Total Rush

by Deirdre Martin

  “Nonna says she’s hot.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen having her traditional post-Mass snack: espresso and sfogliatelle.” Anthony reached for his coat, draped over the back of the easy chair. “She did good in church: knew where she was, didn’t want to get up and wander around.” He chuckled. “She didn’t know who Father Clementine was, though. She leans over to me and says really loud, ‘Who’s that fat bastard?’”

  Gemma laughed appreciatively. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “Bella?”

  “In here, Nonna, talking to Anthony,” Gemma called in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

  “You need anything?” Anthony asked, turning up his collar.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, then, I’m gonna take off. I’ll be at the restaurant around noon if you need me. Ange is on duty today. Mikey’s in Pittsburgh, but I think Theresa’s home if you need help or anything. Just give a shout.”

  “Maybe I’ll give Sharmaine a call,” Gemma joked.

  “Putan”,“ Anthony growled under his breath. ”I never liked that one.“

  “You and me both. Take care, Ant,” she said as she watched him plod down Nonna’s steps and up the street. Michael was a bounder, Anthony a plodder. What was she?

  ———

  “Bella, I’m so happy you decided to visit.” Nonna’s face flushed with pleasure as she looked up from the kitchen table. “Can you stay for lunch?”

  “Lunch, dinner, the whole shebang!”

  No sooner had the words slipped out of her mouth than Nonna’s visage darkened. “In, out, in, out, all these people trooping through my house. What the hell is going on? Can’t an old woman live in peace?”

  Same old Nonna. Speak the truth. “You don’t have a choice, Non,” Gemma explained gently. “Remember when you went to see the doctor with Mom and Aunt Millie?”

  Nonna looked suspicious.

  “Well, the doctor said you shouldn’t be alone anymore. That’s why we’ve all been here. We’re keeping you company, making sure you don’t get hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Nonna muttered fiercely.

  “I know you can. We’re just here to help.”

  This seemed to pacify her. “All right.”

  Gemma slid into a chair next to her. “What would you like to do today?”

  “I’d like to get out of my church clothes, for a start.”

  “Okay.” Gemma hesitated. Should she let her grandmother go upstairs on her own to change, or should she go with her? One option courted the potential for injury, the other for insult. Gemma decided to be straightforward. “Would you like some help?”

  “The company would be nice.”

  Gemma waited until her grandmother had finished her coffee, then followed her upstairs. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually been in her grandmother’s bedroom. It had to be when she was a very small child. She was shocked but not surprised to see nothing had changed.

  The sagging double bed with the faded chenille bedspread was still there, and the walls were still adorned by pictures of saints, their beatific smiles rendered all the more mysterious by the glow of the votive candles atop Nonna’s dresser that never seemed to go out or need replacing.

  Those might have to go.

  Her eye caught the set of rosary beads draped over one corner of the dresser mirror, and a cross made of palm fronds stuck into the corner of the other. As a little girl, she’d been frightened by the religious accoutrements of her grandmother’s room, convinced the eyes of all the paintings were following her. But now she found comfort in their immutability, appreciating their value as symbols of a life richly lived in faith.

  Sinking down on the bed, Nonna took off her shoes. She peeled off her stockings next before moving to her dresser to remove her jewelry.

  “Want these?” she said to Gemma, holding up her earrings.

  Gemma scrunched up her nose. “What?”

  “Take them,” Nonna urged. “I’d rather see you enjoy them while I’m still alive.”

  “Thank you.” Gemma took the marcasite teardrops and slipped them into her pocket. She had no intention of keeping them, knowing that some members of her family would accuse her of starting to clean out Nonna’s house while she was still alive. Besides, Nonna might not be fully aware of what she was doing. Tomorrow she might want to wear those very same earrings, and then what?

  Sighing heavily, Nonna grabbed the hem of her skirt to pull her dress over her head. Gemma was initially shocked by the lumpy terrain of her grandmother’s bare legs, the sagging flesh crosshatched with a network of varicose and spider veins. This’ll be me someday, she thought, and her heart filled with tenderness. This will be all of us.

