Slightly Engaged

  “It’s okay. I’m really not jealous.”

  No, just sick to death of hearing about their Valentine’s Day wedding and their safari honeymoon and living happily ever blah, blah, blah.

  “Of course you’re not jealous,” he says gently. Then, after a beat, “So do you think Donatello will find me more irresistible in the leopard-print or the zebra-stripe frames for Kenya?”

  He pulls on one pair of shades, then the other.

  I pretend to debate, while making absolutely certain out of sheer Raphael-induced paranoia that there’s not the slightest possibility Jack is, indeed, on drugs.

  Of course he isn’t.

  And I’m an idiot for even bringing up the subject of Jack and our nonengagement to Raphael, the voice of doom. Haven’t I learned he has nothing optimistic to say about my chances of becoming Jack’s bride?

  He keeps telling me I’m the proverbial cow and Jack is getting the proverbial milk for free, and “Sooner or later he’s going to become lactose intolerant, Tracey. You’ll see.”

  “What does that even mean?” I made the mistake of asking.

  And Raphael told me. Nonproverbially.

  Mental note: do not, I repeat, not, mention anything about Jack or the elusive diamond ring for the remainder of the evening.

  The only thing is, there’s really not much else I care about right now in my life. Everything else—work, finances, Spadolini-family dynamics, pre-holiday madness—is status quo.

  I’m sure I’d feel better if I could at least campaign for that promotion at Blair Barnett. But Mike’s replacement has yet to be hired, and even if he—or she—were already on board, everybody knows that nothing exciting happens in the agency at this time of year. Everybody’s just marking time until Christmas, which is when the agency, like most others in Manhattan, will close until after New Year’s.

  As a result, there is very little at the office—other than the dreaded annual Secret Snowflake exchange—to keep me occupied.

  Not that I’m lacking for distractions on the home front. In fact, there’s a lot to do. Cleaning, wrapping, packing…

  I look up at the starless December sky, thinking I never should have agreed to come Christmas shopping with Raphael tonight. I should probably be home cleaning. The place is a mess, and to make matters even more depressing, the leg fell off our pressboard dining table when I bumped it earlier. I left it there on the floor because I was late for work. Jack will have to get wood putty or something and fix it when he gets home.

  Still, I could be there wrapping the stack of gifts I still have left to wrap, or packing for our trip up to Brookside.

  We don’t leave for another two days, though. Forty-eight hours. Which is plenty of time.

  Plenty of time to go through my drawers and hangers in an effort to find a couple of outfits I can still squeeze into.

  No, I haven’t lost the post-smoking weight.

  If anything, I actually may have gained a few pounds since Thanksgiving—not that I’m willing to step on a scale to find out. Who wants to weigh themselves in December, the height of the holiday-binge season? Better to wait until a cold morning in January, when all that will be available to tempt me might be leftover candy canes and soon-to-expire dip.

  “Tracey!”

  “The leopard spots,” I tell Raphael, who’s still waiting impatiently.

  “Reason, Tracey?”

  “They go better with your tawny new hair.”

  “You think?”

  I nod vigorously.

  “Oh, Tracey, I don’t know…” Raphael tries to catch sight of his reflection in the mirrored lens of the zebra-striped shades. “You don’t think they’re too campy?”

  “They are, but since when do you care?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be campy,” protests Raphael, who is currently wearing a vintage tweed overcoat on top of an outfit he had custom made by a costume-designer friend who specializes in pirate-wear.

  Yes, pirate-wear.

  I’d be willing to bet he’s the only swashbuckler to hit the streets of lower Manhattan in at least three centuries.

  Meanwhile, he went platinum—or as he persists in calling it, “tawny”—a few days ago, because “gentlemen prefer blondes.” In other words, he caught Donatello exchanging small talk with a strapping, fair-haired mailman en route to mailing their wedding invitations. Talk about paranoia.

  “I guess you’re right,” Raphael decides. “The leopard spots do go much better with my hair, campy or not.”

