“Wanna watch a video while we eat?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We grab our plates and forks and head for the living room, although he grimaces at the Sex and the City video case on the coffee table. “What’s up with women and this shit?”
“What’s up with men and pro wrestling?”
“Better than listening to nonstop whining for two hours.”
“Oh, as opposed to the grunts of rutting hippopotamuses?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He thumps his chest with his free hand. “Man noises.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. But anyway, that’s not whining. That’s exploring their feelings.”
Hanging on to his plate with one hand, he takes a halfhearted swipe at my head with the other. And for some reason, I feel better. Like maybe I’ll get through this. Like we’re kids again and life is simple and death and mistakes and regrets are things we won’t have to deal with for many years to come.
“Tell you what,” I say, settling into the sofa. “Next time I’m at your place, we can watch whatever’s in season, okay? But no way, nohow is this TV getting anywhere near ESPN tonight.”
We both let my “next time I’m at your place” comment sail off into the sunset before Luke says, “Whatever happened to the gracious hostess letting her guests choose the entertainment?”
“Remember the lousy company thing?”
With a sigh, Luke drops onto the opposite end of the sofa, toeing off his sneakers and plopping his feet up on the coffee table. I hit Play and Sarah Jessica Parker prances across the screen. “So which episode is this?” he says.
“Which episode?” I rear back and look at him. “You’ve actually watched Sex and the City?”
He shovels in a bite of donut and ice cream. “Tina made me,” he says around a full mouth. “Said I might learn something.”
“And did you?”
“Yeah. That there’s a damn good reason men have performance anxiety. Christ—do women really want all that stuff?”
“All what stuff?”
“You know. The sex stuff.”
“Beats me. I just watch it for the clothes.”
That gets a chuckle. “Yeah, right.”
Of course, fate picks that moment to treat us to a no-holds-barred sex scene. Samantha enjoying the hell out of herself. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, after all. I mean, yes, it’s just Luke, but then…it’s just Luke.
My cheeks get so hot I seriously consider slathering ice cream all over them. Or I would have if there’d been any left. Still, I come up with, “Okay, maybe most women don’t want all of it. But I think a lot want more than they’re getting.” I scoop up the ice cream residue with my finger and stick it in my mouth. “And I’m talking quality, not quantity.”
He doesn’t reply. Just as well. For several minutes, we sit there in the flickering darkness, separated by the width of a sofa cushion and our thoughts, stuffing our faces with enough calories to fuel the space shuttle. Then suddenly Luke says, “It’s funny. You’d think most women would care less about a guy’s equipment and more about how he feels about her.”
I can’t stand it. I reach over and squeeze his arm. “Most women do.”
His eyes veer to mine, his mouth lifting at one corner. He’s got a small blob of ice cream on his upper lip, making him look about eight. Eight is good. Eight I can handle. It’s twenty-eight that’s giving me trouble.
There. I’ve said it. I could dance around this issue from now to Doomsday, and God knows, I’ve learned enough from past mistakes not to do something stupid—like launch myself at the man—but okay, fine, Tina’s right, I’m attracted to the guy. And I’m tired of pretending to myself that I’m not. I also know—and here’s where Tina’s wrong—nothing’s going to come of it. And that’s not pretending, that’s facing reality.
And from now on, reality is my new best friend.
We both turn our attention back to the screen. Another long silence follows, during which I realize that we’ve been watching the show for a good ten minutes and haven’t so much as chuckled, even though I remember howling with laughter the first time I saw it. Not because I ever personally related (I mean, please—those chicks go through more men in two episodes than I even know) but because of the whole single woman solidarity thing, I guess. But tonight, I suddenly do relate. At least to the quiet—and sometimes not so quiet—despair trembling at the edges of their lives.
As if I’m not depressed enough already.
I point the remote at the TV and click it off.
“Why’d you do that?”
“Lost interest.”
Luke skootches around, pushing himself back farther into the corner of the sofa, one arm stretched out over the back. “This doesn’t change anything between us,” he says, and my eyes jerk to his.
“What?”
“Tina and me breaking up. I know you and she are buddies and all, but I’m not disappearing just because…” He swallows. “Just because things didn’t work out between her and me.”
“Oh.” He obviously doesn’t know that Tina and I haven’t spoken since that last conversation. She sent flowers for Leo, but she didn’t call. So I guess it’s safe to say we’re not exactly tight anymore. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”
“It’s just…” His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, then skitter away. “It would kill me to lose both of you at the same time, you know?”
Nothing like being thought of as a spare tire.
But I smile gamely anyway, silently repeating my reality-is-my-new-best-friend mantra. Besides, it would have killed me to lose both of them at the same time, too. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, either. Anyway, having you around’s a no-brainer. And I don’t have too many of those these days.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.” The air thickens between us, but for different reasons. Luke gets up, taking my dish from me and carting both his and mine back to the kitchen. I rise and follow; he’s already at the sink, rinsing them off. Frances has trained her boys well. We decide which food he should take (I swear, it’s multiplying in the fridge); I wrap things up in foil, plastic, old margarine dishes and stuff the grocery bags he brought.
