Slightly Engaged (22 page)

“No, Raphael. I haven’t.”

“Well, maybe you should,” he says sassily.

I know I’m going to regret this, but…

“Why would he toss the diamond into the East River, Raphael?”

“To destroy the last remaining testament to his parents’ failed marriage,” he says dramatically, and then, without hesitation, “Ooh! Sparkles!”

He has stopped to cuddle with a turquoise sequined turban, which he then plunks on his flaxen—excuse me,
tawny
—head. “Tracey, do you
love?
”

“It’s very…sparkly.”

“How do I look in it?”

“Like the Sultan of Oman, if you want to know the truth.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Take off the turban, Raphael.”

“But it’s adorable, Tracey. And swanky.” He sneaks a peek at the white dangling price tag. “And it’s an absolute
steal!
”

“Okay, then buy it.”

“You think?”

“I do think.”

“Well,
I
think you should get one for Jack, Tracey.” Raphael closes his eyes and giggles, obviously cracking himself up with the visual. “Can you just see it?”

“No, I can’t. Not unless it were Halloween.”

His eyes fly open, flickering with sudden interest. “Does Jack dress up in swanky drag for Halloween?”

“Nope. I know you’ll find this surprising, but Jack rarely dresses up in drag, swanky or non-swanky.”

“That’s a crying shame.”

“Isn’t it just.” I watch Raphael take off the turban, start to walk away, then rush back and put it on his head again.

“I can’t! I love it, Tracey!”

“So buy it!” I shout back at him.

He calms down, tilts his head in serious thought. “I don’t know…I’m not big on impulse buys.”

Okay, the thing about that is…he so
is.

“The way I see it, Raphael, one doesn’t acquire a turquoise sequined turban in any other manner.”

“True. But…when would I wear it, Tracey?”

“For work?” I suggest, bored out of my non-turban-spangled skull. “For play?”

“It
is
versatile,” he muses, examining his reflection in a conveniently located mirror. “I don’t know…you don’t think it’s too…busy?”

Busy
isn’t the word I’d have chosen, but…

“Not in a bad way, Raphael.”

“I’ll take two,” he announces, and removes a wad of twenties from his pocket. After counting out six of them, a matched set of turquoise sequined turbans are all his.

“Do you wrap?” he asks the largely unfazed, dreadlocked vendor.

“No,
mon.
”

Disappointed, Raphael asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,
mon.
”

“
Now
you tell me. Can you knock off ten bucks, then? On each?”

The vendor silently isn’t amused.

In fact, he’s starting to look silently—and ominously—
fazed.

“Come on, Raphael. They don’t wrap. Let’s move it.”

I’ll admit I’m not particularly anxious to top off the evening with an ugly altercation between Dreadlock Dan and our disgruntled little consumer pal, who seems to have forgotten he’s not at an accessories counter in Bergdorf Goodman.

“I’ll wear mine home,” Raphael decides, removing it from the white no-frills plastic grocery sack the vendor hands him. He grumbles loudly over his shoulder as we walk away, “And I guess I’ll have to get a box
and
wrapping paper for Donatello’s.”

Dreadlock Dan has pocketed his cash and gone back to being unfazed.

See, that’s the thing about shopping on Saint Mark’s Place, as opposed to shopping in a fancy department store. You’re not going to walk away with a prestigious paper shopping bag, or gift boxes, let alone fancy wrap, the way you do at Bergdorf.

If I do find Jack’s Christmas gift here, I’ll have to package it on my own.

Still, this is a great place to find a bargain—though a fifty-seven-dollar turquoise sequined turban isn’t it, in my opinion.

“So that’s Donatello’s gift?” I ask Raphael.

“Tracey! This is just a stocking stuffer.”

“Oh, of course.”
Silly me.

“So what else did you get for him?” I ask after a moment, hoping he can give me some ideas for Jack.

He stops walking, rests a fist against his chest and sings in a booming voice:
“Five…golden…rings.”

To which I promptly respond, in song,
“Four calling birds, three French hens, two-oo turtle doves and a partri-idge in a pear tree.”

Then I say in my regular voice, “Your turn.”

“Tracey! We’re not playing that caroling game again! I’m telling you what I bought for him.”

