Fools Paradise (20 page)

His face fell. His tone softened. “C'mon, Daisy-daisy,” he wheedled, using her baby name. “I've always cared about you.”

She almost melted.
You viper.
She hated being manipulated. Her teeth showed. “And you're like a second grandfather to me, Badger.”

Badger recoiled. With a reproachful look over his shoulder, he walked away.

Daisy watched him go. So Goomba had sent Badger to talk sweet to her. She'd be angrier, only it felt awfully nice to have his attention again. Plus, she wasn't jail bait any more.

Badger's taking an awful risk. What if I actually fell for his line of bull? Goomba would have a conniption.

For the first time since she was a teenager, Daisy started thinking seriously about ways to get her grandfather under control.

When she got home from the Opera House, Daisy was surprised to find her Mom in Goomba's kitchen. “Why aren't you at work?”

Mom chopped onions like a pro. “You weren't going to be home in time to make supper. I thought I'd teach the partners a lesson, so I left early to cover for you.”

Daisy's heart filled with warmth. “Oh, Mom!” She hugged her from behind.

“Careful of the knife. Where do you keep the Parmesan grater?”

“I'll help,” Daisy said.

Mom waved her off with the knife. “Go take a shower.”

“I've been stinky all week and no complaints.”

“Of course not. You put their food ahead of your comfort. Go shower,” Mom said, and Daisy went.

To her surprise she cried in the shower. Mom home before nine o'clock at night! Cooking the supper Daisy should be cooking! Mom shouldn't have to work when she got home, she was always dead beat, sometimes too tired to eat what Daisy had saved from supper at Goomba's for her.

Then the voice of truth in her head said,
You shouldn't have to cook for six people when you've worked all day, either.
The tears ran down her face.

Why should I cry? I've got everything I wanted.

Because even if she worked all day seven days a week, she would still try to get home in time to cook for Goomba. She loved him. It was the thing he liked best, the thing she could do for him.

Plus eight loads of laundry every five days and vacuuming the house and taking his shirts to the cleaner and doing the groceries and the ironing and seeing that Wesley did his homework.

Plus waiting hand and foot on Vince and Tony.

The little wifey thing,
Mom had said at lunch last week, blaming herself for being a bad mom, which was so wrong.

Mom, downstairs, cooking supper.
Daisy opened her mouth and cried harder into the hot shower spray.

“I like cooking for Goomba,” she protested to the echoing bathroom.

No, you don't. You're sick of what it costs. And do you like keeping house for the scratch'n'sniff twins?
demanded the serpent-like voice of truth.
How about your uncle Vito, who lived here for two years and never contributed a dollar to the groceries or a hand with the chores? Even Badger lived here for a few months when he was going through rehab, back when you were a kid.

How she had loved fetching and carrying for Badger! He was the king of cool, the soul of sophistication, the wicked wolf wounded and holed up in her kitchen, which she was just learning how to use. Badger and Goomba together had taught her how to cook, schooled her into....

Into the little wifey.

Daisy hit the shower knob with a bang.

Mom was right.

They'd suckered her. She'd been eight years old. Her Mom was at work and she was too young for summer school and her grandfather's handsome friend was staying with them and he was sooo impressed that she could make fresh pasta at her age.

Suckered. Totally conned.

In this militant frame of mind she dressed and went downstairs to help Mom finish supper.

Supper came and went.

“What did Pete Packard want?” Goomba said to Daisy as they sat over coffee.

She'd known this question was coming, and she was ready for it. “He wanted to tell Bobbyjay that even though you're an annoying—very annoying, he should be big about things and not fight with you.” She looked sternly at Goomba over the rim of her coffeecup.

Goomba said calmly, “You left out ‘sonofabitch.' That's Pete's favorite word. I must say, your young man seems to have abandoned his family. Didn't he punch his cousin at the Arena?”

“For me. He's taking care of me, Goomba.”

“He couldn't get you down off that truss.” Count on Goomba to hear all the gossip.

