Wing Girl

by Nic Tatano

  “Your family is terrific, Rox.”

  And the moment those words left my mouth, I saw him.

  I leaned toward Roxanne and lowered my voice. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here.”

  “I told you my family was all going to be here, and he’s a big part of it. This is his mother’s house, after all.”

  “Wonderful.” I rolled my eyes as I saw Vincent prop open the back door, then disappear back into the house. “I wish you would stop trying to fix us up.”

  “I’m not trying to do anything.”

  “You’re full of it.”

  What I saw next was something I didn’t expect.

  A wheelchair occupied by a frail, gray-haired elderly woman slowly came into view, with Vincent pushing it.

  “Who’s that?”

  Roxanne sipped her wine. “That’s his mother.”

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “She’s an invalid. Can’t walk any more or do much of anything. But her mind’s still sharp.”

  “So her husband takes care of her?”

  Roxanne shook her head. “He died about ten years ago. Vincent’s an only child, so it’s been tough on him. He lives here two days a week, the rest of us cousins all take turns, and thank God there’s plenty of us. He couldn’t bear to put her in a nursing home and he knows she wouldn’t want to go to one. Those places are basically waiting rooms to die.”

  “Really,” I said, as my emotions downshifted. I watched as family members got up and walked over to greet Vincent’s mom. Her face lit up, but she struggled to lift her hand when they all bent down to hug or kiss her. When the receiving line dispersed, Vincent wheeled her past the grill so she could see what was cooking, then over to the table for a look at all the dishes that were laid out. Her face beamed. He leaned down and listened to her, nodded, grabbed a plate, then filled it as she pointed to various foods with a shaky hand. He wheeled her up to the long picnic table, put the plate in front of her, and started cutting a piece of sausage. Then he picked up a piece with a fork and began to feed her. She looked at him as she chewed, with a look right into his soul, with a look only a mother and son can share. For once, I wished I could see his eyes.

  “She can’t feed herself?”

  Roxanne shook her head. “Not any more. They’ve got a live-in retired nurse for the bathroom stuff and medical care. She’s just hanging on. Terminal. Doctor says she could go any time. This is definitely her last Fourth of July.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at the scene. Vincent patiently waited as his mother took forever to chew a small bite, then fed her more or gave her a sip of wine through a straw. Her eyes were locked on him the entire time.

  “You wanna meet her now?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I put my plate on the table as I got up.

  I followed Roxanne as we headed in her direction. Vincent looked up and saw me, gave a slight smile, then turned back to his mother.

  His mother’s face brightened when she saw Roxanne. “Roxy!” she said in a gravel voice. “I was wondering if you were here.”

  “You know I wouldn’t miss it, Grace,” she said, then leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. “Grace, I want you to meet a very good friend of mine. This is Belinda.”

  Roxanne stepped aside and I crouched down and took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Martino,” I said in a loud voice.

  “I’m not deaf, honey, my body’s just shot to hell.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry.”

  She struggled to point at me, her index finger shook. “You’re the one from TV.”

  I nodded. “That’s me.”

  She managed to reach out and touch my hair. “Oooh, such a beautiful red.”

  “Thank you.”

  She looked up at Roxanne. “You do her hair, Roxy?”

  Roxanne smiled. “You know my work, Grace.”

  She looked back at me. “Oh, it’s just gorgeous.” She reached out to Vincent and touched his forearm, then turned to face him. “Vincent, is this the girl you told me about?”

  His face turned red as the pasta sauce and his eyes grew wide. “Uh, yeah Ma.”

  “Such a beautiful girl. She’s even prettier than you said.”

  Face got even redder. “Yeah, I know.”

  ***

  The hours between dinner and the fireworks were filled with card games and loud conversation. The kids were off in one section of the yard, which had been turned into an old-fashioned bocce court. Meanwhile, Vincent had been avoiding me since his mother outed him. Every time I got anywhere remotely close to him he quickly headed in the opposite direction.

