm, there will be no talk of politics.”

“Your sister’s a bleeding-heart liberal. We’ve got nothing in common.”

During the Thanksgiving celebration the previous November, Mrs. Curtis’ sister, who suffered from a terminal case of Trump Derangement Syndrome, went off on a hysterical rant. When Mr. Curtis came to the former president’s defense, things got uglier than sin. Gwen burst into inconsolable tears and even feigned a fainting fit. Guests went home early. The meal was ruined. Everyone blamed Teddy’s father for the messy mishap.

“Trump was the forty-fifth president and in a few short months he’s going to be the forty-seventh. Mark my words!” Mr. Curtis insisted.

“We’re here to celebrate Teddy’s birthday,” his wife bristled. “There will be no talk of politics whatsoever during the party.”

“Your sister’s insufferable.”

“My beloved sister is an insufferable moron,” his wife confirmed, “but no matter what shenanigans she pulls, you can’t respond. Both our parents will be here in less than an hour. Things must run smoothly.”

Teddy’s twelve year-old sister, Bernice shuffled into the room. Bernice was teetering on the cusp of adolescence, but her tomboyish features and gruff manner suggested otherwise. “What’s the matter?”

“Same old, same old,” Teddy whispered. “They’re arguing about Auntie Gwendolyn.

“Okay. I’ll keep my trap shut,” Mr. Curtis conceded, “but only because I don’t want to spoil our birthday boy’s party.”

“One final thing,” Edging around to the far side of the table, Mrs. Curtis hugged her husband. “No snide remarks about the court settlement or her stupid back brace.”

* * * * *

Teddy retreated to his bedroom. In another half hour guests would start filtering into the house. No sooner had he sprawled on the bed then the door cracked open. “Watcha doin?” Bernice asked.

“Waiting.” Teddy was studying the stuccoed ceiling, where occasionally he Caught a faint glimmer of cartoonish faces or animal figures in the swirling patterns.

Bernice went and stood in front of the closet mirror hands on hips and studying her meager figure. “Sure wish I had a full-length mirror.”

“You can have mine,” Teddy replied. “I got no use for it.”

The ungainly girl struck a glamorous pose. “Will you tell dad?”

“Sure… once the party ends.” Teddy rolled over on his side. “How come Auntie Gwendolyn never works?”

“She went out on a bogus disability claim.”

“What’s that?”

Bernice threw herself down on the bed next to her brother and showered him with even more kisses than his mother had in the living room moments earlier. Bernice, who was still fixated on the full-length mirror, draped an arm around her brother’s shoulders. “If I can get your mirror mounted on my closet door, it will be so much easier to track future developments.”

“What developments?” Teddy pressed. When his sister ignored the question, he added, “You didn’t finish explaining about Auntie Gwen’s disability claim.”

“Auntie Gwendolyn found a smashed jar of cling peaches in heavy syrup splattered on the Stop and Shop Supermarket floor so she staged a slip and fall.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mommy and Daddy were talking late at night last week with the bedroom door wide open.” “Disability benefits are supposed to go to people with awful diseases… brain tumors, birth defects, cerebral palsy, not dirt bags like Auntie Gwendolyn.” Bernice fell silent for a moment. When his sister continued her voice assumed a somber edge. “Mom started crying. She said that her only regret was not standing up to Auntie Gwendolyn…not having the courage to tell her she was a greedy, conniving bitch.” “Daddy says that nitwits and con artists like Auntie Gwendolyn don’t hardly ever work for a living, pay taxes or act like responsible citizen. They mooch off the public.”

“What’s mooch mean?”

Bernice jumped off the bed and rushed back to the full-length mirror. She sashayed across the rug, one arm draped over her head, the other balanced provocatively on her bony hip. “Do you think I’m sexy?”

Teddy blew out his cheeks. “I’m in third grade. How the hell would I know?”

“So when will you talk to daddy about the mirror?”

“I already told you… later today as soon as the party’s over.” Bernice’s endless series of silly gyrations and gesticulations were beginning to get on his nerves. “What does ‘mooch’ mean?” he repeated the original question.

“To get things free without paying for them.” “After the fall in the supermarket, which was totally staged, Auntie Gwendolyn went and hired a lawyer, who claimed she suffered permanent back injuries. Now the state has to pay her a monthly disability check.”

Teddy considered what he had just learned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s all phony baloney.” Bernice confirmed. “The woman’s supposed to wear a back brace to protect the crushed discs from further damage. When’s the last time you saw Auntie Gwendolyn with her brace?”

“Never.”

Bernice tapped her brother on the top of the head a half dozen times. “I rest my case!”

* * * * *

The grandparents, both sets, arrived first with armfuls of gifts and cheery sentiments. Auntie Gwendolyn blustered in fifteen minutes late mumbling some vague excuse about rush-hour traffic. Gifts were opened. And Mrs. Curtis brought out bottles of soda plus a tub of harlequin ice cream. “Make a wish first,” she said, “then you can blow out the candles.”

