Beyond Blonde Read online

Or maybe not.

  “Practices,” David said, “will be at least two hours long. That’s how we build a championship team.”

  “It’ll take more than that.” What the hell? Was that me? Yup, ready, shoot, aim, that’s all you need to know about me.

  “Yeah, Kan-din-sky.” David drew out my name like he was trying to remember all of its component pieces. It took him an hour and a half to get to the -sky part. He looked me up and down and down and up, and I did the same: dark hair, black eyes, black lashes, and creamy skin. Actually, he was kind of a taller, maler, version of me … except, I swear, he was prettier. “But that’s where we start, and if someone wants to be captain …”

  If? If! Hey, I had just been voted captain. I was captain. What the hell, if?!

  “Then maybe that potential captain should hold back on gratuitous comments and just be prepared to display some leadership skills.” Everybody, including Mr. Wymeran, stared at the two of us staring at each other. Lines were being drawn in quicksand.

  “Okay, ladies,” huge hypnotic smile, “two miles with a drop twenty on every whistle.”

  The moaning crested into a rolling wave. Not me. I didn’t even pause to exhale before I hit the track. I was joined by my team’s not-so-graceful thumping on the boards, accompanied by a din of low-level muttering. Kit sped up to pass me. “Holy cowpie, he’s definitely got a hard-on for you. What did you—”

  “Oh, I agree,” heaved Sarah behind us. “He’s got a thing for our Sophie.” Kit and I rolled our eyes. Sarah was adorable but dumber than a bag of hair when it came to stuff like this.

  Every time Mr. Wymeran called out an encouraging “just seventeen more laps to go” or something, David topped it up with a “pick up the pace, ladies,” and then he’d whistle for a drop. My lungs were erupting by the third set of drops, and it felt like I was hauling a load of concrete instead of my legs, but I refused to sweat, let alone moan. I was not going to give the assistant coach that satisfaction. No way, no how, no—

  “Yoohoo, sorry.”

  Oh … my … God … no.

  “Yoohoo, yoohoo!”

  I told her not to come. I was even mean about it. I clearly remember feeling guilty about the mean part!

  “Sorry, yoohoo, everybodies!”

  We all looked up. Mr. Wymeran looked up. David looked up. I refused to look up.

  “Yoohoo, Sophia …”

  I looked up. I could no longer pretend that I didn’t know who that woman was. There she was hanging over the railings in the spectators’ gallery that overlooked us. She was in danger of doing a half gainer onto the court. I broke out of the circle and ran over.

  “Mama?!”

  David was at my side in a flash. “Can I help you, uh, Mrs. Kandinsky? I’m David Walter, the—”

  “Oooo, za new coach and so good looking and so tall and for sure, so good looking. Sophie said so.”

  If I got my hands on a basketball, I could pick her off and knock her unconscious.…

  “Sophie!” She grabbed a hanky out of her purse and dabbed at her dry eyes. “Iz a tragedy!” She clutched her chest. The whole team clutched their chests, including the Blondes, who really honestly, for sure, should have known better.

  She was that good. Mama could turn picking up some milk into an opera.

  “What is it, Mrs. Kandinsky?” Madison was already collecting her gear.

  “Iz Uncle Luigi.” More dabbing.

  Uncle Luigi? Since when did Luigi become Uncle Luigi?

  “He is dropping dead, may he rest in pieces.” She made the sign of the cross. “Life is not a cabaret, old chum. Auntie Eva is behind herself. She is crazy vit good grief!”

  David understandably looked confused. The Blondes, meanwhile, packed up their gear and mine in a nanosecond.

  “Ve must to go.” Sigh.

  “Coming Mrs. K,” called Kit.

  “But …” said David.

  “Well, perhaps …” said Mr. Wymeran.

  “We’ll meet you at the Pink Panther, Mrs. Kandinsky,” called Madison. The Pink Panther was the pink Buick that Mama won when she broke records selling Mary Kay in the old days. We?

  “I have fresh bagels in da car.” This was so that we wouldn’t be tempted to tear off an arm in hunger on the five-minute drive back to Auntie Eva’s.

  Kit grabbed my gear. Madison grabbed my arm. “See you next practice,” said Sarah as we made for the dressing room.