  Probably because he knew I had a little bit of the upper hand here. And it was about damn time.

  “Time for charades!” yelled Roxanne.

  A dozen or so adults gathered on the lawn as Roxanne shook an old fedora. I wasn’t sure what was going on but decided to play along.

  “Okay,” said Roxanne, “usual rules apply. I’ll pick the teams out of the hat.” She drew out one slip of paper after another, pairing people off. Finally she reached in and called my name. I was looking around to see who was left as a possible partner, when she reached into the hat, unfolded a slip of paper, and shot a big smile at me. “Your partner is Vincent.”

  Something tells me the fix is in. Nah, she’s not trying to fix anyone up.

  Roxanne was the timekeeper with a clipboard and a stopwatch. I hadn’t played this pantomime game since I was a kid, but I remembered you have to silently act out whatever you’re given and get your partner to identify it. I watched the other teams and quickly picked up the signals for movies, songs, famous people, etcetera.

  “Belinda and Vincent are next,” said Roxanne.

  “I’ll let him go first,” I said. “Haven’t played this in awhile.”

  Vincent got up, reached into the hat, pulled out a slip of paper, looked at it, then handed it back to Roxanne.

  She looked at him and he nodded, then turned to me. “Annnnnnd … go!” She clicked the stopwatch.

  Vincent took his right hand and rolled an imaginary camera while he looked at me through the circle he’d made with his left hand to represent a lens.

  “Movie!” I yelled.

  He nodded. He pointed to himself, then to Roxanne. He did it again and I got it immediately.

  “My Cousin Vinny!”

  A chorus of “aw, c’mon” filled the air as Roxanne clicked the stopwatch. “Ten seconds. Impressive. That should be hard to beat.”

  “That was way too easy,” said one of the other relatives.

  “Hey, he picked it out of the hat,” said Roxanne, who then shot me a wink. “You’re up, Belinda.”

  I stood up as Vincent passed me and sat down. I reached into the hat, grabbed a slip of paper, looked at it and handed it back to Roxanne. I nodded at her, then turned to Vincent.

  “And … go!”

  I held one fist near my mouth, placed the other hand on my stomach, and opened my mouth wide.

  “Music!” Vincent said.

  I pointed at him and nodded. Then I pointed strongly at myself.

  “Devil in a blue dress?”

  Everyone laughed as I gave him a nasty look. I pointed at myself again.

  “Not a song?”

  I nodded.

  “A singer?”

  Bigger nod. I pointed to myself again, then made an hourglass motion with my hands.

  “Female singer?”

  Nod.

  Vincent bit his lower lip as he looked off to the side, thinking. “A reporter who sings?”

  I gave him an incredulous look and put my palms up as if to say are you kidding me? I pointed at myself again.

  “You … Belinda! Singer named Belinda!”

  I nodded with a big smile.

  “Belinda Carlisle!”

  I clapped my hands as Roxanne hit the watch. “Thirty-four seconds, you guys are in the lead.”

  “Fix!” yelled someone on another team.
<
br />   “Shaddup, she pulled it out of the hat,” said Roxanne.

  ***

  It was dark by nine, with no moon, the only light provided by the tiki torches scattered around the lawn. Dozens of lawn chairs had been scattered facing the water to offer everyone the best view of the fireworks.

  I was about to sit next to Roxanne when Mrs. Martino locked eyes with me for a moment and gently waved me over. I walked to her wheelchair, situated in the middle of the lawn chairs and crouched down beside her. Vincent was nowhere in sight. “Can I get you something, Mrs. Martino?”

  “Just yourself, honey. Sit down next to me during the fireworks.”

  I could see matchmaking ran in the family and I was going to let Roxanne have it on the way home. But the woman had such a sweet smile I couldn’t refuse. “Sure.” I grabbed a seat in the lawn chair next to her, noting the one on the other side was empty.

