Miss Match

by Leslie Carroll

  Walker pulled a face. “You want me to go on the carousel with you?”

  “Which word didn’t you understand?”

  “Guys don’t ‘do’ carousels. That’s a chick thing. There are two things guys don’t do. We don’t eat ice cream cones and we don’t ride on carousels.”

  Kathryn started to laugh. “You’re so full of it. Gee, I had no idea that certain activities were gender-specific. And I have too seen a man eating an ice cream cone.”

  “Where?” Walker challenged. “Provincetown?”

  “Right in our own neighborhood. Right outside the Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street as a matter of fact.”

  “That’s precisely my point.”

  “Phooey on you.” Kathryn pretended to pout. “Pleeeease. I just spent the last half hour doing a ‘guy thing’—playing catch with you.”

  “Okay, okay. You twisted my arm,” Walker said, rising to his feet.

  “Oh, goody.” Kathryn took his hand. “I’m not just trying to get you to humor me; this is really important. I want to share with you my all-time favorite place in the city.”

  They arrived at the carousel, purchased their tickets, and waited behind the rope for the ride already in progress to stop. As soon as they were admitted, Walker went for the horse directly in front of him, tossed the canvas tote around its neck, and self-consciously mounted.

  “Don’t you want to look around first before you decide on a horse?” Kathryn asked him. “Each one has its own distinct personality, you know.”

  “I’m on a children’s ride with a woman who anthropomorphizes wooden ponies,” Walker said, shaking his head. He looked over at Kathryn who was swinging her leg over the spirited black bronco directly in front of his reddish stallion. “Besides, how do you know I didn’t give my choice any forethought? I like this big fella; he reminds me of some of the most famous racehorses that ever existed. He’s the same color as Point Given, Man O’ War, and ‘Big Red’ Secretariat. In fact, I think I’ll call him ‘Big Red.’ After all, I’m a Cornellian. That’s our team nickname.” He delivered a resounding smack to his steed’s oaken flanks. “Go, Big Red! Giddyap!”

  Kathryn turned back to look at him. “Well, well, somebody’s getting into it,” she teased. “And take that thing off his neck,” she said, pointing at the canvas tote. “It looks like a feedbag. What kind of a racehorse wears a feedbag during competition?”

  “A hungry one.” Walker reached over and unhooked the bag. He deposited it on the wooden platform that formed the carousel’s turntable. “I’m glad you’re in front of me because I can’t wait to watch your cute little butt when you post.”

  Kathryn immediately dismounted. “You don’t post on a carousel horse, silly. It’s a very smooth ride. Besides, you don’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing my buns in the air, anyway.” She climbed astride the slightly smaller horse to Walker’s left, and grinned at him. “But just in case, I prefer to ride next to you than in front of you.” She looked down at her horse. “I don’t think I’ve ever ridden a mare on this carousel. I always go for the big horses on the outside. This one must be a filly; it’s a lot smaller than yours.”

  “You can name it ‘Little Red,’ then. It suits you.”

  “You’re a piece of work, Walker Hart, you know that?”

  The operator collected their tickets, then went to sit in the center of the circle where he threw the switch that set the carousel in motion. The calliope was playing another old 1960’s standard, “Georgy Girl,” the title song from the film that made Lynn Redgrave a household name in America.

  “They’re playing your song,” Walker remarked.

  “That?”

  “Yeah, Georgy Girl was a feisty redhead. Hey, there, Georgy Girl . . . walking down the street so fancy free . . .” he sang.

  “I am nothing like Georgy Girl,” Kathryn protested. “She may have been feisty, but she was also an ugly duckling! Is that what you think of me? Besides, wasn’t she ‘always window shopping but never stopping to buy’? I have the opposite problem, I’m afraid. Just look at my Visa bill.”

  Walker was checking out the brightly painted circus animals and acrobats carved on the central core of the carousel. Kathryn pointed out a monkey wearing a mint-green jacket and bellboy’s cap. “He used to have a cigarette stuck in his mouth,” she told her companion. “Back in the days before political correctness and the widespread knowledge about the dangers of lung cancer.”

