The family home was in a wild state when the shoppers returned that afternoon, with the trucks of caterers, florists and seasonal decorators crowding the street and driveway of the house as though the Loys were under extreme federal surveillance.
For the annual Christmas party, furniture had to be arranged to make room for additional tables and rental seating. The family Christmas tree had been black-bagged and dragged off to another room, its place usurped by a much grander, professionally decorated imposter. The kitchen was off limits as food staff prepped for guests arriving later that evening. It didn't stop DeeDee from sneaking in to ask about the menu, much to the joy of those already wringing their aprons. It was still too early to see any hors d'oeuvres being put together, which was all she was really interested in anyway.
Natasha announced she and Bob were going upstairs to take a nap before the party as an excuse to phone Rodney. Bob decided he might as well nap. He was going to need plenty of energy to keep up his bozo act for guests curious about Natasha's new man. The rest of the evening's entertainment would be provided by a jazz quintet, and later a surprise appearance for Alvin by his favourite tongue-in-cheek lounge singer, Peps Freberg. Bob figured he'd need just enough material to make it to Peps' morning-after torch song, 'Why Won't She Leave?', and then the room would forget he existed.
But first things first. After he and Natasha had dressed and gone downstairs, just before guests started arriving, Bob asked Mr. Loy if he could have a private word.
"If we must," Alvin said.
They moved into a corner near the guest washroom, one of the few places not buzzing with party staff.
"I've been feeling pretty guilty about not asking your permission to marry Natasha before I proposed," Bob said.
"It's the 21st century, Bob," he said, which Bob thought ironic considering his out of date demands forced Natasha's whole scheme in the first place.
"What can I say? I'm an old fashioned guy and I'd like to pay my respects to the man who's raised such an incredible woman."
"That's fine. Thank you."
"I'd also like your permission to get her in the family way as soon as possible."
"What?"
"Pregnant."
"What the hell's that got to do with me?"
"You sort of hold the patent."
"I can't give you permission for that."
"What about the first thing?"
Alvin stared at him for the longest time, weighing what he wanted to say with what he wanted Natasha to know he said, all the while wondering why he should have to answer the idiot in front of him at all. "We'll see," he finally grumbled.
"Great!" Bob said with a celebratory hand clap. "See you around the punchbowl!"
Once the party was in full swing, Alexis latched onto Bob's arm in order to drag him around the room and present him to everyone. It was only natural that she should want to show him off and therefore only necessary for Bob to have to make her regret it.
There wasn't an eager smile of new acquaintance which could not be shrivelled by a ganglion cyst anecdote or the description of a k-wire skewering a hammer toe. No welcoming curiosity extended past stories of gliding ants being tested in wind tunnels or cannibal ants escaping nuclear bunkers. With each introduction Alexis made, she became less and less willing to do so, and soon tales of Bob's troubles with mother - "I didn't even meet her new boyfriend until he got Athlete's foot!" - and bad blood with brother Ivan, - "So I spoiled the ending of the movie for him? Was that any reason to throw me out of the car?" - seemed like categories on a WTF Bingo card for which everyone had a stamp.
Standing in front of a pair of neighbours, Bob could sense Alexis' hesitation to admit his presence was intentional.
"This must be the Bob we're hearing so much about," the husband of the couple said.
Alexis' hope that they'd heard about him from Natasha was palpable, as was the attention of others who hadn't been so blessed watching the neighbours get their turn.
"We heard your family was in real estate?"
"Ever hear of Dynasty Reality?" Bob said with the same energy as 'Have I got a car for you!'
"Not sure."
"Well, it was very exclusive, very elite. Sort of word of mouth."
"Ooh, did you have famous clients?" the wife asked.
"Not actors if that's what you mean. We're talking real money. Property hoarders for tax breaks, mostly."
"All these vacant homes are ruining the market for average folks," the husband said, miffed.
"No one's saying it's fair, but property is the only investment that lets you sleep soundly at night. Like Mr. O'Hara said, 'Land is the only thing that lasts.' You can always rent it or flip it, and if you can't, you can burn it for the insurance. Stocks are too risky, and hiding your money off shore is such a pain, am I right?"
Here Alexis sighed, and Bob could almost see a ghostly version of one year of her life leaving her body.
"A man in the position to move money around who doesn't own at least one vacation home has failed himself."
"How many do you have?"
"None at the moment. The last one in Umbria had to go back on the market. Probably for the best."
"We should keep circling," Alexis tried.
"Wait a minute," her neighbour said, a bemused smile on his face. "Why wouldn't you want a home in the Italian countryside?"
