by Lisa Howorth
After two cups of punch, three eggs, and many tacos, I felt languid and lay down on the thick St. Augustine grass. Ivan, Max, and Beatriz joined me. We surveyed the scene. The little kids ran wild, followed by Gellert and Zariya, who were supposedly watching them. Beau and D.L. slunk around with food in their hands, looking for opportunities to swipe beers. The General sat talking to the Pond and Advice ladies. Tim and Maria, the Andersens, and Max’s mom and dad began rumba-ing, following the Montebiancos’ lead, to the music of what I thought I recognized as Brickie’s hero Laurindo Almeida. The other men stood together, drinking and discussing the records that lay all over the steps. People kept cheerfully helping themselves to beers or more Special Tropical Punch.
And then, finally, Elena made her appearance, looking gloriously Rosalind Russell in an off-the-shoulder white blouse, black capris, and a blue scarf, and carrying our cake. A large alligator bag hung from one shoulder. “My friends! You’ve made a wonderful party!” Setting down the cake on the table, she waved to the adults and made a beeline for Gellert’s mom and dad. Then she made the rounds, talking with people, hugging Gellert, and after a while she came over to our spot on the grass. “I’m so glad Gellert’s family came!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, my darlings!” She sat down with us, stretching out her long goddess legs. Max jumped up, wobbling a bit, and got Elena punch and cake, giving her the piece with my steel penny. Plucking it off and licking it clean, she handed it to me and said, “Keep it for me, will you, John?” Taking a sip of punch, she exclaimed, “Wow! I did need this!” and drained her cup. Max refilled it. “My face looks better, doesn’t it?” she asked, and we all agreed. Kees and Piet shyly joined us, sitting on the periphery of our little group. The Shreve boys sauntered up, and I could tell they wanted to sit with us, but they stood. Elena was like the sun and we were all planets in her orbit. Blue icing around all our mouths, we cracked jokes about our parents, or, in my case, grandparents. Kees and Piet were actually funny—Kees remarked that the General won the award for Biggest Beer Gut at the party, and it would be hard for him to get close enough to anyone to dance. D.L. said his mom was such a good dancer she’d make a great stripper, which made us laugh, though we knew it was over the line. “D.L.! That’s your mother!” Elena said, but she laughed, too. The Shreves moseyed off to steal more beer and chug it in the porte cochere.
Louis Jordan’s “Reet, Petite, and Gone” was playing, and several of the older grown-ups couldn’t help themselves and began jitterbugging to the irresistible tune. Brickie and Dimma were the best dancers, I noticed, although Mrs. Shreve really was good, and so was the Senhor. “We can dance if you want, Elena,” I said, though I didn’t know if I’d be able.
“Oh, I’m fine right here with you kids.” Ivan moved closer, laying his head on her thigh. I was seized again with intense longing.
Tim walked over, a beer in his hand, his nice shirt translucent with sweat. “You look great, as usual,” he said to Elena. “Where’s this date of yours?”
Elena smiled. “He’s picking me up in a little while.”
“Well, please put me on your dance card before then, Miss Fabulous Family Fiesta Queen.”
“Maybe when it cools off a little.” She fanned herself with her hand.
“I can wait.” Tim smiled and staggered off, pulling Liz, thrilled at his attention, into the circle of swinging bodies.
Beatriz said, “We should do the entertainment now that Elena’s here.” Although I had been excited about showing off for the guests, I felt too woozy and good to get up and do anything, let alone shoot arrows. I was afraid that now I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.
“C’mon, you guys, get up!” Beatriz ordered.
The three of us rose reluctantly and walked a little unsteadily behind Beatriz toward our front steps. Brickie stopped the record player.
Beatriz shouted, “Attention! Attention! Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present our entertainment! We hope you enjoy it!” Everyone moved closer to the steps and got quieter, except for the Shreve boys, who yelled, “Oh, no! Circus acts!”
Mrs. Shreve hissed at them, “Hush, you wrayetches.”
We stood there stupidly, and Max whispered, “Who’s going first?”
Ivan and I shook our heads and Beatriz said, “I’m going last because I’m the main attraction.”
“Okay, you chickens,” Max said. “I guess I’ll just get this over with.” He picked up his glittery new Duncan Imperial and spun it out a couple times to warm up. He Walked the Dog, receiving some applause, then followed that with a Skin the Cat, a Sleeper, and an Around the World, all perfectly executed in quick succession. He bowed, and everyone applauded, and Tim gave an ear-splitting whistle.