  Belinda Carson, you’ve chosen the Daily Double!

  I’ll take Italian mother fix-ups for a thousand, Alex.

  The answer is … he’s sitting next to his mom for the fireworks show.

  I heard patriotic music wash across the water and knew the fireworks were about to start. So did everyone else, as people took their places.

  Of course Vincent walked by me, smiled sheepishly, and sat down next to his mother.

  He took her hand. Then she took mine. It was tiny and cold, the hard creases of her skin rough against my hand. She looked at me and smiled with those knowing eyes.

  The fireworks began, exploded high in the sky and reflected off the water. It was like having a giant mirror for the Fourth of July and was a spectacular effect.

  I took a look at Vincent’s mom, whose face was filled with the wonder of a small child as Vincent wrapped one arm around her shoulder, his face next to hers. The lights reflected off her face, giving her an almost ethereal, angelic effect. Suddenly she didn’t look old and terminal.

  All I could think of was Frank the photographer’s favorite line about shooting video, about the subtle difference between sight and vision.

  It had to do with seeing things in a different light.

  ***

  It was approaching midnight as we rode back to Manhattan in Roxanne’s four-door burgundy Chrysler land yacht. She was one of the few people I knew who had a car in the city, as the price of parking is prohibitive and often a lot more than a car payment. But she “has a deal” with someone who owns a garage, and I knew that meant it was one of those look-the-other-way under the table arrangements with someone who has a last name ending in a vowel.

  “So,” she said, waiting in line to pay the toll, “have a good time?”

  “It was a blast. Really unique.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Oh, you know, the food was great. The old-fashioned games. Your family is wonderful. What a bunch of characters. And the view of the fireworks was spectacular. I loved the reflection off the water. Really unique perspective.”

  “Glad you liked it. Anything else?”

  Now I knew she was fishing and the fix really was in. “Nah, that pretty much covers everything.”

  “Uh-huh.” I didn’t say anything, as I knew she was doing a slow burn by the little twitch in her lips. Ten seconds passed. “So, Vincent’s not a monster, huh?”

  “I knew it! You set me up again!”

  “I didn’t set anybody up. I told you my whole family would be there, and he’s part of the family.”

  “What a steaming pile of horseshit. You’re still trying to get us together. You fixed charades. You even enlisted the guy’s mother!”

  “You know, for such a smart girl, sometimes you’re a real stunad.”

  “A what?”

  “Stoo-nad!” She looked at me and tapped a knuckle on my head. “Italian for stupid idiot! I try to fix you up with a great guy and you treat him like shit!”

  “Hey, he’s the one with the snotty remarks—”

  “Only because of your attitude.”

  “He told me I was unapproachable.”

  “You wanted the truth!”

  “Not that kind of truth!”

  “Who do I look like, Jack Nicholson telling you that you can’t handle the truth? Oh, like he’s supposed to know there are different degrees of truth for the Brass Cupcake that don’t apply to everyone else? You asked him what he thought and you said you were a big girl so he told you. You get in his cab and he calls you a fabulous babe and you won’t take a compliment or a free ride. The guy goes to adopt a cat and you give him a hard time. A friggin’ cat! How many guys do you know who like cats!”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Stunad!” She slapped the back of my head.

  “Ow!”

  “He’s a great lookin’ guy who makes good money and he takes care of his invalid mother for goodness sake!”

  “I’m sure he can find a nice girl—”

  “Yeah, lots of girls out there would understand the situation with his mom. I figured if anyone would, you would. He has no life between work and her. I thought the least you could do … eh, fuhgeddaboudit.”

  The traffic moved and Roxanne finally got through the EZ-PASS lane which had been anything but easy. She stared straight ahead and I could tell she was really steamed by the death grip she had on the steering wheel.

  “That’s really nice how he takes care of his mother,” I said.

  “The man’s a friggin’ saint.”

  Another long pause as we picked up speed.

