Fools Paradise (5 page)

Bobbyjay's shoes smelled like fish. He was too tired to listen to this any more. For one horrible moment he was back in Marty Dit's Targa, up to his armpits in icy fish. Black rebellion rose in his throat.

“She's not stupid,” he said, louder than he'd meant to.

His grandfather sent him that calculating look again. “You're my only help, and not much darned help at that.”

“I'm
not much help,” Bobbyjay repeated numbly. He thought of Daisy watching him climb into that car full of fish. Had he looked dumb and helpless to her? His voice rose. “I'm the one who's run ragged fixing up the messes. Your idea of fixing it is to call me. And then I take the blame.”

For the first time in his life, Bobbyjay felt annoyed about that.

He couldn't believe he was arguing with the old man. Mutiny made his ears ring. Dammit, there was a difference between protecting his family and looking stupid to Daisy Ditorelli. He had to draw a line.

But Bobby Senior didn't turn a hair. “You can't expect me to take the blame, can you? I got a position to uphold.”

Nettled, Bobbyjay said, “Can't you think of something? You're the boss of this family.”

Pop showed his yellow teeth. “You think of something, collitch boy.” God, that was getting old. “You want to be the boss so bad, you gotta come up with something better than goofing off and making a monkey of yourself.”

This was a new accusation. “Wh—but—I don't want to be the boss!”

“Well you're gonna be,” Bobby Senior said with finality.

Bobbyjay's jaw dropped in horror.

Pop scooted forward in his chair. His voice sank to a confidential growl. “You don't think I can get that moron Bob Junior elected, do ya? Rob don't give a hoot. It'll be twenty years before Bobbert and Raybob have any sense, if it don't take forever.”

The old man really meant it.

Bobbyjay couldn't breathe. “Why do any of us have to get elected?”
Oops, don't say that.
“You're our f-famous guy, Bobby Senior.”

Bobby Senior's resemblance to Daisy's grandfather intensified. He stabbed one stubby finger onto Bobbyjay's knee.

“Because I ain't retiring from the Board someday just so Marty Dit can fill it up with hisself and his retarded nephews.”

Bobbyjay stared into the face of the seniormost Morton and realized once again how right Daisy had been.

They'd kill each other.

They would take both their families down with them.

And nothing stood between them except him and Daisy and this fake engagement.

“But Pop,” Bobbyjay said feebly, aghast at what Daisy had got him into. “Dad won't be too happy about this.”

“That's why I ain't sayin' anything yet. You got to help us out here, boy. Show us you're leadership material. Figger out how to square Bobby Junior with it. And for Chrissake, get rid of this damnfool engagement with the Ditorelli brat. I need that like I need a hole in the head right now.”

Bobbyjay felt himself getting mad. “We're engaged. I'm going to marry her.”

“‘We're engaged,'” Pop mimicked falsetto. “‘I'm going to marry her.' She's stupid.”

“So am I,” Bobbyjay snapped.

Bobby Senior's fist smashed down on top of his beer can, spraying Schlitz on the big TV screen. “You must be! Christ, that pigfucker Marty Dit will make shit outa me for months!”

Daisy was right. The engagement was the only thing keeping these two maniacs apart right now. Quick thinker, that girl.

An idea of low cunning occurred to Bobbyjay.

“Old man Ditorelli isn't any too happy about our engagement either. He smiled a lot last night,” Bobbyjay said, passing lightly over the police .38 misfiring, “but I could tell he was pissed.”

Bobby Senior's evil old face lit up. “I should hope so. The foxy old motherfucker thinks he's so goddam smart. I bet he's shitting stage weight.”

In pursuit of his cunning idea, Bobbyjay said, “He doesn't want Daisy to get a stagehand job either. Says she can't take care of herself. Thinks she'll get into trouble.”

“Probably get knocked up in the first week,” Bobby Senior agreed, confirming Bobbyjay's own worst fears.

But Daisy wanted the job. She'd pleaded with him. She'd touched him on the arm and begged.

Ruthlessly, Bobbyjay turned the screw. “Yeah, it would probably give Marty Dit a coronary if she actually got a gig somewhere, like, props extra at the Opera or something. All those scumbags in the apprentice program hanging around her like flies.” The thought made him a little queasy. He stifled the feeling and watched his grandfather's face.

