Freddie shoved a Montreal Canadiens mug of tea across the table in Mike’s direction. He grabbed it and took a swig, nodding at Freddie.
“No, I’m not crying. I’m drinking tea. No, I’m not sick, Mom. I sometimes drink tea when I’m well. People do that, you know. No. I’m not converting to being British. I don’t even think that’s possible. Jesus Christ. What is it with you people? I gotta go. Good luck with the washing machine hose. No, that wasn’t sarcasm.”
“I wish I had a rotary phone,” sighed Mike. “That sound when you hung up? I need to hear that now.” He took his empty Habs mug and slammed it on the table. “Okay. That felt good,” he said. “I needed a moment of sanity. You know what I mean, right?”
“Sure,” said Freddie. “Family can drive you crazy. Like my folks. I can’t reach them on the cruise, and it’s makin’ me crazy. You’d think they’d have decent reception. I mean, they can communicate with space stations. It makes no sense.”
“What ship are they on?”
Freddie checked her phone. “This one,” she said, scrolling to the selfie her parents had taken when they boarded. “The Diamante Princess.”
“Oh, shit,” said Mike.
Chapter 6
Mike regretted opening his mouth. Not the first time this had happened. Maybe it was a because he’d spent so much time working with teenagers.
“What? What? You have to tell me,” shrieked Freddie, grabbing Mike’s flannel shirt by the sleeve.
“Haven’t you been watching the news? I’ve practically had it on 24/7.”
“Which is why I tuned out. After a while, it’s just noise,” said Freddie. “But what about the ship?”
“They’re stuck at sea,” said Mike. “Let me see if I can find the report on the news. They rerun it every fifteen minutes.” He grabbed the remote and scrolled through the news channels. “Okay. Read the stuff at the bottom of the screen.”
“Out loud?”
“Sure, if you want to.” Mike shrugged.
“Passengers of the Diamante Princess are on an endless vacation.” Freddie glared at the TV. “What does that even mean? Did they all die? No, wait. They can’t dock because all the ports are afraid of being infected. But does this mean there’s corona on the ship? This isn’t making any sense. Oh. They’re going to do a remote interview with the passengers. After the break.”
One hundred and twenty seconds of listening to Freddie vent while soothing announcer-voices reassured the TV audience that we would all stand together during these difficult times, and that things would be made easier if they had burgers delivered to their house. Mike rolled his eyes. Not the first time he’d heard consumerism and solidarity linked.
Freddie was at the edge of the couch. She would be biting her nails under ordinary circumstances, only they were probably fake. No human being had teeth that sharp.
“Ah. Here we go.” The screen split to show the reporter on one side and two passengers on the other. After the intros and the mandatory pleasantries, the chyron appeared, obscuring the lower half of the screen. “Oh, Justin Trudeau’s gonna speak,” said Freddie. “I like him. But why did they pick the Rosenbergs as the spokespeople and not my parents? Bad choice. Ned Rosenberg is the boringest guy ever. My dad had an uncle who did stand-up in the Borscht Belt. These things can’t be taught. You’re either born with it or you’re not.”
As if on cue, Freddie’s parents appeared behind Ned and Nancy Rosenberg. Without waiting for a cue, or even permission, they started to speak.
“This isn’t exactly Gilligan’s Island,” began Freddie’s dad. “We’re being treated well, and so far, everyone seems healthy. But we’re practicing social distancing as best we can.”
“No, you’re not,” said Nancy Rosenberg. “You’re standing way too close to us. Why we agreed to go on a cruise with you, I’ll never know.”
“No need to be impolite,” said Freddie’s dad, taking a step back to reveal that the four of them were on a deck overlooking the ocean. It would have been perfect, were they able to come and go as they pleased.
“I’m Lawrence Zanger, and this is my lovely wife Gayle.” They waved at the camera. “If our beautiful daughter Fredelle is watching, we love you! Keep on influencing.” Then, with another wave, this time in royal fashion, they exited stage left, leaving the Rosenbergs looking dumbfounded.