"So get this," Bob said. "I bought this beautiful four bedroom farmhouse; three bathrooms, stone walls, ceramic flooring, idyllic. Got it for a steal because the olive crops out there weren't doing so hot for some reason. Anyway, I like to take my coffee outside in the morning and that's when I first started seeing these goats grazing on my land. It was all very cute and quaint when I thought they were wild goats, but then I found out they belonged to my neighbour, and man, did my blood start to boil. What kind of respect is that to show someone? To just let their goats mow my lawn without asking my permission? And I'm just supposed to take it because I can't be bothered to learn any Italian to have a conversation about it? No way.
"So you know how if you've got squirrels in your garden, you're supposed to plant chili peppers?"
"Oh, Bob, no," Alexis said, horror dawning.
"One bite of a real hot one will send 'em scrambling to someone else's yard. You don't even have to feel about it because it's not like it's poison. Well, it's not like I had time to grow a whole bunch of peppers so I just went to the market and bought a bunch of jars. Fire roasted and not mild. You can tell by all the pepper symbols filled in. I scattered them all the way up to and around my borders and the next morning when the goats came, what do you think happened? They ate 'em, that's what. Loved them! Ate every last pepper I tossed out there. Even got into little fights over them.
"A couple of days passed and I get a knock on my door. It's the neighbour swearing at me in Italian. I finally had to use a translate app but it was something about the goats' cheese tasting funny and how them doing their business and passing seeds all over his fields was going to ruin his olive grove with pepper plants. Anyway, somehow, word got around and it was made clear to me that I was unwanted in the neighbourhood. I wouldn't say I was chased out of town with pitchforks, but when a man can't walk to the market without getting the finger from strangers, it's time to go."
"That's a... a real shame. I'm sure Natasha would've loved an Italian getaway," the wife said.
"Yeah, she still mopes about the French villa I had to dump too. A little matter of a bee infestation that went horribly –"
"Have you two had enough to eat?" Alexis asked hastily as she ushered the neighbours away to one of the catering hot tables.
Bob blew a lengthy breath through his tired lips and went in search of somewhere to hide.
*****
The amount of smiling DeeDee was doing made her face feel like rubber. She was trying to be a good hostess, but she just wasn't in the mood. Her make-up felt thick and her jewelry was heavy. Her black cocktail dress felt stiff. She'd done her hair half-up and thought it would be funny to place a tiny mistletoe barrette where the backcombed volume started just above her bangs. As a result, a few of her father's oldest friends thought they'd lip kiss her hello instead of planting one on her cheek. The barrette was now as gone as DeeDee wished to be.
She snuck out of the party as often as she felt she could get away with, mostly back to the kitchen to take note of the little flourishes on platters being garnished or to observe how certain canapés were arranged on different trays. The catering staff had stopped feeling obliged to make small talk with her, guessing correctly that it was the small talk she was escaping. Still, there were times when their polite smiles were more strained than others, and she knew she was in the way. She'd head upstairs to her room or to her father's den where the quiet of a break without distraction almost always led to her thinking about Kurt. Wondering how he was celebrating with family, whether regret and her radio silence since their break-up was ruining his Christmas cheer. She tried to imagine how he thought he'd have been able to split his holiday between his wife and his lover. She hoped he was bored to tears. She hoped his egg-nog was slimy. She hoped he was thinking about her too.
At one point, she found her mother leaning outside her father's closed den door, shoes slipped off, sipping a glass of wine, and staring blankly into space.
"Don't go in there, sweetie," she said, nodding towards the room.
"Are you in line?"
"You're father's doing his breathing exercises."
"Oh no. Did something happen?"
"Yes. Your sister's boyfriend walked in on Al Prescott in the bathroom."
"No!" DeeDee snickered. "When?"
"Oh, just about the time I thought I'd met my embarrassment quota for the night. Apparently, he said, 'Don't get up. I'll show myself out.'"
"'Don't get up?'"
Her mother only shrugged and rolled her eyes.
"Ohhh," DeeDee said, with an unwanted mental image. "That toilet is too far from the door for the lock not to stick."
"Which is why Bob felt he should stand guard outside of it and where I gather your father found him looking guilty. He said, 'What are you up to?' and Bob said, 'Nothing' and your father didn't believe him."
"And?"
"Al Prescott got up and your father locked himself in the den."
A slide-whistle whimper, the pre-cursor to one of DeeDee's loudest laughs, built behind her contorting face. She needed a laugh desperately, but her mother shushed her, warning against disturbing Alvin's peace. Her stomach muscles contracted, tears forming in her eyes.
"What's wrong him?" Alexis whined. She so rarely did.
"With Bob?" DeeDee asked, feigning over-animated surprise.
"Yes!" her mother hissed.
