"Where is he?"

"Not here. Not this minute. On Saturday night."

"With who?"

"Aren't you going to congratulate me? I haven't had sex in thirteen years. Eleven since the divorce, and the two before that Lonnie complained of sciatica, so it's a total of thirteen I've been living like a nun. Toward the end of my marriage, I had to beg for any slight remembrance of human companionship, believe me."

"Resemblance, Toot. Resemblance of human . . ." I give up. "Please, this is none of my business."

"I know. It's gotta be tough to hear that your only sister was chaste even while in the married state. But it's true." Toot pulls a handkerchief from under her bra strap and wipes her face. "Do you know Sal Concarni?" She stuffs the handkerchief back where she got it.

"From Belmar?"

"Yeah. The plumber. He's divorced too. Sixty-one years old. Is that too old for me?"

"I don't think so."

"It sounds old. I mean, I don't want to date a guy and then end up having to crush his pills, give him baths, and help put him back in his chair."

"Sixty-one isn't what it used to be."

"That's what I'm thinking. Women age so much better than men, though. I mean, I'm dyeing my hair, but at least I have hair. You know what I'm saying?"

"Sis, get in the car."

"Oh, I'll jog it. Meet you at the house."

I drive ahead and watch my sister put one foot in front of the other as though her sneakers are made of cast iron. I don't know if jogging is the right sport for her; something involving flotation might be a wiser choice. I pull into her driveway and grab the sack of cheese. As she jogs into the driveway, Toot raises her arms in victory as if she's just won an Olympic gold medal for track and field. "One mile!" she shouts. "Whoo-hoo!"

"Wonderful." I follow her into the house.

"I don't know what I'm gonna wear. The last time I was on a date was with Lonnie, and when was that? Truman was president. Sweet God. I can't eat a thing tomorrow. If I lose another couple of pounds, I can fit into a lightweight Pendleton wool chemise I got for Lucy Caruso's wedding. It's pink plaid. Is plaid all right on a date?"

"Is he taking you clog dancing in the Scottish Highlands?"

Toot rolls her eyes.

"Skip the wool. You need something soft and touchable. Like Qiana. Have you got anything made with Qiana?"

"Some panties." Toot cackles and pours herself a glass of water.

"If you're not going to take this seriously-"

"Oh, B. Come on. All I've done is take things seriously for the past thirteen years. Thirteen? What the hell, all my life. I want to laugh again. I want to giggle like those girls in braces on the boardwalk who travel in packs and think everything is funny. I want to be silly. Romantic. I want to hold hands in the park and kiss under the moon. I need some . . . touch."

"Okay. I get it. Here's what you need to do. Go to Bamberger's and get yourself some new lingerie. And then-don't laugh-go to the men's department and buy a pair of black satin pajamas."

"I don't know Sal that well yet."

"They're not for him. They're for you. You're going to wear a pair of simple black slacks with a satin pajama top."

"Out in public?"

"No one will know it's pajamas but you. It will fit with a little blousing, which you need. It will be very alluring."

"Wow, I never thought of that." Toot looks off in the distance, imagining herself in a sexy pajama top.

"And throw on some pearls and your diamond earrings. Black with cool white accents. You'll look like a Thin Mint. One of those Girl Scout cookies."

Toot's eyes fill with tears. "It's almost as if you want this for me more than I want it for myself."

"Your happiness means the world to me, sis. It's time for you to be a girl again."

CHAPTER FIVE.

Monica Vitti's Chandelier Sunday dinner at Toot's with the boys has been a continuation of a family tradition since our parents were alive. Occasionally one or two of us is missing, but the open seat is quickly taken by a cousin or some great-aunt who's visiting from out of town. Stragglers are welcome, and Toot makes enough stuffed artichokes, manicotti, bracciole, and tiramisu for the College of Cardinals and their secretaries. Even Two would make the drive from Villanova to join us. Everyone leaves with enough food for lunches the following week.

Toot has yet to invite Ondine to our family dinner, and for the past several weeks Nicky has made an excuse and stayed away. So, after much negotiation and many phone calls back and forth, Ondine has been included at last. While Toot and I arrange the food in the kitchen, Ondine is serving cocktails to the boys in the living room, which harkens back to her boffo career in Atlantic City waiting on the craps tables in hot pants.

"I almost invited Sal to dinner," Toot says as she moves a Corningware dish of Clams Casino from the oven to the table. "It's our seven-week anniversary this Saturday. But I thought it was too much, too soon."

"You shouldn't hide Sal from the boys. You're dating, and you should sit them down and be a grown-up and tell them that this is what adults do. They date and they have friends. I wouldn't worry. They'll be happy for you." I follow Toot into the dining room with a basket of hot garlic bread. She places the clams on the buffet.

"You think?" Toot knits her brow into a small checkerboard. "I don't know. When Natalie Covella started dating after her divorce, her sons almost killed the guy."

"That's because she'd been seeing him for the last ten years of her marriage. Yours is a completely different situation."

"What situation?" Two comes into the dining room carrying the crystal side dishes of celery hearts, black olives, and carrot curls artfully arranged.

