“Yeah, and I think it’s a good one. His secret ingredient is blackberry jelly. Leave it to a cross-dresser to come up with something real creative like that.”
Lula was wearing a stretchy orange sweater with a low V-neck and short sleeves, and a matching orange-and- black tiger-striped skirt. No flak vest.
“What happened to the flak vest?” I asked her.
“I was always sweating under it and it gave me a rash. I just gotta be on a more vigilant outlook for those idiot killers. If I get rid of the rash in time, I might wear the vest to the cook-off. Although I hate for it to interfere with my chef outfit.”
“Do you still think Chipotle’s killers will be at the cook-off?”
“They’ll be there,” Lula said. “And we’ll catch them and be rich. I got a bracelet all picked out at the jewelry store. And I’m going on a cruise down to the Panama Canal. I always wanted to see the Panama Canal.”
I agreed with Lula. I thought there was a good chance the killers would be at the cook-off. They were sticking around, and the cook-off seemed to be the logical reason. Although for me, it wouldn’t have been reason enough. If I whacked someone’s head off and was worried about being recognized, I’d get out of town. These guys didn’t seem to be all that smart. They were focused on getting rid of the witness, and in the bargain they were getting more witnesses.
Lula parked at the curb in front of my parents’ house and looked around before getting out of the car.
“I guess the coast is clear,” she said. “I don’t see no killers anywhere.”
Everything was business as usual in my parents’ house. My dad was in his chair in front of the television. My mom and Grandma Mazur were in the kitchen.
“I got all the chicken soaking in the sauce,” Grandma said. “I got batter for biscuits, and we made some coleslaw.”
“I got Larry comin’ over as soon as he’s off his shift,” Lula said. “He’s gonna show us how to do the grillin’. He should be here any minute.”
The doorbell chimed, and Grandma went to open the door.
“Well, lookit you,” I heard Grandma say. “You must be Larry. Come on in. We’re all in the kitchen waiting for you. And this here’s my son-in-law, Frank.”
“For the love of everything holy,” my father said. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”
“This is from my Julia Child collection,” Larry said. “I know she didn’t barbecue, but I just love the simplicity of her clothes and the complexity of her dishes.”
I stuck my head out the kitchen door and looked beyond the dining room into the living room. Larry was wearing a curly brown wig, a lavender-and-pink flower-print blouse, navy skirt, and navy pumps with very low heels. There actually was a frightening resemblance to Julia Child.
My father muttered something that might have sounded like flaming fruitcake and went back to reading his paper.
Larry followed Grandma into the kitchen, and Grandma introduced him to my mother.
“Very nice to meet you,” my mother said. And then she made the sign of the cross and reached for the liquor bottle in the cupboard next to the stove.
“We had a mishap with the grill a couple days ago,” Lula said to Larry. “But we got it put together again and we’re pretty sure it’ll work. It’s out back.”
“And here’s the chicken,” Grandma said. “We got it sitting in the sauce just like you told us.”
“Lookin’ good, ladies,” Larry said. “Let’s barbecue.”
Lula grabbed the tray with the chicken. My mother had her hand wrapped around a highball glass. And my grandmother had a broom.
“What’s the broom for?” Larry wanted to know.
“Dogs,” Grandma said.
We went outside, Larry approached the grill, and the rest of us hung back. Not that we didn’t trust Larry’s manly ability to ignite a grill; more that we suspected this was the grill from hell.
After a couple minutes of fiddling around, Larry got the grill up and running. He adjusted the flame just so, and he arranged the chicken.
“Good thing you got the night off from being Mister Clucky,” Grandma said.
“I never get the Sunday night shift,” Larry said. “Sunday night is dead. All the action takes place for the brunch and the early-dinner crowd. They always give those times to me because I’m the best Mister Clucky.”
“You’re a pretty good Julia Child, too,” Grandma said. “I bet you’re fun on Halloween.”
At six o’clock, my father took his seat at the table and we all hustled into the dining room with the food. We took our seats and I realized there was an extra plate set.
“You didn’t do what I think you did,” I said to my mother.
“He seemed like a nice young man,” my mother said. “I met him in the supermarket. He helped me pick out a grapefruit. And it turned out he’s related to Biddy Gurkin.”
The doorbell rang and Grandma jumped out of her chair. “I’ll get it. I like when we have a new man at the dinner table.”
“You have to stop doing this,” I said to my mother. “I don’t want a new man.”
“I’ll be dead someday,” my mother said. “And then what? You’ll wish you had someone.”
“I have a hamster.”
“This here is Peter Pecker,” Grandma said, leading a tall, bald, red-faced guy into the room.
Lula spewed water out of her nose, and my father choked on a piece of bread.
“Sorry,” Lula said. “I never met anyone named Peter Pecker before.”
“And he looks just like one, too,” Grandma said. “Did anyone else notice that? Isn’t that something?”
My mother drained her highball glass and looked to the kitchen.
“Sit here and have a piece of chicken,” Grandma said to Peter Pecker. “We made it special.”
Pecker sat down and looked across the table at Julia Child. “I thought you died.”
“It’s not really Julia Child,” Grandma said. “It’s Larry all dressed up. Earlier today, he was Mister Clucky.”
“That’s weird,” Peter said.
“Not as weird as being named Peter Pecker,” Larry said.
“I can’t help it if that’s what I’m named, asshole.”
“Who are you calling an asshole?”
“You, Mister Fruity Tutti.”
“You must have heard wrong,” Grandma said. “He’s not Mister Fruity Tutti. He’s Mister Clucky.”
“Biscuits,” my father said. “Where the hell are the biscuits?”
My mother and grandmother and I snapped to attention and passed the biscuits to my father.
“What do you do at the supermarket?” Grandma asked Pecker.
“I’m assistant manager for produce. I’m the vegetable specialist.”
“That sounds like a real good job,” Grandma said.
“I know all the vegetables,” Pecker said. “And I know all about fruits, too.” He looked across the table to Larry. “Nothing personal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Larry asked. “Are you calling me a fruit?”
“If the high heel fits.”
“You’re a jerk.”
“Hey, pal, I’m not the one wearing ladies’ panties.”
“This is the United States of America,” Larry said. “I can wear whatever kind of pants I want.”
“You should stop pickin’ on him,” Lula said to Peter Pecker. “You don’t watch your step, and I’ll put my foot up your runty butt.”
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Pecker said. “Now the fat chick’s going to protect the pussy-boy.”
Lula was on her feet. “Did someone call me a fat chick? I better not have heard that.”
“Fat, fat, fat,” Pecker said.
“Pecker head, pecker head, pecker head,” Larry said.
“Nobody calls me pecker head and lives,” Pecker said. And he launched himself across the table and tackled Julia Child.
The two men went to the floor, punching and grunting, rolling around locked together.
