Authors: Dara Joy
mineral water or ice tea?"
"Bourbon."
He paused just for a moment. "Bourbon it is." He tossed the card into a small
wastebasket he passed on the way to the liquor cabinet. He had no intention of
contacting this woman. Ever. "Some water or ice?"
"Heavens, no!" She answered in the voice that sounded as if it had escaped from
locked jaws. "Just bring me an empty glass and that bottle of Wild Turkey." She
tapped the coffee table to show him exactly where she wanted it.
Tyber did as he was told. Although an idiot, he was no fool.
Auntie took a healthy swallow of her drink. "Ahh, now I feel like a human being
again."
Tyber raised his eyebrow. A human being? From what planet? The woman was wearing
three hats.
Zanita picked up the faux leopard. "Let me hang up your coat for you, Auntie.
Would you like me to take your hats?"
"Just these two." She removed them from her head. "I always leave one on; my
trademark, you know." She focused on Tyber. "Be a dear, young man; could you get
my luggage out of the car for me?"
"Of course, Auntie." He quickly turned to leave, glad for any reason to be free
of that room. Of that woman.
Auntie scrutinized his departure with interest. "Marvelous buns."
Tyber's step faltered for a second, then seemed to speed up.
"So, Mills, what have you been up to?"
"Oh, the usual." Mills swore she wouldn't give this woman any ammunition. None.
She reached for a stuffed mushroom from the tray Blooey had left earlier. Zanita
returned to the room.
"You know, Mills, I was in Bloomingdale's the other day, and I saw the most
perfect sweater for your coloring." She focused pointedly on Mills' statuesque
frame. "Although I'm not sure they had your size."
Mills' mouth closed. Slam-dunked, she lowered the mushroom back to the tray.
"Excuse me…" Tyber's voice sounded from the doorway. "There are seven suitcases
in your car; which one did you need, Auntie?"
"Why, you silly boy—all of them, of course."
Tyber went back out. Zanita winced when she heard him bellow "Blooey!" in his
best pirate captain voice.
He came back in just when Auntie said, "So where's the fish? Is he here yet?"
Tyber took a deep breath. "Zanita, can I talk to you for a minute?"
His voice was low. Too low. Zanita wet her lips, nervously following him out to
the foyer. He reached around her, sliding the parlor doors shut with a
commanding snap of his wrist.
"Yes, Tyber?" She tried for a sweet, innocent expression. It didn't work. He
looked about ready to fire all cannons. Tyber was in a rant.
"She has seven rock-stuffed pullmans with her! She's drinking straight bourbon
in there. Her mouth doesn't move when she talks. She ran over my motorcycle!"
This last was said with spleen.
"Well…" She opted to answer for the least of Auntie's offenses in an attempt to
sidetrack him. "Auntie talks that way because she went to Wellesley."
"What the hell does that have to do with it?"
"They sort of trained them to talk that way in those days." She bit her lips,
waiting to see if he was appeased. No way. Not even close.
"Zanita, she commented on the shape of my—" He stopped, feeling too foolish to
say it out loud.
"The shape of your what?" she asked curiously.
"My buns," he spat out.
Zanita put a hand to her mouth and giggled. He frowned down at her.
"Well, they are worth commenting on." She winked at him.
Tyber knew when he had been outmaneuvered. The outrageousness of the past half
hour hit him. Against his will, his left eye twinkled; the corner of his mouth
lifted. She was defusing him. He wasn't sure he wanted to be defused, dammit!
He tried to regain his righteous indignation. "You did just invite her for the
weekend, didn't you?"
"By tomorrow you'll love her."
He crossed his arms over his chest, staring straight down at her, the imprint of
doubt.
"I suppose it's a relative concept." Zanita suddenly beamed proudly up at him as
she realized something. "That's a physics joke, Tyber!"
His expression softened. "C'mere."
His arms went around her. He bent to her lips.
The parlor door rolled open, and Mills stuck her head out.
"If you leave me alone in there with her for another minute, I'm going to kill
both of you! Now stop smooching; get back in here and do your time."
