My Perfect Life

by Dyan Sheldon

  Stalemate at Casa

  Santini

  “Look,” said Lola as we flew through the gates with the legend Casa Santini woven into the metalwork, “even the house is wearing a costume. It looks like the gym when it’s decorated for a dance.”

  This wasn’t really accurate: it looked like the White House decorated for a dance.

  There were blue and white lights across the Santinis’ roof and all along the circular drive, and blue and white balloons floating above the mailbox and the wrought-iron fence that keeps the riffraff out. Hanging from the porch was a large silk banner that said CARLA SANTINI – YOU KNOW SHE’S THE BEST.

  “The sign’s a nice touch,” I said as we bucked to a stop. “At least no one will have any trouble finding the house.”

  Lola took the keys from the ignition and dropped them into the shoulder bag she’d borrowed from my mother. Then she pulled off her sneakers and put on the heels she’d also borrowed from my mother, which didn’t fit well enough to drive in. Then she looked at her watch. “Seven on the dot. All systems go.”

  Lola figured that it was better to be late than on time. If we’d arrived at six, as promised, Carla and her mother would have wanted to talk to us. But by now, reasoned Lola, they’d both be too busy getting ready to come sniffing around.

  Lola opened the driver’s door and carefully lowered herself to the ground, the chopsticks she’d stuck in her wig tilting dangerously. “Come on. You and I are about to give the performance of a lifetime.”

  Gathering my portable lawn around me, I climbed out of the passenger seat. “Is that before we get caught, or after?”

  “Scoff all you want,” said Lola. “But I have a feeling about tonight. I think it’s going to be one to remember.”

  “Isn’t that what they said about the night the Titanic went down?”

  Lola headed towards the rear of the car. She was wobbling in a pretty alarming way. Plastic grass swaying, I trotted after her.

  “Are you supposed to be impersonating my mother, or are you about to kill yourself on those shoes?” I hissed.

  She opened the back. “I just haven’t quite got the hang of them yet.”

  “Well try not to fall over. Here comes Maria Jesus.”

  Maria Jesus, the Santinis’ maid, must have been waiting for us. She came scuttling down the front path, calling, “Mrs Gerard! Mrs Gerard! I’ll help you with the food!” Maria Jesus was dressed as a maid.

  “It might have been more appropriate if she were dressed as a person,” muttered Lola.

  Mrs Santini and Carla, said Maria Jesus, were putting on clothes.

  “Well, thank God for that,” mumbled Lola.

  We went in through the back. Tradesmen’s entrance.

  “You see?” whispered Lola. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re just the hired help.”

  Lola caught her breath as we came around the side of the house and stumbled into a bush. “Look at this, will you? You’d think she was running for President of the country, not President of Dellwood High.”

  Even I, who had been to enough Carla Santini parties in my time to know what they were like, was impressed.

  What the Santinis call their “backyard” most other people would call a park. It was divided into two sections. The section nearest the house held the patio, the swimming pool, the tennis court, and Mrs Santini’s Japanese rock garden, complete with pond, wooden bridge, and a small shed for the man who actually did the work, Maria Jesus’ husband, Joachim. Behind that – separated by a high hedge with an archway cut in it – was the garden proper (flowers, a lawn that put the golf course to shame, and a free-standing deck with a roof). Both sections were strung with dozens more blue and white lights and balloons. Inflatable globes bobbed in the pool and the pond. Two enormous buffet tables – one for the food and one for the drinks – stood against the kitchen wall. The band was setting up on the deck at the back of the garden, where there was enough room for the whole town of Dellwood to dance.

  “Maybe we should’ve poisoned the food after all,” I whispered. “Nobody’s going to vote for us after this.”

  Maria Jesus was already at the patio doors. “Come, come!” she begged. “Miss Carla has been worried.”

  “You see?” said Lola. “There’s always some good news.”

  Maria Jesus showed us where everything was – the oven, the microwave, and the box of tiny flags of all nations to be stuck into the platters of crab cakes and samosas – and then she bustled off to finish laying the buffet table.

  “What’d I tell you?” Lola whispered as the glass doors closed on Maria Jesus. “This is going to be easier than filling a taco shell. All we have to do is get this stuff onto serving dishes and we’re home free.”

