Fools Paradise (31 page)

“DNA, Bobby Junior. Don't you watch CSI?”

“Don't be a smartass.”

“What do I do with these?”

“Put 'em in the box we brought.”

“Do I lick 'em?”

“No, you don't lick 'em. The fuck you want to do that for?”

“So Marty Dit don't open 'em before he mails 'em out.”

“What about DNA?” the voice of Bobbyjay's father said with heavy sarcasm.

“Just a suggestion,” Bobbert's voice grumbled.

Bobbyjay's father lifted his head and stared across the TV set at the number one Bobby. His expression was dreadful. Then he shut his eyes and bowed his head.

Bobbert looked totally crushed.

Bobby Senior looked as if he was watching the end of the world. He leaned forward and snapped off the tape. “You,” he whispered to his elder son. “You know what this means?”

Pete looked at Daisy's Goomba in amazement. “Fuck, Marty. You could really do it this time.”

“I ain't conceded,” Bobby Senior said and flinched when Pete rounded on him.

“Yes, you did.” Pete pointed at the TV. “You are out of office now. If you hadn't been such a smug fuck, marchin' in here with your grievance to the International, I'd of let you serve out your term. As it is?” He shrugged. “As your representative to the International I advise you to come down with a little health problem that necessitates your immediate retirement from the Board.” The syllables chopped out of him like slaps in Bobby Senior's face.

The entire Morton family looked paralyzed.

Pete turned back to Daisy's Goomba. “Well? You're running unopposed now. Feel like taking office early?” He didn't sound horribly happy to have Goomba on the team, Daisy thought.

Bobbyjay made a noise in his throat. Daisy shot him a glance, then realized what he was thinking. This would put Goomba on top for the first time in more than twenty years. She'd spent her whole life in a household with Goomba on top. He could be, as Pete Packard had told her in this office not long ago, a really annoying sonofabitch.

The Mortons wouldn't take that lying down.

She swallowed. “Goomba?” she whispered.

Her grandfather looked at her with his lower lip buttoned over his upper lip. She knew he'd already made up his mind. He glanced at Bobbyjay, who was still gripping her hand.

Facing Pete again, Goomba said, “No thanks.” He sent Daisy a glance and touched his forehead with a shaking hand, as if he didn't know he was doing it.

Pete's brows snapped together. His jaws begin to grind.

“I only run to piss off Bobby here,” Goomba said in an unusually quiet voice. “Everybody knows that.”

A grunt popped out of Pete Packard. His fists opened and closed at his sides.

Daisy held her breath. Oh, God. What would Pete do to Goomba?

The two families were lined up opposite each other like square dancers. Her evil cousins Tony and Vince, her good cousins Wesley and Mikey Ray, and Goomba, looking humble and tired and old, peeking up at Pete Packard from under his bushy white eyebrows. On the other side the Mortons stared at Goomba: Bobbert disgusted, Raybob and Rob the Snob wearing identical camel-like sneers, Bobby Junior looking like he was about to blubber, and Bobby Senior with an astounded expression.

“Well,” Pete said finally with terrifyingly exaggerated patience. “Gee. What can I do in this situation?” He inflated his lungs awfully, swelling like a bullfrog, his fists at his sides. He shouted at her Goomba, “THIS IS NOT A FUCKING SANDBOX.”

Everybody flinched.

Daisy had had enough. She simply would not cry in front of the Mortons.

“You could put Bobbyjay on the Board,” she said in a clear voice.

Dead silence followed this suggestion. Goomba glanced at her with mild interest, as if nothing mattered.

A grunt came from the Morton side of the room.

Pete's jaw worked some more. “Okay then. That's how it's gonna be. If I hafta hear one word about either one of your families ever, ever, ever again.” Pete paused awfully. “I'll suspend the lot of you,
every single one
of you on
both sides,
for
six months.”

Rob the Snob gasped. Mikey Ray glanced from one grandfather to the other. Daisy saw both the old men wince.

“Now get outa my office,” Pete commanded. “Not you two,” he said to Daisy and Bobbyjay as they edged toward the door.

Daisy started trembling again. Bobbyjay pulled her closer and put his arm around her. They watched their families file out. Mikey Ray sent Bobbyjay a solemn wink and a thumbs-up. Nobody else looked at them.

The door closed.

Pete looked them over. “I gotta hand it to you. Your marriage could save everybody a big hassle after all.” He chewed. “You realize, of course, it ain't over yet.”

Dumbly Bobbyjay nodded. Daisy swallowed.

“I'm not gonna tell you how to handle your family,” Pete said to Bobbyjay. “But there's work to be done there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bobbyjay croaked.

“And you, miss.”

Daisy put up her chin. Her tummy wobbled.

“Your grandfather seems to have softened up some. I'd keep the bandages on a little longer if I was you.” So Pete had noticed Goomba's gesture. “Your Ma still living with you?”

“Yes.” What didn't this guy know? No wonder he was on the International Board. “She's been, um, helping me soften Goomba.”

Pete nodded. “Good. Tell her how important it is.”

“She knows. Sir,” Daisy added.

“She always did. Why the f—how come she dropped the ball this time?”

How come your stagehands are a bunch of children?
she wanted to ask. “She works a lot of extra hours, sir.”

Pete nodded again, as if this were a reasonable excuse. “I'll be in town for the picnic on Monday. Be there,” he told Bobbyjay, “with your betrothed. After that, you're on your own. You still hafta get the votes.”

He waved them out of his office.

Out in the corridor, Daisy collapsed in Bobbyjay's arms and gave way to tears of relief. “What was all that about the picnic?”

“He supports my candidacy,” Bobbyjay said in a gloomy voice. “He'll shake my hand and we'll stand around looking engaged and the Local will see our grandfathers making nice. Aw, don't cry, Daze.” He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. “I think we did it.”

