He looked hurt. “I do respect you. I kept my hands off you, didn’t I?”
She frowned at him until he frowned back. “All right, what else do I do with Pete Packard?”
“Nothing. Don’t talk. Don’t volunteer anything. Don’t make suggestions. Don’t ask for anything except a job at the Opera House.”
“You’re pretty bossy. Why the Opera House?” she said. “I mean I’d love to work there, I’d love to work anywhere. But aren’t those jobs kind of special?”
He nodded, chewing. “That’s Bobby Senior. He’s doing it to piss off your grandfather.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Does Pete Packard know that?”
“It don’t matter,” Bobbyjay said, shrugging. “It’s Pete’s job to support the Board here and represent the Local to management and the International.”
“And Bobby Senior’s on the Board.” She understood afresh why Goomba ran for the Board against Bobby Senior every three years like clockwork. With all her loser male cousins to provide for, especially whenever they got divorced or their girlfriends kicked them out, Goomba would find it super-convenient to be able to get them jobs.
An unsettling thought occurred to her. If Goomba had ever won an election against Bobby Senior, would he have given her a job at the Opera House?
“Oh, and wear something you can work in. That won’t do,” Bobbyjay said, pointing a forked pierogi at her.
“What.” She looked down. Her tee-shirt was a scoop neck but not flagrant. She looked up in time to see redness flow up Bobbyjay’s face into his scalp.
He frowned. His sentences came out slower and slower, as if the machinery were grinding to a halt in there. “See, the guys are a little outspoken. Pete knows this. He knows Marty Dit.” The implication being, Goomba was somebody. “He don’t want to hear from Marty Dit that you been getting harassed on the job.” He gulped. “But if you ask for it—”
So stagehands were susceptible. Convenient, Daisy thought, filing the information under ‘work, dress code, male management.’ “Thanks for the advice. Will you be working at the Opera House too?” she said innocently.
“Most of the time,” he said. “But I can’t be everywhere at once. And there are a lot of horny guys at the opera.”
“There are a lot of horny guys at home,” she said darkly. Really, it looked as though she might have some work-related skills after all.
“Yeah, but your grandfather’s there. He don’t take no shit.”
“No, he doesn’t take it, but I do.” When Bobbyjay frowned again, she sighed. “Don’t sprain your brain, collitch boy. I can take care of myself.”
Chapter Eight
Monday all the theatres were dark and Daisy’s Goomba did something he hadn’t done for years: he took her downtown on the commuter train for some shopping.
Daisy felt uneasy on the train. She’d been eighteen last time they went downtown. They’d shopped at Marshall Field and Carson’s, broke for an early supper at Ruth Chris Steakhouse, and at the end he’d taken her into the bar in the train station for a Mai Tai in a plastic coconut shell with an umbrella on top. At the memory Daisy shrank up inside.
Somehow that Mai Tai had soured their day together. Maybe she’d got too tiddly.
This time, she promised herself, she wouldn’t do anything dumb to ruin it. She felt bad enough putting Goomba through this engagement thing, plus the Porsche.
“What do you want the most for your trousseau, preziosa?” Goomba said, clasping her knee.
“Oh, nothing, I guess.” He looked at her like he was actually paying attention. The little girl inside her warmed. More boldly she said, “Maybe some new jeans. My low-riders are out of style.”
He clicked his tongue. “You can’t get into a limo in blue jeans. Let me get you something nice.”
If he only knew. Mom had registered for everything under the sun at Lord & Taylor. “How about, um, some shoes?—Uh, maybe not shoes.” Shoe shopping was serious work, and Goomba only wanted to play. His idea of shopping was to let her try on a couple of dresses, buy her a ring at the costume jewelry counter, and carry her off to lunch where he could get outside a big chunk of seared meat with all the trimmings.
That’s a cynical thought. When did I stop believing in Goomba’s presents?
Goomba dug her in the side with his elbow. “How about a car of your own?” He laughed at her flabbergasted expression. “A new car for my angelina. My baby’s chariot.”
That was Goomba, piling on coals of fire. It was her fault his favorite car got ruined, so he was buying her a new car. She thanked him and looked out the train window, wondering if she would ever recover from all this good news.
