Camptown Ladies (22 page)

“If she smells like trout, eat her out. If she smells like provolone, leave her alone.”

“Lisa!” Mom yelled, spanking her hand, but Dad laughed and threw two chunks of cheese and an olive into his mouth. Vince and Erica laughed too, and I knew if Erica looked at all embarrassed, it was only because of Mom’s reaction.

I called the meeting to order. “So, let’s get down to business.”

“Yes, please,” Mom said.

“We have to find a way to drive more business into the camp. Who has ideas?”

Mom raised her hand. “Yes, Mom? You don’t have to raise your hand.”

“No need to be disorderly,” she said, lowering her hand. “My first idea is to put up notices at all the sporting goods and outdoor stores where people go to buy camping things.”

Lisa said, “Not bad, but I was thinking we put notices at all the local bars and colleges and promote how Camptown Ladies and Camp Camp will be catering to a special clientele.”

Mom and Dad said in unison, “It will?”

“Yup,” Lisa answered, while I winced. “We are catering to . . . creative people,” she said.

Mom liked this. “Theater people, like Eddie?”

“Yes,” Lisa said, “exactly like Eddie. Theater people, dog and cat people, people who wear distressed leather with metal rivets, women who like to cut and stack their own wood—”

“Hey, wait on that,” Dad protested.

“Are there that many people who wear leather with rivets?” Mom asked.

“Depends on the bar,” Lisa said.

Dad popped another olive in his mouth to stop himself from grinning.

Erica pulled a list out of her notebook and slid it over to me. “I pulled together a database of all the magazines, websites, and blogs that we need to get the word out to, plus a service that will do a massive email blast for a small fee. I’m thinking we could also get a lot of free PR for, uh, specializing.”

Lisa and I looked at the list, both impressed, and I wondered if I was the only one smelling her scent on the notebook as we flipped the pages. “Perfect,” I said, not looking at her, “Thanks for doing this.”

“It was nothing. It’s the same basic list I used when I launched my contracting business,” she said.

We looked at each other then, and I was sure she was remembering the same thing I was, and we were both back in LA, and she was trying to fake a gay-owned business when she was no gayer than my brother, who was blatantly staring at her as he sipped his wine. I looked away from them both.

Lisa said, “We did some marketing with handouts in P-town, but until the season kicks in up there, not much will happen. Hey, maybe we should raffle off another date with Marie! We don’t need the money, but it sure brought a lot of attention.”

“No, thanks,” I said, keeping my eyes on the list. Mom and Dad pretended not to listen, as Mom sipped her wine.

Vince chimed in, “Yeah, Mare, we never got the details on that date.”

“You’re right, you didn’t,” I said.

There was silence until Erica spoke up, “I bet she was a real hottie.”

Erica was smirking at me. “She was OK, I guess,” I said. “It was her personality that was the problem.”

Erica tried Dad’s tactic of hiding her smile with an olive, but my stomach still did a triple flip when her lips parted to eat the olive, and she flipped it into her mouth with the tip of her tongue. I reminded myself there was nothing about this I should be smiling about. Nothing funny about this at all.

Since Erica had done all the heavy lifting with plenty of ideas, the evening turned from a work session to a drinking fest, and after the third bottle of wine was opened, we had long since forgotten the mission, and Lisa was telling stories for Erica’s benefit which our family had heard a hundred times.

Lisa said, “So, I once had this beautiful Rottweiler. His name was Bear.”

“I heard about this dog,” Erica interrupted, “he liked to poop in your neighbor’s yard. Great story.” Erica caught my eye with a ball-busting twinkle as she sipped her drink.

Lisa continued, “Huh? Well, anyway he was my favorite dog—”

I interrupted, “Worse than that. She was in love with him.”

Vince jumped in, “She was totally attracted to him. Borderline, sick.”

“What made it weirder was that it was a boy dog,” I said, faking a shiver.

Lisa said, “Well, he was a stud. What a handsome guy, the best looking man I had ever laid my eyes on: big, fat head, nice heavy coat, strong shoulders,” she sighed. “If a human man could look that good, I might have gone in a different direction.”

Erica’s eyebrows were raised, and she was equally freaked out and amused, typical when people were around Lisa. “That’s just wrong,” she said to Vince. “Is this story supposed to be creepy, because it’s creepy.”

Lisa continued, undaunted. “So anyways, he had this one flaw about him, though I didn’t really see it as a flaw. He had this mole on the side of his face, pretty big, like the size of a grape, only wrinkly, like a small scrotum. I called it his raisin.”

Erica looked at me with concern, so I assured her, “Don’t worry, Bear didn’t seem to mind it. I think a part of him accepted that it really did look like a giant raisin.” She started laughing, and wine was making the pounding in my chest start to feel good. Or maybe it was hearing her laugh again.

Lisa said, “So anyways, one night while I was watching TV, I was petting Bear with my bare feet, like I always did.”

“He probably minded that a bit,” Vince said.

Lisa continued, “And I started playing with his raisin, between my toes, you know, just twirling it around between my big toe, and my next toe.”

I said to Erica, who was starting to lose it, “Yeah, you know, as you would normally.”

“Which was fine,” Lisa said, “until I felt something sticky between my toes and looked down to see that my toes had blood all over them.”

Erica covered her eyes and said, “Oh, God! That. Is. So. Disgusting!”

Lisa said, “Freaked me out too, I thought I had ripped his little raisin nub off, you know, playing with it too hard.”

“Every man’s nightmare,” Vince said.

