by Lisa Howorth
Ivan leaned over, kissed his aunt, and asked, “Is he back yet?”
“His flight doesn’t get in until tonight,” she said. She was somehow able to hold her usual rum and Coke, a cigarette, and Carteles, an arty magazine, in one hand and rub Ivan’s back with the other.
“Cuba libre, darlings? It’s sooo hot today!” She offered her glass. We always took a swig to refresh ourselves. She handed over her cigarette, a glamorous Vogue, rose with a gilt filter, and we each had a puff. We were, of course, sworn to secrecy. We kept Elena’s secrets and she kept ours.
We collapsed worshipfully on the floor in front of her swing. “Elena, we hunted spiders all morning, and we got eaten alive by bugs, and it’s about a million degrees!” I whined, thinking about kissing those feet.
“Can we go to the Hiser for a movie?” Max asked. “We’re about to have heatstroke!”
Movie theaters were some of the only air-conditioned places in town then, and luckily for us, Elena was crazy about movies. We had seen Rodan and Go, Johnny, Go!, but Max complained about some of her choices, like Auntie Mame, which she, Ivan, and I had loved. My grandmother also complained about Mame because it was “too sophisticated” for us, and was full of “sexual innuendo,” but all that went right by me. All I knew was that this handsome orphan, Patrick, lived with his gorgeous, party-girl aunt, who spoiled the hell out of him. Since my own parents were gone, I liked to imagine myself as Patrick and Elena as Mame, living the charmed life in a swanky New York apartment. I suppose both Ivan and I thought of her as a surrogate mother, only more fabulous than any mother we knew of.
“No, Max!” corrected Ivan. “Elena, we need you to help us with our Beaver Plan to make the neighbors nicer!”
She laughed. “Beaver Plan? How’d you come up with that?”
“You know, a friendly neighborhood like in Leave It to Beaver. Like the Marshall Plan helps countries in Europe be nice to each other,” I explained.
“Hmm…I see. But you know that some people think that the Marshall Plan is actually more about the United States getting what it wants,” Elena said. “Could your Beaver Plan really be about wanting to get in the De Haans’ swimming pool again?”
“No, we didn’t think about that,” I said innocently.
Elena hid the slightest smirk behind her drink, sipping it. “Well, do you have any ideas?”
Max said, “We thought of some dumb stuff, like giving people flowers or drawings, but nothing good.”
“What about baking some cookies?”
Ivan said sadly, “We don’t know how to cook.”
Elena thought for a second, and then said, “How about throwing a neighborhood party? A potluck party, so everybody brings something?”
We looked at one another in amazement. “Yeah! A party!” I shouted. It immediately came to me that maybe my mother, even my dad, might come.
“That’s a great idea!” Ivan said. “Like with music and dancing?”
“Sure,” said Elena. “Why not? Everybody likes parties, right?”
Max turned serious for a second. “And with good snacks? Like, no vegetables? And we don’t have to dance, do we?”
“Well, you have to dance with me,” Elena said, red lips spreading with her easy laugh.
“Okay!” I loved the dreamy prospect of dancing with her. “Let’s do it!”
Ivan asked, “What should we do? Make invitations? I wish Beatriz was here.” Beatriz was very creative.
“Well, you have to let everybody know about it. Maybe it would be easier if you just made a few posters and put them up around the neighborhood? But first you have to decide what day and time the party will be, and where. And you might have a name for the party.”
I said, “But like what?”
“What about ‘Great Big Cool Party’?” Max suggested.
Ivan said, “I think we should have ‘Festival’ or ‘Fiesta’ in the name because that sounds more fancy and, umm…international.”
“What about ‘Big Fun Fiesta’?” I said.
“It needs more…oomph,” Elena said. “And maybe something about families, so people won’t think it’s just for kids.” She pulled out a green pill bottle and her smokes from her kimono sleeve, where she carried important things, popped a Miltown, and lit another Vogue, a lovely turquoise.