  “You’re going to buy them?” I ask, even as he puts both pairs of sunglasses back on the display table.

  “No, I don’t really like them, Tracey,” he says airily.

  “Because they’re campy?”

  “Because they squeeze the sides of my head.” He extends an arm, gesturing toward the teeming sidewalk. “Shall we?”

  I swear, Christmas shopping with fickle Raphael is almost as exasperating as Christmas shopping with fickle Kate, which I did last weekend. I bought exactly one Christmas gift—a pair of gloves for the annual office Secret Snowflake exchange—and spent the remainder of the time watching Kate try on an entire designer line of darling maternity clothes.

  No, she’s not pregnant yet.

  She was “browsing.”

  The only person I can really shop well with is Jack, but he’s in Toledo on business overnight. And anyway, I’m supposed to be buying his gift, something I can’t exactly accomplish in his company.

  Something I can’t exactly accomplish, period.

  At least, so far.

  That’s because every gift item I consider seems all wrong.

  A nice scarf?

  Too insignificant, especially if he’s giving me a diamond ring for Christmas.

  A nice Rolex?

  Too significant, especially if he’s not giving me a diamond ring for Christmas.

  See what I mean?

  “I just wish I knew whether he’s going to propose or not,” I make the mistake of murmuring to Raphael, after discarding a pile of sweaters at another sidewalk vendor farther down the block, which Raphael has deemed “sub-par cashmere.”

  His neck snaps around. “Did you just say you wish you knew whether he’s going to propose or not, Tracey?”

  Okay, obviously I didn’t learn my lesson after making that same speculation and subsequent vow not to, ever again, because here I am, once again, watching Raphael shake his head vigorously in response.

  “My guess is no, Tracey. He’s not.”

  “Why not?” I ask reluctantly.

  “Because he’s supposedly had the ring since August, so why wouldn’t he have given it to you before now?”

  “Because he sold it for cash to buy drugs, remember?”

  “Tracey!” He gasps, covering his mouth. “You think?”

  “No! I don’t think. I already told you he’s not on drugs.”

  “Well then, maybe he’s involved with somebody else, Tracey, and he’s planning on giving her the diamond.”

  On a different night, or a bad-hair day, that suggestion might actually give me pause, but tonight it doesn’t. Not on the heels of this morning’s rigorously erotic goodbye before Jack left for the airport. Nothing like some good lovin’ to leave a gal feeling confident.

  So it’s my turn to shake my head vigorously. “Nope. No way.”

  “Well then, maybe he threw it overboard into the sea, like the old lady at the end of Titanic.”

  There are so many things wrong with that scenario that I’m not sure where to start.

  I choose, “Last I knew, Jack hadn’t gone to sea in at least a couple of years.”

  “Well, then maybe he tossed it into the East River, Tracey. Ever think of that?”

  “No, Raphael. I haven’t.”

  “Well, maybe you should,” he says sassily.

  I know I’m going to regret this, but…

  “Why would he toss the diamond into the East River, Raphael?”

  “To destroy the l
ast remaining testament to his parents’ failed marriage,” he says dramatically, and then, without hesitation, “Ooh! Sparkles!”

  He has stopped to cuddle with a turquoise sequined turban, which he then plunks on his flaxen—excuse me, tawny—head. “Tracey, do you love?”

  “It’s very…sparkly.”

  “How do I look in it?”

  “Like the Sultan of Oman, if you want to know the truth.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Take off the turban, Raphael.”

  “But it’s adorable, Tracey. And swanky.” He sneaks a peek at the white dangling price tag. “And it’s an absolute steal!”

  “Okay, then buy it.”

  “You think?”

  “I do think.”

  “Well, I think you should get one for Jack, Tracey.” Raphael closes his eyes and giggles, obviously cracking himself up with the visual. “Can you just see it?”

  “No, I can’t. Not unless it were Halloween.”

  His eyes fly open, flickering with sudden interest. “Does Jack dress up in swanky drag for Halloween?”

