Two mornings later it was the day of the Fabulous Family Fiesta, and the temperature was already ungodly high. It had stormed during the night, and with my obsessive dread of lightning, I’d woken up in a panic. I hadn’t run to my grandparents’ room to sleep on the floor between their beds like I usually did because I could see, between flashes, the palest beginnings of morning just beyond the locust trees in our backyard. I had a skinny little book that featured illustrations of a phenomenon called black lightning, and a fireball coming through a window and rolling across the floor, just like the A-bomb fireballs we’d learned about in civil-defense drills. I’d planned to saturate the book with lighter fluid and incinerate it in the stone fireplace at the bottom of our yard. I was so afraid of the book that I hadn’t burned it yet.
Ivan and I were despondent about the weather. We’d worked too hard—or we thought we had—planning, putting up posters, and worrying about entertainment, to cancel. But yards were muddy, branches dripped, and the spiderwebs that still hung over the neighborhood were strung with raindrops. A thick, sunless haze made it seem hard to breathe. Steam rose off our mossy walk and clouds of gnats were already bothering us. Max tried to be optimistic, saying, “Don’t worry. It’ll dry up by Fiesta time.”
Ivan said, “How do you know it won’t rain more?” He pointed at some heavy clouds in the distance, no doubt packed with black lightning. He was bleary-eyed and pale, but seemed to have recovered from the Heist.
“Because I know—I heard the Joy Boys say it on the radio last night.”
“Yeah, but I asked my Magic 8-Ball if it was going to be a nice day, and it said, ‘My sources say no,’ ” I complained. I was also disappointed, and so was Max, because Slutcheon hadn’t come by for his just deserts the day after the Heist, but Ivan just seemed glad to have the vinegaroon.
We’d spent the day before sleeping late, resting on our hard-earned laurels, and waiting not only for Slutcheon but for Gary, the paperboy, to come around in his noisy red-and-white Nash Rambler and deliver the Star. When it arrived, we unfolded it nervously, scanning the front page for news of the Heist. There, at the bottom, we saw: RARE SCORPION STOLEN FROM MUSEUM. Clustered together, we read that authorities were very concerned and had no real leads, museum employees who’d been working late that night said they hadn’t noticed anything amiss, and local hospitals had no reports of anyone being treated for vinegaroon exposure. Naturally, there was speculation that Russians might have been involved. Max had said, “Why would the Russians steal it back?” Reading on, we took exception to the part about “chocolate cake used as an amateurish baiting method” by the thief, and that the exhibit case had been “inexpertly cut and patched.” But we loved the detail that there was also speculation that a woman may have committed the crime, but it didn’t say why.
“If Slutcheon comes to the Fiesta today,” I asked, “could we do it then?”
“No!” Ivan cried. “I mean, then everybody would know it was somebody at the Fiesta who broke into the museum. And we’re the most likely suspects.”
“That’s true,” Max agreed.
Ivan was adamant. “We just need to wait till the right time!”
At that moment Brickie stepped out onto our steps and said, “Jesus Christ, the mug out here is thicker than drisheen,” which was some Irish crap his mother had forced him to eat as a child. “I guess I can expect a major efflorescence of fungus on the last of my bee balm and zinnias.” The morning Post was tucked under his arm. “The paper says it’ll be clear tonight. Shouldn’t you boys be busy getting ready?”
I ignored the question and asked, “Why do you have to work today? It’s Labor Day.”
“That’s right—it’s Labor Day. I have to go labor. That’s your government—always at work so Americans have the freedom to lounge around on holidays. Right, guys?”
“Right,” we answered.
“By the way, did you boys hear about that whip-scorpion creature that was stolen from the National Museum the other night?”
“Yeah,” I said casually. “That’s pretty cool. Did they find any fingerprints?”
“Today’s Post says they found some, but they were small—maybe teenagers. If I didn’t know you boys better, I’d think you stole it!” Brickie laughed. “See you this afternoon. Please don’t give your grandmother too much trouble.” He went off in his black government Dodge Coronet.
We looked at each other, bug-eyed. “See?” said Ivan. Max gave a low whistle of relief.
“I guess we should start doing stuff,” I said.
Max said, “All we really have to do is fix up the cake, mix up the Kool-Aid, and put up some decorations—I don’t know what.”
“We need tables for food and stuff,” I said. “And chairs. It might be too wet for people to sit on blankets.”
We took a few minutes for some scratching. A mourning cloak flitted by—they were flying so slowly at this time of year—and rested on a nearby azalea bush. I caught it gently in my hands. I didn’t have a mourning cloak in my butterfly collection, and its amazing gold and blue colors and deckled wings put me in mind of a skirt of my mother’s, and this made me a little sad. For Ivan’s sake, I let it go. Beautiful butterfly dust was all over my hands, so I stroked it onto my cheeks. What I really wanted to do was put it on my eyelids, like Elena. “War paint!” said Ivan.
“Let’s go see the vinegaroon,” Max said.
“This morning he ate a cucaracha,” Ivan said proudly.
We hustled across the street to the Goncharoffs’, sneaking stealthily up to Ivan’s room, where he carefully took the shoe box containing the vinegaroon down from his closet shelf. He’d fixed the top with a viewing hole covered with plastic wrap, and furnished the box with sand and rocks. The vinegaroon rested peacefully in his green bottle hidey-hole. Max quickly threw in one of Tallulah’s beetles, and he scuttled out, grabbed it, and started gobbling it with his black fangs. “So cool!” I said.
Max added, “You’re gonna love the taste of Slutcheon, old buddy!”
“Ivan, you gotta be sure to keep him hidden.” The other night’s inkling of fear still crept around in my head like a poison-ivy vine. Then I asked a question I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer to. “How’s Elena?”
“She’s okay…I guess.” Changing the subject, he said, “Let’s go downstairs to see if Maria has the cake ready.”
In the stifling kitchen, a sweaty Maria was just taking a big yellow rectangle of cake out of the oven. “Caliente!” she warned. “Cuando está frío, you make pretty.” Rudo and Linda and the toddler twins ran in, Katya and Alexander babbling in Spanish. Maria gave the four of them fresh tortillas and they scrabbled back to the yard, dog toenails clicking on the floor, tortillas flapping.
