by Lou Cove
“This is going to knock your socks off!” Papa calls, handing Raphael an overflowing bowl of hummus and Leslie a lyric sheet printed on the protective album sleeve of Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell.
“Steve, is Enid OK?” Aunt Leslie scoops the hummus with a pita wedge. Steve’s head bows, shakes almost imperceptibly.
“Hold on!” Papa instructs, dropping the stylus on the album and turning up the volume. “Hold … on…”
Everyone has to hold on a long time because “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” is an eight minute, twenty-eight second operetta—the epic story of a teenage boy trying to get into the pants of a teenage girl on a hot summer night in the front seat of a car. It wraps up with a mock play-by-play by Phil Rizzuto—all-star shortstop, voice of the Yankees, Yoo-Hoo, and The Money Store—as Meatloaf tries to round the bases. But before he scores, she wants commitment. He wants to sleep on it.
“Pete!” Aunt Leslie cries with delight when she grasps the conceit of the song. “This is the nuts!”
A half hour later a series of martinis and more rum has been poured and everyone’s listening to the song for the fourth time, singing together:
Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark night
I can see paradise by the dashboard light!
More guests arrive: Mama’s Uncle Mo, eyes wide behind thick glasses, with Grandma Charlotte, Mo’s sister-in-law and Mama’s mother. “Is this Thanksgiving or a circus?” Uncle Mo, the retired butcher, rumbles.
“I made pie,” Grandma Charlotte says in a tone that suggests it was all work and no joy. “And here’s the Cool Whip. I bought extra.”
“Cool Whip doesn’t have any cream in it, you know?” Papa declares. It’s a secret to no one that my father never gets along with my other grandmother. She kvetches more than she smiles. And if she loves us like Grandma Wini does, she hasn’t figured out how to show it. Then again, until I met Howie I hadn’t known anyone could shine as bright as Grandma Wini. The weak kiss and smile Papa offers his morose motherin-law is unconvincing but he takes the big paper shopping bag from her. “No dairy in the Cool Whip,” he repeats, looking into the bag as if there might be something else to redeem her. “But try the hummus. It’s homemade.”
Grandma Charlotte just glares, then splurts, “What the hell have you done with your hair?”
“Uh, Pedro…?” Raphael materializes alongside Papa, head down, hand reaching out to my father’s shoulder. Papa looks quizzically at him. “I … eh … the hummus. It was so good.”
“I’m glad you liked it, Raphael.”
“Yes,” he chuckles, turning bright red. “Yes, it was so good. I think, perhaps, I ate it all.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, I am so sorry,” Raphael says, embarrassed. “You were right. It is…”
“So good, right? Jesus, Raphael. I made, like, three pounds. Did anyone else get any hummus?”
The knocker clacks before anyone can answer.
As dramatic as she is slow-moving, Glovey Butler has honored the invitation.
“Hello?” her creaky voice deadens the hubbub as she scuffs along into the foyer, followed by a young man with a red ponytail and the heavy slam of our front door.
Papa smiles again, another faint flourish of jazz hands. “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment … Glovey! Welcome. I am so glad you could spend the holiday with us. And this must be your grandson. Johnny, is it?” The ponytail guy nods, shakes hands, and digs into his coat pocket for something.
“Hi Glovey,” Mama says, fixing an outsized smile on her face, blinking uncontrollably. “Oh, Johnny, thank you … That’s … Oh! That’s really too much,” to Johnny, who has found the bottle of whiskey he was evidently searching for in his coat and offered it to my mother.
“Welcome to our humble home.” Papa is at his most deferential. “May I take your coat, Glovey?”
Her watery old eyes scan Papa’s face. “Have we met?” Glovey asks.
The party falls dead silent. I catch an eyebrow-raising look pass between Rick and Frank, telegraphing the sentiment of the group: Is the old lady batty?
Papa is momentarily speechless. Then he holds out his arms appealingly and replies: “Peter. Peter Cove.”
“You remember, Grammy,” Johnny says softly. “Our neighbor.”
