Last Call (12 page)

“I’m always tellin’ Diana that she inherited a wonderful sense of style from her dear departed mother,” Hayden says as he continues to admire his new houseguest.

She, in turn, feels the pink flooding her cheeks, and unaccustomed to being the center of attention, darts back into the changing room.

chapter eighteen

O
n the afternoon of the Fourth of July, Hayden takes Joey out front and shows him how to change the gas tank on the grill and then fire it up for a cookout. Joey reminds his grandfather that he wants his hot dogs charbroiled until they’re black and crunchy.

“I can already taste the cheeseburgers with pickles and catsup, a big bowl of barbecue potato chips, and onion dip,” says Hayden as he loudly smacks his lips. “And then washing it all down with some cold beers and a shot of whiskey.”

Getting into the spirit Joey says, “I’m going to roast a whole bag of marshmallows and melt chocolate bars onto graham crackers and show Rosamond how to make s’mores!”

As they continue to plan their dream menu, Diana strides out front with a platter that appears to contain mushy flat tennis balls, not freshly made hamburgers and foot-long hot dogs. “This looks like pond scum,” says Hayden.

“Or mold,” suggests Joey and pokes at one of the spongy green “hamburgers” with his finger.

“Better than burgers!” announces Diana.

“Garden boogers,” yells Joey, quickly picking up on their uncanny resemblance to snot.

“Joey, stop that at once!” his mother insists. “For your information, they’re sage patties, free from nitrates. We’ll eat them on whole wheat buns and instead of potato chips loaded with carcinogens I’ve made a delicious tropical fruit chutney that we can have with frozen yogurt. I read that sage possesses regenerative properties for the liver. And that the tannic acid found in mango has a healing influence on the blood vessels while guava relieves asthmatic respiratory distress.”

“Chutney?” Joey proceeds to stick out his tongue, gag, and pretend to vomit onto the grass.

“Oh, bloody hell,” says Hayden and grimaces. “Diana, darlin’, you are about to spoil my favorite holiday.”

Hayden is forced to wonder if Diana is truly his biological daughter—garden burgers on July 4th? Ah well, he’d just have to mooch off the neighbors. There was an overwhelming sense of collegiality among the residents of the block, and with Hayden’s reputation for being a promoter of joy and enthusiasm, he was a sought-after guest. The neighborhood children were especially big fans of Hayden’s, since he always purchased a large quantity of whatever they were selling for school or Little League. Despite his characteristic thriftiness, Hayden’s heart always went out to a young salesperson.

“Come on now,” pleads Diana. “Rosamond is very excited about the almond milkshakes that I’m making. According to my book on Chinese herbs, they’re supposed to help with lung problems.”

After Diana heads back into the house, Hayden attempts to cheer Joey. “Don’t worry. She’s not going to pee on our parade. Winners never quit and quitters never win, always remember that.”

By late afternoon the rest of the neighbors have gathered in front of their town houses, barbecuing and partying, and waiting for the fireworks to begin. The Haitians and Dominicans have organized a steel-drum band at the end of the street and play languid upbeat rhythms. A jumble of white, black, brown, and Asian children begin jumping around together and shouting for a sprinkler to be turned on.

Hayden is especially fond of Brooklyn’s immigrants—Russians, Mexicans, Nigerians, Koreans, Orthodox Jews, and families from the Caribbean. Some live together in communities and maintain their separate cultural identities. But most join the hubbub of integrated neighborhoods and preserve the best of their native lands—recipes, music, crafts, and dress, such as the many colorful cotton skirts and headscarves worn by the Jamaicans and Trinidadians on the MacBrides’ street. The neighborhood is filled with the singsong speech of the West Indies, where people stress the ends of their words and vibrant conversation is a form of entertainment.

Hayden often thinks that if only the rest of the world could see the results of this grand experiment—people exactly like them, worried about paying their rent and raising their kids right, but without paying much mind to the color or religion of their neighbors. Whether Asian, African, or American, people want a decent place to live, decent food to eat, to be around long enough to watch their children grow and prosper, and not be pushed around by lunatics with guns. If they’d just realize there was only one life, this one, and there was only one race, the human race. Then perhaps all the killing could finally come to an end.