  The dress was up around Nonna’s neck now, covering her face.

  “Help!” Nonna cried out, her voice muffled through the material. “I’m caught on something.”

  Alarmed, Gemma went to her aid. The crocheted neckline of Nonna’s dress was snagged on a chain she wore around her neck. As delicately as she could, Gemma worked to untangle the two. That’s when she saw it: The charm hanging from Nonna’s necklace was the cimaruta, an ancient Pagan charm traditionally used to ward off the evil eye. She stared at it. In Italy, it was called “the witch charm.” Its three main branches symbolized the goddess Diana in her three aspects as maiden, mother, and crone. Hanging from each branch were other symbols: a fish, a hand, a key, a crescent moon—each having a specific meaning.

  “Nonna,” Gemma asked as she helped her off with her dress, “where did you get the cimaruta?”

  “Ah,” said Nonna, fingering the beautiful silver charm. “You like it?”

  “Where did you get it?” Gemma asked again. “How long have you had it?”

  Nonna turned away, an almost imperceptible smile playing across her lips. “That’s my secret.”

  Gemma’s eyes were glued to her as she went to her closet to pull out a pair of slacks and a blouse. She’s a witch. I know it. I feel it! The thought excited her. It meant the ancient ways were part of her birthright. She wasn’t an oddball at all; this was in her blood! What would her mother have to say about that?

  Nonna, meanwhile, had slipped into her slacks. But as her fingers went to the neck of her blouse, they hesitated, rubbing the button there. Gemma watched and waited. Maybe Nonna wanted to wear something else? Nonna looked down at the open blouse, then at Gemma, her face contorted with bafflement.

  Oh, God. She can’t remember how to do the buttons.

  “Here, let me,” Gemma said softly. Slowly, with great care, she buttoned the front of her grandmother’s blouse. “Better?”

  “Better,” Nonna repeated, her relief obvious. She glanced at Gemma shyly. “Would you mind brushing my hair?”

  “I would love to.”

  Steering Nonna to sit at her vanity, Gemma loosened the silver braid of her hair. Picking up the stiff horsehair brush Nonna had had for as long as she could remember, she began brushing. Nonna closed her eyes, seeming to lose herself in the luxurious sensation. When she opened them, her eyes met Gemma’s in the vanity mirror.

  “You and me,” Nonna said. “We’re a lot alike.”

  Gemma leaned over, lovingly pressing her own cheek against her grandmother’s older, more papery version. “I know,” Gemma whispered.

  ———

  Sean hadn’t been sure what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised to find the counseling unit looked like any other office, with out-of-date magazines littering the low coffee table in the waiting room, and furniture that had seen better days. He had an appointment to talk to Lieutenant Dan Murray, who had put in his twenty years of active service with the department and was now working as a full-time counselor. Sean liked him on sight: Bow-legged, pot-bellied, with a big, white handlebar mustache, he brought to mind a friendly, talking walrus.

  Murray’s tone was friendly but concerned. “What can I do for you, S
ean?”

  As briefly as he could, Sean explained what he’d been going through since the brownstone fire. Murray listened intently, giving the occasional encouraging nod. He seemed neither surprised nor shocked by what Sean told him, even when Sean related the details of how, walking down the street, he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe after seeing a hope chest in the window of a furniture store.

  “That’s called a trigger,” Murray explained. “Extremely common after a traumatic incident. Something visual, a certain smell, a sound—anything can bring you back to the fire scene and with it comes all those attendant feelings: guilt, pain, fear, you name it.”

  “Yeah, but what can I do about it?”

  “Exactly what you’re doing. Talk about it.” Murray leaned back in his chair. “You know, after you called yesterday, I ran a check on you. You’ve got a great record, Sean. But I know what you’re going through: one fuckup cancels out years of hearing ‘Great job, buddy.’ Right?”

  Sean nodded, relieved that Murray knew exactly how he was feeling. He couldn’t have said it better if he tried.

