The same doubts that briefly settled in over Labor Day weekend had now been confirmed. I never followed through with exploring different options, since my life was dominated by making sure Princess Ruby was comfortable in her new environment. Now, screw Ruby; I had to take a page out of Katie’s tycoon handbook and worry about me. But where would I even begin?
“Aren’t these so much better?” Mom interjected, holding a wine glass in front of my face that looked nearly identical from the one I was holding.
“I suppose,” I sighed.
“They are,” Mom corrected, swiftly swapping out the glasses. Once she finished, we both nodded in approval.
“The table looks nice,” I commented.
You would have thought we were having dinner with the Pope. Our dining room looked like a showroom straight from the pages of Better Homes & Gardens. Mom brought out her finest linen and fanciest chinaware. She spent hours cleaning the entire house, even rooms that the Carrington family wouldn’t step foot into. My parents spent all week prepping the menu of antipasto, with the finest Italian meats and cheeses (Course 1), penne a la pomodoro (Course 2), chicken marsala, spiraled ham, mashed potatoes and string beans (all Course 3), not to mention freshly picked figs and chestnuts from the garden and homemade tiramisu for dessert. (Do you see why I have food issues? What was this, our last meal before being sent to the electric chair?)
“I know I went a little overboard, but I wanted to show the Carrington’s how I expect them to do things,” Mom explained.
“What are you talking about?” I braced myself for her answer.
“Do you think these people know how to plan a New Jersey-style wedding? They are Amedigans from TEXAS! What do they know about anything?”
Really, did she know how stupid she sounded? “The Carringtons have money and are nice enough to pay for the wedding,” I replied defensively, “Let them do what they want.”
“Carla Catherine, I can’t let strangers plan my son’s wedding! I have to make sure it is suitable for our family. My son is not going to have a wedding in a horse barn on paper plates!”
“Mom, Texas isn’t Mars. They supposedly do everything big down there. I’m sure they are going to meet your expectations.”
“Let’s hope.” Mom looked extremely worried.
Ding Dong!
“They’re here!” Mom gasped. She scatted out of the dining room. “Jimmy, get down here!”
I followed Mom into the foyer so I could be in place just in case I had to run interference for her making an ass out of herself. Jimmy appeared next to me, wringing his hands together tensely.
Mom swung open the door. On the other side was an older and heavier version of Gwen, a jolly man in a cowboy hat and matching boots, and my future sister-in-law.
“Howdy!” Mr. Carrington bellowed in a deep southern drawl, taking off his hat and revealing a full head of gray hair. He placed the hat over his chest and did a slight bow.
“It’s so nice to see you again, Nancy. It’s been far too long!” Mrs. Carrington purred in a matching accent. “I made you a pecan pie; it’s a Texan specialty!”
“We also brought you some wine. We know how you Eyetalians love your wine!” Mr. Carrington laughed.
“Thank you very much; that’s so nice of you!” Mom exclaimed. Gwen and Jimmy stood in the corner, anxiously watching the exchange. This was all very amusing.
My father appeared in the foyer, and the pleasantries repeated themselves.
The Carringtons then turned to me. “Carla, it’s so nice to finally meet you! Gwen has said so many splendid things about you!” Mrs. Carrington exclaimed.
“Gwen told me you were pretty, but she didn’t mention that you were drop-dead gorgeous! You are one beautiful Eye-talian girl!” Mr. Carrington added.
I blushed. “Thank you. You two have a great daughter.”
“Come on, let me show you around!” Mom cut in.
“I thought you’d never ask. This house is beautiful!” Mr. Carrington exclaimed. He handed me the wine and followed my parents with the rest of the herd behind them.
Looking down at the bottle’s Duckhorn 2012 label, I already decided I liked Jimmy’s future in-laws. I proceeded to march right into the kitchen and pour myself a glass. In between sips, I heard the Carringtons praise each room (“This is so MARVELOUS Nancy! You have such an outstandin’ eye!”) If their over-the-top admiration was authentic, fine. But if not, I give Gwen props for impeccably coaching her parents in how to deal with Nancy D’Agostino. Either way, I knew Mom was lapping it up with a spoon.
