Summerlings

by Lisa Howorth

  In minutes we had iced the cake to our satisfaction. Crumbs were mixed into the icing, giving the cake a nice fuzzy look. We licked our fingers clean. From the pantry Ivan produced a Keds box full of things we’d collected to decorate our cake. The idea was that each square of cake, when cut, would feature a party favor. Onto the icing went two green army guys, one kneeling with a bazooka, one tossing a grenade. A sparkler left over from the Fourth of July. A 1943 steel penny from my blue coin folder. A couple plastic rosebuds. A bracelet of smudgy pink pop beads. Some Cracker Jack prizes: an airplane and a tiny working jackknife the size of a paper clip. A silver Monopoly piece dog. A shark tooth I had found at the bay. A wishbone. A piece of fool’s gold from Rock Creek. A Harmon Killebrew baseball card that we didn’t care about because Killebrew had failed to become Rookie of the Year. A Japanese cat’s-eye marble that we didn’t care about because it was Japanese. Last, we scattered M&M’s and sticky pink and white Good & Plenty candies between the prizes. The cake looked grand and enticing.

  “I hope Elena gets the penny,” I said. I was already regretting donating it to the cause but knew she’d give it back.

  “I hope General de Haan bites the fool’s gold and breaks his yellow Nazi teeth,” Max said. “I wish we could put dog-doo inside his piece.” This cracked us up, as anything about doo-doo always did.

  Ivan said sternly, “Remember, the Fiesta is to make everybody be nicer to everybody. And we want to get in that pool.”

  “Okay, it’ll be nicer if he breaks his teeth,” Max said, and we laughed some more.

  We were deciding whether to clean up or leave the mess for Maria, who we knew would think we did a poor job, when we heard feet on the stairs. We froze. In another moment, in a cloud of smoke, Elena whooshed in. Startled, she yelped, “Boys! What are you doing in here?” She laughed, seeming as glad to see us as we were to see her. But I noticed her face, still discolored, and the dark shadows under her eyes. I don’t think I’d ever seen her without makeup.

  “We meant to surprise you, not scare you!” Ivan said.

  Then Elena saw the cake and exclaimed, “My goodness! It’s spectacular!” She gathered us all into a hug and said, “Let me make a drink and we’ll go outside. It’s too hot in here.”

  On the porch she took her place on the swing. “I’ve missed my precious boys. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. Did Ivan tell you I banged myself against the swing the other night? I was trying to get Rudo off me.” I couldn’t help but remember the sound of Josef’s loud slap, but we didn’t have to answer her lie because she quickly went on. “But I’ll fix myself up by Fiesta time. You’ll hardly notice. Is everything ready?” She let Max light her Vogue—coral—while she drew one of the green bottles from her kimono sleeve and took two Miltowns, gulping them down with her Cuba libre.

  “Almost,” Max said optimistically. “All we have to do now is mix up the Special Tropical Punch, set up a couple of tables, hang Beatriz’s decorations, and that’s it!”

  “That’s great! Oh, John, is that war paint on your face? Very dramatic.” Elena always said just the right thing. Handing her cigarette to me, she took a swig of her Cuba libre and then offered the drink to Ivan. “You worked so hard today! You deserve a puff and a sip!” We passed our rewards around. Then Elena’s smile dimmed. “I must tell you boys that I won’t be able to stay at the Fabulous Family Fiesta for very long,” she said.

  This was devastating news. “Why can’t you stay?” I whined, already dizzy.

  “Something’s come up,” she said sadly. “A prior engagement I’d forgotten about. I am so sorry, darlings.” She smiled slightly and did look genuinely sorry.

  “You mean you have a date,” Max said accusingly, and burped.

  “Yes,” she said. “A date.”

  “Who is it?” I asked. A hot breeze came up and she looked off into a sudden flurry of falling oak leaves and rattling acorns.

  Elena returned her attention to us, saying, “Oh, it’s an old friend who’s in town. I didn’t expect him to be here so soon. He’s an artist and a baseball player from Cuba.”

  I said, “But Cuba is bad.”

  Ivan looked crushed. “But you are coming to the Fiesta, right?”

  “Of course I am! I just can’t stay.” She reached out for Ivan and hugged him, but he just went floppy in her arms. “And boys, Cuba is not bad. They’re trying to help poor people there. Don’t believe everything you hear.” She sighed, rising from the swing.

