Blue Heaven (11 page)

She glowered and downed her drink. Though there was no smile on Moira's face, her pout was the pout of victory. Then, without meaning to, I uttered five Words which reversed the positions completely,

"What's in the box, Moira?"

I referred to the dress box which Moira had carried on her errand of mercy. She'd returned with it, but before entering the living room had put it down by the hall closet, almost but not quite out of our line of vision.

"What box?" she asked casually.

It was no good, though. Despite her vast stage experience she had not been able, in the split second following my question, to conceal the quick panic felt by a guilty thing surprised.

"This one," said Gilbert, dashing to the hall and returning with it.

"Oh that," she said, making a pathetic show of stifling a yawn. "That's nothing. Just my book."

"The Forsyte Saga?"
asked Gilbert as he began prying it open.

"Gilbert, don't you touch that! It's Freddy's property!"

Gilbert gleefully opened the box, scrutinized its contents and burst into triumphantly bitchy laughter. He reached in and pulled out a paperback novel.

"Well, well! If this is what he's reading no
wonder
he's going blind!"

I could tell at first glance that it was one of those lushly packaged romance novels of the sort which have done so much to enrich the
coffers of my employer, Mr. Miller. On second glance, I could see that it was by Deirdre himself, an early effort entitled
Cupid's Tender Bludgeon.

The cover, in scrupulous adherence to the prototype, depicted a haughty raven-haired beauty standing on the edge of a moonlit cliff behind which rose the spires of an ancestral castle. Her face was contorted in the expression which seems de rigueur for these gothic covergirls, a sort of ecstatic wince. She was dressed in a long gown, the neckline of which swan-dived to one eighth of an inch above the nipples of her ripe heaving breasts. Behind her, one hand placed roughly on her pale moonlit shoulder, stood a tall bare-chested fellow who, judging from his appearance, owned not only the castle but one of the few Nautilus machines available in nineteenth-century Corn-wall.

"Look!" hooted Gilbert. I glanced up to see him dancing about the room, holding before him a gown very similar to the one worn by the woman on the cover. Gazing again at the portrait I noted that the woman herself bore a resemblance to Moira, though it was hard to imagine Moira looking quite so rapturous, in the company of anyone but a really good tax lawyer.

"Oh, God, Moira," I managed to gasp between guffaws, "he actually makes you dress up for him!"

"I don't see what's so goddamned funny about it!" Gilbert grabbed the book from me and ran to a chair a safe distance from Moira's.

"You are both such children! Just because he enjoys seeing a story brought to life! I mean, God, it's the exact same principle as the Royal Shakespeare Company's
Nicholas Nicklebyl"

" ' "No! No!" I cried,' " read Gilbert, " ' "You mustn't Simon! It's wrong!" But though my words were strong my actions were weak. I made no move to resist the tender onslaught of his hot sinewy flesh.' " "Shut up!"

" ' "Daisy O'Malley," cried a thin voice within me, "What sort o' woman are ye become in these three short months since ye left the cloistered halls o' St. Cecilia's?" ' "

Moira rose and, bounding across the carpet, snatched the book away.

"If either one of you tells so much as a soul about this-"

"Holly?" I cried snatching the phone up. "Holly Batterman? Have you got a pencil, honey?"

Well, that finished both Gilbert and me completely. We just sat there busting our buttons with Moira's demonically angry expression fueling our mirth.

"Are you quite through making asses of yourselves?"

"Are
we
through? Oh, honey," said Gilbert, "you've sunk low to make a buck before but ..." He stopped in midsentence as his amused expression faded, a shrewd suspicious look taking its place.

"Wait one minute! You're telling us you go three times a week to this incredibly rich old man and read soft porn to him, in
costume
yet, and all he's paying you is
twenty
dollars an hour?"

Framed that way, it seemed suddenly rather difficult to believe.

"Yes," she replied primly as she packed her dress back in its box. "Twenty dollars seems more than fair to me."

"Oh, I'm sure!"

Moira sighed wearily and huffed off toward the hall closet. She returned momentarily with her trenchcoat over her arm. She removed an envelope and handed it to Gilbert.

"There! See for yourself!"

He gazed at it sourly and handed it to me. It was a check for seventy dollars made out to Moira.

"Satisfied?"

"No," said Gilbert and, grabbing her coat, began rifling the pockets.

"Give that back, you shit!"

He did but not until his hand had emerged clasping a small Tiffany blue box. Moira watched with a weary put-upon look as he opened it to reveal a dazzling pair of ruby earrings.

"Paste!" said Moira.

"Realty?
Well, give 'em to me! I'll donate them to the block association jumble sale."

Moira snatched them back, remarking on their sentimental value.