  “There’s no brass ring,” Walker noticed. “What kind of carousel doesn’t have a brass ring?”

  “It’s never had one. Not in my lifetime, anyway,” Kathryn replied. “Although it might have at some point. The merry-go-round has been here since 1908.”

  “Totally bogus,” Walker said, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to reach out and try to grab the brass ring every time your horse passes it.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass on your complaint in an angry letter to the Parks Department.” She reached out for his hand as the ride began to pick up speed. “C’mon, you curmudgeon. Admit you’re having fun.”

  He squeezed her hand. “First, homemade pancakes and the sports section; then a game of catch with my surprisingly athletic new roommate, followed by an ice-cold imported beer and the opportunity to discover your great sense of innate rhythm when you ride a horse—and don’t accuse me again of Flirting with Intent—am I having fun yet?” He swung their joined hands back and forth as the carousel reached its maximum speed. “Hell, Kitty, it’s a walk in the park!”

  Chapter 14

  “Okay, who wants to tell me something about The Taming of the Shrew?” Kathryn asked her ninth-grade drama class.

  “It’s universal,” Andrew Sherwood said laconically.

  “Good. Why?” Kathryn urged.

  “The play deals with stuff that happens every day,” offered Tandy Newman.

  “Strolling players always come across a nobleman willing to offer them solid food and a comfy bed in exchange for putting on a play that suits the nobleman’s fancy?” Kathryn asked, playing devil’s advocate.

  “It happens in Hamlet,” Tandy said smugly.

  “Touché, girl. It certainly does. What else happens every day? Servants railroad innocent travelers into pretending to be the wealthy father of their moonstruck young masters?” It was more fun to teach Socratically than didactically. Kathryn loved to rattle her students’ cages. Coax those young minds into some creative thinking.

  “Doesn’t that happen in other Shakespeare comedies, too?” Tandy asked.

  “Similar things, yes, but we’re talking about Shrew as tackling issues that happen ‘every day’—not just within the realm of Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “Men and women,” Chloe Harris mumbled. “Men, especially.”

  “What about men and women, Chloe?”

  “You can’t live with them, and killing them gets you ten to twenty.” The class snickered.

  Andrew jumped in defensively. “What about women? You guys always want it both ways!”

  “What do you mean by that, Andrew?” Kathryn asked.

  “Well, you want us to be really take-charge and tough, and then when we’re not, you think we’re wusses, but when we really do take charge, you get all pissed at us and scream feminism and stuff.”

  “Well, like you all want us to be independent, because you say you don’t want a woman who just hangs on you and gets all clingy, but then when we get a life, guys get jealous or needy.” Chloe was obviously girding herself for mental combat.

  “I’ve known you since second grade and you never cut me any slack, Chloe,” Andrew griped.

  “Oh grow up! When we were little, Ms. Lamb, he used to sit behind me and try to tie my hair in knots, just to get my attention.”

  “That’s ’cause you annoyed me,” Andrew said defensively.

  “If I really annoyed you, you wouldn’t deal with me at all. You were just trying to get my attention,” Chloe rebuked.

  “Well, it worked, didn�
��t it?”

  “They’ve been dating since sixth grade,” one of their classmates informed Kathryn.

  Chloe shot the snitch a dirty look. “The play does remind me a little of us, though. I mean, men and women trying to work it out—getting in each other’s way sometimes, and driving each other crazy, but in the end, we really need each other, and we both—I mean men and women, not Andrew and me—need to learn how to compromise and see beyond our own point of view on something, in order to get along.”

  “The battle of the sexes,” Tandy interjected.

  “Good. All of you. Good insights. What other themes are universal in this play?” Kathryn asked her class.

  “I think,” Lisette Mars said, splitting the end of one of her strands of long blond hair, “like Chloe said, there’s the concept that men and women have to come together and learn how to overcome the obstacles between them in order to band together, sort of, but there’s more than just that . . . because they have to do battle against a bigger obstacle that they both share?” It was more of a question than a suggestion.

