Roll with the Punches

by Gettinger, Amy

  "I could have told you in-home care's expensive," she said. "Jane's mom drained the family finances when she got emphysema. She's on MediCal now."

  My stomach was falling. "Picture Music Man in a nursing home—on big drugs.”

  "Not pretty. Yeah, keep him home." She crunched something. "Any word since your big date?"

  "No. Talk about a roller coaster." I related the date from its institutional beginning, its animal-cruelty-tattoo-parlor-books-in-toilet middle, to its rosy, unsatisfying end. "Is a rose tattoo sexy or just oozy?"

  She started singing, "Lydia, oh, Lydia, oh have you met—"

  "I am not a tattooed lady!"

  "Well, men do adore so your lovely torso," she said. "Oh, Lydia,—"

  I joined in, Groucho-style, and we brought Andrew Jackson up the hill and got Lydia married to the admiral.

  "So how did the Golden Gate Bridge look on his back?" she asked.

  "No comment."

  "Well, when are you docking at Pier 39?"

  "When tourist season's over.”

  "When you do," she stressed, "Check out his bank statements!"

  * * *

  I took a detour home from Mom's house to Santa Croce Church in Santa Ana. Early evening services were letting out, and I searched the crowd for Manuela. No luck. So I walked inside, drawing stares at my jeans, T-shirt and nose stud.

  Father Gomez had a big, puckered scar on his cheek and a thick Spanish accent. He was shuffling sermon pages.

  "Excuse me, Reverend?" I said, "I'm looking for Manuela Munoz. She was my house cleaner, and I need to talk to her." About book theft.

  He pursed his lips. "She has a sister …"

  "Concepcion? She said Manuela moved out with a guy named Pablo. I just want to speak to her."

  "About what?" He looked guarded.

  "I—owe her money." I expected a fire bolt from the sky for my lie right in front of a praying statue of Mother Mary.

  "Sorry. I can't help you." He turned to walk away.

  "Do you at least know Pablo's last name?"

  He kept walking away.

  Resigned, I turned and walked back toward the entrance.

  A woman near me spoke up. "It's Pablo Reynaldo. Stay away from him. No one likes him here. He tells our stories out of turn. To INS. Well, now ICE." And she marched away on her husband's arm.

  * * *

  After dinner, Dal and Music Man and I played hearts. Shuffling the cards, I said to Dal, "Gee, you play so well. You even shot the moon."

  He gave me a superior look down the ever-present nose. "You think only cowboys get bored on the prairie?"

  "Prairie?" I went pink. "I just meant, you know, no one plays cards anymore. Everyone's into online games.”

  He rolled his eyes. "Believe me. I know cards."

  Oh, great. Another gambler as well as a rolling stone. I hated gamblers. I'd dated two and been engaged to another, and sworn off them for good after my fiancé sold my car and furniture out from under me.

  But Dal's eyes didn't start to glow or anything when he picked up the cards. In fact, I realized Dal was passing low cards to Music Man that helped him win. Awww. He was throwing hands for my father. Now that was sweet.

  I was trying to figure out how to politely ask Dal if he gambled seriously when the doorbell rang. Flower delivery from James—two dozen red roses. I beamed and flashed the card around at Dal, before sticking it in my cleavage. Then Harley called and asked what to wear to Amazon practice on Monday.

  "Clothes you can move in."

  "Do I need a derby name?"

  "Donut Guzzler will work."

  We settled in front of the TV, Music Man snoring, Dal swearing at a textbook, and me icing my bruised parts and scratching my nose stud while typing away on a new story at the laptop. Bing raided the pockets of my coat for used Kleenex and a granola bar. He ate my watch strap, too. Butthead.

  Dal got up for a Coke and stood behind me. "What's that you're writing?"

  "My memoir," I said, turning the laptop so he couldn't see the love scene I was embellishing, inspired by the roses on the table.

  "Funny. I could swear I saw the words steamy and voluptuous." He reached to turn the screen back.

  "That's my life, all right. I like my vegetables steamy and my sofas voluptuous." I shut the laptop lid and smiled primly at him. "Nosy.”

  He smirked around the giant proboscis and put an index finger to my stud. "Back at ya."

