by Lizz Lund
We walked up to the Citizen Kane-like front doors and stood staring at the huge entrance. K. tugged at the giant cord that served as the front door bell. BING-BONG. We jumped a bit. We always did.
“Don’t you always expect Lurch to answer?” K. whispered. I nodded.
Instead we were greeted by Ophelia. That is, Ida Rose in costume.
Ida greeted us in the front doorway, fluttering in gossamer fairy skirts with shoulder caplets, with her hair done up in ringlets, all in a dusty blue. Her costume that is, not her hair. Her hair was its usual jet black. Ida sparkled in a cloud of fairy dust. Then she sneezed, which sent more fairy dust billowing. I wondered which of Aunt Gladys’s long-ago social dresses Ida had dug up for this occasion.
“Gracious me, do come in,” Ida drawled.
K. and I held each other’s gaze in sympathetic unison. Ida Rose’s favorite moment from way-back-when was when she played Blanche in her high school’s production of ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’. She usually resurrected this when she was feeling a bit blue. Her costume was clearly evidence that she was in ‘Streetcar’ mode. Someone needed to break the spell. I stared at the ceiling.
“Ida, dear, the dinner is in NEW YORK, darling, not TARA,” K. teased, holding up the hem of her fairy skirt. Ida sniffed. Not good. I rubbed the back of my left calf with my sore pinky toe, to stop its whining.
“Are those new sandals?” Ida screeched, pointing at my pulsing feet.
“Yes,” I said demurely.
Ida loves footwear and has wonderful taste in shoes. Which goes nicely with her humungous shoe budget and shoe closet. So, if Ida Rose admires your shoes, you’ve done very well indeed.
“Where did you get them? Whose are they?” she demanded.
K. looked beseechingly at me. We were using up valuable Walter-loading time: we both knew it would take luck and a crane to settle Walter into the car.
“Oh, I’ll tell you on the way,” I said, smiled, turned and did my darndest to sachet and not limp toward the car.
“Leaving now, Aunt Gladys – byeeee,” Ida whooped, snatching a dusty-blue sequined clutch from an outstretched servant’s hand (Lurch? Really?) and floating toward the car. K. did a multitude of nervous bows from his waist to an invisible Aunt Gladys and departed backward.
Ida Rose sat happily in the middle of the backseat. K. looked relieved. Clearly, he was worried that Ida might have wanted to ride ‘gun’.
“Oh, Ida Rose, dear, thank you so much. I hope you don’t mind sitting in the back,” K. said.
Ida raised her eyebrows a few stories above her ringleted forehead. “Mind?” she asked.
“Not sitting in the front,” K. explained.
Ida Rose giggled, all Blanche Dubois like. “You are a card, my dear K.. Why, Auntie dearest would never condone our sitting up front with the chauffeur; it would be considered vulgar.”
I looked at K. K. frowned at Ida. I counted one-Mississippi.
“So, in other words, you do want to sit in the front, so long as we switch seats before we drop you back home, so your Aunt Gladys doesn’t see you not sitting in the back?” I asked.
“Precisely,” Ida whispered, nodding enthusiastically.
I pulled Vito’s Towncar out of the mansion’s driveway, making a right onto President’s Avenue. We drove into the islanded residential area just before the intersection of President’s Avenue and Harrisburg Pike.
“Oh, I just LOVE this neighborhood!” K. said, as he had a thousand times before as we drove through it. Ida Rose and I chirped in agreement.
“Oh, look what they’ve done now! I just love that Tudor-bethan,” Ida said happily, sans Blanche Dubois.
“What happened to Blanche?” K. asked.
Ida frowned. “You are becoming worse at this. It wasn’t Blanche; it was Maggie from the ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’.” She pouted.
“Oh, you are much more appealing than Maggie, dearie,” K. said.
Ida looked pleased. “Really? Well, so glad I found some hidden party duds then,” she said, patting her dress. Little clouds of non-fairy dust poofed about the backseat. Ida coughed. K. became resourceful and used the automatic window openers to open all the windows, switching the AC onto full blast to help with the proceedings.
“Really, K.!” Ida and I both shrieked.
