Fools Paradise (9 page)

But every favor comes with a price. “How'd it go?” Wesley said again as he pulled plates out of the dishwasher.

“Good, great. I met a ton of stagehands.” She threw butter and garlic into a saucepan and opened a bottle of clam juice.

“Were they polite?” he said darkly.

“Mm, most of 'em.” She dumped a can of clams into the butter. “Start the pasta water, will you?”

Wesley turned in the act of filling the big pot. “Who was it?” he said in a throaty voice. “Who disrespected you?”

“It was nothing.” When the clams were heated through she removed them with a slotted spoon and set them aside.

“I gotta know who I hafta kill,” Wesley said, channelling his sixteen-year-old fantasy version of Badger Kenack. He got the burners going under the big pot. “Which linguine batch?”

“Um, Tuesday's. White.” She stirred a little flour into the liquid in the saucepan and heated it until it turned brown. Then she whisked in the clam juice.

“Aw, no spinach?”

“Okay, the spinach.” She hadn't the heart to deny him, tonight. The thought of her first day of real work still thrilled her, even after all the hassles. Besides, she didn't dare give the men any reason to complain about the service.

“Better be a double batch,” Wesley warned. “Tony worked the Clafoutis in at the Allstate. So who bugged you, Daisy?”

“You, for starters. Sheesh, can't I take care of myself?”

“No.”

“Well, I did today. I kicked a guy in the nuts and scared the rest of the crew half to death.” It hadn't been her who did the scaring, but hey.

Wesley got up in her face with two bundles of frozen homemade spinach linguine gripped in his fists. “What's his name? I'll kill him!”

“Well it was Badger, so you can settle down and unwrap that stuff.”

Wesley stared. “He wouldn't.”

The hell he wouldn't.
“I think he only meant to be friendly. Only I was feeling a little...sensitive. So I kind of kicked him before I saw who it was.”

“Hoo!” Wesley laughed. “Am I gonna kid him about this!”

She pointed with her whisk. “Unwrap.”

“I bet now you're glad you took that tae kwon do class with me. What did he do to you? Did you see the grid? Did you take the little elevator? Did you go to the piston room for lunch break? Did Burg remember you? Have you seen props storage?”

She answered mechanically while the sauce thickened. Bobbyjay had been really nice about her mistake with the clothes. How could he not say,
I told you so?
Her first day at work had proven one thing conclusively: living with the males of the Ditorelli family had prepared her perfectly for the physical and verbal abuse she could expect on the job.

When she had whisked in the clam juice and turned it down, she rinsed the parsley, dried it, and minced it with the big knife.

It was clear she would have to defend herself. That Packard guy had decided on sight that, if anything happened, it would be her fault. Bobbyjay couldn't be around all the time. Even Badger didn't know enough to back off.

Wesley pulled her out of her dream. “Did you see Pete Packard?”

“Uh, yeah.” Suddenly she remembered that Wesley and Goomba were very close. If Wesley knew anything Goomba wanted to know, it was as good as telling her grandfather to his face.

Wesley burbled, “Is he really mean and scary? Everybody's afraid of him. Even grampa. Tony said Uncle Gambolino filed a grievance against Jack Yu when Jack sent him home drunk and Pete Packard almost killed him. Didn't even yell. He just hauled off and hit him. He didn't disrespect you, did he?” Wesley sounded less than eager to correct the attitude problem of the Local's representative in New York.

“He was very clear about the rules,” Daisy said with minimum spin. “We didn't talk long.” The clam sauce began to turn light green. She turned off the heat, stirred in the clams, covered the pan, and went to the fridge for salad. “Slice the bread?”

Wesley took the big knife to this morning's loaf. “Want me to do garlic bread?”

“No time,” she said, looking regretfully at the kitchen clock.

“Aren't you going to get cleaned up?”

She rolled her eyes. “When would I be doing that? While you're quizzing me for Goomba? Before the men have been fed?”

“I'm not asking for grampa!” he said, sounding injured. “I'm your friend.” He didn't say,
and I'm one of the men too.

“You're my buddy, buddy,” she said, giving him a hug. “Put the butter and cheese on the table while I go clean up?”