"You conniving little tart! These must be worth thousands! No wonder you've kept your mouth shut about Freddy! You're raking in a goddamn fortune and you don't want to share it with me!"

"If Freddy wants to give me an occasional gift, I don't see that it has anything to do with you."

Gilbert disagreed strenuously with this viewpoint. Fearing a long, violent and unresolvable argument of the sort in which the happy pair was beginning to specialize, I thanked them both for a lovely evening and let myself out.

A phone call from Gilbert the next morning confirmed that I'd been prudent to take my leave when I did. They'd argued the matter well into the small hours and neither had budged one bit. Gilbert felt that had it not been for their engagement Moira would never have met Freddy, so it was only fair that all profits from her position (over and above her hourly wage) should be considered syndicate income and split fifty-fifty. Moira had begged to differ.

This disagreement marked the abrupt end of cordial relations between the syndicate's two principal shareholders. What slight amiability they had ever displayed toward one another vanished entirely. True, they continued to socialize as a couple and on these occasions managed to present a sweet portrait of prenuptial infatuation. But that was only in public. Within the confines of God's Country the atmosphere grew more Arctic with each passing day.

At first Moira professed to be saddened by the rift and made a few stabs at detente. She was cheerful to Gilbert. She ignored his belligerent silences and bought him a pair of amusing ear muffs. When these efforts failed to bring about any thaw, she took the big plunge: she called L.A. and fired Vulpina, explaining that the duchess had put her foot down. Gilbert, far from being grateful, pointed out that she was only making good on the lie she'd fed him earlier, and that firing Vulpina would only increase the cost of the gown, an increase they would split equally when the duchess reimbursed them.

Moira, indignant over the reception accorded these peacemaking efforts, shifted gears. Overnight she went to the opposite extreme and began goading Gilbert at every opportunity. He'd stagger into the kitchen at ten a.m. and find her nonchalantly perusing the
Times
in her ruby earrings, pearl choker and Hermes scarf. Gilbert retaliated by splashing dimestore perfume all over her bedroom, then removing all the lightbulbs and replacing them with red ones. Moira, by way of response, left three lines of talcum powder on a glass coffee table in the study.

And so the Christmas season passed.

But this behind-the-scenes cold war was not the only consequence of Moira's new Rent-A-Wench franchise. Nor was it the worst. These hostilities, nasty as they seemed, were merely the Calm before the Storm.

The storm broke on December 12 at Maddie Cellini's Christmas party.

Eleven

T
he
party was to begin at five in the afternoon and, in keeping with the innocent spirit of the holiday, the first two hours would be given over entirely to the junior members of the firm. Among the scheduled events were a snowball fight and a surprise visit from Santa, who would, one supposed, take the little Cellinis on his knee and ask them who they wanted hit for Christmas. We agreed that seven-thirty would be a prudent time to arrive.

This entailed leaving Manhattan by six, and since Claire's flight from Boston didn't get in till five I had only moments to fill her in on all that had transpired in her absence. She listened carefully and was particularly glad to hear that Gilbert and Moira were on the outs. It offered hope that he might yet wise up and back out. It also meant she'd get a chance to see Moira dissembling at full tilt. In this expectation she was not disappointed.

"Phil, my angel, how wonderful to see you. Mwah! Oh, your cheeks are so cold! Poor baby! You come right in and have a hot toddy!"

She turned to Claire who had gained a few pounds on her trip.

"Claire! It's been ages! You look different-I can't put my finger on it ... well, whatever it is, it
suits
you."

Moira was wearing a festive red frock adorned with a small jeweled Christmas wreath pin, a gift from Freddy. Her wearing it was a calculated kick in the teeth to Gilbert, a nightlong reminder of her superior income and intransigent refusal to share it. Still, she betrayed no ill will but rather gazed at him with an affectionate smile that was never less than convincing.

Gilbert's performance, though competent, scarcely approached the virtuosity of Moira's. He chatted merrily enough with Claire and me
but couldn't even look at his betrothed without his smile stiffening into a grimace. And my discerning ear could detect the pure malice churning beneath every "dear" and "honey" he uttered. Imagine Josef Mengele touring
Barefoot in the Park
and you'll get the idea.

Our drinks finished, we traipsed downstairs and into the car loaned to Moira for the evening by-who else?-Freddy Bombelli.

We arrived at eight.

Gilbert had once remarked casually to me that his mother was "into Christmas." I saw now just how staggering an understatement this had been. One glimpse of the house made it clear that Maddie's affection for the holiday surpassed even that of Charles Dickens and Mattell, Inc.

"My goodness!" said Claire. "People
live
here?"

"Oh Gilley,
it's fabulousl
Isn't it
fabulous?"