“Really, windswept is not a hairstyle statement,” Ida Rose complained. “Besides, I hate that loose free feeling,” she added.
K. sighed. “I know, dearie,” he said, “but really, we can’t have you posing a health hazard in an eating establishment, coming in just as if you’ve crawled out of a vacuum cleaner.”
Ida Rose waved her fingers pointedly at K. as if she were casting a spell on him, smiled successfully to herself, and then the windows rolled up. Well.
By this time we had crossed Harrisburg Pike and Manheim Pike and came to Fruitville Pike. Yes, another Pike. A visiting friend once asked me why Lancaster has ‘pikes’ and not ‘roads’. Dunno, was my response. Still is. Just go with it.
I weaved along toward Oregon Pike. During all this Ida Rose and K. played their usual ‘I Spy’ game which in particular focuses on drivers and passengers of cars around us rather then settings.
“I spy nose-picking,” Ida Rose said.
K. looked about. “Yick, who doesn’t?”
We drove past the Gass-up! gas station, and made the next immediate right into Armand’s McMansion development, and pulled up to his front door. I have to say, once we entered Armand’s neighborhood, my feeling of dread began to lift and I began to feel kind of tingly and excited – the way you get when you’re anticipating going to a happy event. Armand’s neighborhood was a bit on the cookie-cutter side, with a definite tendency toward taupe. But I found this soothing. Everything was neat and usual; no surprises. Although I put myself in check, realizing that perhaps I was suffering subconscious reactions from my crazily colored walls. However, I also realized that certainly, if Armand thought this little eatery expedition was worth the trip, we lay eaters were sure to be impressed.
But even with my barking feet, I was not about to miss a chance to enter Armand’s foyer. Entering Armand’s foyer is like entering onto a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie set. K. followed at my heels. He loves Armand’s foyer, too.
We stopped and looked back at Ida Rose; she was still sitting in the backseat, waving a fan (how did she fit that in her sequined clutch?) and talking to an imaginary stranger. We shrugged and walked up the path toward Armand’s house.
Armand’s foyer has a lovely cathedral ceiling with a crystal chandelier, a marble floor and curved staircase that leads up to a sort of mezzanine. Also, Armand’s home is spotless. But K. and I suspect that is largely due to his widowed mother and widowed sister moving in with him a few years ago.
Apparently Armand was looking forward to our epicurious adventure, too. He opened the door, dressed in Calvin Klein blacks, and gestured for us to enter. His mother and sister, both clad in black wool, hovered along the walls behind him.
“Good evening, please.” Armand gestured us into the foyer.
K. and I attempted to enter at the same time and wound up walking shoulder to shoulder together through the double front door.
We stood in the midst of our Forever Foyer and sighed. We drank in the lily-scented cool air, tinkling music and glimpses of exotic flowers placed carefully in a crystal vase standing in the middle of a round walnut table.
“Please, please, you come?” Armand’s mother questioned us, motioning us past the foyer and toward the inner sanctum.
K. and I immediately brightened. Neither of us had been allowed beyond the foyer before. In fact, we made it a secret challenge between us to see who might be the first to gain access.
“Mama,” Armand said quietly while kissing his mother on the cheek. She sighed and shrugged.
His sister cast furtive glances and landed on my sandals.
“Oh, beautiful!” she cried,
pointing toward my feet. I shut up my throbbing toes and reminded them it wasn’t how the felt, it was how they looked that mattered.
“Thank you,” I said, blushing.
Armand’s mother said something to Armand’s sister that did not sound remotely encouraging. His sister sighed. “My mother reminds me that I am still in mourning,” she answered simply.
“How much longer?” I asked sympathetically.
“Just six years!” she said brightly.
“We’ll go shopping,” I whispered toward her.
Armand’s mother muttered something that sounded a lot like a curse. I mentally tossed salt over my shoulder, and was relieved that we had our resident pixie in the backseat of Vito’s Towncar to remove spells.
As we walked toward the car, K. said, “I’m sorry about your brother-in-law passing, Armand.”
Armand sighed. “He died in 1999. My mother made it a condition of immigration that my sister remain in mourning until her stateside matchmaker could find her a suitable husband, or the year 2016, whichever come first. I have a feeling my sister, she will hold out,” he said.
