“There’s rumblings she is going to hand the entire operation over to her son very soon. You could say my boss and I are retiring together.”
Hortense’s mind raced with the possibilities of a meeting. She had a lot of work to do before she took the bus to meet Mrs. Oldfield. Hortense didn’t even have to pray about it; this opportunity felt right. As the membership split into groups to play Torch Bearers and Bell Ringers, led by Louis, Hortense stayed in her seat. She couldn’t participate in any games, her mind was on a much greater prize.
*
Hortense climbed into bed next to her husband, who was asleep with his back to her. She adjusted the collar on her flannel nightgown and lay back on the pillow.
“Hortense?”
“Yes, Louis?”
He rolled over to face her.
“I thought you were asleep,” she said softly.
“I can’t sleep. You made a fool out of yourself today at the covered dish.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. You pushed that macaroni. Nobody wanted to eat it.”
“I wanted folks to try it. That’s all.”
“Hortense, you need to stop. You’re not going to sell that sauce.”
“Louis, I know I can sell it. It’s special. It’s delicious. It’s easy to prepare.”
“What makes you think you can sell anything?”
“I’ve been in the work world for almost forty years of my life.”
“Selling what? Doing what? Working for somebody else.”
“I run the office. I handle all the money. I do the books. I learned Morse code.”
“And I don’t need to hear that every time you talk about work. I know all about you and Morse code.”
“It’s a skill, Louis.”
“What’s your point?”
“You should give me some credit from time to time. It wouldn’t kill you, and it would do me some good.”
“That’s your problem. You need praise all the time. You think the world is all about Hortense Mooney. Well, you need to look inward and be more Christ-like. You think about yourself and your earthly needs too much. You got to look up for your purpose.”
“God doesn’t want me to fail.”
“He wants you to work hard and do the job you know how to do. He wants you to take care of your family. That’s it. You don’t need to do anything else.”
“I want to do more.”
“You don’t have it in you, Hortense. You got no follow-through. You never have. Not since the day I met you. You start all kinds of projects around here that you never finish. I had to finish the tile in the bathroom. I had to paint the steps when you ran out of steam.”
“Poor Louis.”
“Yes, poor me. Without me, what are you? You need to think about somebody besides yourself around here. ”
Louis rolled over. At first, Hortense was so furious, she couldn’t move. But she thought about the words he’d said to her, and she was more wounded than angry. She turned away from him, tucked the pillow under her chin, and wept without making a sound.
*
Mabel Palazzini moved through the grocery store like a shot, grabbing ingredients to make her daughter’s birthday cake. She turned into the dairy aisle and ran into Peachy Arrigo.
“Hey, Mabel.” Peachy looked at Mabel, her enormous brown eyes narrowed into ovals like black jelly beans.
“Peachy?” Mabel was taken aback. Peachy was very pregnant, and about sixty pounds heavier than she’d been when Mabel last saw her, years ago, bent over Nicky’s chest of drawers in his basement bedroom searching for clues as to his whereabouts before he blew town to pose as an Italian ambassador.
“It’s me.” Peachy circled her face with her hand, framing it. “I’m in here somewhere.”
“You look good,” Mabel lied.
“How can you say that? I have arms like canned hams. I’m fat all over. Like a globe. If I started spinning, I’d knock this one off its axis.”
“But it’s good fat—I mean, weight. You’re having a baby,” Mabel said supportively.
Peachy looked Mabel up and down enviously. “You slimmed down.”
“Giovanna is four years old today.”
“Dear Mother of God, has it been that long since Nicky dropped me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Tell me he’s miserable.”
“Not exactly. He’s on television.”
“What?”
“Television.”
“I know all about the television. We have a Philco. ”
“He’s on that daytime serial Love of Life.”
“I don’t watch during the day. I like Milton Berle.”
“Me too. But I watch Nicky when I do the ironing. He changed his name to Nick Carl.”
“That’s a stupid name,” Peachy blurted.
“He had to. They didn’t like Castone.”
“I didn’t either, to tell you the truth. Peachy Castone sounded like a pit got stuck in somebody’s gut.”
“I like Castone. It’s a fine Italian name, if not simple. Try spelling Palazzini when you’re talking to the phone company.”
“Arrigo isn’t easy either.” Peachy sighed.
“Is it true you’re putting in a pool?”
“It’s in.”
“Diving board?” Mabel queried.
“Yeah. Slide for the kid when he gets here. A fieldstone fountain that drips fresh water into the deep end and lights up at night. Frank is very particular about the accoutrement. It looks like a crypt in Sorrento.”
“We go to the public pool on Broad.” Mabel put her hand on her heart. “You are so lucky.”
“Lucky is if I can fit in a swimsuit to enjoy the water next summer.”
“You will. You’ll go right back to your skinny self.”
“You think so?”
“It’s called body memory. Tucked inside all that fat and fluid is slim-sational Peachy. And even if that weren’t true, look at me. It falls off when you’re chasing children around. And if you cut out bread, replace it with melba toast, and eat cottage cheese until you think you’re going to turn into a curd, you’ll be slim in no time.”
“If you say so.” Peachy remained unconvinced.
“Peachy, you don’t sound happy.”
“I get in moods with this pregnancy. I imagine killing people with my bare hands, and then a minute later I’m weeping for the poor pagans around the world. I never had these mood swings when I was working at Wanamaker’s. Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out to be a housewife.”
“Who is? Your moods will settle down.”
“My husband is praying they will. Poor honey.”
“Well, come and see us sometime, will ya?” Mabel offered.
“That would be awkward.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It really wouldn’t.”
“And inappropriate, too. I don’t ever want to set foot in 810 Montrose again. It’s like quicksand for me. I’m sucked down to the bowels of my deepest shame every time I think of Nicky Castone. I actually churn within myself with regret.”
“Then we’ll meet somewhere for a cannoli. Sound good?” Mabel said brightly.
Mabel pushed her cart to the checkout, in a rush to get home and make her daughter’s cake. She looked back at Peachy, who stood in the harsh light of the dairy case, shaped like the volcano in tintype on the brochure for the trip to Honolulu the Knights of Columbus were offering in their fall circular. Poor Peachy. But not really. Mabel couldn’t feel too sorry for her—she had a swimming pool.
*