  “Well, I’m gonna try to help you with that. You’ve taken the all-important first step, which is getting your ass in here and opening your mouth. The rest is gravy, relatively speaking.”

  “I’m having trouble sleeping,” Sean confessed.

  “That’s common, too. Don’t worry: I won’t let you walk out of here without some coping techniques. You familiar with deep breathing? Visualization? Meditation?”

  Sean laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, it’s just that I used to date this girl who was into all that stuff, and I gave her a hard time about it, that’s all.”

  “Well, she was on to something,” said Murray, “but the key will be finding what works for you. Every guy in the department for any length of time has gone through what you’re going through right now at one time or another. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. Now, why don’t you tell me about the fire.”

  ———

  The next morning, Gemma was eager to get to work so she could do some research on the cimaruta. How long had Nonna been wearing it, hidden under her clothes? She already knew each of the charms hanging from the three branches of the tree had a specific meaning—she just couldn’t remember what they were. Now, fired up by the possibility that the beloved matriarch of the family might turn out to be a keeper of the “old ways,” Gemma wanted to learn everything she could about the two-sided medallion. She felt like a soldier loading up on ammunition; the next time her mother decided to get on her case about being a witch, Gemma would be able to turn to her and say, “So’s your own mother, and here’s proof.”

  Spending twenty-four hours with Nonna had been more exhausting than Gemma had anticipated. Sometimes Nonna was her old devilish self, and they laughed. Other times the simplest task—like remembering how to hold a fork—overwhelmed her and she became irascible. At 3 A.M., Gemma heard her rooting around in the kitchen and got downstairs just in time to stop Nonna from going out the back door into the freezing night with nothing on but her nightgown. To keep a better eye on her, Gemma spent the rest of the night in the other half of the ancient, lumpy bed. She didn’t get much sleep; Nonna seemed to be more agitated at night. Luckily, by the time Gemma’s mother arrived to relieve her, Nonna had exhausted her stores of energy and was sleeping soundly.

  So Gemma was tired but in good spirits as she turned onto Thompson Street. But her mood changed when she saw Uther and three other men in medieval garb standing outside her store. Uther was wearing his chain mail and a pewter helmet that looked like an inverted soup bowl, his his left hand gripping a tall halberd. The other men were in burgundy tights and leather jerkins. One had on a metal skull cap; the other two wore felt caps with long trailing feathers. Each of Uther’s chums boasted a quiver of arrows on his shoulder. Gemma contemplated turning around and running but it was too late: Uther had spotted her and was waving madly.

  Plus she had a business to run.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” she said mildly, regretting her phrasing immediately. She should have said, “What’s up?” Now Uther was bound to address her as if they were starring in Camelot.

  “I wanted you to meet some of my reenacting companions, good lady. They are eager to meet you, as I’ve told them great tales of your tarot prowess. But I thought if you could see us in our Agincourt garb, you might be tempted to come to our next meeting. We’re in sore need of damsels to rescue—”

  “Or camp followers,” added the man in the skull cap, leering.

  Gemma had no idea what a “camp follower” was, but deduced it couldn’t be good, if the deadly look Uther cast his way meant anything. She nodded, trying to be polite. “Do you have any literature I could take? That would be helpful.”

  Uther tapped the side of his head. “It’s all here.”

  Great, Gemma thought, putting the key in the lock. “Well, I’ll think about it. Thanks for stopping by. Bye now.”

  She pushed open the door, expecting them to disperse. Instead, they followed her inside.

  “Uther, what are you doing?”

  “I want them to see the store.”

  Gemma pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s fine, but if you guys are going to browse, I suggest you put your weapons behind the counter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they might scare the customers.”

  “Oh.”

  Uther and his friends dutifully followed Gemma to the counter, stashing their arms for safekeeping. Gemma was beginning to wonder if Uther had a screw loose. As his friends fanned out across the aisles, talking to each other in a way that set Gemma’s teeth on edge (“Methinks I see a book on fairie lore!” “Forsooth, a soft chair to set my botty upon!”), Gemma tugged lightly on Uther’s chain mail, holding him back.

