The Loose Ends List(44)

“How about Lola?” Gram says.

“Her name is Lola. She is a showgirl,” Wes sings. We shush him, but it’s too late. Lola disappears into the forest canopy.

We are too much for the little monkey to handle.



After spending all that time in a moving vessel, it feels like I’m still moving, even as I linger in the shower at the Copacabana Palace Hotel slathering fancy soaps all over myself. Janie flings open the shower door to tell me she just had a nightmare about bats gnawing through her suitcase. We spend the next hour writing postcards to our friends. I end Rachel’s postcard with: Gram is hanging in there. She’s a trouper.

We’re dressing for dinner when I get a text from Skinny Dave’s mom.

Thank you for thinking of me. I’m missing my boy, but ready for the next chapter. Best wishes to you all.



Apparently the secret chemotherapy hasn’t altered Gram’s obsession with Brazilian meat.

I put on a short, very tight green dress and silver heels. Janie walks out in an even shorter, even tighter pink dress that highlights her voluptuous boobage. The gentlemen of the Copacabana Palace lobby swoon a little when we make our entrance. I’m disappointed in Janie and me—we should be taking advantage of the opportunity to hook up with Brazilian boys, but she’s obsessed with Ty and I only have eyes for Enzo Ivanhoe.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.

“Hubba, hubba. Our girls are all grown up,” Wes says. Even Jeb shows up in nice clothes.

“My, my. Look at us. Aren’t we sexy beasts?” Gram’s wearing all her good jewels for this.

The churrascaria de rodízio restaurant, Brazilian for “so much meat you will puke,” rests between Sugarloaf Mountain and the sea. We sit outside on a patio with hanging lanterns that glow dimly as the sky darkens behind the mountain. Waiters deliver platters of sausage, pork, chicken, beef, fish, fried potatoes, and salads. The wine and fresh passion-fruit juice flow, and Aunt Rose drinks cold beer.

Gram was right. The meal was so good, we barely said a word in two hours other than “yum” and “oh my God, this is so delicious.”

We wander down a boardwalk made of snake-shaped mosaic tiles. We’re all drunk on meat as we amble along. Janie and I struggle to keep up with Gram and Bob. Clearly the mosaic path wasn’t meant for ridiculous heels.

“Will my babies be joining us at the jazz club tonight? It should be a great show.” Gram looks back at Mom, Dad, and Aunt Rose, who are now a block behind us. “I can’t wait to drop those duds and order my Rio drink. It’s caipirinha time.”

“What’s caipirinha time?” Janie asks.

“Brazil’s national drink. It’s an elixir made with liquor, sugar, and lime. Only have one, Jane Margaret. We want you in one piece on the beach tomorrow,” Gram says.

“Sorry, Ma. We’re not spending our one night in Rio at a jazz club,” Uncle Billy says.

“We are about to go dance off the five thousand calories I just consumed,” Wes says.

I turn to Janie. “We could go three ways tonight. Coffee and cards with the duds, jazz with the eightysomethings, or dancing with the uncles. I’m going with the uncles.”

“And I want to try a caipirinha,” Janie says. “After I digest.”



Usually Jeb blends into the woodwork and we forget he’s with us. But after half a bottle of wine, he’s in rare form.

“The chicks here are incredible,” he says, trying to drum up enthusiasm from two gay guys and his sister as we wait outside the club.

“What about your girlfriend, Camilla?” I say.

“I don’t have a girlfriend. We’re hooking up. Speaking of which, how’s your virginity?”

I ignore him.

Janie runs out of a souvenir shop with a Statue of Christ the Redeemer Christmas ornament. “Look what I got Vito. Don’t you think he’ll love it?”

“Vito will be dead at Christmas,” Jeb says.

Janie stops abruptly. She has the expression of a little kid whose balloon flew out the car window.

“It’s… I got it for his cabin,” she says. The tiny ornament hangs on her finger.

“Why do you have to be a douchebag, Jeb?” I say.

We keep walking, following pulsing music into a club. The bouncer is hesitant to let us in. I don’t know if it’s because we’re too old, too young, not cool enough, or annoying Americans. But he starts talking to Jeb about his tattoos and ends up waving us all in. My brother actually saves the day.

The club is dark, and the dance floor is lit with flashing colored lights. The women are dressed so scantily I can practically see their Brazilian waxes. My family insists on ordering multiple rounds of the elixir of Brazil, so I make my way onto the dance floor alone.

A tall Brazilian guy comes up behind me. I turn around and grind into his firm, muscled torso. What do I care? I’ll never see any of these people again. The E’s would be so proud. Janie finds me on the dance floor. Wes runs out of the DJ booth with a big grin, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps” comes on. I’m transported to the honky-tonk bar near Aunt Rose’s Charleston house where we spent an entire afternoon last winter break choreographing a routine to this very song.

Janie and I fling off our heels as Uncle Billy and Wes grab us, much to the dismay of my partner, who soon realizes this is a group routine. The floor clears, and people jump in behind us, and within minutes, we manage to teach the entire club our routine.