Casa Cellini is in a style architects sometimes refer to as Very Big House. Or Norman, I suppose, if that's the word that means lots of gray stone, leaded glass and turrets liberally scattered about the top. Viewed by moonlight in November, say, it might take on the ominous aspect of a stronghold, something built by a feudal lord whose run-ins with angry serfs had left him security-minded. Tonight, however, under the benign influence of Lady Maddie, it was literally ablaze with good cheer.

White lights defined every corner and contour of the house and red-bulbed candelabra glittered in every window. A winding path lined with neon candy canes led to a huge front door flanked by two twinkling angels, like the ones in Rockefeller Plaza, only bigger. On the roof of the house was an astonishing tableau of Santa's sleigh; astonishing, I add, not because the figures seemed lifelike, though they did, but because they had been rendered
in flight.
The sleigh hovered some twelve feet above the roof and the reindeer sloped gently downward. Only Rudolph's left front hoof seemed actually to touch the surface. How this effect was achieved I can't say, for the mechanism was invisible to the naked eye.

And that wasn't the half of it.

Trees all over the grounds were festooned with lights, as were the shrubs surrounding the house. On one side of the lawn three mechanical elves skated on a frozen pond. On the opposite side of the lawn was a life-size nativity scene. Real sheep, kept warm by thermal lamps, stood alongside statues of the traditional figures. Suddenly the
strains of "We Three Kings" were heard over the sound system and from behind the house appeared three resplendently draped mannikins. They glided crècheward along a concealed track and as they did a bright star appeared thirty feet in the air over the scene. When they reached the creche the music swelled into "Joy to the World." The elves stopped skating to watch. Then the lights dimmed on that scene and the wise men glided off around and behind the creche to return, one presumed, to their starting point at the rear of the house. To distract the viewer's attention from this, the roof suddenly brightened and Santa began waving and wishing us all a merry Christmas.

And though the area had not yet had a single flurry the entire scene was blanketed in snow. We stared for long moments, aghast and delighted.

"There was more last Christmas," said Gilbert, concerned. "I hope Tony hasn't had a bad year."

We were greeted at the door by our hostess. She wore a gaudy red dress with a huge bubble skirt and looked very much the queen of this Christmas kingdom.

"Well, hi kids! Where have you been! You missed the snowball fight!"

"Hi, Mom. Where's Santa's workshop?"

"Oh, don't you
miss
it? I know I do. It got all wet. Some poor workman nearly electrocuted himself on Mrs. Santa!"

Two maids appeared and helped us off with our coats.

"Moira, baby, don't you look pretty! I love your pin. Gilbert give it to you? Philip, honey, so glad you could come! And who's your lovely date?"

I introduced Claire and Maddie hugged her like a long-lost daughter.

"Claire and I have been collaborating for years."

"Ooh!" giggled Maddie. "Well, I'm sure it's no business of mine! Gilbert, are you sure you can afford to give Moira such expensive gifts?"

"Oh, Gilbert didn't give it to me," trilled Moira. "Freddy did."

"Oh, well
he
can afford it. So, the cat's out of the bag, huh?"

"Yes. Gilley's so clever he just wormed it out of me!"

"Isn't she sweet, Gilbert? Gettin' a job to pay for your gift!"

Gilbert replied that he didn't know what he'd done to deserve her.

"My goodness," said Claire, "that's quite a remarkable display you have out there, Mrs. Cellini!"

"Please, honey, it's Maddie! But I agree with you. Ain't it terrific? Do you know some old fogies on the town council tried to make us get
rid
of it? Said we weren't zoned for it or something."

"What happened?"

"Tony reasoned with 'em. Well, kids, are you gonna stand around in the hall all night or are you gonna come meet the family?" To this we made the only possible reply.

To the left side of the foyer I glimpsed a huge expanse of parquet leading to tall French windows. This was apparently the "sweet little ballroom" Gilbert had mentioned. Maddie, however, led us to our right into a large elaborately decorated living room. In one corner stood a huge flashy Christmas tree and in all the other corners stood huge flashy Cellinis.

It was clear that in describing the Cellinis as "an awfully big family" Maddie had not referred solely to their penchant for frequent marital relations with prayer the preferred contraceptive. Gazing about the room I saw a lot of Cellinis, most of whom were, themselves, a lot of Cellini. There were exceptions, younger men and women with slim builds and off-season tans, but for the most part groaning suspenders and billowing gowns were the order of the day.

Maddie, realizing that no one wants to meet a hundred heavyset strangers without first partaking of something alcoholic, steered us straight to a bar set up in front of a window overlooking those tireless little skaters. Behind the bar stood a tall chiseled cater waiter, the promixity of whom to so much liquor would present a challenge to both Gilbert's and my own limited self-control.