“How about ‘Fabulous Family Fiesta’?” Ivan looked up hopefully at Elena, who said, “Mmmh!” and enthusiastically blew a plume of smoke into Ivan’s upturned face. “That’s perfect! I’m sorry, darling—I didn’t mean to blow on you.” She fanned the smoke away with her hand. Ivan beamed.
I was ready to make the posters right then, but Elena said she had too much to do, and she’d be out the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.
“Rats,” said Max. “You go out too much.”
“Who are you going out with this time?” Ivan asked, not bothering to hide his disappointment.
We knew it could be any number of men. Cars pulled up to the Goncharoffs’ at all hours and whisked Elena away to parties at the Fairfax hotel or the Rive Gauche, ritzy spots in town, or a palatial town house in Kalorama or an embassy on Mass. Ave. She often told us about them later—the food, the dancing, the political celebrities, the money they raised for Latin American or European refugees. My grandfather said, “There’s nothing more boring than Washington parties,” but I don’t think he went to the parties Elena went to. When we slept over at each other’s houses and sneaked out to ride bikes in the middle of the night, we’d sometimes see Elena return with a gentleman friend. They’d stagger up to the porch and smoke. Sometimes she didn’t come home until daylight, riding in a Diamond Cab, and then there would be a loud argument in Russian with Josef. Air-conditioning and privacy were luxuries few people had in those days, so windows and doors were open, and conversations, especially those that involved shouting, flew around the neighborhood like flies. Unlike flies, you couldn’t swat secrets—they buzzed around forever on Connors Lane. From the Andersens we’d heard, “Oh, why don’t you go back to Provincetown with your precious little boyfriend,” and, “You are the most vile harridan I’ve ever known!” Which sent me straight to my grandmother’s crossword puzzle dictionary. Or it might be the Shreves, laying into Beau and D.L. on a regular basis, and Dawn Allgood was known for screaming at her boyfriend. And, of course, before their divorce, there had been my parents.
“It’s not really a date,” Elena said. “It’s more of a meeting.” She stubbed out her Vogue in the heavy brass ashtray by her swing, looking with distaste at all of Josef’s smelly cigar butts. Josef supposedly had his bad heart and Elena had her asthma, but they both smoked incessantly. “I’m talking to some important people about some Hungarian families who are having trouble staying in the country,” she continued. “Your schoolmate Gellert’s family is one. So please be glad I’m doing something useful.”
We weren’t. We liked Gellert okay, a strange kid who was a head taller than Max but was in the same grade at Rosemary as Ivan and I were. He’d come to Washington recently and couldn’t speak English and did odd things, like sniff our heads to show appreciation. But he was a lot of fun on the playground at recess, and we always wanted him on our kickball team—he was fast and clobbered the ball, although occasionally he would neglect to round all the bases and would just run way off into the outfield, chasing the ball and laughing. Which didn’t matter because he always kicked homers. Even so, I wasn’t pleased that he was garnering more of Elena’s attention than we were.
“They won’t send him back,” I said. “This is America.”
Elena smiled sadly and said, “Things are not always what they seem, even in America. And sometimes life is terribly unfair.”
Just then Linda and Rudo, the Goncharoffs’ big poodles, and the naked twins, Katya and Alexander, tumbled out the door. All four of them were covered in spiderwebs and
happy about it. Clumsy Rudo, looking like a brown bear, jumped up on the big chair we called The Throne, and Elena scolded him, “Rudo! Get off that chair! You know better!” Apricot-colored Linda, who did know better, flopped on the floor with the twins, looking alarmed. The Throne was Josef’s special seat—a handsome rattan thing with huge, poofy cushions covered in a verdant tropical print. Josef had decreed that nobody but he himself was allowed to sit on it. He wanted no dog hair, Popsicle drippings, cigarette holes, and certainly spiderwebs on his cushions when he came out in his robe to smoke his nightly cigar. But I’d seen Elena occasionally sitting on The Throne when a gentleman friend was sprawled on her swing. I wondered if this was ever the cause of their arguments. I wondered, too, if Elena did it just to spite him.