Soon after, everyone came back downstairs and settled into the dining room. I strolled in, wine bottle in one hand and wine glass in another. “Thanks for the wine, it tastes great!”
“You opened it already?” Mom hissed.
“Yeah,” I shrugged. “Long day.”
“A glass of wine cures all stress!” Mrs. Carrington laughed.
“I’ll toast to that!” I smiled, pouring her a glass.
We sat down and dug into the antipasto.
“You Eye-talians sure know how to eat! I don’t even want to tell you how much weight I’ve gained since we moved to New Jersey,” Mrs. Carrington sighed.
“Oh stop it, you look fine!” Mom gushed. She was firmly in full kiss-ass mode.
“Thank you, sweetie pie!” Mrs. Carrington laughed. “But I’m afraid this is the most I have ever weighed, even when I was pregnant. But I must say, I am very jealous of your shape. And that skin! Your face doesn’t have a single line!”
“Oh stop it!” Mom gushed proudly, instinctively smoothing her hand over her cheek. If the Carringtons weren’t already in her good graces by complimenting her decorating talents, they surely were now by flattering her near wrinkle-free appearance that she spent hours a day (annoyingly) maintaining. “I always tell my daughter, the best way to keep wrinkles away is to not to drink, stay out of the sun, and moisturize, moisturize, moisturize! She doesn’t listen, though.”
I rolled my eyes, which caught Mr. Carrington’s attention. “Your daughter looks fine,” he chuckled.
“What kind of cream do you use?” Mrs. Carrington asked.
I’d had enough. Before my mother could open her mouth to run down her beauty regime, I rose up and ran to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I stood there and timed out how long it would take Mom to fill Mrs. Carrington in on her practices. After I silently named the 10th step, I deemed it safe to walk back in.
“We have four daughters, you know,” I heard Mrs. Carrington explain as I walked in, mercifully on a different subject now. “And we’ve hit the jackpot with all of our sons-in-law. I mean, they’ve met some great, wonderful men, including your son.”
“All of your daughters are married?” Mom asked.
“All married. Gwen’s the baby. She’s actually getting married late in comparison to her sisters. They were all hitched by the time each turned 23!”
“If only we were so lucky,” Mom sneered. “Carla’s still single.”
The table talk had gone from fairly annoying to brutal. I had to steer the conversation back to the lesser of the two evils. “Mom, weren’t you in the middle of explaining to everyone how you keep your youthful look?”
“We’re past that, dear,” Mrs. Carrington responded, clearly not taking the hint. “How old are you, Carla?”
“Twenty-seven,” I responded glumly.
“Well, you people in New Jersey seem to do everything late. In Texas, you’d be considered an old maid!” Mrs. Carrington roared, with my mom following suit. Jimmy gave me a sympathetic look, and I glared back at him.
“I don’t understand how on earth a girl like you can still be single!” Mr. Carrington chimed in. “These men nowadays are backward!”
“I don’t understand it either!” Mom added. “She was prettier than I was growing up, yet I had a different boyfriend every week while she barely goes on any dates! Boys should be breaking down our front door, I tell her that all the time!”
<
br /> “No, you don’t!” I snapped.
“Why are you single, Carla?” Mrs. Carrington asked.
I felt my face turn red with fury. How dare this woman who barely knows me ask the dreaded question that every chronically single person hates to hear (and honestly, if we knew the answer to the question, don’t you think there wouldn’t be a question to begin with?). However, being alone most of my life, I’d learned how to diffuse these types of uncomfortable situations with either self-deprecating humor or straight-up sarcasm. I decided to take the sarcastic route. “All the good ones are taken or gay, Mrs. Carrington. So at this point, I either have to try and turn a gay man straight or convince a straight man to get a divorce.” My parents looked at me in horror, while the Carringtons burst out in boisterous laughter. At least someone appreciated my comedy.
“Doesn’t it seem like everyone is gay nowadays?” Mr. Carrington said in between breaths. “Society has gone down the drain.”
“Carla’s friend’s husband just came out of the closet!” Mom exclaimed. “Carla and her friend caught him in bed with their landscaper one day.”
