On Any Given Sundae by Marilyn Brant Page A

the
direction of the door. “I’m leaving.”
    His brother crossed his arms and leaned back
against the sofa. “Okay, Peaches and Cream or Butter Pecan,
then.”
    “How very wholesome of you.”
    “Not especially,” Tony said. “I just like
what I like. But since you’re going out, could you do me a
favor?”
    “I’m not picking up Happy Feet for you
or any other heartwarming kiddie DVDs, no.”
    “Wasn’t what I was going to ask. Did you
always jump to conclusions like this or is it a recent
development?”
    He sighed. “What do you want?”
    “Maria-Louisa’s mom called earlier and their
hair appointments got canceled for the morning. She’s either got
her cell phone clicked off or it’s too hard to hear it at Hauser’s
‘cause I can’t reach her. Could you swing by there and give her the
message? She’d appreciate being able to stay out later tonight
knowing she’ll get to sleep in tomorrow.”
    “Yeah, okay,” Rob said, pondering how
frightening it was that Tony was so taken in by his petite wife
that he’d urge her to stay out later on a Saturday night and sleep
in longer on a Sunday morning.
    And tomorrow was Father’s Day.
    He squinted at his brother and shook his
head. The guy was whipped.
    He walked out of their House of Love and into
Hauser’s a few minutes later still thinking about this. About
having a totally loving, accepting relationship like Tony and
Maria-Louisa’s. About what that would be like on a day-to-day
basis.
    He inhaled the pungent aroma of extinguished
cigarettes by the door mingling with half-empty pints of beer. He
felt the vibration of the classic Garth Brooks song, “Friends in
Low Places,” from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes.
People snickered in one corner, laughed in another, argued in a
third. But it was the group in the fourth corner that stopped him
like a ten-foot stone wall.
    They were chugging strawberry margaritas as
though they expected Diane Sawyer to announce a world-shortage on
the news tomorrow.
    They were flirting with one of the waiters,
hooting over his jokes and then dissolving into giggling
aftershocks.
    They were rising up en masse and dancing in
place for fifteen straight seconds before collapsing into their
chairs again, arms flung to the sides, glasses dangling
precariously in delicate-looking hands. Someone dropped one and
they all roared with laughter. The waiter called for another to be
sent over.
    They were people he knew, or so he’d
thought.
    Soft-spoken Maria-Louisa. Her cousin
Angelica. Her best friend Sandy, who’d been maid of honor at the
wedding when he’d been best man. Three of the young neighbor women,
all with preschoolers, who’d brought over casseroles and cakes so
very primly the week he’d arrived back in town. Nice, sensible
people. Usually.
    But it was the last lady there whose name
caught in his throat. He struggled to say it aloud. He whispered it
at first, but no way could she hear above this racket. He spoke it
a second time, louder, but still no luck. Finally, he resorted to
shouting.
    “Elizabeth!”
    Heads from all four corners of Hauser’s
turned to stare at him. Conversations ground to a halt. Then they
all turned back and continued their chattering. Except for the
group of women he knew (or thought he knew). They pointed their
polished fingernails at him. Shrieked. Hollered cheerful greetings
he couldn’t quite catch. Motioned him over, waving their margarita
pitcher in invitation.
    His feet sent him staggering toward The
Sirens.
    “Rob!” Elizabeth said, beaming a cute but
somewhat sloppy grin aimed in the vicinity of his left shoulder.
“How are you? I’m really g-good.”
    “She’s wonderful,” Angelica gushed, sploshing
some of her pink drink on her cream-colored blouse. “And so am I.
And we think you’re wonderful, too.”
    “Well, um, thanks,” he said.
    Maria-Louisa popped in with, “Wanna join us?
We’ve got lots here.” She examined the almost-empty pitcher.