Teddy took a huge draft into his lungs and obliterated the eight slender flames. As his mother was slicing up the cake, he turned to the guests. “Does anyone want to know what I wished?”

Grandpa Curtis wagged a cautionary finger in the air. “Birthday wishes must be kept secret or they won’t come true.” A murmur of agreement pervaded the room.

“Doesn’t matter,” Teddy announced impishly, “because I already know mine will come true.”

“Well,” his grandfather grinned, “what’s your special wish?”

Teddy fixed his father, who was seated at the head of the table with a roguish grin. “I wished that, in November, Donald Trump becomes our forty-seventh president.”

Dead silence.

Auntie Gwendolyn’s double chin quivered like a plate of Jell-o on a roller coaster. “That will never happen,” she hissed just loud enough so everyone could hear.

“And why not?” Teddy was enjoying his birthday immensely. His parents got him a five-speed bike and a snazzy helmet. His grandparents brought flannel shirts and a new pair of dungarees.

The woman was flailing her fleshy arms fitfully. “Trump is a godawful fool and deranged beast!”

Mr. Curtis began to rise from where he was sitting, but a stern look from his wife put an abrupt end to any rebuttal.

“You hate the forty-fifth president so intensely you can’t find anything nice to say,” Teddy interjected in a breezy tone. “There’s a term for that: Trump Derangement Syndrome.”

“An eight year-old who understands politics!” Teddy’s maternal grandmother burst out in a fit of hilarious laughter and poked her daughter, Gwen, in the ribs with a gnarled index finger. “He sure as hell put you in your place!”

Teddy paid no attention to his grandmother’s silly banter. He was staring into space trying to recall some bit of incidental trivia Bernice shared in the bedroom while parading in front of the full-length mirror. “Where’s your back brace?” His voice assumed a caustic edge.

“What?” Auntie Gwendolyn seemed muddled, completely out of her element.

“After your lawsuit with the cling peaches in heavy syrup, the court said you had to wear a back brace to protect the damaged discs. How can you collect a disability check every month for the rest of your life if you don’t follow the judge’s instructions?” Teddy shook his head grimly from side to side and added for good measure. “When you get something without paying for it, that’s phony baloney!”

“How dare you-”

“Disability benefits” Teddy ran roughshod over his aunt’s feeble attempt at denial, “are supposed to go to people with brain tumors, birth defects, cerebral palsy, not frivolous lawsuits or greedy mooches like you.”

* * * * *

The birthday party ended earlier than usual. With one minor exception everyone had a wonderful time. Before leaving, Teddy recited all twelve stanzas of the Poe poem for the grandparents’ benefit.

“Well, that went relatively well.” Mrs. Curtis had a crazed grin plastered across her face from the minute the front door closed and the family was alone again. She suddenly turned to her son. “What was it the Raven repeated over and over toward the end of the poem?”

Teddy paused a moment collecting his thoughts.

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Nevermore,” his mother repeated. “Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.”

Bernice jabbed Teddy violently in the shoulder. “The full-length mirror,” she demanded. “Ask Dad about the mirror!”

“Dad?”

“Yes, son?”

“Bernice wants my full-length mirror - the one that hangs in the bed room closet.”

“What does she wanted for?”

“To track developments.”

“Okay.” Mr. Curtis’ features were slathered in an imbecilic grin. “There are only a couple of screws holding it in place. I can move it later tonight after I help your mother clean up.”

“No bother,” Mrs. Curtis interjected. “I can wash dishes and put things away.” “If Teddy wants you to move the mirror to Bernice’s room, you can do it now.”

“Yes, Dear.” Mr. Curtis wandered off in search of a Phillips head screwdriver.

Teddy’s mother also rose, went and stood behind the boy. Placing both hands on his shoulders, she bent down and kissed the crown of his head. “Your grandparents absolutely loved the Poe poem.” “Perhaps you could repeat the first few lines.

Teddy stared straight ahead. His mother’s hands on his shoulders felt like a benediction, a wondrous blessing.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,…



Post Script

Many years ago an article in the Providence Journal newspaper noted that Rhode Island boasted the second highest percentage of frivolous lawsuits in the entire country. Rhode Islanders view spurious lawsuits as fun and games – a morbidly enjoyable blood sport where there was nothing ethically wrong with cheating the state or an insurance company. This short story represents my attempt to come to terms with what I experienced during the brief time when I was both living and working in the smallest state in the union.

Initially, I was unable to write Cling Peaches in Heavy Syrup because the subject matter was far too bitter and demoralizing. The only way I could make it work was by introducing an element of slapstick humor and buffoonery in the form of the two guileless children, Teddy and Bernice. The fact the Mrs. Curtis cried when acknowledging her lack courage is also a key element. It’s damn hard to do the right thing, especially where family is involved.

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