I entered the social hall then, ready to pray … ready to prepare … ready to serve God on national television if he so willed. Come what may, the Potluck Catering Club had a new purpose. And, maybe, so did this aging empty-nester.
Vonnie
6
Animal Crackers
The cameraman had followed my every move since barging in on our group’s afternoon prayer time. Now, sitting across from me in the passenger’s seat of my Ford Taurus, he said, “Relax, Mrs. Westbrook. Just pretend I’m not here.”
I squeezed the steering wheel. “That’s easy for you to say; your side of the camera doesn’t show on national TV.”
Mike Romano, one of the three cameramen who’d flown in to film our catered event, laughed. “You’re doing just fine,” he said as we pulled in front of my parents’ modest condo nestled in a small grove of aspen. Mike, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt with the words “The Great Party Showdown” emblazoned across his chest, got out of the car. He filmed me as I climbed the steep front steps to ring the bell. A moment later, Mother peeked out of her door and scowled. She was dressed in her favorite black pantsuit, topped with a floral shirt-jacket. “What’s all this?”
“The camera crew got here early,” I said. “They’ve been following us around all day, creating something they call ‘a package.’ I thought you were going to wear that dress we talked about.”
Mother didn’t budge from her spot halfway behind her door. “This is the Colorado high country, you know. I don’t do dresses.” She stared at Mike. “So, what’s a package?”
I answered, “You know, a little personal interest clip, the backstory behind Team Potluck.”
Mother stuck out her head a little further into the late sunlight. “Oh, so they want me to tell America what kind of daughter you are?”
“Ah … I guess.”
Mother stepped outside and stared into the camera. “Let’s just say, Vonnie’s the kind of daughter who would embarrass her dear mother on television by dragging her to a piano recital. I could be here, at home, watching my own television, you know.” Mother faced me and frowned. “Now that I’ve seen this camera, I’m tempted to stay put. What do I care about piano recitals? Mrs. Hempshaw’s students are dreadful. Everyone in town knows this except the parents who pay her their good, hard-earned money.”
I took Mother by the arm and began to guide her down the front steps while I lied my head off. “Mother, we’ve been through all this. This TV challenge came at the last minute, and Mrs. Hempshaw’s piano recital was the only thing happening in town this week.”
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Mother pulled her arm from mine and placed her hand on her hip. “Fine, but you don’t need me. You’ve already got your father helping in the kitchen. Why can’t you keep me out of this?”
I held up my hands in exasperation, then snuck a look at the camera, hoping for sympathy. However, staring into the camera’s unblinking lens only quickened my sense of stage fright. I turned back to Mother and said, “Don’t make me spoil the surprise.”
Mother tilted her chin defiantly. “What surprise would that be?”
So help me, I made my lie even bigger. “It’s David. He’s been learning to play the piano. He wanted to dedicate his piece to you tonight.”
“Why didn’t you just say so,” Mother said, turning toward my car. “If this is about David, well, that’s different.”
I smiled at my deception. To think I’d been able to use David as a lure. I never would have thought such a thing possible, considering Mother had been the one responsible for his adoption to that Hollywood actress. Now, only a few months after Mother had met him for the first time, David had somehow managed to wrap her around his little finger. It was a grand moment, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Here I was, lying to my mother on the way to church.
Soon enough, we pulled up in front of Grace Church. “Are we the last to arrive?” Mother asked, looking at the cars that filled the parking lot.
“Looks like we’re running a tad late,” I said. I sighed with a blend of pleasure and relief as David stepped out the front door of the church and rushed to open Mother’s side of the car. He looked so handsome in his black tux with a pink bowtie and cummerbund that matched Team Potluck’s aprons. Lisa Leann had insisted the guys wear all pink, but pink tuxes weren’t available, even in Denver. Personally, I thought it was a lucky break. Besides, Wade, our mountain cowboy, claimed he’d walk away before he wore a pink tux on TV.
Mother latched on to David’s arm, never dreaming our scheme was launched. “David, I hear you’re playing the piano tonight.”
