by Lizz Lund
Armand returned without a growl. In fact, he looked smiley. For Armand. He served us our appetizer orders: artichoke and spinach spread with house baked bread and a smoked fish sampler platter (smoked trout, salmon, roe caviar and sturgeon). Then he presented some unordered fare: seared sea scallop and artichoke kabobs, eggplant and olive tapenade with a bonafide San Franciscan sourdough baguette, and twelve raw oysters on the half-shell, which he placed in front of Ma.
“I have remembered Mina has said the Mamma likes these especially,” he said, his lips curling. Which almost resembled a smile. Sort of. I was impressed. And scared. I hadn’t seen Armand in this good a mood since the local news divulged Conestoga Cabana’s chief competitor achieved their tender melt-in-your-mouth prime ribs by salting them overnight in lots of MSG. I squinted up at him. Armand shrugged. “Apparently someone was not timely when picking up his orders. Your Aunt is one of our very best patrons, so of course I signed that it is the compliments of our manager,” he said, sneering deliberately toward Gus.
“Ha ha ha,” I faked.
“Enjoy!” he commanded, and departed as Ma slipped down her third oyster. Well, no complaints there.
We ordered our dinners, and chatted quietly and calmly. That was when I saw Armand talking to K., as K. was exiting the cocktail bar. Armand pointed toward our table, and K. waved excitedly. He came to our table, gave little hugs and kisses into the air next to us, then wagged a finger at me.
“Now don’t forget we have our special dinner date out this Saturday, missy!” he warned.
Dinner? Missy?
“Huh?”
“The SUPPER CLUB!” he chimed. “My friend Gillian finagled reservations for us! For Saturday! Remember?” he asked.
Great. That meant a very long exodus to New York City in my van with no A.C. in August, and possibly leftover poo smells. I sighed. But I had promised. I just hadn’t thought K. could actually swing it. Or remember. Rats.
“I’ll call you tomorrow!”
He waved, skipped out the door and was gone. I wondered if I’d have my van back in time for this odyssey.
Armand came back with our dinners, placed my order of mussels marinara in front of me, and I sighed contentedly. I just love the smell of gahhhlic. I’d just have to worry about it tomorrow. The Supper Club, not the garlic, that is. And it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise, anyway. If the Doo-doo wasn’t available, someone else would have to drive. Which might mean I wouldn’t have to go. I felt a little relieved at that prospect.
Armand served Ma her roast duckling, and Auntie looked down happily at her sea bass. It looked back up at her.
I was about to ask about the polo cup thingy Bruce talked about, when Armand asked Auntie if she had received her invitations. Auntie nodded happily, said she had and that she and Ma had been talking about going, too, since Ma wasn’t going back to New Jersey until Monday morning. After Armand’s long stare in my direction, they assured him that I was going too, with or without a helmet and/or fire extinguisher. Armand nodded approvingly and vanished.
We continued to eat and chat, and declared we would not even think about looking at the dessert trolley. Which we did end up doing, but decided to assuage our guilt by sharing a single (but very large order, probably thanks to Armand) Chocolate Pecan Pie.
We said our goodbyes in the parking lot, and Auntie said she’d call me as soon as she heard from the massage guy tomorrow. I ambled my way back down Oregon Pike, through downtown Lancaster, and carefully back into Vito’s driveway without grazing anything on Vito’s car, or anyone else’s, either.
I found Vito lying fast asleep on my sofa, Stanley splayed out asleep on top of him. I glanced at Vito’s nose. It wasn’t bandaged anymore, and had a distinct nip mark. It looked pretty bad, but at least it didn’t appear to have been re-gnawed by the Terrorist Terrier.
The television blared. It was ‘Frannie!’, the Southern maven of refried, retried, bonafide and deep fried cuisine. If it wasn’t fried, it wasn’t Frannie’s. Which included the Fried Alaska on the screen right now (instead of baking the ice cream in a solid meringue coating like a typical Baked Alaska, she fries it; it’s faster).
I thought the TV screen looked a little dirty, then realized a few thousand gnats also thought Frannie’s show, and Fried Alaska, were worth watching. Along with the very loud chorus of crickets serenading from outside. Or inside. I wasn’t sure.