Ivan spoke to Maria in Spanish and she answered, wiping her face with her apron. Ivan translated, “We gotta wait two hours till the cake cools, then we can ice it. Let’s go collect chairs and things.” He grabbed up two small Mexican chairs painted brightly with flowers, and we dumped them in my yard.
“We need to check on Beatriz,” I said. We hadn’t seen her since the Heist. We were hesitant to knock on the door, fearing the Senhor and Senhora, so Max just called out, “Be-a-trizzz!” She appeared at the back door, and it was something of a shock. There was an angry scab on her knee, and her hair was now trimmed in a short Darla-esque bob. “Everything is okay,” she whispered. “I told my parents what you and Max said, and they believed it. I had to go get my hair fixed yesterday. At first they were mad, but I think they like my new look, and Zariya got hers cut, too!” She struck a movie star pose, poofing up her bob.
“It looks great!” I said, and Max agreed, saying, a little wistfully, “You sure don’t look like Little White Dove anymore.” We’d all miss those shiny black braids.
“Are you guys okay? What about the you-know-what?”
“Everybody’s fine.” Ivan smiled.
“What you boys need to be doing is getting ready for the Fiesta!” So bossy, but thank God for Beatriz.
“That’s what we’re doing!” I said.
Ivan said sheepishly, “You saved the day the other night, Beatriz. Thanks.”
“Yeah, you were pretty brave,” Max said.
“We were all brave! We all did our part! Hey—let me get the decorations I made.” She ran off, returning with a stack of colorful paper flags. “They’re the flags of all the neighbors’ countries! America, Brazil, Holland, Austria, Ukraine, England, Mexico, and Hungaria, for Gellert!” she said excitedly. “And look at this special one I made for you guys!” Beatriz held up a skull and crossbones against a crayoned violet background. “Nobody but us will get it!”
We laughed, admiring them all. “Perfect!” I said.
Then her face fell. “But I’m afraid it will rain and everything will be ruined.”
“Nah,” Max said. “Look—the sun’s coming out. A little bit.” The sun was indeed peeking from the overcast sky, the low haze drifting and dissipating. The temperature seemed to immediately shoot up.
“I gotta go. My mama and I are making quindim right now for the Fiesta,” Beatriz said. “I’ll see you later! I can’t wait!”
We left Beatriz’s magnificent flags in my yard and went to Max’s, where Mr. Friedmann was in the kitchen washing dishes, a web punctuated with egg sacs hanging high over him. “Come back in a few minutes ven I finish and vee can pick vatermatoes for your party.”
We gathered a few kitchen chairs, a couple stools, and a rusty lawn chair and stashed them in my yard. From there, we sneaked out three of my grandmother’s ancestral walnut dining room chairs and a potty chair with a high, soft seat that my grandfather had used when he’d had his hemorrhoids. Luckily we didn’t run into Dimma, who was probably upstairs enjoying her first Cutty and Chesterfield of the day. We crossed over to the Shreves’, where we hoped Beau and D.L. might help us out, if they weren’t in the mood to rough us up or play war.
“Wah, gennlmen!” Mrs. Shreve said, opening the screen door. “How nass to see you. Ah’m afraid the boweez are at baseball practice.”
“Can we borrow some chairs for the Fiesta?” I said. “Beau said you had some folding ones you take to baseball games.”
“Of cawws you can, sweethot. They are raht thaya in the cahpowut—just take ’em. We are so lookin’ fowud to the potty.”
We spent some time arranging the furniture in our yard. Then, figuring it was time to collect the watermatoes, we went to Max’s backyard, where Mr. Friedmann was fooling around in his garden. It was amazing, even in September—overrun with shiny green peppers, tomatoes, head-size cabbages, yellow squash and zucchini on hairy, contorted vines, leggy string beans still dangling from their stick teepees. Mr. Friedmann picked his way over to his eggplants, where the deep-purple fruit hung nearly to the ground, the leaves riddled with holes. “Ach, zhese lacebugs! Vhy can’t you boys collect zose?”
Dozens of yellow cabbage butterflies danced over the squash blossoms in the hot, brightening air, indistinguishable from the small locust leaves that were falling from the trees.
“Come, boys! Zhese vatermatoes are all for you. Pick vhat you vant.” In a corner of the garden, fenced off with chicken wire to keep the “warmints” from eating them, were Mr. Friedmann’s watermatoes. Nobody else was able to grow them because he had a secret formula—Max told us his dad peed on them—to produce pretty, round fruits a little bigger than cherry tomatoes but with the wonderful taste and crisp consistency of watermelon. We thought they were miraculous, but were forbidden to pick them. Dimma said that Mr. Friedmann could get rich with his secret technique, but I don’t think the Friedmanns cared about money. Giving Max a colander, Mr. Friedmann showed us the least damaging way to pick the watermatoes, saying, “And you can eat a few—it’s nearly lunchtime—but leaf plenty for your party.” He went in the house and returned with thick hunks of dark bread slathered with butter. “Now you don’t eat so many!” Mr. Friedmann said, adding, “Never put zhyself in the vay of temptation; even David could not resist it.”
“Aww, Pop,” Max said, handing over the full colander. “Always with the Talmud.”
“I’ll go vash zhese and bring zhem to your party.”
We were so hot we ran the hose over our heads to cool off, although I was careful not to ruin my new war paint. Then we lay in the shade of the climbing maple to rest. Looking up, we could see one or two silken lines strung horizontally between trees, which we now knew were made by “ballooning”—spiders floating on the breeze like parachutists. Gold and red maple leaves drifted down around us. “Your dad’s so nice,” Ivan said.
I asked Max, “Who’s David?”
Max said, “You know—the shrimpy guy who killed a giant moron named Goliath with a slingshot.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering. “I have that in a storybook Estelle gave me. What could David not resist?”
“I forget, something with some lady?”
I wondered why Max knew so many Bible stories, so I asked.
“Almost everybody in the Bible is Jewish, dummy! Jesus was Jewish! Jews taught Christians everything they know!” Max thought for a second. “But Jews do have too many dumb rules. Sheesh.”
Now I was really confused. Jesus was Jewish? I thought my family was Christian, and I said to Ivan, “Are you guys Christian?”