  Max, frustrated, let loose one of his long, loud raspberries, which brought back Elena’s smile, though then she winced and gently rubbed her jaw. “Don’t I hear Tim? I know you boys could use a cold treat.”

  Tim pulled up, grinning his usual lovesick grin, and Elena came down to the street with us, holding Ivan’s hand. Tim took one look at her and the smile disappeared. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

  Avoiding his look, she said, “Rudo made me bump my head. I’m fine.” We got plain old Popsicles, but Elena didn’t want anything. “I’ve got my treat of choice.” She offered her Cuba libre to Tim, who sipped some.

  Elena went back to the house, calling, “You boys get busy! You’ve still got a lot to do!” Tim watched her, looking concerned, and said, “I’m going to finish my route, and then I’ll be back with Popsicles for your Fiesta. You guys stay cool.” The dreamy truck rolled slowly away, chiming its alluring pied-piper tune. I wanted to run up to the porch and sniff the cushion of the swing, knowing that it was faded in the places where, like a Chevy Chase Shroud of Turin, Elena’s reclining hip, elbow, knee, and one heavy breast had worn the striped canvas down and smelled faintly of her. I didn’t, but I had before.

  It was now about three-thirty. There wasn’t time to worry about Elena, or be mad about her date. Our next chore was mixing the Kool-Aid at my house. Crossing the lane, we jumped in unison when Foggy, the Andersens’ dog, lunged, barking furiously, as if he hadn’t seen us every single day of his vicious asshole life. “Go to hell, Foggy!” I yelled, using the strongest language I could get away with if anybody heard me. Foggy stuck his black maw through the fence, teeth bared.

  “Yeah, Foggy, you moron,” Max taunted. “Mr. Shreve said if you ever got loose again he was going to shoot the crap out of you.” The time Foggy ate the Shreves’ cat, Beau had called him a nigger, and Estelle had heard it and there was big trouble. “Unreconstructed hooligans,” my grandfather had called the Shreve boys, and Beau’d had to come to our house and apologize to Estelle.

  “Yeah, Ngagi,” I said to Foggy. “Think about a bullet in your heart!” He tilted his head, considering this. Then he scratched his neck where there was a disgusting cluster of ticks that looked like a spoonful of lentils.

  In our basement I grabbed Estelle’s big five-gallon bucket, tossing the string mop aside. In the yard we squirted it with the hose and filled it up. From the kitchen I retrieved the pile of Kool-Aid packets Dimma had put out—all the flavors we’d asked for. We dumped the blueberry in first, turning the water the color of Windex, then the cherry and orange and an entire sack of sugar. I grabbed a rake leaning against a crape myrtle and stirred the punch with it.

  “It’s brown,” Ivan said. “You said it would be a really cool color, Max, like Elena’s Tropical Punch fingernail polish.” He frowned.

  “We can fix it,” Max said. “Have you got any food coloring?” We didn’t, but we did have some 7 Up and some orange TruAde in the fridge and we dumped those in. That made the punch a different brown but brighter, with bubbles. “Now it will taste more tropical because of the orange.”

  Ivan wasn’t convinced and said, “In Mexico at fiestas there’s fruit and stuff floating in the punch.”

  “Yeah!” Max said. “We can use some of the watermatoes for floaters!”

  “No—then there won’t be enough for eating.” I thought for a minute. “I know! Mulberries! There’s
millions!”

  We ran to the old stable in our backyard, where the branches of an ancient mulberry tree hung over the roof. Climbing up, we crawled around on the scorching shingles, loading our pockets with ripe berries. Some berries had webs or fuchsia bird-doo on them, actually a lovely color, and we wiped them gently on our shorts. We dumped the berries into the punch, where they bobbed attractively.

  “Perfect!” I said. “At the last minute we’ll throw in all our ice plus the snowballs we froze last winter.”

  Max said, “Tables.”

  We went to the closet where my grandmother’s three bridge tables were kept. The ominous sound of tinkling ice came from the kitchen. “What are you boys up to?” Dimma came around the corner wearing Estelle’s apron and looking harried. “And where are my dining room chairs?” She stood with one arm akimbo, Chesterfield at her hip, her Scotch in the other hand. “Good Lord, what is on your face?”

  Ignoring the third question, I said, “We need them and some tables for the Fiesta. You said we could!”

  “I did no such thing.” True, but she could be forgetful and I was sometimes able to work that to my advantage.