It takes me a moment to regroup and go from trying to remember the ever-elusive second verse of “Good King Wenceslas” to incredulously asking, “You bought Donatello five golden rings for Christmas?”

He nods vigorously. “Just like in the song!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in the song!” he says, as though that makes perfect sense. “You know…
on the fifth day of
—”

“I know!” I cut him off on midnote. “So you’re getting him the other stuff, too?”

He looks blank. “What other stuff?”

I sigh. “Four calling birds, three French hens, two-oo turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.”

“Tracey! Why would I do that?” Raphael asks, as though that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Because it’s in the song. You know, a theme gift,” I say impatiently. “You got him the five golden rings…”

“Ye-es…” Raphael is still frowning as though he doesn’t get my drift.

“But you didn’t get him any of the other stuff?”

“Nope. Just the five rings, Tracey. Why would he need any of that other stuff?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

Why would he need five golden rings, dammit?

When I consider the possible uses a man might have for all that bling, I just don’t get it.

But that doesn’t mean I have to ask, does it?

No. It certainly doesn’t.

Tell me to drop the subject.

Hurry. Tell me.

Too late.

“Are they for all five fingers of his hand?” I hear myself inquire.

Because who knows? Maybe that’s some new gay style I haven’t heard about.

“Nope.” Raphael lifts a sly brow. “I bought him one for the ring finger of each hand, one toe ring for the pinkie toe of each foot, and one very large one for—”

“Forget it,” I cut in just in the nick of time. “I don’t need to know.”

Apparently, he thinks I do.

I consequently spend the next few minutes trying to banish
that
unfortunate image from my brain.

“Ooh, this is keeping my head nice and toasty,” Raphael comments as the wind kicks up when we stop at the next intersection to wait for a light. “You know what, Tracey? I think I’ll give Donatello his early so that we can wear them skiing next weekend. They complement our new parkas.”

My squeamish mind’s eye finds instant reprieve in a replacement image: Raphael and Donatello sailing along on the slopes in matching turquoise sequined turbans and complementary turquoise sequined parkas.

“Wait,” I say. “You’re going skiing? Since when?”

“Since Donatello and I rented a château in Vermont for the holidays. Didn’t I tell you? Tracey, I know I told you.”

“What you told me was that you were going to spend Christmas in Omaha with Donatello’s family.”

Yes, Raphael’s future husband is from Nebraska. Apparently, he was a corn-fed farm boy before he set out for New York to make his fortune as a waiter slash Macy’s spray model.

In fact, much to Raphael’s delight, Donatello still occasionally wears denim overalls without a shirt underneath, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, goes over much better on Christopher Street than it does, say, on a subway filled with disgruntled construction workers returning home after a grueling day on the job.

Unfortunately, Donatello learned that the hard way.

Thirteen facial stitches and a police report later, you’d think he would have learned.

“Oh, well, we
were
going to spend Christmas in Omaha, Tracey, but that was a while ago. Before Donatello’s family disowned him.”

“Did they find out he was gay?” I ask, remembering that Raphael’s future in-laws are even more staunchly Italian-Catholic than my family is.

“No! He can’t tell them
that,
Tracey.” From beneath his spangled turban, Raphael looks at me as though
I’m
the crazy one.

“Well, won’t they figure it out when they get their invitation to the wedding?”

“They’re not invited, Tracey! No family, just friends. It’s going to be a secret marriage. Isn’t that romantic?”

“Raphael, you put an engagement announcement in the
New York Times
.”

“His family only reads the
Omaha World-Herald
,” he says disdainfully.

“Still…how secret can you make a sit-down reception for three hundred and a twelve-piece orchestra?”

“Eleven-piece, Tracey.”

“What? The naked bongo player couldn’t make it?” I quip.

“It was always eleven piece, but a naked bongo player isn’t a bad idea,” Raphael muses, pulling out a notebook he’s been carrying around ever since he got engaged, and jotting down a quick note in it.

“So what did Donatello do to get disowned?” I can’t help but ask.

“He skipped his great-aunt’s retirement party to go to Jones’s opening. Give me a break.”

