“They’re married,” Paula explained in a sarcastic tone. “To each other.”
“So are we,” chimed the woman sitting beside Paula—Xavier’s former head cheerleader, the woman with the helmet of black hair and pink bows, and her husband, the no-neck bruiser who’d once quarterbacked the football team. “I’m Mindy,” she said, joining her hand with her husband’s and holding it up to indicate they were together. “And this is Ricky. Hennessy. Two n’s, two s’s, no e before the y. It’s annoying how many people spell it wrong.”
Ricky grabbed a bruschetta with his left hand and stuffed it into his mouth, making no attempt to chew before he swallowed it whole. Nice. I could hardly wait to see what he did with a Belgian waffle.
“Emily Andrew,” I said with a subdued wave, averting my gaze as Ricky grabbed another bruschetta. “Escort for the Iowa contingent.”
“Honestly, Mindy,” Sheila protested in disgust. “Fifty years of marriage and he still eats like an animal? Couldn’t you at least teach him how to chew?”
“It’s no wonder he’s the size of the Goodyear blimp,” droned Paula. “He probably hasn’t digested a scrap of food for decades. What do you say, Rick?” She angled her head in his direction. “Have you chewed anything since those six pepperoni pizzas you devoured on Senior Skip Day? Refresh my memory. How many beers did it take to wash them down?”
A sudden silence fell over the table.
“I distinctly remember you arriving at Cascade Park with a six-pack of Schlitz under each arm,” she persisted. “If you drank all of them yourself, it probably would have killed you. So who’d you share with? And why do I keep thinking it was Bobby Guerrette?”
My ears perked up. Bobby Guerrette again? His name was certainly popping up a lot, and the two couples at my table seemed none too happy about it.
Ricky stuck five meaty fingers in the air. “Five pizzas,” he snuffled in a spray of caramelized onions. “Three pepperoni. Two sausage with double cheese. Five pizzas, not six.”
“That’s not the point, genius.”
“Do you mind keeping your spittle on your own side of the table?” Sheila griped as she flicked onions off the tablecloth.
“I’m on it.” Ricky gave her a sassy grin as he crammed another appetizer into his mouth, his expression changing dramatically when we lurched crazily in the wake of a passing boat. His eyes widened. His face paled. His brow beaded with sweat.
“You’re looking a little seasick, Hennessy,” Gary needled. “Cruising in the little putt-putt boat too rough on the ole quarterback’s system?”
“He gets terribly seasick,” Mindy admitted as she fanned his face with her napkin. “And I’ll warn you right now, he’s descended from a wicked line of hurlers.”
“I told you I didn’t want to sit with them.” Sheila thwacked her husband’s shoulder. “Move! I’m leaving.”
“I have motion sickness pills,” I said as I riffled through my shoulder bag.
“If they’re whiskey flavored, he’ll be happy to down the whole bottle,” jibed Paula.
I held up the package. “Orange flavored.”
Mindy made a gimme motion with her hand. “I’ll take ’em anyway.” She tore the box open and popped four pills out of their foil-backed packaging. “Chew on these,” she said as she forced them into his mouth.
“There’s optimism for you,” taunted Sheila. “Maybe you should demonstrate how it’s done so he won’t be at a complete loss.”
My stomach fluttered as we dipped into a trough and rolled sideways on the wake of another boat. Ricky slumped against his wife and groaned.
“There, there,” Mindy soothed as she patted his head. “Listen to me, hon. If you feel that sudden urge coming on, aim it at Sheila.”
“You better damn well hope I don’t get spattered with half-chewed motion sickness pills!” Sheila threatened.
“Or else what?” Mindy challenged, her eyes lengthening to slits. “You’ll stick us with the dry cleaning bill?”
“You got that right.” Sheila thunked her forearm on the table and wrenched the sleeve of her blouse back and forth in an adult version of show and tell. “See this? It’s silk. Silk requires special handling, and it’s damn expensive to have laundered.”
Mindy thrust out her bottom lip and fused her pencil-blackened eyebrows together in an angry vee over her nose. “So … what are you saying? You think we can’t afford to have your crummy blouse cleaned?”
“The thought did enter my mind. Frankly, I’m amazed you’re even on this trip. What did you have to do? Mortgage your house?”
Ricky shook free of his wife and planted his elbows on the table, cushioning his chin in the palms of his hands. His eyes were bleary, his words labored. “You guys wanna hear about … the thirty-three-yard touchdown pass I threw in the game we played against—”
“Zip it, Ricky,” snapped Mindy, then to Sheila, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ll have you know that a land transportation engineer earns some of the highest wages in Bangor.”
“Land transportation engineer?” Sheila crowed with laughter. “He changes oil and rotates tires. He’s a grease monkey! Where do you get off calling him an engineer?”
“It was fourth down,” Ricky rambled on. “Five ticks left on the clock. Brewer’s throwing everything they got at us …”
“Let me tell you whose oil he changes,” bellowed Mindy. “He services all the lemons that Gary Bouchard sells at Bouchard Motors. You hear that?” She drilled a menacing look at Gary. “Your cars are crap. And the more dealerships you open, the crappier your cars get. But don’t change anything. Ricky’s getting rich repairing the defective brake lines and electrical systems in your over-priced clunkers.”
“Hennessy scrambles. He fakes.” Ricky wishboned his arms over his head. “Touchdown!”
Gary gave him a squinty look. “Homecoming? Senior year? Xavier versus Brewer?”
Ricky nodded.
“You lost the game by thirty points.”
Ricky shrugged. “I know. But it was still a great pass.”
“And furthermore,” Mindy ranted, “if that blouse is made of silk, I’ll eat it.”
“Why don’t you let Ricky eat it?” Paula volunteered. “It might be easier on his digestive system than bruschetta.”
Ricky curled his lip into a sneer. “Stuff it, Paula. I’m not eating no cussid blouse.”
I wouldn’t be able to eat a blouse after downing a whole platter of appetizers either, but before the mudslinging deteriorated into food slinging, I decided to redirect the discussion to a less controversial topic.
“Did anyone actually see what happened to Charlotte today?” I asked off-handedly.
“A bicycle plowed into her,” said Gary. “Did you sleepwalk your way through Volendam?”
“I know she was hit by a bicycle. I’m just curious if any of you were nearby when it happened.”
“What if we were?” Paula’s tone was combative. “What’s it to you?”
I offered her my most innocent look as I concocted what I believed to be a credible story. “It’s nothing to me personally, but my group is balking at having to cross the street now, so you can imagine how much that’s going to slow us down. I figure if I can reassure them that Charlotte died not because a bicyclist was
flagrantly reckless, but because she failed to look both ways when she stepped off the curb, they might feel less skittish.”
Mindy pointed a stubby, manicured forefinger at me. “Are you with those old geezers who are pestering all of us to become friends with them on Facebook?”