“We're getting married in August,” I blurted out. “The third week in August. We were keeping it a surprise.”
My mother's face brightened. “Really? The third week in August?”
No. It was an absolute flat-out fabrication. I don't know where it came from. Just popped out of my mouth. Truth is, my engagement was kind of casual, being that the proposal was made at a time when it was difficult to distinguish between the desire to spend the rest of our lives together and the desire to get sex on a regular basis. Since Morelli's sex drive makes mine look insignificant he usually is more frequently in favor of marriage than I am. I suppose it would be most accurate to say we were engaged to be engaged. And that's a comfortable place for us to live because it's vague enough to absolve Morelli and me of serious marital discussion. Serious marital discussion always leads to a lot of shouting and door slamming.
“Have you been looking at dresses?” Grandma asked. “August don't give us much tune. You need a gown. And then there's the flowers and the reception. And you need to reserve the church. Have you asked about the church yet?” Grandma jumped out of her chair. “I've got to go call Betty Szajack and Marjorie Swit and tell them the news.”
“No, wait!” I said. “It's not official.”
“What do you mean . . . not official?” my mother asked.
“Not many people know.” Like Joe.
“How about Joe's granny?” Grandma asked. “Does she know? I wouldn't want to cross Joe's granny. She could put the jinx on things.”
“Nobody can put the jinx on things,” my mother said. “There's no such thing as a jinx.” Even as she said it I could see she was fighting back the urge to cross herself.
“And besides,” I said, “I don't want a big wedding with a gown and everything. I want a . . . barbecue.” I couldn't believe I was saying this. Bad enough I'd announced my wedding date, now I had it all planned out. A barbecue! Jeez! It was like I had no control over my mouth.
I looked at Joe and mouthed help!
Joe draped an arm around my shoulders and grinned. The silent message was, Sweetheart, you're on your own with this one.
“Well, it'll be a relief just to see you happily married,” my mother said. “Both my girls . . . happily married.”
“That reminds me,” Grandma said to my mother. “Valerie called last night when you were out at the store. Something about taking a trip, but I couldn't figure out what she was saying on account of there was all this yelling going on behind her.”
“Who was yelling?”
“I think it must have been the television. Valerie and Steven never yell. Those two are just the perfect couple. And the girls are such perfect little ladies.”
Gag me with a spoon.
“Did she want me to call her back?” my mother asked.
“She didn't say. Something happened and we got cut off.”
Grandma sat up straighter in her seat. She had a clear view through the living room to the street, and something caught her attention.
“There's a taxi stopping in front of our house,” Grandma said.
Everyone craned their neck to see the taxi. In the Burg a taxi stopping in front of a house is big entertainment.
“For goodness sakes!” Grandma said. “I could swear that's Valerie getting out of the taxi.”
We all jumped up and went to the door. Next thing, my sister and her kids swooped into the house.
Valerie is two years older than me and an inch shorter. We both have curly brown hair, but Valerie's dyed her hair blond and has it cut short, like Meg Ryan. I guess that's what they do with hair in California.
When we were kids Valerie was vanilla pudding, good grades, and clean white sneakers. And I was chocolate cake, the dog ate my homework, and skinned knees.
Valerie was married right out of college and immediately got pregnant. Truth is, I'm jealous. I got married and immediately got divorced. Of course I married a womanizing idiot, and Valerie married a really nice guy. Leave it to Valerie to find Mr. Perfect.
My nieces look a lot like Valerie before Valerie did the Meg Ryan thing. Curly brown hair, big brown eyes, skin a shade more Italian than mine. Not much Hungarian made it to Valerie's gene pool. And even less trickled down to her daughters, Angie and Mary Alice. Angie is nine, going on forty. And Mary Alice thinks she's a horse.
My mother was flushed and teary, hormones revved, hugging the kids, kissing Valerie. “I don't believe it,” she kept saying. “I don't believe it! This is such a surprise. I had no idea you were coming to visit.”
“I called,” Valerie said. “Didn't Grandma tell you?”
“I couldn't hear what you were saying,” Grandma said. “There was so much noise, and then we got cut off.”
“Well, here I am,” Valerie said.
“Just in time for dinner,” my mother said. “I have a nice pot roast and there's cake for dessert.”
We scrambled to add chairs and plates and extra glasses. We all sat down and passed the pot roast and potatoes and green beans. The dinner immediately elevated to a party, the house feeling filled with holiday.
“How long will you be staying with us?” my mother asked.
“Until I can save up enough money to buy a house,” Valerie said.
My father's face went pale.
My mother was elated. “You're moving back to New Jersey?”
Valerie selected a single, lean piece of beef. “It seemed like the best thing to do.”
“Did Steve get a transfer?” my mother asked.