David shot me a perplexed look while Mother said, “Don’t be upset that I know. I can’t tell you how proud I am.”
I stepped out of the car and followed the pair into the foyer of the activity center, praying Mother would keep her cool. Another cameraman appeared as we walked inside. Lisa Leann, who was playing the role of Animal Crackers’s Mrs. Rittenhouse, seemed to materialize out of thin air. She was draped in a coral chiffon, floor-length dress that looked as if it could have come straight from the 1930s. Her red hair was styled with ripples and sparkling clips, which made her look like Mrs. Rittenhouse herself. She said, “Why, Mrs. Swenson, don’t you look lovely.”
My mother gave her the once over. “And just what are you supposed to be?”
“I’m playing hostess to the tea party tonight, after the recital,” she said, going along with our rehearsed ruse. “But dear, I have a favor to ask you.”
My mother wrinkled her forehead, her suspicion aroused. “What kind of favor?”
Lisa Leann pointed to the closed doors that led to the activity center, then to an African-styled litter, a small couch-in-a-box on poles surrounded by scarlet curtains.
“For the sake of our theme tonight, we’re asking all the ladies to enter the room by way of our litter.”
Mother stared at the fake tiger fur and plush pillows.
“You want to carry me in—inside a box—on those flimsy sticks?”
“Certainly,” Lisa Leann purred. “It’s quite safe. All the women have done it.”
“Well, not me,” Mother said. “I won’t have any part of that.”
I could have told Lisa Leann this was going to happen. Just as I resigned myself to walk Mother through the doors, David said, “Grandma, what if I was one of the guys who carried you inside? Would you trust me enough to do that for me?” He took her by the hand and smiled, then slowly tugged her to the awaiting litter. “Go ahead, Grandma. Climb in. Please?”
So help me if Mother didn’t do as he instructed—a miracle if I ever saw one.
Suddenly, our team of tux-clad waiters, including Fred, Vernon, and Wade, joined David and lifted the poles onto their shoulders. The box, which hung by four stout ropes, gently swayed between them. “Forward march!” David said as Mother shrieked.
A young man’s voice floated toward us. “And now, our guest of honor, Mrs. Inga Swenson.”
The doors to the activity center opened as if by magic. Mother made her grand entrance. Just behind her, Donna and Evie carried a large birthday cake covered in lit sparklers.
“Oh my,” she said as she gazed upon what only could have been Mrs. Rittenhouse’s parlor. Our guests stood and applauded. Our women guests were smart in black dresses draped with long ropes of plastic pearls. The men looked elegant in their suits.
The room was ablaze with lights and the greenery we’d rented from a nursery in Denver. Hefty, hand-sketched windows of paper and foil were carefully stuck to the walls, mimicking their movie counterparts. A large, roughed-out painting of an Englishman on a white horse hung between two curtains just behind the head of our table. The painting was a contribution from the local high school art teacher, who’d done a great job making it look like the canvas that hung at the heart of Animal Crackers’s plot.
Five teen boys, dressed to look like butlers, greeted my mother. Their young voices sang a silly ditty from th
e movie and ended with a rousing chorus of, “Let’s give her what she deserves, what she deserves!”
Our porters carefully settled the litter on the ground, and with the help of David, my mother climbed out. “What’s all this?” she hooted, much to the delight of the crowd.
Nelson, Lisa Leann’s son, stood before her, dressed like Groucho Marx. He wore round, wire-framed eyeglasses and sported heavy, black brows that were glued above his green eyes. His look was completed by a thick but very fake mustache. He’s blond hair was dyed black and parted down the middle. He waggled a cigar between his fingers and said to the crowd, “Thank you for this magnificent washout, I mean turnout.” Then to Mother, he said, “Do you mind if I don’t smoke?”
I held my breath, wondering if she would catch the spirit of the fun from this icon she would certainly recognize. She smiled and said, “Of course not.”
