The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,76

such things that made Bobby sneer.

I used to eat myself sick on those Hanky-Pankies as a child. Davy and I would lie upstairs and peer down the heating vent, looking at the tops of the guests’ heads. Whenever possible, one of us would sneak down and bring back plates full of goodies.

So that brought my list to: Hanky-Pankies.

I was in trouble. But admit it? Not my style.

I had a brilliant idea, if I may say so myself—Big David’s mother, Ava, was the Appetizer Queen.

AVA’S HUSBAND, MYRON, HAD DIED BEFORE I KNEW BIG David. When I first met Ava, she lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment on a fixed income but managed to throw legendary dinner parties for miniscule amounts of money. Those parties in Ava’s apartment, before she moved in with the Davids (when she started leaving the burners on or her door wide open), were sweaty, too-crowded affairs filled with laughter. And the food? Divine. Even Bobby had admired her food, although he called it “kitschy.”

When you arrived, Ava would fix you a cocktail (she loved her Bombay Sapphire gin, and the way to her heart was to arrive bearing a new bottle), then usher you into the second bedroom, which was always the Appetizer Room.

She made bourbon wienies bubbling in a warmer, meatballs to rival Mimi’s (although I never said this to Bobby), a spicy dip called Jezebel—cream cheese with a hot, peppery sauce over it—and my favorite, “egg on egg,” a fabulous molded egg salad adorned with black caviar.

I’m sure her main courses were excellent, but I ate myself to oblivion on her appetizers.

THE DAVIDS WERE THRILLED WHEN I ASKED TO COME OVER and look at recipes with Ava. “Could you stay with her an hour or two?” Davy asked. “We need to do some baby shopping.”

Baby shopping. The hair stood on my arms and my heart fluttered.

“The only thing better than being at a party is planning one,” Ava said when I told her why I wanted her recipes. Then she frowned. “Oh, dear. I don’t have things for a baby theme. Hmm.” She put one finger across her lips, then clapped her hands. “We’ll use my Valentine’s Day things. Come on.” Ava led me down the basement steps to three tubs full of pink tablecloths, pink napkins, pink serving dishes, and heart-shaped trays. I could hardly believe the coup.

Ava wanted to look through other boxes, too, so I let her while I went upstairs and thumbed through a faded red gingham binder containing the goldmine of her appetizer recipes.

When I returned to the basement, Ava sat, cross-legged, on the floor, surrounded by papers and photos. “Come look,” she said.

I sat on the floor beside her. Wedding photos. “Oh, Ava. Look at you.”

“So young and skinny,” she said wistfully.

In the photo, she wore a tea-length dress and held the hand of a tall, bearlike man. The two descended the church steps, rice raining all around them. Ava looked at the crowd, laughing, while Myron looked at her, his pride and joy unmistakable.

“Are you glad you got married, Ava?” I asked.

Ava laughed a little trill. “What a question! Of course I am. Gladder about that than anything else in my life.”

I was surprised. “What about having children?”

Ava frowned. “Oh. I’m supposed to say that was better, aren’t I? You won’t tell, will you?” Before I could answer, she asked, “Now, did I have two or three?”

“Children?”

She nodded.

“Two. David and Carol.”

“No . . . seems to me there’s three.”

Was she remembering a child who’d died? “I’ve only met two.”

“Oh, well.” She waved her hand cavalierly as if she were talking about pets or teachers. “That was hard. Having those children. I don’t think I was a very good mother.”

I corrected her, even though I knew she spoke the truth. “You were a very good mother.”

“Really?” Her voice went high and girlish. “How do you know?”

“David and Carol say so.”

“What about the other one?”

“I’ve never met her.”

“Him. It’s a him. I wish I could remember his name.” She picked up another photo.

David and Carol had said nothing of the kind. Ava had been high strung and distant. She’d melted down at David’s coming out, calling the Davids in the middle of the night crying, “What did I do wrong? Why are you doing this to me?”

“He made bread, you know,” Ava said.

“David does,” I agreed.

“No, no. Myron. Myron made bread every evening, for the family. He could whip up a loaf quick as a cat could wink its eye.