“Well, thank you for spending this time with us,” said the reporter. “Stay safe and enjoy that ocean deck.”
Mike muted the sound. “Your real name is Fredelle?”
Freddie nodded. “Why? Does it matter?”
“I guess not. I just assumed you were a Winifred.”
“Why would I be a Winifred? I was named after my great-grandmother Frayda. Not my great-grandmother Winnie.”
“You had a great-grandmother named Winnie?”
“No,” said Freddie with as much patience as she could muster. “But if you’re so smart, maybe you can tell me why there was enough bandwidth for the Rosenbergs but not for my folks. Obviously, they have the charisma factor.”
“Clearly. Hey. Is that your phone?” Mike jumped on the distraction.
“Bubbie! Did you see Mom and Dad on TV? Weren’t they great? They said hi to me from so far away. I wonder when they’re coming back.” Freddie’s face clouded over. She was glad Bubbie Rose had phoned rather than using video chat. If she started to cry, she’d worry her grandmother.
Mike heard snippets of the conversation as he took the tea mugs to the kitchen and washed them.
“No, not the salmon. It’s too fishy.”
Mike smiled. Fish wasn’t supposed to taste too fishy. His ex’s brother, a die-hard suburbanite, got a smoker as a Father’s Day gift, which led to him making smoked salmon in his back yard. Mike had gone to his annual pool party and over many IPAs, Gabe had imparted all sorts of fish-related wisdom to anyone who’d listen. Mike had broken up with Melanie before the great bacon experiment had come to fruition. Oh, well.
“Yeah, we’re gonna order you Chinese. What time? Okay. I’ll take care of it now, before they get too busy. No, I’m glad to do it. Yes, we’ll go there in person when this is over. Enjoy it. Love you!”
The last two words were practically a song, thought Mike. Freddie was in super-friendly mode as she called the restaurant. “No, I’m going through you instead of the delivery service because I want to know what you recommend,” she said, ingratiating herself to the owners.
Five minutes later, she hung up, with a satisfied look on her face. “Shrimp and lobster sauce isn’t on the regular delivery menu,” she said smugly. “But they’re gonna enjoy it. Also, no MSG, just in case. You can’t be too careful. Right?”
For a second, Mike was charmed. Freddie could be quite charming, if the situation warranted. And he wasn’t immune to the charms of a feminine presence. It had been a long time since he’d been in a relationship, and the chain of bad first dates since he’d broken up with Melanie was like a bad episode of Seinfeld.
The worst date ever had been just yesterday. An overly-made-up, affected reality show reject was not his idea of a good match, despite what Nana Fran said. Mike suspected that the grannies were just trying to solve the problem of having fancy dresses hanging in their closet and nowhere to wear them to. A wedding would bring joy to both families, and give the ladies not only bragging rights, but most importantly, a simcha. A celebration. Who couldn’t use a little joy in their life?
Freddie was different without her warpaint. Softer. Bordering on nice. It couldn’t have been easy being a hanger-on to the Caplansky family. They were the textbook definition of high maintenance.
Mike watched the show, not because it was a guilty pleasure but because he made a point of trying to keep abreast of pop culture, for the sake of his students. Kids who were hospitalized relied on mass media to keep themselves distracted, even more so than if they were in regular school. You’d have to have a heart of stone to believe anything else.
“We should order, too,”
said Freddie, nudging Mike. “You were going to show me the menu.”
“Okay,” said Mike and in a few clicks, it was on screen. “Here’s what I usually get,” he said, pulling a piece of paper from a folder. “It just makes it easier to write things down.”
“Sure,” said Freddie, who never wrote anything by hand if she could help it. “Give me a second to check this over. Looks good. Just one thing, though. Do we need so much fried stuff? What about getting the steamed dumplings and nixing the imperial rolls and the pan-fried dumplings?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mike stubbornly. “I like imperial rolls. Especially theirs. It’s one of their specialties. When was the last time you even had an imperial roll?”
“Eons ago,” confessed Freddie. “I’m supposed to be doing a form of keto. Otherwise I’ll look like a water buffalo on camera. Kendra said so, in those exact words.”