I was trying like hell not to laugh, and chimed in as seriously, “Yeah, raisin-play always seems like a good idea, until there’s blood.”

Erica clutched her face harder, trying to make the images go away, but Lisa continued, “So, I scream, of course, which upsets Bear, who shakes his head, sending his raisin flying right at me, hitting me on the throat and bouncing right down the front of my shirt, and it sticks between my tits.”

Erica exploded with laughter, putting her hand up to stop Lisa.

“But wait, here’s the damnedest thing,” Lisa said.

“That
wasn’t
the damnedest thing?” Erica asked me.

Lisa said, “I reach down my shirt for it, and using two fingers, like a scissor, peel it off between my boobs, but when I pulled it out, I saw it was a giant, swollen, bloody tick!”

Erica shrieked in horror, and Vince and I couldn’t stop laughing, pounding the table and rolling off our chairs, despite having heard the story so many times. Erica screamed, “Bear’s raisin was a tick?”

Lisa answered, “No, no, silly. The raisin was fine, thank God. I just had been playing with a tick with my toes and
thought
it was his raisin.”

Erica said, “Well, thank God you still had the raisin, that makes the story so less crazy.” Although Erica was shaking her head in complete disgust, she was laughing and Vince and I knew it was the first time we had seen her looking so happy since she had come back to us.

Eighteen

Be Careful What You Curse For

Mom and Aggie were at it again. They were so loud that people gathered near the Camp store to see the show. Mom and Aggie were arguing over which side the pop-up tents should go in, and Lisa was telling them why they were both wrong.

Despite their constant bickering, the camp store was shaping up nicely and it was the one building besides the office that had not been stripped of its roof due to the inventory, such as it was. Mom had followed Lisa’s orders and kept the inventory for women and men on separate sides, and it gave the store the appearance of an adult toy store, which my sister said the gays would love. Mom displayed all the girly tablecloths and pretty awnings together on the boys’ side, while the green mosquito coils and hand hatchets were on the opposite side of the store. The problem came when Mom insisted on grouping the tents together, and Aunt Aggie was fighting her on it.

Aunt Aggie widened her stance in front of Mom, “You’re not going according to the plan.”

Mom yelled back, “Plans need to change when they’re not any good!”

Aggie spat, “And who ever heard of a home décor lighting department in a camp store?”

Mom slammed down a box of mauve candlesticks on the counter and the old cash register answered with a “ping!” Eddie yelled from the adjoining rec hall, “Every time a bell rings, a fairy gets his wings!”

Mom hissed, “Of course you wouldn’t know a thing about home décor! You have a bleeding Jesus on every wall of your house!”

Aunt Aggie crossed her heart and looked up to the camp store ceiling as she said, “Ooooh, deee. What woman did my brother marry?”

Mom answered, “You’re asking the ceiling this question? Your brother probably married the first one he met, to get out of your house!”

Aunt Aggie roared. “That’s the most sense you have made all day!”

Lisa tried again to get between them, but Aunt Aggie cock-blocked her with a long tent pole and said to Mom, “You know, there are no gays on the Santora side of the family. It’s not a ‘thing’ in Italy like it is here.”

Lisa fought back a laugh, but had to chime in, “Yeah, Michelangelo was into pussy. Also, who do you guess designed your stunning floral housecoats back in the old country?”

Mom snapped at Lisa, “Don’t be fresh to your Aunt.”

Aunt Aggie turned to Lisa with a smug smile. “Yes, listen to your mother.”

I stepped in the middle and said the only thing I could think of.

“I have an idea, let’s all just all get in a circle, hold hands, and do a nice Kiegel wave. What do you say? It’s easy, empowering, and keeps our bladders strong.”

Lisa laughed and said to Aunt Aggie, “Unless you’re already on the Depends, in which case don’t waste burning the calories.”

Aunt Aggie turned to Lisa, slowly, and said, “Lisa, honey, not to change the subject away from your potty humor, but I’ve always wanted to ask: that pretty young man Andrew that you dated in high school, was he the one that made you gay?”

Lisa answered, “That was second grade. And no. Everyone knows that
men
don’t make women gay. Men’s
balls
make women gay.”

Aunt Aggie roared at this, and even Mom had to stifle a laugh.

Mom regained her composure, though, and returned to her frown and said, “I am just saying that between the two of us, my opinion should outweigh hers. It’s not like your family is known for their smarts.”

Aunt Aggie fumed. She knew Mom was referring to Aunt Aggie’s identical twin and nearly departed sister, Etta. Etta Santora
was the spitting image of Aunt Aggie, and family legend had it that Etta once attended a party at a friend of a friend’s house. She hadn’t seen her sister for a while and was stunned to see her across the room. “Aggie!” she screamed, “I didn’t know you were coming!” Etta yelled this in Italian, as she came barrel-assing across the room, as the sea of people parted let the large woman run past them. The partygoers watched in disbelief as she slammed into a mirrored wall. It was Mom’s favorite story. Mom had to pretend not to enjoy the story too much, since Etta had slammed into one too many things in her life and had been left in a permanent coma for as long as we kids could remember. Aunt Aggie still visited their sister twice a week to read to her. (Aunt Etta was fascinated by books, since she never could grasp how to read English—or Italian for that matter.) Dad had visited his sister daily for years and years, but when he married Mom, she made him stop since it was taking its toll on him. Mom said he couldn’t stand to see any sister of his in such a state not fitting of a Santora: silent.

“Now what is the issue with the tents?” Lisa asked as if she could possibly regain control of the situation.