“You’re going to watch TV?” Helen says. “Right now?”
“GH is on now,” I say. “It’s Friday. They may have flashbacks to when Robin was younger. I love those flashbacks. Some of them go back so long ago, it’s practically historic, like before Sonny had two big dimples and only had one.”
“I’m fairly certain it’s not possible to grow a second dimple.”
“I know but still.”
“And you’re really going to watch this now?”
Now I start second guessing myself. “Well,” I say, “only if you don’t mind.”
She shakes something off. “Oh. No. It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll just get some work done while you watch.”
And that’s what she does and it is fine, I can see that whenever I look at her during commercial breaks.
And it’s fine later on, when the storm clears and we at last emerge for our final dinner and we get thundered by the Germans who want to whisk Helen away but after looking at me, instead of saying yes, she says, “No, thanks. It’s Johnny’s and my last night together here. I want to spend it with my husband.”
All Ashore
I am so glad to be back.
Over the Threshold
We stop off at my condo first because I want to pick up Fluffy before heading over to the new house.
Carla was supposed to take care of things on Helen’s end, letting the movers into her place, and Sam was supposed to handle everything on this end, both letting the movers into my place and letting them into the new house so they could move all our stuff in.
This means that when I walk into my condo, the last time I’ll ever be here except for the walk-through with the new owners later on in the week, the place is entirely empty except for the cat and his things, which Sam has left all waiting for me in the middle of the living room: litter box, litter, food and water bowl, bag of food, basket of toys, kitty-transport thingy.
And there’s the gray-and-white puffball cat, who starts racing toward me as I step through the door, Helen behind me. I drop to my knees to greet him, but when he’s just inches away from me, Fluffy skids to a sharp stop and does a one-eighty, settling down on his haunches. Even though his back is to me, his head is slightly tilted to one side, so I can see his upturned nose and it’s almost like I can hear the wheels of his furry brain spinning. It’s like his brain is saying, Just act all nonchalant. There’s nothing to see here. Be cool.
“Oh no,” I say. “You’re giving me the back?”
“What’s that?” Helen says. “What are you talking about?”
“Can’t you see?” I explain. “The cat is giving me the back. It means he’s offended and his feelings are hurt. This manifests itself as anger. But then he doesn’t want to show that either because that would prove he cares so now he’s pretending like I don’t exist. He’s all mad at me because I went away and left him, so now he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care that I exist.”
“Wow,” she says. “You’re really getting a lot out of that turned back.”
“I’ve been reading up.” I turn my attention back to Fluffy. “Aw, don’t be like that,” I say. “It’s not like I had a choice. I had to go away. It was my honeymoon!”
“Hey!” Helen says. There’s an “I resent that” tone to her voice but I figure she must be kidding. I mean, after all, she’s gotta be more mature than the cat, right? She must know I’m just saying that to make Fluffy feel better.
I inch over on my knees in Fluffy’s direction and when I’m right behind him, I snake my hand around until it’s right under his chin—one of his sweet spots—and start scratching him like crazy.
“Aw, who’s a good cat,” I say in my talking-to-the-cat voice, which is a voice that is a bit lower than me speaking naturally and which also tends to go more quickly, running words slightly together.
At first, Fluffy resists, but it’s not too many scratches before he gives in and his purr box starts motoring.
“That’s better,” I say. “You’re a good cat. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” He turns to face me and we rub noses.
“I don’t remember you talking to the cat so much before,” Helen says. “Did you always do this?”
“It’s something I read about.” I scoop Fluffy up in my arms, prepare to put him in his kitty-transport thingy. “Hey, Helen,” I say, “can you grab his other stuff?”
Home sweet home.
We pull up in front of the new house. Could I be any more excited? Sure, I’ll miss being next-door neighbors with Sam. Where was she when I picked up Fluffy, by the way? Oh, right. Sam being Sam, which is not a whole lot different from Fluffy being Fluffy, not being there was probably her version of giving me the back, meaning she’s offended at me for moving out of the condo and leaving her behind. That’s cool. I’ll catch up with her at work on Monday or maybe tomorrow she can come by and watch the game, one or the other. So anyway, back to…
Home sweet home.
I’ve never been a homeowner before. I mean, sure, I owned the condo, but that wasn’t a house. Now, this, on the other hand…
The house isn’t a wimpy color, you know, like a beige or anything, but it’s not something ridiculously bold like purple which has a tendency to piss off the neighbors. It’s not modern, like a McMansion, but it’s not super-old like an original Colonial. It’s not like the yard is practically nonexistent, but it’s not so sprawling as to qualify as a selfish use of natural resources. The house is neither too small nor too big, kind of like the Three Little Bears’ house, and the porch—
“Are we going to go inside today, Johnny?” Helen cuts into my reverie.
“Oops, sorry,” I say, “of course.”
But then I have trouble figuring out the logistics of the thing. The thing is, I want to carry Helen over the threshold but when I got out of the car I immediately reached for the kitty-transport thingy with Fluffy in it, so now I’ve got the key in the door and the kitty-transport thingy in my other hand and…
“Here.” I try to get Helen to take the kitty-transport thingy but she just holds up her hands.