  “Like what, for instance? Any thoughts on this?”

  There was a collective chuckle. “Parents,” Andrew said definitively. The class groaned in commiseration.

  “Siblings,” Tandy added. Several of the ninth graders nodded their heads affirmatively.

  “There’s the big picture,” Chloe offered. “I mean, in the play, Kate doesn’t want to get married because her father wants to force her to marry a guy he picks for her. And they’re all losers and geeks. And Petruchio’s been traveling for a while and he does want to get married and finally settle down, but in the beginning, with Kate, it’s on a bet. But he doesn’t have anyone else in the world, and Kate’s home life sucks—I mean look at the way her father treats her—and basically they’re just two people who both want to be loved.”

  “And isn’t that the way of the world?” Kathryn sighed. She smiled, and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Let’s pick this up next time. We’ll put a couple of scenes up on their feet and see what happens when we set things in motion. Again—good work, guys.”

  The class shuffled out of the room and Kathryn shoved her notepad and her Taming of the Shrew script into her tapestry shoulder bag. Despite their recent spat, she was sort of looking forward to seeing Walker when she got home. Smiling to herself, she recalled Andrew Sherwood’s astute comment during class about the universality of Shakespeare’s classic battle of the sexes. It was little wonder that the story had endured for more than four hundred years, when she, for one, seemed to be living it lately.

  She telephoned her answering machine to see if there were any messages, and as she heard her own outgoing message play, thought about the argument she’d had with Walker that morning. He’d wanted her to re-record her message to indicate that he was reachable at that number as well. She had reminded him, rather forcefully, that she was expecting phone calls from at least two more Six in the City bachelors, who might get very confused, or at least turned off if they thought she was living with a guy—especially this guy. Imagine a prospective mate phoning to ask her out, and hearing on the answering machine that she was shacking up with the manager of the dating service!

  Walker also claimed to be cranky because he hadn’t been able to play his piano in a week—“I thought we agreed that ‘a life without music is a sorry one,’ ” he’d said—so she banished him to the penthouse. Although the rain itself had finally stopped, Walker claimed that the weather conditions were still unfavorable for repairing the roof and ceiling, at least according to the contractors. Half the time Kathryn enjoyed his semipermanent presence in her apartment, but there were certainly occasions when she felt he was cramping her style. Maybe she wasn’t as ready for this marriage thing as she thought she was.

  When she got home, he was still out, so she decided to relax, throw on some show tunes, and do some baking. She’d put two trays of ginger cookies in the oven before she realized she’d been making heart shapes.

  The doorbell rang, and with floury hands she went over to check the peephole.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home!” Walker crowed. His voice echoed down the long carpeted hallway outside the apartment. She opened the door with a dusty white hand. Her roommate brought his right hand out from behind his back and offered her a wrapped bouquet of yellow roses. He gave her a kiss on the forehead.

  “Yellow: for friendship. And dinner’s on me, tonight.” He waved a menu he had retrieved from the doorstep. “Did you ever try their pizza? Maybe we should get two pizzas,” Walker said, as he followed Kathryn into the kitchen. “Josh is coming over from the gallery tonight. We usually get together for Monday Night Football.”

  He was invading her space again, breaking their bargain. “Nice of you to ask first,” Kathryn said sourly. “Are these a preliminary peace offering?” she questioned. “You know where the vases are . . . could you pull one down for me, please?”

  Walker reached over Kathryn’s head to the cabinet high above the sink. “This is a nice one,” he said, as he stretched his arm toward an etched glass pitcher. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he continued. “After all, we had such a good time together yesterday, and you said you grew up watching football. Besides, Josh wants to meet you. He’s my oldest friend. He can bring his fiancée if you want another woman to talk to.”

  “That’s really not the issue,” Kathryn said quietly. “It just shows a total lack of sensitivity. This is my apartment, remember? You’re a guest. What if I just wanted to lie around on the sofa with no makeup on—God forbid—and flip through catalogues all evening? What if I wanted to invite someone over? What if I wanted to rent a movie? What if I just don’t feel like being a hostess? I had a long day at work, and—”

  “Son of a bitch!” Walker exclaimed as the etched glass pitcher went crashing seven feet to the tiled kitchen floor. He regarded Kathryn’s pale expression as she stared at the clear broken shards around her feet.