“And I'll cook the linguine.”

“I'll cook the linguine. You're not tall enough to handle that pot.” He looked so crestfallen that she kissed his cheek. To divert his mind she said, “Work with me here, buddy. If he let me go today, he can't keep you off the street much longer. Put out the butter and cheese. And open a bottle of wine?”

She ran upstairs the back way, knowing the men would still be sitting on the couch in front of the dog race. So long as she got the linguine cooked in time, she was okay. And if she was late, so what? She felt so disgusting in her sooty clothes that she would risk the worst for a shower.

But of course the men decided to show up for supper two minutes early tonight. She came downstairs to find Wesley trying to drain the cooked linguine himself, wrestling Tony for the pot, getting scalded, and of course the linguine was cooked hard.
Al crunchy,
as Goomba would say.

“Al pesce,”
he said when he had chewed his first mouthful. Wesley gave him a look. “Like all that fish in the freezer. That reminds me,
angelina
, we need to set a date for your engagement party. How about Memorial Day weekend?”

“Everybody will be working,” Wesley pointed out.

“The Stones are in town Memorial Day,” Tony said.

“Italian Fest,” Vince said.

“The Monday a week after, then,” said Goomba. “A week from Memorial Day. All the kids still in school, tired out, the moms rested and cooking good, and the fathers available for a party.”

“We should probably check with Mom,” Daisy said. Postpone, postpone, postpone. The longer she could put off the wedding, the more time she had to find a way to cool Goomba's jets.

“Where's your mother tonight?” Goomba said.

“Big case going into court Thursday,” she said. “Two girls quit and she's helping out in the word processing center tonight.”

He shook his head. “It's something when all the women in this family are working and the men sit around watching TV.”

“Sucks,” Vince agreed, just as if he minded warming the sofa between meals.

“Like you want to work,” Daisy said.

He shot her an ugly look. “I'm recuperating.”

“From elbow strain.” Wesley mimed lifting a bottle to his lips. Vince cuffed him across the table.

Goomba buttered his bread. “The bread machine is wonderful,
angelina
, but I miss your grandmother's homemade ciabatta. That woman could bake! Ah!” He bit, shut his eyes, chewed, and shook his head. “Not the same.”

Yup. She was in the dog house, all right.

Goomba swallowed. “For the party, we'll have sausage and peppers. Burgers. Beer. Fried smelt of course.” Daisy groaned inwardly. “I'll bring up a cask of my homemade paisano red. It should be just about ready. And Daisy can do a quadruple batch of her tiramisu.”

“If I have time,” she muttered.

“You got ten days. Stash it in the big freezer with the smelt. Now, invitations. Daisy, you tell the family. Tony, you come to the meeting with me on Wednesday and make sure everybody in the bar knows. And,” he paused importantly, “I'll pay a visit to the office. I want to invite Bobby Morton personally. So he'll know there's no hard feelings.”

Daisy's blood froze. Around the table her cousins stopped chewing and eyed their grandfather.

“What?” Goomba smiled blandly at them all. “No cake for me tonight,
angelina
. Think I'll take my wine out into the yard. Figure out where to put the tent.”

Of course she hadn't made a cake, so the boys got ice cream. Tony grumbled. She gave Wesley a double portion, since his metabolism was on permanent weed. When the men were out of the dining room and she'd shooed Wesley off with his mountain of ice cream, she sneaked upstairs and called Bobbyjay.

“He's up to something. The engagement party is for the first Monday after Memorial Day. He's going to see your grandfather at the office to invite him personally,” she hissed.

“Oh well,” Bobbyjay said, sounding far too relaxed. “Probably wants us to believe it don't bother him that Bobby Senior got you a job.”

Daisy groaned. “He's hopeless! We can't trust them in the same room together!”

“Mine ain't exactly smoking a peace pipe. Still,” he said with that maddening calm, “no bombs flying yet.”

“Oh, God.”

“Don't forget to be ready half an hour early tomorrow. I want to show you about the tools I'm bringing you.”

She groaned again. “I've got to find something else to wear. And the laundry! Omigod! I have five loads in the basement!”

