Never in a million years did I expect Fi to call me and invite me to dinner. Wayne and I were trying to figure out if we had enough change for the laundromat, or if we needed to break into our emergency funds, AKA the old peanut butter jar of quarters in the back of the cupboard. The phone rang, my uncle answered it, and then handed it to me.
"Hello?"
"Eddie. It's Fi."
"Hey!" Not my catchiest response, but I was still stunned she called.
"Yeah, so I got a ton of stuff from the library, and um, my mom wants to know if you want to come over for dinner."
"Wait, what? Your mom?"
Fi mentioned the movie and added that dinner would be spaghetti.
BOOM. I love spaghetti. It's got everything—cheese, noodles, meatballs, sauce. Really good spaghetti is like the BEST food out there. Not the canned shit—Boyardee sucks—but honest to God spaghetti.
I must have made some sort of noise and then told her, "Ah, yeah! When? And where do you live?"
I got the details, hung up and when I looked at Wayne, he was shooting me one of those half-suspicious, half-fond looks he does so well. "So?"
"So I'm going to Fi Myer's house in half an hour for spaghetti and a movie," I bragged.
He managed a grin. "One less dish to wash here. Get that hamper loaded in the truck and I'll take care of this crap this time. Next load's on you."
I lightly punched his shoulder and he grinned again.
-oo00oo—
The Myers place was between Mulberry and Oak. A one-story with a garage, in this sort of light blue color. I took a breath before going up to the door, knowing full-well that things could go great, or shitty depending on the impression I made. And I liked Fi, so I wanted to make a good one. I'd showered and was wearing my last clean clothes, which shows you how desperate I was.
Well, maybe not desperate, but let's put it this way—I didn't get invited to dinner very often in Hawkins. Like, ever, really.
Fi answered the door, and when I came in, she introduced me to her mother. I smiled and shook her hand, but the whole time I was thinking, Shit. She looks bad. Mrs. Myers was like a shorter version of Fi, but all bones, and her hair was really short. But she talked to me like she was actually interested in what I had to say, so that helped.
"How's your uncle doing? We haven't had anyone come into the ER from the plant in a while, so safety must be doing better," she asked me.
"He's good," I told her. "He's a floor supervisor now, not on the line, so, uh, it's a better deal for him."
And it was—he didn't have to put up with being his feet for eight hours at a time.
"Good," Mom nodded. "Glad to hear it. So . . . how much Parmesan do you take on your pasta?"
I told her, "Gotta be tall enough to ski down."
"Pfft, lightweight. You have to coat the bottom of the plate, load the spaghetti with layers in-between, and THEN create the Everest peak on top."
I was cracking up as Fi sighed. "Why even bother with noodles at that point?"
"Stability," I told her. "Even the load distribution to hold the sauce and ya know, keep the integrity."
Mrs Myers laughed. "Just for that, I'm making you an honorary Italian, Eddie. Parmigiano per sempre."
"Italian? Your mom speaks Italian?" I stared at Fi, because honestly, if I could learn another language from somebody at home, I would have.
And Italian is sexy as hell.
"My side of the family is from Genoa. Rapallo to be exact. That is, my grandparents came from there," Mrs Myers told me. "They got kicked out by the fascists back in the Twenties."
"If you've got this, like live-in tutor, why are you taking French?" I asked Fi, because it sounded like the complete waste of a resource to me.
"One, because Hawkins High doesn't offer Italian, and two, because the closest country TO that part of Italy is France. If I ever go, I'd like to be able to speak something other than English," she told me, but at that point my attention was on the plate she was handing me.
From the first bite, I was blissing out—the noodles were perfect, the sauce, the meatballs. I know food doesn't matter to a lot of people, but for those of us who've had times when we lived out of boxes and cans, THIS was heaven.
Then the alarm went off, and Fi raced to save the garlic bread. I shut off the smoke alarm but the damage was done for at least two pieces. Fi was fussing about it, but most of them were fine so I brought them out to Mrs. Myers.
"Need some background," Mrs Myers told us. "Um, it's set in Morocco, I think? And it was sort of neutral in World War Two. Humphrey Bogart runs this cafe and he's kind of a dick."
"Mom!" I cracked up, both because she'd used the word, and because Fi was so scandalized
"Fi, he's heard it before. Both of you have. Hell, you probably use worse language than that when you're not around me. The point is, Bogart is this moody American who isn't going to do anybody any favors until his ex walks into the place," Mrs. Myers told us as she settled in on the far end of the sofa.
"Awk-ward," I offered, taking a piece of the garlic bread. I took one of the burnt ones, so they wouldn't have to throw it out.
Crunchy but not too bad.
"Big-time, especially since she's got a new husband who is pretty much perfect. He's a big hero, blah blah blah and they need to be able to get out of town."
"And Bogart helps them?" Fi asked. I noticed she tucked the blanket around her mom, and that got to me.
Her mom was sick. Seriously sick. Shit, no wonder Fi was having trouble with classes.
"Not gonna ruin it for you," Her mom shook her head. "The scene with the singing in the cafe is about in the middle, and once we get there, we can vote if you want to see the rest of it. Eddie, your plate is empty. Fi, can you reload him?"
I looked down. She was right. "Ah, you don't have to do that," I murmured, but only because it was the polite thing to say. I really DID want another plate.