“Elena told me once that my grandfather was Jewish, back in Ukraine in the olden days. Some bad Cossack guys had a club called SMERSH, and they put him in jail till he died.”
“What’s a Cossack?” I asked him.
“Like a Nazi cowboy, I think.”
Max whistled. “How come you never told us that?”
Ivan shrugged again.
I was realizing what a man of many secrets Ivan was, and his revelation confused me more than ever. “Are Catholics Christian?” I asked, wondering about Beatriz.
“They have that Pope guy,” Max explained. “And he’s like a king, and then Mary, who’s like a queen, but I’m not sure about Jesus. And they have some secret knights who are supposed to take over the world. At least that’s what I heard at Hebrew school.”
I wondered if I should ask Brickie about all this news, but it might be a can of worms that didn’t need opening.
Max sighed. “I hate when the leaves start to fall.”
“But they’re pretty,” Ivan said, catching a rosy maple leaf.
“Yeah, but it’s reminding me that we gotta go to school tomorrow.”
This was too much sad talk for me. “Maybe it’s been two hours and we can decorate the cake.”
“Let’s go see,” Ivan said.
In the Goncharoffs’ kitchen, Maria gestured at the big golden cake on the counter. “Your cake es ready. You wash your hands first.” She exited, leaving it to us. I really hoped that Josef wasn’t around, and I knew Ivan felt the same way.
On the counter next to the cake was the bowl of blue icing we had requested, plus a flabby rubber icing bag that put me in mind of a scary device I’d seen in my grandparents’ shower—not the enema contraption, but close. Max grabbed a spatula, dredged up a blob of icing, and flung it onto the cake.
“Hey,” I objected. “You don’t get to do it all.”
Ivan put his hand into the bowl, added another blob to the cake, and smeared it around with his fingers. “We can do it faster this way.” Happily, Max and I joined in.
In minutes we had iced the cake to our satisfaction. Crumbs were mixed into the icing, giving the cake a nice fuzzy look. We licked our fingers clean. From the pantry Ivan produced a Keds box full of things we’d collected to decorate our cake. The idea was that each square of cake, when cut, would feature a party favor. Onto the icing went two green army guys, one kneeling with a bazooka, one tossing a grenade. A sparkler left over from the Fourth of July. A 1943 steel penny from my blue coin folder. A couple plastic rosebuds. A bracelet of smudgy pink pop beads. Some Cracker Jack prizes: an airplane and a tiny working jackknife the size of a paper clip. A silver Monopoly piece dog. A shark tooth I had found at the bay. A wishbone. A piece of fool’s gold from Rock Creek. A Harmon Killebrew baseball card that we didn’t care about because Killebrew had failed to become Rookie of the Year. A Japanese cat’s-eye marble that we didn’t care about because it was Japanese. Last, we scattered M&M’s and sticky pink and white Good & Plenty candies between the prizes. The cake looked grand and enticing.
“I hope Elena gets the penny,” I said. I was already regretting donating it to the cause but knew she’d give it back.
“I hope General de Haan bites the fool’s gold and breaks his yellow Nazi teeth,” Max said. “I wish we could put dog-doo inside his piece.” This cracked us up, as anything about doo-doo always did.
Ivan said sternly, “Remember, the Fiesta is to make everybody be nicer to everybody. And we want to get in that pool.”
“Okay, it’ll be nicer if he breaks his teeth,” Max said, and we laughed some more.
We were deciding whether to clean up or leave the mess for Maria, who we knew would think we did a poor job, when we heard feet on the stairs. We froze. In another moment, in a cloud of smoke, Elena whooshed in. Startled, she yelped, “Boys! What are you doing in here?” She laughed, seeming as glad to see us as we were to see her. But I noticed her face, still discolored, and the dark shadows under her eyes. I don’t think I’d ever seen her without makeup.
“We meant to surprise you, not scare you!” Ivan said.
Then Elena saw the cake and exclaimed, “My goodness! It’s spectacular!” She gathered us all into a hug and said, “Let me make a drink and we’ll go outside. It’s too hot in here.”
On the porch she took her place on the swing. “I’ve missed my precious boys. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. Did Ivan tell you I banged myself against the swing the other night? I was trying to get Rudo off me.” I couldn’t help but remember the sound of Josef’s loud slap, but we didn’t have to answer her lie because she quickly went on. “But I’ll fix myself up by Fiesta time. You’ll hardly notice. Is everything ready?” She let Max light her Vogue—coral—while she drew one of the green bottles from her kimono sleeve and took two Miltowns, gulping them down with her Cuba libre.
“Almost,” Max said optimistically. “All we have to do now is mix up the Special Tropical Punch, set up a couple of tables, hang Beatriz’s decorations, and that’s it!”
“That’s great! Oh, John, is that war paint on your face? Very dramatic.” Elena always said just the right thing. Handing her cigarette to me, she took a swig of her Cuba libre and then offered the drink to Ivan. “You worked so hard today! You deserve a puff and a sip!” We passed our rewards around. Then Elena’s smile dimmed. “I must tell you boys that I won’t be able to stay at the Fabulous Family Fiesta for very long,” she said.
This was devastating news. “Why can’t you stay?” I whined, already dizzy.
“Something’s come up,” she said sadly. “A prior engagement I’d forgotten about. I am so sorry, darlings.” She smiled slightly and did look genuinely sorry.
“You mean you have a date,” Max said accusingly, and burped.
“Yes,” she said. “A date.”
“Who is it?” I asked. A hot breeze came up and she looked off into a sudden flurry of falling oak leaves and rattling acorns.
Elena returned her attention to us, saying, “Oh, it’s an old friend who’s in town. I didn’t expect him to be here so soon. He’s an artist and a baseball player from Cuba.”
I said, “But Cuba is bad.”
Ivan looked crushed. “But you are coming to the Fiesta, right?”
“Of course I am! I just can’t stay.” She reached out for Ivan and hugged him, but he just went floppy in her arms. “And boys, Cuba is not bad. They’re trying to help poor people there. Don’t believe everything you hear.” She sighed, rising from the swing.
