Loose Screws

by Karen Templeton

  I think that’s what you’d call bemusement in Nick’s eyes. “And brought him…here.”

  My gaze bounces from Nick to Paula to Frank and back to Nick. “It’s just until I find someplace else for him, I swear.”

  “Ma, he’s like, so cool,” Frank Jr., the oldest boy, says. “It’s like we’re living on a farm.”

  “Which we don’t,” Paula says, then turns to me. “Honey, swear to God, I’d do anything for you, but I can’t keep a rooster.”

  My eyes are burning. I feel stupid as hell. And desperate. How come my mother can pull these things off with dignity and I just look like an idiot? “It’s just for a few days,” I repeat. “I promise, I’ll find someplace to take him. By the end of the week,” I declare, even though, again, I have no idea what I’m promising.

  “Ginger—”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Nick says quietly to his sister-in-law, although his eyes are pinned to mine. “And I’ll find a new home for him, too. I’ve got connections,” he says when my brows lift.

  “Mom, look!” Frank Jr. says. “It’s like he knows we’re talkin’ about him!”

  “It’s a chicken, for cryin’ out loud!” Paula says. “They’re like the stupidest creatures on God’s green earth!”

  At that, Rocky turns his beady little eyes on Paula, stretches up on tiptoe, and crows his heart out.

  “Jesus,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  “I owe you guys,” I say, heading for the door before Nick can get to me, even though if I’ll admit it, he already has. But I’m not admitting anything. “Anytime you need a baby-sitter, just holler, I’ll be here.”

  Then I hug Paula and get the hell out of there, fully aware as I hot-foot it down the street toward the subway station that Nick has come out on the stoop and is watching my retreat.

  Dinner’s long since over by the time I get home, although Nonna insists on heating up some leftover eggplant parmigiana for me. Gee, when she goes back to Brooklyn, either my mother or I will have to learn how to cook. Bummer. I tell them both about my afternoon’s adventures; they both stare at me, speechless.

  “And Nick said he’d take care of it, find it a home?” my mother says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Nonna grunts. “An’ alla this Greg did was send you roses.”

  After dinner, I find my mother in her room, hand her a check. After deducting what I paid for the rooster, it’s what I just got for the ring. I’ve left the Pay To The Order Of part blank.

  She looks at the figure, blinks. Looks up at me.

  “For that shelter you were talking about,” I say, then go to my room, rip off my clothes and fall into bed, and thence into the first decent night’s sleep I’ve had all summer.

  In the midst of the weekend’s events, I’d nearly forgotten I was supposed to start a new job today. Or that I was supposed to be there at nine, which was twenty minutes ago and I’m just now getting off the bus at Fifth and 86th to begin my sprint over to Lexington Avenue, where Dana Alsworth has her gallery and offices. I’m a veritable vision in Mushroom-and-Creme, right down to my classic, but up-to-the-minute, matching slingbacks. The weather is even being decent—relatively blue sky, relatively oxygenated air, relatively cool crosstown breeze. So, all of this having put me in a good mood (even if I am running late, my mother is pregnant, I spent several hours yesterday rescuing a rooster and I have a date tonight with a man I have no idea what to do with) I skim across the sidewalk at a brisk enough pace to put some color in my cheeks, but not enough to leave me panting when I arrive.

  I stop at the showroom’s front door, both to catch my breath and ease myself back into what I like to think of as “my” world. As I stand there, I feel an actual transformation take place. The crazed, impulsive woman of yesterday is fading…fading…yielding to the secure, confident, sane creature I used to be.

  God, I’d missed her.

  Alsworth’s is twice as large as Fanning’s, with designers and assistants scurrying around like the critters in Disney’s Cinderella. Dana herself emerges from the back within seconds of the sleek, black receptionist’s announcing my arrival, whisks me back to her office. I get the feeling things get whisked a lot around here.