But when he glances at me, it’s clear we both know it’s not true, about nothing changing between us. It’s already changed, just by Tina no longer being a factor in the equation. As long as she was, Luke was part of my life by default. But let’s get real: Luke will last about as long on the open market as a six-room Riverside Drive apartment for two grand a month. And what are the chances of him hooking up with somebody willing to tolerate another woman in his life, childhood buddy or not?
Yeah, that’s what I think, too.
As for that hooey from Tina, about Luke really wanting me instead of her? Right. Man can hardly say her name without choking on it, he’s still so torn up about what happened.
“Guess I should get going,” Luke says, heading down the hall. “You decided when you’re going back to work yet?”
Work. Blech. Yeah, yeah, I got this twenty-five grand coming, but at the rate Starr’s going, I might need that for her college tuition like, next week. “Soon. Gotta figure out the day-care thing first.”
“Hey—” His jacket back on, Luke bends slightly at the knees to meet my gaze, his expression earnest. “You know, if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here, right? I mean, to help take care of the Twink—”
“We’re fine,” I say, too quickly and for reasons I’m not sure I fully understand.
“What you are,” he says, straightening up, “is a pain in the ass.”
“Sweet-talker.”
That gets a smile, even if it’s a little blurred around the edges. Then: “I’d better get going. Oh—by the way, Mom expects the two of you for Sunday dinner, no excuses.”
My throat tightens with emotion, for everything I’ve lost. For everything, I think sappily, I still have. Frances is still my surrogate mother. She jus
t wouldn’t want to be my mother-in-law. Never known a Scardinare yet who didn’t marry a good Italian Catholic girl and make good Italian Catholic babies.
“Sure, fine, we’ll be there.”
With a wave, he’s gone. And when I can’t hear the sound of his car anymore, I go upstairs and check on my little girl one more time. Her somewhat smelly Oscar the Grouch strangled in her arms, she’s softly snoring.
It’s the sweetest sound in the whole world.
I wake with a start sometime later, my heart pounding. It’s just beginning to get light: everything looks like a TV picture when the brightness dealie’s turned too far down.
“You ’wake?” I hear beside me.
I turn and gather my wide-eyed child, as well as Oscar, into my arms. Starr’s collected all the characters from Sesame Street, but decided—at three, mind you—that Oscar was grouchy all the time because maybe he didn’t get enough love. And that it was her mission to remedy that situation. Well, she might not have used those words, but the toy definitely has that well-worn, slightly gross patina that demonstrates her devotion.
“Snuggle?” she says, skootching closer.
“Sure.” I yawn. “Did you go potty?”
She nods against my chest, then backs up to frown into my eyes, her little myopic brown ones slightly unfocused. At least, I think that’s what she’s doing, since my big myopic ones aren’t doing much better.
“So,” she says, “now what?”
“Now what?” I repeat, stalling until something sparks to life inside my skull.
That gets a little huffy sigh. “I mean…what happens now? Are we gonna stay here? Are you going back to work? And who’s gonna take care of me when you do? And does this mean we definitely can’t get a puppy now?”
I shut my eyes in an attempt to keep my shrieking brain from bolting from my head. When I open them again, Starr’s still frowning at me, patiently awaiting any words of wisdom I might be inclined to share. Unfortunately, I’m fresh out.
“Don’t know, Twinkle-girl.”
“About any of it?” You’d have to be here to get the full impact of her incredulity.
“Well, I pretty much have to go back to work,” I say, “since otherwise, we’d eventually starve.”
“But why do we have to buy food when people keep bringing it to us?”
I chuckle. “They won’t do that forever, honey. That’s just something people do when…when a family’s going through a tough time.”
“You mean because Leo died.”
“Yeah.”
She rolls out of my arms and onto her back, her hands folded over her tummy. The heat hasn’t kicked on yet; I pull the down comforter up over her, then wrap my arm around her, just for a second wishing there was somebody to wrap an arm around me, to make me feel warm and safe and secure. It suddenly hits me that I’d never expected, at twenty-eight, to be either a parent or an orphan. And I’m not real sure what to do with the fact that I’m both.
“Why do people have to die?” she asks and I close my eyes again, thinking it’s way too early for these kinds of questions. Not before coffee. Or another couple of decades of trying to figure it out myself. But somehow, when I open my mouth, out comes, “Because everything does, eventually. Everything that has a beginning, has an ending. That’s just a law of nature.”
Dark eyes meet mine. “Can God die?”
God? How the hell did He get into this conversation?
“Of course God can’t die. God’s…God, for goodness sake.”
This gets one of those astute, assessing looks that scares the crap out of me. The you-don’t-really-know-so-you’re-faking-it-aren’t-you? look. To distract myself from the panic threatening to cut off my air supply, I remember all the goodies downstairs that Luke brought over last night. Surely there’s something I can feed the child that won’t invoke the wrath of the Good Mother police.
So I swing my legs out of bed as if I’m actually awake and perky. “You hungry? Uncle Luke brought a whole bunch of donuts and stuff last night—”
“Is God even real?”
Would someone tell me how I got a kid who puts her spiritual awakening ahead of sugar and fat calories?