“Well, of course, but you must be his brother. Peter has straight hair. Longish. Like a hippie who hasn’t yet left the 1960s behind.”
The circle holds its breath. It is a moment that even the youngest in the room understand. It may be Papa’s domain, but the town belongs to Glovey, Empress of Chestnut. Being cantankerous doesn’t affect her position. In fact, it only deepens the respect of those around her, and they grant her an ever wider berth: Glovey, the grand old whaling ship blithely navigating the social harbor of Salem, making all the smaller boats scramble sideways as she rumbles from port to port.
“Glovey,” Papa ventures into the silent void, “You are a fucking hoot.”
This is Papa: sovereign ruler of his court, eldest, flawless firstborn Jewish son, big brother, gracious host, racquetball champion. Mustachioed, newly permed, hero to the jobless, father to us all. Papa. He will not be put in his place.
Glovey looks my father straight in the eye, her lips crimped into a gray little anus of wrinkles above her pointy chin. “Well,” she begins, dry tongue snapping at the roof of her mouth in reply, “that’s what my father always used to say.”
The collective sigh, dropping of shoulders, relieved chuckles, all retrieve the moment from frozen, awkward time to the chirpy familiarity of just another party on Chestnut Street.
“Now how about a drink?” Glovey asks, her tone switching to something far more benign. “It’s chilly in here, Cove. You’re not going to force me into a Jimmy Carter cardigan, are you?”
“I’ve got just the thing to warm you,” Papa assures her, then to Grandma Wini: “And Mother, you need a martini. Raphael, do you know how to make one?”
“I’m an experienced mixologist!” Howie offers as he descends, as if on cue, from the third floor of the house. “I’ve been experimenting with fermenting tea and home brewing, but I’ve also been known to make a martini now and then. Quakin’, not absurd, yes Wini?”
“The gang’s all here,” Uncle Rick says as the adults migrate to the bar.
Soup’s On, Pants Off
The adults booze and the kids bolt: Matty and Rebecca Freedman, cousin Greg, and my siblings follow my charge to our parents’ room upstairs. Uli breezes in, the one uninvited guest of the evening, and finds us all upstairs. “We finished our dinner a long time ago,” he says by way of explanation. “Super boring.” He’s been here a few times since I started at Alternative, and it’s a love fest between him and Papa so he knows he won’t get turned away.
“Anyone know how to light their fingertips on fire?” I ask, grabbing a bottle of perfume from the gilded mirror lying flat atop my mother’s dresser.
“I know how to make myself burp,” Matty says, serving up a gamey tuna fish belch.
“Pissah,” Uli says, balancing on his long arms in the doorway. And then he erupts with a belly volcano twenty times more sonorous than Matty’s.
“Uli!” I call. “Come here, light my fingers.” I pour a bit of the perfume out on the mirror and dab each of the three middle fingers of my right hand in the slippery liquid. I hand him a book of matches and he strikes one, holding it before his face for a moment. Then adopting a Lugosi drawl says, “Vatch as I vill burn my friend to ashes! Bwah hah hah!” And with that he touches the match tip to my fingers, setting them ablaze in a translucent blue and yellow.
Rebecca screams and bolts out of the room. Greg and Matty stay, fixated.
“That’s boss,” Greg says, big buck teeth pulling at his lower lip, barely able to control his excitement. I think he is going to drool.
“He always does that,” Amanda puts in, annoyed by the attention we’re getting.
“Hey, what are you little peop
le up to?” Carly takes Uli’s place in the doorway, eyes watery and red, smile weak.
“Louis just lit his fingers on fire with my mother’s perfume,” Amanda says blandly.
“Oh, that’s creative,” Carly says. “Can I try?” As she approaches me the three other boys drop back a step or two, eyes on her purple silk evening dress, tie-dye splashed at the chest so the explosion of color turns sun yellow over her breasts. Carly takes the small square glass bottle and dabs the tips of every finger and the matching pads on her palm. She looks at me and nods. My hand trembles a bit as I hold a lit match before her doused fingers. “I’m not sure what happens if you have long fingernails,” I say, pulling back at the last moment.