I shot my mother a death stare.
“I’ll be damned…” Mr. Carrington burst out laughing.
“MOM!” I freaked. “That is top secret information; NO ONE is supposed to know that but family!”
“We’re all family here, darlin’!” Mrs. Carrington whooped. “We won’t tell a soul!”
After their laughter had settled down, I thought I had drawn the attention away from me, but the Carringtons weren’t done yet. “Gwen tells me you have a great job at W-S-P-S. I love that station; even though they aren’t too kind to my Cowboys!” Mr. Carrington proclaimed.
“Thank you,” I smiled, feigning enthusiasm. “I produce the “The Tommy & Ruby Show” and have been at the station overall for five years.” Just saying Ruby’s name in passing made me nauseous.
“I love him, but I HATE her!” Mr. Carrington exclaimed. “She’s awful!”
He was not the first person to utter that phrase, but every time I heard it, I got giddy as if it was the first time hearing it. “She’s from L-A. She still has to get used to it,” I said as diplomatically as possible.
“We agree with you; we don’t like Ruby around here,” my father added. “She beat Carla out for that job.”
“Well, I’ll be darned!” Mr. Carrington exclaimed, throwing his fork down. He turned to my father. “But you do know why, right?”
“Because my boss is an ass-clown?” I blurted out.
“Carla, no cursing at the table,” Mom sternly ordered.
“It’s because she’s probably sleeping with the big boss,” Mr. Carrington continued. “You hear about them lady sports casters makin’ the rounds all the time!”
Mrs. Carrington slapped her husband on the arm.
“He’s right, though,” Dad answered. “That’s exactly what I told Carla when it happened.” The two men laughed while the rest of the table simultaneously covered their eyes with their hands.
Sexist comments and annoying mothers aside, the rest of dinner was uneventful. The conversation thankfully switched to the whole purpose of the little shing-ding--the wedding, which would be taking place May 20th of the next year, as in a month before the reunion. The Carrington family had booked a restored castle in northern New Jersey, a location that my mother glowingly approved. Gwen showed me her choices for bridesmaid dresses, which were all very pretty and elegant. Best of all, Mom actually played nice while working out all the details. It turned out to be a good night after all, although I was sure the three glasses of wine (and two slices of Mrs. Carrington’s succulent pecan pie) had something to do with it.
■ ■ ■
At around two in the morning, as the wine buzz carried me to off to sleep, I was woken up by my cell phone ringing. Annoyed, I leaped out of bed to see who it was. My aggravation switched to dread when I saw the name on the caller ID: Dan Durkin Cell.
“Hello?” I screeched, throwing my light on.
“Where is Dante?” Dan growled.
Whatever was left of my buzz quickly evaporated. “I have no idea. I was almost asleep when you called.”
“Well, he’s not at the station for his shift.”
I started to panic. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this,” I started to say.
“Carla, you better fix this; he’s your friend!” Dan threatened.
“Well, he’s YOUR employee!” I shot back, fully awake. How dare he throw the weight on me!
“What do we do if we can’t find him?” Dan cried.
I racked my brain for an answer. Even though I wasn’t being paid the big bucks to search for missing radio hosts and come up with solutions to programming problems, I felt a crushing pressure to come up with the right remedy for the situation.
All of a sudden, a light bulb went off in my head; the solution to ALL solutions. If I couldn’t find Dante, I had a perfectly suitable substitute ready to go. I licked my lips in anticipation. “I can fill in for him,” I sweetly suggested.
“You?!” Dan incredulously replied.
“Yeah, me,” I assertively stated. “The listeners know me. You’ve heard my tapes, and I’m sure you’ve heard me banter on-air before with Tommy. I’m more than able to handle the hosting responsibilities tonight.” I wasn’t sure where this confidence was coming from. Hadn’t I just thrown up the white flag on my radio career a mere few hours ago?
“I don’t know…um, Carla…You have no experience,” Dan stammered.
A pang of frustration hit my chest, but I wasn’t backing down. “As of a month ago, neither did Dante,” I pointed out.