I twist around. “I’d like to think so,” I say, since unless and until I get incontrovertible proof that He isn’t, I don’t think it’s in my best interests to deliberately piss the old guy—or gal—off by denying Him. Or Her.
“Then why does He let bad stuff happen? I mean, if he’s God, isn’t he supposed to be like all-powerful and stuff?”
I make a mental note to find out who the kid’s been hanging out with.
“Unfortunately, since I’m not, I don’t have all the answers. In fact, I don’t have most of them.” I pause, then add, because it seems like a good idea at the moment, “But maybe if you keep asking, God will answer them for you Himself.”
“How?”
“Honestly, Starr—how do I know? Now do you want donuts or not?”
Her eyes get very…deep, is the best way I can describe it. Starr almost never cries, never did very much even as an infant. But she does the wounded look better than anyone I’ve ever known. And she’s got it on full display now, boy. I let out a loud sigh, then scoop her up into my lap, trying to pat her tangled hair out of my face before it makes me sneeze.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. But I’m a little frazzled right now and you’re asking me questions I can’t answer. And I get frustrated because I do want to be able to answer them. I just can’t. Does that make sense?”
She nods, then says, “I have an idea.”
“About?”
“Leo’s things. In his room? Maybe I could help you go through them, and then we could say something about each thing, to help us remember him?”
“I think that’s a great idea. How’d you think of it?”
“Dunno. It just came to me.”
I glance up. Um…if You’re up there, or wherever, and talking to my daughter? Would You mind not leaving me out of the loop?
We get on our robes and slippers and go down to the kitchen, where it hits me that I think I’ve just said my first honest-to-God prayer. Is that weird or what?
Although not nearly as weird as what’s pitching a fit at my front door.
chapter 13
“Yes?” I say politely to the unfamiliar blonde glowering at me through the glass.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ellie, let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
“Jennifer?”
The glower deepens.
Okay, in all fairness, I didn’t recognize my sister at first because a) she was brunette the last time I saw her and b) she had a nose. I stand back and let her inside, biting back the urge to say, “Ooooh, we’ve been hitting up WASPS-R-US, haven’t we?”
What can I tell you, grief brings out my surly side. Which, if I were in a more charitable frame of mind, I might say was the reason behind my sister’s foul mood. Since a) I’m not and b) she’s always been like this, what’s the point?
Jennifer stops and stares at Starr for a moment, as if she’s startled to find her here. Then, without so much as a “hello” for her niece, she turns back to give me the once-over.
“Well, don’t you look like hell.”
Aaaand, we’re off.
“Who’re you?” Starr says.
At this, Jen turns and bends at the knees, a pained smile stretched across her face. “I’m your Aunt Jennifer, honey. Your mommy’s sister.”
Starr shoots me a is-she-serious? look. When I nod, her eyes veer back to her aunt. “How come I’ve never seen you before?”
“Starr, sweetie? Would you do me a huge favor and go watch TV for a bit while Aunt Jennifer and I…chat for a few minutes?”
“C’n I have juice first?”
“Sure, baby.” I pour her some Tropicana and send her on her way, then turn on—I mean to—my sister.
“It’s not even seven-thirty,” I say, hoping the morning halitosis is strong enough to reach her, “I ju
st got up, I wasn’t expecting you, and what was the other thing? Oh, right—I’ve been mourning our grandfather for the past week.” I shuffle to the fridge to get out the coffee, then let my eyes slide up and down Jennifer’s DKNY’d body. “And your excuse is…?”
“Don’t be catty.”
“It’s a big kitchen. There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
She ignores me because apparently there’s a much bigger crisis looming on the horizon. “You use Folger’s?”
Under other circumstances I might even be enjoying this. Especially when she gets a load of the tower of goodies left from last night. Filled with equal parts pity and disgust, her eyes once again rake over my body.
“People have been bringing food,” I say, clicking on the coffeemaker. “Feel free to take some home with you if you like.” I turn, my arms crossed. “Why are you here, Jen?”
“My name,” she says, “is Jennifer.”
Beelzebub to your friends, I think but do not say.
“So why are you here, Jennifer?”
“Two things, actually. First, I want to know what your plans are. About the house.”
I frown. “You came into town at seven-thirty to ask me about the house?”
An airy little wave precedes, “I have a meeting at nine in the city. I thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
My God, she’s so blond she practically glows. Next time there’s a blackout, I’m sticking with her, boy.
I haul myself back to the present. “And what plans, exactly, did you have in mind? Some home improvements, maybe? I was thinking maybe we could use a new coat of paint—”
“I’m not talking about home improvements!” She actually stamps her foot. But gently. So as not to break off the pretty little stacked heel on her I-don’t-wanna-know-how-much-it-cost pointy-toed boot. “I’m talking about selling!”
“Jennifer, hellooo? I can’t sell this house, remember? It’s in trust for Starr.”
Her eyes—a peculiar, colorless color, like platinum—turn cold. “I know that. I’m talking about that ridiculous condition about not being able to sell the other house as long as the tenants want to stay. As if that’s a problem.”
Hanging by a Thread Page 17
