Family Affair (10 page)

Gitana was counting dinnerware. "Chase, I don't think we have enough plates or proper glasses for a dinner party."

Chase took a swig of beer and went to peer in the cupboard. Graciela sat at the kitchen island and texted her response to what appeared to be a vitriolic message from Andrea. "Boy, is she pissed."

"No fault but your own," Gitana said.

Gitana was right—they didn't have enough dinnerware. They never entertained and over the years things had been broken and never replaced. This had come to Chase's attention from time to time after loading the dishwasher and discovering there was not one remaining plate, fork, spoon or dish to be had in the cupboards.

"We just don't have dinner parties. I mean, usually," Gitana said as she looked in the flatware drawer.

"It's part of my new socialization plan. I don't want the baby to grow up to be a hermit. The kid will be weird before school even starts. We can't have that. I'll take Graciela shopping. She can go in disguise. Do you still have that floral print summer dress?"

"I'm not wearing a fucking dress."

Chase laughed. Gitana said, "Now, that I'd like to see. Mama wouldn't recognize you at least."

"I'll go naked before I wear a dress."

"All right, but you are going to wear a ball cap and dark glasses," Chase said.

"No Williams-Sonoma," Gitana said, pouring a glass of lemonade.

"You read my mind. How about the Pottery Barn?"

"That'll work."

Chase sniffed at the pitcher of lemonade. "Is that fresh squeezed?"

"Yeah, she picked them off the lemon tree out back," Graciela said, still texting furiously.

"Of course not. It's one of those powdered mixes."

Chase peered at the pitcher of lemonade. Graciela got a glass and poured it half full and then she added beer. Her phone chimed and she sat back down to finish the texting argument with Andrea.

"That's disgusting," Chase said.

"No, it's not. The lemonade tastes fine to me," Graciela said, smacking her lips.

"How would you know? You put beer in yours."

"What's wrong with the lemonade?" Gitana asked.

"It's full of chemicals," Chase said, snatching the pitcher away and pouring it down the drain. "It's bad for the baby."

"She's going to be a real pain in the ass," Graciela commented to Gitana.

"She already is."

Chase ignored them. She was making out a list of needed dishware. "Do we have a tablecloth?"

"I don't think so."

"Linen napkins?"

"No."

Chase added those to her list. She sipped her beer and peered in cupboards again. "Serving platter?"

"No." Gitana opened the freezer and read the label on a can of frozen orange juice.

"Let me see the ingredients. It might have polysorbate five or something," Chase said. She read the label. "It's fine. Concentrated orange juice. That's good."

Graciela rolled her eyes.

"If you prefer lemonade I'll pick you up some organic lemons," Chase said, trying to be conciliatory.

"What are we having for eats at this dinner party?" Graciela asked.

"Something good," Chase said, not meeting Gitana's gaze.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Oh, I thought we'd have a rack of lamb." Chase didn't look at her. She couldn't cook worth a shit and everyone knew it. Simple fare she could handle, but the exotic usually ended badly.

"Why don't we have steak instead? We could put them on the George Foreman. A rack of lamb would heat up the house," Gitana said.

Although it was late April it was hardly ungodly hot in the evenings, but Chase got her drift. "Good point. We'll go shopping first thing in the morning. You can push the cart," she said, pointing at Graciela.

"I can hardly wait." Graciela went to the pantry.

Chase watched as she raided it, most likely searching for unhealthy snacks that were no longer allowed in the house. She came out with a package. "What the hell are these?"

"Rice cakes. She's going to need an outfit. Her current one is a little too informal."

"For a dinner party with close friends?" Gitana said.

"She's dressed like a Fascist," Chase said, referring to Graiela's Army and Navy store attire. "We'll hit Macy's."

"How about Old Navy? Let's try and keep this within the budget."

Chase watched Graciela munch rice cakes. "We'll have to be thrifty."

Graciela said, "What's wrong with my outfit?"

"Aside from looking like a Fascist, we can't run the washer right now because it keeps tripping the pump. The electrician gets here on Monday."

"Can I still have a shower?"

"Yes, the water heater works fine. But not a long one," Gitana added.

"I'll get her a nice dress shirt too. She can wear it to the baptism. I'm not having a Fascist show up in church," Chase said.

