My Perfect Life (14 page)

I ducked behind the refrigerator.

Mrs Santini noticed the Geisha with the incredibly clean hands and her voice did a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

“Marilyn!” You could tell where Carla learned to gush. “I didn’t hear you drive up. Do you have everything you need? Did Maria Jesus show you where everything is? Carla wasn’t bothering you, was she?”

“Oh, yes, yes… No, of course not.”

The social niceties taken care of, Mrs Santini turned back to her daughter. “We’d better leave Marilyn and Mrs Wallace in peace, honey.” She laughed. It was eerie how much like her Carla was. You’d think she’d been cloned. “And you’d better finish getting dressed…”

Lola didn’t turn the taps off till they were safely out of the room.

“Alone at last,” breathed Lola.

“Let’s do this as fast as we can.” My heart was pounding and my palms were damp. “I just want to get out of here before anybody else shows up.”

We unpacked everything in under five minutes, and then we started sticking things into the oven and the microwave.

I began to breathe almost normally.

“You worry too much,” said Lola. “You have to learn to relax. Everything’s under control.”

At which moment Mr Santini marched into the kitchen, dressed as a Cossack with an authentic glass of vodka in his hand.

“Marilyn!” cried Mr Santini. He slammed down his glass and threw his arms around Lola in what I assumed was a Russian bear-hug. “Forget the food! You look good enough to eat!” He inhaled deeply. “You’ve changed your perfume, haven’t you? You smell delicious.”

Even Lola was momentarily caught by surprise. It was just as well he was holding her, or she probably would have toppled.

“Mis—” she began, but caught herself in time. “Anthony! Heeheehee…” Smiling all the while, she elegantly disentangled herself by elbowing Mr Santini in the stomach. She flicked her fan in front of her face and tittered some more. “It’s bad luck to see the cook before the party,” she said in her new soft, sing-song voice.

Mr Santini was charmed. He stood there, grinning at her soupily. I started to wonder if maybe my mother’s wasn’t the only drinking problem in Woodford.

“That’s the bride before the wedding,” said Mr Santini. He leaned closer. He was wearing hunting boots, but he was wobbling too. “You know,” he said, his voice low but still loud enough to be heard by the help, “I’ve always been attracted to Japanese women.”

“Why, Tony!” Lola whacked him playfully in the chest with her fan. “What will Mrs Wallace think?”

Maybe Mr Santini didn’t believe that Mrs Wallace could think. Like his only child, he didn’t so much as glance my way.

“You know, you’ve never called me Tony before.” If his smile got any soupier he was going to drown them both.

From behind her fan, Lola said, “That’s because you’ve never bothered me when I’m trying to work before.” Heeheehee. She ducked to look in the oven.

Mr Santini stared down at the top of her wig. He seemed fascinated by the chopsticks. “You know, I’d really like to have a dance with you later on,” he drawled.

Lola stood up so quickly that Mr Santini had to jump back to avoid being hit in the teeth.

“Later,” Lola tittered. She fluttered her fan between them, and, holding on to the counter, gave him a shove. “Now get out of this kitchen before I change my mind.”

“But you do promise you’ll have a dance?” insisted Mr Santini. “Later?”

This turned out to be Mrs Santini’s second cue of the night.

“Oh, there you are, darling.” Only Mrs Santini’s mouth was smiling. She looked like a Marie Antoinette who’d just heard about the revolution. “The Derrings and the Bartons have just arrived. Don’t you think you should be out there to greet them?”

It sounded like a question, but Mr Santini knew a threat when he heard one. He blinked a couple of times and then he hopped to it.

“I’m on my way, darling,” purred Mr Santini. “Just thought I’d make sure the cook was all right.”

“And is she?”

If Mr Santini heard the sourness in her voice he pretended that he hadn’t. “She’s fine.” He picked up his glass and glided past his wife, winking at my mother over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry about that…” Mrs Santini’s mouth was still smiling. “I guess he’s excited … you know, with the rally and everything… Did I tell you he’s buying Carla a new car if she wins? He’s wound up like a kid at Christmas. You know how he loves to spoil her.”

Lola fluttered her fan. “Oh, yes, I know. And he’s done a wonderful job.”

I ducked behind the door of the microwave.