  I turned beet red and went home.

  * * *

  The phone chirped at almost three in the morning in my little condo. I said a Neanderthal hello.

  Dal said, "He's gone on another walk. I'm on my cell phone outside your dad’s house. Which way should I look? What's his normal route?"

  "He'll be back. Don't worry."

  "Come on. I'm tired." I told him the route and went back to sleep.

  Twenty minutes later, he called again.

  "Forget it. Stop looking." I said half to the pillow. "Serve him right if he winds up in Alaska on an iceberg."

  "Not funny, Rhonda."

  "You're right. He's probably headed for Death Valley." I had a macabre image of future desert archeologists scratching their heads over Dad's giant skull, the glasses, the cane, and the blue card.

  "You don't get it. He's not lost. He came home while I was out looking for him and locked me out."

  "You didn't take your keys?" I laughed.

  He was annoyed. "I was barely awake. I didn't dream that old guy could out-jog me. Or that he’d lock me out."

  "So knock on his window."

  "Tried that. No luck. I also tried calling him on the phone. He must sleep like the dead.”

  "No. He's nearly deaf. His hearing aids are out.”

  "Isn't there a key in a potted plant or under a fake dog turd out back?"

  "Check the small watering can by the patio."

  "The red watering can with the giant black widow in it?"

  "Eeyuuw. Well, that's where I put it last time I used it when Mom and Dad were out of town and I locked my keys in my car." Yes. James had given me a lift over there from the hockey rink to get my extra key ring. Good times.

  He said, "Listen, I'm out of cash and cards and shivering out here.”

  I sighed. "Okay, I'm coming.”

  * * *

  Dal was right. All the old homestead's doors were locked tight. My key didn't work since Music Man had apparently thrown all the deadbolts and chains with gusto. I shivered in my light jacket. Despite the warm, dry days, the October nights were getting chilly.

  "He safe in there alone?" Dal rubbed his eyes.

  I shrugged. "What could possibly attack him besides applesauce jars?"

  Dal looked beat.

  I sighed. "You want to come home with me? My sofa's a bit short."

  "Need to be back here for my 8:00 class.”

  What a relief. "Good point. Well, Dad should be up by seven and come out to get the paper." I checked my watch. "That's over three hours from now. You prefer an all-night diner, the grocery store, or the backyard lounge chairs?"

  He shoved his hands through his hair. "Bit breezy. And I'm dead. How about your car? If you pull it into the driveway and we recline the front seats …"

  I tried to discern a hint of hanky panky in his face and found none. How insulting. "How about you use your car? Then I could just go home."

  "No key, remember? Oh, all right. I'll sleep on a lounge chair." He headed toward the back yard.

  It was pretty chilly—in the high forties and breezy. I caught his jacket sleeve. "Look, get in my car." I yawned. "Just don't tell my mother we slept together. She thinks I'm saving myself."

  He didn't even raise an eyebrow. Just sank into the flattened passenger seat of my car. In a stab of pity I gave him my emergency blanket from the trunk. He was inert and slack-jawed inside two seconds. Covered with assorted jackets and towels from the trunk, I rec
lined in the driver's seat, but with no pillow, my neck hurt. And the steering wheel cut into my lap, so I couldn't turn.

  I poked him. "You want to change sides? This one may be more comfy."

  "With the steering wheel? Good try." His voice trailed off, leaving me uncomfortably alone and cold and cramped.

  I popped the driver seat up, got out and crawled into the back seat. But there, the seat belt latches dug into my back, and my long legs dangled off the seat at odd angles. Worse, there was only a tiny space for my head behind his fully extended seat, and that frizzy black ponytail hung an inch from my face, tickling my nose when I shifted. Then there was the loud, steady, palpable male breathing.

  I went up on my elbow, gaining a close-up view of the momentous nose. "Maybe we should go to a hotel," I told his ear. "You're sick. You shouldn't be out here in the cold."

  His voice came shockingly close to my ear. "I'm from Minnesota. This ain't cold.”

  Minutes passed. I still had a plagiarism case on my mind and an Indian in my face. Breathing. Like we were stuck in a teepee together before some big skirmish. He smelled like almonds and grass. And pear shampoo.