  Taking a deep drag, Dimma relented. “Oh, all right, use them. But please fold my table covers and leave them neatly in the closet.” She exhaled a blue cloud sideways. Her delicate eyebrows rose doubtfully over the cat-eye glasses. She was looking me over, and I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me if I was regular today. I quickly picked up a dusty Senators cap from the closet floor and put it on to hide my ringworm. “I’ll get myself ready, and bring out Estelle’s eggs and cucumber sandwiches in a bit. You boys put on some clean shirts and shoes before the party, please.” She sipped some Scotch. “Apparently, most of the neighbors are coming. I hope nobody minds that I’m not putting out my good tablecloths. Lord help us if it rains.” She left, muttering about missing Estelle. We threw her bridge covers and the cap back in the closet and scrammed.

  * * *

  —

  Stevenson had cleared the spiderwebs from our front yard. The webs had been getting sparse, we’d noticed, full of bits of prey and trash—some were only threads with dead leaves dangling from them. Mostly eggs remained tethered in corners and nooks.

  We arranged the tables and chairs again, not sure we had enough seating, but the ground seemed to be dry enough for blankets. “People will be dancing and not sitting down anyway,” Ivan observed.

  Looking up at the sky, Max said, “The sun’s still out.” The sun was actually in and out of the beautiful, cottony clouds, but mostly shining. “But is it weird that I can’t hear any cicadas?”

  “Nah,” I said optimistically. “Maybe it’s a holiday for them, too.”

  “Decorations!” Ivan said. With duct tape, we stuck Beatriz’s arty flags up around our brick front steps, the stage for the entertainment. Ivan brought a long string of brightly colored tissue squares, and we tied those from boxwood to boxwood. Max had a pocketful of balloons that we blew up and taped to the chair backs, popping a few for the hell of it. Then we set up my archery target out by the hedge and put our entertainment paraphernalia on the stage.

  Our last task was to haul out the Kool-Aid bucket, into which we cranked the ice from every freezer tray, adding last winter’s gritty snowballs. Ivan and I lugged the bucket from the kitchen to the front yard, and we hoisted it onto a table. Brickie came out with Dixie cups, paper plates, plastic forks, tons of napkins, bottle openers, and a fly swatter, saying, “I expect flies will be an issue, but try not to swat the food.” Looking around, he said, “I must say, you boys have done a good job. You’re to be commended!” He went back into the house and returned with his new Magnavox Holiday record player, records piled on top, and set it up on our stage. “I’ll be in charge of the music.”

  “But, Brickie, make sure you play records we like, too, not just your jazz stuff. We want everybody to dance.”

  “Don’t worry about that. There’s music for all.” Brickie was fairly democratic in his tastes; he also liked R&B and listened to WUST, and before Dimma put a stop to it, he used to go to places like the Bohemian Caverns to hear live music. And he loved to dance. So I wasn’t too worried, but he was obsessed with his Miles Davis Kind of Blue record, which had just come out. Nobody normal could dance to that.

  Dimma brought out two big platters, one of deviled eggs, one piled high with tiny sandwiches. “There will be no eating until after the guests have arrived and we’ve welcomed them,” she said to us. “And everybody has their drinks.” She and Brickie went back into the house.

  Then Liz and Brickie returned, carrying our cooler, loaded with ice from the Esso station, beer, Cokes, and 7 Ups, and set it down by the punch station. Liz looked around appraisingly and said, “This looks pretty cool! I’m surprised you little squares pulled it off!” She and Brickie each stole an egg, poking them whole into their mouths, so we did, too. “Quality control, you understand,” Brickie said. We laughed with him. As he and Liz went in to change clothes, Brickie spotted the potty chair and carried it back into the house.

  We were ready for our Fabulous Family Fiesta.

  * * *

  ——————

  First to arrive were the De Haans, the General in the lead, Madame, Kees, and Piet behind. Max stage-whispered to us, “Oosegay eppingstay!” My grandparents, steeling themselves, came out of the house to greet them with thin-lipped smiles. Brickie rolled his eyes at us and started up a Don Barreto record—he’d been a Don Barreto fan since his and Dimma’s Havana days, when they went gambling and clubbing at the Tropicana. That they couldn’t go anymore was yet another reason, in Brickie’s book, for being mad about the Cuban revolution. The boys and I politely greeted the De Haans and shook hands with the General, who was actually cordial. I saw Max wipe his hand on his shorts, though. We offered them punch.