  “Tenk you, darrrlings! You are all so much to help, I tell you true, tenk you!” Mama started backing up, waving and blowing kisses at the same time. I don’t know why I still get surprised. But there she was blowing kisses like she was about to disembark from the Queen Mary, and there’s the rest of my team blowing kisses right back.

  Even the new assistant coach.

  Like I said, she was that good.

  In the end, there was a notice and a photograph in every single one of the papers. Only politicians and movie stars have their photos above their obituary. But there Luigi was in The Globe and Mail, the Sun, and the Star. Me and the Blondes worked out the wording and called it in that day we bolted from practice:

  Prominent local businessman Luigi Pescatore died suddenly.…

  Getting the relevant details from Auntie Eva was next to impossible as she swanned from room to room wailing and tearing at her clothes. I followed her around with pen in hand. He died the night before at her place but that was all I knew. “Uh, sorry, Auntie Eva, we, the papers, need to know what he, um, how he, uh, passed on?”

  This unleashed a fresh torrent of piercing sobs. I honestly didn’t know she liked him that much. In fact, I was pretty sure she didn’t. Auntie Radmila grabbed my arm. “He died vit a smile on his face.”

  “Oh,” I said, “uh, I don’t think that we can put that in the paper.”

  “You tell zem,” Auntie Luba said in between puffs of one of the three cigarettes she had going. “You tell zem it vas an attack in za heart!” She nodded, pleased with herself.

  Prominent local businessman Luigi Pescatore died suddenly, but happily, of a heart attack.…

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure that sounds …”

  “Iz perfect!” Auntie Eva wailed and then continued pacing.

  “How about relatives?” asked Madison, scanning through the newspapers we had on hand. “These all say stuff like ‘survived by’ you know?”

  “Pffftt.” Auntie Eva waved her hand. “Zey vas so many times removed, zey disappeared. I vas his everyting.” More wailing. Mama popped up to console her.

  “It is not important,” Mama whispered. “Da important ting is da picture.” She glanced at her watch. “Papa vill be here soon. Ve sent him to buy da grieving food.”

  “That sounds great!” chirped Sarah.

  Grieving food?

  Prominent local business tycoon Luigi Pescatore died suddenly, but happily, on Thursday, September 9, 1976.

  Mr. Pescatore is survived by the love of his life, his one and only, his most cherished and adored fiancée, Miss …

  Yes, Miss who? This prompted a rather intense debate. Which of Auntie Eva’s five possible last names were we going to go with? Auntie Eva used her surnames like accessories. She insisted between sobs that she liked the sound of her second husband’s name the most lately. So, even though Luigi knew her best as Eva Horvath, Kovach it was. She sensibly pointed out that it wasn’t like Luigi was going to care.

  … Miss Eva Kovach. Service to be held at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, Saturday, September 11, at 10 A.M.

  The Aunties pronounced that version perfect. “Call it in,” I said to Kit, who had taken the initiative to hunt down the numbers for the obit/advertising sections of each newspaper. Papa would drop off the accompanying photos as soon as he got back with the food.

  “So, back to the removed cousins,” said Madison.

  “Yoy, yoy!” Auntie Eva patted her chest and made for her bedroom, with Mama hot on her heels.

  “Sorry.” Madison winc
ed. Auntie Radmila and Auntie Luba shrugged. “But maybe we have to try to find them for the funeral at least and for, well, the will, and so on, you know?”

  Mama came back while I was pouring coffee, and she threw her arms around me. “Dey vas very, very, distantly distant cousins.”

  “Mama, I’m pouring here.”

  “How do you know they were so distant, Mrs. Kandinsky?” asked Madison.

  “Da lawyer,” said Mama.

  “Pa da,” agreed Auntie Radmila, “za lawyer.”

  I put the carafe down. “What lawyer?”

  “Za von vit za vill,” said Auntie Luba sweetly.

  “Well, that must have broken some land speed record.” Kit shook her head.

  “Formidable,” agreed Madison, whose entire family, up and down both sides, were lawyers, law professors, judges, or all three.

  “And …” I urged.

  “He vas very fat,” said Auntie Luba.

  “Da!” nodded Auntie Radmila. “His feet vas very fat, he—”

  “Guys!” I interrupted. “The will. Do we know what’s going to happen?”