“But you’re not on camera,” pointed out Mike. “So you can eat whatever sounds good to you. Tell me, Freddie,” he said, moving in closer to her as she perused the menu on screen. “What sounds good to you?”
Freddie looked at Mike, not quite understanding the question. It had been ages since anyone had asked her what she’d wanted. The Caplanskys assumed she wanted to be just like them, her family assumed she’d be happier if she got her real estate license, and her personal trainer assumed she wanted larger glutes and a flat tummy. Well, maybe she didn’t want to look like a roosting hen from the rear. What if she felt good with a slightly poochy abdomen, instead of trying to fight her natural apple-shape every single day?
It took all of Freddie’s courage to not ask for steamed chicken and Chinese broccoli, her usual order. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Mike and said, “You order from there all the time. You know what’s good there. Surprise me.”
“Are you sure? There may be gluten.”
“I can handle gluten.”
“There will be fried foods.”
“I bet they’ll be delicious. I like crispy food.” All the times that Freddie had craved real food while sipping artisanal bone broth because her eating window wasn’t open yet flooded back to her.
“I’m putting the fate of dinner in your hands, Mike,” she said flirtatiously. In the meantime, I’m gonna see what I can make for lunch tomorrow. We shouldn’t be ordering in all the time,” she added. “It’s not good to be too extravagant.”
Five minutes later, Freddie was back on her phone. “If we don’t have any leftovers from tonight, we’ll need groceries. I’ll check the specials. Oh. That’s not good. No delivery slots available for three days. I know! We can order from the salad place. If we make a catering order, we’ll get plenty of food!”
“We’re not gonna be able to cater anything,” said Mike. “There’s no room in the fridge. We’ll have to order when we can get a delivery.”
It was three days before the next round of delivery slots opened up. During that time, Mike and Freddie had leftover Chinese, Indian food, leftover Indian food, and a rotisserie chicken. By the time they finished shredding leftover chicken into the biryani that was making its third appearance, they had concluded that cooking might be a viable option.
“So, here’s what we’ll do,” said Mike, lapsing into take-charge mode. “We’ll each create a shopping list, fill up our carts, and the first one who gets a delivery time wins.”
“What do we win?” Freddie’s attention perked up.
“How about dinner at that new falafel joint?”
“Dinner for two? Not sure that’s a prize, after being in close quarters with you for two weeks. Try harder.”
“Hockey tickets?”
“As if.” Freddie sniffed, knowing that, up until a few weeks ago, she could have gotten tickets from Marc-Andre Hurtubise. Good thing she didn’t like hockey. Freddie had a much better idea.
“What about a spa treatment?”
“I’m not interested in being kneaded like bread dough.”
Mike didn’t look especially doughy in his t-shirt and pajama pants. Quite the opposite. Freddie thought she’d seen a gym membership card on his desk, and she would have to spy more effectively next time she was in the vicinity.
“Okay. I have the perfect solution,” said Freddie. “I’ve been sleeping on that crippler of a couch while you’ve been languishing in the comfort of a real bed. So, how about the winner gets the bed for the next week?”
“Hey! What’s so bad about the couch? It’s a classic.” Mike had spent many an evening grading papers or binge-watching a compelling TV series on this very couch.
“It’s a great sitting couch, but not so good for sleeping,” said Freddie patiently. “Do you ever fall asleep on the couch, Mike?”
“No, actually I don’t.” He may have sounded a touch sheepish. At least, that was the intent.
“So you wouldn’t know. Whereas I have collected data on the comfort levels of various couches. Bubbie Rose’s has hypnotic powers. You literally can’t stay awake on the couch once you’ve gone horizontal.”
Mike was going to make a comment about the circumstances under which he’d gone horizontal on his couch, but he really didn’t want to discuss it.
“Okay. That sounds fair. Good thing I’m gonna win, because we wouldn’t want the person who’s actually working to have a crappy night’s sleep, would we?”