  “Nope. I know you’ll find this surprising, but Jack rarely dresses up in drag, swanky or non-swanky.”

  “That’s a crying shame.”

  “Isn’t it just.” I watch Raphael take off the turban, start to walk away, then rush back and put it on his head again.

  “I can’t! I love it, Tracey!”

  “So buy it!” I shout back at him.

  He calms down, tilts his head in serious thought. “I don’t know…I’m not big on impulse buys.”

  Okay, the thing about that is…he so is.

  “The way I see it, Raphael, one doesn’t acquire a turquoise sequined turban in any other manner.”

  “True. But…when would I wear it, Tracey?”

  “For work?” I suggest, bored out of my non-turban-spangled skull. “For play?”

  “It is versatile,” he muses, examining his reflection in a conveniently located mirror. “I don’t know…you don’t think it’s too…busy?”

  Busy isn’t the word I’d have chosen, but…

  “Not in a bad way, Raphael.”

  “I’ll take two,” he announces, and removes a wad of twenties from his pocket. After counting out six of them, a matched set of turquoise sequined turbans are all his.

  “Do you wrap?” he asks the largely unfazed, dreadlocked vendor.

  “No, mon.”

  Disappointed, Raphael asks, “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, mon.”

  “Now you tell me. Can you knock off ten bucks, then? On each?”

  The vendor silently isn’t amused.

  In fact, he’s starting to look silently—and ominously—fazed.

  “Come on, Raphael. They don’t wrap. Let’s move it.”

  I’ll admit I’m not particularly anxious to top off the evening with an ugly altercation between Dreadlock Dan and our disgruntled little consumer pal, who seems to have forgotten he’s not at an accessories counter in Bergdorf Goodman.

  “I’ll wear mine home,” Raphael decides, removing it from the white no-frills plastic grocery sack the vendor hands him. He grumbles loudly over his shoulder as we walk away, “And I guess I’ll have to get a box and wrapping paper for Donatello’s.”

  Dreadlock Dan has pocketed his cash and gone back to being unfazed.

  See, that’s the thing about shopping on Saint Mark’s Place, as opposed to shopping in a fancy department store. You’re not going to walk away with a prestigious paper shopping bag, or gift boxes, let alone fancy wrap, the way you do at Bergdorf.

  If I do find Jack’s Christmas gift here, I’ll have to package it on my own.

  Still, this is a great place to find a bargain—though a fifty-seven-dollar turquoise sequined turban isn’t it, in my opinion.

  “So that’s Donatello’s gift?” I ask Raphael.

  “Tracey! This is just a stocking stuffer.”

  “Oh, of course.” Silly me.

  “So what else did you get for him?” I ask after a moment, hoping he can give me some ideas for Jack.

  He stops walking, rests a fist against his chest and sings in a booming voice: “Five…golden…rings.”

  To which I promptly respond, in song, “Four calling birds, three French hens, two-oo turtle doves and a partri-idge in a pear tree.”

  Then I say in my regular voice, “Your turn.”

  “Tracey! We’re not playing that caroling game again! I’m telling you what I bought for him.”

  It takes me a moment to regroup and go from trying to remember the ever-elusive second verse of “Good King Wenceslas” to incredulously asking, “You bought Donatello five golden rings for Christmas?”

  He nods vigorously. “Just like in the song!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s in the song!” he says, as though that makes perfect sense. “You know…on the fifth day of—”

  “I know!” I cut him off on midnote. “So you’re getting him the other stuff, too?”

  He looks blank. “What other stuff?”

  I sigh. “Four calling birds, three French hens, two-oo turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.”

  “Tracey! Why would I do that?” Raphael asks, as though that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

  “Because it’s in the song. You know, a theme gift,” I say impatiently. “You got him the five golden rings…”

  “Ye-es…” Raphael is still frowning as though he doesn’t get my drift.

  “But you didn’t get him any of the other stuff?”

  “Nope. Just the five rings, Tracey. Why would he need any of that other stuff?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…”

  Why would he need five golden rings, dammit?