Daisy raised her chin. “I got me into the cage. It was my job, and I did it.”

Goomba's color darkened. “You could have been killed.”

“When was this?” Mom said sharply.

The old devil! He knew Mom would have a cow if she knew what had been happening at work. More pressure to make her quit.

“I'm just learning the job, Mom,” she said in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. “It's okay. Every day I learn something new. And I was in full body harness with my safety snapped on at all times, so I didn't get hurt.”

Mom put her coffeecup down with a snap. “What happened.”

Goomba raised his eyebrows at Daisy. Oh sure, she would tell her version first and then he'd shoot it down. She cleared her throat.

“I slipped a little getting into my truss spot cage. It was okay. I was safetied on, and I climbed right back up inside and ran the show.” She glared at Goomba. “I'm good at it. I hit my man every time.”

“How high in the air was this?” Mom said. Daisy hated the anxiety in her voice.

“I dunno.” Daisy hunched a shoulder.

“Forty feet,” Goomba said, but he was looking at Daisy a little differently. “You did very well.” He swallowed. “I'm proud of you,
angelina
.”

Ambushed again, Daisy felt her eyes fill with tears. “Really?”

He put his hand over hers. “Really. And then your young man defended your honor. Very noble, I thought.”

She eyed him nervously.

“You may as well tell me,” Mom said. “Badger will tell me if you don't.”

Goomba looked at her with deceptively mild eyes. “Badger's scared of you, Fran.”

“And you're not?” Mom's voice went flat. “What happened.” She looked from Daisy to Goomba.

Daisy cracked first. “He—Bobbyjay thought maybe his cousin Bobbert—wanted me to slip. So he, uh, hit him.”

“And afterward he took a punch in the face from his own father,” Goomba said, nodding approvingly. “Such a chivalrous young man. Yet he's still trying to keep in with that putz Bobby Morton Junior.” Goomba shook his head. “Divided loyalties. Must be hard on the boy.”

Daisy felt heat rising into her throat, up her ears, into her scalp. “You mean I'm making his life miserable.”

“You?” Goomba raised his eyebrows. “You didn't hit him.”

“Well, I didn't roadcase his stupid cousin Bobbert either. Did you tell Tony to do that? Or did he think it up on his own?” she snapped, and gasped at her own rudeness.

Mom looked shrewdly from Daisy to Goomba. “You've been feuding again.”

Goomba folded his hands. “On the contrary, I've been a very good boy. It's those Mortons who don't seem very happy about Daisy's betrothal.”

“Oh, that is such bull!” Daisy said. “You needled Bobby Senior all through the fish fry and then you decided to run against him for the Executive Board—”

“Again?” Mom said, sighing.

“And you know just how to stick the knife in, so don't pretend you're not provoking them,” Daisy stormed. “You set them off with that smug sarcastic stuff. You know you can, Goomba.”

“Can I help it Bobby Junior is such a hot-head? What a trial he must be to his father,” Goomba said, shaking his head.

“You big faker,” Daisy hissed.

“Marty,” Mom said, and her tone was very serious. “I thought we had this sorted out.” She sounded like an office manager talking to a senior partner who'd been pinching his rival's secretary.

Goomba had the grace to look into his coffeecup and blush. “More coffee,
angelina?”
he said.

Her spine stiffened to mutiny, Daisy said, “You're just trying to get rid of me so you can try and fake Mom out.”

Mom snapped, “My daughter doesn't have to wait on you. Go get it yourself. After you've explained this to me.”

The cup clattered in the saucer. The whites of Goomba's eyes showed. “Ladies, please! No bloodshed!”

Footsteps came up the basement stairs.

“Antonio!” Goomba called in his boss voice. “Bring me some coffee.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. Mom covered her mouth with her hand. Tony came into the dining room with the pot, grumbling, “Where the hell is Daisy?” and stopped short when he saw the women sitting at the table.

“Please.” Goomba gestured at his cup. “Coffee.”