They went to a BMW showroom. Daisy was appalled at the prices. Goomba asked the salesman shrewd questions and urged her to look at all the most expensive models.
“You’re always saying the shocks are gone on the Oldsmobile,” he said gaily. “One of these babies won’t need service for years. It’ll be a savings.”
She managed to hold him off signing on the dotted line for a Beamer SUV. The relief of getting out of there without the car left her wide open for an assault on Marshall Field, where he blew about a thousand dollars on stuff she tried on at random. He paid for it all, radiating a huge amount of satisfaction, and Daisy slumped into a pouffy chair, thinking longingly of lunch.
Lunch was the best part of these outings. He was always attentive and appreciative and fascinated with her. He made her feel loved. He asked about her plans at those lunches. She was a person in her own right, she had a future, she was loved.
To her surprise and delight, Goomba took her to the Opera House next. Had he found out that Bobbyjay was getting her a job there? She hadn’t dared mention it. But here they were, walking in the shade of the huge columns.
She strutted just a little. Guys in suits veered out of her way as if she were dangerous, and a couple of construction workers turned their heads as they passed.
Goomba smiled at the whole world, as if he were proud to be out with his granddaughter.
Daisy felt a swell of that loved-and-belonging feeing. Will I always be your angelina?
They went in through the big, shiny, heavy, brass doors and followed a crowd into a cafeteria. Every table was packed. “Where are we going to sit?” she said, feeling overwhelmed.
But a bunch of burly guys in rock’n’roll tee shirts saw them standing with their trays and just got up and left. Goomba thanked them. They all seemed to know Goomba, but not one made eye contact with her.
“So, angelina, you given any thought to your future?”
Oh, God, this was it, this was perfect, this was what she’d been wanting him to ask for three years.
“Me?” Say it again. Make me believe you’ll let me go. “I don’t think I can make a decision yet. I think I’ll just get my feet wet at the Opera House.”
He looked puzzled. “I was talking about your marriage.”
Please don’t spoil this day. If he brought her here to rag about her engagement, the day was spoiled already. She blurted, “Bobbyjay says I can work at the Opera House.”
Goomba’s woolly eyebrows snapped together. “Bobbyjay Morton can’t get you a job.”
She swallowed. “His grandfather can.”
He rocked back in his chair. He turned pale, and the veins on his nose looked blue. After a long, tense moment, he blinked and licked his lips.
Now I’ve done it. He’s going to stroke out.
But he started gently enough. “Are you sure, angelina? They don’t take in many women, you know.”
“His grandfather—” She felt like such a traitor saying that word. “—his grandfather arranged it.”
“I’ll bet he did,” Goomba said under his breath. He looked furtively around the cafeteria. “I can’t explain why you mustn’t—why it’s a bad idea for you to work here,” he said, lowering his voice. “I can’t tell you here.”
“I already know why. It’s ’cause they’re a bunch of leche
rs.” He put his finger to his lips and she lowered her voice. “Like I don’t know how to deal with that.”
“These aren’t schoolboys,” he said sharply and she jumped at his tone. Goomba never talked like that to her. “These men are hardened.”
He sounded hard himself. He could work himself into a fury when he was like this. Never at her, before now.
“Bobbyjay can handle the Mortons,” she said, hoping so. “Plus, I mean, since it’s Bobby Senior’s doing, won’t they leave me alone?”
“It won’t be just the Mortons.” He leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows drawn in with evil sarcasm. “Think about Badger. You have him on a string, because he’s my friend.”
She thought of Badger kissing her when she was just a kid and flushed. Did Goomba know about that? Had Badger actually told on himself? The implications made her hot with humiliation.
Goomba nodded, still giving her that terrible look over his big moustache. “Now think about two hundred and fifty Badgers. And no Goomba to watch over you. No Bobby Morton,” he spat.
Oh, God, she’d done it, she was between Goomba and his arch-enemy now. And he thought she was siding with the Mortons! “I thought you brought me here because you knew. And it was okay.” Her throat was tight with unshed tears. “You know about everything, Goomba.”