“Steve isn't coming.” Valerie surgically removed the one smidgen of fat that clung to her meat. “Steve left me.”
So much for the holiday.
Morelli was the only one who didn't drop his fork. I glanced over at Morelli and decided he was working hard at not smiling.
“Well, isn't this a pisser,” Grandma said.
“Left you,” my mother repeated. “What do you mean, he left you? You and Steve are perfect together.”
“I thought so, too. I don't know what went wrong. I thought everything was just fine between us and then poof, he's gone.”
“Poof?” Grandma said.
“Just like that,” Valerie answered. “Poof.” She bit into her lower lip to keep it from trembling.
My mother and father and grandmother and I panicked at the trembling lip. We didn't do this sort of emotional display. We did temper and sarcasm. Anything beyond temper and sarcasm was virgin territory. And we certainly didn't know what to make of this from Valerie. Valerie is the ice queen. Not to mention that Valerie's life has always been perfect. This sort of thing just doesn't happen to Valerie.
Valerie's eyes got red and teary. “Could you pass the gravy?” she asked Grandma Mazur.
My mother jumped out of her chair. “I'll get you some hot from the kitchen.”
The kitchen door swung closed behind my mother. There was a shriek and the sound of a dish smashing against the wall. I automatically looked for Bob, but Bob was sleeping under the table. The kitchen door swung open and my mother calmly walked out with the gravy dish.
“I'm sure this is just temporary,” my mother said. “I'm sure Steve will come to his senses.”
“I thought we had a good marriage. I made nice meals. And I kept the house nice. I went to the gym so I'd be attractive. I even got my hair cut like Meg Ryan. I don't understand what went wrong.”
Valerie has always been the articulate member of the family. Always in control. Her friends used to call her Saint Valerie because she always looked serene . . . like Ronald DeChooch's statue of the Virgin. So here she was with her world crumbling around her and she wasn't exactly serene, but she wasn't berserk, either. Mostly she seemed sad and confused.
From my point of view it was a little weird since, when my marriage dissolved, people three miles away heard me yelling. And when Dickie and I went into court I was told there was a point when my head spun around like the kid in The Exorcist. Dickie and I didn't have such a great marriage, but we got our money's
I got caught up in the moment and sent Morelli a men-are-bastards look.
Morelli's eyes darkened and the hint of a grin tugged at his mouth. He brushed a fingertip along the back of my neck, and heat rushed through my stomach clear to my doo-dah. “Jesus,” I said.
The smile widened.
“At least you should be okay financially,” I said. “Under California law don't you get half of everything?”
“Half of nothing is nothing,” Valerie said. “The house is mortgaged beyond its value. And there's nothing in the bank account because Steve's been shipping our money out to the Caymans. He is such a good businessman. Everyone always says that. It's one of the things I found most attractive in him.” She took a deep breath and cut Angie's meat. And then she cut Mary Alice's meat.
“Child support,” I said. “What about child support?”
“In theory, I suppose he should be helping with the girls, but, well, Steve's disappeared. I think he might be in the Caymans with our money.”
“That's awful!”
“The truth is, Steve ran away with our baby-sitter.”
We all gasped.
“She turned eighteen last month,” Valerie said. “I gave her a Beanie Baby for her birthday.”
Mary Alice whinnied. “I want some hay. Horses don't eat meat. Horses have to eat hay.”
“Isn't that cute,” Grandma said. “Mary Alice still thinks she's a horse.”
“I'm a man horse,” Mary Alice said.
“Don't be a man horse, sweetheart,” Valerie said. “Men are scum.”
“Some men are okay,” Grandma said.
“All men are scum,” Valerie said. “Except for Daddy, of course.”
No mention of Joe in the exclusion of scumminess.
“Man horses can gallop faster than lady horses,” Mary Alice said, and she flicked a spoonful of mashed potatoes at her sister. The potatoes flew past Angie and landed on the floor. Bob lunged out from under the table and ate the potatoes.
Valerie frowned at Mary Alice. “It's not polite to flick potatoes.”
“Yeah,” Grandma said. “Little ladies don't flick potatoes at their sisters.”
“I'm not a little lady,” Mary Alice said. “How many tinges do I have to tell you. I'm a horse!” And she lobbed a handful of potatoes at Grandma.
Grandma narrowed her eyes and bounced a green bean off Mary Alice's head.
“Grammy hit me with a bean!” Mary Alice yelled. “She hit me with a bean! Make her stop throwing beans at me.”
So much for the perfect little ladies.
Bob immediately ate the bean.
“Stop feeding the dog,” my father said.
“I hope you don't mind me coming home like this,” `'alerie said. “It's just until I get a job.”
“We only have one bathroom,” my father said. “I gotta have the bathroom first thing in the morning. Seven o'clock is my time in the bathroom.”
