Fête

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Fête

Beech Grove’s Annual

FOUNDER’S DAY PROGRAM

ART FESTIVAL

Summer Solstice

CELEBRATION

A Novel by

Daniel McVay

Knights Press

Stamford, Connecticut

Also by Daniel McVay

The Baggy-Kneed Camel Blues

The Vanilla Kid

The Legend of Jasper Kell

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

McVay, Daniel.

Fête.

I. Title.

PS3563.C9F47 1985 813’.54 85-4270

ISBN 0-915175-11-8 (pbk.)

Printed in the United States of America

To Vicki

1. Queer Night At Respighi’s

My mother always hated Queer Night at Respighi’s. She should’ve preferred it: It was quieter than Bowling Night, friendlier than Dad Night a.k.a. Poker Night, less bitchy than Morn Night, a lot less rowdy than Music Night, better tips than Art Night, and it was the night before her day off, Monday, which was Family Night and the bar at Respighi’s was closed.

My mother, Edwina “Eddie” Russell, was the bartender at Respighi’s. And she hated Queer Night.

It was not officially called Queer Night. The little sign over the bar—the sign that listed who got half priced drinks on which night—simply said “The Regulars” in the Sunday night slot. And if any of us had cause to refer to it, we called it Gay Night. It was the gay clientele who called it Queer Night.

Although a California native, my mother inherited a mid-western robust figure, corn fed, you might say. Definitely healthy, she was fairly tall, big boned, ample breasted, wide hipped and whiskey voiced. My father is—well, Dad looks like what he is: a cabinetmaker. But he could just as easily be a cobbler, a house painter, a plumber; he has that look of the American tradesman. He’s ruddy, thin, getting old too soon, an inch shorter than Mom.

As far back as I can remember, Eddie was always a creature of routine. And as our lives were irretrievably interwoven with hers, the rest of us in the family were held to that routine as well.

Especially Sundays. We were on our own till ten:

At our house, my wife, Elizabeth, and I would always get up early to bake muffins—blueberry on my weeks, bran on hers—which we would devour with about a gallon of coffee out on our front porch, doing a crossword puzzle and watching the birds, squirrels and neighbors.

At my family’s house, my father, Carl, would always he up at dawn. He’d start the first pot of coffee, then jump in the shower for a quick rendition of something, anything, from Gilbert and Sullivan, much to the dismay of those of us who ever had to share a household with him. Shower and song once completed, Carl would grab some Coffee and go out to his workshop to meditate over a spinning lathe until breakfast was on the table.

Mom equals breakfast equals cholesterol: a dozen eggs, a pound of sausage links, home—fried ~ and biscuits with butter and jam. Eddie always waited until Carl got out to his workshop before she got up to start cooking, even if she had to lie in bed awake for an extra half hour. For some reason which I could never grasp, Carl thought his Sunday morning ritual ~~as a secret and Eddie was determined not to destroy his delusion.

My brother, Donny, who was still living at home, would stumble blindly from his room to the kitchen, stuff three or four of Moms homemade chocolate chip cookies into his mouth, pour a mug of coffee and then stumble back to his room where he would encase his head in a Sony Walkman stereo headset and scramble his brains with the latest and loudest heavy metal rock and roll.

It was always the same.

Then, just as the last plate of food was set on the table and Donny was forced out of his room and out of his earphones, Carl would walk in the back door and take his place at the kitchen table. Eddie would refill his cup with fresh coffee, asking: ‘Where did you go, dear?’ to which he would reply: ‘‘Oh, just out for a little walk.’’ Same words ever~ week.

After breakfast, Eddie w mild send Donny to his room to change from his cutoff pants and tank top shirt into ‘‘anything else.” To which he would reply: “I don’t see anything wrong with what I’m wearing.” ‘March!” Same words every week.

About once a month, they’d spice it up a little:

“Well, you let him go like that!” Donny would start.

“Let him” meant Dad. “Like that” meant dressed in Sears and Roebuck catalog green or khaki work pants and shirt, and construction hoots.

