The Fool

My brother Mark, too young to fully understand what was happening, rocked back and forth on his wooden booster chair, his dark eyes flashing between his brother and me. John, just a year older, knelt on his chair, his chubby hands clasped over his mouth stifling his giggles but failing to cover the dimple in his cheek. At a more sedate age of nine, I sat patiently, only the tap-tap-tap of my right foot against the leg of my chair revealing the height of my anticipation.

All eyes were on our father as our mother placed a bowl containing half a grapefruit in front of him. Dad reached over, scooped up a heaping spoonful from the sugar bowl in front of him, and with exaggerated motion, liberally sprinkled his grapefruit with the granules. Using the special spoon with tiny teeth at the point, he dug out a large section of the citrus, and while we all held our breath, brought the grapefruit to his mouth.

“Who put salt in the sugar bowl?” Dad roared, jumping up from the table, the spoon clattering to the floor. My brothers both shrieked with laughter, John pounding the table with his fists, and Mark rocking so hard the back of his booster chair banged against the window ledge behind him. I merely smiled and marveled at my father’s terrible memory. How could he forget we did exactly the same thing on April 1st the year before?

We repeated that April Fool’s Day ritual for many years, my father gamely playing the fool. But the year I was 15, my brothers were laughing at me instead of my father.

Our tiny community had an elementary school, but from seventh grade on, we had to catch a bus to junior and senior high school in a nearby town. Accepting the consequences of our actions was a big deal with my father, so I knew if I didn’t get on that bus, he would not allow my mother to drive me the seven miles. I was paranoid about missing the bus.

On the first day of April my sophomore year in high school, I woke to my mother calling up the stairs, “Mary, it’s almost 7:30!” I threw the covers aside and grabbed a skirt and sweater from my closet. (In 1961, we weren’t allowed to wear pants to school.) Pulling on white tennis shoes over bare feet, I hopped down the stairs and staggered into our only bathroom. A splash of water on my face, a comb through my short brown hair, a perfunctory brush of my teeth, and I was out the door, determined to be there when the bus arrived at 7:40.

I had crossed the railroad tracks and was approaching the bus stop at the elementary school by the time I realized it was Saturday. My brothers greeted me at the door when I returned home, shamefaced and truly feeling the fool. I still think they enjoyed that April Fool’s Day entirely too much.