Yes, maybe she should let Joey fix her up with someone after all.
She’ll talk to him about it Friday night, when he takes her to see The Book of Mormon. When she tells him about the lovely, available Susannah.
Chapter Four
TAKING NINA’S ELBOW, Joe guides her toward the exit sign.
“That was so great—thanks so much for inviting me,” she shouts to him as they emerge onto West Forty-ninth Street and a sea of theatergoers, tourists, waiting limousines, honking yellow cabs, and somewhere nearby, a vibrating jackhammer from an all-night construction site.
“Thanks for coming,” he shouts back. “Where are we going? It’s your choice, remember?”
“Let’s just start walking east and get away from this mob scene.”
They head toward Broadway and stop at the crosswalk. Joe looks at Nina, who is looking prettier than usual this evening, in a sleeveless black summer dress, low-heeled pumps, and her mother’s pearls.
“So? Which club are we going to?” he asks, wondering how on earth he’s going to go dancing now. It was an exceptionally long day at the office, and frankly, all he wants to do is go home and crawl into bed.
“I don’t know . . .” Nina looks hesitant.
Nina?
Let’s go out on the town and stay up all night Nina?
“I thought you made me promise to take you to a club,” Joe reminds her. “In fact, at dinner you wouldn’t let me order the turkey breast because you said it would make me too sleepy. Remember?”
“It wasn’t just that. Who orders turkey breast in a burger joint?”
“Who chooses a burger joint when she’s been promised dinner at the restaurant of her choice?”
“It was quick,” she points out as the light changes and they step into the street. “We would’ve been late for the show, otherwise. And that wasn’t my fault, Joey. If you’d been on time meeting me at Grand Central . . .”
“Oh, please, Nina, how many times have I waited for you? And anyway, I told you, I got hung up at work. I can’t just walk out whenever I feel like it.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you work too hard?”
“You do. All the time. But you do the same.”
“Joey, I work at my father’s pizza joint. It’s not the same thing. You have a high-pressure job. I’m worried that you’re going to have a heart attack like Pop did, and keel over before you even hit forty.”
“Your father wasn’t forty when he had his heart attack.”
“No, but he was a workaholic, just like you.”
“Well, if you’re so worried about me having a heart attack, you shouldn’t have made me order red meat for dinner.”
“Red meat is what everyone orders in a burger place,” she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “You know what? I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
“Now? Why didn’t you go at the theater?”
“Are you kidding me? Did you see the line? We have to find a place. Quick.”
“What? Do you think you’re going to find a port-a-potty right here on the street just waiting to be used? Because I don’t see—”
“Let’s just go in there,” she says, pulling him toward a small bar called McMurphy’s.
“That looks like a dive.”
“Then we won’t order anything.”
“We can’t just go in so that you can use the restroom and then leave.”
“So we’ll get beer and drink out of the bottle instead of a glass. I have to pee, Joey. Let’s go.”
McMurphy’s is not a happening spot, even at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. A television over the bar is showing the Yankee game, and a lineup of boozy, blue-collar types occupy the row of stools.
Joe plops down on one as Nina makes a beeline for the back of the bar, using the ladies’ room radar all women seem to have.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks, wiping down the patch of bar in front of Joey with a filthy rag.
“A couple of Budweisers, please. No glasses.”
“Not even for the lady?”
“Lady? Her? Don’t let the fancy dress fool you. She’s the drink-from-the-bottle type,” Joe assures the man, who shrugs and twists the caps off two bottles of Bud.
“What’s the score?” Joe asks him, looking around for a cocktail napkin or something he can wrap his gum in.
“Seven-seven, extra innings. Bottom of the eleventh. Mariners are up. Two outs.”
There’s no cocktail napkin. Nothing but an ashtray with a couple of cigarette butts in it. Joey deposits the wad of pink gum there when the bartender turns away—not that he looks like he’d mind that particular social faux pas, or any social faux pas. Joe finds himself wishing he were at home watching the game on his couch with a bag of chips.
He sips his beer.
The batter strikes out.
The game goes into a twelfth inning.
Nina materializes, wearing fresh lipstick and a stricken expression.
“Here.” He pushes the beer toward her and motions at the vacant stool next to his. “What’s the matter?”
“It was dirty in there. I saw a cockroach the size of your head.”
“Well, what’d you expect?” He shakes his head. “Nina, how are you going to backpack across Europe if you can’t even handle a bug in a midtown bathroom?”
“That’ll be different.” She takes a long drink of her beer.
“Why? You think they have nice, clean public ladies’ rooms in Rome and Paris?”
“Just how many European public ladies’ rooms have you frequented, Joey?”
“I spent a week there with Amanda, remember? It was her thirtieth birthday present.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. All she did was complain.”
“Especially about the restrooms. You’d think she’d never been to Paris before.”
“And of course she had.”
“Many times. But apparently, whenever she went on her daddy’s dollar, she spent the entire time shopping or holed up in her five-star hotel suite drinking champagne. She couldn’t have cared less about seeing the sights.”
“Amanda. Schmamanda. That reminds me, Joey . . . Rosalee has a woman for you.”
“Really? Since when is Rosalee my pimp?”
“Since she decided you’re desperately seeking a wife.”
“Oh, for . . .” He shakes his head. “Did you tell her that, Nina?”
“No! Apparently, she can tell just by looking at you that you’re desperate to get married.”
“I never said that!”
“You didn’t have to. Anyway, you know we’ve wanted to do something for you after all you’ve done for us, Joey. Me and Ro finding you a wife would be on par with your saving Pop’s life.”