Then I heard snoring and saw Miriam passed out in the corner chair.
Stanley stretched and affectionately patted Vito’s sore nose with his paw. Vito yipped, “OW!” and sat bolt upright, which threw both Stanley and Miriam off their seats. Along with the gnats, which swarmed away from the TV screen and hovered like clouds.
“Hi there, Toots!” Vito smiled, swatting the gnats. “How was your dinner?” he asked, while trying to poke a plastic grocery bag full of ‘product’ toward Miriam with his foot, which Miriam tried to smash down into her new ‘purse’, an over-sized beach bag.
“Good,” I shrugged, and started up the stairs, trying to be nonchalant.
For some reason I was edgy. I figured I was just anxious about Vinnie and Marie. If Vito and Miriam had let this many bugs in, I wanted to make sure Vinnie and Marie weren’t let out. Or covered with gnats.
“Hey, it doesn’t smell like smoke, anymore, right?” Vito hollered up after me.
“Uh, no,” I said, peering into Marie’s room. Which was true, actually. Finally.
I went into Marie’s room and removed the cricket serenading her in her seed dish and put him in my pocket to put back outside.
“See, Miriam here had a great idea…” Vito continued to shout up the stairs at me. Oh boy, I could hardly wait.
I checked out Vinnie in my room. He sat on the floor next to the threshold arranging his tally: 6 dead crickets lined up in a row, 2 lightning bugs and a box elder, with a last bug twitching on the end. I shuddered. He gave me the head nod and trilled. Clearly, Vinnie knows I do not want our home filled with bugs. Even crickets, who are supposed to be good luck. I am not Chinese, but I wouldn’t care how much luck they bring even if I was. If I can scoot them outside, that’s great. Otherwise, as far as I’m concerned, they’re just cockroach cousins with big noisy elbows.
In spite of my repulsion at Vinnie’s line-up, I was glad he caught them. And that he hadn’t eaten them. I got some tissues and scooped up the carcasses – and the one that was now post-transit – and flushed them down the toilet. Vinnie accepted congratulatory petty-pets on his head.
I went back downstairs to find Miriam post-stretching and yawning and Stanley and Vito in similar stages and wagging their tails. Really. Never mind.
“Well, uh, thanks, Vito,” I said. “Looks like the fans worked.”
“Oh, no, Toots!” Vito said. I also noticed he no longer had a speech impediment. Guess that was because of finally losing the nose bandage. “Miriam here’s the life saver! She said the screens would hold in the smoke, sos it was better to have them sit open. But what with the pets and all, she offered to sit with me to make sure no one got out.” Vito beamed.
Miriam nodded enthusiastically, draped in what could only be described as a tablecloth with plastic gemstone fringe and gold embroidery sewn across it in an owl motif. But the complimenting black and purple headscarf, with a hot pink feather tucked rakishly in its front knot, underneath the plastic jewel, really did the trick.
“I know how conscious you are about your pets and all,” Miriam twittered.
Conscientious, I thought. But maybe she was right. I resolved not to think again until I woke up tomorrow morning.
“Uh, thanks,” I said.
“I read in Housework America that smoke leaves quicker when you have the screens up. But I know how worried you are about bugs and all, so the article said to rub some clove oil and fresh garlic along the window jambs,” she said, nodding.
I closed my eyes and sniffed. No wonder I felt anxious when I w
alked in. My house was riddled with savory harbingers of Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays past. Those kind of memories always make me a little jittery. They conjure up traumatic visions of menus for six and winding up with leftovers for fifty.
After some prolonged faked exchanges, I shuffled Vito, Miriam and Stanley out onto my front porch, and then closed my front door. My guests dispensed with, I vowed, once again, to change the locks. I closed all the windows, shut all the fans and mercifully turned the AC in the house back on. I vacuumed up the gnats while they watched the end of their lives across the TV. I scooted a few more crickets out the back door, along with the one in my pocket. I tucked Marie in and let Vinnie out of his kitty jaildom. Then I poured myself a mug from the Box O’ Burgundy, and settled down to watch the evening news. So did the chorus of crickets chirping peacefully in the background.
