Walking the Perfect Square (24 page)

“Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Prager. I’ve got to caution you, the coming out process can be a very delicate period in a person’s life. Issues of sexuality are volatile and the pressures great. If you should cross this man’s path, remember what the labels read on shipping cartons containing antique china.”

“Fragile,” I said. “Handle with care.”

She wished me luck. And in spite of being sorely tempted, she regretted having to take a pass on my invitation to Pooty’s.

 

PETE PARSON HID Katy’s roses in his office along with the gift-wrapped bottles of wine I’d purchased with my brother the day before. Pete’s partners, the ex-hippies from his old neighborhood, cleaned up real good. One guy, the one that looked like a baked potato with hair, wore enough gold jewelry to finance a small revolution. The other, clearly the numbers man, looked like a mortician. Both, however, were genuinely thankful for my help. They had a lot of cash sunk into the place and were only too glad to throw this little party in my honor. But every time I looked over at
the undertaker I could almost hear him thinking: “We shoulda given the guy a fucking watch and been done with it. We’re losing a fortune!”

Believe me, I was tempted to tell him Katy was Patrick Maloney’s sister. Somehow I don’t think he would have appreciated the irony, Katy having introduced her younger brother to the charms of Pooty’s in the first place. But since Katy and I had carefully neglected to share that information with anyone at Pooty’s to this point, I resisted the impulse. Why spoil everybody’s fun? Someday, when this whole mess was behind us, we might be able to laugh about it over a drink.

When I first arrived I found myself strangely disappointed at not seeing Jack behind the bar. In his stead was some burly bearded guy who looked like an escapee from Henry’s Hog. I asked after Jack and Pete Parson assured me: “Don’t worry, your boyfriend’ll be here later. He’s home putting cute pink ribbons on all your gifts.” Pete also asked if it was all right that he had had Jack invite some of the regulars. I didn’t mind and since it was a moot question to begin with, I was magnanimous as hell.

Miriam and Ronnie got there at ten on the nose. That was Dr. Ronnie’s doing. He was a good guy. He was a sweet, caring man who loved the air my sister breathed, but he was so earnest it could make you nauseous. If the party was scheduled for ten, ten is when he got there. The concept of tasteful lateness was lost on my brother-in-law. Miriam, with her long sable hair and fierce green eyes, looked stunning but tired. So I could have Miriam to myself for a few minutes, I made sure to introduce Ronnie as Dr. Stern to the assembled crowd. Within thirty seconds, Pete Parson’s wife was chewing Ronnie’s ear off about her painful ulna nerve.

“That was cruel,” Miriam admonished, smiling and punching my arm.

“Don’t worry, I’ll rescue him in a few minutes.”

Over a glass of champagne we discussed the usual things brothers and sisters talk about. Yes, she was tired. Yes, she was looking forward to the end of Ronnie’s internship. Yes, she was sick of his hours and of being poor. Yes, our niece and nephews were the prettiest, most handsome, smartest, most gifted children God had ever created. Yes, Aaron’s wife Cindy still made her crazy. Yes, she remembered Daddy’s memorial candle. Omitting certain details, I talked about how I’d gotten involved with Patrick Maloney and how this party came to be.

“How is Rico, that foxy old friend of yours?” Miriam’s bad girl persona came out of hiding.

“Very married.” Her attraction to Rico had always made me uncomfortable. Now it was up a few notches from just uncomfortable.

Miriam moved on, “So where’s this person you—”

“Coming through the door,” I said. “Listen, Mir, her name is Katy. Go over and introduce yourself. I’ve got to get something from downstairs.”

Bringing the bouquet of roses back upstairs, I wondered if springing my sister on Katy like that had been a good idea. Miriam could be a little overprotective and jealous where her big brothers were involved. After ten years in the family, Cindy had yet to gain Miriam’s full blessing.

Visions of Katy and Miriam involved in a bloody saloon brawl gave me pause. But listening at the top of the stairs, I heard only music, chatter and laughter, no bar stools breaking. Someone had pumped quarters into the jukebox.

With “Mony Mony” blasting, Ronnie was dancing the Pony with Pete’s wife. Apparently her ulna nerve wasn’t terminal. At the bar Katy and Miriam were giggling like little girls. When they saw me, they tried very hard but unsuccessfully to stop themselves. I think maybe I would have preferred a brawl.