To which Eddie would reply: “Your father’s clothes are clean. He doesn’t have those scraggly threads hanging from the bottom of his pants, and he certainly doesn’t have his underpants pulled down below the fringe for the whole world to see. Now march! If you have to wear short pants, why don’t you wear those nice safari shorts I bought you?

“Mother!’

‘‘I think they’re nice.”

“You would.”

“Put on anything you want then. Just go do it. Now. I will not be late for the service.”

I will not be late, you will not he late. We will not be late. Sunday Service began promptly at ten. At about nine-forty-five, Donny would be sent ahead to our house to make sure Elizabeth and I were ready, which we always were, and we’d all meet on the road to walk the last few blocks to the hotel where Sunday Service was held.

Sunday Service in Beech Grove is very informal. An inspirational gathering would be a more apt description. There is no minister. People bring things they want to read to the others—anything they want to share, usually poems or something from one of the world’s many bibles.

The Brownings and Walt Whitman seem to be the most popular in our group.

After the meeting, we would always take the long way, over the hill and through the woods, back to Mom and Dad’s house, where the remainder of the day would be spent in family camaraderie and overindulging.

Coffee and cookies were first. Then two beers each with pretzels. Lunch was at two. Honey-basted ham or fried chicken. Mashed potatoes or rice. Gravy. Green beans or peas. Squash or corn or carrots. Sweet pickles. Bread-and-butter pickles. Dill pickles. Green olives. Black olives. Homemade dinner rolls. Apple pie and chocolate meringue pie. Coffee on the veranda.

The men would go out on the porch first. Each letting the screen door slam after being asked not to. Each patting a bloated stomach while faking manly belches and asking the mythical deity why He let us eat so much.

Then the women would join us so that Elizabeth could start the argument about who should do the dishes.

“Man,” she would always say, “you do them at home. Why can’t you do them here?”

“Queenie,” I always reply, ‘‘it’s not the same.”

(My wife’s mother was a loyal subject of Elizabeth II, worshipped the ground the Queen walked on. Named her sweet little daughter after that blessed monarch. My mother-in-law was not English, just strange.)

‘‘It just isn’t the same,” I would repeat.

It isn’t the same. It’s one thing to be a modern husband, doing things around the house, sharing the workload, being a partnership. It is another thing when you’re at your mother’s house.

Carl always ignored that part of our Sunday afternoon festivities; always turned his hearing aid off as a matter of fact. Donny always pretended to be lost in thought so he wouldn’t have to get into the argument. And up until a couple of years ago, Eddie would always end the fight by going in to start the dishes alone, shaming Elizabeth into helping. Then something happened. The change was so gradual, one hardly knew he was being maneuvered. At first, it was something as simple as, “Matt, can you put this up on the top shelf for me. I can’t reach it.” Then it progressed to, “Would you mind putting these back in the hutch for me, honey?” And, “Don’t put them away wet, dear!” And, “Oh that hot water burns the cut on my hand, the cut I got while I was fixing your typewriter.” And finally, “Matt, don’t splash the dishwater all over the floor!” And to my equally miserable baby brother, “Donny, you’re getting behind. Do you need a dry towel?”

Carl managed to elude their charms, so while Donny and I did KP, he got to sit out on the porch with Mom and Elizabeth and listen to them pat their bloated stomachs, fake womanly belches and ask Him why they ate so much.

Five o’clock. Time for Eddie the Mother to become Eddie the Bartender. And time for our weekly “Why can’t Donny go to the bar?” argument.

“Mom . . .?“ Donny begins.

“No!” Eddie says.

“Mom!” Donny shouts.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young man.”

“Mother, he’s twenty-one-years-old,” is my weekly contribution.

“Matt,” Elizabeth warns me every time.

“You stay out of this, Matthew,” Eddie scolds me. “As long as he lives under my roof, he does as I say.”

Carl looks at Eddie every time she says “my roof,” but he says nothing.

‘‘And I say,” Eddie concludes, “that Donny doesn’t go to the bar on Sunday nights.”

Sunday night is Queer Night at Respighi’s. And my mother always hated it. And Donny wasn’t allowed to go.

So Donny would stomp off to his room, encase his head in Sony Walkman earphones and scramble his brains with the latest and loudest heavy metal rock and roll.