  I sit (elegantly, legs crossed but close together, hands on knees, chin up), we chat, I fill out forms, I’m shown my office (nice view, not spectacular but plenty of light), then am given a brief tour of the rest of the facility (three conference rooms, huge sample room, accessories showroom, other offices, bathrooms, everything in muted pewters and taupes). By this time, Mrs. Souter, aka Devil Lady, has arrived. With a smile, I whisk the diminutive hellcat into my new office, mentally making a note to ditch the tired wing chair in the corner for something much more au courant, then buzz Liandra at the front desk for coffee, making a mental note to ask her where she got those fabu earrings.

  Then I sit behind my desk, lean back, and wait for Contentment to surge through my veins, since, after all, this is exactly what I’d worked for my entire adult life.

  It almost happens, but not quite.

  Guess I’m just out of practice.

  At twelve-thirty my intercom buzzes.

  “There’s a gentleman out front to see you,” Liandra purrs.

  “Did he give his name?”

  “I asked, but he’s not telling. Says he’s here to surprise you.”

  My heart bolts into my throat.

  “Blond or dark-haired?”

  “Oooh…we have a choice?” She laughs. “Dark.”

  Greg? What the hell—?

  Many winged creatures take flight in my stomach. Which is a good sign, yes? Tell me it is, I need to hear it. I get up, take a few seconds to tweak and twitch and fluff, then sweep out into the reception area.

  Greg’s eyes widen—oh, right, he hasn’t yet seen my new short ’do—then he gives me a very appreciative grin, which begets more fluttering. “Very nice,” he says, I say, “Thanks,” then he says, “I’ve come to spirit you away for lunch.”

  Suddenly, something seems…off. “But aren’t we having dinner tonight?”

  Hands in pockets of charcoal pin-striped Armani, smile in place, he shrugs, “What can I say? I couldn’t wait.”

  Behind me, Liandra is going, “Mmm-mmm,” under her breath. Dana just happens to emerge from her office at that moment, sucks in an audible breath. As does the young man following her.

  “Gee, I don’t know, Greg…I’ve got a ton of work to do…”

  Everybody in the room stares at me.

  Well, he’s thrown me, dammit. I now realize the fluttering isn’t from glee, it’s from apprehension. I need advance warning for this, which I thought I had. Since when does Greg Munson ambush people, do things on the spur of the moment? He’s supposed to be predictable, dammit. It says so right on the box.

  “Well, if you’re too busy…” he says, looking—I sigh—crestfallen.

  “Oh, now, Ginger,” Dana drawls, “there’s nothin’ that couldn’t wait another hour. Or two.” She spears me with an if-you-don’t-take-him-I-will look. “Is there?”

  Another sigh. “No, I suppose not.” So, I do the introduction routine, stall as long as I can by going potty, putting on more lipstick, getting my handbag, finally telling myself I’m being perverse and childish.

  The minute we’re outside, Greg apologizes.

  “I didn’t mean to throw you, Ginge, honestly. I just thought…” His chest rises on an inhaled breath. “I just don’t want you to feel I take you for granted.”

  Where the hell did that come from? I adjust my bag higher on my shoulder, shake my head. “I never felt that from you,” I say, which is the God’s honest truth. “Why should I now?”

  “Just something Dad said, that’s all. That women like to be showered with attention.”

  “I’m not a poodle, Greg. I don’t expect you to give me treats.”

  He laughs, then steers me around the corner to a cute little French restaurant I’d already pegged as someplace I wanted to
try. The place is minuscule—just seven tables in a storefront that used to be a bakery or something—the prices outrageous. The kind of eatery we used to frequent when we were dating. Okay, yeah, this is nice. Very nice.

  I begin to relax.

  We order, then sit and chat over Perrier (me) and a single Scotch on the rocks (him). A couple comes in, sits on the other side of the restaurant, which is maybe all of twelve feet away. She’s older, maybe mid-forties or so, very well dressed. He’s twenty-five at the most, casual to the point of bumminess.

  Greg leans over. “An affair,” he whispers.

  I grin in spite of the residual nervousness that hasn’t quite let go. We used to do this all the time, make up stories about other couples, give them lives of our own devising. I lean over, as well. I can smell his cologne. Armani, as well. To my surprise, sexual awareness wallops me right in the gut. “She’s married.”