“It’s OK,” she answers softly, sniffling. “I’m an adult.” As if I need to be reminded.
Moving closer to her, I feel Carly’s breath stroke my hair, sparks erupt across my back.
My heart leaps with the liquid blue flame as Carly’s fingers flutter and she laughs happily, eyes brightening at the vision. “I don’t feel a thing,” she says. “It’s cool.”
“Don’t let it go too long,” I warn.
“It feels good. You forget everything for a second.” She licks her lips softly, letting the fire continue to lap at the space between us. I dash to the bathroom to get a towel.
“It only lasts for a little bit that, then it starts burning your skin. I don’t want you to get hurt,” I say, covering her hand with the towel.
“Too late for that, Sir Lancelot,” she touches my head again, wraps an arm around me.
*
Papa added three leaves to the table but it still can’t hold the entire group. He asks Uncle Rick to take Raphael to the basement and lug up the wooden worktable on which Mama has been cutting glass and framing pictures for neighbors and friends.
Mama’s stress level has risen with the headcount, now grown to twenty with the unexpected additions of Raphael and Uli. We all take our seats and Uli sidles up happily next to Gramps, who pats him on the shoulder, and turns to Carly. “So how are you keeping yourself busy?” Gramps asks.
“I’m organizing a group here at the house—a safe space for women to gather and discuss their sexual lives,” she says, her voice still soft, but resurgent.
“Sexual lives?” he draws back, faux scandalized.
“We all have them … Hopefully.” Carly smiles at him. “Some are wonderful, some could use some adjustment, and some really need intervention and support. But they all need to be talked about.”
“With strangers?”
“With other human beings. It’s just human. I’m sure Wini would understand. Maybe she’d like to sign up.”
Gramps chuckles uncomfortably and turns to Grandma Wini as if to say You wouldn’t, would you? but Uncle Ricky has pranced into a political minefield by starting a debate with my father about welfare recipients—whether they truly want to work or are just living off the taxpayers.
“Of course they are!” Grandma Charlotte leaps in. “Society’s leeches.”
“Charlotte, honestly, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Papa says from the other end of the table. Grandma Charlotte glowers at Papa but says nothing. Although the regulars know this is standard thrust and parry for my father and my mother’s mother, the newcomers are startled. As high as he has placed his own mother on a pedestal, Papa would take shit from Atjeh before he takes it from Grandma Charlotte. “Seriously,” Papa goes on, the room simmering in wait. “You don’t know bupkes. Spend one day in our office. One. Now I’d like to make a toast.”
“I see there’s a great deal of respect for one’s elders in this household,” Glovey says to Johnny loud enough so everyone can hear.
“Ah, forgive me,” Papa bows his head. “You’re right, Glovey. Charlotte, I apologize, that really wasn’t appropriate at all. The fact is, you genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about and it drives me bananas, but that gives me no right to speak to you with anything but respect. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
Grandma Charlotte doesn’t speak, and she is motionless save for the gentle sway of her towering gray-blue hair. She stares blankly at Mama while the rest of us stare at her. “Did he apologize?” she asks at last. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Anyway”—Papa raises a glass and clinks it with the side of a butter knife—“this is a very special occasion. We have all our loved ones together around the table again. Plus, we are fortunate enough to be able to welcome Glovey and her grandson, Johnny, to our home. Glovey,” he raises his glass still higher in the old woman’s direction, “you are the belle of our ball and we are honored by your presence.” Glovey gestures gently in response, indicating that this is sufficient praise.
“What about Uli?” Amanda asks. “It’s special that he’s here.”
“Well, yes it is,” says Papa. “Uli, we are so glad you could make it.” He pauses. “By the way, where’s your real family?”
“Watching the Cowboys game.”
“I got Cowboys by six,” Uncle Ricky says.
“Well, we’re glad you chose us. And the same goes for Raphael who, despite eating all my hummus, is my hero for the day. I feel ten years younger.”
“Was that the point?” Ricky laughs heartily.
“I think Peter looks marvelous,” Grandma Wini chimes, alive with her unique brand of maternal euphoria and her three-ounce martini.