“Me too, thanks,” Daisy said, shoving her cup forward. Mom did the same.

Tony looked from one face to the next to the next, looked at the pot in his hand, and then, shaking his head and turning red, poured for them all. “Nobody wants a foot massage? Sure you don't want me to do the dishes, too?” he said with heavy sarcasm.

“Actually, we're heading for bed in about fifteen minutes,” Mom said. “Thank you, Tony, you're a good boy for volunteering. Now your grandfather won't have to wash those dishes.”

Daisy's jaw fell.

Tony looked at Goomba.

Goomba shrugged. “Women's lib,” he said in a hushed voice. “It's a new order, Antonio.” He sent a sly look at Mom. “Get used to it.”

Daisy could barely breathe. Tony to do the dishes? Would they get away with it?

Mom eyed Goomba like she was coming to a boil.

Tony left, stopping in the kitchen to put the coffeepot back on the warmer and grab a beer, and Goomba drank his coffee in one gulp.

“Well, I think I'll turn in, too,” he said, standing up and stretching.

“Marty.”

Mom looked at him and he looked at her. Daisy remembered Bobbyjay saying that it was their moms who had created the truce eighteen years ago. Suddenly that seemed a lot more likely.

Goomba stood at the dining room door, looking like a tired little old man. “Yes, Fran?”

Can Mom actually stop him?
Could work become just work, instead of a battleground?

“We're all going up to Lake Geneva to the cottage next week,” Mom said.

“I might take a pass this time,” Goomba said. “Until the summer rush is over.”

Mom dropped her bomb. “Then you won't mind if Bobbyjay comes up with me and Daisy and Wesley. I think the youngsters need some time alone together, away from all the antler-crashing.”

Goomba choked. “B-Bub!”

“My daughter isn't going to make the mistake I made when I married your son.”

Goomba turned purple. “Mist-k.”

Mom sat up very straight. “He was lousy in bed,” she pronounced. Daisy choked this time, and Mom patted her hand. “I'm sorry you had to hear that, darling, but it had to be said. Bobbyjay's bound to be better. And if he isn't,” she said, inclining her head at a gracious angle toward Goomba, “I'll reconsider my position on this engagement.”

Daisy's eyes popped.

Goomba's hands shook. His head bowed in defeat.

Mom added, “Regardless, of course, you boys will all behave yourselves around the Mortons while we're out of town.”

Looking crushed, Goomba tottered toward the back of the house.

“My God, Mom!” Daisy said in awe.

Mom was trembling with indignation. “The nerve of that sneaky old man. He's probably been picking at Bobby Morton every way he could.”

“Well,” Daisy began.

Mom put up a hand like a traffic cop. “I know what he is,” she said between her teeth. Daisy half expected to see steam puffing out of her nostrils.

Was this all it would take? Get Mom mad enough and she'd do a Wonder Woman on Goomba? Daisy felt like she'd been trying to push a car uphill when the key had been in the ignition the whole time.

Mom sighed. “Thank goodness he's gone.” She got up and brought the whisky bottle from the living room and poured a slug into her coffee. Daisy watched, stunned. Mom tipped some whisky into Daisy's cup, too. “Now you can tell me. I've been dying to ask. Is Bobbyjay any good in bed?”

Marty Ditorelli spent the morning waxing his Targa. With the upholstery removed, it looked like a wreck. He didn't have to sniff hard to detect a fishy odor.
That's right. Remember how we got here.
The child was out of control. Borrowed his car, got it wrecked, got engaged to a
Morton!
And the dominoes just kept falling.

Now she was working the street, with evil Mortons laying for her. Would she blame her Goomba for somehow not protecting her on that truss? Mortons had been there that night, and no Ditorellis, and his
angelina
alone among the enemy. Christ, how could he keep her safe? A cold hand clutched his heart every time he remembered her face on the train ride home from the Opera House cafeteria. Sober and closed. Because she'd noticed him watching instead of helping when she needed him.