The phone rang. The crickets stopped. Huh. Well, that was an upside. Maybe I could get friends and family to call and hang up repeatedly. It might convince the crickets that being outside was a lot more peaceful after all.
I rolled off the sofa, mug in hand, and managed to answer the phone on the fifth ring.
“Hello, dear,” Aunt Muriel’s voice sang. She sounded really happy. Then again, it was late, after a very nice dinner, and I’m pretty sure she and Ma were having a very nice nightcap. “Sorry to call so late, dear,” she offered, “but I just heard from our masseuse – he can fit us in at ten o’clock tomorrow morning!” She giggled. Somewhere in the background I heard Ma’s voice complaining about nonsense, waste of money and lost time. I wondered if she was referring to me or the masseuse. Then I heard Aunt Muriel hold her hand to her receiver, hiss at Ma, and come back to me. “Well, then we’ll see you about ten o’clock tomorrow morning, right? After all, if you want your mother to be able to walk normally again, you have to have a massage too, remember?”
I sighed and nodded. “I promise I’ll be there about ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” I replied.
“Good girl,” Aunt Muriel said, and hung up singing a “Nighty-night!” to me.
I sat back down on the sofa and tried to go back to the news. Which was over. I flipped the flipper, and fell back to the cooking channel. ‘Romantic Dinners Gone Wrong’ was on, and I immediately got suckered. This was getting good. Then I started wondering when I’d ever serve a romantic dinner again. My non-existent social life was overrun by somewhat peculiar family, friends, pets and a pervasive theme of doo-doo. Nothing, oh nothing, about these social circumstances hinted whatsoever at finding a boyfriend.
The Twinge started up again, and a sharp pinch started in my ass and shot down to my toes. I panicked. I couldn’t stand being this tense, with my nerves kicking me in my own literal butt. And what about the massage guy? Did he really laugh at me? He was cute. And OMG he was going to be feeling up my butt at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
Another pinch. I winced. I had to do something to relax, quick.
I was up and on my cramping feet before you could say custom omelet for two. I grabbed the leftover loaf of French bread that was turning a slighter shade of stale from the top of the fridge. I sliced, beat eggs, fried bacon, grated cheese, found the lost Parmesan cheese and threw in various peppers, onions and the like. I got all these savory ingredients on top of the bread bits lying peacefully along the bottom of my good lasagna pan. I covered them up with wrap, and put them back in the fridge. Tomorrow morning I’d throw them in the oven for forty-five minutes and have a nice hot breakfast casserole to take to Auntie’s. Ha! I’d impress that massage guy!
I was contemplating side dishes (ham? hash browns? fruit cup? muffins?) when the phone rang. Again. I looked at it warily and answered.
It was Trixie. “Hey, I just wanted to say thanks and all for dinner last night.” Good old Trixie.
“No problemo,” I said, smiling.
“Huh?” she asked.
“No problem.” Seemed Vito-speak was starting to rub off on me.
“Also wanted to say thanks for the boyfriend pep talk,” she said. “I think you’re right. I guess I’ve just been a little low.”
“No, no, you’re fine. You know you’ve been working very hard.”
“You’re telling me. That witch tried to hitch me with a third second shift this week. I’ve already put in sixty hours and it’s not even the weekend yet. And you know they’re gonna call me because I’m single, have no kids, and now everyone knows that I have no boyfriend.”
“Well, your track record’s still better than mine,” I offered.
“Mm. I guess it’s not so bad being solo. Just lonely, sometimes,” Trixie said. I gulped at some of my wine, jealously wondering what that was like. She added, “Sometimes when I’m feeling really lonesome, I just go and leave the toilet seat up before I go to bed. That way when I wake up in the morning, I feel like I haven’t been home alone all night. And it really annoys me, so then I remind myself how much better off I am without a guy around.”
You have to admire Trixie’s logic. Or not.
“Anyway, how have you been? Anymore burning Buy-A-Lots news? How’s your pinched nerve?”
I told Trixie about the morning massage. “Well, seeing a massage guy should be a good thing,” she said. In the background I heard her rummage around and throw some ice cubes in a glass.
“What are you drinking?” I asked out of curiosity. And envy. The Box O’ Burgundy and Mugs O’ Merlots were getting old.
“Tom Collins,” she replied.
