Ivan wasn’t convinced and said, “In Mexico at fiestas there’s fruit and stuff floating in the punch.”
“Yeah!” Max said. “We can use some of the watermatoes for floaters!”
“No—then there won’t be enough for eating.” I thought for a minute. “I know! Mulberries! There’s millions!”
We ran to the old stable in our backyard, where the branches of an ancient mulberry tree hung over the roof. Climbing up, we crawled around on the scorching shingles, loading our pockets with ripe berries. Some berries had webs or fuchsia bird-doo on them, actually a lovely color, and we wiped them gently on our shorts. We dumped the berries into the punch, where they bobbed attractively.
“Perfect!” I said. “At the last minute we’ll throw in all our ice plus the snowballs we froze last winter.”
Max said, “Tables.”
We went to the closet where my grandmother’s three bridge tables were kept. The ominous sound of tinkling ice came from the kitchen. “What are you boys up to?” Dimma came around the corner wearing Estelle’s apron and looking harried. “And where are my dining room chairs?” She stood with one arm akimbo, Chesterfield at her hip, her Scotch in the other hand. “Good Lord, what is on your face?”
Ignoring the third question, I said, “We need them and some tables for the Fiesta. You said we could!”
“I did no such thing.” True, but she could be forgetful and I was sometimes able to work that to my advantage.
Taking a deep drag, Dimma relented. “Oh, all right, use them. But please fold my table covers and leave them neatly in the closet.” She exhaled a blue cloud sideways. Her delicate eyebrows rose doubtfully over the cat-eye glasses. She was looking me over, and I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me if I was regular today. I quickly picked up a dusty Senators cap from the closet floor and put it on to hide my ringworm. “I’ll get myself ready, and bring out Estelle’s eggs and cucumber sandwiches in a bit. You boys put on some clean shirts and shoes before the party, please.” She sipped some Scotch. “Apparently, most of the neighbors are coming. I hope nobody minds that I’m not putting out my good tablecloths. Lord help us if it rains.” She left, muttering about missing Estelle. We threw her bridge covers and the cap back in the closet and scrammed.
Stevenson had cleared the spiderwebs from our front yard. The webs had been getting sparse, we’d noticed, full of bits of prey and trash—some were only threads with dead leaves dangling from them. Mostly eggs remained tethered in corners and nooks.
We arranged the tables and chairs again, not sure we had enough seating, but the ground seemed to be dry enough for blankets. “People will be dancing and not sitting down anyway,” Ivan observed.
Looking up at the sky, Max said, “The sun’s still out.” The sun was actually in and out of the beautiful, cottony clouds, but mostly shining. “But is it weird that I can’t hear any cicadas?”
“Nah,” I said optimistically. “Maybe it’s a holiday for them, too.”
“Decorations!” Ivan said. With duct tape, we stuck Beatriz’s arty flags up around our brick front steps, the stage for the entertainment. Ivan brought a long string of brightly colored tissue squares, and we tied those from boxwood to boxwood. Max had a pocketful of balloons that we blew up and taped to the chair backs, popping a few for the hell of it. Then we set up my archery target out by the hedge and put our entertainment paraphernalia on the stage.
Our last task was to haul out the Kool-Aid bucket, into which we cranked the ice from every freezer tray, adding last winter’s gritty snowballs. Ivan and I lugged the bucket from the kitchen to the front yard, and we hoisted it onto a table. Brickie came out with Dixie cups, paper plates, plastic forks, tons of napkins, bottle openers, and a fly swatter, saying, “I expect flies will be an issue, but try not to swat the food.” Looking around, he said, “I must say, you boys have done a good job. You’re to be commended!” He went back into the house and returned with his new Magnavox Holiday record player, records piled on top, and set it up on our stage. “I’ll be in charge of the music.”
“But, Brickie, make sure you play records we like, too, not just your jazz stuff. We want everybody to dance.”
“Don’t worry about that. There’s music for all.” Brickie was fairly democratic in his tastes; he also liked R&B and listened to WUST, and before Dimma put a stop to it, he used to go to places like the Bohemian Caverns to hear live music. And he loved to dance. So I wasn’t too worried, but he was obsessed with his Miles Davis Kind of Blue record, which had just come out. Nobody normal could dance to that.
Dimma brought out two big platters, one of deviled eggs, one piled high with tiny sandwiches. “There will be no eating until after the guests have arrived and we’ve welcomed them,” she said to us. “And everybody has their drinks.” She and Brickie went back into the house.
Then Liz and Brickie returned, carrying our cooler, loaded with ice from the Esso station, beer, Cokes, and 7 Ups, and set it down by the punch station. Liz looked around appraisingly and said, “This looks pretty cool! I’m surprised you little squares pulled it off!” She and Brickie each stole an egg, poking them whole into their mouths, so we did, too. “Quality control, you understand,” Brickie said. We laughed with him. As he and Liz went in to change clothes, Brickie spotted the potty chair and carried it back into the house.
We were ready for our Fabulous Family Fiesta.
First to arrive were the De Haans, the General in the lead, Madame, Kees, and Piet behind. Max stage-whispered to us, “Oosegay eppingstay!” My grandparents, steeling themselves, came out of the house to greet them with thin-lipped smiles. Brickie rolled his eyes at us and started up a Don Barreto record—he’d been a Don Barreto fan since his and Dimma’s Havana days, when they went gambling and clubbing at the Tropicana. That they couldn’t go anymore was yet another reason, in Brickie’s book, for being mad about the Cuban revolution. The boys and I politely greeted the De Haans and shook hands with the General, who was actually cordial. I saw Max wipe his hand on his shorts, though. We offered them punch.
We were happy to see the Montebiancos next, all smiles. The Senhor looked fabulous in a pale-blue guayabera with white embroidery down the front, and Beatriz, carrying a bag and her hula hoop, sported her new bob with confidence. She wore her cute red skort—those were popular that year—but it didn’t hide her scabby knee. Senhora carried a plate of golden pastries and was followed by Zariya, angelic in her blond bob. She clapped her hands and hugged us. Senhor toted a jug of something pale gold, and my grandfather’s eyes lit up. Beatriz went to speak to Brickie and gave him a record, which made him laugh. She deposited her props on the steps with ours. Ivan told her how great her flags looked, especially the purple pirate-vinegaroon one.
The rest of the neighborhood descended on us all at once. “We’ve got some fun stuff,” Beau Shreve shouted, brandishing a paper sack. His mother said, “You boweez behave nayow,” setting down a pan loaded with pigs in a blanket. Mr. Shreve limped up on his war leg, carrying two six-packs of National Bohemian under each arm, yelling, “Yessiree, brewed on the showahs of the Chesapeake Bay!” Then came the Friedmanns, with a wooden bowl of watermatoes and a pastry box from Hofberg’s. They gave the De Haans a wide berth but smiled and waved unenthusiastically to them. Mr. Friedmann spread out a worn quilt. Then came the Andersens, with a cheese plate. Liz came running out in her yellow sundress, grateful to see Maari—someone closer to her age.