  But any child of Aeschylus would ask you, “What is home? What is free?” And that child would be right.

  On cue as ever, Carla Santini burst through the kitchen door. She looked the same as always, except that she was wearing a little more make-up than usual and a bathrobe.

  “Mrs Gerard!” Carla’s voice was shrill with relief. “I’ve been sooo worried about you. I thought something must have happened.”

  I bent over one of our boxes and started removing containers.

  Lola pulled a fan out of the sleeve of her kimono and ducked behind it. “Oh, Carla, honey. I’m terribly sorry we’re so late.” I assumed from the way she was speaking that Geishas have childish, lilting voices. “I’m afraid we had a little disaster with the satay.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter.” Carla had crossed the kitchen by now, and was near enough to Lola to melt her make-up with her breath. “As long as you’re all right…”

  Lola’s fan was moving between them as fast as a humming-bird’s wings. “I’m fine … just fine…”

  “Are you sure you don’t have a headache?” Carla peered as closely as she could without getting poked in the eye. “Your face looks a little puffy.”

  Lola slapped her playfully on the head with the fan. “Heeheehee…” she tittered. “That’s from sampling too much of my own cooking, that’s what that is.”

  Carla had withstood the playful slap all right, but she jumped back as Lola’s fan grazed her nose.

  Lola spun around to face the sink, and started washing her hands.

  “You look great as a Geisha,” said Carla. Now she was staring at Lola’s backside, probably wondering if it was the cummerbund that made it look larger than she remembered, or if my mother really had put on weight in the last few days.

  I tried to distract Carla as best I could without actually drawing attention to myself. “Microwave?” I croaked.

  Carla didn’t even glance my way. She waved one hand towards the microwave and said to Lola, “How about a glass of wine, Mrs Gerard? My parents are having a few people over, too, you know, so there’s plenty of Chardonnay in the fridge.”

  I dropped the samosas.

  “Heeheehee,” giggled the Geisha at the sink. “I never drink while I’m working.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t see Carla’s face, but her voice was smiling slyly. “I’m sure you were having a glass of wine the other day when I stopped by.”

  The water kept running. Lola was washing her hands so thoroughly you’d have thought she was going to operate on the food, not just heat it up. “That was at home. This is professional.”

  “Oh,” Carla purred. “I understand…” She leaned a little closer and sniffed. “Is that a new perfume, Mrs Gerard?”

  Perfume! We’d forgotten about the perfume. My mother always wore Opium.

  “Heeheehee,” tittered the humble Geisha. “I thought it was time for a change.”

  “I see,” murmured Carla. The way she was staring at Lola, I was afraid she did see; straight through the heavy make-up to the youthful skin underneath. I was about to drop the samosas again – this time on Carla – when another character in our little drama entered, stage right.

  Mrs Santini thundered through the door. Mrs Santini’s idea of looki
ng French was Marie Antoinette.

  “What are you doing now, Carla?” She sounded as though she was always finding Carla in unlikely places, doing dumb things. “Look at you. The guests will be arriving any minute, and you’re not even dressed.”

  I ducked behind the refrigerator.

  Mrs Santini noticed the Geisha with the incredibly clean hands and her voice did a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

  “Marilyn!” You could tell where Carla learned to gush. “I didn’t hear you drive up. Do you have everything you need? Did Maria Jesus show you where everything is? Carla wasn’t bothering you, was she?”

  “Oh, yes, yes… No, of course not.”

  The social niceties taken care of, Mrs Santini turned back to her daughter. “We’d better leave Marilyn and Mrs Wallace in peace, honey.” She laughed. It was eerie how much like her Carla was. You’d think she’d been cloned. “And you’d better finish getting dressed…”

  Lola didn’t turn the taps off till they were safely out of the room.

  “Alone at last,” breathed Lola.

  “Let’s do this as fast as we can.” My heart was pounding and my palms were damp. “I just want to get out of here before anybody else shows up.”

  We unpacked everything in under five minutes, and then we started sticking things into the oven and the microwave.

  I began to breathe almost normally.

  “You worry too much,” said Lola. “You have to learn to relax. Everything’s under control.”

