Fools Paradise (4 page)

Remembering how the car looked with little fishies opening their mouths at her through the windshield, Daisy didn't figure her cherished grandparent had got much sleep.

Her cousin Vince was the first one up. He staggered through the kitchen into the dining room in his jockey shorts, scratching his johnson and farting oh-so-humorously, “I Like Coffee, I Like Tea.”

Wesley came in looking like his eyes were glued shut. He grabbed his Sugar Bombs and milk and a bowl and spoon and poured his cereal at the counter where she was sifting flour for pancakes. “What were you doing last night, Daze? I thought I heard voices and the hose running.”

She couldn't think of an answer. “Take it in the dining room, would you please?”

In all her worrying about Goomba's reaction, Daisy hadn't once realized she would also have to face the dirty socks crew and explain about the car and the fish, and oh God about Bobbyjay Morton. They would have a group cow. On the other hand, maybe the guys wouldn't have to go to work right away. Between their cow and Goomba and her explaining, it might give Goomba a little more time to cool off.

Tony came in next. “Aw, make 'em blueberry today, won'tcha, dollface? I hate that apple shit.” As he reached past her into the fridge, he pinched her bottom.

Daisy yelped.

Instantly, Wesley threw his spoon at Tony. The two of them went down on the kitchen floor. Their bodies caromed into Daisy. An egg rolled off the counter and smashed on Tony's back.

“Stop it!” Daisy whacked Tony on the head with a spatula.

Tony grabbed Wesley by the tee-shirt and thumped him against the linoleum.

Daisy gave up on finesse. She kicked Tony in the nuts.

Tony screamed.

She took the opportunity to haul Wesley out from under his cousin by one ear. “Are you okay?”

“You've crushed my testicles,” Tony squeaked, rocking on the floor. “How come you never ask am I okay?”

“You started it,” she said.

“He threw a spoon at me!” Tony said, as if he was ten instead of almost thirty. “Little pansy,” he added.

“You pinched her on the ass,” Wesley said, glaring across his cereal bowl.

“She likes it,” Tony whined, and Daisy almost kicked him in the crotch again, but he saw her setting up for it and rolled to his feet. “Bitch,” he muttered from the dining room doorway, and called, “I need coffee in here.”

Daisy closed her eyes. She drew in a long, deep breath. Somewhere in a parallel universe, her cousins didn't live downstairs. Her parents hadn't divorced. Her dad stayed away from dancers and cocktail waitresses and her mom stayed home, doing all these chores herself, only without having to trip over World Wide Wrestling in her kitchen. In that universe Daisy had a job that paid in money, not Goomba love.

Not that she could do without that. Mom loved her, kinda, when she wasn't working at that law firm, and Wesley loved her with all the passion of a sixteen-year-old's hopeless crush. But Goomba was the center of her universe. He made the whole family's world go round.

She thought of his beloved Targa full of fish and her chest tightened.

Then she thought of the look on his face as he drew a bead on Bobbyjay Morton with his gun.

What had she started?

She'd better get this kitchen clean before he got up.

Ten minutes later the egg was off the floor, the pancake batter was on the griddle, the bacon was out of the oven, and her cousins had their coffee, even Wesley, who was being rewarded for defending her virtue. Goomba came breezing in, rubbing his hands together, smacking her on the cheek with a Burma-shave kiss.

“There's my sweet
angelina
. Coffee smells great. Morning, boys.” Goomba took the mug she'd poured for him and carried it to his place at the table. “Apple pancakes, my favorite. Sit, sweetheart, sit, you made a lovely breakfast. Eat.”

Daisy sat stiff in her chair and watched the males tuck into apple pancakes and bacon. Goomba had that look he wore on union meeting nights, when he was planning to make trouble.

As he got to his last swallow of coffee, she fetched the pot from the kitchen.

Goomba watched like a snake watching a bird. Her hand trembled as she poured. She moved to put the coffee away, and he lay his hand over hers.

“Leave it.” Ceremoniously he wiped his mouth on his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Boys, I got something to say.”

Daisy's knees shook. She sat back down and set the pot clattering on the table.

The other male Ditorellis looked up from their breakfasts.

Goomba took her hand in his. “Our little girl is getting married, boys.”