“You’re listening to Tom Collins?”
“No, stupid, Tom Collins is a drink mix. Tom Jones is the guy you listen to.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I can bring some mixer over for you Saturday, on my way into work, if you want to try it,” she offered. I explained about getting roped into the NYC supper club dinner thingy. “Well, the massage is a good thing anyway, right? And your auntie’s paying for it, right?” Trixie reminded me. Which was when I reminded Trixie I’d have to be seeing Ma and Aunt Mu en Toga in front of the hot massage dude. “Oh,” she said. I heard her light a cigarette and exhale. “I see what you mean. But the dinner should be fun?”
I explained about being dubbed the chauffer.
“Well, maybe you can bake a cake or something quick tonight, to take the edge off? At least you might not show up all hunched over tomorrow,” Trixie said.
I told her about the impromptu brunch casserole, and discussed accompanying side dishes. Trixie yawned.
“Sorry. Not the company; just the hour. Although I should be feeling awake now,” she said.
“Yeah, how come you’re calling me from home at night time?” I asked.
Trixie yawned again. “Split shifts. Short on nurses; so they asked me to split my shift Instead of working from three this afternoon until eleven tonight, I worked seven until eleven tonight. Then I go back in tomorrow morning to work seven to three.”
“Ugh,” I replied.
“Double ugh,” she agreed. “They also put me on call from three p.m. tomorrow until seven.”
“Well, at least you get to be in your own home before dawn for once.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should get a pet…”
I coughed and gently reminded her about her stint with the several hundred house plants she’d installed last summer to create a faux-Solarium per instructions published in Lancaster Life magazine. All perished under her care within two weeks, per K.‘s prediction. “You have to pass the houseplant test first,” I said.
“Damn,” she said, “you’re right. I forgot about those plants.”
“How could you forget about palm trees?”
Trixie exhaled another of what I imagined was a menthol flavored plume of carcinogens. “Which is exactly the point,” she said. “I mean, you can’t ever forget about a Fluffy or a Fido without some really major consequences, right?” I agreed. “Anyway, I don’t think your brunch delivery is a bad idea. Especially since your auntie’s paying for the
massage party. It’s the least you can do, right?”
I brightened a little. My catering disorder might actually come in handy!
“Yeah,” I echoed.
I began rethinking my unplanned planned menu. Suddenly the breakfast baked casserole with one side dish seemed paltry. I had to whip up something memorable – like breakfast shish kabobs, or a fruit boat. And maybe some homemade biscuits and barbeque sautéed shrimp, wrapped in thinly sliced something-fancy-I-had-to-figure-out-what-fast-because-I-had-no-proscuitto-on-hand.
I said a hasty goodbye to Trixie. She yawned. “S’okay.” And she yawned again. “I gotta go sleep for a couple hours so I can wake up in a couple hours.”
“Call me later,” I said.
She said “‘kay,” over another yawn and hung up.
I opened my cupboards and took out essential and non-essential ingredients. Which basically means that I panicked and sprawled everything out on every available flat surface.
Within a couple of hours, I’d whipped up breakfast crepes, a lovely marinated seafood salad, some Artisanal bread and a show-off of unexpected fresh local fare – fresh peaches. In short:
l Spinach and feta crepes with Parsleyed Newberg sauce
l Shrimp, bay scallop and mussel salad
l Fast Artisanal bread
l Fresh Lancaster-county peach and shortbread custard torte
l Breakfast casserole
l Steak-fried hashbrowns
I pulled out my coolers and pre-loaded the ice packs and the food. All I had to do was get up in the morning. I could heat everything at Auntie’s. I loaded the dishwasher with as many platters, mixing bowls, and anything else I’d gunked up. It began to hum happily. I sighed in contentment.
I made my rounds and turned the lights off. The crickets chirped happily again as I wandered upstairs in the dark.
I checked in on Marie; she was snoozing to a blank TV screen. I turned everything off; told her nighty-night and quietly closed the door. I looked into my room. Vinnie lay diagonally stretched across my bed with his paw over his nose, snuffling peacefully. I sighed, set the alarm and lay down on top of the coverlet next to him. There was no point in changing into jammies and trying to crawl into bed. I would have woken him up. Besides, there was no room.