K. patted him on his shoulder.
Ida Rose smiled as Armand opened the back door to sit beside her. “Oh my, this is almost like a gentleman caller!” she teased.
Armand stared at her. “Glass Menagerie or Hot Tin Roof?” he asked simply.
“Menagerie, of course,” she replied normally.
Armand nodded and sat beside her. K. resumed navigator position and I resumed driving – very grateful to not be standing on my already very sore feet or sat in the backseat with Laura and her gentleman caller.
The atmosphere in the car grew festive as Ida and K. managed to elicit more than a grimace from Armand. Actually, by the looks of it, Armand was excited, too. Well, as excited as Armand could appear. He nodded a lot, while both Ida Rose and K. prattled on about gourmet menus they’d read about and how they’d manage the wine pairings. This was where Armand became animated and actually offered more than his usual mono-syllabic answers: “Syrah.” “Bordeaux.” “Pinot.”
I led us back downtown via Lititz Pike to Prince Street, and made a left on Lemon toward Walter’s high rise apartment building. Geographically, it would have made sense to gather Armand last, as he lives so close to entrance to 222 and therefore Route 76/Pennsylvania Turnpike. However, as Walter is gravity challenged, and I didn’t want to risk a visit to the ER and Trixie, I decided we’d pick up Walter last. All of us.
Walter lives in one of the few high rise apartment buildings in downtown Lancaster. K. went up for him. K. returned without him. I looked at K.
“The elevator’s weight capacity does not include guests,” K. said simply.
I shook my head. We love Walter and he has a big heart. But he has an even bigger appetite and we all worry about when said big heart will need replacing with a new one.
Walter emerged from the lobby and into the summer swelter. He stood panting on the front walk. Armand and K. leapt out to help him. Hovering on either side of him, they walked with him toward the Towncar. Armand opened the door for Walter to climb in. Ida Rose leapt outside to offer Walter more room. Or maybe to not be sat upon.
“Wow. Sure is hot out here! Got a lot hotter since April…”
Unfortunately, or fortunately, Walter is a freelance writer and literally, not virtually, lives on the internet. His major claims to fame have been ghost writing and editing cookbooks, parapsychology magazines, self-help books (not dieting), commercial website content and some comic books. He doesn’t leave his apartment unless he absolutely, positively must. He’s managed to find local grocers and drycleaners and beer distributors that deliver. I am equally amazed and worried by his resourcefulness and his inertia.
Walter, too, had decided to dress for the evening. While most persons of Walter’s girth might try to subdue their bulk with dark or neutral colors, Walter prefers a livelier palette. Tonight he sported miles and miles of fire engine red and white vertical stripes in a cotton short-sleeved shirt, which he tucked into a matching pair of fire engine red slacks, which were hemmed in with a wide white canvas belt. He accented these with white canvas sneakers. All in all, he looked like a pizza delivery man.
Walter eased into the backseat, and I felt Vito’s Towncar sag. K. scoped out the remaining real estate in the backseat, and took Ida Rose and Armand to the exterior of the car for a quick huddle. I looked in the rearview and saw Ida Rose nodding understandably. Then she climbed in petitely next to Walter and exchanged pleasantries. Meanwhile, I watched as Armand and K. performed ‘Once! Twice! Three! Shoot!’ fingers. Apparently K. lost. He handed his maps to Armand and wedged himself in on the other side of Walter. Armand climbed into the front seat next to me with all the social graces of a hockey mom. I was glad he didn’t have a whistle.
I maneuvered us out of downtown and back toward the Gass-up! on Oregon Pike, since I realized Vito’s Towncar was running on something close to fumes. And I assumed the nearly zillion-dollars per gallon might be closer to double the closer we got to New York.
I pulled up to the gas tank, and Armand put a hand up. “Please,” he said, and went to fill up the tank. He might prefer to use only one word at a time, but he was nice about it. Then again, he’s been living in Lancaster for almost two decades.
At the same time, K. decided he needed a frozen latte, Ida Rose was desperate for her monthly horoscope and Walter had forgotten he hadn’t eaten anything since a couple of hours ago and was concerned about his blood sugar.