  "Um. How long did your grandmother live with you?"

  No answer.

  I blew on the ponytail. "Did she ever get any better?"

  He said, "Huh? No. She only got worse. Eight years of dementia."

  "Oh, you're awake. Good. I'm sure glad Music Man is just stressed out. I'd hate to have to deal with him like this for long. If he really had Alzheimer's, he's so big, he might need to be in a care home. Which is expensive and maybe not that healthy for him. But this behavior is just temporary, don't you think?"

  "No idea."

  "Well, you could be a little supportive."

  "I'm tired," he said.

  Pause. "But what if you get sicker from sleeping out here? I'll feel responsible."

  "I'll only get sicker if you keep me awake by talking. Nighty-night.”

  I closed my eyes, but then sat up. "What are you sick with anyway? Rocky Mountain spotted fever? Hanta virus? Plague?" I leaned away from him. "Why am I hanging out in a car with a sick person? Can I get it? Or Music Man?"

  He turned toward me, eyes glinting in the glow from the streetlight. "Probably not. And no, quarantine's not necessary. Most people have it by their teens. I'm just unlucky.”

  "So what is it?" I punched his seat back.

  "Stop that."

  I punched it again and again until he swatted my hand.

  "Mono," he said, and sighed.

  "The kissing disease?" I yelled. "And you kissed me the day I met you? How could you? What if I get it?"

  "Then we'll be sick together." He rolled over to face the window.

  I lay down again and tried to sleep with my hand across my mouth to filter out mono germs. I pictured myself waking up with mononucleosis any morning now, feverish and exhausted, with giant glands and yellow skin, needing weeks off of work, losing my job. His breath, so close I could feel its warmth, got slow and steady again. Mine didn't.

  "Why did you kiss me that first day, anyway?" I whined, stuffing a sweater under my shoulder. "If you hadn't kissed me, I'd still be healthy."

  He raised up and twisted around, his face right in mine, his masculinity unnerving up close and personal. He didn't seem that sick. "I could give you more germs."

  Well, I could stand up to his big, fat bluff. "Need another virus? I have a herpes on my lip."

  "You do not."

  "Do too. Can't see it in the dark."

  "Not true."

  "Too true."

  In one fluid movement, he reached up, flipped on the dome light, took hold of my shoulders and dragged me up close to it. And to him.

  He bumped his head on the car roof. "Unh.”

  Balanced precariously, I could feel his warm breath on my cheeks and see the line of his mouth measuring me as the amazing proboscis loomed. The intense blue eyes searched my face with cop-like thoroughness. A slow smile produced crinkles around the steel. One hand came to rest on my cheek and his thumb gently traced the outline of my mouth.

  Oh my.

  Then the passenger seat on the eleven-year-old car gave way under Dal's knee and my hand. I reached out to steady him—boy, that barrel chest felt pretty solid—but we both toppled over into the back seat. His solid body ended up right on top of mine, his face smack in my breasts. His hands managed to explore most of my backside before he finally pushed up from the seat, grinning.

  My heart picked up speed.

  But he just shook his head at my lip. "Yeah. It's nasty. I'd never kiss that." And he curled back up on the broken seat.

  CHAPTER 21

  At sunrise on Monday morning, I stopped pretending to sleep, got out of the car, and checked my face in the rearview mirror. It wasn't that bad. Just black circles under my eyes, ratty hair, and a rhinestone nose stud that gave me the air of a hard dude roller girl, ready to take someone out. I took my inline skates from the trunk and skated the neighborhood streets.

  Hortensia Bacolor, a short, dark Filipino woman in her forties, showed up at 7:45, and Music Man let us in. Dal raced into and out of the house fast, all knees and elbows. I showed Hortensia around and introduced her to Dad, who said he didn't need anyone to stay with him. I explained it was just to make sure he was safe in case he fell, and I promised that Hortensia would take him to see Mom as soon as he asked to go.

  I dropped off my car at the mechanic near work to get its air-conditioning and seat fixed and walked the rest of the way. At work, I called Jack Pruitt, Marian's copyright lawyer. The secretary said they'd compare my work with Jackson's using a computer program called the Ferret, and I envisioned swarms of little furry animals with glasses scrutinizing millions of pages in side-by-side books. I made an appointment with them for the following week.

