Infamous (12 page)

A chime sounded, and before Brandon could steady himself, the cuckoo clock on the wall struck eight. A tiny yodeler—in lederhosen—shot out on a plank, his demonic little face worn from years of exposure.

“Dude, that guy in the clock doesn’t have a face,” Heath noted.

“I saw it.” Brandon suddenly felt like he was caught in some kind of cross-cultural time warp. He had to look down at his faded True Religion jeans and familiar Burberry down-filled vest to remind himself he wasn’t on another planet.

“Frau Dunderdorf and I are in the middle of Dutch Blitz.” Mr. Dunderdorf stuck his thumbs under the suspenders of his short-pants and pulled them from his chest. “Do you know how to play?”

Brandon was about to say no—who played cards at this hour?—when Heath jumped in. “No, sir, but we’d love to learn.”

Patting Heath on the back, Dunderdorf led them through the front room and into the stifling kitchen, where a short, portly woman who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Dunder-dorf sat behind a metal table strewn with cards neither of them recognized. “This is Mrs. Dunderdorf.”

Heath and Brandon nodded hello.
How did these two produce a pair of knockout twins?
Brandon thought. He wanted to ask Heath if he’d actually seen these legendary twins, but he could tell Heath was as freaked out as he was.

“Wow, those cards are funky.” Heath’s voice almost squeaked with panic.

“Ah…” Mr. Dunderdorf waved him off. “It’s easy. Sit down.”

They cautiously took their seats around the table and Brandon’s attention wandered as Mr. Dunderdorf explained about the four decks—Pump, Buggy, Plow, and Bucket—and how every deck had ten each of red, blue, green, and yellow cards.

Brandon stared at the little Dutchman who appeared in each of the cards’ four corners, wondering if he’d somehow stepped into the Twilight Zone. At least he wasn’t thinking about Sage, wondering what she was doing…although, now that he thought about it, what
was
she doing? And what, for that matter, was
he
doing?

“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Dunderdorf asked, her kindly Mrs. Claus blue eyes focused on Brandon’s face.

“Nothing,” Brandon assured her. “Just, uh, looking forward to some…” He trailed off, searching his brain for the word for
German sausage
. “
Deutsche Wurst
.”

Mrs. Dunderdorf grinned at him, revealing a gap between her front teeth large enough to stick a pencil through. Mr. Dunderdorf commenced the first round of Dutch Blitz, which turned out to be a lot like Uno. After about twenty minutes of intense card play, Mrs. Dunderdorf brought over the coffee pot and filled their mugs. Brandon gave Heath a sharp kick in the shin, but Heath just gave him a helpless
I know, dude, but what do you want me to do
look.

Mr. Dunderdorf excused himself to use the
Raum des Kleinen Jungen
—Brandon thought that meant “little boy’s room,” but it had been a few years since he’d been in German class. Once he was out of earshot, Heath leaned forward and asked Mrs. Dunderdorf, “So, uh, are your daughters still asleep?” The question sounded innocent enough, but Brandon winced when it left Heath’s lips.

Mrs. Dunderdorf shook her head and Brandon braced for the bad news that either they weren’t coming or they’d never even existed. Maybe some evil senior had started the rumor, knowing that some horny soul would try to exploit it.

“Their plane was delayed,” Mrs. Dunderdorf answered, shuffling the cards. “We will pick them up later.”

What? Heath refused to look at Brandon, pretending to concentrate on his cards instead. They’d dragged their asses over here practically at the crack of dawn—for nothing! At least they were coming, though.

“Now it is time to get the turkey,” Mr. Dunderdorf announced, returning to the kitchen and clapping his hands together. His face looked positively gleeful. “Follow me.”

Brandon and Heath pushed away from the table and got to their feet, eager at the chance to avoid another round of Dutch Blitz. Maybe a trip in to Rhinecliff’s Stop & Shop would give them an opportunity to escape—or, Brandon reasoned to himself, at least to “remember” an “important project” he needed to work on. They could come back later—or tomorrow—to catch a glimpse of the twins.

“Thank you for the delicious coffee, Mrs. Dunderdorf.” Heath smiled ingratiatingly, never willing to give up. “It hit the spot.”

Mr. Dunderdorf led them outside, the morning chill hanging in the air, but rather than heading for the Volkswagen parked in the driveway, he took them around the side of the house. Brandon froze in his tracks when he heard what he hoped he hadn’t.