Max, frustrated, let loose one of his long, loud raspberries, which brought back Elena’s smile, though then she winced and gently rubbed her jaw. “Don’t I hear Tim? I know you boys could use a cold treat.”
Tim pulled up, grinning his usual lovesick grin, and Elena came down to the street with us, holding Ivan’s hand. Tim took one look at her and the smile disappeared. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”
Avoiding his look, she said, “Rudo made me bump my head. I’m fine.” We got plain old Popsicles, but Elena didn’t want anything. “I’ve got my treat of choice.” She offered her Cuba libre to Tim, who sipped some.
Elena went back to the house, calling, “You boys get busy! You’ve still got a lot to do!” Tim watched her, looking concerned, and said, “I’m going to finish my route, and then I’ll be back with Popsicles for your Fiesta. You guys stay cool.” The dreamy truck rolled slowly away, chiming its alluring pied-piper tune. I wanted to run up to the porch and sniff the cushion of the swing, knowing that it was faded in the places where, like a Chevy Chase Shroud of Turin, Elena’s reclining hip, elbow, knee, and one heavy breast had worn the striped canvas down and smelled faintly of her. I didn’t, but I had before.
It was now about three-thirty. There wasn’t time to worry about Elena, or be mad about her date. Our next chore was mixing the Kool-Aid at my house. Crossing the lane, we jumped in unison when Foggy, the Andersens’ dog, lunged, barking furiously, as if he hadn’t seen us every single day of his vicious asshole life. “Go to hell, Foggy!” I yelled, using the strongest language I could get away with if anybody heard me. Foggy stuck his black maw through the fence, teeth bared.
“Yeah, Foggy, you moron,” Max taunted. “Mr. Shreve said if you ever got loose again he was going to shoot the crap out of you.” The time Foggy ate the Shreves’ cat, Beau had called him a nigger, and Estelle had heard it and there was big trouble. “Unreconstructed hooligans,” my grandfather had called the Shreve boys, and Beau’d had to come to our house and apologize to Estelle.
“Yeah, Ngagi,” I said to Foggy. “Think about a bullet in your heart!” He tilted his head, considering this. Then he scratched his neck where there was a disgusting cluster of ticks that looked like a spoonful of lentils.
In our basement I grabbed Estelle’s big five-gallon bucket, tossing the string mop aside. In the yard we squirted it with the hose and filled it up. From the kitchen I retrieved the pile of Kool-Aid packets Dimma had put out—all the flavors we’d asked for. We dumped the blueberry in first, turning the water the color of Windex, then the cherry and orange and an entire sack of sugar. I grabbed a rake leaning against a crape myrtle and stirred the punch with it.
“It’s brown,” Ivan said. “You said it would be a really cool color, Max, like Elena’s Tropical Punch fingernail polish.” He frowned.
“We can fix it,” Max said. “Have you got any food coloring?” We didn’t, but we did have some 7 Up and some orange TruAde in the fridge and we dumped those in. That made the punch a different brown but brighter, with bubbles. “Now it will taste more tropical because of the orange.”
Ivan wasn’t convinced and said, “In Mexico at fiestas there’s fruit and stuff floating in the punch.”
“Yeah!” Max said. “We can use some of the watermatoes for floaters!”
“No—then there won’t be enough for eating.” I thought for a minute. “I know! Mulberries! There’s millions!”
We ran to the old stable in our backyard, where the branches of an ancient mulberry tree hung over the roof. Climbing up, we crawled around on the scorching shingles, loading our pockets with ripe berries. Some berries had webs or fuchsia bird-doo on them, actually a lovely color, and we wiped them gently on our shorts. We dumped the berries into the punch, where they bobbed attractively.
“Perfect!” I said. “At the last minute we’ll throw in all our ice plus the snowballs we froze last winter.”
Max said, “Tables.”
We went to the closet where my grandmother’s three bridge tables were kept. The ominous sound of tinkling ice came from the kitchen. “What are you boys up to?” Dimma came around the corner wearing Estelle’s apron and looking harried. “And where are my dining room chairs?” She stood with one arm akimbo, Chesterfield at her hip, her Scotch in the other hand. “Good Lord, what is on your face?”
Ignoring the third question, I said, “We need them and some tables for the Fiesta. You said we could!”
“I did no such thing.” True, but she could be forgetful and I was sometimes able to work that to my advantage.
Taking a deep drag, Dimma relented. “Oh, all right, use them. But please fold my table covers and leave them neatly in the closet.” She exhaled a blue cloud sideways. Her delicate eyebrows rose doubtfully over the cat-eye glasses. She was looking me over, and I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me if I was regular today. I quickly picked up a dusty Senators cap from the closet floor and put it on to hide my ringworm. “I’ll get myself ready, and bring out Estelle’s eggs and cucumber sandwiches in a bit. You boys put on some clean shirts and shoes before the party, please.” She sipped some Scotch. “Apparently, most of the neighbors are coming. I hope nobody minds that I’m not putting out my good tablecloths. Lord help us if it rains.” She left, muttering about missing Estelle. We threw her bridge covers and the cap back in the closet and scrammed.
Stevenson had cleared the spiderwebs from our front yard. The webs had been getting sparse, we’d noticed, full of bits of prey and trash—some were only threads with dead leaves dangling from them. Mostly eggs remained tethered in corners and nooks.
We arranged the tables and chairs again, not sure we had enough seating, but the ground seemed to be dry enough for blankets. “People will be dancing and not sitting down anyway,” Ivan observed.
Looking up at the sky, Max said, “The sun’s still out.” The sun was actually in and out of the beautiful, cottony clouds, but mostly shining. “But is it weird that I can’t hear any cicadas?”
“Nah,” I said optimistically. “Maybe it’s a holiday for them, too.”
“Decorations!” Ivan said. With duct tape, we stuck Beatriz’s arty flags up around our brick front steps, the stage for the entertainment. Ivan brought a long string of brightly colored tissue squares, and we tied those from boxwood to boxwood. Max had a pocketful of balloons that we blew up and taped to the chair backs, popping a few for the hell of it. Then we set up my archery target out by the hedge and put our entertainment paraphernalia on the stage.