Next, Ivan stepped up to do his magic tricks. Josef shouted, “Here comes Houdini!” but Ivan didn’t look his way.
Red-faced, he said, “I dedicate this performance to my aunt Elena, because she’s magic!”
First Ivan did a kind of dopey trick where he unbent a spoon with his mind—first strenuously miming bending it, then pretending to unbend it, dramatically showing the intact spoon. “Wow! Great!” the crowd called out politely. Then he did the Magic Coloring Book, where he showed the audience an uncolored book by flipping through its pages, then gave a magical flourish, and showed it again, fully colored. More enthusiasm for that one. Finally, his pièce de résistance. Bringing out four shiny rings, he demonstrated that they were unconnected, with no gaps, and he proceeded to fiddle with them, forming first a chain of four—cries of amazement—then a four-leaf clover. There was delighted clapping and calls for more. Tim whistled again. But Ivan only bowed and waved to Elena and ran to the back of the crowd to nestle beside her.
I felt a bit heartened by all the enthusiasm so far, but for a moment I seriously considered going into the house and hiding under my bed. But I saw Beau and D.L. smirking off to the side, then I looked at Brickie, and he nodded solemnly, giving me a thumbs-up. Elena knew I was faltering and blew me a kiss. I resolved not to disappoint them. Picking up my bow and an arrow, I yelled, “Everybody has to move away from the target!” The target was not very far, close to the street, behind the crowd, but I felt like it was a hundred miles away. The crowd parted. I drew back on my bow, setting my feet apart, trying to steady myself, and let the arrow go. It hit an inner circle, not the bull’s-eye, but not a disgrace, either. There was some clapping. I drew back on another arrow, but as I did, I spied the satanic Schwinn on the lane behind the crowd, nearly obscured by the hedge. Nobody but Max, Beatriz, and I, high on the stage facing the lane, could really see it. Max hissed, “Slutcheon!” The bike approached our yard. Either it was too late for me to stop or the Special Tropical Punch gave me a jolt of courage, or insanity. Aiming just to the left of the big target, I let my arrow fly, and it landed in the spokes of Slutcheon’s front wheel. He wobbled crazily for a second, trying to stay on the bike, but then ditched on his side. He scrambled up fast, his nasty face looking stunned. He limped and remounted, and kept going. Incredibly, he didn’t scream anything, and more incredibly, I guess because of the punch or because I was up higher, the grown-ups hadn’t noticed what transpired behind the hedge, just that I’d been seriously off target. There were calls of “Aww!” and “That’s okay! Try again!” But Max, Beatriz, and the Shreve boys, who’d been watching from the branches of a dogwood, all clapped and whooped ecstatically. Max hollered, “Go, Johnny, go!” I couldn’t believe what I’d done and knew there’d be hell to pay with Slutcheon, but I didn’t care. I readied my last arrow. Feeling brave and rock-solid now, I shot again. The arrow hit the target to the right of the first one, barely inside the center circle, but definitely a bull’s-eye. The crowd hollered, “Bravo!” and “William Tell!” and best of all, there was a shout of “Just like Errol Flynn!” I knew it was Brickie who’d yelled it, but that was fine. Elena and Ivan grinned and waved. I gave a Robin Hood–like bow, wishing I’d
worn my old Peter Pan cap with its hawk feather, which would have added the perfect flourish.
Beatriz stepped up, now wearing a grass skirt over her skort and holding her hula hoop, announcing, “And now, in honor of Hawaii, our new fiftieth state, I will perform to the song ‘Me Rock-a-Hula,’ by Mr. Bill Haley and His Comets.” I couldn’t help thinking that if she still had her long hair she would look more Hawaiian, but she was an eyeful. Max was agog.
Brickie put her record on, and she began swiveling her hips, hula-hooping and hula-dancing in perfect time to the rocking music. Everybody clapped along. She hula-ed all over the stage, and then came down the steps, into the audience, still performing her spectacular moves, until the song was over. The crowd went wild. Max let out some wolf whistles, and Tim shouted, “Well, A-lo-HA, Miss Hawaii!” She curtsied several times as her mom, dad, and sister called out, “Brava! Brava!” Gellert ran up, grinning, and sniffed Beatriz’s hair appreciatively. The De Haans came over to congratulate us and tell us how much they were enjoying the Fiesta, the General telling Max, “I vas goodt vit a yo-yo vhen I vas a boy. I should show you zome tricks. Come over vun day and I vill!” Josephine moseyed over and said, “I’m sho glad to see you kids doin’ something constructive. And in the daytime.” Then she gave us each a hug, spilling a little of her beer on Max, who didn’t care a bit, he was so happy. “We’re back in the pool, you guys!” he cackled. “Score one for us!”