Hayden and Joey pretend to eat their sage patties by biting into the rolls. But as soon as Diana runs into the house for a phone call they quickly toss them into the trash.

“I do’an’ even think the raccoons will make a run at those,” says Hayden.

“What’s wrong?” asks Rosamond. “I think they’re good.”

“Call me when your old convent publishes their recipe book,
Someone’s in the Kitchen with Jesus—101 Things to Do with Campbell’s Mushroom Soup,
” quips Hayden. “Then we’ll let
you
be the taste-tester.”

Fortunately, when it’s time for the tropical fruit chutney, Tony arrives to take Diana to the giglio festival in the Italian and Polish neighborhoods where the North Side of Williamsburg meets Greenpoint. His brothers are running a booth of carnival games and his sisters and aunts will keep them busy at the church bingo game until long past midnight. Diana assumes that Joey is excited about attending the festival and riding the Ferris wheel, an activity his mother has deemed asthma-safe.

So Diana and Anthony are surprised when Joey begs off, saying that he wants to watch the fireworks in the park across the street. What his mother doesn’t know is that her son has other, top-secret plans.

As soon as Tony’s shiny black Monte Carlo has turned the corner Hayden and Joey both grab one of Rosamond’s hands and make a dash for the Palowskis. Just three doors down, Ed and Sophie are barbecuing for their nine children, six brothers and sisters, and umpteen grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, as they do every year.

There’s always plenty of extra food since most of the family work at local packing plants, warehouses, trucking companies, and the Costco in Long Island City. The leftovers, slightly irregulars, and those boxes that just never made it onto the forklift are known throughout Brooklyn neighborhoods as “swag.” And people constructed elaborate barter systems, such as beans for toilet paper and pet food for baby food, depending on where the neighbors and various members of the household were employed.

The three party crashers are ushered to the overflowing picnic table and finally dig into greasy cheeseburgers, vats of potato salad, and charbroiled hot dogs. And Hayden is given his very own family-size bag of potato chips. Rosamond bites into a hamburger just off the grill and the juice trickles down her chin. Without a free hand to wipe it off she turns away embarrassed. But Hayden mops it with a napkin and laughs wholeheartedly, then bellows with amusement, “Now that’s a burger! And it doesn’t leave grass stuck between your teeth.”

“Yes,” agrees Rosamond. “It
is
rather tasty.”

Joey enters into a marshmallow-toasting contest to see who can make theirs the brownest without letting it catch fire. Then there’s freshly sliced watermelon that dribbles down arms and necks and sets off a seed-spitting war. For the adults there’s another watermelon filled with cantaloupe and honeydew balls that have been soaking in vodka. Hayden doesn’t mention the secret ingredient that makes it taste so refreshing. “Now
that’s
a fruit salad,” he says to Rosamond as they finish drinking the leftover juice in the bottom of their bowls and go back for more.

Rosamond can’t understand why, but she begins to feel flushed and light-headed. “I have the strangest urge to do jumping jacks,” she whispers to Hayden and then releases a girlish giggle at the very thought of such a spectacle.

“And who in the heck is Jumping Jack?” rails Hayden, who has by now had several beers and fears that Rosamond has taken a shine to one of the fellows at the party.

“Jumping jacks, silly,” Rosamond says and demonstrates by moving her arms up and down. “At the convent I used to lead calisthenics every Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Well why didn’t you say so. C’mon, everyone!” Hayden announces to the thirty or so partygoers lounging around talking and laughing with drinks in hand. “Rosie’s going to lead us in some exercise, and lord knows a few of you could use it.” Hayden nods toward some of the more pronounced potbellies in the crowd.

“Hayden, I didn’t mean for
real
,” protests Rosamond.

But he’s already haphazardly assembled the group, and started the jumping jacks by shouting “hut two! hut two!” and there’s nothing for her to do but join in. Fortunately the participants appear to think that this is an excellent amusement and they all hop up and down chuckling and giving each other high fives until they tumble onto the grass laughing. Even the normally sedentary Ed Palowski sits up in his lounge chair and claps two empty beer cans above his head.

Once it grows dark enough for the children to light sparklers and draw their names in the evening air, Hayden tells Joey it’s time to head home so they can proceed with their scheme. The only task left is to make up some excuse to give Rosamond.