  “Pa sure,” shrugged Mama.

  “Amazing,” said Madison. “Grandfather will be stunned to hear how fast this went through.”

  “Ya, stunned! I don’t know how za voman does it.” Auntie Radmila went for the brandy bottle. “Luigi arranged for everyting. If za untinkable vas to be tinkable, he vanted his little jevel to be protected.” The sobbing in the bedroom ratcheted up a notch at “little jevel.”

  “Wow,” said Kit and Sarah at the same time. “So what did she get?”

  No one was startled or offended. It was a perfectly decent question at least in this company.

  “So, he left his little house in Little Italy to za removable cousins, Maria and Mario.” Auntie Radmila downed her brandy in one go. “Zen, za business, Pescatore’s White Night Limos vit za tree black cars and za super stretchy vite von, all his investments, his cash monies … all goes to Eva!” She poured another shot. “It’s crazy! Za voman is already a multimillionaire from za ozer dead and divorced husbands. She didn’t even have to marry zis von!”

  “I’m hearing zat, Radmila!” came a warning shot from the bedroom.

  At least she’d stopped crying.

  “I’m telling you true!” countered Auntie Radmila. “My tongue should fall out and I should step on it if I lie!”

  Sarah flinched at the image.

  “But … she doesn’t even drive,” I said. “How can she run a limo company?”

  Mama shrugged. “Vat can I say? Da voman has a gift.”

  Auntie Eva emerged from the bedroom fairly dry, but her beehive was askew.

  Papa blew in just then. I flashed him a massive smile. A big part of that smile was a coded but compelling message reminding him to come home soon. We’ve been talking about subliminal messages in English this term and I’ve been practising the smile ever since. It’s a damn good smile. Frankly, I don’t understand why he hasn’t moved back yet, especially since I noticed that Mama was offering up the same smile. Mama didn’t need a class on subliminal anything.

  Mama helped Papa unload two shopping bags brimming with kielbasas, salamis, smoked meats, olives, pickles, rye and corn breads, and a half a dozen cheeses. They looked so right unpacking together. It was brilliant to see, even though they didn’t talk much. They probably didn’t have to. Long-standing deep love is like that. Someone on the CBC said so just last week. Papa waved at the Blondes, kissed me, grabbed the photos for the papers, righted Auntie Eva’s beehive, and was off.

  “Who was that masked man?” I asked.

  “Zat vas your Papa, you funny-pants girl,” smiled Auntie Luba. “He is very too busy. He must to go to za florist, za church, za funeral home, za newspapers, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Uh, how is he doing all of this?” I asked. The Blondes were already in the kitchen looking for platters to present the food.

  “Vit von of za black limousines,” shrugged Auntie Eva. “He has a list.”

  Kit came in with the cheeses, Sarah had two plates full of the pickles and breads, and Madison held the biggest platter heaping with smoked meats.

  “Good girls.” Mama patted Sarah’s cheek. “You learn vell.”

  Wait a second. “But, guys … unless he got it while he was in prison, Papa does not have a driver’s licence!” Why was I the only one who ever thought of these things?

  Madison’s eyes widened. Even Kit looked impressed as she gnawed on a slice of salami.

  “Pshhhaw,” said Auntie Radmila as she went for the cheese plate. “Your Papa vas a very good driver in Poland, in Yugoslavia, in Hungary, in every place.”

  “Ya,” snorted Auntie Eva, “especially ven he vas sober.”

  “Okay, and while that’s good, the thing is, see, he still doesn’t have his—”

  “Let it go.” Madison patted my hand. Kit nodded.

  Jesus God, I was getting Auntie advice from the Blondes. It was like being dropped headfirst into an alternative universe.

  We spent the next hour sorting out the details of the funeral. I kept taking notes. I should have felt worse than I did, really. Worse for Auntie Eva and definitely worse for poor old Luigi. But then again, I hardly knew him. Still, a good, religious-type person would have felt worse. Instead, I’m ashamed to say, I felt kind of important. We decided that there were going to be no viewings. Auntie Eva said she’d had enough of viewing dead husbands and lovers. The church, however, had to be covered in white gardenias and white roses.

  “Wow, that’s so sweet,” said Sarah. “His favourite flowers?”

