Antsy Does Time

the great windowsill in the sky. We decided to bury him in the Umlauts’ backyard, since there was already a sizable gravestone available that otherwise would have gone to waste. Gunnar spackled over his own name, then chiseled out ICHABOD on the other side, and it was good to go.

Christina had written a heartfelt eulogy that I suspect she had been working on for months, the way newspapers start preparing obituaries the instant a celebrity gets a hangnail. With all the family pictures covering the little wooden crate, and the solemn air of the occasion, Ichabod’s memorial service actually brought a few tears to my eyes. I didn’t mind that Kjersten and Gunnar saw me cry over a cat. After everything I’d been through, I had a right. And realistically, who would they tell in Sweden?

With Ichabod laid to rest, we went inside to find Mrs. Umlaut sweeping the empty kitchen, because “I don’t want the bank to think we’re slobs.”

“She’s just like our mother,” Christina noted. I think all mothers are alike, regardless of cultural background, when it comes to illogical cleaning.

Christina wanted to go home and mourn privately, but I made her wait, because I wanted to see Kjersten and Gunnar off. The luggage was at the front door, waiting for the arrival of the taxi. Six pieces, and a couple of carry-ons.

Gunnar looked at his house with no outward show of emotion. “We had mice,” he said. “And the drains never smelled right. It’s just as well.” I’m sure he felt a lot more than he let on, but it was his way. Kjersten, on the other hand, had moist eyes all over the place. Every corner seemed to hold a hidden memory. She looked fondly into empty places while Mrs. Umlaut kept going around the house, up and down the stairs.

“There’s something I forgot,” she kept saying. “I know there’s something I forgot.”

Eventually Kjersten gently grabbed her, and gave her a hug to slow her down. “Everything’s taken care of, Mom. Everything’s ready.” The two rocked back and forth for a moment, and I couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Umlaut was rocking her baby girl, or if Kjersten was rocking her anxious mother. Kjersten grinned at me over her mother’s shoulder, and I offered her an understanding smile back.

There’s no question I was going to miss Kjersten, but the kind of sadness I felt wasn’t the kind that brings up tears, and I’m thinking, Great, I cried for the cat, but I’m not crying for her—but I think she was okay with that.

I think we both knew if she stayed, our relationship wouldn’t have gone much further. Ours was like one of those fireplace Duraflame logs that burns big and bright, then drops dead an hour before the package says it will. I think it’s best that we left it here, before it became useless.

“So,” I asked her, only half joking, “once you get there, do you think you’ll start dating guys your own age?”

She looked at me with a grin, then looked away. “Antsy, I think you’ve aged at least two years over the past few weeks,” she told me. “No matter what, you’re going to be a hard act to follow.”

For that, I gave her the best kiss of my career—during which Christina said, “Oh! Is that why you brushed your teeth this morning?”

The taxi finally arrived, honking from outside in repeated little blasts like a fire drill. Gunnar and I brought the luggage to the cabdriver, who, like every New York cabdriver, acted like it was an insult to his profession that he had to load luggage.

Thanks to all the horn blasts, neighbors had come out onto their porches to watch the Umlauts’ departure. Then Mrs. Umlaut threw up her hands “Ah! Now I remember!” She ran back into the house and came out with something in her hand. “This is for you,” she said to me. “Someone wanted to buy it last Saturday, but I told them it wasn’t for sale.”

She handed me the stainless-steel meat tenderizer.

“To remember us by,” she said with a wink.

This was the first hint that she had a sense of humor—and a twisted one, too. I was impressed.

“It’ll be one of my prized possessions—I’ll keep it with my rare paper clips,” I told her, and she looked at me funny. “No, really.”

“You must visit us!” she said, which I figured was about as likely as me visiting the International Space Station, but I nodded politely and said, “Sure.”

Then I heard a gruff voice from somewhere down the block intrude on our tender farewell moment.

“What about our plants, hah?” I turned to see the same paunchy, beady-eyed man, who had made nasty comments before, peering down from his second-floor balcony. From this angle, the guy looked like what you might get if you crossed a human being with one of those potbellied pigs. “You gonna send us back some freakin’ tulips?” he mocked.

Mrs. Umlaut sighed, and Kjersten shook her head as she got into the taxi. “Why does everyone confuse us with Holland?”

“I know this guy,” says Christina. “His kid’s in my class. He eats pencil sharpenings.”

“Go on,” grunted the pig-man. “Get atta here! We don’t need ya!”

I’m about to tell the guy off—but then I hear a bang, and I see that Gunnar has jumped up on the trunk of the taxi—and, to the driver’s extreme chagrin, Gunnar climbs up so he’s standing on the taxi’s roof.

“You can’t get rid of me!” he yells to the pig-man. Then he turns to address all the neighbors, speaking loud and clear: “I’ll be everywhere—wherever you look. Wherever there’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad, an’ I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build—why, I’ll be there.”

I had to smile—I even applauded, because at last Gunnar had found a real quote. And with all due respect to John Steinbeck, as far as I’m concerned, Gunnar owns it now!

Gunnar took a long, elaborate bow, then hopped down from the roof, and did something very un-Gunnar-like. He gave me this sudden, death-grip hug that crunched my bones like a chiropractor. When he let go, we stood there for a moment, feeling stupid.

“Dewey Lopez didn’t get a picture of that, did he?” I asked.

“If he did, it’s your problem now.” Then he jumped in the taxi. “Ciao.”

Kjersten put her hand out the window for one final farewell grasp, and the taxi driver floored it, nearly leaving Kjersten’s hand behind with me. I watched as they accelerated down the street and turned the corner.

“Someday,” said Christina, “I hope to have friends as problematic as yours.”

My thoughts were still on Kjersten. I wish I could have come up with a quote like Gunnar did—y’know, the absolute the perfect parting words to leave Kjersten with.

But what do you say to a Scandinavian beauty who’s about to get on a plane and fly out of your life?

22. A Weed Grows in Brooklyn

Just as Old Man Crawley predicted, Paris, Capisce? had celebrities dragging their nails over one another’s backs to get in the door. We ended up having to schedule celebrities—one per night—so they didn’t all arrive at once. Dad, still recuperating, took the calls from home, chatting with agents, and the stars themselves. It was great! I got to meet more famous people than I thought I’d meet in a lifetime, then pour water over their heads.

With all this celebrity appeal, the restaurant was packed every night with people hoping to eat a fine meal, spot someone famous, and see them get drenched—either by me, or this guy they hired who looked and sounded like me, which I still find too creepy to talk about.

Christina even got into it, selling the pitchers we used on eBay for prices that could fund her college education someday.

Long story short, by the time Dad was ready to go back to work, Paris, Capisce? was the hottest restaurant in Brooklyn. We were all realistic enough to know that trends pass, that it wouldn’t last forever, but we’d also been through enough to know we gotta enjoy what we got, when we got it.

“It’s gonna be different now,” he told us. “Now that the restaurant’s always busy, there’s going to be a lot