Our last task was to haul out the Kool-Aid bucket, into which we cranked the ice from every freezer tray, adding last winter’s gritty snowballs. Ivan and I lugged the bucket from the kitchen to the front yard, and we hoisted it onto a table. Brickie came out with Dixie cups, paper plates, plastic forks, tons of napkins, bottle openers, and a fly swatter, saying, “I expect flies will be an issue, but try not to swat the food.” Looking around, he said, “I must say, you boys have done a good job. You’re to be commended!” He went back into the house and returned with his new Magnavox Holiday record player, records piled on top, and set it up on our stage. “I’ll be in charge of the music.”
“But, Brickie, make sure you play records we like, too, not just your jazz stuff. We want everybody to dance.”
“Don’t worry about that. There’s music for all.” Brickie was fairly democratic in his tastes; he also liked R&B and listened to WUST, and before Dimma put a stop to it, he used to go to places like the Bohemian Caverns to hear live music. And he loved to dance. So I wasn’t too worried, but he was obsessed with his Miles Davis Kind of Blue record, which had just come out. Nobody normal could dance to that.
Dimma brought out two big platters, one of deviled eggs, one piled high with tiny sandwiches. “There will be no eating until after the guests have arrived and we’ve welcomed them,” she said to us. “And everybody has their drinks.” She and Brickie went back into the house.
Then Liz and Brickie returned, carrying our cooler, loaded with ice from the Esso station, beer, Cokes, and 7 Ups, and set it down by the punch station. Liz looked around appraisingly and said, “This looks pretty cool! I’m surprised you little squares pulled it off!” She and Brickie each stole an egg, poking them whole into their mouths, so we did, too. “Quality control, you understand,” Brickie said. We laughed with him. As he and Liz went in to change clothes, Brickie spotted the potty chair and carried it back into the house.
We were ready for our Fabulous Family Fiesta.
First to arrive were the De Haans, the General in the lead, Madame, Kees, and Piet behind. Max stage-whispered to us, “Oosegay eppingstay!” My grandparents, steeling themselves, came out of the house to greet them with thin-lipped smiles. Brickie rolled his eyes at us and started up a Don Barreto record—he’d been a Don Barreto fan since his and Dimma’s Havana days, when they went gambling and clubbing at the Tropicana. That they couldn’t go anymore was yet another reason, in Brickie’s book, for being mad about the Cuban revolution. The boys and I politely greeted the De Haans and shook hands with the General, who was actually cordial. I saw Max wipe his hand on his shorts, though. We offered them punch.
We were happy to see the Montebiancos next, all smiles. The Senhor looked fabulous in a pale-blue guayabera with white embroidery down the front, and Beatriz, carrying a bag and her hula hoop, sported her new bob with confidence. She wore her cute red skort—those were popular that year—but it didn’t hide her scabby knee. Senhora carried a plate of golden pastries and was followed by Zariya, angelic in her blond bob. She clapped her hands and hugged us. Senhor toted a jug of something pale gold, and my grandfather’s eyes lit up. Beatriz went to speak to Brickie and gave him a record, which made him laugh. She deposited her props on the steps with ours. Ivan told her how great her flags looked, especially the purple pirate-vinegaroon one.
The rest of the neighborhood descended on us all at once. “We’ve got some fun stuff,” Beau Shreve shouted, brandishing a paper sack. His mother said, “You boweez behave nayow,” setting down a pan loaded with pigs in a blanket. Mr. Shreve limped up on his war leg, carrying two six-packs of National Bohemian under each arm, yelling, “Yessiree, brewed on the showahs of the Chesapeake Bay!” Then came the Friedmanns, with a wooden bowl of watermatoes and a pastry box from Hofberg’s. They gave the De Haans a wide berth but smiled and waved unenthusiastically to them. Mr. Friedmann spread out a worn quilt. Then came the Andersens, with a cheese plate. Liz came running out in her yellow sundress, grateful to see Maari—someone closer to her age.
The Wormy Chappaquas, a united front of grayness, offered cookies and shy smiles.
“Rats,” Ivan whispered to us. “The Advice Lady!”
Taking forever to waddle up with her pathetic dog, bringing nothing but advice, she called out, “I hope you’re not serving anything with mayonnaise in this heat.” She shuffled over to where Dimma, Madame de Haan, and Senhora sat.
The Goncharoffs arrived, Maria bearing a platter of what looked like hundreds of diminutive tacos arranged around a generous bowl of salsa. Katya and Alexander were for once in shorts (but no shirts), and Josef was wearing a gabardine shirt and an overly big smile. He said, “A fabulous fiesta, all right!” and went to speak to the ladies, who greeted him curtly. Brickie had his eyes on him, I noticed. Where was Elena? I looked at Ivan, and he said, “She’s not going to come over with him. She’s probably bringing the cake.”
Then came the Pond Lady, which really surprised us, but she had some kind of portable breathing thing. Josephine, so pretty in a turquoise lace dress, pushed her along in a wheelchair, and winked to acknowledge us. They settled in with the other ladies. Brickie played Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train.”
Gellert and his family came up hesitantly, eyes darting about. We welcomed them heartily, wishing Elena was there to see how hospitable we were being, and reassured the family that Elena’d arrive soon. I pulled over two chairs for Gellert’s parents, and we directed them to the drinks and food.
The adults migrated to the punch and beer table, where Max was ladling our Special Tropical Punch into Dixie cups and Senhor Montebianco was topping off each one with a generous splash from his jug. Mr. Shreve handed out beers and made boisterous remarks. My grandmother looked doubtfully into her cup and said, “I hope the rum sterilizes whatever is in here.” She smiled flirtatiously at Senhor, who said, “Rum improves all things, moca charmosa.” They walked off together, leaving the rum jug behind. Max quickly emptied the entire jug into the punch bucket. We helped ourselves. The grown-ups were paying no attention. It seemed possible they might be enjoying themselves. Liz begged Brickie for “The Stroll,” and she lined up all the younger people, trying to teach us the very hip dance, but only she and Maari could do it.
