We invited the neighbors, new and old, to our Hallowe'en party. Sonia Beaufort hemmed and hawed over the phone, finally apologizing for taking so long to tell me why she called. "Did you invite Helen?" she asked. "Who lives across the street from me?"
"Yes," I said. "I invited everyone."
"We won't come if she's going to be there."
"Why not?"
I could tell she'd rather I didn't ask, but how could I not ask? I'd invited everyone. Everyone means everyone.
"I can tell you don't know her," she said.
"I don't know anyone," I said. "We just moved in."
"And you're already entertaining," she said.
I waited some more.
"If she's coming, will you let me know?"
Reluctantly, I agreed.
Helen never called. The night of the party I wondered what I'd do if she showed up. More to the point, I wondered what Sonia would do.
I'd been cooking and baking for weeks and freezing hors d'oeuvres. The night of the party I popped one tray after another in the oven, pulled them out and passed them around. They went quickly. The sausages wrapped in pastry were especially popular. Unfortunately, they took time to cool off. When I held out the tray, I warned people that they were hot. I warned Tony De Santi, but he popped a whole one into his mouth anyway.
"Ow," he screamed, "it's hot," and he spat it out into a napkin.
I should have run and gotten him ice and begged him to forgive me, but I froze. I stood there smiling. It's a nervous habit, smiling at inappropriate times.
Tony owned the trash removal trucks that picked up our garbage. He made a lot of money. I liked his wife, Barbara, a beautiful woman with thick black hair and a voluptuous figure. She was much younger than Tony. They lived in the biggest house on the block. Barbara told me she'd helped Tony's former wife move. She said it was easier to just do it.
They invited us over for drinks when we moved in and Tony unveiled his prize, a painting of a nude. He had mounted a light over the painting but kept it under wraps with a drape and pull cords. They had two children, a boy and a girl. The boy had a bad reputation in the neighborhood. People said, "Don't let him near your animals."
The day after the party, Barbara phoned and told me that Tony was crazy about one of the hors d'oeuvres — not the one he burned his mouth on — and if I had any left would I mind giving him some. This was a triangle, phyllo dough stuffed with Roquefort cheese and mashed potato. The recipe came from The New York Times Cookbook. "Give them a nice plate," my husband said so I put a dozen triangles on one of the antique dessert plates my aunt gave me. Horns of plenty with borders of pink, blue or green laced with gold. A set of eight.
After a week went by and I didn't get back the plate, I phoned Barbara. "What plate?" she asked. "You didn't give me any plate."
"I put the triangles on it. A pretty plate with a horn of plenty and a blue border." I was kicking myself for using one of my aunt's antique plates. At the same time, I felt sorry for Barbara, who no doubt felt bad about lying.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I don't remember, but we definitely don't have it."
I bet they didn't. I bet Tony smashed it, and she couldn't bring herself to tell me. My fault for letting him burn his mouth and then smiling.
Later that month, Sonya's German shepherd attacked and killed one of our chickens. My favorite — Miss Hen, a Rhode Island Red. We didn't clip their wings. They came to us that way. If her wings hadn't been chipped, she might have flown into a tree.
I expected Sonia to sympathize and promise to keep her dog out of our yard. Instead, she said, "your cat comes into our yard and scares our dog."
Oh, please. Tootsie was a big cat, a force to be reckoned with, but impossible to think she'd scare a German shepherd. "You can't keep a cat in your yard." I said.
"Well, then," she said, as if we were even.
I still hadn't met Helen, Sonia's next door neighbor that she thought was crazy, but I was predisposed to like her.