  At which moment Mr Santini marched into the kitchen, dressed as a Cossack with an authentic glass of vodka in his hand.

  “Marilyn!” cried Mr Santini. He slammed down his glass and threw his arms around Lola in what I assumed was a Russian bear-hug. “Forget the food! You look good enough to eat!” He inhaled deeply. “You’ve changed your perfume, haven’t you? You smell delicious.”

  Even Lola was momentarily caught by surprise. It was just as well he was holding her, or she probably would have toppled.

  “Mis—” she began, but caught herself in time. “Anthony! Heeheehee…” Smiling all the while, she elegantly disentangled herself by elbowing Mr Santini in the stomach. She flicked her fan in front of her face and tittered some more. “It’s bad luck to see the cook before the party,” she said in her new soft, sing-song voice.

  Mr Santini was charmed. He stood there, grinning at her soupily. I started to wonder if maybe my mother’s wasn’t the only drinking problem in Woodford.

  “That’s the bride before the wedding,” said Mr Santini. He leaned closer. He was wearing hunting boots, but he was wobbling too. “You know,” he said, his voice low but still loud enough to be heard by the help, “I’ve always been attracted to Japanese women.”

  “Why, Tony!” Lola whacked him playfully in the chest with her fan. “What will Mrs Wallace think?”

  Maybe Mr Santini didn’t believe that Mrs Wallace could think. Like his only child, he didn’t so much as glance my way.

  “You know, you’ve never called me Tony before.” If his smile got any soupier he was going to drown them both.

  From behind her fan, Lola said, “That’s because you’ve never bothered me when I’m trying to work before.” Heeheehee. She ducked to look in the oven.

  Mr Santini stared down at the top of her wig. He seemed fascinated by the chopsticks. “You know, I’d really like to have a dance with you later on,” he drawled.

  Lola stood up so quickly that Mr Santini had to jump back to avoid being hit in the teeth.

  “Later,” Lola tittered. She fluttered her fan between them, and, holding on to the counter, gave him a shove. “Now get out of this kitchen before I change my mind.”

  “But you do promise you’ll have a dance?” insisted Mr Santini. “Later?”

  This turned out to be Mrs Santini’s second cue of the night.

  “Oh, there you are, darling.” Only Mrs Santini’s mouth was smiling. She looked like a Marie Antoinette who’d just heard about the revolution. “The Derrings and the Bartons have just arrived. Don’t you think you should be out there to greet them?”

  It sounded like a question, but Mr Santini knew a threat when he heard one. He blinked a couple of times and then he hopped to it.

  “I’m on my way, darling,” purred Mr Santini. “Just thought I’d make sure the cook was all right.”

  “And is she?”

  If Mr Santini heard the sourness in her voice he pretended that he hadn’t. “She’s fine.” He picked up his glass and glided past his wife, winking at my mother over her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry about that…” Mrs Santini’s mouth was still smiling. “I guess he’s excited … you know, with the rally and everything… Did I tell you he’s buying Carla a new car if she wins? He’s wound up like a kid at Christmas. You know how he loves to spoil her.”

  Lola fluttered her fan. “Oh, yes, I know. And he’s done a wonderful job.”

  I ducked behind the door of the microwave.

  “Anyway, I am sorry if he was getting underfoot.”

  “Oh, please, Mela, there’s nothing to be sorry for… You just go and enjoy yourself.”

  Mrs Santini finally gave up on the smile. “As if I ever could,” she said. And with that she swept back out of the room.

  Lola was rolling her eyes. “What a family.” She said it with feeling. “Maybe we should stick around. I bet we could dig up something interesting about the Santinis if we tried.” She put on a deep voice and winked like Mr Santini. “Maybe we wouldn’t have to try too hard.”

  By ten o’clock there must have been over two hundred people in the backyard. And there, right in the middle – like the jewel in the crown – was Carla Santini. Carla had topped everyone by coming as Miss New Jersey, in the evening-gown competition. At least half a dozen times I’d caught her looking suspiciously towards the kitchen, but (fortunately) she was always mobbed by adoring fans and though she looked like she wanted to, she couldn’t come back in without bringing the varsity cheerleading squad with her.