“Marry this woman,” Miriam suggested, pushing Katy forward. “She thinks my stories are funny.” I didn’t want to know what embarrassing childhood story Miriam had shared and was careful not to ask.

I handed Katy the roses: “These are for you. Happy Valen—”

She covered my mouth with hers, swallowing my words. “I missed you, Moe.”

“Uh oh!” Miriam wagged her finger. “He’s got it bad, Katy. I’ve never seen him look at a woman like he looks at you. I think I’m going to steal my husband back and see if he still looks at me that way.”

Before Miriam could get away, Pete Parson bunched us together for a picture. I think both Katy and Miriam made donkey ears behind my head.

“Never mind my sister,” I said, swatting Miriam on the behind as she walked toward Ronnie. “She’s a pain.”

“I like her,” Katy said. “She’s devoted to you, you know.”

The burly barman poured us two champagnes. We toasted the day and found a booth so we could talk. Her mom was better, if
you considered numb preferable to distraught. Her father, however, was starting to show signs of wear. He was quick-tempered, impatient and loud. He was never a screamer, Katy said, but we always knew he meant business.

“He even yelled at my mother. He never yells at my mother.”

I kept my mouth shut, though I knew exactly why Katy’s old man was beginning to lose it. I wasn’t going to ruin our first Valentine’s Day together. Without any specifics, I told her I thought I might finally be making some progress on locating Patrick.

“I don’t know what it is exactly,” I said. “Optimism isn’t usually my forte. I think you might have something to do with that.”

Pete manned the door, taking snapshots of everyone who entered. Some of the regulars shuffled in. Next came Misty and Kosta. Ronnie was a little drunk by then. He kept telling me he thought Misty was awfully cute. If my sister hadn’t said the same thing about Kosta, I might’ve gotten pissed off at my brother-in-law. The introductions seemed endless and by the time Jack strolled in, we all just gave up.

Neither Katy nor I could believe our eyes when we saw our new buddy Jack. He had eschewed his loose black turtleneck, painter’s pants and earth shoes for an impeccably tailored, blue, pin-striped business suit, white shirt, red silk tie and black wingtips. But before we could comment, my brother Aaron walked through the door. Something was wrong. I could see Ronnie and Miriam had the same reaction.

“Will you guys calm down?” he whispered sternly. “Everything’s fine. Cindy told me I should come. She said I should be here for you.”

“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” Miriam scolded.

“You’ll see,” Aaron predicted. “After ten years of marriage and two kids, Valentine’s Day loses a little of its ambiance. Besides, Cindy already got her roses. We had dinner and the kids are asleep.”

To ease the tension or maybe because he was drunk, Ronnie asked what wine they had shared for dinner.

“We didn’t have wine.”

“You didn’t have wine?” Miriam was incredulous. “You always have wine with—”

“What’s going on here?” I too was suspicious. “Are you and Cindy fighting?”

Aaron couldn’t hold it in: “Ronnie, wasn’t it you who told me pregnant women shouldn’t—”

Miriam started: “You son of a—”

“
Mazel tov!
” I shouted. “I’m gonna be an uncle again.”

Now
it was a party. I don’t know what it is exactly, but news of a coming birth elicits this sort of joyous tribal response. Despite our big brains and layers of denial, humans are not so far removed from timber wolves or lions or ring-tailed lemurs. Complete strangers were hugging Aaron, shaking his hand, trying to give cash donations towards baby furniture. Even the undertaker smiled. Pete Parson’s wife began listing boys’ and girls’ names she thought Aaron should consider. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was traditional for Jews to name their children after the respected dead.

Miriam, struck by the emotion of the moment, confessed to me she had always resented Cindy for taking Aaron away from home.

I hugged her and whispered: “Listen, Mir, it says on her death certificate that cancer killed Mom. But it wasn’t cancer, it was resentment. It’ll eat you up. Don’t let it.”

“It was pretty generous of Cindy to make Aaron come tonight,” Miriam said as much to herself as to me. “I’ll try, Moses.”

After a round or two of toasts, someone pulled the jukebox plug. Pete handed the camera over to the bartender. There were a few speeches by the partners: Pete, Mr. Potato Head and the money man. I had saved them from financial ruin and I was the best thing to come down the pike since the rotary engine. I kept watching Katy’s face. I think it was killing her not to confess her heritage and unwitting role in all of this, but mainly she rolled her eyes and looked contrite.