Mr. Dunderdorf opened the gate into the small backyard. A large turkey paced the length of the lawn, stopping and staring at them before skittering away. “C’mon, boys, it’s just a little bird.” He chuckled to himself.

“Oh, hell no.” Brandon shook his head and leaned back against the gate, trying to signal to Heath that now was the time to run. This was it. No twins, just a live turkey and a house that smelled like his Grandma Ginny’s.

“Dude,” Heath exhaled, his face ashen. “This is bad.”

Mr. Dunderdorf, oblivious to their distress, motioned to the cage in the corner. “We need to get him back inside, boys,” he said. “You have to chase him, or he won’t move. You can’t just walk up to him.” The old man took off running at the turkey, who fluttered his wings and scampered in the opposite direction of the open cage.

“I’m not doing this,” Brandon declared, running his hand through his short, golden-brown hair.

“Dude, it’ll be worth it.” Heath planted both his hands on Brandon’s shoulders. “Do you have any idea how delicious these twins are? Do you have any idea how legendary we’ll be come Monday morning? Sage will probably hear about it and be all like, ‘Oh, what did I doooo?’” Heath used his high-pitched girl voice to imitate Sage.

It worked. Brandon loved the idea of Sage finding out he’d gotten together with a hot German chick just days after she’d tried to break his heart. It was enough to send him racing around the yard, chasing the giant, stupid bird. Brandon’s heart beat wildly in his chest as they tried to maneuver the turkey toward the cage—but it always veered away from the open door at the last minute, circling the yard as it called loudly. Breathless, he stopped, his hands on his knees, watching as Mr. Dunderdorf and Heath brought the cage to the turkey, cornering it in the yard until it had no choice but to waddle inside.

“Aha!” Mr. Dunderdorf exclaimed as he locked the cage door. “Good work, Mr. Ferro.” He picked up an ax. “Now, for the messy part.”

An hour later, after washing up, when Heath and Brandon were still too traumatized to speak, Mr. Dunderdorf announced that it was the perfect time for a sauna.

“A sauna?” Brandon choked out, too weak to resist as Mr. Dunderdorf led him and Heath down the basement stairs. The smell of wet wood filled Brandon’s nostrils, and the darkness was suddenly illuminated to reveal a full sauna behind a glass door, the wooden benches lit under the red lights. Mr. Dunder-dorf adjusted the dial on the outside of the door and began to disrobe.

“Leave your clothes outside,” Mr. Dunderdorf instructed. “Use the hooks.” He pointed to a series of hooks on the wall.

Brandon watched to see if Heath’s first instinct was the same as his own—to bolt—but Heath turned his back on Mr. Dunderdorf and started to take his clothes off. Mr. Dunderdorf took a fresh towel out of the wicker basket by the door and strode into the sauna, the glass door clicking behind him.

“No way,” Brandon said.

“Trust me, dude,” Heath said, standing in his boxers. “It’s totally going to be worth it. You’ve come this far.”

Brandon nodded. Heath was right. He just needed the Dunderdorf twins to arrive, and fast, so that Sage could hear about it, get insanely jealous, and beg him to take her back.

He stripped down to his navy and yellow striped Ralph Lauren boxers, threw his clothes in a pile next to Heath’s, and grabbed a towel.

Strains of classical music played through the recessed speakers of the Messerschmidts’ built-in surround-sound system on Thursday morning. Brett stared miserably down at the caviar torte with champagne onions, a dish she’d never heard of, let alone seen served in her house. She squinted across the polished oak dining room table at Bree, whom she held personally responsible for the monstrosity. When she’d promised her mother to behave at Thanksgiving brunch with the Coopers, Brett had imagined she’d be aided in this endeavor by quietly munching away on her mother’s airy French toast, and not something concocted out of gelatinous fish eggs. She felt her throat constrict as she forked a piece of the torte, wriggling it free and pushing it around her plate, the immaculate china shiny as a mirror.

But Brianna, in a maidenly blue Ann Taylor dress covered in a tiny rose print, refused to acknowledge her, as she’d done since Brett arrived home. Brett had initially been freaked out by her new zombie
Vogue
bride sister—had they drugged her? Brainwashed her?—but now she was only irritated by the whole situation.

“Are you a golf fan?” Brett’s dad asked Mr. Cooper, taking a swig of freshly squeezed orange juice. Stuart Messerschmidt, whose favorite topic—tales of plastic surgery—had undoubtedly been banned by Bree, turned to his second favorite topic: sports. He looked more stressed out now than he had when the whole cast of the Rockettes came to him one November and demanded to be Botoxed for their first show.

