Fools Paradise (26 page)

“I'm engaged now, Goomba. Badger is aware of this. I don't think I have to explain it to him, but maybe I should for you. Bobbyjay Morton is going to be my husband.”
He's only faking engaged.
The ground seemed to fall away at her feet. She stood extra-tall to keep her balance. “This means I don't want to be handled by anybody else.”

“Can you honestly say you're in love with him?” Goomba said, and a space opened across the basement as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Yes. I can.
That was the worst part. She wanted Bobbyjay and he wanted her and yet the engagement was a total fraud. They were only together because this difficult old man couldn't keep his temper, couldn't act like an adult though he was almost seventy. Bobbyjay couldn't settle the Mortons down, either. They were trapped. It could never work.

“We're in love,” she said, though the words came jagged through her throat.
Does he love me enough? Enough to deal with these crazy old men?
“Surely you didn't think all Badger had to do was crook his finger and I'd break up with Bobbyjay.”

Badger made a gesture with one hand, his back still turned.

“It wasn't like that,” Goomba croaked.

She stood up to her knees in dirty clothes and stared at her Goomba, thinking how few hours were left of today, how many meals she had to prepare and serve or freeze, then clean up afterward, all before seven-thirty tomorrow morning, when Bobbyjay would come by in his Jeep.

“I think it was just like that. It occurred to me the other day, Goomba, when you sicced Badger on me at the Opera House.” There was a noise from Badger by the patio door but she ignored it. “I'm just meat, aren't I? I'm your meat. And your pasta and your marinara sauce and your coffee just how you like it, three meals a day.”

“No,” he croaked. “No. You're my
preziosa.”

“Of course I am. So if I get out of line you hand me over to somebody else to discipline. That's your problem, isn't it, Goomba? Discipline with love. Hard to do.”

“Daisy, I—whatever Bobbyjay said, I didn't want those men at the cafeteria to bother you.”

So he understood. Maybe there was hope. But she had more to say.

Fire spurted up into her throat from her heart. “Actually I was thinking of Cousin Tony. He's your enforcer too, isn't he?”

“What?” Goomba looked bewildered. “What about Tony?” It sickened her to realize that he would let the thing in the cafeteria drop if he could. His conscience had to be tender. And yet he must have thought he was right.

She took a deep breath. Her hands, folded in front of her, were cold as ice. “Tony lived with us before, remember? When I was sixteen?”

A frown darkened Goomba's face. “I remember.”

“And one day you threw him out.”

Goomba straightened. “He was bothering my
angelina.”
Poor old guy seemed to think he was on solid moral ground. He made a superb gesture. “For that, he was banished.”

Daisy threw a glance at Badger's back. “And then Badger caught me in a karaoke bar, cutting class, and hauled me back here by the ear, and you grounded me for life, and I've been in the doghouse ever since. And about a year ago I started begging for a job in the Local and, a couple months later, look who moves back in.”

Goomba stuck his chin out. “I am the master in this house.”

“Of course you are. And you have a soft spot for your
angelina,
so you don't know how to keep her down. But Tony does.”

“He wouldn't dare bother you under my roof!”

Daisy's patience snapped. “Oh, bull! He ‘bothers' me, as you put it, every day. Every single day, a pinch on the butt, a grab at my boob, a squeeze, a dirty word. Why do you think he and Wesley are always fighting? Tony thinks it's my fault you threw him out last time, so he makes a point to teach me how wrong I am to think you would ever, ever,
ever
stick up for me!” The last words came out shrill and hoarse and sharp, hurting her throat.

Her grandfather turned purple. “I would—he wouldn't dare!” He tottered to his feet.

She exploded. “He doesn't want to fuck me, he wants to fuck with my head!”

“Angelina,
your language!”

“How am I supposed to say it?” she cried. “How long do you want me to turn the other cheek? You've been sitting here watching—you saw what he put in the laundry for me to find!” She was speechless with shame. Why did she have to explain? Goomba already knew. He was just making her say it to humiliate her. “You
know
he does those things. You let it happen. You get to buy me clothes and a car and spoil me and pet me. And Tony gets to grab my ass when
you
think I've been bad.”

She felt the walls crashing down around her, leaving her homeless, setting her free. She hoped she would have time to pack. Mom would sneak her some clothes.

Goomba sputtered, “How could he—under my nose—no, it doesn't happen! Tony makes a lot of mistakes—he drinks too much—an accident maybe—”

With a squeal of frustration she grabbed up the wad of used condoms and slapped it into Goomba's hand.
“That
is
not
a
mistake!”
she screamed.

Goomba recoiled, staring. “I don't believe it.” He shook his head over and over. But he looked worse than he had when Mom told him to get his own coffee.

Daisy realized that tears were running down her cheeks.

“I don't really care if you believe me.” Her pulse rang in her ears until she could barely hear herself speak. “I wouldn't ask you to choose between Tony and me. That would be wrong.” She leaned forward and raised her voice against the ringing in her ears. “Wrong, do you hear me? When you love two people at once,
you shouldn't have to choose.”

He opened and shut his mouth.

She wanted to hit him again, but she didn't have anything else. He'd spoiled the love between them. Then she thought of something.

“That reminds me,” she said. “Mom told me to be sure and ask why you and Bobby Senior hate each other so much.” Might as well ask now. She'd probably never get another chance.

At this, Badger turned and came away from the patio door. Gently, he pushed Goomba to sit on the sofa again. Goomba was rubbing the knees of his trousers, glancing from Daisy to Badger to the patio door and back.

“They were best friends,” Badger blurted.

Daisy looked at him, feeling dumb. “Best?”