The seams around Bobby Senior's mouth slowly creased. “He'd hate it.”

Bobbyjay gave it one more turn. “Pop, are you sure you want to provoke Marty Dit? You do this every election year.”

Bobby Senior bridled, trying and failing utterly to look innocent. “Do what? I don't do nothin'.”

“Every election year you run for the Board and Marty Dit tells everybody, ‘Let Bobby Morton Senior do it.' Halfway through the campaign you do something to piss him off. And then he just has to run against you.”

Pop chuckled. “Yeah, he does seem to get hisself all lathered up, doesn't he?”

It occurred to Bobbyjay that he wasn't totally pouring oil on the troubled Morton-Ditorelli whirlpool. “You're not gonna do that this year, are you, Pop?”

Bobby Senior smacked him on the knee. “I'm gonna give your fiancée what her pretty heart desires, boy.”

“Oh, good,” Bobbyjay said hollowly.

“We have to talk. Right away,” Daisy hissed into the phone.

“I know,” Bobbyjay said. “Can you get away this afternoon?”

She peeked out the window to the driveway. Goomba was standing in front of the Targa, waving his arms emotionally while some guy in a nylon jacket took pictures. “I'm doing groceries this afternoon. Meet me under the big tree by the soccer field.”

“I think I'd like to meet in, like, a restaurant,” Bobbyjay said. “If it's all the same to you.” He sounded uneasy.

“You want somebody to see us together?”

“Lots of somebodies. Your grandfather might not shoot me in front of witnesses.”

She laughed in spite of her shredding nerves. “Poor Bobbyjay! I'll protect you. How about Pierogi Palace on Milwaukee? Around four.”

“Date. Bye.”

Daisy stared at the phone in her hand, then realized he had hung up. This had to be harder on Bobbyjay than it was on her. At least nobody had threatened to shoot her.

At four she pulled up to a meter right behind Bobbyjay's Jeep in front of Pierogi Palace.

Bobbyjay waited, all-of-a-twitter, by the pastry case. “Did you drive yourself?” he asked in an undervoice.

“Of course. I get to do groceries by myself,” she added bitterly. She made him sit down at one of the plastic-lace-covered tablecloths and order her some pork pierogis before she would listen to him fuss. “Don't be so nervous.”

“I thought my Dad would have a coronary,” he said. “Pop's pissed, of course. How's your family taking it?”

Rightly supposing he referred to their engagement, she said, “Mom's holding out for a monster wedding. My stupid cousins are just stunned, I think. Wesley hates you.”

“Oh good. Who the fuck is Wesley?”

“Be nice, he's just a kid. He's in love with me. Wesley is my cousin, he's Goomba's grandson. Goomba worries me. He's pretending this is all just wonderful.”

Their Cokes came. The waitress was one of those hundred-year-old black shawls who never smiled. She dumped their Cokes on the table and slapped down a pile of napkins beside them.

“I can't understand why Goomba's so calm,” Daisy said when the waitress was out of earshot. “The insurance guy said it would cost five thousand dollars to detail it and replace the upholstery. Nothing else will get the smell out.”

Bobbyjay blanched. “Will that do it?”

“Should, the guy said. Goomba really loves that car.” She added, “I'm expecting you to kick in the deductible.”

“Whatever, no problem,” Bobbyjay said hurriedly. He gave her one of those dog-like looks of devotion that depressed her so much. “We're in this together.”

“That we are,” Daisy said in gloom. Sitting across from him now in Pierogi Palace she wondered why she'd wanted to meet with him. Bobbyjay Morton had goofed off so badly in his apprentice days that even she, shielded from the Local by a solid phalanx of scratching and farting male relatives, had heard about it.
He may be a hunk of surfer-blond beef but he's thick.
What was she doing engaged to him?

Like right now, he was pretending his family hadn't filled the Porsche full of smelt. The dope.

Be reasonable,
common sense said.
What good would it do if he admitted it?

She couldn't think it would do any good at all. Still, it might be less of a strain on him to admit the truth. He would see that she didn't care, and then maybe he'd relax around her.

Fat chance. When men fell for her, they lost their minds.