Mr. Cooper swallowed a forkful of torte and nodded. “Yes, I am.” He had on a pink Nautica button-down and a navy blue tie with tiny yellow sailboats. Apparently, Thanksgiving brunches were meant to be formal—when Bree had run into Brett in the upstairs hallway that morning, she’d marched Brett back to her bedroom and made her change out of her favorite orange Juicy Couture velour pants and black Rolling Stones T-shirt.

“Who’s your favorite player?” Brett’s dad asked, looking grateful that he’d found something to discuss. Brett’s mom, in some kind of beige pantsuit that looked like something a paralegal would wear, squeezed his hand across the table.

“Favorite player?” Mr. Cooper looked perplexed. He glanced at his wife, as if relying on her to interpret.

“I think he means on television,” Mrs. Cooper said helpfully. She sipped at her glass of sparkling water.

“Oh.” Mr. Cooper’s face darkened, and he looked at Mr. Messerschmidt like he was a child. “I don’t watch golf. I
play
it.”

Brett’s dad’s face fell and it was all Brett could do to keep from reaching across the table and smacking Mr. Cooper. She tried to think of a biting comment about golf but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Dad, you like Tiger Woods.” Willy spoke up, pushing the piece of caviar torte toward the edge of his plate. He, Brett noticed with relief, wasn’t wearing a tie.

Mr. Cooper nodded, his eyes a pale green, the color of a dollar bill that had gone through the wash accidentally. “Indeed, I do.”

“It’s impossible not to love a player like that.” Mr. Messerschmidt shook his head and let out a soft whistle. “But personally, I’m a John Daly fan myself. Gotta love a guy who can mix it up like that.”

“I don’t know him,” Bree said primly, knowing full well who he was. She adjusted the white headband holding her hair in place.

“You know, the fat one who plays drunk and has an ex-con for a wife,” Brett answered gleefully, watching a horrified look cloud Bree’s face. Brett had always groaned when she came into the room and her dad was watching golf on the big screen, but now it kind of came in handy.

Mr. and Mrs. Cooper shared a glance and then quietly returned to their torte.

“Would anyone like another orange-glazed blueberry scone?” Mrs. Messerschmidt jumped to her feet and passed the tray of hardened pastries around the table. She sank back down, playing with the strand of pearls around her neck that Brett had never seen her wear before. She tended to prefer oversize necklaces with lots of beads and gold, for a kind of kooky, Home Shopping Network look.

“We’re big race fans,” Willy spoke up, trying to change the subject. Brett noticed that he smiled really sweetly at Bree, who had a constipated look on her face.

“Nascar?” Brett’s dad asked, and Brett let a tiny giggle escape.

“
No
,” Bree said, exasperated. She set down her fork. “Crew. You know, boat racing?”

Brett narrowed her eyes. She was pretty sure Bree knew nothing about boat racing and Brett only wished that
she
did so that she could put Bree in her place. Who was this Ann Taylor bore and what had she done with Brett’s fun-loving sister?

“Dad went to school in New Haven,” Willy continued, taking a big gulp of his mimosa, “so that’s his team.”

“Sherrie down the street went to college in New Haven, too.” Brett’s mom smiled, her catlike green eyes that Brett had inherited bright with forced cheer. Sherrie Inman was her mom’s best friend, president of their local chapter of the
ASPCA
, where her mom got all their teacup Chihuahuas, and rotating secretary of the Neighborhood Watch.

“Oh?” Mr. Cooper perked up. “What year?”

Brett’s mom crinkled her brow. “Not sure. She studied restaurant management, I think.”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Cooper said, stifling a laugh.

Mrs. Messerschmidt blinked at the blatant rudeness of Mrs. Cooper’s remark. “She certainly did.” She sat up straighter in her chair.

“Mom.” Bree spoke up calmly, her pale, polish-free nails clinking impatiently against her half-full glass of grapefruit juice. “Mrs. Inman went to Albertus Magnus College.”

“That’s right,” Brett’s mom said forcefully, not understanding what Bree was trying to intimate.

“Mr. Cooper went to
New Haven
...” Bree continued. Brett had to clench her hands into fists not to roll her eyes.

“Albertus Magnus is in New Haven,” Brett’s mom said, confused.

“Mom…” Brett leaned toward her mother and spoke in a loud stage whisper. “People say they went to New Haven when they mean they went to
Yale
.” Bree shot her a look.