“Best friends,” Goomba said in a stronger voice. “We did everything together. High school, the army, apprentices at the Opera House. I was dating this girl. I really liked her. Bobby Morton took her away from me and married her.”

Her mouth made an O.

Goomba glanced up at her. “They didn't even stay married. She got fed up with him, the stage and wife's life, who knows. She divorced him after two sons in less than two years.” His chin came down and his voice softened.
“Angelina.
Baby. I—I don't want to come between you and your love.” His voice broke. “I don't want you to have to choose between two people you love.”

“Bull. You don't want to lose your cook and housekeeper. You sicced Wesley and his spyware on us at Lake Geneva. Oh yes, we found the bug first thing,” she said scornfully to his astounded expression.

“So you—then it wasn't—” His face brightened. “You never—”

Oh shit, he figured it out.
She realized she was giving away too much.

Hope bloomed in the old man's face, so happy, so painful to see that her heart felt like it was in a vice. He croaked, “So it's not true? You didn't have sex with that idiot after all?”

Words ripped out of her in one long scream. “It's none of your business!”

Badger put his hand on Goomba's arm.

Daisy stumbled to the patio door, fumbled it open, and ran out of the house.

Badger sat beside him with his hand on his shoulder. Marty was grateful. He thought the pain might rip him apart. “What did I do?” he said, bewildered. “What did I do?”

Badger's hand tightened on his shoulder. “You din't let go, Marty.”

“She's my
angelina.
I can't—” he swallowed broken glass and turned his face away from his old friend. “I can't stop loving her.”

“Let go of Bobby Morton,” Badger said. Marty made a noise in his throat. “That's what's fucking this up for you both.”

Marty stared at the patio door. His heart was a dead lump of coal inside him. “You think?” But the moment Badger had said it, he began feeling better. A long, slow, cool breeze started up inside him, blowing the pain away.

Whispers began in the back of his mind.
The boy is good to her. Let go. It would hurt less. Fewer people to hate. Less time being angry.

Suddenly he felt like he'd put a huge part of his life on hold, ever since Irene gave his ring back.

The wife had known. No wonder she'd left. His sons knew, too, maybe that's why none of them still lived in Chicago. It was grandsons and nephews for Marty Dit, not the strong backing of his own seed, like Bobby Morton had.

Sure. Strong like that mental giant Bobby Junior, or Rob the Snob, who was surely number two sarcastic sonofabitch in the whole Local. He'd spent a lifetime envying Bobby, and for what?

“He won't thank me,” he said abruptly.

“Bobby Morton? Who gives a fuck what he thinks. This is for Daisy.”

Marty looked quickly at Badger and caught him blinking.
Got you, didn't she, Badger?

The thing was, when Daisy loved you, you had to love her back.

Maybe it would work on the Morton pup, too.

“He might not accept. If I hold out my hand.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Badger repeated. “You do your part and Daisy'll know it. She knows what it means. She did it for you, anyway.”

Her tearful face, the gun clammy in his hand,
Goomba, no. He's my fiancé.

“I thought she did it for him. For the Morton boy.”

Badger stirred beside him. “At first, maybe,” he said grumpily.

“She didn't love him then.” Marty knew that much. “You still had a shot.” He sent Badger another look. “It almost worked, didn't it?”

Badger returned his look with something akin to dislike. He said heavily, “Yeah.” His face seemed to age while Marty watched. The scar next to his eye darkened. Maybe it was just a cloud crossing the sun outside.

Marty felt a whole lot better. Badger was right. It was the right thing to do. He breathed deeply, feeling the tightness ease in his chest. “You think she'd even notice? If I bury the hatchet?”

“Shit, yes.”

But Marty was already imagining how he would tell her. Ceremoniously, after supper? Or wait 'til he'd actually talked to Bobby? A picture of his Targa, sitting in the carport with the upholstery ripped out, came unbidden to his mind.

He could be mad about that. Easily.

No, it wasn't about Bobby. It was about Daisy.

She hated him running for the Board against Bobby. He had a campaign mailing to the membership almost ready, sitting in his Caldwell Avenue office right this minute. He'd been putting the finishing touches on the letter today.

Okay. Now he would write a new letter. Show her the letter before it went out. He couldn't bear one more minute of Daisy hating him.

He put a hand on his buddy's knee and squeezed. “Thanks.” With a shrewd look he added, “I'll put in a word for you, too.”

Badger stood suddenly. “I think Daisy and I understand each other.” He looked at his watch. “Got a hotel job at three. Ballroom followspot.” He walked out, leaving Marty feeling semi-human for the first time in weeks.

Next morning, Marty rewrote his campaign letter to his union brothers.

To all voting members of the Stagehands Local: As many of you may know, for a long time I have contested my old friend Bobby Morton's seat on the Executive Board. A lot of water has passed over the dam since those days. And anyway Bobby is doing a great job. This year I come to the conclusion that the past is over and done with. We have a more hopeful future. I refer to my granddaughter Daisy Ditorelli's betrothal to Bobby Morton's grandson Bobbyjay. Our families will be as one. Therefore it is with a light heart that I withdraw from this year's election for the Board.

Fraternally yours,

Marty Ditorelli

He wasn't so sure he wanted to praise Bobby Morton's performance on the Board but, if he were to be utterly honest, Marty would admit that he would have done the same as Bobby, with the same power. And the letter didn't look complete without that. When he thought of Bobby reading this letter he felt hot inside, in a good way. It was time to end the feud. Maybe Bobby would shake his hand after this. That would feel good, too.

That evening Daisy served supper in dead silence. Marty was tempted a hundred times to show her the letter but, every time, he reflected that the impact would be greater if she heard about it on the street, from other stagehands. She would see how she had misjudged him.