See? What did I tell you? In the Spadolini family, he would have been disowned for a lesser crime than that.

“So…what did his great-aunt do?” I ask politely.

“She sent him a family picture in a smashed glass frame. And, Tracey, she drew a pointy beard and devil ears on Donatello.”

Ah, revenge, Little Old Italian Lady–style.

“No,” I say patiently, “I mean, what did she do for a living?”

Not that I care.

But I’m in this deep, so I might as well know.

“She was a lunch lady, Tracey!”

“What’s wrong with lunch ladies? I have an aunt who’s a lunch lady, too,” I protest. “Don’t be a snob, Raphael.”

“I can’t help it. I am a snob. And these people in Nebraska have no sense of cultural priority.”

“One of Donatello’s best friends was a featured performer in
Curious George,
and he was supposed to skip it?”

Cultural priority?

“I thought Jones was
your
friend,” is all I can think to say.

“We’re getting
married,
Tracey. As in forever. As in, all our friends are mutual from this day forward.”

I wonder if this means that Donatello’s kleptomaniac hag, Nellie, is now part of Raphael’s inner circle. If so, I’ll be sure to keep a wide berth when she’s around. The last time she was over at his place, somebody’s wallet went missing.

“So,
Curious George?
You mean the kids’ book about the monkey?” I ask, not particularly anxious to linger on the topic of engagement and its consequences, to which I am unfortunately unable to relate, damn that Jack.

“What other
Curious George
is there, Tracey?”

“Snobby and sarcastic, Raphael. How am I supposed to know
Curious George
was a Broadway play now?”

“Because I told you. And it’s not Broadway, it’s off-off, and it’s a musical, not a play. Jones is a
dancer,
remember?”

“Oh, right.” Fake lightbulb. “Maybe I’ll go see it.”

Raphael sighs. “It closed last month, Tracey. Remember?”

“I guess I forgot.”

“Of course you did.” He looks exasperated. “Unless it has to do with you—or Jack—and whether or not he’s going to give you an engagement ring, you’re not interested.”

Wow. If that’s not hypocritical, then I haven’t been struck by a sudden fierce craving for nicotine.

“I’m sorry I’m not as culturally enlightened as you are, Raphael,” I say loftily, stung by his accusation. “But I’ve got other things on my plate right now. Things that are more important than
Curious George: The Musical.
”

He mutters something under his breath. I don’t catch a word of it, but I’d bet my life that it has to do with that groundless accusation of narcissism.

Suddenly, I’ve had enough. I really don’t need this right now.

“You know what? Let’s call it a night, Raphael,” I say curtly, all set to spin on my heel and head back to the Astor Place subway.

“Tracey!” He instantly throws his arms around me. “I’m sorry. That was mean. Forgive me?”

I consider it.

“Really, Tracey, I didn’t mean to be so bitchy. It’s just that between my wedding plans and the holidays, I’m exhausted.”

“And bitchy.”

“And bitchy,” he concedes. “But aren’t all brides?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been one, remember?” I say tartly. “And according to you, I never will.”

“Oh, Tracey…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Okay, I did, but…I’m sorry, okay? I take it back.”

“Really?” I peer into his face.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up two fingers.

“Oh, please. You were never a Boy Scout, Raphael.”

“No, thank God.” He’s shifted gears again, going instantly from utter disdain to heartfelt contrition. “But really, Tracey, it would break my heart if you were mad at me.”

He
does
look a little weepy.

Then again, he’s always been a drama queen.

“Whatever, Raphael.”

“You forgive me?”

“I guess.” I shrug and cast a longing glance at a couple of passing NYU types who have yummy lit cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

Yes, even after two months, I’m still not over my addiction. Not entirely, anyway.

But I’ll admit that this cold-turkey thing is getting easier. I no longer wake up in the mornings consumed by an instinctive need to light up. And just the other day, when I was hungover from the office Christmas party and caught a whiff of Yvonne’s menthol smoke, I felt like I was going to vomit.

I took that as a good sign.

That I was compelled to drink so much at the office party the night before was not a good sign. As you’ll recall, Jack and I met at the Blair Barnett Christmas shindig two years ago. Which means the party was our second anniversary, more or less.