Fools Paradise

by Stevenson, Jennifer

  “Tony?” Bobbyjay guessed. “Vince?”

  “Just so you know,” the caller growled. The phone went dead.

  As he was walking through the stage door, his cell rang a third time.

  “Yo, Bobbyjay, this is King Dave. What the fuck is your Dad thinking?”

  “Hey, Berg,” Bobbyjay said to the doorman, then lowered his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told the phone.

  “Hey, this is me, King Dave. Don’t you square with me no more?” his best friend said.

  Bobbyjay stepped out onstage and ducked behind a chunk of fake boulder. “Honest to God, King Dave, they’re driving me insane. Bobby Senior tried to file a grievance.” He left out what Pete had decided. Wait and see if it worked. “It’s like he’s not thinking any more. None of ’em thinks. Swear to God, the only one with any self-control left is Marty Dit.”

  “That’s no fucking comfort,” King Dave said, accurately guessing Bobbyjay’s feelings. “What you gonna do?”

  Bobbyjay laughed without humor. “Pray. Push forward on the wedding plans. Daisy’s Mom’s kind of scary, but she could help with Marty Dit.”

  “It ain’t Marty Dit’s the problem and you know it,” said the Job’s comforter on the other end of the line.

  “I think—” Bobbyjay peered around the end of the fake boulder and lowered his voice still further. “I think I got some leverage. I can’t talk about it. Just—just wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg, buddy.”

  Bobbyjay heaved an anxious sigh. “Thanks.”

  Daisy got home from the Opera House changeover at three in the morning Monday and had a screaming fight with her cousin Vince, of all people, who accused her of sleeping with Bobbyjay.

  “Changeover ends at one-thirty!” he yelled over and over, and he wouldn’t listen when she tried to remind him it was Wagner last night, with three times the scenery plus a rain curtain to clean up after.

  Through all the yelling, Goomba never came out of his bedroom.

  She was just on the point of kicking Vince in the balls when disgust overwhelmed her. I can’t keep nutting these morons. Life is too short. And I don’t like myself later.

  Instead she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll be gone soon. You can cook your own meals and wash your own clothes and tell everybody what a slut I am for sleeping with my fiancé before the wedding. Bobbyjay is good to me. Do you expect me to want to live here when you treat me like this?” She felt like Cruella DeVille for saying it in so many words. Nutting would be more humane. Vince would take an occasional kick in the balls if she’d just keep cooking for him.

  Vince’s face was mask of dumbstruck horror. “You’re marrying him.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Duh!” She wiggled her diamonded left hand at him. “Evanston Country Club, October first? Three hundred people for the ceremony and a hundred and fifty sit-down for prime rib?”

  “Goomba said you wouldn’t.”

  She swallowed hard. “Goomba was wrong. He’s not the boss of me. And neither are you.”

  Vince looked ugly. “So you’re marrying a wuss like Bobbyjay Morton so you can kick him around all the time.”

  “I don’t have to kick Bobbyjay.” Her lip trembled. Oh shit, I’m going to cry in front of Vince! “All I have to do is ask.”

  With a gasp, she turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen.

  Tomorrow—today—was the big all-Local picnic. Pete Packard would announce Bobby Senior’s retirement, and Bobbyjay would step up to the plate.

  And then they’d see whether the electorate would accept him.

  There wasn’t a damn thing she could do to help, besides cook.

  By eleven-thirty she had made two pans of lasagne, a pan of skewered chicken livers wrapped in bacon, a tray of manicotti, and a ton of smoked turkey wings. She had dragged all the picnicware up from the basement and set it on the grass beside the driveway. She had mixed a gallon of sangria, brewed a gallon of iced coffee, and squeezed thirty-two lemons for fresh lemonade. She had baked and filled cannoli. She had roasted eggplant. She had baked carrot cake. She had made oatmeal and espresso for the men’s breakfast, turning a deaf ear to their yowls of complaint, and kicked their butts out of the dining room early so she would have somewhere to put the growing array of trays and jugs and platters.

  As Bobbyjay pulled up to the house in his Jeep, she was mixing spices in a pestle.

  She pecked him on the cheek when he came into the kitchen. “What do you think?” she said. “I’ve got Italian, Japanese, American, Greek, and Spanish. Am I missing anything?”