Mom would always change from her blue smock to her red smock, keeping the navy blue slacks and sensible shoes.

Then she, Dad and I would walk Elizabeth back to our house, leaving just the three of us to continue on to the bar, which was in the hotel.

Respighi’s Bar and Restaurant is the entire east wing of the Beech Grove Hot Springs Hotel. All the way up front is the one-lane bowling alley, then the bar room, then the dining room and then the kitchen is all the way in the back. Every room, including the bowling alley and the kitchen, has big, double French doors leading out onto the veranda/dining patio. The veranda used to run all the way around the building, all the way around the entire hotel, until the bowling lane was added. They put it right where the veranda used to go around the front end of the east wing. Just walled it up! So now there are weird-looking and inconvenient dead ends on either side.

Eddie was the manager of the bar; Hugh Vance was the manager of the restaurant. Mom and Hugh had been dear friends since their school days. He owned three-quarters of the business; Eddie owned a quarter.

Respighi’s bar is a genuine relic and beautiful. It has, of course, a bar which is hand carved oak, L-shaped and, accommodates eight bar stools, also oak. There are four oak tables with matching chairs and, between the French doors on the back wall, there is a magnificent hutch. Ifs about eight feet tall, seven or eight feet wide and at least two feet deep. Hand carved. Mahogany maybe. All the stuff is from the seventies, when the hotel was built. Then there are some noisy, ugly, mood-spoiling electronic games along the wall that separates the bar from the bowling lane. Eddie used to put “Out of Order!” signs on the games. Hugh used to have to take them off the next morning.

Five o’clock on Sunday, a few months ago: It was Mother’s Day, May 13. The walk to Respighi’s was especially pleasant that evening. It was balmy after a hot day. Mother’s Day dinner had gone smoothly; more than smoothly: beautifully. Elizabeth and I did our barbecued steak and lobster for the family. Delicious. Donny and Carl did the dishes! Donny didn’t ask if he could go to the bar. It was a special day. Mom wore her new yellow smock. We dropped Elizabeth off at our house a little early that night because she was working on a new watercolor and was anxious to get back to it. Then Mom, Dad and I took the long way, over the hill and through the woods, to the Dar. First time we had ever done that. We all commented on how different everything looked when you’re coming from the other way.

When we got to Respighi’s, we found that Hugh and the day bartender, Gordy (another Beech Grove relic), had conspired to decorate the bar for the occasion. A banner offered a “Happy Mother’s Day!” and there were a half-dozen large bouquets haphazardly placed about the room. It smelled like a florist shop in there. The largest bouquet, white and red roses, graced the back bar. The card said, “To Eddie, with Love. Hugh and Gordy.”

Dad had his own little surprise for Mom. He disappeared into the kitchen for a minute, then returned with one yellow rose, which he gave to Eddie with a kiss. She got a little tear\— eyed, kissed Carl on the cheek, then set about putting those bouquets into some kind of tasteful arrangement. Dad and I began our once-a-week, six-hour eight-ball marathon.

It wasn’t that we loved poo¹playing that much. It was just that we had to keep Eddie company at the bar on Sunday nights. Sunday night was Queer night at Respighi’s. And Eddie hated it.

She started hating it around eight when the Sunday Night Regulars started showing up. Until then, there would usually be a couple of stragglers around, usually people who’d gone out for a Sunday afternoon drive and then had forgotten to leave after three or four drinks. But they always left by eight.

Dennis was usually the first to arrive. And Mother’s Day was no exception. Dennis is a drunk. .\~ fairly good artist, too. But a drunk nevertheless. He walked in sober, keeping with the trend of strange happenings we seemed to be experiencing. lie set up two of the tables for bridge, even before ordering his first drink. Eddie was SO taken aback she had to look to us for confirmation. We nodded.

Pat and Gwen came in arm in arm. Pat is my assistant everything on the Beech Grove Clarion and the mother of a fourteen-year-old whirling dervish by name J.D. Her lover, Gwen, is Beech Grove’s only nurse. When she first moved here a few years ago, Gwen was Beech Grove’s only black. Now there are, I think, nine.