Nelson pointed to Donna and Evie holding the birthday cake. “Good, it looks like your cake is already smoking.”
“Surprise!” the guests shouted in unison.
“What’s all this?” Mother asked again as I rushed to her side and kissed her on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Mother.”
She scowled. “It’s not my birthday. You shouldn’t rush me to get any older than I already am. My birthday’s not for two more months.”
Lisa Leann joined us in the spotlight and said, “Two months? That’s close enough for reality TV,” while the crowd tittered with laughter.
“Groucho” turned to Mother and, in a flirty Groucho sort of way, said, “You’ve got beauty, charm, and money! You have got money, haven’t you? Because if you haven’t, we can quit right now.”
Bless her if she didn’t laugh.
As our porters carried the litter back into the foyer, Lizzie swooped in and led Mother to the head of our lovely table. It was really a string of long tables pushed together, then covered with white linen. Its long center line blossomed with a lovely arrangement of mirrors, plastic pearls, greenery, and china.
Nelson turned to his mother and, in his best Groucho voice, said, “Why, you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and that’s not saying much for you.”
The teen playing the head butler cleared his throat. “Announcing our celebrity judge, Mr. Brant Richards!”
The party guests gasped, then stood and cheered as the judge who’d been chosen to observe our event made his entrance inside the litter. As Brant climbed out, Groucho wiggled his eyebrows and said, “Welcome! You must stay. Too bad you must be going.”
The two men shook hands, then Groucho said, “I’d buy you a parachute if I thought it wouldn’t open.”
There was more laughter as Goldie directed Brant to a seat next to the guest of honor. A mistake if I ever saw one.
The butler clicked his heels together and announced, “Our next honored guest has arrived! Introducing Miss Gianne Gillian, the esteemed host of The Great Party Showdown.” Gianne, dressed in a glittering gold dress, leaned out from behind the crimson curtain of the litter and waved at a room full of adoring fans.
So help me, Nelson swooned then recovered in time to help her stand. He waggled his cigar. “Ever since I met you, I swept you off your feet.”
The audience applauded as Lizzie led Gianne to a seat next to Brant. Nelson turned to his mother, who said, “This leaves me speechless.”
He replied with his Groucho flair, “Well, see that you stay that way.”
The head butler proclaimed, “Announcing the professor.”
The double doors swung open once again, and just like the movie, out came our own version of Harpo Marx, the silent, maniacal Marx brother. I squinted. Is that Dad?
Sure enough, there was my dad wearing a trench coat, a blond wig, and a stovepipe hat. When the butler reached for his coat, Dad revealed a peek at his undershirt and boxers. The crowd went wild, and Mother reddened. Seemingly unconcerned with the lecture he was sure to get, Harpo tooted his rubber-bulbed horn and slipped back into his trench coat before hurrying to sit in the only open chair next to Mother.
Mike Romano zoomed in for a close-up of my parents, capturing whatever pointed thing she was saying about Dad appearing in public in his underwear.
Soon, the girls and I, along with Wade and David, whisked out a crisp salad with raspberry dressing, honey- and soy-glazed salmon, hot rolls, twice-baked potatoes, and green beans with almond slivers, while our cheerful guests dined. Personally, I kept an eye on Brant. Who knew what he might say to my mother, or what she might say to him in return. So far so good, but I wouldn’t relax until this affair was over. The way I saw it, either Mother or Brant could erupt at any given moment. I didn’t know the man, of course, but from what I’d seen of him, he was as grumpy as our guest of honor.
Before we served the cake, the kids from the drama class performed a skit. One of the boys, dressed like Chico Marx, sat down at the baby grand piano we’d rented. Our Chico wore an elfin-pointed hat over a black curly wig. His velveteen jacket was open over a striped button-down shirt and tie. Honestly, the kid, who was one of Mrs. Hempshaw’s best piano students, played pretty well, though he seemed to have a little trouble ending his piece.
Nelson, still in his Groucho persona, strode to the piano. Chico looked up and said, “I can’t think of the finish!”