  “How was your date with Frankie?” She hadn’t had a chance to speak with Frankie yet.

  “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “You can tell a little. Did you have fun? Are you seeing each other again?”

  “Aye,” Uther revealed, looking pleased.

  Gemma’s heart lightened. “I’m glad,” she said, giving his arm a little squeeze as he walked off to join his friends.

  She didn’t mind them being in the store, but when one potential customer entered and left, then another, then a third, she knew she was going to have to ask them to leave. The buying public apparently was not entranced by chain mail, skullcaps, and jerkins. It did make her wonder: As weird as those fleeing the Golden Bough perceived Uther and his friends to be, was that how her mother perceived her?

  ———

  She had felt the first hint of the worst headache of her life minutes after letting Uther and his friends into the Golden Bough, but had thought it would go away when they did. She was wrong. By the time her part-timer, Julie, came in to work at five, Gemma knew she was going to have to hit the nearest Duane Reade and get herself some aspirin. She hated putting anything like that in her body, but this headache was bad. How on earth did Theresa deal with migraines? The relentless hammering on Gemma’s temples gave her newfound respect for Michael’s wife. Exhausted, in pain, she pushed open the heavy glass door of Duane Reade. The lighting was harsh and artificial, the narrow aisles crowded with shoppers. Directed to the pain relief aisle by a sullen teen whose baggy pants looked on the verge of falling off, she found herself confronted with rows and rows of similar-looking boxes, all promising to soothe this ache or relieve that spasm. Didn’t anyone take plain aspirin anymore? It took a while, but she finally found it, on the shelf nearest the floor.

  Clutching her precious booty, she made for the front of the store, dismayed to see only one cashier behind the register. Taking her place in line, she closed her eyes. Please, Goddess, don’t let this take too long. I just want to take my drugs and crawl in bed.

  She opened her eyes, resigned to spending the next fifteen minutes in the crowded,
overwarm store. Desperate to pass the time, she studied her surroundings. That’s when she saw it: the FDNY Calendar for 2006. With Christmas right around the corner, all the calendars for the upcoming year were out and on display.

  Telling herself it was nothing more than curiosity, she plucked the nearest one from the rack and began thumbing through it. The firefighter selected for the month of February was cute enough; blond and buff, he was the “can man” for an engine company on the Upper East Side. The April guy didn’t do it for her, though. He was too sculpted, too perfect, a Ken doll come to life. She flipped through May, June, July, and then, shockingly, she hit August. Her heart jolted: The firefighter featured was Sean.

  Heat swam to her face as she studied the image of the man who had wooed her so vigorously, only to give up at the first hint of difficulty. The photo didn’t do justice to the piercing quality of his blue eyes. Nor did it adequately capture his crooked, boyish grin. But that was his body, all right. The very same one that had embraced her so tight and moved so fluently inside her. Choking back tears, Gemma abruptly closed the calendar.

  “Can I see that?” the woman on line behind her piped up. “That guy was hot.”

  Gemma handed over the calendar and turned back to face the front of the store.

  Once upon a time, she would have viewed stumbling across Sean’s image in the calendar as an omen. But she no longer believed in omens or coincidences or even fate. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to; she couldn’t afford to.

  It hurt too much.

  CHAPTER 17

  “No offense, but what are you doing?”

  Sean slowly opened his eyes to find JJ standing in front of him, staring worriedly. He was sitting alone at the table in the firehouse kitchen. JJ had stopped by at the end of his shift so they could grab a bite to eat.

  He unclasped his hands, smiling up at his friend. “Deep breathing. Relaxing.” Just as Dan Murray had recommended, when he was feeling stressed, Sean now closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. Miraculously, it seemed to be helping. He could actually feel his heartbeat slowing down, the tension in his shoulders fading. Gemma hadn’t been kidding: Alternative stuff really worked.