  “Well, the Local’s, like, sixty percent Irish,” Bobbyjay said.

  She collapsed into his arms. “Oh, my God. Won’t beer do?” she pleaded.

  He looked quickly over his shoulder, then mashed her with a hot, toothpaste-flavored kiss.

  Daisy became aware that her hair was plastered to her forehead with steam and her clothes stank of grease. Bobbyjay’s crisp cotton tee-shirt smelled bleachy-fresh. She kneaded his shoulders. “Mmm.”

  “Mmm yourself,” he said, releasing her. “What can I do?”

  She thought fast. “I could boil up some cabbage and a brisket.”

  He backed her against the counter. “How about no?” He wiped her face with his thumbs. “Sixty percent Irish stagehands means sixty percent of the wives will bring their own stuff. We’re covered.”

  She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “What about ham hocks and blackeyed peas? I don’t have time to make greens.”

  “What?” Bobbyjay smiled at her incredulously.

  “Lon Murphry’s black. His sons are in the Local, right?”

  “You are a multi-tasking powerhouse, babe, and someday, when you got enough seniority, you’re gonna be a department head,” he prophesied. He hunkered down and pinned her arms to her sides and kissed the back of her neck.

  “You are so full of shit,” she whispered. At the same time, her heart leapt. Department head! If Bobbyjay thought she could do it, by God, she would! “How about at least macaroni and cheese?”

  “How about I kiss you until you pass out?” he whispered in her ear.

  She moaned. “That would be lovely, but I have to finish this baba ganouj and then frost the carrot cake.” He moved his kisses behind her ear. “Ooo. Oh gee, Bobbyjay—”

  “How about,” he whispered, sending shivers into her undies, “you sit and drink some coffee and talk me through this babashit? I can probably even frost a cake, if you don’t mind it looks like a melting snowman.”

  Suddenly her legs would barely hold her up. She sucked in a long, quivery breath. “Deal. But I’m telling everybody you did it.” Coffee. What a great idea.

  “Did you even sleep?”

  “Hah. Did you?”

  “Not much,” he admitted. “What do I do, stir?”

  “Stir in that chopped mint and the spices in the pestle. Were you thinking about what Pete’s going to say today?”

  He peeked through the kitchen door. “Your grandfather gone?”

  “They went for the kegs.”

  “Okay, how we gonna handle this?” he said, stirring baba ganouj. Her heart swelled. He was asking her opinion! “Like, my Dad for a start.”

  Her eyes widened. “That one’s yours. He didn’t take too well to me lecturing him at the fish fry.”

  “Okay.” Bobbyjay nodded. “Mine. But I’ll swear that you got him thinking.”

  “That’ll be a first,” she blurted. “I’m sorry, that was rude.” Bobbyjay looked up and smiled. She swallowed. “What.”

  “You apologized.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” she said, trying to snarl. The coffee was waking up her insides. She smiled back.

  “So, Dad’s mine. Marty Dit is your department. I think Pete’s got more to say to my cousin, but if that doesn’t cover it, I can always try violence. He responds to that,” Bobbyjay said, sounding depressed. He picked up the frosting spatula.

  “You leave yo
ung Bobbert to me,” said a voice from the kitchen door.

  Daisy looked up, surprised. “Mom! You’re home from work!”

  “Again. The partners think I’m interviewing outside the firm. They’re terrified,” Mom said serenely. “Is that carrot cake? I’ll frost it.” She took the spatula out of Bobbyjay’s hand, to Daisy’s relief.

  “Bobbert? You?” Bobbyjay said.

  “He’s not a bad boy. He just needs to redirect his energies.”

  Daisy sputtered, “Oh, for—Mom—”

  “What are you going to do about your grandfather, Bobbyjay?” Mom said.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “You know, I can frost a cake.”

  “No man can frost a cake. What idea?”

  Daisy was annoyed. For a few minutes in the kitchen there, with just her and Bobbyjay, she’d felt something like, oh, like home. “Uh, Mom—”

  “I’ll take her upstairs and make her shower and get dressed, Fran,” Bobbyjay said.

  “Excellent idea!” Mom said.

  How did he do that? “Yeah,” Daisy said. “I’m beat.”

  “Haven’t you been to bed, young lady?” Mom said, diverted, and Daisy marveled at the master of deviosity she might be marrying. Mom waved the spatula. “Go get cleaned up!”