“Yeah but…” Dan trailed off.
“But, what?” I challenged. “You don’t have someone to host a show for you right now.”
Dan remained silent, but I was not letting up. “How irresponsible is it that your host ditched work? If he doesn’t take the job seriously enough to show up and perform, then you should consider hiring someone who does.” I made a face at my words; I sounded more like Ruby than myself.
“Carla, no, just…You need to find Dante, and you need to find him now!”
Click.
I stared at my phone in bewilderment. He actually hung up on me! “Why is it my job to fix this, you’re the ASSHOLE program director!” I growled into the disconnected phone. I felt my eyes well up with tears. Dan hadn’t even given my suggestion a thought. He really had to think I was a talentless hack. What if I couldn’t find Dante?
Dante…where the hell was Dante?
If I really wanted to leave the station, this was the perfect time to do it. Dan’s bullying tone somehow convinced me into thinking that both Dante’s and my job depended on my ability to locate him. If that was really the case, then I could easily crawl back into bed, give the figurative middle finger to Dan and the whole operation, and start my new life in the morning.
But what if Dante was in real trouble? I could never live with myself if something happened when I could have prevented it. I dialed his cell, but he didn’t answer. I sprinted downstairs and went outside to look down the street. Maybe he spent the night at his parents’ house? No, his 2006 metallic gray Jeep was absent from their driveway.
Dejected, I went back inside and phoned Katie. Maybe she was at the shop prepping for her impending grand opening, and saw him at one point enter or leave his apartment.
“HELLO?” she shouted into the phone. A mix of music and crowd noise blared in the background. Unless Katie was turning Kettle Black into a rock club, I figured she was at one of her favorite dive bars that I skeeve.
“Have you seen Dante?”
“WHAT?! SPEAK LOUDER, IT’S HARD TO HEAR YOU OVER THE MUSIC!”
“Have you seen Dante?!” I repeated.
“WHAT ABOUT DANTE?”
“Is he with you?”
“IS HE HERE? NO. DOESN’T HE HAVE TO WORK TONIGHT?”
“Yeah…” I trailed off.
“WH
AT?”
“Never mind Katie, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I had no time to deal with her right then.
I felt bad waking up a seven-months-pregnant Andrea, but it was worth a try. No answer.
I didn’t have Stacy’s number, otherwise, I would have tried her. The only option I was left with was to check out his apartment.
I threw on a New Jersey University sweatshirt and stormed into my parents’ room. “There’s an emergency at work, I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. Be careful,” Dad mumbled in his sleep. Mom, probably too worn out from her exciting evening, didn’t flinch. (Thank God. Otherwise, I’d never find Dante due to being held captive for three days’ worth of questioning.)
I rushed to my car and made a beeline to his place. As I ran towards the building, I could hear the familiar music of Alanis Morissette’s You Oughta Know blasting from an open window upstairs. “Dante?” I asked aloud.
I dashed upstairs and down the narrow hallway. Dante’s apartment door was wide open. I peeked in and saw my disheveled friend singing Alanis’ song at the top of his lungs while holding a beer and throwing his clothes all over the place.
For a moment, my heart sank seeing my friend is such dire straits. But my sympathy was quickly replaced by anger. How irresponsible could you be to get sloppy drunk knowing you had to go to work? I had no time to launch into a lecture, because even though he was clearly in no shape to host a four-hour sports-talk show, I had to somehow get him to the station.
“DANTE!” I screamed. He was in such a tizzy he didn’t even realize I was standing there.
“DANTE!” I repeated. He still didn’t notice me. I picked up a sneaker from the floor and threw it at his back.
“Ow,” he softly whimpered. He unsteadily turned around.
“What do you want?” he slurred through bloodshot eyes, shaking his beer bottle at me.
I leaped towards the stereo and lowered the volume. “I’m here to take you to work. Let’s go; you’re late for your shift.”
“YOU go do the show! I don’t wanna!”
Gladly, but I’m not allowed, I glumly thought. “Dante, your career rides on this. Dan will fire you, and then you can kiss ANY kind of career goodbye. Please, just get in the car.”
Ten Years Later Page 11