Maria and Josephine fussed around the food tables and people began eating. The Good Humor truck came up the street, Tim clanging his bells as if it were Paris on VE day. He loped up the yard with a Thompson’s Dairy ice chest, looking younger in civilian clothes. “Where’s Elena?” he asked, handing out Popsicles. I said confidently, “She’ll be here,” although I wasn’t feeling confident at all and wondered if Ivan was. Tim grabbed a beer and joined the men around the record player. He snapped the bottle open with his belt buckle, impressing my grandfather and Mr. Shreve, who said, before pushing a mayonnaise-filled deviled egg into his face, “We could use a tricky boy with your skills down at HQ. Think of the intel you could gather from an ice cream truck!”
After two cups of punch, three eggs, and many tacos, I felt languid and lay down on the thick St. Augustine grass. Ivan, Max, and Beatriz joined me. We surveyed the scene. The little kids ran wild, followed by Gellert and Zariya, who were supposedly watching them. Beau and D.L. slunk around with food in their hands, looking for opportunities to swipe beers. The General sat talking to the Pond and Advice ladies. Tim and Maria, the Andersens, and Max’s mom and dad began rumba-ing, following the Montebiancos’ lead, to the music of what I thought I recognized as Brickie’s hero Laurindo Almeida. The other men stood together, drinking and discussing the records that lay all over the steps. People kept cheerfully helping themselves to beers or more Special Tropical Punch.
And then, finally, Elena made her appearance, looking gloriously Rosalind Russell in an off-the-shoulder white blouse, black capris, and a blue scarf, and carrying our cake. A large alligator bag hung from one shoulder. “My friends! You’ve made a wonderful party!” Setting down the cake on the table, she waved to the adults and made a beeline for Gellert’s mom and dad. Then she made the rounds, talking with people, hugging Gellert, and after a while she came over to our spot on the grass. “I’m so glad Gellert’s family came!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, my darlings!” She sat down with us, stretching out her long goddess legs. Max jumped up, wobbling a bit, and got Elena punch and cake, giving her the piece with my steel penny. Plucking it off and licking it clean, she handed it to me and said, “Keep it for me, will you, John?” Taking a sip of punch, she exclaimed, “Wow! I did need this!” and drained her cup. Max refilled it. “My face looks better, doesn’t it?” she asked, and we all agreed. Kees and Piet shyly joined us, sitting on the periphery of our little group. The Shreve boys sauntered up, and I could tell they wanted to sit with us, but they stood. Elena was like the sun and we were all planets in her orbit. Blue icing around all our mouths, we cracked jokes about our parents, or, in my case, grandparents. Kees and Piet were actually funny—Kees remarked that the General won the award for Biggest Beer Gut at the party, and it would be hard for him to get close enough to anyone to dance. D.L. said his mom was such a good dancer she’d make a great stripper, which made us laugh, though we knew it was over the line. “D.L.! That’s your mother!” Elena said, but she laughed, too. The Shreves moseyed off to steal more beer and chug it in the porte cochere.
Louis Jordan’s “Reet, Petite, and Gone” was playing, and several of the older grown-ups couldn’t help themselves and began jitterbugging to the irresistible tune. Brickie and Dimma were the best dancers, I noticed, although Mrs. Shreve really was good, and so was the Senhor. “We can dance if you want, Elena,” I said, though I didn’t know if I’d be able.
“Oh, I’m fine right here with you kids.” Ivan moved closer, laying his head on her thigh. I was seized again with intense longing.
Tim walked over, a beer in his hand, his nice shirt translucent with sweat. “You look great, as usual,” he said to Elena. “Where’s this date of yours?”
Elena smiled. “He’s picking me up in a little while.”
“Well, please put me on your dance card before then, Miss Fabulous Family Fiesta Queen.”
“Maybe when it cools off a little.” She fanned herself with her hand.
“I can wait.” Tim smiled and staggered off, pulling Liz, thrilled at his attention, into the circle of swinging bodies.
Beatriz said, “We should do the entertainment now that Elena’s here.” Although I had been excited about showing off for the guests, I felt too woozy and good to get up and do anything, let alone shoot arrows. I was afraid that now I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.
“C’mon, you guys, get up!” Beatriz ordered.
The three of us rose reluctantly and walked a little unsteadily behind Beatriz toward our front steps. Brickie stopped the record player.
Beatriz shouted, “Attention! Attention! Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present our entertainment! We hope you enjoy it!” Everyone moved closer to the steps and got quieter, except for the Shreve boys, who yelled, “Oh, no! Circus acts!”
Mrs. Shreve hissed at them, “Hush, you wrayetches.”
We stood there stupidly, and Max whispered, “Who’s going first?”
Ivan and I shook our heads and Beatriz said, “I’m going last because I’m the main attraction.”
“Okay, you chickens,” Max said. “I guess I’ll just get this over with.” He picked up his glittery new Duncan Imperial and spun it out a couple times to warm up. He Walked the Dog, receiving some applause, then followed that with a Skin the Cat, a Sleeper, and an Around the World, all perfectly executed in quick succession. He bowed, and everyone applauded, and Tim gave an ear-splitting whistle.
Next, Ivan stepped up to do his magic tricks. Josef shouted, “Here comes Houdini!” but Ivan didn’t look his way.
Red-faced, he said, “I dedicate this performance to my aunt Elena, because she’s magic!”
First Ivan did a kind of dopey trick where he unbent a spoon with his mind—first strenuously miming bending it, then pretending to unbend it, dramatically showing the intact spoon. “Wow! Great!” the crowd called out politely. Then he did the Magic Coloring Book, where he showed the audience an uncolored book by flipping through its pages, then gave a magical flourish, and showed it again, fully colored. More enthusiasm for that one. Finally, his pièce de résistance. Bringing out four shiny rings, he demonstrated that they were unconnected, with no gaps, and he proceeded to fiddle with them, forming first a chain of four—cries of amazement—then a four-leaf clover. There was delighted clapping and calls for more. Tim whistled again. But Ivan only bowed and waved to Elena and ran to the back of the crowd to nestle beside her.