“If I had known about this, I could have....” He looked dark and far away.
She realized that he didn’t have any idea what he could have done. That means it’s done, she thought, first stunned, then joyful. He can’t stop me.
He drew himself up and looked stern. “I forbid it.”
Crossing all her fingers under the table, she said, “Tomorrow’s my first day at work.”
For a long moment he stared at her. The rage faded out of his face, and then he reached out to pat her cheek. “My preziosa.”
His tone was suddenly warm, as if he weren’t angry at all. I never realized what an actor he is. It was scary.
The table next to them filled up with loud-talking guys in suits.
He said, “You know I want the very best for you. How well do you know this young man? There’s a reason why we don’t see the Mortons socially.”
Like she didn’t know. “You fight with them. You fought with them for years.”
“Not since you were little. Don’t you remember?” he said wistfully. “That was your doing.” He sure was yanking her heartstrings today. “You were just a tiny girl. You looked at me and you said, ‘I love you, Goomba, please don’t fight.’ So, to please you and keep you safe, I stopped fighting.”
“You still run against him for the Executive Board every time,” she blurted. “You’re going to do it again this year, aren’t you? You always say you won’t, and then you get mad at them for something, and you run, and you always lose. Why do you do it, Goomba? Can’t you just...let it go?”
“My little peacemaker,” he said mildly. “Why run? I suppose because people should have a right to choose. I believe that democracy calls for a choice.”
That’s such a lie. “Bobbyjay isn’t like his family.”
“He owes them loyalty, just as you owe us loyalty.”
Under his gaze she looked down and fiddled with her pickled ginger, feeling guilty.
“How can I be sure this stupidhead is going to remember to take care of my angelina? You should come first with your husband, just as you come first with your own family.”
She felt horribly guilty. He’s doing it on purpose.
Didn’t help.
“Do I really come first with you?” she said. Will you tell my cousins to stop pinching me and talking trash to me?
“You’re the light of my life,” he said simply. “Does this Morton boy say that to you?” He put his hand over hers. “Once you marry, you’re his responsibility. I lose the right to take care of you.” His voice broke, and she saw tears in his eyes.
She choked up. “Oh, Goomba,” she tried to say over the noise of suits drinking their lunch at the next table. Tears welled in her own eyes. Guilt was crushing her. Lie hard, or he’ll guess. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to marry him. I’m starting at the Opera House tomorrow. After I’m married I’ll—I probably—I won’t be able to keep house for you.”
At the thought of housekeeping, she felt less guilty.
He honked into his napkin and wadded it into his shirt pocket. “I need more coffee. You sit, I’ll get it,” he added, patting her on the shoulder, as if she had been about to jump up and fetch the pot.
He blundered away emotionally between the crowded tables, and Daisy sat back and heaved a huge hot sigh.
She was trapped. Goomba wasn’t giving an inch on this feud. She would have to find a way to cool it off before she dared to break her engagement to Bobbyjay. And she had to make sure Bobbyjay wouldn’t back out until their families were safe.
The rowdy suits from the next table got up, leaving their trays behind, the slobs. She didn’t think anything of it until she realized they hadn’t left.
“Hey there, hot thing.”
She looked up. The four of them were standing around her table, looking down at her.
Chapter Nine
Bobbyjay came out of the cafeteria restroom just as Marty Dit bolted past, leaving Daisy sitting looking hunted. She hadn’t yet noticed Bobbyjay. Here in the Opera House cafeteria she looked incredibly young, with all that kiddie makeup and the filmy top and a face like a little girl in a corner with no choices. Bobbyjay’s insides gave a twist. He wanted to go sit in Marty Dit’s chair and tell her not to worry. But what would be the point? They both had plenty of worrying to do.
If she couldn’t handle her family, he sure couldn’t. He had his hands full, keeping his Dad from perpetrating more atrocities on the Ditorellis, and managing the titanic ego of the patriarch, Bobby Morton Senior.
While he watched, a bunch of boozy stockbrokers got up and stood over Daisy’s chair, looking down her shirt and tossing remarks at her.