Nelson replied, “That’s funny, I can’t think of anything else.”
Just then, David, on his way to the kitchen, tried to brisk by Nelson. Nelson, wagging his eyebrows and cigar, reached for David’s arm and spun him around. Nelson said, as if in deepest confidence, “I’m sick of these conventional marriages, aren’t you? One woman and one man was good enough for your grandmother, but who wants to marry your grandmother? Nobody, not even your grandfather.”
I was just serving Brant his piece of our banana cream birthday cake with fluffy cream cheese filling when he snorted his first laugh of the evening at the classic Groucho line.
My mother pounced on him. “Surely you’re not laughing at me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Brant coolly replied. “You’re one of the funniest hicks this town has to offer.”
Mother pushed her chair back and stood. “Well, I never,” she said.
My dad leaned toward her. “Calm down, Inga,” he said. “Let’s not do anything rash.”
“Yes,” Brant said, balancing a big bite of cake on his fork. “Dearie, be a good little woman and mind your husband.”
Two cameras zoomed in as Brant leaned in to take his first bite of heaven. Before he could taste the creamy delight, Mother whacked him in the back of his head with her black clutch, smashing the cake on his fork into his nose.
“Serves you right,” Mother said. With that, she sat down again, looking a bit proud of herself. The partygoers froze with their forks in midair, unsure how to react.
Brant took his linen napkin and wiped the cake off the end of his nose. He turned to my mother. “I guess this is the kind of thing I can expect so far from civilization,” he said.
Mother put her hands on her hips. “If you don’t behave, young man, I’ll treat you to a second helping of what you just got.”
While Brant sulked, Mother began to actually enjoy herself. But the climax came when Brant stood up to give a toast, not knowing the “champagne” was actually sparkling apple juice we’d used to be in compliance with the church activity center rules. He said, “Here’s to the worst meal and company I’ve had in eons” and tipped his glass back to inhale its contents.
He spewed the juice as soon as his senses alerted him to the fact he hadn’t actually imbibed. When he grabbed his napkin and tried to wipe down his tux, he streaked it with icing.
Mother absolutely cackled and she stood and patted his arm. “What’s the matter, dearie? Are clean air and clean living a bit much for you?”
Brant took another sip of his juice and smacked his lips as he lifted his glass high. “Here’s to getting out of Dodge,” he said.
Nelson swept in and in classic G
roucho told Brant, “Don’t look now, but there’s one too many in this room, and I think it’s you,” as our guests tittered in laughter.
Brant shot back in perfect Groucho, “There’s one thing I always wanted to do before I quit … retire! Good night, everyone.” He sat his unfinished drink on the table, and while the room applauded his celebrity, he made his exit.
Later, when cleanup began, Mother held court in the foyer with a few of the well-wishers who remained while I grabbed a broom. Evie stopped to give my shoulders a squeeze. “When are you going to learn how to rein in that mother of yours?” she teased.
I blew a puff of air that made my bangs dance above my forehead, then with a Groucho flair, I picked up a carrot stick from a nearby tray of unused hors d’oeuvres and wiggled it like a cigar. “I had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.”
Evie laughed. “That Brant Richards is a card, isn’t he?” As I nodded, to my delight, Evie reached for her own carrot and said, “He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.”
Laughing, we realized too late that our little scene had been filmed by Mike, who was also the acting onsite producer. We both glared at him until he shrugged. “Sorry, ladies, just doing my job.”
As soon as Mike turned away, Evie giggled. “Good news, Vonnie. It looks like we won’t be going to New York after all.”
“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” I said. “Million dollars or not.”
Goldie
7
Warming Worry
Since the filming of the show the previous Thursday evening, my job as legal secretary and receptionist for Chris Lowe had been more about answering my own phone calls than his. So far, he’d been kind about it. Including, I might add, that when the whole crazy thing started, I’d brought him a copy of the contract I’d signed with Nelson and he’d graciously gone over every jot and tittle.
A Taste of Fame Page 5