Beyond Blonde Page 4

  I tucked myself in beside Auntie Radmila so I could keep tabs on the driver. Uncle Dragan tapped a button on the black console and, presto, produced a stash of brandy stored in a beautiful cut-glass decanter. He also whipped out six gorgeous little crystal glasses and started pouring. Everybody but Papa had a glass. Even Mama.

  “Živili!” Mike lifted his glass, which was barely visible in his big meaty paw.

  “To life!” I agreed and immediately wondered whether that was entirely appropriate given the circumstances.

  We clinked glasses and downed our brandy in one gulp. The brandy went straight to my head, and I made a conscious decision to regard our outrageous little procession with a mellower eye. It didn’t help.

  All of us wore black from head to toe. We were black on black and still we were too colourful. How was that even possible? I turned back to the driver. “Could we at least do something about the lights?” Somehow, either Papa or Mike had hit a bad button, so now, not only were we going to a funeral in a white super stretch with twinkle lights, but the stupid twinkle lights were flashing non-stop. I’d never been to a funeral mass before, but I just knew twinkling twinkle lights couldn’t be right. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

  “I just don’t know what we did there, Princess.” Papa squinted at the dashboard. “It’s okay though. I think Luigi would be pleased.”

  Jesus God, after six months of living in her basement apartment, Papa was thinking like Auntie Eva, a textbook case of Stockholm syndrome.

  “Absolutely, Slavko darling!” Auntie Eva held up her glass for a refill.

  Slavko darling?

  Everyone had a refill. Including Mama and including— when Mama was busy comforting Auntie Eva—me. I inhaled that shot too. At this rate, we were going to pour ourselves half-loaded out of the car like a group of kids on their way to prom. In my defence, I argued for decorum every step of the way. It was me who said we should use two of Luigi’s lovely black limos. That was hotly voted down by Mama and Auntie Eva, who felt that we should all be together during this searingly tragic moment. Besides, they felt that the white limo with the twinkle lights was more festive.

  You’d think I’d recognize defeat when it landed in my lap, but I pressed on to my next agenda item. “Papa?”

  “Yes, Princess?”

  “I know I’ve said it before, but shouldn’t you wait to drive this thing until you maybe got your licence or something?”

  Everybody, including Papa, turned to me and smiled.

  “What?”

  “You say, Eva.”

  “No, Slavko.” Auntie Eva smiled sweetly. “You go ahead.”

  It was official. Their cold war had melted over Luigi’s dead body. They had hated each other for my entire life. Papa felt that Auntie Eva was a lying, scheming, manipulative busybody. Auntie Eva, on the other hand, kept playing the prison/drunk card on Papa. And now here they were ready to go on tour together.

  “What?” I repeated.

  “Well, kid.” Mike cleared his throat. “I pulled a few strings …”

  Mike’s strings were legendary. They went from behind his restaurant counter all the way to the premier’s office and got tied into knots throughout the city. It never ceased to shock me. The guy was like a combination short-order cook and Balkan warlord. Square-chested gentlemen, who rumbled when they talked, often turned up near the end of my shift on Saturdays and sat on the very last stool on the counter. They always wore suits, always ordered coffee, and always over-tipped. I loved them.

  “And …” Mike turned around to make sure everyone was paying attention. “And your pops should have his licence by the end of next week.”

  “And?” Auntie Eva patted my knee, beaming.

  Mike lit a cigarette and offered them around. It took a few minutes for the cigarettes to be lit and then, of course, the glasses had to be refilled.

  “And …” I said.

  “And as soon as he’s got that under his belt and the lawyers have worked it out all legal like.” He paused to blow a few smoke rings. “Then your Papa will be the new president and chief executive officer of Pescatore’s White Night Limousine Service!”

  The back of the limo erupted into squealing, clapping, and hollering. “Wait, but what about Auntie Eva?”

  “Eva is the chairman, of course,” said Papa.

  Of course.

  We resumed squealing.

  “Eva.” Mama’s eyes welled up. “Eva, how can I …” She put a hand to her throat. “I, how …”

  “Phooey!” Auntie Eva downed her brandy. “I need somevone I could trust. Tycoons need peoples. Besides, it vould make Luigi happy.”