Bobbyjay started forward. Then he noticed Marty Dit reappear at his elbow. While they watched, the stockbrokers talked to Daisy and she blushed, her head twisting, trying to answer them all at once. She didn’t seem to be having fun.
The shitheads. Marty Dit will settle their hash, Bobbyjay thought.
But he didn’t. The old man stood next to him, watching his granddaughter field stockbroker remarks like he was watching a tennis match.
The tallest stockbroker obviously thought he was irresistible to women. He grabbed Daisy’s hand and tried to shove his card into it.
Bobbyjay started forward again.
“Wait, kid.” He felt the old man’s hand on his elbow. “Think you’re so smart, getting my girl a job at the Opera House? This is what she’ll have to face.”
Bobbyjay turned a scowl on him. “You just gonna stand here?”
“Better she should learn she can’t handle it now, with me watching,” the old man said, looking serene and evil.
Daisy slapped the guy’s card away. Bobbyjay gave up on self control. He slipped between the crammed tables like a quarterback sneaking through a defense line, and stepped hard on the stockbroker’s foot.
She looked up, saw him, then looked past him. Her face changed slowly, like a two-mile-an-hour fender bender.
“Hey, Daisy,” Bobbyjay said, as if the stockbroker weren’t howling in pain in his left ear. He picked up a chair from a nearby table and dangled it from one finger, looking down at her. “Mind if I join you?”
“Who the fuck are you, Gomer?” one of the other stockbrokers said in an unfriendly voice.
Bobbyjay put his hand on Daisy’s shoulder and then glanced up innocently. “I’m her fiancé. Who are you?”
The other stockbrokers looked at each other. Their tall buddy had limped off.
Bobbyjay swept the rest of them out of his way with his chair, planted it beside Daisy, and sat down.
“You okay?”
“Oh, God.” Her face was white.
“Your
grandfather should be here any second.” He glanced over his shoulder. Marty Dit had disappeared.
She looked sick. “He’s punishing me,” Daisy whispered. “He did this last time. At the train station.”
So she knew what her grandfather was up to. “Train station?” Bobbyjay said, feeling like the fender bender was turning into a three-car pileup.
“And the time before that, at the baseball game. I went to the bathroom and he gave me money to buy Cokes and some guys...bothered me. It took him forever to come find me.” Her sloe eyes filled with tears. Bobbyjay put his hand over hers again and she squeezed it hard. “I was so scared.” Her face hardened. “He did it on purpose!”
“You were how old?” Bobbyjay said.
“Fourteen.”
Bobbyjay bit back fifty-seven swear words.
“Thank you for chasing them off, Bobbyjay,” she said, with a look that turned his insides to jelly. She blinked away tears.
Her grandfather plopped into his seat opposite her. Bobbyjay started. Daisy got up with a sniff. “I gotta go pee.” She gave Marty Dit a searing look and swept off.
Bobbyjay exchanged glances with the old man. “I didn’t tell her what you said,” he muttered. Marty Dit’s eyes narrowed. Bobbyjay took a deep breath. “Yet.”
They played stare-down for a minute. Bobbyjay knew he couldn’t afford to break first.
The old man’s face was a mask of wrinkles. He smiled. “Point to you, son. I’ll leave her in your hands. You can keep her safe at the Opera House.”
Bobbyjay thought with a sinking feeling of all the roughnecks he worked with. “Uh, I gotta go back to work.”
In the elevator he wondered if Daisy would challenge the old man over what had happened. All in all, he was glad he wouldn’t be there to find out.
Daisy had put herself together by the time she came back from the bathroom, but she was still sick to her stomach over Goomba’s betrayal. So much for his protection. Out on the town, at home, or on the job, she now knew exactly what his love was worth. Home cooking, bleached and pressed handkerchiefs, and a spotless house. Oh, and no complaints, ever. Not Daisy, nosirree, she loved him so much, she would cook and clean and wait on him and his worthless male descendants forever. Thinking of Tony’s foul mouth and grab-ass games, she felt her tummy roil. I’ll show him. I’ll never complain again. I’ll just get a job and move out. She hadn’t the faintest idea how much an apartment cost, but she vowed here and now that she wouldn’t spend a penny of her paychecks until she had enough.
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