"Whatever do you mean? He's rich, he has a prestigious job, interesting hobbieeees." A quiet, ugly cry-laugh stretched her last word into a gargle.
"Stop it, you. This isn't funny."
"It is. It so is! But okay, I'll stop."
DeeDee wheezed to a halt. Her mother buried her face in her hands and then pressed them against her cheeks.
"What does Natasha see in him?"
"I have no idea, but she seems happy."
"But is it just me, or is there no chemistry there?"
"I know what you mean. He doesn't seem anywhere near her type, but maybe we need more time to see it."
"Natasha is all fire. She needs that heat."
"Well, we all want heat," DeeDee said.
"Trust me, after a while you get good with room temp, but it should cool down to it, not warm up."
*****
Natasha spotted Bob near the back of the room and rushed up to him, grinning ear to ear.
"Mom looks like she's going to die of embarrassment."
"Has she said anything yet? The old, 'honey, we have to talk,'?"
"Not yet, but it's coming. I can feel it."
"What about your Dad?"
"He wouldn't look at me this afternoon. I think it's a good sign."
In her pocket, Natasha's phone buzzed. She pulled it out and looked at it, trouble spoiling her glee. "Oh, no," she frowned. "Peps Freberg's been in some sort of accident and he's not going to make it."
"Oh, come on," Bob groaned selfishly before asking, "Is he all right?"
"Nobody was hurt," she read, "but there were four cars involved."
"That's a miracle."
"Hmm. He says he's sending someone to replace him. A novelty act of some sort. I guess it's a good thing we never told Daddy so he won't be disappointed. Shoot. It would've made him so happy."
"Any way we can blame it on me?"
"Ha! I wish. No, but you're doing a fantastic job."
"Aw, shucks."
"You really are a great actor," she said with unflattering amazement. "Now quick, give me a kiss and make it tight and unappealing."
"Cold fish, coming in!" Bob said gamely, pinching his lips so tightly it looked like they were trying to retreat into his mouth.
Natasha pinched her own lips until the kiss was done. "Bet that turned a few stomachs."
Suddenly, a distinguished looking man in a dark evening jacket was next to them tapping his wine glass with a small hors d'eouvres fork. "Again, again!" he said.
"Oh, Steve!" Natasha said, giving him a big hug.
A nearby server seemed to anticipate the guest's need to put his fork down and was there and gone before Natasha could say, "Steve Wurtz, this is Bob."
"What??" he gasped with an overdone show of surprise and large, blindingly white teeth. "You mean your fiancé Bob, who for some reason I have not heard about before this very evening, and who seems to be the talk of the party?"
"The very one!" Natasha said.
"Did you really walk in on Al Prescott in the bathroom?" he asked Bob.
"I didn't see a thing," Bob said, awestruck. He made a cross over the side of his chest where his heart wasn't.
Steve Wurtz! Steve. Wurtz! He was in the presence of greatness, of theatre royalty, and this was their introduction. Bob felt the awful pang of humiliation he did when he flunked an audition, but this was the moment he'd been waiting for, the reason for the whole charade. Natasha thought he was fantastic, didn't she? He steadied himself for his chance to live up to it.
"Steve Wurtz, it's an honour. I've seen all your shows. You must hear it all the time, but you're a genius. You're brother's a genius too. That daydream set in Never You Mind – nobody could stop talking about it."
"That's kind of you to say so, Bob, but we barely doubled our operating expenses on that one so Tony or no Tony, it was still a bomb."
Wurtz was often described as having a sanguine disposition, and even now speaking of his so-called failure, his pale blue eye checked his modesty with optimistic spirit.
"I heard you were planning a musical version of Anne of A Thousand Days."
"A theatre lover, Natasha! What a score."
"Speaking of bombs," Natasha said, "Bob, tell him what you told me this morning about the exploding ants."
"What?" Bob asked distractedly.
"Tell him about those crazy suicide ants. Bob loves ants more than the theatre, Steve, which is saying A LOT."
Now, a year of Bob's own life seemed to have been sent packing. It didn't float away from him more than leave reluctantly carrying a hobo stick over its shoulder with a sad glance back of farewell.
He hadn't realized Natasha would be expecting him to play the fool for his hero. It felt like a double cross, but maybe he hadn't been specific enough about how or when he wanted her promise of an introduction to be fulfilled. He was gutted behind his placid, idiotic face, angry, embarrassed and torn as far as what to do. If he turned on Natasha or caused a scene now, Steve would be poisoned against him forever. He couldn't see any way out of it.
"There are these ants," he said weakly, "who blow up their abdomens when threatened. Splatters a predator with toxic goo to give the colony a chance to survive."
The intuitive server nearby placed a drink in Bob's hand without him asking for one.