“Anyway, if I can try once more?” Papa raises his glass. “It’s a delight to have you all here. Not to mention our special houseguests, Howie and Carly.”
“Amen!” Mama says.
“We love you,” Carly says, her voice pure and full of love. None of the joking or irritation has affected her. And whatever had caused her heart to ache earlier, it seems for the moment to have melted away.
“I love you,” I reply into the silence.
“Whoa, hombre!” Howie throws up his hands and I blush.
“I mean all of you. Duh? I love all of you,” I sit up as straight as I can in the hardback chair.
“I love you all, too,” Mama says, “And I’m just happy I have a son who feels comfortable enough to say it so simply.”
“Hey,” Amanda protests. “I love everybody, too, you know.”
“We know,” Mama whispers. “Shhhh…”
“Right.” Papa regains the attention of the group. “It’s a love fest. Anyway, as I was trying to say … What separates today from all other days is that we stop, take a moment to reflect on what we’re grateful for, and do it in the company of those we care for. I, for one, am grateful for my family. For all of you. You add richness and texture to life. You keep the days from dragging on and the nights from ending too soon. We are better for knowing you all. L’chaim!”
“What did he say?” Glovey asks Johnny as the rest of the room repeats the salute.
“It’s a Jewish thing,” Rick yells to her. “I’m old hat at this now. The token goy. Ask me anything.”
“I’d like to suggest that maybe we go around the room and each add one thing we’re grateful for. Just a word or two. Phyl, do you want to start?” The guests, caught off guard, look uneasily at one another.
Uli’s eyes widen admiringly every time my father opens his mouth. I realize I have stopped trying so hard to wrest Papa’s attention from his many preoccupations—his friends, work, music, wardrobe, and The New York Times. I am more interested in trying to unlock the mysteries of the man from Berkeley. Yet now I feel a sudden pang of guilt. My communication with Papa these days is more the wordless kind, the reality between us more often done in significant glances than in conversation: angry eyes if I cross his line, approving wink and nod if I meet his standards.
Mama grins nervously, never one to make toasts or speeches. “I’m grateful that Howie and Carly are staying with us,” she says softly, then passes the baton to Enid, sitting on her right.
“I’m grateful for the good health of my family,” Enid offers as Mama quietly excuses herself and disappear
s into the kitchen.
“And good medicine,” Steve adds, leaning his head against Enid’s.
The kids go round: “Popsicles.” “Burping on command!”
“No fire engines today.” Cousin Greg, always terrified of sirens, looks genuinely grateful.
“No fire engines today!” Aunt Leslie seconds.
“My old shit spreader didn’t need a new differential after all,” Uncle Ricky informs us.
“I’m grateful for this invitation,” Glovey Butler says, “though I do find you all a bit strange.” The table laughs nervously at her paper-dry humor.
“Unity and love,” Carly is looking right at Howie.
“Love and latitude,” Howie replies.
“Papa’s old hair,” my sister says with more force than she may have intended.
“Amanda,” Mama’s scold floats along the fragrant warmth coming from the kitchen.
“It’s fine. Fine. Keep going,” Papa says. “David?”
“Bunny Yabba?” he says. Glovey Butler crinkles his brows.
“Moving on,” Papa prods.
“My beautiful, glorious, to-die-for grandchildren,” Grandma Wini scrunches her eyes shut, clearly experiencing some sort of secret rapture the rest of us can only imagine. “And Sammy. And my children. And their spouses. And all of you. Oh, it’s too hard to narrow down.”
“The buffet at Kowloon,” Gramps says, betraying his deepest passions.
“Sammy, honestly,” Grandma Wini shakes her head.
“Dad?” Papa asks. “Seriously?”
“What? It’s the best all-you-can-eat on the North Shore. And the fried bananas? Come on!”
“Christopher Reeve,” Frank clasps his hands to his chest.
“Who?” Three or four people ask simultaneously.
“Superman?” I ask.
Frank nods vigorously. “Good-bye Travolta, hello Sugar Tights.”
The room erupts.