  I hoped Luigi knew how happy he was.

  “May God have a rest on his soul.” Auntie Luba made the sign of the cross. They all made the sign of the cross. For people who hadn’t set foot in a church since my baptism, they sure were getting their Catholic on. I couldn’t blame them; it was all enough to make you believe in God whether you wanted to or not. Papa had more or less been out of work since he got out of prison last year. He’d gone from jobless to president in a week and he was sober! At this rate he’d be back home by the weekend.

  We all filed into the church, trying to look sombre. Auntie Eva got into the moment as soon as she saw the coffin, laden with gardenias and a few stray white carnations. She turned around and whispered, “Ver did za carnations come from? I said roses and gardenias!” Then she promptly threw herself on said carnations and gardenias. “Yoy! Luigi, my love, my everyting!” She pounded on the apparently suitable cherry veneer coffin. “How could you leave your little dumpling?” Sob, sob. “Lord, take me instead!” Auntie Luba waited for a beat then took the prostrate Auntie Eva to the front pew, where she draped herself onto me, inconsolable.

  Nobody orchestrates like the Aunties; it’s a DNA thing. Everyone, friend, foe, or family, must know that Luigi would be missed, Luigi would be mourned.

  I looked around as soon as my head was free.

  “How many?” she whispered.

  “More than thirty, less than fifty.”

  “Not bad. I asked za ladies from za Hungarian Hall to come and cry.”

  “I see them in the middle of the church, on our side.”

  “Vat are zey doing?”

  “Crying.”

  “You call zat crying? Zat is not crying! Zat is sniffling! I asked for crying!”

  The Blondes were there, in the third row, along with Madison’s grandfather, the Judge. He probably drove them over. Madison got a brand-new car for her sixteenth birthday, but she had just flunked her driver’s licence test for the third time last week. She may have to get fixed up by Mike, too. There were various odds and sods of people and then a man and a woman who looked eerily alike in the “family” pew opposite us.

  I nudged Auntie Radmila in the ribs and mouthed, “Who are they?”

  “Za removable cousins,” Auntie Radmila whispered so loud that the entire church turned to look at the distantly removed cousins. Mario and Maria sat all by themselves, swallowed up by the dark oak pew. The Aunties had much remarked upon the singularity of Luigi’s Italian ancestry. Neither he nor Mario nor Maria had ever been married or had children.

  “It’s not natural for an Italian,” Auntie Luba complained.

  People kept coming. A very old couple were followed by a few people who may have been Luigi’s regular clients, who were followed by, Jesus God, Mr. Wymeran, five girls from our second string, and … David! I whipped around and stared at the coffin. Luckily, the funeral procession started and Auntie Eva had sprung for a soloist, so I got distracted. Still, he was back there. What was he doing here? Concentrate. I was up soon with the First Reading. I settled into the comforting ritual of it all. I’d forgotten how much I had enjoyed Catholic ceremonies, the hymns, the incense, the readings … it was just like an AA meeting, except that it was me going up to the podium and all eyes would be on me. I liked that too. The reading was from Corinthians 13:1–13, the bit abou
t love. It might make Luigi happy.

  “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels …”

  It was a nice turnout after all. I looked out at everyone. Auntie Eva needn’t have fretted so much. I felt David’s eyes on me. Why was he here? I looked back at my text.

  “Love is always patient and kind; love is never jealous …”

  As I read, the hairs on the front of my arms burned and bristled.

  “Love never ends …” I went through the rest of that beautiful reading and finally looked up and all the way to the back of the church. A solitary figure stood in silhouette at the entrance. My heart lurched. I glanced back at the fourth row. No. David was still sitting there.

  Luke.

  I swear it was Luke. How did he know? Why was he here? I stepped down and turned to go into the aisle and then looked back again. Gone. But it was him. It was! The air had been charged with electricity and now it wasn’t. It was always like that with Luke. I turned back one more time. No. Second Reading, Gospel Acclamation, Gospel Reading, Homily, Hymns, Communion and, through it all, I could feel that Luke was there and now he wasn’t. His absence was a physical thing.