I felt a bit heartened by all the enthusiasm so far, but for a moment I seriously considered going into the house and hiding under my bed. But I saw Beau and D.L. smirking off to the side, then I looked at Brickie, and he nodded solemnly, giving me a thumbs-up. Elena knew I was faltering and blew me a kiss. I resolved not to disappoint them. Picking up my bow and an arrow, I yelled, “Everybody has to move away from the target!” The target was not very far, close to the street, behind the crowd, but I felt like it was a hundred miles away. The crowd parted. I drew back on my bow, setting my feet apart, trying to steady myself, and let the arrow go. It hit an inner circle, not the bull’s-eye, but not a disgrace, either. There was some clapping. I drew back on another arrow, but as I did, I spied the satanic Schwinn on the lane behind the crowd, nearly obscured by the hedge. Nobody but Max, Beatriz, and I, high on the stage facing the lane, could really see it. Max hissed, “Slutcheon!” The bike approached our yard. Either it was too late for me to stop or the Special Tropical Punch gave me a jolt of courage, or insanity. Aiming just to the left of the big target, I let my arrow fly, and it landed in the spokes of Slutcheon’s front wheel. He wobbled crazily for a second, trying to stay on the bike, but then ditched on his side. He scrambled up fast, his nasty face looking stunned. He limped and remounted, and kept going. Incredibly, he didn’t scream anything, and more incredibly, I guess because of the punch or because I was up higher, the grown-ups hadn’t noticed what transpired behind the hedge, just that I’d been seriously off target. There were calls of “Aww!” and “That’s okay! Try again!” But Max, Beatriz, and the Shreve boys, who’d been watching from the branches of a dogwood, all clapped and whooped ecstatically. Max hollered, “Go, Johnny, go!” I couldn’t believe what I’d done and knew there’d be hell to pay with Slutcheon, but I didn’t care. I readied my last arrow. Feeling brave and rock-solid now, I shot again. The arrow hit the target to the right of the first one, barely inside the center circle, but definitely a bull’s-eye. The crowd hollered, “Bravo!” and “William Tell!” and best of all, there was a shout of “Just like Errol Flynn!” I knew it was Brickie who’d yelled it, but that was fine. Elena and Ivan grinned and waved. I gave a Robin Hood–like bow, wishing I’d worn my old Peter Pan cap with its hawk feather, which would have added the perfect flourish.
Beatriz stepped up, now wearing a grass skirt over her skort and holding her hula hoop, announcing, “And now, in honor of Hawaii, our new fiftieth state, I will perform to the song ‘Me Rock-a-Hula,’ by Mr. Bill Haley and His Comets.” I couldn’t help thinking that if she still had her long hair she would look more Hawaiian, but she was an eyeful. Max was agog.
Brickie put her record on, and she began swiveling her hips, hula-hooping and hula-dancing in perfect time to the rocking music. Everybody clapped along. She hula-ed all over the stage, and then came down the steps, into the audience, still performing her spectacular moves, until the song was over. The crowd went wild. Max let out some wolf whistles, and Tim shouted, “Well, A-lo-HA, Miss Hawaii!” She curtsied several times as her mom, dad, and sister called out, “Brava! Brava!” Gellert ran up, grinning, and sniffed Beatriz’s hair appreciatively. The De Haans came over to congratulate us and tell us how much they were enjoying the Fiesta, the General telling Max, “I vas goodt vit a yo-yo vhen I vas a boy. I should show you zome tricks. Come over vun day and I vill!” Josephine moseyed over and said, “I’m sho glad to see you kids doin’ something constructive. And in the daytime.” Then she gave us each a hug, spilling a little of her beer on Max, who didn’t care a bit, he was so happy. “We’re back in the pool, you guys!” he cackled. “Score one for us!”
Everyone went back to partying with new enthusiasm and more booze. The grown-ups refreshed their drinks and chattered about how great we were. The punch was getting low, but there was still plenty of beer, and Dimma had brought out Brickie’s special vintage bottle of Cuban rum, which guests were mixing with Cokes, stirring with their fingers. Brickie put on a record, and the partying resumed. Maari and Liz showed off, doing the Hand Jive to “Hey! Bo Diddley,” everyone watching them and bouncing to the beat, fingers snapping.
We went back to where Elena sat on the grass. “You were so wonderful, kids!” she exclaimed. “Beatriz, we will have to get you on Ed Sullivan!”
Tim came over, beaming, and congratulated us. “Popsicles for all of you tomorrow after school, and they’re on me, because today, you guys are beautiful.”
Ivan looked like he had when he had a stomachache, but he said he was okay. “You’re probably just three sheeps to the wind,” Max said. “If you put your finger down your throat, you’ll throw up and feel better. That’s what my sister does after a date.” Elena laughed and a tear slipped from one eye. She wiped it away, revealing a little bruised patch on her cheekbone. Then she checked her watch. I was glad her date hadn’t shown up. Maybe he’d stand her up, and she would stay.
Brickie put on the Jackie Wilson “Reet Petite” that we kids loved, and I cried, “Let’s dance, Beatriz!” She and I joined the dancers and began bopping. Beatriz was good at it and I was lousy, but Beatriz didn’t mind. Everyone belted out the refrain, “Uh oh oh oh, uh oh oh oh.” Max tapped me on the shoulder. I backed off, incredulous, and Max and Beatriz danced. All the grown-ups—at least those who could—were whirling and laughing, and, except for the Chappaquas, not with their spouses, I noticed: Dimma and Senhor, Brickie and Mrs. Shreve, Mrs. Friedmann and Josef, Mr. Friedmann and Josephine, the General and Mrs. Andersen, Tim and Maria, and Madame with Mr. Shreve, who was doing pretty well with his game leg. Beau and D.L. were dancing with Maari and Liz! Gellert danced with Zariya! Even the toddler tribe goofily rocked out. “The Beaver Plan is working!” I hollered at Ivan. Even the Pond and Advice ladies, parked off to the side, seemed to be having fun, although the Advice Lady couldn’t resist calling, “You people are going to expire in this heat,” as if the guests were deviled eggs, but it was true that everyone was shiny with sweat. Ivan and I dragged Elena up, and she danced with us both, giving us extra twirls. But then Tim broke in and he and Elena bopped. Ivan and I jigged around together—who cared if we were both boys. The Senhora begged off from Mr. Andersen, probably to keep a better eye on Beatriz, or the Senhor, so Mr. Andersen began dancing with me and Ivan, which was a little disturbing, and in a few moments we sat down. He didn’t seem to mind and continued a sort of interpretive dance with Kees and Piet.