“See you tomorrow, then,” Bobbyjay said. “Take it easy.” And he was gone. How could he be so nerveless in the face of impending disaster?

Still, he hadn't needled her about the different work clothes. What a decent guy Bobbyjay was.

In the depths of her closet she found a pair of tan overalls embroidered with lime green daisies in front and a big American flag on the butt. She tried them on. They fit a little snugger than they had in the ninth grade. She shrugged and threw them on the bed, then hiked to the basement with the laundry basket.

Daisy's second day of work went fast. Like yesterday, she was assigned to the electrics crew and spent the morning on top of a rolling metal elevator called a lift, while a couple of stagehands down on the deck rolled it from one light—no, from one “instrument” to the next. She soon sweated her gloves through, working with her arms over her head, adjusting the angle of rows and rows of instruments. Her arms and shoulders ached. Sometimes her wrench slipped and she burned her bare arm on the hot metal. Sweat ran down her throat into her bra. Her hair was plastered to her scalp.

After four hours one of the dykes on the deck said, “You know, you can boost the lift a little higher if you don't like working with your arms over your head.”

Daisy stared. “It just occurred to you to mention this?”

The dyke stared back. “Thought you'd figure it out for yourself.”

“I'm ignorant.” So this was Local ribbing. They must know her as Ditsy Daisy already. “That's not the same as dumb.” A sharp pain tightened her throat.

“I didn't call you dumb,” the dyke said, clearly amused by Daisy's defensive tone.

“Ditsy Daisy, that's me,” Daisy said bitterly. “Did my grandfather talk to you? Did he tell you to be mean to me?” she demanded, glaring.

“Oh, honey,” the dyke said sympathetically. “You ain't seen nothin' yet.”

But she showed Daisy how to raise the lift another two feet. Maybe she wasn't mean after all.

The guy who had pushed the lift around all morning hadn't mentioned that it could go higher.

She challenged him when he got back from the lunch break. “How come you didn't tell me I could raise this thing? My arms are killing me!”

The guy didn't even look at her. The next time he moved the lift, he yanked it hard, so that she lost her balance and had to cling to the hot metal railing to keep from falling.

“Hey! Take it easy!” she yelled irritably. She glared down on his scalp.

“Gonna tell Marty Dit on me?” he sneered, finally taking notice of her.

This was war. She lowered the lift and confronted him. “Do you have to stand on my face so's you can feel tall?”

The guy flushed. He was shorter than she was. “Get up there and shut up.”

“Be more careful,” she shot back. “I'd hate to drop my crescent wrench on your....” she looked down at his crotch. “Head.”

He flushed redder.

“Are we focusing, people?” the lighting designer called from out in the house.

Her partner pointed at her with his middle finger. “Git. I ain't telling you again.”

She got.

It helped being higher. She burned her cheek instead of her arms, but not so often. After an hour of fierce concentration she figured out how to get to the bolts, loosen them just enough, slitch the instrument just the right amount, and tighten the bolts with a minimum of effort and self-scarring.

She finished her afternoon's work without incident, except for when she came down at afternoon break and swigged her half-finished Coke where she had left it next to her toolbag and got a mouthful of soggy cigarette butts.

She went to the sink by the upstage right door to spit it out.

Bobbyjay was coiling electrical cable there. “They do that to everyone,” he said. “You shouldn't drink caffeine or sugar pop anyway. Wears you down. Water's better for you.”

“And I'll get a clear bottle,” she said. “At least then I'll notice if they've peed in it.”

He squeezed her shoulders comfortingly. Daisy moaned and collapsed against him with sudden relief and pleasure.

“No P.D.A.,” the helpful dyke said, walking by.

“We're engaged,” Bobbyjay said.

“Fuck, I'm married. You wanna watch me stick my tongue down Jack's throat on the deck?”

Daisy blinked. “You're not gay?”

“Uh, Daisy,” Bobbyjay said in a warning voice.

But the dyke only grinned. “Your virtue is safe with me, tootsie. I'll tell the rest of the girls to keep their hands off Bobbyjay's fiancée.”

“Tell the guys while you're at it,” Daisy said darkly.