  Then I researched Reynard Jackson from every possible computer angle. I also googled Pablo Reynaldo, whose name was just too similar to my nemesis to discount, but found little of any use.

  At break time, as I sat down in the employee lounge, Jackie called. "Your mom any better?"

  I sighed. "Nope. Back in the hospital. Dizzy. Waiting for test results.”

  "Aww. Sorry, R.," Jackie said. "Hey, I heard you're cozy with James. Big date and all."

  "Who did he tell?" Oops.

  "Listen. Think you could you ask him to wangle a meeting for me with his ex-brother-in-law, Jeff Karrey, when he's in town next week? He's a big deal editor with one of the big publishing houses—Keats-Wadsworth or Haverton Masters or the Beyard Group. I want to hop genres, and my publisher, Luance, won't support me."

  "Why hasn't James introduced us to this guy already? I could use a personal connection in publishing."

  "Well, Karrey was pretty awful to Nadja, James's sister. But I think I can manage him." Read: seduce. "So how was The Date? Is James your secret pirate?"

  "It was just lunch and a movie. Well, no movie, actually. We got sort of busy and—"

  "Busy? Oh, boy. Give me details!"

  "Actually, the movie was sold out. We planned to go to the next showing, but got sidetracked in the mall, you know, in the pet store, the bookstore, the tattoo parlor."

  Jackie said, "Oh, yummy! Did you get a cupid or a big red heart? Which bun is it on?"

  "Huh?"

  "Ooh. It's by your crotch, you little dickens!"

  "Jackie! I just got a tiny nose stud. Very boring." Actually, it startled me every time I looked in the mirror, and it itched.

  "And then you had oral sex in the back row of the movie theater?"

  "No!"

  "Okay, spill. Pun intended. I won't tell."

  Right. "It's …"

  "It’s huge?"

  "No, Jackie, it’s his chest. He took his shirt off, and ... "

  "Whoa. He has a third nipple? Nipple rings? Did you go wild in a restroom stall?"

  "Well, not like you'd think."
r />   "It's about time," she gushed. "Was he great?"

  I sipped my canned mocha latte. "It was freaking scary."

  "The sex?"

  "No, his chest. Covered in tattoos."

  "Even on his little gator? Whoa, cool. Did it expand when—"

  "Jackie! I did not have sex with that man!"

  Marla looked my way, and I got up and went outside.

  "It was just shocking. Tourist attractions everywhere. And the animals—"

  "Animals? Has he got two little gators? Oh my God. Call Guinness."

  "Jackie, put away that notebook right now." I told her about the painful, weeping, bloody tattoo. "It was a rose after all, not a skyscraper, and he bought me roses, too."

  "And he has good abs. I could forgive a lot of tattoos for some good abs. Did you go home with him and help him wash it off? Fun, fun, fun. You get going with that sponge, and—"

  "Gotta go, Jackie.”

  She said, "Oh, Rhonda, could you record your next date for me? Your material is priceless."

  I hung up, finished my latte, and tossed the can away. The expiration date flashed on the bottom: December 2012. My God. I'd be forty by then. They were already making food with expiration dates past my point of real geezerdom, where my body would start sagging, my babies would be mutants, and romance would move past impossible to damned scary.

  * * *

  Around three o'clock, the in-home care agency called me at work. Dad had unloaded all of the contents of the refrigerator onto the kitchen table "to save room", and had then guarded it from Hortensia like a dragon. When he finally got tired of the game and went for a walk, she had dutifully reloaded the fridge. Meanwhile, he had come back from the walk, gone to the bathroom, and stopped up the toilet with a huge amount of toilet paper. While Hortensia was cleaning up this mess, Dad had unplugged every electrical cord in the house "to save energy" and taken everything out of the fridge again. This cycle had repeated itself three times. During the last toilet clean up, Dad had taken off in the car and shown up at the hospital fifteen minutes later.

  Hortensia wasn't just done for the day. She'd quit her job to go style hair. The agency would send someone else tomorrow.