  When I consider the possible uses a man might have for all that bling, I just don’t get it.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to ask, does it?

  No. It certainly doesn’t.

  Tell me to drop the subject.

  Hurry. Tell me.

  Too late.

  “Are they for all five fingers of his hand?” I hear myself inquire.

  Because who knows? Maybe that’s some new gay style I haven’t heard about.

  “Nope.” Raphael lifts a sly brow. “I bought him one for the ring finger of each hand, one toe ring for the pinkie toe of each foot, and one very large one for—”

  “Forget it,” I cut in just in the nick of time. “I don’t need to know.”

  Apparently, he thinks I do.

  I consequently spend the next few minutes trying to banish that unfortunate image from my brain.

  “Ooh, this is keeping my head nice and toasty,” Raphael comments as the wind kicks up when we stop at the next intersection to wait for a light. “You know what, Tracey? I think I’ll give Donatello his early so that we can wear them skiing next weekend. They complement our new parkas.”

  My squeamish mind’s eye finds instant reprieve in a replacement image: Raphael and Donatello sailing along on the slopes in matching turquoise sequined turbans and complementary turquoise sequined parkas.

  “Wait,” I say. “You’re going skiing? Since when?”

  “Since Donatello and I rented a château in Vermont for the holidays. Didn’t I tell you? Tracey, I know I told you.”

  “What you told me was that you were going to spend Christmas in Omaha with Donatello’s family.”

  Yes, Raphael’s future husband is from Nebraska. Apparently, he was a corn-fed farm boy before he set out for New York to make his fortune as a waiter slash Macy’s spray model.

  In fact, much to Raphael’s delight, Donatello still occasionally wears denim overalls without a shirt underneath, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, goes over much better on Christopher Street than it does, say, on a subway filled with disgruntled construction workers returning home after a grueling day on the job.

  Unfortunately, Donatello learned that the hard way.

&
nbsp; Thirteen facial stitches and a police report later, you’d think he would have learned.

  “Oh, well, we were going to spend Christmas in Omaha, Tracey, but that was a while ago. Before Donatello’s family disowned him.”

  “Did they find out he was gay?” I ask, remembering that Raphael’s future in-laws are even more staunchly Italian-Catholic than my family is.

  “No! He can’t tell them that, Tracey.” From beneath his spangled turban, Raphael looks at me as though I’m the crazy one.

  “Well, won’t they figure it out when they get their invitation to the wedding?”

  “They’re not invited, Tracey! No family, just friends. It’s going to be a secret marriage. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “Raphael, you put an engagement announcement in the New York Times.”

  “His family only reads the Omaha World-Herald,” he says disdainfully.

  “Still…how secret can you make a sit-down reception for three hundred and a twelve-piece orchestra?”

  “Eleven-piece, Tracey.”

  “What? The naked bongo player couldn’t make it?” I quip.

  “It was always eleven piece, but a naked bongo player isn’t a bad idea,” Raphael muses, pulling out a notebook he’s been carrying around ever since he got engaged, and jotting down a quick note in it.

  “So what did Donatello do to get disowned?” I can’t help but ask.

  “He skipped his great-aunt’s retirement party to go to Jones’s opening. Give me a break.”

  See? What did I tell you? In the Spadolini family, he would have been disowned for a lesser crime than that.

  “So…what did his great-aunt do?” I ask politely.

  “She sent him a family picture in a smashed glass frame. And, Tracey, she drew a pointy beard and devil ears on Donatello.”

  Ah, revenge, Little Old Italian Lady–style.

  “No,” I say patiently, “I mean, what did she do for a living?”

  Not that I care.

  But I’m in this deep, so I might as well know.

  “She was a lunch lady, Tracey!”

  “What’s wrong with lunch ladies? I have an aunt who’s a lunch lady, too,” I protest. “Don’t be a snob, Raphael.”

  “I can’t help it. I am a snob. And these people in Nebraska have no sense of cultural priority.”