Aunt Gloria and Rae arrived next. Aunt Gloria is not really my aunt, just a really good friend of the family; she and Mom grew up together. She used to be married to Hugh, who used to be called Uncle Hugh even though he wasn’t really an uncle. For some reason, Hugh lost his uncle status when he and Aunt Gloria got divorced. Rae used to be a semi-famous Hollywood actress. Rae and Gloria operate the town’s only hairstyling shop—unisex—which is located in the hotel.

Then came Kurt and Terry, but they never walk into the bar together. They have a little game they like to play. Terry comes in first. He’s mid-twenties, too thin, sort of effeminate, bleached blond. He always goes to the pinball machine, whether or not it’s “Out of Order!” and stands there posing. Then Kurt, owner of the “Junque Shoppe,” saunters in casually, glances around the room, then inches his way toward the games and tries to pick up the cute boy at the pinball machine. He, of course, scores and they join the others.

Dennis’s partner, Jack, was the last to arrive that night. Jack is Beech Grove’s senior teacher and school principal. Jack’s been around a long time. He taught both Donny and me, from seventh to twelfth grade. He’s the most levelheaded of the Sunday Night Regulars and the unofficial leader.

After hugs and kisses, they all sat down to begin their bridge game.

Eddie had set up the glasses for their first round of drinks, but they hadn’t ordered them yet, so she just stood there wondering whether or not to start pouring.

They were waiting for the ninth and newest member of their club: my best friend, Josh. Josh is often late, but not usually that late. It was almost 8:30. I looked over at Dennis to see if he was getting anxious, but he was calmly dealing the first hand at his table, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that he’d been in a bar for thirty minutes without having a drink.

Josh walked in.

“Sonofabitch!” Dennis screamed, as he dropped his cards in mid-deal. “She’s finally here! I officially declare Queer Night in session. Let’s drink!”

The nine thirsty members of the Sunday Night Regulars hit the bar en masse. No table service in the bar. Eddie was prepared for them; all their drinks were lined up on the bar:

each in the size and shape glass preferred by the individual drinker; each made with the customer’s favorite brand of poison; and each to the exact proportions, as once specified in their bartender/client relationship. Dennis downed his in one gulp and ordered another before rejoining the others at the tables. Josh, Dad and I alternated at the pool table.

About an hour later, I had just beat Carl with an incredible two-bank shot—so he had to buy a round of beers—and Josh and 1 were about to start a new game

Donny walked in the front door! I missed the cue ball entirely.

Josh chipped a tooth with his beer bottle.

The Sunday Night Regulars, who had already begun their first screaming argument involving both tables, snapped quiet in unison as though the Maestro had tapped his baton. They knew’. They had often pleaded Donny’s case, sometimes rationally, sometimes emotionally. If any of them were offended by Eddie’s stance, they never showed it. A mother’s prerogative, they called it. It didn’t prevent them from trying to change her mind from time to time, but it didn’t upset them either.

The Regulars watched silently—first Donny, then Eddie. They looked to Carl for guidance. He nodded them back into their game.

Donny walked slowly up to the bar.

“Gin and tonic,” he said, just as though we hadn’t fought about this every week for the last six months.

I thought Mom would break a bottle over his head. She was calm, though, as she told him to get the hell out of there.

He didn’t leave.

We were all on the edge of our seats. Even Dad.

Josh went up to the bar and stood next to Donny.

It was an old-fashioned standoff, both of them repeating the same old arguments about why he should and why he should not be allowed in there . . . until Donny dropped his bomb.

Eddie played right into his hand: “You can drink at home. You can drink in here any other night. Give me any good reason why you think you have to be in here on Que . . . on Gay Night.”

‘‘Because, Mother, I am gay,” Donny announced. And to top it off—or twist the knife, if you prefer—he turned to Josh and kissed him on the mouth.

There were a few cheers from the Regulars, the ones who were too drunk to realize they ought to have been wary of what Eddie might do next. Eddie wasn’t a mean woman, but she was strict. And she didn’t like having her orders countermanded by anyone, especially her two sons. Dad got away with it once in a while; Donny and I never did. At that particular moment in time, I think Dad and I were about as quiet as we had ever been, or ever would be, in our lives.