“It's not over.” She sniffled.
But it will be soon. It has to be. How can we keep faking this thing?
she thought.
Especially when I'm not faking any more.
She sobbed harder against his shoulder.

“I know that. I know.” He stroked her head. “Daze, we gotta go back to work now.”

“I hate this!” she burst out. “All this faking and being real inside and not letting our families know!” Oh God, had she blurted that out?

She felt Bobbyjay's hand go still on her head bandage.

What would he say?
Darn right, it sucks pretending I want to marry you.
She clung to him even tighter, hiding her face in his tee-shirt. Or maybe he would say,
You're a great kisser and you give good head, but I'm too young to be tied down.
Or, even worse,
I love you and I want to keep you, but I just don't have the nerve to deal with my father.

Because that was the real problem. Bobby Senior wouldn't risk his family's employment to annoy her grandfather, but she didn't give a nickel for Bobby Junior having any sense.

Assuming Bobbyjay really wanted her.

She stopped sobbing and held still, sniffling very quietly against his chest.

He got bigger somehow. As if he were breathing deep.

“Is it real inside, Daze?” he said.

She gulped. “Yeah.”

He pulled in more air and said, “Okay then.”

She was irritated into looking up. “Okay what?” His big hand cupped her face. It felt so good, her knees weakened on the rush. “Okay, what?” she whispered again.

“It's worth trying.”

Daisy stamped her foot. “What is?”

He kissed her. “You. Me. Us. I want you to keep the ring.”

A wild grin stretched across her face. “You want to get married?”

“How come I have to do all the asking?” he complained.

She laughed, giddy. “I like that! I asked you first!”

“At gunpoint.”

“I saved your life, you goof!”

“Yeah.” His teasing look softened. “You did.” He kissed the finger that wore his ring. “We got a lot to do, babe, if this is gonna happen. You work on your grandfather. And your cousin Tony if you can. It ain't just my Dad,” he added, and she felt huge relief that he saw the problem. “Rob the Snob don't give a shit, and Raybob always goes along with him. So I make it five of them—the grandfathers, my Dad, my cousin Bobbert, and your cousin Tony. It's all or nothing, Daze,” he said, his brown eyes serious.

“I can deal with Tony.” She felt lighter than air. “It's worth trying.”

He dove into her mouth again. “I got an idea,” he said, when they came up for air.

Twenty-four hours later, Bobbyjay's cell rang while he was walking across the river from Herm's to the Opera House.

“That sarcastic sonofabitch really blew it this time, din't he?” Weasel Rooney's voice said. “On his own stationery and everything! Did you get his letter? ‘Anybody who votes for that stupid motherfucker Bobby Morton Sr is asking for the worst three years of their life. Havunt we had enough after 21 years of this shit.' Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a copy. Look, Weasel, I'm at work now, can I call you later?”

Bobbyjay hung up. Seconds later his cell rang again. “Somebody's gonna die for this,” a man growled.

“Tony?” Bobbyjay guessed. “Vince?”

“Just so you know,” the caller growled. The phone went dead.

As he was walking through the stage door, his cell rang a third time.

“Yo, Bobbyjay, this is King Dave. What the fuck is your Dad thinking?”

“Hey, Berg,” Bobbyjay said to the doorman, then lowered his voice. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he told the phone.

“Hey, this is me, King Dave. Don't you square with me no more?” his best friend said.

Bobbyjay stepped out onstage and ducked behind a chunk of fake boulder. “Honest to God, King Dave, they're driving me insane. Bobby Senior tried to file a grievance.” He left out what Pete had decided. Wait and see if it worked. “It's like he's not thinking any more. None of 'em thinks. Swear to God, the only one with any self-control left is Marty Dit.”

“That's no fucking comfort,” King Dave said, accurately guessing Bobbyjay's feelings. “What you gonna do?”

Bobbyjay laughed without humor. “Pray. Push forward on the wedding plans. Daisy's Mom's kind of scary, but she could help with Marty Dit.”

“It ain't Marty Dit's the problem and you know it,” said the Job's comforter on the other end of the line.

“I think—” Bobbyjay peered around the end of the fake boulder and lowered his voice still further. “I think I got some leverage. I can't talk about it. Just—just wish me luck.”

“Break a leg, buddy.”

Bobbyjay heaved an anxious sigh. “Thanks.”

Daisy got home from the Opera House changeover at three in the morning Monday and had a screaming fight with her cousin Vince, of all people, who accused her of sleeping with Bobbyjay.

“Changeover ends at one-thirty!” he yelled over and over, and he wouldn't listen when she tried to remind him it was Wagner last night, with three times the scenery plus a rain curtain to clean up after.

Through all the yelling, Goomba never came out of his bedroom.

She was just on the point of kicking Vince in the balls when disgust overwhelmed her.
I can't keep nutting these morons. Life is too short. And I don't like myself later.

Instead she narrowed her eyes at him. “I'll be gone soon. You can cook your own meals and wash your own clothes and tell everybody what a slut I am for sleeping with my fiancé before the wedding. Bobbyjay is good to me. Do you expect me to
want
to live here when you treat me like this?” She felt like Cruella DeVille for saying it in so many words. Nutting would be more humane. Vince would take an occasional kick in the balls if she'd just keep cooking for him.

Vince's face was mask of dumbstruck horror. “You're marrying him.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Duh!” She wiggled her diamonded left hand at him. “Evanston Country Club, October first? Three hundred people for the ceremony and a hundred and fifty sit-down for prime rib?”

“Goomba said you wouldn't.”

She swallowed hard. “Goomba was wrong. He's not the boss of me. And neither are you.”

Vince looked ugly. “So you're marrying a wuss like Bobbyjay Morton so you can kick him around all the time.”