Elena ejected Rudo from The Throne and onto Linda and the twins. She fanned the overheated pile of curly fur and cherubic flesh with her magazine. “Why are you two not taking your nap?” she said to the toddlers, poking them with the Sports Car toes, and the swing swung, making me long to sit close to her. Calling out musically to Maria, “Ma-dee-a!” Elena gave each child a swig of her Cuba libre. Maria appeared and dragged the twins off into the house.
“Can we have another sip?” I asked as Elena rattled her glass.
“No, it’s just ice and slobber now.” She spilled the ice on the floor for the dogs, who scrambled to lick it up, crunching the melting cubes.
Elena said she had to go upstairs soon to get ready for her appointment. To appease us, she reached into her special sleeve and handed each of us a piece of Bazooka chewing gum, and we shoved the powdery squares into our mouths, chewing out the sugar as fast as we could to then see who could blow the biggest bubbles. Elena flipped through her magazine, then raised her head, listening. “Boys, don’t I hear Tim coming?”
Bells jingled far away. Tim was our Good Humor man. His square white truck appeared every summer afternoon but Sunday to deliver succor in the form of Creamsicles, Fudgsicles, Drumsticks, and Popsicles. Elena pulled a dollar bill from the silky sleeve. “My treat!”
Max took the folded bill from her hand and the three of us jumped off the porch and piled into the huge mildewed hammock close to the street to wait.
It had become really, really hot. Our striped T-shirts were soaked, and we took them off. Being crammed into the rough hammock against each other activated our various itchy spots. I had a patch of ringworm healing on my scalp from my rabbit, Zorro, who my grandmother had supposedly taken to live with “rabbit friends” at the National Zoo; Max had some scabby impetigo on his knee; and Ivan had poison ivy—he had peed in the weeds at Rock Creek and the end of his penis had swelled up like a doughnut. We always had something scrofulous going on. Ivan had his hand in his pocket so no one could see his furious wiener-scratching. In anticipation of ice cream, he and I spat our Bazooka out, but Max swallowed his. We’d all been told never to do that because gum was indigestible and became a big tumor in your gut. Max considered every piece he swallowed an act of defiance and bravery.
Finally, the Good Humor truck, with its sacred cargo, rounded the corner. The three of us and the dogs ran to the street, busting through new webs that had appeared on the iron front gate during the night, and clustered around Tim, who was swatting gnats. “I have the money, and I got here first, punks,” said Max, as he and Linda and Rudo pushed in front of me and Ivan.
“We know you are but what are we,” Ivan and I said in unison. We loved our snappy comebacks.
“Hey, guys, take it easy!” Tim took off his cap and wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. He was cute in a clean-cut, military way with his Butch-waxed blond crewcut and white uniform. “What does everybody want?” He glanced up at the Goncharoffs’ porch, grinning and waving when he saw Elena. She rose imperially from her swing and was gliding down the walk like she was on wheels.
As Tim gave us our usual Creamsicles and Rainbow Push-Ups, Elena declared that she wanted to try a new feature displayed in a colorful photo on the side of the truck—the Toasted Almond Bar.
“Yours is on me, beautiful,” Tim said, handing it to her. Like the rest of us, Tim was chronically infatuated with Elena, and I’d never seen him let her pay for her ice cream.
“Hey, why aren’t ours ever on you, too?” Max said, handing over Elena’s dollar.
“Because you guys are far from beautiful.” He gave Elena a hopeful look. “It’s thrilling your mouth, right?”
Elena smiled around a bite of the Toasted Almond Bar. “It is delicious!” she purred.
Tim grinned proudly. “I’m glad you like it.” Linda and Rudo danced around expectantly. Tim threw them a damaged lime Popsicle and they devoured it, sticks, wrapper, and all.
Max said coyly, watching Tim, “Elena has a date.”
Tim smiled. “Damn right she does! I wish she’d give me a try. Can’t you put in a good word for me, Ivan?”
“No,” Ivan said flatly. “She mostly likes guys from other countries.”
“And rich guys,” Max added.
“I’m rich!” Tim jangled the silver money-changer on his belt. “And I always have good humor.”