"Roger, hon, I want you to meet my son, Gilbert, and his lovely fiancee."

Greetings were exchanged.

"And this is his friend Philip and his date, Claire. Roger here isn't really a bartender. He just does it to make money. He's really an actor and next week he goes into rehearsal for an evening of one-act plays!"

Gilbert and I requested Chivas, Claire a glass of champagne. Moira, ever the professional, stuck to ginger ale.

"Gil, kiddo, how are ya!" boomed a voice from behind. We turned
to behold a bald grinning behemoth, his arms flung wide in greeting.

"Chick!" squealed Moira. She flung her arms about his neck, a tactic we'd see repeated dozens of times that evening. But this first encounter provided our first inkling of just how meticulously Moira had prepared for this assault on the hearts, minds and checkbooks of her family-to-be.

"It is just so good to see you again!"

"Well, good to see you, too, Moira!"

Maddie introduced us. He was Tony's cousin, Chick Sartucci.

"How's Rosa?" asked Moira.

"Well, she's puttin' away the eggnogs like they was Perrier but apart from that I guess she's doin' okay."

"And how's Lina? Is she here?"

"Yeah, she's here. She's doin' great-on a diet so be sure and tell her how good she looks."

"And Ugo and Betty?"

"Couldn't be better."

"And how are the grandchildren? I remember you showed me their pictures at Steffie's wedding. They must be so excited with all this! Especially little Silvio-I think three is the first year they really start to understand who Santa is, don't you?"

"You bet he understands!" said Chick with a booming laugh. "He made a list long as the fuckin' 'spressway! Hey," he said, turning to Gilbert, "some memory this girl has? That's the last thing a red-blooded guy needs, huh? A wife with a good memory!"

"Hey, I don't mind, Chick! She never holds anything against me- unless I ask her to!"

Chick roared and Gilbert flashed a smile at Moira. She wasn't the only one who could play to the groundlings.

"Say, 'fore I forget," said Chick in a less jocular tone, "I wanna thank the both of you for sendin' that lovely card after my brother Joey passed on. Me and Rosa thought it was real sweet of you."

Gilbert glanced at Moira for a confused instant then said that it was the least they could do.

"We really appreciated it, 'specially with you two bein' so new to the family. There are a lot of 'em your age didn't take the time to write anything at all, never mind a poem."

Maddie began waving at someone across the room.

"Lunch!" she cried. "I have some friends you gotta meet!"

"Lunch?" I inquired.

"Dickie Fabrizio. 'Lunch' is just his nickname. That's him over there," said Chick pointing to a man wedged into a loveseat, a plate of hors d'oeuvres balanced precariously on what once might have been a lap. "He's called 'Lunch' 'cause if you call his office any time between noon and four you can't reach him. He's out to lunch. Look at him! Makes
me
look like a fuckin' go-go dancer!"

Lunch rose with some difficulty and oozed in our direction. He looked like a special effect.

"You shoulda been here today!" said Chick, nudging me. "He played Santa Claus!"

"What did you do? Butter the chimney?"

Chick roared.

"Hey, Gil, I like this guy! Butter the chimney!"

I felt Claire slip her arm through mine and glancing down at her (for I'm six inches taller) I noticed a strange fixed smile on her face.

"Well, if it ain't the two lovebirds!" wheezed Lunch when he finally reached us. "Maddie here's been telling me all about you. 'Gratulations!"

Maddie introduced Claire and me saying that I was Gilbert's oldest friend, a playwright.

Lunch immediately revealed himself to be that creature most dreaded and despised by dramatists the world over: the Amateur With An Idea For A Play. His involved a man who, in the midst of an affair with a gorgeous woman in her thirties, discovers he's also attracted not only to her gorgeous teenage daughter but ("Here's where it gets good!") her gorgeous fifty-year-old mother. This premise was, he assured me, autobiographical and mine for the taking. I replied that I'd give it every consideration.

"How's Samantha?" asked Moira.

"Sammy? You can ask her yourself, she's right over there. Hey, Sam!"

"What do
you
want?" quacked back a middle-aged woman standing some yards away.

"Come here an' congratulate the happy couple!"

She joined us.

"Look at you," she said to her husband, "crowding the bar as
always! Gimme another gimlet, honey," she said to Roger, offering him her empty glass and an ill-disguised leer. "Oh, Maddie, isn't he a knockout?" she sighed.

Maddie giggled like a schoolgirl and said she was happily married but yes, he sure was a good-looking boy.

"What a puss on him!" Sammy said, squeezing his cheek. "Please, hon, tell me you like girls!"

"I worship them," said Roger in a voice which left no doubt in my mind that he was content to worship from afar.