“No, really, that’s OK,” she says.
“But I have to carry you over the threshold,” I say.
“No, really. I’m good.”
“Just take it.”
“OK, fine.”
So she takes it in one hand and then I scoop her up into my arms while she’s still holding it. I look deep into her eyes, she looks back into mine, we share a solid kiss and then I step us over the threshold, symbolically embarking on our new life together in our new home.
“Wow,” I say, “the inside of this place is so…white. Crowded too.”
“Can you let go of me so I can put the cat down now?” Helen says.
I bring the rest of Fluffy’s stuff in.
Here’s the thing: Yes, I knew this place was all white inside when we bought it. I mean, obviously we did look around inside the place. But we liked the exterior and the neighborhood and we did like the interior layout. Now sometimes you’ll see condos that are all white on the inside, like the owners just leave it the way it was when they first bought it, kind of like my place was until I painted it all in the hopes of impressing Helen. And sometimes you’ll even see expensive houses in magazines where everything is a pure white, which I think is supposed to look all classy and arty and shit, but which I always think just looks sterile; and no, that single red apple on the table in such houses does not make a fashion statement. But I guess I didn’t think before we moved in here about what all this vast whiteness was going to look like. We’re going to have to do something about this.
And here’s another thing: There’re tons of gift-wrapped boxes, wedding presents we never got a chance to open, including an enormous one that nearly reaches the ceiling.
“I’ll bet that’s the grandfather clock I asked my parents for,” Helen says happily.
Wait a second. Grandfather clock? I’m not crazy about those things, all that bong, bong, bong all the ti
me. But I guess I can worry about that later.
Because here’s the last thing: When we hired the movers and simply told them to bring everything from both our places over here, I guess we weren’t planning ahead. In the living room beyond the foyer, there are two of everything: sofas, armchairs, ottomans, coffee tables, even TVs. And none of the things match each other. Something’s going to have to be done about this too. Of course, the two big-screen TVs are not necessarily a bad thing.
And at least the hardwood floors that run throughout the house look good.
Helen heads for the staircase to the upstairs as I pick up the litter box, which is kind of full and not just with litter. Geez, you’d think Sam, knowing we were coming back today, could have cleaned it out one last time.
“What are you doing?” Helen says.
I look over and see she’s stopped at the base of the stairs.
“Trying to figure out where to put Fluffy’s litter box and other things,” I say.
“In the basement, of course.”
“OK.”
I head for the door to the basement.
“Wait,” she says.
I stop.
“You’re going to do that now?” she says.
I turn. “Well, yeah,” I say. “I kind of have to. Being plunked into a new environment can be very unsettling for a cat. Fluffy may even get confused and reject his litter box altogether because it’s not exactly what he’s used to. I don’t think that’s something either of us really want, so I’m just trying to give him the best chance to acclimate himself.”
“I see,” Helen says. She drops down to sit on the bottom step. “I guess I’ll wait then.”
I hit the lights and decide that the landing six steps down is the right place for the litter box, so I leave it there. Then I set up the food and water bowls in the kitchen. Man, this room is white. Finally, I open up the spring-lock metal door on Fluffy’s kitty-transport thingy.
“Come on out, guy,” I say.
But he just stays there.
“I think he looks freaked,” I say. “He does this same thing sometimes when I take him to the vet. Does he look freaked to you?”
“I’m not sure I’d go so far as to say that.”
“Come on, guy.” I go to the toy basket, grab something, come back with it. “Look what I’ve got. It’s Blue Bunny.”
Blue Bunny is Fluffy’s favorite toy. I’m not really sure it’s a bunny—sometimes, I think it looks more like a mouse—but it is definitely blue, vividly so. It’s small and plush, it’s got a rattle inside that makes noise when you shake it, and there’s an elastic string extending from between its ears. At the other end of the string is a little plastic hoop and when I hold onto that hoop and make the whole thing jiggle, Fluffy goes crazy chasing after it, which is very cool to see because Fluffy’s usually such a super-mellow cat it’s hard to get him excited about anything. In fact, Blue Bunny excites Fluffy so much, I’ve had to repair that elastic string several times after Fluffy’s batted right through it, which means that string is starting to get a little short.
Oh no. What will happen when Blue Bunny can no longer be made to leap?
But I don’t have to worry about that just now because Blue Bunny is doing his job, luring Fluffy out of the kitty-transport thingy, and Blue Bunny continues to do his job as Welcome Ambassador as I bounce him to the kitchen to show Fluffy where his food and water will be from now on. Fluffy stops to take a drink which is a good sign. If he were really freaked out, he might not be able to eat or drink at all. But then, come to think of it, it is a hot day, so maybe he’s just really thirsty.
Then I bounce Blue Bunny some more—now he’s kind of reminding me of those bouncing balls in karaoke machines that tell the singer when to sing each syllable—right to the basement door and then down to the landing.
Fluffy sniffs the edges of the box, looks at it, looks up at me.