  “Oh, God, yes. Fifteen years. One kid, a daughter, in prep school upstate.”

  “No, abroad.”

  Greg glances over, nods. “You’re right. Definitely abroad.”

  “He’s…a musician.”

  “What instrument?”

  I slant a glance in his direction. “Violin.”

  “She’s keeping him.”

  I laugh. “His patron?”

  “Her boy toy.”

  Of course, not five minutes later, we hear the guy groan, “Jesus, Mom!” and that ends that. We laugh, dig into our salads. I tell him about my weekend’s adventures, leaving out the part about my mother’s pregnancy, for obvious reasons.

  “You mean to tell me,” Greg says, chuckling, “you went all the way out to Jersey to rescue a chicken? You?”

  I hadn’t realized until this moment that my telling him was a test, of sorts. That I was holding my breath about what his reaction might be. And how relieved I am—not to mention nonplussed—that he’s not horrified.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  He grins. “I can just see you hauling that thing around. So where’d you end up taking it, anyway?”

  Nick’s blue eyes flash into my thought. Oops.

  I look down at my salad, thinking, Just keep sniffing that Armani, honey.

  “My cousin Paula’s. In Brooklyn. For the time being, anyway.”

  “Paula, Paula…oh, right—she’s the one who married the Polish guy, right? Has all the kids?”

  “Yeah. You never met her, though.”

  Behind his glasses, his eyes crinkle. “Maybe now I will.”

  It’s now clear to me just how much he means to win me back. I should be flattered. I am flattered. I’m also not entirely sure what to do with…any of this. But damn, he’s being attentive. And funny. And charming. And when we leave the restaurant and he takes my hand, something warm and familiar washes over me. Another definite surge of sexual interest.

  But it’s too soon, and I tell him so, just as we reach Alsworth’s door.

  “I know that,” he says softly, then slips his hand to the back of my neck, lowers his mouth to mine.

  Holy crap, I’d forgotten how well this guy can kiss. And now I remember the way he could make my entire body sing with his touch, how he always knew exactly what to do, how to not only get me hot, but to keep me begging for hours.

  When he breaks the kiss, I frown. “Why did you stand me up, Greg?”

  His lips curve into a gentle smile. “You’re a formidable woman, Ginger, in case you don’t know. And I thought, how could I possibly ever be enough for her?”

  I chew on that for a minute, then say, “And now?”

  Instead of replying, he kisses me again, winks, then walks away.

  And I thought this man was safe?

  I snag a taxi after work, swing by to pick up Alyssa. I’d called first, so she’s waiting outside, chattering to Arnold, the night doorman. An old pro, she tosses her duffel bag in the front with the cabbie, then scrambles into the back beside me. We do the huggy-squealy number—it’s been too long since I’ve seen this kid, smelled her shiny, child-verging-on-woman scent.

  “God! You cut your hair!” she says, bug-eyed.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s totally awesome.” She grabs a hunk of her own silky tresses, frowns at it. “Think I’d look good like that?”

  “Cut your hair and die,” I say mildly, and she giggles.

  Traffic’s heavy. After five minutes of inching up Third Avenue, I bang on the Plexiglas, suggest maybe going through the park at 96th? The driver nods, cuts across two lanes of traffic to get to the west side of the street.

  Alyssa starts talking about boys. There are two in her life at the moment, both of them in the summer music program she’s been attending (she plays piano). One likes her, but he’s a dork. The other’s, like, so totally cool, but he doesn’t even know she’s alive.

  I sigh. “Sounds familiar. I think I was a senior in high school before it actually worked out that I liked a boy the same time he liked me.”

  Horror streaks across her features. “You mean, I have to wait that long?”

  “Trust me,” I say, thinking about my own situation. “That’s when the problems start.”

  But then she’s onto a new topic: how her father absolutely refuses to let her wear anything that shows even part of her stomach, not even a sliver, when all her friends are and nobody’s else’s parents are being so anal about it and when is he going to realize she’s not a child?

  I was just about her age when my father died, I suddenly realize. Pain clamps around my heart for a moment before I grab her hand. “He probably never will, honey.”