  It was a beautiful sermon, someone snuck carnations onto the coffin, and Luke Pearson had come! Luke in a church! Talk about your sign from God!

  About four pews’ worth of mourners exited the church and regrouped at the Mount Pleasant Cemetery with decorum and dignity. We weren’t one of them.

  Mike and Uncle Dragan were weaving by the time we got out of the limo again, and Papa looked like he needed a drink. Auntie Eva artfully kept up the waterworks throughout the interment and the prayers, joined for brief sobbing serenades by Aunties Luba and Radmila and even Mama. I was sure Auntie Eva was going to pitch herself on top of the coffin when we got to the “ashes to ashes” part.

  I nudged Auntie Luba. “Is she okay? Maybe we should—”

  “Shhht.” Auntie Luba put a finger to her mouth. “Za more she cries, za less she is going to have to pee.”

  “Uh … pardon?”

  “Ya,” she snorted. “She’s got on a girdle zat takes two peoples to get her into. Let her cry.”

  Mama leaned over. “She’s right. Eva looks fantastik, but it’s very impossible to get zat girdle off.”

  “It’s too tight,” sniffed Auntie Radmila. “Zat’s vhy she is crying so much.”

  I’m ashamed to say I hardly thought about poor old Luigi. Yet another tick in the “why I’m not nice” column, especially when I so wanted to be “nice.” It’s like a long-standing goal and everything. I wanted to feel awful about him dying, but I didn’t. Even worse, they’d just been together for a few months, so I had a limited bank of “treasured” memories to call up to make me feel teary when everyone was looking. I mean, I knew he adored Auntie Eva, but there was a shockingly long lineup of men who did, including all her ex-husbands. To complicate matters further, Luigi’s dying gave Papa his first real job in decades. It all got kind of sticky if I thought about it too much.

  So I stopped thinking about it.

  Therefore, when I wasn’t interrupted by Auntie Eva’s gut-cleansing sobs, my thoughts were free to go straight to Luke. I thought intelligent, deep thoughts like: Was that really Luke? Maybe it wasn’t. But then again, I had that whole electric thing. It sure looked like Luke. But then again, it was just his silhouette. It probably wasn’t him. But then again, I bet it was. I was making myself carsick.

  Then we went back to the car.

  The mourners all came to Auntie Eva’s too. Father Gregory made it sound like it was pretty well mandatory. Auntie Eva stopped sobbing the moment she got into the limo and did not cry again. In fact, most of the trip home was devoted to makeup repair. Mike had taken care of the catering, but not from his restaurant, mind you. We all agreed that burgers and fries didn’t hit the right note. He arranged for lasagne and veal Parmesan, Luigi’s favourite meal, because, of course, it would make Luigi happy.

  To make the rest of us happy, Mike got his two studly nephews, whom we’d met at his wedding, to help serve, get drinks, and flirt with my friends. “Oooo,” said Sarah as soon as she spotted Mike Jr. and George in their waiter outfits.

  “Down, girl.” Kit yanked her back. “Let’s remember those boys are in their twenties and you took an abstinence pledge, right?” Sarah groaned by way of an answer. Mike Jr. was stationed at Auntie Eva’s dining room table handing out plates and urging people to load up, while George cajoled people into ordering drinks. Or maybe it was the other way around. I could never remember which one was which.

  Papa was in the kitchen whipping up his new favourite thing in the world, milkshakes. What Papa gave up in alcohol, he replaced by mainlining chocolate malteds. Mama kept giving him her best subliminal smile, but it didn’t look like they were getting much of a chance to talk and catch up.

  Auntie Eva made her way straight to the big red-velvet wing chair in the living room. This is where she would receive. “Buboola,” she said, her arm outstretched to me, “come.” It was a little awkward. Auntie Eva sat in the chair, of course, but she also insisted that I sit. So, I perched precariously on the arm of the chair, trying to look graceful, secure, and suitably stricken as people made their way over, one by one.

  “Straighten up,” she whispered. “Nobody can see your breasts ven you are hunching over like zat.”

  I straightened up.

  Mario and Maria made their way over with drinks in hand. They expressed their deep Italian gratitude that Auntie Eva had organized such a lovely send-off for their cousin.