She broke the news hard and fast. “Mom's going to take me to Bloomingdale's to look at wedding dresses. And we're registering for china and linens. You have to be there.”

Bobbyjay didn't look delighted. “When? I'm running the opera for, like, the foreseeable.”

She rolled her eyes. “When are you not working?”

“I'm a stagehand,” he said.

Give me strength.
“I'm aware of that.”

“I'm always working.”

She set her jaw. “Well you can break away for an hour to look at china with me and Mom. I can't pick out everything myself. It won't look right.” The fact was, Daisy was getting a little creeped out by Mom's enthusiasm for this wedding. You'd have thought Mom would be more nervous, not less, to know that the groom was in the crosshairs of every male-relative-by-ex-marriage Mom possessed. “We're committed, Bobbyjay. I know this isn't what you would have wanted, but if we don't put up a really, really good imitation of a happy couple, our grandfathers are going to end up shooting each other.”

“I know,” he said unhappily. “I know.”

“I'd like to turn them both over my knee.”

“You hold 'em down, I'll paddle 'em,” he said. He gave her a weak smile and, when she giggled, his smile brightened until he looked positively intelligent.

“Bobbyjay, is it true you went to college?”

His expression turned wary. “Yeah.”

“What was your major?”

His lips pressed together. “Mechanical engineering, with a business minor.”

“Whoa. Good grades?” she said wistfully.

“Yeah,” he said, eyeing her.

Daisy sighed. “I wonder sometimes how much of my life I destroyed forever, blowing off high school.” She marveled that someone who could get to college and do well there could have so little common sense.

“I'm no shining example, Daisy. What am I doing with my degree? Pushing boxes and taking abuse—” he stopped.

“From my grandfather, I know, it's not a career, it just feels like one.” She tried to smile. “If it's any comfort, he talks that way to everybody. That I'll-kill-you-now thing.”

“Not to you.”

“For me, he puts sugar on top.”

“You're a girl.”

“That's not it,” she said, annoyed. “I'm special.” Bobbyjay looked at her with cow eyes.
Oh hush.
“I'm special to Goomba. I did something when I was small that made him love me. Once upon a time, nothing was too good for me. Seems like, when I messed up in high school, he forgot all about that.” She added gloomily, “I'm only the housekeeper now.”

“You're Cinderella,” Bobbyjay blurted.

Daisy looked at him with new eyes. Bobbyjay's big, handsome, dumb-brick face was pink.
He believes in fairy tales,
she thought.
He's got me in the middle of one.
She was touched in spite of her cynical misery.
Trouble with living in a fairy tale is, you never know how long is your sentence of scrubbing hearths before your prince finally shows up with the glass slipper.
She softened.

“So you'll come to Bloomie's with us?”

“I can't pick out shit for your trousseau thingy.”

“Of course not. But you have to pretend like you love me enough to show up and let me drag you through prewedding hell.”

“Oh, that's an inducement.”

She opened her eyes. “Big word alert.”

“Uh,” he said, “I mean, isn't it gonna irritate your mom to spend all this money on a wedding that doesn't come off?”

Daisy waved that away. “It's Goomba's money. He owes you after pulling a gun on you. And I want some new clothes. Besides, wedding shopping takes months.”

He groaned. “It sounds like hell all right.” He fiddled with the slice of lemon on the rim of his Coke glass.

“It's just shopping,” she said, not sure if that was the whole truth. “Plus Mom's being psycho-mother-of-the-bride. She's freaking me out. It would be nice to have you there,” she admitted. “I feel so alone. My cousins think I'm a traitor and Goomba's constantly lying about how great this match is, which makes me so nervous I can't tell you, and Wesley acts pathetic and heartbroken and I feel guilty and I don't want to.”

“Look, who is this Wesley?”

“He's only sixteen and he's my second cousin or something. He thinks Badger Kenack is God's gift and he wants to be just like him.”

Bobbyjay sent her one of those slow dumb-ox looks that said,
You had it for Badger too, once up on a time.

She wanted to tell him to shut up, but it was only Bobbyjay looking dumb.
That's how he gets away with dealing with his family the way he does.
She vowed that she would never, ever take that look at face value. It was the kind of look that got people to confess.