Daisy's breath stopped.

Wesley turned white. His fork clattered on his plate.

Tony and Vince looked at each other and back at Goomba. “Who the fuck to, Goomba? She don't even date,” Tony said.

Goomba looked at Daisy. He was going to make her tell them.

She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them to stare at the ceiling fan, and squeaked out, “Bobbyjay Morton.”

Dead silence. A long dead silence.

She snuck a peek at her cousins.

Tony, caught in the act of chewing, let a piece of bacon fall from his mouth. “You're shitting me.”

Vince looked at her like she'd gone insane. “A Morton? You got engaged to a Morton?”

Wesley just looked stricken.

Goomba hadn't even mentioned the car yet. She could just imagine the explosions when that came out.

She took a slow, silent, deep breath.

It was her responsibility to stop the explosions. Whatever devious strategy Goomba harbored in his melon, he was forcing her to follow through.

She looked around the table, thinking of the Targa full of fish, and how prone to fistfights her cousins were, thinking of a long-ago night and another car burning right down to the tires in front of the house.
Goomba, don't fight any more. I love you.

It was worth it. She had to save her loved ones.

Licking her lips, she said, “We've been seeing each other for a while. Secretly.” Glancing wall-eyed at Goomba she added, “We—I knew how you would feel about it.” She couldn't choke out a lie about being madly in love with Bobbyjay Morton. “I told Goomba last night.”

Vince looked at Tony, then at their grandfather. “It could be. Remember how she fucked us with that little crippled girl.” He shook his head. “You really done it this time, Ditsy.”

Daisy met his eyes. “I'm over eighteen. I can marry who I want.”

Tony managed to finish chewing his bacon. “Yeah, but Bobbyjay Morton. What a moron. A Morton moron, the biggest Morton moron there is. Why don't you just stick a knife in Goomba's heart and have done with it?”

“You did this!” Wesley burst out, and Daisy flinched. Wesley was the only person in this family who treated her decently, and now he hated her.

But Wesley shoved his chair back and stood, shaking, pointing at Goomba across the table. “You drove her to it!”

Daisy's jaw dropped.

Wesley seemed terrified to be yelling at the family capo.

Goomba squeezed her trembling hand. “Easy, boys. I want you to know, this match has my total approval.”

Wesley looked like he might faint. “If you had let her get work in the Local, she wouldn't have done it,” he accused.

Daisy felt awful. The one thing Wesley wanted in all the world was to become a stagehand as soon as possible. All his cousins started at sixteen, some even earlier, sneaked onto the job call on nights when there weren't enough stagehands to hump boxes for a big rock show. But times had changed. Employers were stricter. Wesley would have to wait until eighteen to become an apprentice. If he didn't die of his cousins' contempt before then.

She said, “I'm sorry, Wesley. I—I know it's a shock.” She couldn't say,
I know you love me.
His eight macho cousins, two of them in the room, would never let him live it down.

“It's for the best,” Goomba pronounced. “We're gonna bury the past and bring two great stagehand families together.” God, he sounded phony. Daisy wondered what he had up his sleeve.

With a sob, Wesley threw himself out of the room.

“Pussy,” Tony muttered. Vince grunted. They each gave Daisy a cow-like stare and then went back to their breakfasts.

Daisy burst into tears. Goomba pulled her to his chest and petted her hair.

When the scratch-'n'-fart team had finished eating and gone, Daisy crawled off her grandfather's lap and hiccuped. “I'm sorry, Gup—Goomba. I'm so sorry. It's hup—all my fault. Please don't be angry.”

“Shh, shh,
angelina
, I'm never angry with you.”

She looked at him with eyes sore from crying. “I've hurt you. I never, ever,
ever
wanted to do that.”

Goomba took both her hands in his. His knuckles were big and gnarly, but he held her hands as if they were live birds. “Maybe Wesley's right. Maybe I drove you to this, hm? It kills me when I think about the terrible world out there, and my
angelina
lost in it. I was only trying to protect you.”

She sniffled hugely.
Plus you wanted to get a free cook and housekeeper for life,
came the cynical thought.

But his eyes were kind, looking into hers.

Daisy melted.
Oh Goomba, can't you be a little less mixed up? You're such a menace, and I love you so much.