Tyber exhaled in resignation. They each took one of his hands and dragged him
back into the room.
Auntie's no-nonsense lock-jaw greeted them. "What were you two naughty children
doing out there? Come sit by me, you thoroughly marvelous man. I want to know
everything about you." Tyber groaned.
Chapter Twelve
« ^ »
LaLeche arrived exactly on time at the stroke of seven.
He entered the parlor all smarmy charm, immediately sizing up the occupants as
Zanita hoped he would, making a beeline for Auntie. This, of course, was only
after he had gushed on and on about the charming grace of Tyber's Victorian
mansion while undressing her with his eyes.
Zanita sank back into the thick cushions of the green velvet chair, thankful
LaLeche had just missed the tragicomic altercation that had started in the
kitchen and ended up in the sitting room. She winced as she remembered it.
There had been another loud crash from the kitchen and a lot of furious yelling
before Blooey came charging into the room, a dripping wooden spoon held aloft in
his hand like a righteous weapon of indignation.
"She's done it this time, Captain! The harpy has done it this time, I tell ye."
Tyber, grateful for any reason to be released from the grueling clutches of
Auntie's third degree, courageously stepped into the fracas.
"What is it, Blooey?"
He pointed a condemning finger at the stout woman standing behind him. "She put
salt in me vichyssoise!" All eyes turned in fascinated horror to the culprit,
who stood there implacably at anchor.
She was a battleship of a woman.
A white cook's hat sat low on her forehead, allowing only a few stray steel
wisps of hair to escape around her ears. Her visage was stern, uncompromising,
and would likely put a stop to a cattle stampede. A starched white apron covered
a flower-splashed shift that might be called a dress in kinder circles.
She looked like countless cafeteria cooks Zanita had seen in her school
years—those stalwart ladies of institutional kitchens everywhere who, from
substandard ingredients, loads of grease, salt, and mystery meat, whipped up
cast-iron fare for the beleaguered masses of the student body. Les Femmes du
Gastro Morte.
Arms akimbo, My-Maggy threw her pointed chin in the air, proclaiming, "The man
has a cork fer a brain."
Dead silence followed her pronouncement.
Zanita guessed half of the guests were too flabbergasted to respond, while the
other half agreed with the Battleship but were too polite to say so. Taking into
account the self-preservation rule of dining—one never insults a host's cook and
expects to get a choice piece of roast served to them by said cook—the silence
was perfectly understandable. Normal under the circumstances. Normal. Right.
Tyber strolled over to the pair, throwing his arms around both their shoulders.
It was clear to Zanita that he was going to use the "we're all good ol'
boys—what's the fuss" method of calming them down.
"Now, Blooey, I'm sure she meant nothing personal by it. She probably didn't
think about what she was doing, did you, My-Maggy?" Wisely, he didn't give her a
chance to answer. "And Blooey, you know how much store I put by crew members
getting along. These are dangerous times; we need to be able to depend on one
another. We never can tell when those bloody Lobsterbacks are going to attack us
again, can we?"
Blooey dropped his head in shame.
My-Maggy stared stonily at Tyber, muttering, "Sure and I'm liking you, Mr.
Tyber, but I'm thinkin' you've got a bigger cork fer a brain than he does."
Tyber patted her back in commiseration, steering them back toward the kitchen.
"See now? All settled."
"Just so she keeps her dockside cooking away from me own." Blooey's voice
trailed off as they turned into the hall.
Auntie was the first to recover. "I have always loved a man who takes charge in
these situations." As if these situations were a commonplace occurrence. Zanita
tried to hide behind her iced tea.
"He's marvelous! Zanita, where did you find him?"
She couldn't even remember what she had told her aunt. Shortly after that, the
doorbell had rung. Coming from different directions, both she and Tyber arrived
at the door at the same time. Their eyes met in mutually exasperated humor.
"Have courage," he whispered before he opened the door.
