was returning. Trevor would come home where he belonged and she would work again. Eadie was sure of it. She smiled, thinking of her plans for the party.
Trevor had managed to convince himself he didn’t love her anymore, but tonight she would remind him just how much he still did.
B Y TEN O’CLOCK, unable to bear the suspense of waiting for the arrival of the Shapiros, Lavonne suggested Leonard and Charles go out to the club for a round of golf. She watched them walk to the car, Leonard swinging his golf bag over his shoulder and whistling like a chubby choirboy, and Charles dragging his bag behind him like a crucifix.
Fifteen minutes later the Shapiros arrived and Lavonne went next door to greet them. Mona Shapiro climbed out of the van wearing a faded cotton housedress and tennis shoes. “We got the good clothes in the back,” she explained, pointing toward the van with her thumb. Lavonne stared at the driver, who had climbed out and was sauntering up the driveway in front of a ragged group of boys wearing baggy shorts and flip-flops.
“Let me introduce you to the Burning Bush boys,” Mrs. Shapiro said proudly to Lavonne. There was Little Moses Shapiro, no longer clean-cut but sporting a goatee and a Bob Marley T-shirt. There was the Finklestein boy, whose real name was Isaac but everyone called him Johnny. There was the Goldfarb boy, who went by the name of Weasel, and there was Goodman Singer, who wore a bandanna and a long gold earring shaped like the Star of David in his left ear. They all wore their hair in dreadlocks.
Stunned and speechless, Lavonne stood looking at them. “So what exactly is Jewish Reggae?” she asked finally, wondering what in the hell she was going to do.
“It’s kind of a blues and reggae mix based on the words of the Torah,” Little Moses said.
“Do you want to hear some?” Weasel said. “I’ve got my guitar in the van.”
“Maybe later,” Lavonne said, struggling against a rising sense of desperation. She wondered if she could talk Ashley and Louise into serving. She wondered if she could pay them and some of their friends to work the party. She could feel a strange humming vibration behind her right eye. She reminded herself she needed to have her blood pressure checked, but decided it was probably high right now given the fact that the firm party was fixing to turn into a disaster and she was in charge of it and all.
Little Moses whistled, looking up at the Broadwell’s big house. “Damn, Miz Zibolsky, is your old man a doctor or something?”
“A lawyer. And I live next door.”
“No shit,” Johnny said. “I may need me a lawyer.”
“Okay boys, let’s discuss our pending court cases later,” Lavonne said, turning around quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. “Follow me and I’ll show you where to get set up.”
The truth of the matter was she only had eight hours until the party started. It was too late to find other servers.
I didn’t have any choice, Leonard. No one will remember who catered the party. Let’s take a trip somewhere and forget this ever happened. From now on I’ll be a good wife, I promise.
She rehearsed her excuses, running them together until they whined through her head like a chain saw.
T EN MINUTES BEFORE the guests were scheduled to arrive, Charles saw Mrs. Shapiro and the Burning Bush boys standing out by his pool, and he said, “Who in the hell is that?” The boys had changed into their good clothes, which Lavonne now saw had been a mistake. Cousin Mordecai had sent over what he considered perfect catering attire; four powder blue tuxes with wide lapels trimmed in black velvet. Looking at them, Lavonne thought,
All they need are platform shoes and pimp hats.
“They’re the caterers,” Nita said.
“You’re not funny,” Charles said. “Who in the hell are they?”
Nita looked at Lavonne. They were standing on the Broadwells’ screened porch, overlooking the
Trevor had managed to convince himself he didn’t love her anymore, but tonight she would remind him just how much he still did.
B Y TEN O’CLOCK, unable to bear the suspense of waiting for the arrival of the Shapiros, Lavonne suggested Leonard and Charles go out to the club for a round of golf. She watched them walk to the car, Leonard swinging his golf bag over his shoulder and whistling like a chubby choirboy, and Charles dragging his bag behind him like a crucifix.
Fifteen minutes later the Shapiros arrived and Lavonne went next door to greet them. Mona Shapiro climbed out of the van wearing a faded cotton housedress and tennis shoes. “We got the good clothes in the back,” she explained, pointing toward the van with her thumb. Lavonne stared at the driver, who had climbed out and was sauntering up the driveway in front of a ragged group of boys wearing baggy shorts and flip-flops.
“Let me introduce you to the Burning Bush boys,” Mrs. Shapiro said proudly to Lavonne. There was Little Moses Shapiro, no longer clean-cut but sporting a goatee and a Bob Marley T-shirt. There was the Finklestein boy, whose real name was Isaac but everyone called him Johnny. There was the Goldfarb boy, who went by the name of Weasel, and there was Goodman Singer, who wore a bandanna and a long gold earring shaped like the Star of David in his left ear. They all wore their hair in dreadlocks.
Stunned and speechless, Lavonne stood looking at them. “So what exactly is Jewish Reggae?” she asked finally, wondering what in the hell she was going to do.
“It’s kind of a blues and reggae mix based on the words of the Torah,” Little Moses said.
“Do you want to hear some?” Weasel said. “I’ve got my guitar in the van.”
“Maybe later,” Lavonne said, struggling against a rising sense of desperation. She wondered if she could talk Ashley and Louise into serving. She wondered if she could pay them and some of their friends to work the party. She could feel a strange humming vibration behind her right eye. She reminded herself she needed to have her blood pressure checked, but decided it was probably high right now given the fact that the firm party was fixing to turn into a disaster and she was in charge of it and all.
Little Moses whistled, looking up at the Broadwell’s big house. “Damn, Miz Zibolsky, is your old man a doctor or something?”
“A lawyer. And I live next door.”
“No shit,” Johnny said. “I may need me a lawyer.”
“Okay boys, let’s discuss our pending court cases later,” Lavonne said, turning around quickly before she had a chance to change her mind. “Follow me and I’ll show you where to get set up.”
The truth of the matter was she only had eight hours until the party started. It was too late to find other servers.
I didn’t have any choice, Leonard. No one will remember who catered the party. Let’s take a trip somewhere and forget this ever happened. From now on I’ll be a good wife, I promise.
She rehearsed her excuses, running them together until they whined through her head like a chain saw.
T EN MINUTES BEFORE the guests were scheduled to arrive, Charles saw Mrs. Shapiro and the Burning Bush boys standing out by his pool, and he said, “Who in the hell is that?” The boys had changed into their good clothes, which Lavonne now saw had been a mistake. Cousin Mordecai had sent over what he considered perfect catering attire; four powder blue tuxes with wide lapels trimmed in black velvet. Looking at them, Lavonne thought,
All they need are platform shoes and pimp hats.
“They’re the caterers,” Nita said.
“You’re not funny,” Charles said. “Who in the hell are they?”
Nita looked at Lavonne. They were standing on the Broadwells’ screened porch, overlooking the
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