* * *
—
Everyone went back to partying with new enthusiasm and more booze. The grown-ups refreshed their drinks and chattered about how great we were. The punch was getting low, but there was still plenty of beer, and Dimma had brought out Brickie’s special vintage bottle of Cuban rum, which guests were mixing with Cokes, stirring with their fingers. Brickie put on a record, and the partying resumed. Maari and Liz showed off, doing the Hand Jive to “Hey! Bo Diddley,” everyone watching them and bouncing to the beat, fingers snapping.
We went back to where Elena sat on the grass. “You were so wonderful, kids!” she exclaimed. “Beatriz, we will have to get you on Ed Sullivan!”
Tim came over, beaming, and congratulated us. “Popsicles for all of you tomorrow after school, and they’re on me, because today, you guys are beautiful.”
Ivan looked like he had when he had a stomachache, but he said he was okay. “You’re probably just three sheeps to the wind,” Max said. “If you put your finger down your throat, you’ll throw up and feel better. That’s what my sister does after a date.” Elena laughed and a tear slipped from one eye. She wiped it away, revealing a little bruised patch on her cheekbone. Then she checked her watch. I was glad her date hadn’t shown up. Maybe he’d stand her up, and she would stay.
Brickie put on the Jackie Wilson “Reet Petite” that we kids loved, and I cried, “Let’s dance, Beatriz!” She and I joined the dancers and began bopping. Beatriz was good at it and I was lousy, but Beatriz didn’t mind. Everyone belted out the refrain, “Uh oh oh oh, uh oh oh oh.” Max tapped me on the shoulder. I backed off, incredulous, and Max and Beatriz danced. All the grown-ups—at least those who could—were whirling and laughing, and, except for the Chappaquas, not with their spouses, I noticed: Dimma and Senhor, Brickie and Mrs. Shreve, Mrs. Friedmann and Josef, Mr. Friedmann and Josephine, the General and Mrs. Andersen, Tim and Maria, and Madame with Mr. Shreve, who was doing pretty well with his game leg. Beau and D.L. were dancing with Maari and Liz! Gellert danced with Zariya! Even the toddler tribe goofily rocked out. “The Beaver Plan is working!” I hollered at Ivan. Even the Pond and Advice ladies, parked off to the side, seemed to be having fun, although the Advice Lady couldn’t resist calling, “You people are going to expire in this heat,” as if the guests were deviled eggs, but it was true that everyone was shiny with sweat. Ivan and I dragged Elena up, and she danced with us both, giving us extra twirls. But then Tim broke in and he and Elena bopped. Ivan and I jigged around together—who cared if we were both boys. The Senhora begged off from Mr. Andersen, probably to keep a better eye on Beatriz, or the Senhor, so Mr. Andersen began dancing with me and Ivan, which was a little disturbing, and in a few moments we sat down. He didn’t seem to mind and continued a sort of interpretive dance with Kees and Piet.
To cool things down, Brickie played one slow, dreamy song after the other—“You Send Me,” the Platters’ “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “Mona Lisa.” He claimed Elena with an eager smile, and all the dancers clung together, seemingly in slow motion and love, swaying to the romantic songs. Watching, I felt like Ivan and I had become the square adults, chaperoning teenagers at a sock hop. The toddlers, Zariya, and Gellert threw themselves down on a blanket clutching their cake prizes, faces stained with Popsicles and blue icing, and passed out. Tim was now dancing with both Maari and Liz in a clumsy bear hug.
Elena plopped back down with us. “I believe it is a successful Fabulous Family Fiesta,” she said softly. “Maybe you boys will win the Nobel Peace Prize.” We were paralyzed with happiness and rum, so glad her date hadn’t come. Max and Beatriz returned, and we all drew nearer to Elena. She bent over Ivan, hugging him to her, whispering in his ear, and gave him something that he pocketed. She checked her watch again.