Stan Mazurski, the physicist, was standing there, but his wife was not beside
him. Next to him stood one of the most beautiful little boys Zanita had ever
seen. With coal-black hair and emerald-green eyes, he was destined to grow up a
lady-killer.
Zanita looked over at the balding little physicist with the coke-bottle glasses.
How had this man ever produced such a remarkable child? His wife must be
stunning.
"Hi, Stan," Tyber said. He threw a questioning glance at the child.
"Hello, Doctor Evans."
"Tyber, please." He smiled at Stan, thinking he really was a very old-fashioned
man. Perhaps his European heritage factored into it.
"Thank you, Tyber. I hope you don't mind my bringing the child; my wife regrets
she could not come tonight. Willa had the most awful headache." Stan looked
pointedly down upon the boy's head, leaving no doubt as to what had caused said
headache. "She needed to lie down with some medicine so I had no choice, other
than canceling, which I didn't want to do at such a late date, after your kind
invitation."
"Don't worry about it, Stan. Your son is welcome here."
"Oh, no! He's not my son!" Zanita was amused at the rapidity of his denial. She
just bet this boy with the angelic face was a little devil. "We don't have any
children. This is my brother Gregor's child, my nephew, Cody."
Tyber sat down on his haunches. "Hello, Cody." He put his hand out. The little
boy responded at once. No shy child this.
"How ya doing?" He shook Tyber's hand. "Hey, whose motorcycle is crunched up in
the driveway? Greg used to have one, but I don't remember 'cause I wasn't borned
yet. He used to race 'em back then. That was before he went to live like a
bo—bohemy—"
"Bohemian," Stan supplied quietly.
"Yeah. Bohemian. In the south of France."
Tyber grinned; he liked frisky kids and this one was a pistol.
Zanita was still trying to follow Cody's rapid shift of topic. "Your father
raced motorcycles in the south of France?"
"Nah. What's for dinner?"
Stan looked mortified. "Cody, that isn't polite."
Tyber chuckled. "It's okay, Stan. I'm not sure—but maybe we can get Blooey to
make you something special. You like fried chicken?"
Cody's face lit up. "Yeah!"
Tyber acknowledged the pure, simple truth that most children knew nothing about,
and liked even less, haute cuisine. A child's idea of gourmet was Spaghetti Os.
He thought Blooey was preparing Chicken Veronique for their main course this
evening. The crusty swabbee would be more than happy to pan-fry some chicken for
Cody because Tyber knew Arthur Bloomberg was a sucker where children were
concerned.
Tyber wouldn't be surprised if a chocolate cake was hastily added to the dessert
selections.
"So, what does your father do, young man?" Auntie's inherent nosiness
effortlessly came to the fore.
They were all seated around the table in the formal dining room. It was such a
lovely room, Zanita thought. An arrangement of fresh flowers graced the center
of the walnut table, which was elegantly set. She supposed Tyber had taken care
of these small details while she had been detained with the flat tire. She made
a mental note to thank him.
Zanita was also pleased to note that since Tyber's little lecture, all had been
relatively smooth in the kitchen. My-Maggy had served the infamous vichy. The
boy had surprised everyone by lapping his up.
In response to Auntie's question, Cody's face screwed up with a puzzled
expression, clearing when he thought he figured out what he was being asked. He
shrugged his small shoulders, while shoving a heavily buttered pecan roll into
his mouth.
He replied innocently, "He does women."
"Cody," Stan hissed.
"Well he does, Uncle Stan. When we're watching TV, Greg always says, 'I'd love
to do her, Cody'."
Zanita coughed.
Auntie's smile froze on her face.
Stan turned beet red.
Mills blinked several times.
Tyber chuckled.
"Children have such an aura of naturalness about them. It is so refreshing."
LaLeche patted his mouth with his linen napkin.
It was the first time Zanita had wanted to thank Xavier LaLeche. He had stepped
into an embarrassing moment and with his oily charm had eased the awkwardness.
"How so, Mr. LaLeche?" Auntie, who was sitting on LaLeche's right turned to him.