He and Elena chuckled, but Max said, a little sourly, “So funny I forgot to laugh. Maybe you should invent a Cuba libre Popsicle if you want her to love you.”
“Maybe I will!” He tipped his cap to her.
“We’re going to have a neighborhood party,” Ivan announced. “A Fabulous Family Fiesta! Elena’s going to help us plan it!”
“Maybe you can come and bring a bunch of Popsicles?” I said. “It’s for a good cause…It’s for…uh…neighborhood unity!”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m always happy to help a pretty lady, even if she hangs around with shrimpy hoods.” He and Elena smiled at each other. Elena delicately licked the ice cream off her lips.
Refreshed, we threw our sticks in the road rubble next to the Goncharoffs’ rusty front gate.
Elena thanked Tim and said, “We’ll let you know more about the party.” Looking sternly at us, she added, “And you boys have a lot to figure out—whose parents will host the Fiesta, who’ll bring what refreshments, decorations—all that. The party won’t just happen on its own. Ivan’s right—you need Beatriz helping you.” She blew Tim a kiss as she drifted back to the house. Elena didn’t exactly sashay; she je ne sais quoi–ed in a certain way that later in life I’d try to approximate.
Tim watched her go and sighed. “I’ll see you squirts tomorrow. I gotta finish my route and mow some lawns.” Tim had several jobs, trying to save money for a car and junior college. His family lived in the apartments down Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda. “You guys don’t know how lucky you are.” He cruised off down the street, bells ringing in what I thought was a more melancholy way.
“His bells sound sad now,” I said.
“His balls are sad, too, I bet,” crowed Max. Ivan and I laughed, but I knew he and I didn’t really get it, so I quit laughing and said, “Why?”
“Aww, forget it, you dumbheads. Don’t you guys get anything?” Max said.
Often we’d wait for a mob of ants to carry a whole Popsicle stick away while we sang “Song of the Volga Boatmen,” but the dogs had ruined that. Then Max said, “Hey, that reminds me! Look what I got!” Out of Max’s pocket came a Pep Boys matchbook. “Ivan, gimme your knife.” Ivan always carried his little pocketknife. Max quickly poked holes in the matchbook cover and pushed some matches through, making it look like the three Pep Boys had giant dicks sticking out of their pants.
“Oh, man!” I said. We cackled like idiots.
“I learned it from this cool guy Frank at Hebrew school,” Max said proudly. Then he pulled out another matchbook—he always had matches—and lit the dicks on fire. “This part I figured out myself!” We loved anything involving fire, and there was nothing funnier than jokes involving private parts or bodily functions. Max threw the matchbo
ok on the street, and we were happily watching it burn, when a kid on a shiny new bike turned in to the lane, coming our way.
“Oh, crap!” Max moaned. “Slutcheon!”
“Oh, no,” I said. “He better not stop.”
Slutcheon had a real name, but we called him Slutcheon because he had loose, rubbery lips, drooled a little when he spoke, and had curly hair like Sal Mineo, but not cute—more like a mug shot I’d seen of Lucky Luciano in one of Brickie’s books. He was ugly in every sense of the word, and “Slutcheon” just seemed to fit him. It was rumored that Slutcheon had been caught stealing a jar of Peter Pan peanut butter from the DGS, taking it home, pooping in it, and replacing it on the store’s shelves. He was rich. We hated him.
“Let’s get outta here!” Ivan turned to scramble back to his house, but it was too late, and Slutcheon was upon us, yelling, “Hey, dimwits! How’s life on the other side of the tracks?” He zoomed as close as he could, his bike wheels scattering gravel on us. Luckily he kept going, and after he was out of earshot, Max shouted, “Go to hell, you big jerk!”
I said, “Are we on the other side of the tracks? What tracks?”
Ivan said, “He means we’re on the poor side of town.” I thought “poor” referred to colored people downtown, and Chevy Chase seemed the opposite of that.
“Will he come to the Fiesta?” Ivan asked fearfully.
“Hell, no!” Max barked. Then he spat, adding ominously, “A spider is in that guy’s future. If we can just find a good one.”