  We were happy to see the Montebiancos next, all smiles. The Senhor looked fabulous in a pale-blue guayabera with white embroidery down the front, and Beatriz, carrying a bag and her hula hoop, sported her new bob with confidence. She wore her cute red skort—those were popular that year—but it didn’t hide her scabby knee. Senhora carried a plate of golden pastries and was followed by Zariya, angelic in her blond bob. She clapped her hands and hugged us. Senhor toted a jug of something pale gold, and my grandfather’s eyes lit up. Beatriz went to speak to Brickie and gave him a record, which made him laugh. She deposited her props on the steps with ours. Ivan told her how great her flags looked, especially the purple pirate-vinegaroon one.

  The rest of the neighborhood descended on us all at once. “We’ve got some fun stuff,” Beau Shreve shouted, brandishing a paper sack. His mother said, “You boweez behave nayow,” setting down a pan loaded with pigs in a blanket. Mr. Shreve limped up on his war leg, carrying two six-packs of National Bohemian under each arm, yelling, “Yessiree, brewed on the showahs of the Chesapeake Bay!” Then came the Friedmanns, with a wooden bowl of watermatoes and a pastry box from Hofberg’s. They gave the De Haans a wide berth but smiled and waved unenthusiastically to them. Mr. Friedmann spread out a worn quilt. Then came the Andersens, with a cheese plate. Liz came running out in her yellow sundress, grateful to see Maari—someone closer to her age.

  The Wormy Chappaquas, a united front of grayness, offered cookies and shy smiles.

  “Rats,” Ivan whispered to us. “The Advice Lady!”

  Taking forever to waddle up with her pathetic dog, bringing nothing but advice, she called out, “I hope you’re not serving anything with mayonnaise in this heat.” She shuffled over to where Dimma, Madame de Haan, and Senhora sat.

  The Goncharoffs arrived, Maria bearing a platter of what looked like hundreds of diminutive tacos arranged around a generous bowl of salsa. Katya and Alexander were for once in shorts (but no shirts), and Josef was wearing a gabardine shirt and an overly big smile. He said, “A fabulous fiesta, all rig
ht!” and went to speak to the ladies, who greeted him curtly. Brickie had his eyes on him, I noticed. Where was Elena? I looked at Ivan, and he said, “She’s not going to come over with him. She’s probably bringing the cake.”

  Then came the Pond Lady, which really surprised us, but she had some kind of portable breathing thing. Josephine, so pretty in a turquoise lace dress, pushed her along in a wheelchair, and winked to acknowledge us. They settled in with the other ladies. Brickie played Duke Ellington’s “Take the A Train.”

  Gellert and his family came up hesitantly, eyes darting about. We welcomed them heartily, wishing Elena was there to see how hospitable we were being, and reassured the family that Elena’d arrive soon. I pulled over two chairs for Gellert’s parents, and we directed them to the drinks and food.

  The adults migrated to the punch and beer table, where Max was ladling our Special Tropical Punch into Dixie cups and Senhor Montebianco was topping off each one with a generous splash from his jug. Mr. Shreve handed out beers and made boisterous remarks. My grandmother looked doubtfully into her cup and said, “I hope the rum sterilizes whatever is in here.” She smiled flirtatiously at Senhor, who said, “Rum improves all things, moca charmosa.” They walked off together, leaving the rum jug behind. Max quickly emptied the entire jug into the punch bucket. We helped ourselves. The grown-ups were paying no attention. It seemed possible they might be enjoying themselves. Liz begged Brickie for “The Stroll,” and she lined up all the younger people, trying to teach us the very hip dance, but only she and Maari could do it.

  Maria and Josephine fussed around the food tables and people began eating. The Good Humor truck came up the street, Tim clanging his bells as if it were Paris on VE day. He loped up the yard with a Thompson’s Dairy ice chest, looking younger in civilian clothes. “Where’s Elena?” he asked, handing out Popsicles. I said confidently, “She’ll be here,” although I wasn’t feeling confident at all and wondered if Ivan was. Tim grabbed a beer and joined the men around the record player. He snapped the bottle open with his belt buckle, impressing my grandfather and Mr. Shreve, who said, before pushing a mayonnaise-filled deviled egg into his face, “We could use a tricky boy with your skills down at HQ. Think of the intel you could gather from an ice cream truck!”