Mrs. Myers laughed. "No arguing-you're getting a second plate, Mr. Munson, and we'll pack some leftovers for you too. No point in letting perfectly good pasta go to waste. Okay, let's get this movie going."
I wasn't sure I'd get into it, but I did. Bogart was a badass and I got where he was coming from, but then again, you could feel the heat between him and Ingrid Bergman. And when the singing scene came up, I was completely THERE.
Music is like a river. Most people stand on the banks, admiring it, enjoying it, but for those of us who play, we wade into it, letting it carry us places other people will never go. We swim with it, and against it, and sometimes let ourselves drown in it, man. That perfect storm of story, emotion, melody and harmony are the only power on the planet that I respect.
Ok, gettin' deep here, but all I'm saying is that I totally understood why La Marseillaise would be the perfect choice for bumping up those grades. If Fi and I could get even one person in class clapping, we'd win.
"It always gets to me," Mrs. Myers whispered. "Those people, just telling evil right to its face—like, NO. The line is right here and you're not going to cross it!"
"Totally," I agreed, and yeah, maybe my voice was little shaky. "Power in music, man. They're making this shield nobody can get through!"
"Yeah," Fi nodded. "I mean you can talk to people and try to persuade them, but when you get them singing . . ."
"Powerful," Mrs. Myers agreed, yawning. "So, do we finish it and see what happens with Rick, Ilsa, and Victor, or are you good?"
Fi looked at me at the same time I looked at her, and we didn't even have to debate it. We both nodded.
"Oh we gotta see it through," I told her mom. "damned straight."
So we did.
Mrs. Myers fell asleep before the end of the movie, so I helped Fi carry in the dishes from the living room. I wasn't sure what to say, but I tried.
"Fi? Your mom . . . she's . . ." I glanced towards the living room.
"Getting better," She snapped at me. "She's just really tired. So, here's the rest of the spaghetti. It should be enough for a dinner for you and your uncle, or a really big midnight snack just for you . . ." I was still looking at me, holding her gaze, and I saw Fi's shoulders drop a little.
"She had cancer, okay? But she's clear now, and just needs to rest up, and take her meds and . . . eat." Both of us looked at her mom's plate, which was still half-full. "She is gonna be FINE." Fi announced, and boy did I understand that tone.
Sometimes life is damned hard.
So I did the best thing I could. I agreed with her. "She is. Gonna be fine, that is."
"Yeah," Fi nodded and pushed the Tupperware towards me.
Yessss! I took it my Precious, holding it close.
"Me, I'm gonna sleep through the weekend after a feast like this," I told Fi, hoping to make her laugh. "Go straight into a pasta-induced coma. Hibernate like a bear."
"Going to make a butt plug too?" she shot back. And I shot HER a look. "What? Bears who go into hibernation do that. They plug up their butts so ants don't crawl in over the winter."
Annnnd I lost it, laughing so hard I had to bend over the counter, and seeing me laugh made her lose it too, so Fi started laughing. Then she tried to keep it down so her mom wouldn't wake up, which meant a lot of snorting through her hands. I had to stuff my face in my elbow to smother the sound.
"Th-they plug their own ASSES? That is some fu-weird shit, right there!" I snickered. "Wait until I tell Henderson!"
That would totally be the sort of thing he'd love knowing.
"No, NO shit because it's plugged up!" Fi replied, and we went through a second round of stifled giggles. She looked better, though, and led the way outside.
It was cooler, and I heard evening crickets. The sky was clear and the moon was close to full, but not quite. My old Plymouth Valiant was at the curb. We walked towards it.
"Thanks for coming over, and being nice to my mom," Fi murmured, "She gets a little lonely sometimes and company helps."
"Yeah, I get it. And she's cool. You get it from her, I can tell," I told her. And it was true—they were a lot alike in the good ways.
"I wish," Fi laughed. "She knew she wanted to be a nurse since she was in second grade. Me, I have no clue what I want to do. Still."
"Yeah well you're not alone there. I'm nearly twenty, and there are only three things I truly know," I opened the passenger door and set the Tupperware on the seat. "One, Hawkins is the butt plug of Indiana—"
That made Fi laugh, but I held up a hand to indicate I wasn't done. "Two, the minute I get that diploma I AM out of here. LA, New York . . . anyplace but here, baby."
I was going to be honest about that. Hawkins and I were NOT Bogart and Bergman on any level.
Fi leaned against my car door. "What's number three?"
"Metal is life!" I reminded her sternly.
"Should have seen THAT coming," she sighed. "Okay, oh, wait—so . . . when do you want to like, rehearse? I need to know because I have Lacrosse and I have to take mom to the pharmacy tomorrow."
"Sunday then," I dug in his front pocket for his keys. "At the Junior high, round three? Mr. Clark will open the multipurpose room for us to use."
"He will?" she was surprised, but I nodded.
"He'd always there doing his lesson plans. He's been letting me practice there on Sundays since sixth grade."
"Ah, okay then. Three. I'll bring the lyrics."
"I'll bring the thunder," I promised. Then, she gave him a quick hug, surprising both of us.
Warm. Sweet. Spaghetti-scented. Yes.
I looked at Fi a moment longer, then darted around and climbed in, driving off, feeling better than I had in a long time.