“Really,” I say, “it’s the same. It’s just a new location. Kind of like when they move your favorite TV show around in the schedule. The show itself doesn’t change.”
I guess maybe he doesn’t understand that part.
“Really,” I say again in my most encouraging voice.
Fluffy puts one tentative paw into the box and then searches for somewhere safe to put a second paw. Fucking Sam. This part of the process could have gone so much smoother if she’d just put a little more thought into things.
But then, eventually, all four paws are in and…
“Success!” I scream up the staircase. “He peed!”
“That is…marvelous,” I hear my wife say in a voice that does not quite match mine in enthusiasm.
Well, I shrug to myself. She hasn’t been living with Fluffy every day for the last year like I have. I suppose it would be unfair of me to expect her to match my level of excitement at Fluffy’s every feline accomplishment.
Back upstairs on the main level, Fluffy sniffs the air and starts walking around the edges of the room.
“Look!” I say. “He’s walking the perimeter!”
“Is that some kind of technical term for what he’s doing?” Helen wants to know.
“I don’t know,” I say. “If it’s not, it should be. But anyway, I think what he’s doing is figuring out just what exactly are the dimensions of his new space.”
“You don’t think maybe he just feels like stretching his legs after peeing?”
“Oh, look! Now he’s jumping onto the window ledge.”
Whether he was figuring out the dimensions of his new space or whether he was simply stretching his legs post-pee may be open to debate—although I do know which side I come down on—but he definitely did just jump up onto the low-lying ledge of one of the long Victorian windows in the living room.
“Here,” I say, going over and turning the gold latch at the top of the window, “let me open that for you. You know, you’re right? It is a little stuffy in here.”
“Do you think we could look at the upstairs now?”
And upstairs turns out to be just as white as downstairs.
“So we’ll do some painting,” I say, “and sooner rather than later.”
It’s just as crowded too.
“And we’ll have to get rid of a few things,” Helen says.
I can’t say I blame her. The master bedroom in the new house is a generous size, but I don’t think it was ever meant to hold two beds like this.
Still, I wonder which things will go?
“You know what?” Helen says. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”
I shrug. “I could eat.”
Come to think of it, we got off the boat at a little after eight this morning, it’s after one in the afternoon now—I’m thinking I could eat a lot.
“What do you think?” I say. “Do you want to go for a second breakfast, maybe grab a burger somewhere?”
“I know,” she says and for the first time since I carried her over the threshold, she looks truly excited. “Let’s go…to the grocery store.”
I take her hands in mine.
“You mean like two married people?” I say.
She squinches her eyes with glee and smiles wide. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Wow, our first real married-couple type of act as a married couple.
I kiss her and even though we’re both starving, that kiss turns into us doing another married-couple type of thing before leaving for Super Stop & Shop. Deciding whose bed to do that thing in does slow us down—hers—but not by much.
Ah, married life.
The problem with going to Super Stop & Shop—where we walk through the aisles, arms linked as we push the cart together, just like any other married couple—is that when we come back, someone has to actually make the lunch.
I never realized how not-big-on-cooking we both were before. But tuna sandwiches seem manageable once we locate the boxes that contain kitchen items and fish the can opener out of the last box we look through, plus there’s the added bonus that Fl
uffy gets to lick the can. We can’t decide which set of dishes will be our primary ones, though, hers or mine, so we leave those in the boxes for now and just eat off of paper towels instead.
Once lunch is over, there’s the question of what to do next.
“Want to watch some TV?” I suggest.
I don’t think the Mets’re playing until later, but there must be some sports thing on—probably a lot of sports things—and I wouldn’t mind stretching out on one of the sofas with a nice cold beer.
“Right now?” Helen says.
If Sam asked me a question like that, I’d probably answer with something sarcastic like, “No, of course not. I meant a week from Tuesday at 8:23 in the evening.” But this is Helen, so instead I say, “Well, yeah.”
“But shouldn’t we unpack first?”
I think, Unpack? But out loud, I say, “You mean right now?”
“No,” she says. “I meant maybe a week from now.”
I look at her blankly.
“Of course I mean now,” she says.
“But that seems so…sudden.”
“So what do you propose we do? Wait a year?”
“Well, no, not that long. I mean, that would be ridiculous.”
She just looks at me.
“So,” I say, “I guess we’re unpacking now?”
We’re working on the bedroom, because in a way that is easiest. See, even though our dressers don’t match each other in style, we do each need a dresser so we don’t have to decide which one to get rid of. We’re also unpacking books.
“It’s so quiet in here,” Helen says. “Mind if I turn on some music?”
She’s found her CD player and set it up on one side of one of the beds, her bed, but that’s OK because after what we did in it earlier, I’m feeling very fond of that bed.
Maybe I’m feeling too fond of it and that fondness is distracting me, because without thinking first, I say, “Sure. Whatever you want.”
It’s only as she’s slipping a CD into the player that I begin to wonder what she’ll be putting on and it’s only as I hear those four annoying blondes from Sweden start to sing “Waterloo” that I realize, Holy crap—ABBA again.
Isn't It Bro-Mantic? Page 8