She took a deep breath, so the lie would come out strong.

“I want to marry Bobbyjay.”

Goomba pressed his lips together and nodded. He was really hurt. He wasn't faking. Her heart twisted.

He swallowed hard. “You get what you want,
preziosa.
We'll have a big celebration party out in the back yard. I'll invite all the Mortons. And,” he said, drawing himself up as if facing the firing squad, “I'll take you shopping this weekend. Just you and me, huh? Like when you were a bambina and you still wanted to spend time with the old man.”

“Oh, Goomba!” Daisy dissolved.

Vince stuck his head in the door. “What's for supper?”

Twelve hours later Bobbyjay was standing in his father's back yard, getting yelled at by the author of his being.

“Whadaya mean you couldn't take the blame? Ain't you in this family? Honest to Christ, I think Bobbert here's a better son to me than you are. He don't say no to me!”

Bobbert sucked at his beer can and squirted more lighter fluid onto the grill. A pillar of fire shot into the air.

Bobbyjay confiscated the lighter fluid. “I told you last night, Dad. Pop's running for office this year. This story comes out, it could blow his re-election.”

Bobby Junior narrowed his eyes. “You talkin' back to me, boy?”

Oh, shit. Bobbyjay reddened. “No sir. But Bobby Senior said—” He should never try to explain. It only made Dad worse.

“I said,” Bobby Junior raised his voice, “you
talkin' back to me?”

“But, Dad—” Bobbyjay bowed his head and let the storm break.

“You got no respect for your elders? You think you're smarter than your old man? Is that it? You think just because the old man sent you to collitch you know something I don't? Maybe you're too good for stagehand work, is that it? You got a Bachelor of Asshole degree so seniority don't mean nothin' anymore? What th—” Dad's tirade broke off.

Bobbyjay raised his head.

“The fuck's going on? I'm trying to sleep.” Pop stuck his head out of the basement window. “Oh. You showed up,” he said as he spotted Bobbyjay. “Get in here.”

“I'm talkin' to my son,” Bobby Junior whined.

Bobby Senior ducked back into the basement without answering.

Keeping his head bowed, Bobbyjay mooched into the house, carrying the lighter fluid can with him.

“Well?” Pop demanded, as Bobbyjay cautiously entered the basement den.

His grandfather looked older by the light of the Sports Channel. Bobbyjay thought he detected a creepy resemblance to Marty Dit: same big red nose, same wrinkly crinkles around the eyes, the same shrewd, calculating look, like,
How dumb are you?

“What's the matter with you? Siddown.”

Bobbyjay sighed and took a seat on the edge of the broken-backed sofa.

“Talk.”

Tiredness and frustration overwhelmed Bobbyjay for a minute. After picking smelt out of the Targa's upholstery at the Ditorelli place he'd dragged ass back to the Opera House to find that Mikey Ray and Scooby had covered for him like champs. The post-performance changeover from the
Götterdämmerung
set to the
Siegfried
set had lasted until two in the morning. His shoes were still damp. His clammy jeans bunched and chafed him at the crotch. He felt too whipped to get bitched out any more.

He swayed where he sat. But Pop settled on the sofa, nursing a beer, and watched him.

Reluctantly, Bobbyjay told all.

It took a while, because Pop exploded a few times. Especially at the part where Daisy told Marty Dit they were engaged.

Bobbyjay kept his head down and waited for the cursing to stop.

“My god! You're engaged? Are you stupid? You got engaged to Ditsy Daisy? This is your big idea of fixing things? Jesus H. Christ! What were you thinking?” The rhetorical-question bitch-out was hereditary to the Mortons.

“I knew you would take it like this,” Bobbyjay muttered.

“You thi-i-ink? You're shitting me. Tell me you're shitting me.”

“No sir,” Bobbyjay said stubbornly. He couldn't forget Daisy crying over the car, throwing herself between him and her grandfather's gun. “We care about each other. I know you don't like it.” He set his jaw. “But we do.”

“Are you trying to make my life harder? Ditsy dumbass Daisy,” he muttered.

“She's not so ditsy,” Bobbyjay said.

“I'm run ragged trying to watch over this bunch of idiots I spawned,” the old man grumbled.