"Is that a fact?" Steve said with a darting look of concern at Natasha. Bob made a face like his chin was trying to back away from his enemy tongue as confirmation. "Believe it or not, I think my brother Gene would find that as fascinating as you do. You'll meet him when you come to dinner tomorrow night. "
"So looking forward to it."
"Now Natasha, where's that cute sister of yours? I need her opinion on whether that guy playing drums with the band is hot or if I'm just too drunk to tell."
"I can tell you," Natasha said, craning her neck for a look.
"No. No, I don't think you can," Steve said with a sly smile in Bob's direction, "but you might as well come on with me anyway. We have important things to discuss."
As Steve stole Natasha away by the hand, Bob took a step back to lean against a wall. Then he turned around and banged his forehead on it.
"Rough night?" a sing-songy voice said in his ear.
It was the attentive server, likewise leaning against the wall, a hand propping up a tray of discarded glasses and napkins.
Bob gulped down the last of his drink and handed back the glass. "Do you think I could just walk into that ridiculous Christmas tree and hide for the rest of the night?"
"You can't get through the string lights," the server said, rather sure of it.
Bob looked at the man's face for the first time. Large grey eyes seemed to smile wildly even as his small mouth buckled in too familiar pity. It was hard to look at his thin, round halo of yellow, curly hair without thinking of a perm that had gone wrong and wondering how sanitary it was to not have pulled it back. He was standing so close, Bob couldn't help but notice the upper corner of his crooked bow tie was burnt, maybe due to an incident that caused his forehead to perspire and his eyebrows to have an unusual singed appearance.
"Want to tell me your troubles, pal?" he asked. "I'm better than a bartender. I'm mobile."
Bob couldn't tell if he was flirting or drunk on the job. "I wish you had another drink on that tray."
"Here," the man said, tapping the back of another passing server. He took a glass of wine from that tray and handed it to Bob, then snuck a sip from one of the used, near empty glasses on his own.
"Alcohol kills all the germs," he said with a wink.
Maybe he was drunk, Bob thought, before thinking there was no harm in venting.
"Ever miss out on a real opportunity? I mean the kind of thing that could change your life forever and you just...let it get away?"
"Sure," he said, very understanding. "Like a blind date. She says she'll be wearing green. You say you'll wear a daisy in your lapel. You take one look at her, get rid of that daisy as fast as you can. Sometimes it's for the best."
Bob wasn't sure how that fit, so he clarified. "I'm talking a career opportunity. I just made as ass of myself in front of the connection to the gig of a lifetime and I don't know if it's gone forever or if I can explain my way out of it or what."
"You can always explain your way out of a thing if running's not an option," the server said. "I've missed out on a few choice gigs myself. How do you think I wound up here?"
"What's your real line of work?"
"I'm a showman," he said.
"Like in a circus?"
"Isn't life just one big tent?"
"What actor or artist hasn't had to buss a table? Sort of a rite of passage, isn't it? And what's wrong with it? It's honest work."
"No, it isn't," the server said with a sigh.
"Yes, it is," Bob insisted.
"I'm sorry, but it isn't. Give me your wallet."
"What?"
The hand that wasn't holding the tray pressed a gun into Bob's vest.
Bob drew in his chest, making his body a concave shape against the wall. "Have I got a sign on my head that says mug me?" he asked, looking around for help.
"Yes, actually," the server said. "I've been here for two hours and you're the only one I could get alone. These rich people with their friends," he sniffed.
"I'm not rich," Bob said.
"Sure. That's what you all say, and that's how you all stay rich. Mother always said, 'the very best tippers are hairdressers and strippers'. I do feel bad for you if you don't have any friends. Maybe if I wasn't holding this gun to your ribs and planning to take off with your wallet as soon as you hand it over we could've gotten to know each other better. Tell you what, I'll mail you back your driver's licence. I'll just write 'Guess Who?' on the envelope. Now hand it over."
"And what if I don't? Are you really going to shoot me in a room full of witnesses?"
"I'll shoot up, around, so I can escape. But I may hit someone. Not someone you like probably, but still, it'll ruin the party."
Instead of his life flashing before his eyes, every curse word Bob had ever heard came swan-diving out of his mouth as he reached inside his breast pocket for his wallet. The mysterious Guess Who? handed Bob his tray and instructed him in a soothing tone to place the wallet on a napkin. He deftly wrapped it up and very slowly backed away as if led by the corner of his own crooked smile.
Bob caught a glimpse of the snub nosed handgun being tucked back into his belt just before the server strode swiftly out of the room on legs so long it took no time at all. At least he hadn't been held up with fingers this time.
******
*Quick note: This chapter and its goat cheese will be dedicated to leighheasley just as soon as I can get back to my desk top :D