“Anyway, I am sorry if he was getting underfoot.”

“Oh, please, Mela, there’s nothing to be sorry for… You just go and enjoy yourself.”

Mrs Santini finally gave up on the smile. “As if I ever could,” she said. And with that she swept back out of the room.

Lola was rolling her eyes. “What a family.” She said it with feeling. “Maybe we should stick around. I bet we could dig up something interesting about the Santinis if we tried.” She put on a deep voice and winked like Mr Santini. “Maybe we wouldn’t have to try too hard.”

By ten o’clock there must have been over two hundred people in the backyard. And there, right in the middle – like the jewel in the crown – was Carla Santini. Carla had topped everyone by coming as Miss New Jersey, in the evening-gown competition. At least half a dozen times I’d caught her looking suspiciously towards the kitchen, but (fortunately) she was always mobbed by adoring fans and though she looked like she wanted to, she couldn’t come back in without bringing the varsity cheerleading squad with her.

“Well, Tonto, it looks like our job here is done,” said Lola as the first of the fireworks lit up the sky. “It’s time to ride back into the sunset.”

Personally, I wouldn’t have minded riding back into a blizzard as long as we got out of there. Carla wasn’t the only one who was keeping an eye on us. Not only did Mr Santini wave every time Lola looked outside, but it seemed to me that Marie Antoinette was paying a lot more attention to the kitchen than you’d expect from a queen.

“Great.” I handed her a crate of empty containers. “You can take this and go saddle up the horses while I finish packing.”

“Hi, ho, Silver!” laughed Lola.

“Marilyn!” Mr Santini suddenly lunged into the kitchen. His Cossack hat was slightly askew, and he was still carrying a glass of vodka – though it was pretty obvious that it wasn’t the same one. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving. You can’t leave yet. We haven’t had our dance.” He gripped her wrist with his free hand.

Lola went into her giggling routine. “Oh, Anthony, I can’t. I have to load the car.”

“Let the hula girl do it,” cried Mr Santini, yanking her back through the patio doors. “You promised me a dance.”

The hula girl finished packing up our things, but decided not to wait in the car. How long could a dance take? I might as well wait inside. I poured myself a glass of soda, and stood at the patio doors, watching the fireworks.

I can look at stars for hours, but after a few minutes the fascination of the Santinis’ pyro-technic display kind of faded and I returned my gaze to the crowd behind the house. I couldn’t see any Cossacks or Geishas in the first section of the yard. My first instinct was to panic. Where were they? Had Mr Santini realized it wasn’t Marilyn Gerard he was dancing with? Worse still, had Carla or Mrs Santini? I told myself to calm down. I told myself the Cossack and the Geisha must be further back, by the bandstand. The voice of panic, however, was still shrieking in my head. It wanted to know how Lola could get all the way to the back of the yard on grass in my mother’s shoes.

I stepped onto the patio for a better look, straining to see over the heads of the crowd. Carla Santini stared back at me.

I ignored her and moved from the patio to the swimming pool for a better view. It was no use. The Santinis aren’t quite feudal lords who could ride for a day and never leave their own land, but they were close enough for me. Still aware of the eyes of Carla Santini tracking me like a radar, I strolled on, as nonchalant and casual as someone who looks like an escapee from an amateur production of
South Pacific
can. I saw a lot of people I knew, of course. Football players dressed as cowboys and soldiers. Cheerleaders dressed as flamenco dancers and harem girls. Mr Mazzucci, the manager of my father’s bank in his usual dark suit and a Winston Churchill mask. But I didn’t see Lola or Mr Santini.

I blame the various stresses of the day for the fact that it was only when I finally got within real sight of the bandstand that I realized the music had stopped.

How could you dance if there wasn’t any music?

I squinted through the smoke-filled air. As far as I could tell, the answer to the question of dancing without music was that, in fact, you couldn’t. The giggling Geisha and the swaying Cossack were nowhere in sight.

As I rustled back the way I’d come, I caught Carla out of the corner of my eye. She was smiling and laughing at something the varsity star quarterback in the Sioux war bonnet was saying to her, but she was still watching me. I sailed past her on the other side of the yard and headed towards the side of the house. Maybe Mr Santini, who by now must have consumed enough vodka to paralyze half the Russian army, had ducked down there to pass out in private and Lola had followed to make sure he was all right.