  “Pshaw.” Auntie Eva waved her hanky at them. “Vat are you talking. I ashamed of zis poultry effort!”

  They looked alarmed.

  “Paltry,” I whispered.

  “Zat is vat I said,” she said without breaking eye contact with them. This is where the cousins were supposed to insist that they had never seen a finer or more impressive funeral in their lives. Instead they shook her hand and drifted to the food table.

  “Peasants,” muttered Auntie Eva before she was assaulted by the Blondes. Kit, Sarah, and Madison all threw themselves at her. “It was brilliant!” said Sarah.

  “You look brilliant!” said Kit.

  “It’s all too tragic for words,” sighed Madison.

  “Absolutely!” they all said. “You poor, poor thing.” More hugging. Hankies were prominently waved about. Then they hugged her again.

  You can’t teach this stuff. You either pick it up or you don’t. I had never been prouder of them.

  “He’s right behind us,” Madison whispered, while giving me a condolence hug.

  “Huh? Who?” I said.

  “Just look sexy!”

  “Breasts, breasts!” hissed Auntie Eva.

  I inhaled, thrust out my chest, and tried to cross my legs artfully like they show you in Cosmopolitan magazine. Right over left, but high so your flabby fat thigh isn’t pressed against anything and your legs are super e-l-o-n-g-a-t-e-d. It was not a move designed for the sculpted arm of a velvet wing chair. My butt rolled right off the edge. Just before I hit the floor, I was scooped up by one arm. Wow. I looked up.

  Damn.

  Double damn.

  It was David.

  “My goodness pieces!” Auntie Eva fanned herself with her hanky. “So strong vit za muscles and so very beautiful too. Sophie, my little carnation, who loves carnations ve don’t know vhy, my Sophie tenks you very much for saving her from za floor.” She elbowed me.

  I elbowed her back. Actually, I wanted to kill her, but I settled for duelling elbows. “Uh, yeah.” Okay, this was awkward. I could tell she’d decided to love David unconditionally. I knew all the signs. “Auntie Eva, you remember David Walter?” I psychically drilled into her brain that he hated my guts for some unjustifiable reason and therefore she must give him the coldest of cold shoulders, freeze him out, and cut him down.

  “Velcome, velcome! Za boy vit za two first names!” She took his hand and put hers on top of his. “I reme
mber you, of course, except you are even more fantastik zan my remembering! A movie star, eh, Sophie?”

  “Yeah, movie star.”

  Two bright red patches splashed David’s cheeks. The unflappable David Walter looked flapped. What the hell was he doing here anyway? Did he come on a bet? Guys do stuff like that.

  “I was at the practice when …”

  “Oh you are za coach! Da, Magda told it to me. How fantastik for Sophie and your team too, of course. Ve are all vaiting vit bated breasts.”

  Dear Lord. My face felt like I was standing in front of a furnace. Move over, Luigi. I’ll be there in a minute.

  David, thank God, looked lost. And because I simply could not stop myself, I said, “Bated breath.”

  She patted his hand and through a clenched smile said, “Zat is vat I said.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.” He turned to me. All six-foot-four inches of him looked seismically uncomfortable. “And for you, Sophie, for the loss of your, uh, um, well … uncle?”

  “Uncle will do,” I said to put him out of his misery, which I thought was very nice of me.

  “Okay, well, my condolences to you both then.” He backed away like his butt was on fire. Seriously, what did I ever do to him?

  “Za boy is completely koo-koo for you!” said Auntie Eva before she was smothered by a Hungarian couple.

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s pretty obvious.”

  Auntie Eva greeted every guest like they had scaled Mount Everest to reach her with their condolences. The food kept coming and the drinks didn’t stop flowing. The Blondes were singing and swaying to Auntie Eva’s collection of Dean Martin records because it would’ve made Luigi happy. Papa was on his fourth milkshake and even convinced the Judge, Madison’s grandfather, to have one before he left. Although the Judge was responsible for getting Papa exonerated and freed from prison, he also had a bit of a crush on Mama stemming back from the days when he thought she was a widow. But there they were, in the Auntie universe, side by each, sipping their chocolate malteds.