Next, Jack took center stage. For the uninitiated, he recounted the night of the Bruce Springsteen marathon and how, after Katy and I had already left, he threatened to shoot anyone in the bar who was either from New Jersey or even considered playing Springsteen or Southside Johnny. After the laughter died down, the presentation of gifts began. Jack went to the front door and made a sign to someone waiting outside. A man walked in carrying what appeared to be a round, gift-wrapped tabletop. Placing that against the bar, he went out and returned with several smaller, but no less beautifully wrapped, gift boxes. Jack tipped him a five-dollar bill.

When the front door was relocked, Jack called Katy and me up to where he was standing.

He pointed to the tabletop and asked that we both undo the wrapping. I don’t know where he got it, but it was a giant vinyl facsimile of Bruce Springsteen’s
Born to Run
. Pete Parson nearly keeled over with laughter. The other boxes contained his and hers Rutgers sweatshirts, I Love New Jersey key chains and Garden State vanity license plates. One of the plates read: “THE BOSS.” The other read: “IS GOD.” Funny, I thought Eric Clapton was. The final package contained a complete set of ABBA albums. The barman posed Jack and me as bookends around Katy, the three of us displaying the gag gifts.

The laughter having died down some, Pete Parson wheeled in a strawberry shortcake covered in red jelly hearts. He made Katy and me go through the cake-cutting thing.

Miriam shouted out: “Just do it. It’s good practice.”

Someone plugged the juke back in and we were serenaded by Frank Sinatra singing “The Summer Wind” while we ate our cake. Pete Parson called me and Katy over behind the bar.

“I just wanted to say thanks again. My partners could afford to lose this place, but not me. To get my stake, I borrowed from relatives against my pension. When the shit hit the fan, I thought I’d end up as one a those guys that cleans the seats for ya at Shea Stadium. Here,” he said, shoving a big gift-wrapped box into my hands, “take this and open it up later when ya get home, okay?”

I agreed.

By 2:00 most everyone was gone. Miriam, Ronnie and I had sent Aaron packing at midnight. How dare he, we kidded, abandon his pregnant wife at home on Valentine’s Day? Before leaving, Aaron pulled me aside to tell me how much he liked Katy and how well we seemed to fit together.

“Katy, huh?” He raised his brow. “Not too many Jewish girls named Katy. Listen, I just want you to know that if she makes you happy, being with her is the right thing.”

Unless you know my brother, I don’t think you can appreciate how difficult it was for him to utter those words. In his awkward way, he was actually trying to play matchmaker. When I hugged him a little too long for his comfort, Aaron pointed at Katy. “Her, putz, not me!”

Miriam and Ronnie left around 1:00. Misty and Kosta nearly followed them out the door, but I asked Katy to stall them until I could retrieve their gift from Pete’s office. The champagne, I told them, was a token of my appreciation for their help.

“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t’ve gotten you a thing,” I winked, “but my sore ribs insisted.”

“Champagne!” Kosta feigned surprise. “Tuna salesmen must make a nice living.”

Pete’s partners and their escorts had long since headed home, taking Pete’s wife with them. At 1:45, Pete gave last call to the inevitable stragglers. Katy, having hours ago changed into her Rutgers sweatshirt, was half drunk and mostly asleep at one of the booths. After Pete and Jack carried the last “guest” out the front door, Pete handed the bartender $75 cash and bid him a good night.

I went back downstairs and returned with two more gift bottles. Pete’s was a bottle of champagne much like the one I’d given to Misty and Kosta. We did the usual It’s-not-necessary-but-I-insist cha-cha. It was a stupid dance because we both knew he was going to keep the damn champagne. But rituals are like that, I guess. Pete excused himself. He had to change clothes. Sneering at Jack, he said: “Somebody’s gotta clean this place up.”

When Pete turned his back, Jack gave him the finger. Jack loosened his tie, peeled off his suit jacket and ducked down behind the bar. When his resurfaced, he showed me a bottle of what looked like scotch.

“You like good scotch?” he asked knowingly and poured a dram for the both of us. “It’s a single malt, Cragganmore. Very unusual flavor.”

“Cheers!” We clinked glasses.

Jack knew his stuff. The scotch was smooth as polished ice and smelled of heather and highland peat. We shared one more Cragganmore before doing taste comparisons with every other scotch in the joint.