Eddie mixed Donny’s gin and tonic, squeezed a fresh lime into it, then placed it on the bar in front of him. She didn’t say a word. She poured herself a double shot of bourbon, straight with no ice, then opened two bottles of beer and brought them over to Carl and me at the pool table.

She looked very much like she was about to explode.

Donny looked very much like he was about to faint. Josh put him into a chair.

Eddie just stood there, staring at me. Accusingly.

Someone dropped money in the jukebox and started punching up some noise. That room needed it desperately.

A few notes into Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising,” Mom finished off her bourbon and asked Dad and me if we knew about Donny. Why the hell was she looking at me if she was talking to both of us? Carl got away with a grin because her eyes were glued to mine.

“Yeah,” I said and she looked away. “But only for about a week,” I lied.

It wasn’t a total lie. I’d known since we were kids that Donny was gay, but it had only been a week since he and I actually talked about it. He had also told me what he was planning to (10 that night, but I did not admit that to Eddie. Besides, I didn’t think he’d really go through with it.

My disclaimer of only having known for a week did not placate Eddie’s anger. And she didn’t even wait for Carl’s answer. She went behind the bar, mixed a round of drinks for the Regulars, and took them to their tables, on the house! Then she washed dirty glasses, the same ones twice, I think. She spent the remainder of the evening repeating that sequence, free drinks and table service for the Regulars, and then washing dirty glasses—twice. Dad, Josh, Donny and I had to pay for our drinks. And we had to go up to the bar to get them. Dad and Josh did most of the getting, though, because Donny and I thought we’d better keep our distance.

At about ten, the bridge game ended and Gloria and Rae fed the jukebox. Dennis was too drunk to get out of his chair, but the others were up and out on the little dance floor before the downbeat. Pat and Gwen invited Jack to be a threesome with them so he wouldn’t have to just sit there. They said. Meaning they were hoping to prevent Jack and Dennis’ weekly fight by separating them.

Donny grabbed my elbow. “Will you dance with me?” he asked.

I stood there like an idiot.

“I can’t.”

He was hurt. I was hurt. I don’t know why I couldn’t dance with him, I just couldn’t. I’m not usually that insensitive; too embarrassed, maybe.

Carl nudged Josh. Josh smiled, then took Donny by the hand and led him onto the dance floor. They looked good together. I was really pissed at myself for letting him down. I guess Carl sensed it, because he put his arm around my shoulder. Together we watched my little brother and my best friend, in each other’s arms, dancing to Jane Olivor’s “Stay the Night.”

Respighi’s closes at eleven o’clock. Usually Eddie has to push, scream and threaten to get the Sunday Night Regulars out of there. On Mother’s Day, May 13, nothing had to l)e said. Everyone had been watching the clock for the last half hour and when eleven hit, they quietly filed out the front door with a few subdued and polite good nights and see you laters.

Josh walked Donny home. Carl and I lagged behind, as usual, expecting to be given our cleanup orders. Eddie waved us out, still not speaking.

Dad and I walked home together, in silence. What the hell was there to say?

Donny told me later that Eddie didn’t get home for over an hour. She slept on the couch in the den—A first. Dad thought it was funny: “Maybe now’ she’ll believe me about the lump in the middle of the sofa.”

Donny said the last thing he heard before he finally fell asleep was sort of a thud-whack-tinkle-crash, to use his words. He lay there in the dark, a few last tears still wet on his cheeks, and tried to identify the sounds.

Thud. Heavy piece of pottery hitting wood. The only thing made out of clay in the den was an ashtray—an ashtray Donny had made for Mom in his seventh grade Arts and Crafts class. The wood, he guessed, was the mantel over the fireplace.

Whack. Pottery against glass, he thought, the glass in a picture frame.

Tinkle. The glass falling to the tile hearth.

Crash. Ashtray to hearth.

There were three photographs on the mantelpiece at that time. One was of the four of us taken at the zoo. The second was a picture of Eddie’s father and his twin brother taken the year Eddie was born. The third was a cops’ of an old tintype of their father, Eddie’s grandfather, taken with Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley on the night the twins were born.

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