To cool things down, Brickie played one slow, dreamy song after the other—“You Send Me,” the Platters’ “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “Mona Lisa.” He claimed Elena with an eager smile, and all the dancers clung together, seemingly in slow motion and love, swaying to the romantic songs. Watching, I felt like Ivan and I had become the square adults, chaperoning teenagers at a sock hop. The toddlers, Zariya, and Gellert threw themselves down on a blanket clutching their cake prizes, faces stained with Popsicles and blue icing, and passed out. Tim was now dancing with both Maari and Liz in a clumsy bear hug.
Elena plopped back down with us. “I believe it is a successful Fabulous Family Fiesta,” she said softly. “Maybe you boys will win the Nobel Peace Prize.” We were paralyzed with happiness and rum, so glad her date hadn’t come. Max and Beatriz returned, and we all drew nearer to Elena. She bent over Ivan, hugging him to her, whispering in his ear, and gave him something that he pocketed. She checked her watch again.
Darkness wasn’t far off. The light was gloamy and otherworldly, the grass and trees an incandescent green, the tall clouds the luscious pastel of orange Creamsicles. The opening strains of “The Twelfth of Never” floated out into the hot and surreally still evening air, Johnny Mathis’s honeyed voice putting us all in a sweaty reverie. “Oh, this song!” cried Elena. “Listen!” She began singing along.
You ask how much I need you, must I explain?
I need you, oh, my darling, like roses need rain
You ask how long I’ll love you; I’ll tell you true:
Until the Twelfth of Never, I’ll still be loving you
Tears welled up in Elena’s eyes, but she laughed at the schmaltzy moment as she sang the refrain.
Hold me close, never let me go
Hold me close, melt my heart like April snow
“Isn’t it just the loveliest song?”
Max just had to say, though apologetically, “It’s kind of corny, Elena.” She laughed again, wiping her eyes. Ivan looked like he might cry, or throw up, but he did neither, snuggling against her. I wanted to, too. Elena kept singing, rocking slightly from side to side with her big baby.
Then things began to happen fast. From down the lane came the roar of something that wasn’t a car. The boys and I rose to our knees to see what it was. A man on a motorcycle big as a pony pulled up at the Goncharoffs’ gate and idled there. The rider had long, curly hair and a scraggly beard that managed not to obscure his handsome face. Despite the heat, the man wore a green military jacket and heavy boots. The dancers stopped, all eyes on the street.
“Damn,” Tim said, coming forward. “Not a beatnik.” The man spotted Elena, lifting his bearded chin to acknowledge her.
Elena stood, shouldering her big bag, and said, “Goodbye, my precious darlings.” She kissed us all, then whispered again to Ivan, who looked stricken. She walked quickly across the lawn. At the street, she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, calling out, “Thank you for a lovely party!”
Max said darkly, “That’s not a baseball player.”
Mr. Shreve turned to my grandfather and said loudly, “Jesus Christ, is that Camilo?”
“I’m afraid it might be,” said Brickie, his face as grim as I’d ever seen it. “You’d better call in.”
Josef strode across the lawn, his face twisted and red, shouting in Spanish, but the man gunned his engine, laughing. “Vas bien, Fidel!” he called. He and Elena roared off. Josef hurled a beer bottle that smashed explosively in the street.
“You barbudos bastard!” Mr. Shreve yelled, fiddling with the walkie-talkie thing on his belt. Elena did not look back, but raised a hand and waved slowly, like Queen Elizabeth at her coronation. Her scarf blew off, and her hair whipped wildly around her.
For a moment there was only Johnny Mathis. The neighbors stood silently, confused and stunned, not having any idea what was happening, but understanding that it was something terrible. The Andersens and the Chappaquas said their goodbyes and rushed off.
Then a deafening boom rattled my bones, followed by a huge flash. Then staccato blasts. “Gunfire!” yelled Tim. Everybody shrieked.
Max screamed, “A mushroom cloud! A mushroom cloud!” We all looked up. Above the trees loomed an enormous thunderhead, its double anvil shape roiling toward us, now glowing a radioactive pink in the dying sun. More blasts. There was a babble of languages and shouts of “God help us!” “Run!” The music stopped with a painful, ripping screech.
I shouted, “Duck and cover!” and we three scrambled under the tables, peeking out fearfully. More blasts went off. Ivan cried, and Beatriz was crying as she and her parents gathered Zariya and ran down the lane. Mr. Friedmann called out, “Max! Max! Come home!” and he and Mrs. Friedmann stumbled off. Gellert’s family hurried away. Dimma and Josephine struggled to get the Pond Lady and the Advice Lady into the house, the Advice Lady squawking, “I knew this day would come! We’re all doomed!” Tim’s truck zoomed off, and Maria grabbed the twins and ran across the lane. There was another hair-raising crack, another flash, and rain began pouring down. The air went dark and biblical. The General stood on the steps, calling out, “Mijn God! Het is als Rotterdam 1940!” and lurched off with his family. Brickie shoved his Magnavox inside the door, yelling, “Stay calm! It’s not a bomb! It’s just a storm! Everyone stay calm!” but by then almost everybody was gone. Mr. Shreve and Josef stood out in the lane in the deluge, Josef still in a rage, Mr. Shreve using his walkie-talkie. Mr. Shreve went home, leaving Josef, soaked, looking like a horror-movie maniac, clutching Elena’s blue scarf in one hand, the other clutching his heart.
Thunder boomed again, but farther off. More lightning. We crawled out from under the table, splattered with spilled salsa. From around the back of our house came Beau and D.L., running backward toward home, throwing one more cherry bomb and laughing hysterically. D.L. shouted, “Ha ha! We got your Harmon Killebrew card, too!”
Liz was trying to carry food platters inside. “God!” she shrieked. “It was those hick morons with their cherry bombs!” She stomped into the house. We stood in the downpour and flashes—I wasn’t even thinking about black lightning, only Elena.
Ivan still cried, looking off down the lane where Elena had disappeared. Brickie stuck his head out the door and said, “You boys break it up now. Time to be home—you have school tomorrow.” I went straight to bed in my damp, dirty clothes. I guess Dimma was too drunk, or too busy dealing with the old ladies, to make me bathe and change.