  Daisy giggled on the stairs. “You are so bad! What were you going to say about your grandfather?”

  “I made a phone call last night.”

  “And?”

  They shut themselves into Daisy’s apartment, and he mashed her again.

  “Mmmm. Phone call?”

  “I’d rather not say,” he admitted, “until we know if it works. Anyway the toughies are your grandfather and my Dad. Bobby Senior has half talked himself into thinking he was ready to retire anyway. Go out a winner, kind of thing. He seems pretty cheerful. What’s your mom gonna do about Bobbert?”

  “I shudder to imagine,” Daisy said. With a secret thrill, she led Bobbyjay into her bedroom. “I’m more worried about Tony. And Vince—what’s up with him? He screamed at me last night. He thought I was having sex with you instead of working the Opera changeover.”

  Bobbyjay seemed to swell. “I can take Vince.”

  She did an eyeroll. “I told him I would be moving out soon. He shut up.” If only she were sure. She’d feel pretty foolish if this engagement went phut and she had to take some crummy apartment somewhere. Her tummy felt weak at the thought.

  He put his hand to her cheek. “Daze, we can do it.”

  God, that felt good. “You can touch me,” she whispered.

  He licked his upper lip. His gaze went around her bedroom and Daisy suddenly felt the air get hot and close. He put his cupped hands out and then dropped them. “We gotta make it work. It ain’t over yet.”

  With a long, measured sigh, Daisy turned away. “If you’ll load Mom’s van, I’ll take a shower. She’ll drive the stuff over to the picnic. Then we can talk in the Jeep.” She felt her breasts poking points on the front of her tee-shirt, sending radio waves of lust.

  He swallowed. “Okay.” And then he pounded down the stairs.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The all-Local stagehands’ picnic took place in Caldwell Woods, about three miles from Marty Dit’s house. As he drove to the picnic shelter, Bobbyjay reconnoitered with Daisy.

  “We have to find everybody and then keep tabs on ’em.” His stomach felt uneasy. “There’s Dad,” Bobbyjay said, pointing to where Dad was supervising while his cousins tapped kegs next to the softball diamond.

  “There’s my Goomba. Holy crow, Bobbyjay, he’s talking to Bobby Senior and Pete Packard.”

  “That’s okay. Pete’s getting them organized.” Bobbyjay didn’t feel okay in the least. He felt twitchy all over.

  “Gosh, I know everybody here,” she said. “There’s Tommy Monforti and Jack Yu setting up the awning, and Jack’s two boys, and Scooby and John Tannyhill and Weasel and Badger and Anvilhead Arnie,” she finished proudly.

  Bobbyjay surveyed the field. He’d been coming to this picnic every year since before he was born. The sun shone down on the softball field, the volleyball net, and the horseshoe pitch. Older journeymen stood around drinking the first beers. Younger guys tossed around softballs and frisbees, or taught their kids to fly kites. Over by the picnic tables, the women buzzed. Rug rats harried their moms’ ankles.

  Everybody looked as Bobbyjay and Daisy got out of the Jeep. She took his hand tightly in hers.

  “Here we go,” he said gloomily.

  “You nervous?” she said.

  “Shit, yes.”

  “How about a kiss for luck?”

  Gratefully he scooped her up and lost his mind for a minute. When he put her down he was dizzy, and considerably more optimistic.

  She’d skipped the black eye stuff again. Without it, she looked seventeen. Just an innocent Catholic girl who couldn’t wait to get rid of her innocence.

  In other words, totally misleading.

  These guys didn’t stand a chance.

  “Any advice?” she chirped.

  “Just tell the truth, Daze, like you always do.”

  “Are you ready to be on the Board?”

  Everybody was watching them, some openly, some slyly. Bobbyjay swallowed. “How hard can it be?”

  She patted his hand. “That’s my guy.”

  They walked straight over to where Pete and the two grandfathers stood in a circle of empty space under a tree. Everybody knows a bitch-out is in progress, Bobbyjay thought. As they approached, he heard Pete say, “This could make everything nice. Nobody will be up on charges. Nobody hasta get suspended. Nobody gets censured,” he said, looking at Marty Dit, “for filing a frivolous bid for election to the Board. I like it.” Pete said with finality. “Tell me you like it.”