Freddie bristled at the implication that she wasn’t working. Technically, she wasn’t doing anything to earn actual money, which could be interpreted as “not working”. But she was looking into several opportunities, any one of which might be suitable for her skills as an influencer. In the meantime, she could pick up some gigs doing birthday greetings on that celebrity site. That was easy money, and she vowed to sign up, from the privacy of her future bedroom.
“I have skills,” she said, then bit back what she was going to add, something to the effect of needing the bedroom. Good thing she’d been living with Bubbie Rose, because she’d been watching her language closely so as not to offend the matriarch of the family. Her TV persona was foul-mouthed, and not entirely pleasant. That wasn’t entirely representative of her true self.
Mike moved into full teacher mode. Their baskets had to contain the same items, because if they only got one delivery, it was only fair to have both peoples’ essentials covered. There could be no bizarre add-ons such as canned escargots, because it wasn’t fair to waste food in the midst of a pandemic. They’d both seen the line-ups at food banks. Hard to miss because the news was on Every. Single. Second.
Freddie had never liked escargots, but now she craved them more than anything. Spite food still tasted okay, especially when drowned in garlic butter.
They both woke up at half-past five on Competition Day. Freddie showered first, because her hair took longer to dry. By the time Mike was out of the shower, Freddie was doing a particularly distracting yoga routine, humming under her breath as she moved into the Warrior Pose. She was wearing tight yoga pants and a crop-top, showing off her tanned midriff. Everything clung in exactly the right places. Every detail was perfect, designed to attract attention. Even her red painted toenails were a distraction from the task at hand.
Her aureole of curly blonde hair was held in place by a headband that matched the rest of her outfit. No wonder she’d been so happy when the parcels were delivered. Freddie knew that clothing could be weaponized to achieve a goal.
Mike had taught adolescents for long enough to know the importance of the right outfit. Or in this case, the wrong outfit. The wrongest outfit ever. From the depths of the closet, he pulled out his secret weapon and he suited up for battle.
“Ready, Freddie?”
The slots opened in three minutes. Mike had one hundred and eighty seconds to lauch the most powerful distraction he could.
“Very funny. I’ve never heard that one before.” Freddie was hunkered over her phone. She took a swig of her green tea and looked up to give Mike the eye of the tiger look, or whatever it was called. Sports were never her stro
ng suit, unless it was athletes, but then it was a case of “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
Freddie took one look at Mike and did a classic spit-take.
“What the hell are you wearing? And why?”
“The cheetah is the fastest animal, and our competition is all about speed but I didn’t have anything with a cheetah on it so I wore this instead,” responded Mike in as mild a tone as he could manage.
“It’s a onesie! A unicorn onesie! Why do you own a unicorn onesie? Are you a furry? Don’t tell me I’m stuck here with a freak for the next week and a half.”
“Relax,” said Mike, positioning himself in front of his laptop. “I’m a teacher. We have Pajama Day every semester. This always gets everyone’s attention.”
“I bet it’s a real hit with the ladies,” said Freddie.
“As a matter of fact – oh, look at the time. 6:59:30. On your mark, get set – “
“GO!”
Mike could hear the tapping of Freddie’s nails against the touchscreen of her phone.
“Refresh, dammit,” he said, hitting the keys like he was Mike Tyson in the ring and not Mike Moskowitz in a unicorn onesie.
After about five minutes, the room fell silent.
“Well, that was an epic fail,” said Mike. “I had better luck getting Springsteen tickets.”
“This really sucks,” said Freddie. She was in full kvetch mode. “By which I mean it sucks for you,” she added with a huge smile as she did a victory dance. She smelled like jasmine and Mike felt unwanted stirrings underneath the white microfiber of his onesie.
“I’m gonna change into something… else,” he said. “Congratulations, Freddie.”
“I did it for us,” she said modestly. “Well, more for me, but you’re gonna eat the food, so there’s that.”
“Yup, there’s that,” called Mike through the closed door. He emerged in his uniform of jeans, a t-shirt and an open flannel shirt, the onesie banished to the back of the closet.
“Awww. Back to basics, I see,” giggled Freddie. “Too bad. You were stylin’ earlier.”
My Funny Quarantine Page 4