As they walk up the driveway Hayden says to Rosamond, “Okay then, Joey and I are off to uh—to look at some hunting rifles. We’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Oh, I haven’t been to a sporting goods store since I was a girl.” Rosamond’s giddiness is accompanied by a sudden taste for adventure. She makes a note to get the recipe from Mrs. Palowski for that delicious watermelon basket. It certainly was restorative.

Standing slightly behind Rosamond, Joey points down toward the spot on his arm where one normally wears a watch. It’s almost ten o’clock.

Hayden makes a show of looking down at his watch. “Actually, they’re probably closed. We’re going to the twenty-four-hour outdoor garden center to look at some fertilizer for the backyard—very dirty stuff.”

“I wouldn’t mind going for a drive.” Rosamond enjoys being in Hayden’s company, even when he’s just going to fill the car with gas. It seems as if something always happens in his presence. Occasionally they ran into an old business crony of his and the two exchanged quips, or else they might see a man wearing a shirt covered in a blinding print and Hayden would lean over and whisper, “South Africa called. They want their flag back.”

It’s Joey who ultimately decides that honesty is the best policy. “We’re going to set off some rockets on Cyrus’s grave,” he confesses. “We could get arrested. But you’re welcome to come if you want.”

“Why not?” Rosamond is definitely up for the adventure, even if she doesn’t fully appreciate the stakes. “I used to love fireworks when I was a girl. We would smuggle them into Maine from Canada on my father’s boat—great big sizzling flares, screaming rockets, and red pinwheels.”

“Okay, then,” Hayden relents. He has to admit that her daring is impressive. “But wear the old penguin suit, just in case. It may come in handy.”

chapter nineteen

T
he gates to the small Jewish cemetery are secured by a rusty but effective padlock. It’s an old graveyard and the trees and shrubbery have long ago outgrown the original landscaping plan. This makes for dark dense patches that loom in the corners like giant rock formations. A sudden gust of wind rustles through the branches above them as if the breeze has a secret it’s trying to tell. And for a moment the air swirls about them like water.

Joey runs ahead carrying a flashlight that illuminates thick canopies of cobwebs slung between the surrounding hedge like silver wires strung with tiny diamonds. Eventually he locates a place near the back where a couple of bicycles are leaning against the fence and there’s a gap in the shrubbery. By climbing from pedal to seat it’s easy to scale the fence.

“Probably some kids daring each other to spend the night in the graveyard,” concludes Hayden. “Let’s give them their money’s worth.” His voice is filled with bravado and mischief.

Joey is the first to hop over the fence, then Hayden chivalrously holds the bicycle steady for Rosamond as she climbs up, lifting her thick cumbersome skirts with one hand and using the other to lean on his shoulder for support. Just as she’s at the top of the fence, Hayden shines his light on her head, the stark white wimple making her face ghostlike against the surrounding black. Some shouts can be heard a few yards away along with the trampling of dry brush and several “ouches” as heads collide and toes are stubbed against tombstones in the rush to hide. When Rosamond is safely over the fence, Hayden follows. He’s glad it’s dark so she and Joey can’t see the effort that it takes him. The physical sureness and capability he’d always taken pride in had recently changed to a sense of limitation and uncertainty.

Once they locate the correct plot, Hayden and Joey line up ten empty Coke bottles and pat them down into the fresh earth of Cyrus’s grave. After placing a rocket inside each one they stand solemnly in front of the plastic marker for a few moments, as if it’s a shrine. But the silence is soon interrupted by the rustling and whispering of frightened boys trying to find their way back to the fence in the darkness.

It’s a moonless night except for a pale pewter halo behind thick dark clouds, and even Hayden has to admit that this particular cemetery ranks high when it comes to spookiness. Every willow branch dangling along the path makes you feel as if a spirit is tapping you on the shoulder, or running a long bony finger down your cheek. And with their rounded tops, the tombstones and tall, thin monuments resemble shadowy and misshapen soldiers about to descend upon anyone who dares to disturb the dead.

“Shouldn’t we say a few words?” Hayden asks as they stand atop Cyrus’s final resting place.

“How about the Mass for the Dead?” suggests Rosamond.

“Too Catholic.”