  “You clumsy . . . !” she said, her eyes tearing up. She shook her head in disbelief. “Goddamnit! If it isn’t one thing, it’s another with you . . .”

  “I am so sorry, Kathryn. One minute, I thought I had the handle in my hand, and the next thing I knew . . . I missed it and the other one knocked into it and I couldn’t catch it in time, and . . .” He placed his big, warm hand on her shaking shoulder.

  He hadn’t done it deliberately or maliciously. He was just a menace around anything delicate or fragile. Coffee mugs. Crystal vases. Her heart. Kathryn took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. “Well, maybe it was its time,” she sniffled. “I mean, it wasn’t new or anything. I got it in college at one of those traveling crafts fairs that come ’round every Christmas. You know—they make the rounds of regional Renaissance Faires all summer and college campuses in the fall and winter. They’ve got a built-in market, what with students cramming for exams and no time to Christmas shop before they come home for the holidays.” She picked up each glass fragment lovingly and placed it in a brown paper trash bag. “See, this was the tree of life . . . or maybe it was supposed to be a pear tree . . . although I don’t see any partridges nesting there.” Kathryn showed Walker a ragged bit of glass with a blossoming branch exquisitely etched upon it.

  He looked miserable. “I know how you feel, if that’s any consolation. My Cornell ‘Go, Big Red!’ mug that I nearly busted the day we met has been with me since the day I made running back. It’s a souvenir from an important chunk of my life, so I’d be pretty pissed if it broke. Shit. I feel like the poster child for ‘No good deed goes unpunished,’ ” he said morosely.

  “I’m not blaming you, Bear.”

  “You called me clumsy.”

  “It just blurted out. I’m sorry. It was the first thing that popped out of my mouth . . . look, I’m a little tense right now, and I lashed out. I mean here you are, taking over my house, running roughshod over my express directives to stay out of my life if I let you camp out down here, inviting your frien
ds over to watch my TV . . . and I’m sure you got me the roses with the best of intentions— although I really like snapdragons, if you have a need to know my favorite flower—and then a vase I’ve cherished for over fifteen years breaks into a gazillion pieces . . . it’s too much!”

  “You won’t have to do anything when Josh comes over. I’ll take care of ordering and cleaning up.”

  “Walker, I’m really tired. I’ve had a long day, and this is my space.”

  “Didn’t your mommy teach you about sharing?” He gave a childlike pout. “I’ll even give you a foot massage.” He dilated his pupils and gave her his best spaniel-like gaze.

  Kathryn shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. “Oh, boy. If we’re going to make this arrangement work, no matter how temporary it is—and it is temporary— please don’t present me with any more faits accompli. It does something to my stomach and it makes me . . . I don’t know . . . bristle. No ‘done deals’ from now on. Got it?”

  Bear extended his paw. “Sorry. Shake?”

  She shook his hand and caught the mischievous glint in his eye. He knew as well as she did what happened to her insides when they shook hands, and he had tricked her into falling for it. How could something as innocuous as a handshake send her nerves into an electric tailspin? In an effort to put some physical distance between them, she retreated to the relative safety of the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea.

  At 8:45, Josh Leo rang the bell with a six-pack in hand and Walker escorted him to the velvet couch. Josh seemed pleasant enough—perhaps more grounded than his old school chum. “I like this place,” he said, appraising the atmosphere of Kathryn’s apartment. “Very cozy. Like a nest. Bear could use some warmth in his life.”

  “Then I take it you’re well acquainted with his other temporary arrangement?” Kathryn asked, as Walker began to lift the tangerine-and-rose-colored chiffon scarves off her lampshades.

  “Hey, hey, hey! Put those back, please! What were we just talking about?!” When Kathryn glared at him, he carefully replaced the lengths of delicate silk.