  “Works for me,” Marty Dit said.

  Bobby Senior looked up as Daisy and Bobbyjay approached. “I’m ready to retire,” he said in a tight voice, his eyes meeting Bobbyjay’s.

  “Time to make nice,” Bobbyjay said under his breath to Daisy.

  But she was already walking straight up to Bobby Senior. “Hi, Pop,” she said cheerfully. She kissed him on the cheek! Bobby Senior bugged his eyes out at Bobbyjay over her shoulder. Before it could get scary, she let go and went to her grandfather for a hug.

  Bobbyjay shook Marty Dit’s hand and then Pete’s, then went to stand with his grandfather, who reached up and threw an arm over his shoulder and stood facing the crowd across the demilitarized zone around the tree.

  Pete raised a plastic beer cup.

  Bobbyjay held his breath.

  “Okay, everybody, listen up,” he bellowed. As if they weren’t the focus of every eye at the picnic. “We got some announcements so everybody pay attention. First, Bobby Morton Senior’s got somethin’ to tell you all.”

  “What the fuck?” Bobby Senior muttered under his breath. “I thought Marty was goin’ first.”

  Bobbyjay knew why Pete was making him go first. The first guy to talk would be admitting blame for the fake letter. He dropped his own arm across his grandfather’s shoulders. “I really appreciate this, Pop,” Bobbyjay muttered.

  “No sweet talk.” Bobby Senior pulled free and landed a playful punch on his arm. Then he faced the crowd. “Friends, I am retiring from the Board. I’ve worked for this Local for over twenty years. You all know me,” he said in a getting-ready-to-speechify tone.

  Bobbyjay squeezed his grandfather’s shoulder.

  Whatever campaign speech Bobby Senior had been about to make, he stifled it. Instead he said, “I’m leaving the Board as of today. My grandson Bobbyjay will be finishing out my term.”

  Bobbyjay squeezed him again. His grandfather turned and shook his hand. A murmur went up from the stagehands watching.

  From the back of the crowd, Badger Kenack yelled, “Three cheers for Bobby Morton!”

  This wasn’t in the plan. Bobbyjay glanced at Pete Packard, but that craggy face didn’t show anything. The crowd gave Bobb
y Senior his three cheers.

  As the cheering died, Badger yelled again, “Three cheers for the House Bobbies!”

  Pete waited them out. “Before youse start the party, we got some more announcements,” he said, loud but not yelling, and somehow his voice cut through the babble. The crowd shut up. “Marty Ditorelli will now say a few words.”

  Bobbyjay’s back tensed. The sarcastic sonofagun had a golden opportunity to soapbox and even Pete wouldn’t be able to stop him. Everybody in the Local wanted to hear his comments about the fateful letter and his old enemy’s downfall.

  He heard Daisy whisper, “I love you Goomba!”

  Bobbyjay smiled. He felt her hand touch his arm briefly.

  Across the circle, Badger Kenack, looking swarthy and sardonic, raised his beer in a toast.

  “This is my last year running for the Executive Board,” Marty Dit croaked. “I’m withdrawing from the race. I hope all of you,” he said slowly, and turned to Daisy and Bobbyjay, or maybe toward Bobby Senior on Pete’s other side, “all of you will vote for a great guy, Bobbyjay Morton. I—I trust him with my own granddaughter so I think you can trust him too.” With that Marty Dit leaned across Daisy and shook first Bobbyjay’s hand and then, after a hesitation, Bobby Senior’s.

  The stagehands went nuts.

  Pete raised his beer and roared something but Bobbyjay couldn’t hear it. Everybody jumped forward to shake hands with the five of them. Buffetted by congratulatory thumps on the back, Bobbyjay remembered that Pete had served thirty years on the Exec Board before being elevated, like a Blessed finally making Sainthood, to the International. Crafty old showman.

  In the middle of the cheers he looked across the softball field and saw his father standing like a guard dog over the kegs. Bobbert slouched at his side. Bobbyjay’s heart sank.

  “Congratulations, Bobbyjay,” Vince Ditorelli muttered.

  “Thanks.” Bobbyjay shook Vince’s hand as if there was nothing between them but brotherly love. Vince turned on his heel and walked away.

  Across the grass, glowering with his mouth full, stood Daisy’s cousin Wesley.

  That was one problem Bobbyjay could solve.