  “He really told his mother about me?” She nodded but didn’t say anything. She gave me a sideways glare. I got a major dose of Catholic guilt.

  “He actually likes me?”

  She looked at me for a second and said, “Stunad,” softly.

  I went to bed more confused than ever. Was Wing Girl simply a stunad? Had the Brass Cupcake lost her identity? And who the hell was Belinda?

  Meanwhile, was sensible girl really being sensible? Or was she just a horrible judge of character?

  Inquiring minds wanna know.

  I turned out the lights thinking that when I was frumpy girl without any men interested in me life was a hell of a lot simpler.

  But not more exciting.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Some people pay hundreds of dollars an hour to talk to a psychiatrist.

  Reporters get personal advice free, from photographers. Often whether they want it or not. When you spend most of your day in a news car, you can only talk about your story for so long, so you end up having these incredible conversations about life that can often last for hours.

  While Harry has been my “TV dad” since my real one passed away, Frank the Chief Photographer has been my sounding board.

  Frank Hansen has been in the business for twenty years, and he has a surprisingly normal life away from the station. The television news business has an alarmingly high divorce rate (as evidenced by Harry’s four-monthly alimony checks), but Frank has lived a comfortable life with his high school sweetheart since he got out of college. Forty-two, about five-eleven and solidly built from carrying gear all his life, he’s got that rugged blue-collar look which is appropriate since he favors those pale-blue chambray shirts. His weathered face courtesy of working outdoors is complimented by salt-and-pepper hair that creeps over his collar and deep-set hazel eyes. Those eyes see stuff no reporter can, as he consistently turns out spectacular video for my stories, with incredible shots that make your jaw drop. Frank can shoot a blade of grass and make you feel guilty about cutting the lawn. And, like all photographers, he was born with the sarcasm chromosome.

  I’ve worked with Frank more than any other shooter (that’s slang for photographer) and he’s been like an extra big brother, very protective of me when we’ve been in dicey situations. He knows my reporting style, what kind of shots I like, and, most important, when something’s bothering me.

  So when I slid into the passenger seat of his news car and shut the door, he was already facing
me.

  “You okay?” he asked, with that big brother look.

  “Yeah.”

  He cranked the car. “Bull. There’s a whole bunch of new shit going on with you, and you’ve got that faraway look lately.” He pulled the car out of the lot and headed for New Jersey, the location of our story for today.

  “Lately?”

  “Lately. Since you turned into a news babe.”

  “I just care a little more about how I look of late. But thank you for the compliment.”

  “Pffft. There’s more to it than that. You’re different. If I didn’t know you better I’d guess you were in love.”

  “Why do you assume I can’t be in love?”

  “Aha!”

  I hate it when people use reporter’s tricks on me.

  “So who’s the guy?”

  I started to blush. “We’ve only been out a few times, but, I mean, he’s really nice and old-fashioned. Not pushy or anything. I like him a lot, but it’s not love … yet.”

  “Name, age, occupation, details.” (Like I said, he’s protective of me.)

  “His name is Scott Shepard. He’s a financial consultant, a little older than me, never married.”

  “You meet him since you became a news babe?”

  I slapped him on the arm. “Stop calling me that!”

  “Eh, I’m just bustin’ your chops, Cupcake. I know that buried underneath the hair and the makeup and the skirt, my take-no-prisoners superheroine is still there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, speaking of skirts, all the shooters now say you’ve got the best legs in the station. Who knew?”

  “Thank you again.”

  “So, you like this guy, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  We stopped at a red light and he turned, studied my face. “But … ”

  I frowned. “But … what?”

  “There’s something else in the equation.”

  “Dammit, shooter, how the hell do you know this stuff?”

  “Marriage will do that to you. You like this guy but the second guy has you confused.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Aha! There is a second guy!”

  Dammit! Tricked again.

  “I’ve only been out with Scott. Well, that’s not exactly true. I went out with another jerk I met at a bar once but he’s long gone.”