There were a couple of boys smoking behind the rhododendrons. I pretended I didn’t see them either. I finally stopped when I reached the front of the garage. I thought I heard voices coming from one of the rooms at the front of the house, but I was too preoccupied with wondering what to do next to pay any attention. I can see now that I should either have gone back inside or should have marched right across the lawn and continued my search up the other side of the house, but I didn’t. I just stood there, wondering if I could have missed them in the backyard. Had I checked the tennis court? Did I thoroughly examine the throng around the buffet tables? Could I swear they weren’t in the mob by the pool? I hadn’t, I didn’t, and I couldn’t. I moaned out loud. “Please, Lola…” I hissed into the darkness. “I really want to go home.”

A sweet, kind voice – like the voice of an angel answering my prayers – spoke behind me.

“Do you need some help?” it asked.

But it wasn’t an angel. My life had become a Greek drama, not a Christmas play. It was the voice of Carla Santini.

I was like Lot’s wife: I knew what would happen if I turned around, but I turned around anyway.

Carla was wearing a delicate tiara and a regal smile. “Do you have a problem, Ella? Or are you lost?”

She must have followed me out of the backyard. I could tell from the expression on her face that there was no use in pretending to be Mrs Wallace. I was busted. And I could also tell from the expression on Carla’s face that she had a pretty good idea of what was going on. By Monday morning our community, our town, the school, and probably most of the glorious State of New Jersey would know what Carla guessed – and probably a lot more.

I mustered together as much dignity and cool as I could. “No, no problem. I was just about to leave.”

Carla’s smile was ten times brighter than a Roman candle, and ten times more dangerous. “Are you sure?”

Was I sure? Was I sure about what?

“Because I was thinking,” said Carla. “I mean, you must have an awful lot on your plate already – you know, with your mother’s problem and everything…” She let her words hang in the air for a few seconds like a nuclear cloud; her look hung on me. “So, I was thinking … if you wanted to drop from the race…”

Maybe Carla really will run for President of the country some day. All I had to do was drop out of the election and she’d keep her big mouth shut.

I didn’t know what to do. My mother’s whole life revolved around our community. Considering how badly she seemed to cope with success, what would happen to her if that were taken away from her, too? Especially the way things were between her and my father.

Carla’s not just a witch, she’s a mind-reader as well. “Think about it, Ella. Your mother obviously needs a lot of support right now, not conflict.”

I cleared my throat.

Her smile moved from Roman candle to nuclear proportions. “Is that a yes?”

It was. I was going to say yes. It didn’t seem like I had a choice.

And then the front door opened and someone screamed, “Are you nuts? Get away from me, you letch!”

Carla and I both looked over as Lola Cep stalked out of the house, her wig askew and my mother’s shoes in her hands.

Lola stopped on the porch and turned back to the opened door. “Don’t think this is the last you’re going to hear of this, Mr Anthony Santini!” she roared. “Because it isn’t. I’m going to tell your wife what you suggested. I’m going to tell your friends. I’m going to make sure that everyone knows exactly what kind of man you are.”

“Ella?” said Carla.

I turned to look at her; she was already looking at me.

And in that instant, I made the first political deal of my life. Carla would keep her mouth shut about my mother, and in return I’d make sure that Lola kept her mouth shut about Carla’s dad.

I smiled. “Well,” I said. “Thanks for the great party, Carla. I guess Lola and I will be going now.”

My
mother was in one of her good moods on Sunday morning. She glided around the kitchen, singing along to the radio as though Saturday had never happened. She didn’t even seem to have a hangover, which was pretty unfair. I hadn’t had anything stronger than soda and I felt like hell.

And for about a second, when I came into the kitchen and saw her smiling, I was tempted to act like yesterday had never happened, too. Just like I always did. But then she asked me what I wanted for breakfast, and instead of saying just some really strong coffee I said, “Mom, we have to talk.”

I sounded like someone in a movie, and probably not a good one.

My mother thought so too. She laughed.

“Really,” I said. “About yesterday.”

She immediately started apologizing. She wanted to thank me for getting the food over to the Santinis’. She didn’t know what she would have done without me. I said Lola and Sam helped, and she didn’t even flinch when she said to thank them, too.