"Baptism?" Gitana said. "What if we don't want the baby to be Catholic?"

"Like your mother would allow for anything else. When Bud grows up, Bud can decide to be a Buddhist, a Methodist or a Quaker or any of the other saner denominations. You don't want your mother spraying the child with holy water every time we come to visit like she does to Graciela—the heathen. I mean as long as Bud doesn't get into mortification of the flesh, I'm cool."

"Who's Bud?" Graciela said.

"That's what Chase calls the baby. She got tired of the he/she thing."

Chase got them both another beer.

"Can we go sit on the deck?" Gitana said.

"Are you all right? Do I need to call the nurse hotline?"

"I'm fine. I just want to watch the sunset. It's so pretty this time of year."

"Sounds good to me," Graciela said, grabbing her beer and the package of rice cakes.

Chase noticed. "See, the rice cakes are good. They just take a little getting used to."

"No, they're disgusting, but I'm desperate."

"You've should've loaded up on prison food while you were there," Chase said.

"I don't eat corned beef hash."

Chase grabbed a stack of magazines—Martha Stewart's Living, Bon Appetit and Sunset Magazine.

"Going to do a little light reading?" Graciela said. Her phone gave a beep indicating she had a text message. She flipped it open. "Shit, she's still pissed."

"I'm planning the menu."

Gitana sighed heavily.

"I'll keep it simple." Chase opened the French doors that led out onto the deck. The dogs got up from their dirt nap. She pulled two dog biscuits from her magic pockets—or at least the dogs thought of them as such, because biscuits always magically appeared from them. They gobbled them quickly and then went to explore some movement in the tree grove.

They all sat down in high-backed wooden chairs with matching green pillows, something Chase had seen in a magazine on deck life. She was very much into how things looked. The pink and orange of the sunset caught the wispy edges of the cirrus clouds. Chase always thought that the sky and the clouds were the canvas of the Creator who painted watercolor portraits for the delight of his/her beloved creatures. She contentedly flipped through her magazines, looking for ideas on how to decorate the table, which wine to serve and potential side dishes. She wanted everything to be perfect.

In the world of her mind, the weather would be good, the food even better, and everyone would be good-looking and smart. Everything would start like that until her muse—the dark, ironic comedian—got hold of the scene and everything fell to crap. She would devour Chase's beautiful imaginary world, spitting out great chunks of falsehood and making fun of the world's foibles and demonstrating how failure and dashed hopes were much more interesting than perfection.

Chase glanced over at Gitana who looked the picture of serenity as she gazed out on the mountains with the green of the scrub just starting to blossom—the yellow flowers of the rabbit bush and the wild purple asters bursting forth as if afraid of missing their arrival date.

Chase brought herself back to the task at hand. "So got any ideas for side dishes?" She hadn't found anything within her limited abilities in the magazines.

"Go to Costco and get those medallions..." Gitana said.

Chase interceded. "You mean those little round steaks with bacon wrapped around them." She wanted to be clear about this.

"Yes, they're filet mignons but very well priced. Then get two bags of fresh artichokes, a couple loaves of sourdough bread, a tub of spinach dip, a bag of fifty count shrimp with cocktail sauce and a bag of russet potatoes," Gitana instructed.

"Will you write this down?"

"I'll make a list."

"And I can buy all this at Costco?" Chase inquired, hoping she wasn't going to have to run all over town.

"Yes."

"Why do I subscribe to these magazines?" She smacked the cover of the BonAppetit.

Graciela looked up from her continuing text argument and smirked.

"Because we all like to dream. We imagine the possibility and loathe the reality of doing it," Gitana said. She finished her orange juice and smiled patiently at Chase.

"That fucking bitch!" Graciela screamed at the phone while her fingers flew across the keyboard.

"We're going to have to talk to her about her language," Chase said, remembering that she'd said "fuck" seven times so far today.

Gitana nodded.

"Does everyone do this thing?" Chase jabbed a finger at the phone.

"Texting is very popular. I have to reprimand the crew at the greenhouse all the time. They're supposed to be working not texting their friends. I find them holed up in the oddest places—I caught Josh behind the manure pile one day. It was disgusting," Gitana said.