  “Well, Tonto, it looks like our job here is done,” said Lola as the first of the fireworks lit up the sky. “It’s time to ride back into the sunset.”

  Personally, I wouldn’t have minded riding back into a blizzard as long as we got out of there. Carla wasn’t the only one who was keeping an eye on us. Not only did Mr Santini wave every time Lola looked outside, but it seemed to me that Marie Antoinette was paying a lot more attention to the kitchen than you’d expect from a queen.

  “Great.” I handed her a crate of empty containers. “You can take this and go saddle up the horses while I finish packing.”

  “Hi, ho, Silver!” laughed Lola.

  “Marilyn!” Mr Santini suddenly lunged into the kitchen. His Cossack hat was slightly askew, and he was still carrying a glass of vodka – though it was pretty obvious that it wasn’t the same one. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving. You can’t leave yet. We haven’t had our dance.” He gripped her wrist with his free hand.

  Lola went into her giggling routine. “Oh, Anthony, I can’t. I have to load the car.”

  “Let the hula girl do it,” cried Mr Santini, yanking her back through the patio doors. “You promised me a dance.”

  The hula girl finished packing up our things, but decided not to wait in the car. How long could a dance take? I might as well wait inside. I poured myself a glass of soda, and stood at the patio doors, watching the fireworks.

  I can look at stars for hours, but after a few minutes the fascination of the Santinis’ pyro-technic display kind of faded and I returned my gaze to the crowd behind the house. I couldn’t see any Cossacks or Geishas in the first section of the yard. My first instinct was to panic. Where were they? Had Mr Santini realized it wasn’t Marilyn Gerard he was dancing with? Worse still, had Carla or Mrs Santini? I told myself to calm down. I told myself the Cossack and the Geisha must be further back, by the bandstand. The voice of panic, however, was still shrieking in my head. It wanted to know how Lola coul
d get all the way to the back of the yard on grass in my mother’s shoes.

  I stepped onto the patio for a better look, straining to see over the heads of the crowd. Carla Santini stared back at me.

  I ignored her and moved from the patio to the swimming pool for a better view. It was no use. The Santinis aren’t quite feudal lords who could ride for a day and never leave their own land, but they were close enough for me. Still aware of the eyes of Carla Santini tracking me like a radar, I strolled on, as nonchalant and casual as someone who looks like an escapee from an amateur production of South Pacific can. I saw a lot of people I knew, of course. Football players dressed as cowboys and soldiers. Cheerleaders dressed as flamenco dancers and harem girls. Mr Mazzucci, the manager of my father’s bank in his usual dark suit and a Winston Churchill mask. But I didn’t see Lola or Mr Santini.

  I blame the various stresses of the day for the fact that it was only when I finally got within real sight of the bandstand that I realized the music had stopped.

  How could you dance if there wasn’t any music?

  I squinted through the smoke-filled air. As far as I could tell, the answer to the question of dancing without music was that, in fact, you couldn’t. The giggling Geisha and the swaying Cossack were nowhere in sight.

  As I rustled back the way I’d come, I caught Carla out of the corner of my eye. She was smiling and laughing at something the varsity star quarterback in the Sioux war bonnet was saying to her, but she was still watching me. I sailed past her on the other side of the yard and headed towards the side of the house. Maybe Mr Santini, who by now must have consumed enough vodka to paralyze half the Russian army, had ducked down there to pass out in private and Lola had followed to make sure he was all right.

  There were a couple of boys smoking behind the rhododendrons. I pretended I didn’t see them either. I finally stopped when I reached the front of the garage. I thought I heard voices coming from one of the rooms at the front of the house, but I was too preoccupied with wondering what to do next to pay any attention. I can see now that I should either have gone back inside or should have marched right across the lawn and continued my search up the other side of the house, but I didn’t. I just stood there, wondering if I could have missed them in the backyard. Had I checked the tennis court? Did I thoroughly examine the throng around the buffet tables? Could I swear they weren’t in the mob by the pool? I hadn’t, I didn’t, and I couldn’t. I moaned out loud. “Please, Lola…” I hissed into the darkness. “I really want to go home.”