* * *
—
Darkness wasn’t far off. The light was gloamy and otherworldly, the grass and trees an incandescent green, the tall clouds the luscious pastel of orange Creamsicles. The opening strains of “The Twelfth of Never” floated out into the hot and surreally still evening air, Johnny Mathis’s honeyed voice putting us all in a sweaty reverie. “Oh, this song!” cried Elena. “Listen!” She began singing along.
You ask how much I need you, must I explain?
I need you, oh, my darling, like roses need rain
You ask how long I’ll love you; I’ll tell you true:
Until the Twelfth of Never, I’ll still be loving you
Tears welled up in Elena’s eyes, but she laughed at the schmaltzy moment as she sang the refrain.
Hold me close, never let me go
Hold me close, melt my heart like April snow
“Isn’t it just the loveliest song?”
Max just had to say, though apologetically, “It’s kind of corny, Elena.” She laughed again, wiping her eyes. Ivan looked like he might cry, or throw up, but he did neither, snuggling against her. I wanted to, too. Elena kept singing, rocking slightly from side to side with her big baby.
Then things began to happen fast. From down the lane came the roar of something that wasn’t a car. The boys and I rose to our knees to see what it was. A man on a motorcycle big as a pony pulled up at the Goncharoffs’ gate and idled there. The rider had long, curly hair and a scraggly beard that managed not to obscure his handsome face. Despite the heat, the man wore a green military jacket and heavy boots. The dancers stopped, all eyes on the street.
“Damn,” Tim said, coming forward. “Not a beatnik.” The man spotted Elena, lifting his bearded chin to acknowledge her.
Elena stood, shouldering her big bag, and said, “Goodbye, my precious darlings.” She kissed us all, then whispered again to Ivan, who looked stricken. She walked quickly across the lawn. At the street, she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, calling out, “Thank you for a lovely party!”
Max said darkly, “That’s not a baseball player.”
Mr. Shreve turned to my grandfather and said loudly, “Jesus Christ, is that Camilo?”
“I’m afraid it might be,” said Brickie, his face as grim as I’d ever seen it. “You’d better call in.”
Josef strode across the lawn, his face twisted and red, shouting in Spanish, but the man gunned his engine, laughing. “Vas bien, Fidel!” he called. He and Elena roared off. Josef hurled a beer bottle that smashed explosively in the street.
“You barbudos bastard!” Mr. Shreve yelled, fiddling with the walkie-talkie thing on his belt.
Elena did not look back, but raised a hand and waved slowly, like Queen Elizabeth at her coronation. Her scarf blew off, and her hair whipped wildly around her.
For a moment there was only Johnny Mathis. The neighbors stood silently, confused and stunned, not having any idea what was happening, but understanding that it was something terrible. The Andersens and the Chappaquas said their goodbyes and rushed off.
Then a deafening boom rattled my bones, followed by a huge flash. Then staccato blasts. “Gunfire!” yelled Tim. Everybody shrieked.
Max screamed, “A mushroom cloud! A mushroom cloud!” We all looked up. Above the trees loomed an enormous thunderhead, its double anvil shape roiling toward us, now glowing a radioactive pink in the dying sun. More blasts. There was a babble of languages and shouts of “God help us!” “Run!” The music stopped with a painful, ripping screech.
I shouted, “Duck and cover!” and we three scrambled under the tables, peeking out fearfully. More blasts went off. Ivan cried, and Beatriz was crying as she and her parents gathered Zariya and ran down the lane. Mr. Friedmann called out, “Max! Max! Come home!” and he and Mrs. Friedmann stumbled off. Gellert’s family hurried away. Dimma and Josephine struggled to get the Pond Lady and the Advice Lady into the house, the Advice Lady squawking, “I knew this day would come! We’re all doomed!” Tim’s truck zoomed off, and Maria grabbed the twins and ran across the lane. There was another hair-raising crack, another flash, and rain began pouring down. The air went dark and biblical. The General stood on the steps, calling out, “Mijn God! Het is als Rotterdam 1940!” and lurched off with his family. Brickie shoved his Magnavox inside the door, yelling, “Stay calm! It’s not a bomb! It’s just a storm! Everyone stay calm!” but by then almost everybody was gone. Mr. Shreve and Josef stood out in the lane in the deluge, Josef still in a rage, Mr. Shreve using his walkie-talkie. Mr. Shreve went home, leaving Josef, soaked, looking like a horror-movie maniac, clutching Elena’s blue scarf in one hand, the other clutching his heart.