"Oh, Two, I don't want to hurt you," Toot wails, beginning to cry.

"Oh, for godsakes." I hand my sister a clean moppeen.

"What is it, Ma? Are you sick?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want you to think I'm a puttana."

"What?" Two is aghast.

"I'm seeing Sal Concarni. You know, the plumber from Belmar. There's nothing wrong with my pipes, it's strictly social. Anyhow, I'm so lonely, Two, and he's a nice companion." Toot is sobbing uncontrollably now.

Two takes her by the shoulders. "Ma, that's fantastic."

"It is?" Toot dries up.

"Yeah. I mean, you should be with someone. You're a beautiful woman with a lot to offer. Any guy would be lucky to have you."

"I've lived like Bernadette of Lourdes for thirteen years. I've sacrificed in order to enjoy whatever small morsel of happiness is in store for me. Whatever God has in mind-"

"Toot," I say, warning in my voice. "He's on your side. Don't pile it on."

"Sorry. But it's true." Toot wipes away her tears by giving a quick swipe under each eye with a clean moppeen, careful not to smudge her mascara.

"Two, please call the boys and Ondine to dinner."

Two goes into the living room. "How did I do?" She checks her lipstick in the butter knife.

"Sensational!" I say. "I don't know what I liked better, the wailing or the gnashing of the teeth."

"Hey, Unc." Anthony ambles into the dining room and gives me a hug.

"Hello, Anthony." My nephew slides into his chair and slumps low. Maybe his posture is so poor because he's hunched over working on tiny gold chain links all day, but I wish he had some manners.

"Where do you want us, Ma?"

"Nicky, you go there." She points. "And Ondine, you go there." Toot points to the seat farthest from Nicky.

"Can't I sit next to Nicky?" Ondine says softly.

"Oh, I guess so. B, you sit there instead." Toot switches my place card (from Lillian Vernon, small china flower baskets that you write on with a washable marker) with Ondine's. "You know, Ondine"-from my sister's tone I can tell an insult is coming; it's like the gurgle before the pipe bursts-"many hostesses-the Duchess of Windsor comes to mind-split up the couples at their dinner parties so the individuals can talk to people they don't see on a daily basis, thus giving the party some pizzazz and fresh conversation."

"But"-Ondine looks around-"there's only the six of us here."

"Right, but you do get my point, don't you?"

Ondine nods, but I'm certain she doesn't. Neither do I or any of my nephews who've never heard their mother invoke the Duchess of Windsor before.

"Okay, sis, shall we eat?"

We form a line at the buffet; the serving dishes cover the table like a completed puzzle. We load up our plates. When we've taken our seats, Toot says, "B, will you say grace?"

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit . . ." I look at Ondine, who is not Catholic, and drop the traditional "Bless Us Oh Lord" in favor of a more ecumenical choice. "Thank you, God, for this beautiful meal made with loving hands by my sister. Amen."

"Everything's gone to hell since Vatican II," Toot says.

"Ma?"

"Yes, Nicky?"

"I hope you don't mind. I invited Pop over for dessert."

Toot puts down the Parmesan. "Is he bringing Doris?"

"She's his wife."

"That wasn't the question. I asked if he was bringing her."

"They go everywhere together."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now, is there?" Toot leans over and whispers into my ear. "Thank God I didn't invite Sal."

"You were nice to Doris at Unc's birthday party," Nicky says meekly.

"For the record, I can't be nice this close together. It's a strain for me to be friendly this close together, okay? When it comes to ex-husbands and their current wives I'm, at the most, a once-a-year girl."

"Two, tell us about your work at the studio." I change the subject swiftly, like Mario Andretti changes lanes at the NASCAR finals.

"I'm learning a lot from Hattie, the upholsterer. She showed me how to pipe a slipcover in grosgrain trim this week."

"Are you going back to college?" Nicky asks.

Toot interrupts. "He is taking off a while. That's all. Then he's going back to get his degree. Three sons, I want one with a diploma that's not from driving school."

"I plan to go back eventually."

"I'm sure the theater department misses you terribly," I tell Two as I pass him the hot bread.

"You're not going to end up like one of those theater fairies, are you?" Anthony grumbles.

"What's a theater fairy?" Two asks evenly.

"You know."

"I don't know." Two puts down his fork.

"Well, it's your basic she-male. Ballerinas, dancers, actors-you know-any guy that would wear tights." Anthony and Nicky laugh.

"So you're including professional wrestlers?" Two asks.

"They're different," Anthony counters. "They're all-male. If a guy does sports, he's automatically a man."

"What is a man to you, Anthony?" I interrupt. Everyone looks at me except Anthony, who looks down at his stuffed mushrooms.

"A guy who does guy stuff," he offers finally.

"What a relief." I throw my hands in the air.

"What?" Anthony looks confused.

"There are lots of people who think men who sit around on stools with tweezers and make ankle bracelets and toe rings are light in the loafers," I say. "You know, jewelry fairies." I saw my ravioli in half with my fork so hard I almost chip the plate. Two laughs, then Nicky and Anthony join in. Ondine looks relieved that an argument has not occured.

"I've been seeing Sal Concarni," Toot blurts.