Marteeny. Hold onto your hat: she’s gotten fat, and she’s going to get married.”
“Jump back. To a man?”
“A cattle rancher. He doesn’t know about her dark past. You want some help with dinner?”
“You could round up the kids. This rancher’s going to be surprised when she presents him with triple-jointed babies.”
“He wants a wife, and she’s ready to try out for the role. She told me she couldn’t keep doing the split forever.” Vivy waited for Sam’s quick laugh before she trolled into the backyard, where Annie was dressing paper dolls in geranium petals, and then into the living room, where Laszlo was prone in front of a cartoon.
“Just till the commercial,” he mumbled. A girl with a triangular head was explaining to a wizard that his potion hadn’t worked. Now the world was in bigger trouble than ever.
“If Annie gets the table set before you come in, you’re going to have to do all the cleanup after dinner.”
“I’m safe.”
Vivy shrugged and headed back for the kitchen, where Annie was sitting on the unset table. Vivy lifted her off and put a stack of plates in her hands. “See if you can get it all set before your brother comes in. Surprise him,” Vivy whispered.
“Surprise,” Annie stage-whispered, and started enthusiastically clattering the plates into place. Vivy handed her the forks and said to Sam, “I told Marteeny she could stay with us for a few days. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Who’s Marteeny?” said Annie.
“She’s our old friend. You’ll like her,” Vivy said.
“Does she have a little girl?”
Sam said, “She’s pretty little herself. And she can pick up her leg and put it right behind her head.”
“No way,” said Annie.
“Can so,” said Laszlo, sauntering in from the living room just in time to grab the plastic cups from Annie and toss one down at each plate. “I remember her. She could turn her arm all the way around just to scratch her back. How cool is that?”
“She’s one of the stranger strangers we’ve taken in,” Sam said.
“Marteeny’s not a stranger,” said Vivy. “She’s long lost family, and it’s time for us to get reacquainted. And not just with Marteeny.”
“Vivy—” Sam began.
She handed him the cheese grater. “I’m not doing anything wrong. The store isn’t going to lose money. These people are coming so cheap it hurts. I had to force the Hula King to accept more than fifty bucks.”
“Well, see now, right there—”
“These are talented performers. They are professionals.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Uncle.”
“Are they all going to stay here?” Annie said eagerly.
“No, baby. Just Marteeny.” Vivy glanced at Sam, wondering if he remembered the mornings spent looking for performers who had slipped out of motel rooms to score drugs or find sex or take walks in breathtakingly dangerous parts of town. Perhaps he did; he was grating enough cheese to feed all of the Strikes and Spares.
“Have you booked any musicians?” he said. “Audiences always turn out for music.”
“The flute players all seem to have gone back to Peru. I can’t track down Sweet Baby John or Buck the Yodeler. Fredd said he could get me some leads on a drum orchestra, but he hasn’t called me back yet. Napkins under the forks, Annie.”
“Get Marsha Marsha!” Annie said.
Laszlo plucked the bunched-up napkins that Annie held like a bouquet. “Marsha Marsha’s a cartoon, dummy. She can’t give a concert.”
“Laszlo,” said Sam and Vivy on the same breath.
“Sorry-I-said-dummy. But she’s still a cartoon.”
“Okay. No Marsha Marsha,” Vivy said. “Who wants juice?”
“If you want to book a musician, you’re overlooking one,” Sam said.
“Who?”
“Cecilia Moore.”
Handing the carton of apple juice to Laszlo, Vivy studied her husband’s face. Suddenly it looked overly innocent, the smile too cheerful, the eyes too scrubbed of guile.
“I stopped by her apartment the other day to pick up handbills for the store, and she played her violin for me. She’s a real violinist. I mean, she’s an artist.”
“She played her violin for you,” Vivy said. “Golly.”
“I hate violins,” Laszlo announced.
“Me too,” said Annie.
“You would have liked this,” Sam said.
Vivy was having trouble tamping down a smile; Sam hadn’t tried to sneak anything past her in years, and he didn’t know how out of practice he was. His earnest, unwavering eyes reminded her of nothing so much as Laszlo, age six, his face streaked with chocolate, swearing he hadn’t eaten any brownies. “I’m with the kids on this one. Violins make me want to go into another room.”
“If you heard Cecilia play, you’d want to stay and hear more.”
“Sure sounds like you wanted to hear more.”
He had the grace to laugh. “She sounds like somebody you’d hear on the radio.”
“I turn on the radio to hear T ‘n’ T,” Laszlo said. “Radio Jam.”
“Marsha Marsha,” Annie said.
“You’re really not getting this, are you?” Vivy said to Sam, who had scooped the mountain of cheese into a bowl and moved on to chopping tomatoes. “If Natural High books acts regularly, we can start to bring the old business back. Alternative art, remember? ‘On the streets, from the heart, for the people.’”
“Are you going to start up your own series of napkins?”
“Maybe. That was your line, by the way.”
“I remember,” Sam said. “I also remember that even when we were managing acts full-time, the old company went belly-up.” Laszlo crashed to the floor, his hands drumming on his skinny stomach. “Yeah, son, just like that.”
“Belly, belly, belly,” said Annie.
“Call it auld lang syne, then,” Vivy said. “I want to see our old friends. That’s not so terrible. And when they play the store, Natural High benefits. Even Nancy admits that performers bring in customers.”
“I’ll