  “No darling,” she tweaked Sarah’s cheek, “mine. He liked carnations like our Sophie. Carnations!” She shuddered. “I ask you?” Sympathetic shuddering from the Aunties and Madison.

  It was going to be a full Catholic mass. “Sophie, you vas baptized Catolic,” Auntie Eva announced. “And you vent to za Catolic schools two times. You must talk to za priest, okay?”

  “Me? But I don’t actually have any Catholic training, remember? We lied to them about that part to get me into those schools!”

  Silence.

  “No first communion, no confirmation …” I really don’t know why I bothered.

  More silence.

  “I don’t even remember how to fake being Catholic!”

  No one said anything at all for a very long time. Many silent seconds ticked by.

  “Fine, I’ll go talk to the priest.”

  Auntie Eva snatched me into a massive smother hug.

  More God stuff.

  “And say zat you are Luigi’s niece,” said Auntie Eva.

  “You want me to lie? Outright? To a priest?”

  “Pa da,” said Auntie Radmila.

  “But it’s the Catholic church!”

  “Exactly,” sniffed Auntie Eva. “You know how zey are, unless you are a good Catolic, zey vill never cooperate. Ve are not related vit poor Luigi, and he vas such a big Catolic.” She paused here for a moment while we watched her eyes well up again. “You vant ve should bury him in a ditch?”

  “Well no, geez,” I moaned. “Of course not. I guess.” Unbelievable, I was right back to lying my face off to Catholic clergy. “When?”

  “Oooh!” Auntie Eva glanced at her watch and hustled over with my jacket. “You must go right avay fast to talk to za priest. Fazer Gregory in za church around za block is expecting you zis minute. Our Lady of Perpetual Sobbing.”

  “Sorrow!” I said, even though she was grieving and everything.

  “Zat is vat I said!” She blew her nose. “Mainly. Ven your head is full of sobbing your heart is full of sorrow, and za Catolics know zis.”

  We all nodded like that was a comprehensible sentence and everything.

  I was hustled out of Auntie Eva’s and found myself in the vestibule of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow before I really knew what had happened. The church was empty, just me and all those statues and stained glass. It felt good. Laz
y afternoon sunrays snuck through the clear bits in the windows, warming the carved oak and playing with decades of dust. Without thinking, I dipped my fingers into the font of holy water. I was eleven again. I made the sign of the cross, walked toward the altar, genuflected in front of the tabernacle, and slid into the first pew like I had just done it last Sunday. It was scary how it all came back. My breathing slowed. I remembered this part; it always made me feel pure and righteous. Maybe I could be a Catholic after all. I knew a fair bit from faking it all those years. I heard footsteps. A priest approached me from one of the confessional boxes.

  “My child.” He smiled. “I am Father Gregory.”

  “Hi Father, I believe you were expecting me. I’m Sophie Pescatore.” I snuck a peek back at the confessional box, remembering the clean feeling I’d get after confession. The nuns all assumed I’d had my first communion and I never corrected them. I loved confession and confessing. I was a first-class confessor. And, apparently, I was still a first-class liar, except now, I felt bad about it. Father Gregory held out his hand.

  “Yeah, so, uh, I’m Luigi’s niece, here to discuss my dearly, uh, departed and beloved uncle’s funeral service.”

  Maybe there was some other looser, more Sophie-suitable type of religion that understood about the necessity of fabrications and falsehoods. I decided to wait for a sign from God on that one.

  “So, Father, thing is, my uncle loved white roses and gardenias …”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said to no one in particular as I clambered into the far end of the limo. “You’ve got to admit that this is weird, even for us.” We were off to Luigi’s funeral mass. I knocked on the window separating the driver from the passengers. It slid open. “Papa, do you even know how to drive this thing?”

  “It’s a car.” He shrugged.

  Mama, Auntie Eva, and Auntie Luba were in pride of place in the back seat, with Auntie Radmila and Uncle Dragan opposite them. The man hadn’t said a word in years, but he exuded an air of contentment that wafted off him in visible waves. Every time I saw him, I was reminded that there must be more to Auntie Radmila than meets the eye. Mike, and I could not bring myself to call him “uncle” since he was still my employer at the restaurant, Mike sat shotgun with Papa to keep him company and help him guess at what all the buttons were for. The dashboard looked like Command and Control for North American Air Defense.