We left Gass-up! a few months later.
CHAPTER 16
(Saturday afternoon)
As we finally pulled onto Route 222 North, we enjoyed a few sparkling moments of amicable solace. K. slurped at his frozen latte. Ida Rose read her In-Depth Personal Monthly Horoscope aloud while Armand grunted sagely in response and Walter chewed. Even the pungent smell of onions from Walter’s sub wafted peacefully in the air conditioned breeze.
Once on Route 76, the landscape became far less scenic, so our imaginations got going. Armand began to speculate about the evening’s fare. While he was still phobic about the lack of bonafide wait staff or tablecloths, he was beginning to ease himself into the role of patron.
“Hearts of palm,” he sighed. “And pesto! Something must have the pesto!”
K. leant forward to speak into Armand’s ear. “Maybe with sun-dried tomato!”
Armand attempted to turn around to concur but unfortunately got choked a bit by the seat belt anti-whirling around thingy.
“I certainly wouldn’t mind something Champagne-ish,” Ida Rose chimed in.
“Or maybe frozen-vodka like… with Beluga caviar,” I sang.
Glancing at a portion of Walter through the rear-view mirror I saw him blush. His face began to match his outfit. “I know it’s summer and all, and folks like to mostly eat on the light side,” he began, “but if it’s a nice air-conditioned room, I sure could get around a nice rack of lamb, with some organic rosemary, new potatoes and maybe a braised vegetable ragu.” Clearly his recent cookbook editing was shining through.
Ida sighed. “It truly does not matter to me about our entrees or appetizers. Aunt Gladys’ diabetes is the death of me and I would surely kill for a lovely decadent dessert – especially profiteroles with heaps of chocolate sauce and clotted cream… or chocolate cheesecake with a smashed chocolate crumb crust… with heaps of chocolate sauce and cream…”
We all sighed affirmations in unison.
As we passed Kutztown, Walter passed gas. Windows were opened and apologies were made, along with a good many “Excuse me,” and “Beg pardons!” thrown in for good measure. Ida Rose re-consulted her horoscope by waving it frantically. K. stroked his forehead and complained to himself in the third person about the beginnings of a brain freeze. The delicate straps of my fancy dress sandals cut into my swollen flesh like dental floss. Armand smoked.
A couple of hours later, riding alo
ng with windows open and the AC blasting, Walter lay sprawled in the backseat asleep, pooting softly. Ida Rose lay slumped across his belly holding her nose in her sleep. K. lay full back, snoring, with his arm on Ida’s shoulder, oblivious to everything. I glanced sideways at Armand. He smoked.
Finally I found our way down Canal Street and into the West Village. As this is generally the land of sell-your-first-child-for-a-parking-space, I was relieved and grateful that K. made sure our ‘invitation’ included a parking privilege.
K. had printed out directions from a mapping website, and read them at me as we wove our way around the same blocks repeatedly. Finally, K. screeched and I turned into what seemed a miniscule driveway. It was actually a long, narrow alley that led us downward into a steep pit.
I turned the Towncar’s lights on, took Auntie’s sunglasses off, and eased the car downward slowly. We reached the very bottom and a very locked gate. I thunked my head on the steering wheel repeatedly.
“How do we get in?” Walter asked from the back.
“Well there must be a person who’s paid to attend, and who clearly is on a break,” Ida Rose said matter-of-factly.I banged my head on the steering wheel some more.
“Well, it’s not exactly like we can just back up!” K. cried.
We looked in plural out the back window at the cavernous path leading upward at what appeared to be a near 90-degree angle. Nope: no backing up here, even without Walter in the backseat.
K. smacked himself on his forehead with his clipboard repeatedly. Then he looked at a note that fell out.
“Oh, well, of course!” he sang out. We stared at him and his newly creased forehead. “Just press the BUTTON!” he instructed.
We looked at him. K. pointed past me, toward a somewhat hidden and very dirty round intercom-like button mounted in the brick wall just before the gate. It was black and unlit. It looked like a plain, old, black coat button, sitting next to a similarly large, black, oblong coat button. I squinted, wondering which button to push. The oblong button scuttled off. The round button didn’t. I pressed it.