“It will be wonderful having you and the girls in the house,” my mother said. “And you can help with Stephanie's wedding. Stephanie and Joe have just set a date.”
Valerie choked up again with the red, watery eyes. “Congratulations,” she said.
“The wedding ceremony of the Tuzi tribe lasts seven days and ends with the ritualistic piercing of the hymen,” Angie said. “The bride then goes to live with her husband's family.”
“I saw a special on television about aliens,” Grandma said. “And they didn't have hymens. They didn't have any parts down there at all.”
“Do horses have hymens?” Mary Alice wanted to know.
“Not man horses,” Grandma said.
“It's really nice that you're going to get married,” Valerie said. And then Valerie burst into tears. Not sniffling, dainty tears, either. Valerie was doing big, loud, wet sobbing, gulping in air and bellowing out misery. The two little ladies started crying, too, doing open-mouthed wailing like only a kid can pull off. And then my mother was crying, sniffling into her napkin. And Bob was howling. Aaarooooh. Aaarooooooh!
“I'm never going to get married again,” Valerie said between sobs. “Never, never, never. Marriage is the work of the devil. Men are the Antichrist. I'm going to become a lesbian.”
“How do you do that?” Grandma asked. “I always wanted to know. Do you have to wear a fake penis? I saw a TV show once and the women were wearing these things that were made out of black leather and were shaped like a great big—”
“Kill me,” my mother shouted. “Just kill me. I want to die.”
My sister and Bob went back to the bawling and howling. Mary Alice whinnied at the top of her lungs. And Angie covered her ears so she couldn't hear. “La, la, la, la,” Angie sang.
My father cleaned his plate and looked around. Where was his coffee? Where was his cake?
“You're going to owe me big time for this one,” Morelli whispered in my ear. “This is a doggy-sex night.”
“I'm getting a headache,” Grandma said. “I can't take this racket. Somebody do something. Put the television on. Get the liquor out. Do something!”
I heaved myself out of my chair and went into the kitchen and got the cake. As soon as it hit the table the crying stopped. If we pay attention to anything in this family . . . it's dessert.
MORELLI AND BOB and I rode home in silence, no one knowing what to say. Morelli pulled into my lot, cut the engine, and turned to me.
“August?” he asked, his voice higher than usual, not able to keep out the incredulous. “You want to get married in August?”
“It just popped out of my mouth! It was all that dying stuff from my mother.”
“Your family makes any family look like the Brady Bunch.”
“Are you kidding me? Your grandmother is crazy. She gives people the eye.”
“It's an Italian thing.”
“It's a crazy thing.”
A car swerved into the lot, jerked to a stop, the door opened, and Mooner rolled out onto the pavement. Joe and I hit the pavement at the same time. When we got to Mooner he'd dragged himself up to a sitting position. He was holding his head, and blood trickled from between his fingers.
“Hey dude,” Mooner said, “I think I've been shot. I was watching television and I heard a sound on the front porch, so I turned around and looked and there was this scary face looking in the window at me. It was this scary old lady with real scary eyes. It was, like, dark, but I could see her through the black glass. And next thing she had a gun in her hand and she shot me. And she broke Dougie's window and everything. There should be a law against that sort of thing, dude.”
The Mooner lived two blocks from St. Frances Hospital, but he drove past the hospital and came to me for help. Why me? I asked. And then I realized I sounded like my mother and gave myself a mental smack in the head.
We loaded Mooner back into his car. Joe drove the Mooner to the hospital, and I followed in Joe's truck. Two hours later all the medical and police formalities were behind us, and Mooner had a big Band-Aid on his forehead. The bullet had grazed him just above his eyebrow and ricocheted off into Dougie's living room wall.
We stood in Dougie's living room and studied the hole in his front window.
“I should have been wearing the Super Suit,” Mooner said. “That would have confounded them, dude.”
Joe and I looked at each other. Confounded. Yes, indeed.
“Do you think it's safe for him to stay in his house?” I asked Joe.
“Hard to say what's safe for the Mooner,” Joe said.
“Amen,” Mooner said. “Safety floats on butterfly wings.”
“I don't know what the hell that means,” Joe said.
“It means safety is elusive, dude.”
Joe pulled me aside. “Maybe we should check him into rehab.”
“I heard that, dude. That's a bummer idea. Those people in rehab are weird. They're like, real downers. They're all like, druggies.”
“Well jeez, we wouldn't want to put you in with a bunch of druggies,” Joe said.
Mooner nodded. “Fuckin' A, man.”
“I guess he could stay with me for a couple days,” I said. Even as I said it . . . I was regretting it. What was the deal with me today? It was as if my mouth wasn't connected to my brain.
“Wow, you'd do that for the Mooner? That is so awesome.” Mooner gave me a hug. “You won't be sorry. I'll be an excellent roommate.”
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