  She makes a face. I laugh, only to sober at the thought of actually having to tell one of these of my own, one day, that she’s not showing off her midriff at twelve, either. Except God alone knows what twelve-year-old girls will be showing off by then.

  We pass the rest of the ride in quiet, relatively peaceful conversation, which, had I known the chaos awaiting me, I would have appreciated more. Because the instant I open the door to the apartment, Geoff bursts into the hall, circles us three times, then zooms over to the just closed elevator door, where he plops his butt on the hall tile and gives me this, “Well?” look. I see my mother—who just this morning remarked about not having any morning sickness—stumble out into the hall from the bathroom, clearly having puked her guts out; and my grandmother informs me that Shelby called a half hour earlier, desperate because Mark surprised her with tickets to something or other for her birthday but the baby-sitter backed out on them and is there any way I could take the kids—Nonna says she said it was no problem, to bring them on over—and, by the way, Terrie is in the living room, waiting for me.

  Did you get all that?

  I hand Alyssa her duffel bag, tell her to take it down the hall into my room, then say, “Nonna, I have a date tonight, remember?”

  Nonna does the sour grapefruit thing with her lips, which leads me to think she does indeed remember but had hoped I’d forgotten. But then she squares her shoulders and says, “Is notta problem. Alyssa and I take care of the bambinos. You go, get ready, go on your…date.”

  Right.

  Alyssa, who’s done as I asked and is now standing behind Nonna (and who is, I’m noticing, a good six inches taller than my grandmother) chimes in with, “It’s okay, Ginger, really. I baby-sit for the Jorgensens downstairs all the time. I can handle it.”

  But they can’t handle my sick mother. Or Terrie.

  Jeez, I wonder what’s up with her?

  I finally manage to wedge my way into the apartment, where I drag my phone and Day-Timer from my purse.

  “Forget it,” I say to my grandmother as I punch in Greg’s cell number. “He took me to lunch today, anyway. I can cancel, he’ll understand….”

  No answer.

  I call his condo.

  Voice messaging. Wow, progress.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say to the voice messaging fairies, “I hate to be so last minute, but something’s come up—”
okay, so poor word choice “—and I have to back out for tonight. I’ll call you.”

  Okay…who first? My mother or Terrie?

  Geoff yarps and immediately moves to the head of the line, because let me tell you, a corgi’s sharp little bark in an empty, high-ceilinged, tile-floored public hallway cuts straight through the skull. “Has he been out yet?”

  Nonna hands me his leash. The humans in my life will have to wait because clearly Geoff can’t. He yanks me down the stairs—forget the elevator, life is too short—then we pop out past the doorman, at which point I head toward the curb, the dog toward the park. We both yelp, but I win. Barely. There’s a lot of power in those stubby little legs.

  “Sorry, bud. Not tonight.”

  You should see the look he just gave me. However, it’s not as if he has a whole lotta choice, so he pees, he poops, I scoop, he mopes, we zip back up to the apartment.

  Alyssa’s in the kitchen with Nonna already, doing something with pans and bowls. I zip into the living room long enough to hug Terrie and ascertain that she looks deranged.

  “Hang tight,” I say, one finger raised. “I’ll be right back.”

  I poke my head into my mother’s room. She’s pulled the shades, but I can make out that she’s lying on her side on the bed.

  “How do you feel?” I whisper.

  “Like hell.”

  I feel helpless. And worried. And somehow guilty, though God knows why. I didn’t get her pregnant, after all. “You need anything?”

  “A coma would be nice.”

  I make a mental note to surreptitiously ask around, see who knows anything about home remedies for pregnancy nausea. I close the doors behind me, see Terrie standing up, gathering her purse.

  “I should go, this obviously isn’t a good time—”

  “Sit,” I command just as the intercom crackles in the kitchen.

  “Just let them in,” I say to Nonna. “It’s just Mark or Shelby, bringing the kids over. It’s okay, I swear, I’ll be right back,” I say to Terrie, then jog down the hall to swing open the door.

  Okay, so I’m obviously really bad at this guess-who’sat-the-door game.