“Nina, you don’t owe me for—”
“Just listen, will you? Ro says she knows a great woman.”
“Who? The dreaded Bebe? No, thank you.”
“Do you think I’d refer to that freak as a great woman? Bebe’s not even human. No, this is somebody Rosalee met through work.”
“A lady pediatrician?”
“No . . .”
“A nurse?”
“Nope.”
“A patient? Because I told you, Nina, I’m through with younger women.”
She grins. “You’re getting warmer. It’s a patient’s mother.”
“A mother?” He tilts his head. “I don’t know . . . there’s something about the word ‘mother’ that just doesn’t turn me on.”
“This mother’s name is Susannah, and Rosalee says she’s beautiful. Wait, I think she said that. Or maybe I just thought that, because of her name.”
“Huh?”
“You know . . . the name Susannah. She can’t possibly be unappealin
g with a name like that. Susannah is attractive, just like Alexandra, or Heather. You can pretty much agree to go out with somebody with one of those names sight unseen, unlike, say, a woman named Irma, or . . . I don’t know, Laverne.”
“Not necessarily. In college, I once dated a Gertrude—Gert for short—who was drop-dead gorgeous. So you never know.”
“Maybe you don’t. But trust me, I know. If you told me you wanted to set me up with a guy named Bernie, I’d need to see pictures first.” Nina rolls her beer bottle between her palms. “Anyway, Rosalee is insisting this Susannah of the beautiful name is perfect for you, so I’m sure she’s not a freak.”
“No, but she’s a mother. What, is she newly divorced?” he asks, thinking of his friend Paulie. The last thing he wants is to date someone with an angry ex and years’ worth of baggage.
“Widowed. And it’s been awhile. Her husband was killed on nine-eleven. He was a fireman.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s . . .” Joe shakes his head.
“So do you want to meet her?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Nina looks surprised. Or is it . . .
Joe gapes at her. Does she look disappointed?
“I thought you wanted me to meet her. Isn’t that why you brought it up?”
“Of course! Of course I want you to meet her. I just didn’t think you’d be so eager.”
“Eager? What, am I panting and drooling? All I said was, sure, I’ll meet her.”
“You didn’t say ‘sure.’ You said ‘yes.’ Right away. No hesitation. It just . . . it just caught me off guard. You didn’t even ask more questions about her.”
“Like what? I thought you didn’t know anything about her. I thought Rosalee was the one who—”
“Forget it.”
He shrugs. “Did you figure out where you want to go dancing yet?”
“Maybe we should just go home,” she says, as the men at the bar erupt into cheers.
“We’re not going anywhere. The Yankees just scored.” Joe waves his hand and gestures to the bartender to bring two more beers.
He reaches for a bowl of peanuts and helps himself to a handful.
“That bowl is probably filled with germs,” Nina hisses.
“Whatever.” Eyes focused on the television screen, where Jeter is stepping up to the plate, he asks, “So you don’t want to go dancing after all?”
“No. And another beer will probably put me to sleep,” Nina says, but she drains the rest of the one in her hand.
“Then I’ll carry you home and tuck you in. It wouldn’t be the first time,” he adds, thinking of a memorable high school night when a bunch of them raided Paulie’s father’s liquor cabinet.
He was dating Minnie, then. But Nina in his arms—even passed out, drunk—well, it did something to him. He told himself that it was just an urge to take care of her, but he knew that there was more to it. He knew that the crush he’d had on her when they were gap-toothed grade-schoolers hadn’t entirely gone away.
Maybe, he acknowledges now, watching her roll the empty beer bottle in her palms, it never will.
“Careful what you promise,” she tells him. “I weigh more now than I did at sixteen.”
“What, a pound? Maybe two?”
“I think I lost a pound or two that night, puking my guts out. And do you know I’ve never touched a drop of amaretto since? I can’t even eat those almond cookies your mother makes for Easter anymore. I always have to tell her I’m on a diet, and then she yells at me.”
“Well, you know my mother doesn’t believe in dieting,” Joe says with a grin. “She believes in food. Massive quantities of food. Your mother was the same way about feeding people.”
“Yeah, she was. She loved to think that you liked her manicotti better than your mother’s manicotti.”
“I did like it better. She used a lot more ricotta cheese.”
“Yeah, well, cheese is something we never skimp on around our house, since we get it wholesale for the restaurant. Oh, God, speaking of ricotta cheese, remember the cannoli thing?” Nina asks with a laugh.
Joe laughs, too. “They practically came to blows over that.”
His mother and Nina’s mother had inadvertently brought the same homemade traditional Italian dessert to a parish potluck. Each was convinced that her own cheese-filled pastries were superior.
“Remember how they camped out by the buffet table, hawking their own cannoli?” Nina asks. “I swear, my mother practically shoved one of hers into Father Martin’s mouth before your mother could get to him. She kept whispering to people that hers were better because the cannoli shells were fried. She was like, ‘Who ever heard of a baked cannoli shell?’ ”
Joe cracks up at Nina’s perfect imitation of the late Rosemarie Chickalini, heavy Queens accent, hand gestures, and all.
“You know, you actually look a lot like her,” he says. “The way I remember her looking before she . . .”
“People have been telling me that, lately.” Nina’s smile faded. “In a few years I’ll be the age she was when she died.”
“That’s hard to believe. She seemed so much older.”
“That’s because she had five kids.”
“She would have been so proud of you, Nina. The way you took over. You raised the kids and took care of your father and the house just the way she would have.”
“No, Joey, she would have done it all so much better. Sometimes, when I would let Ralphie eat Cocoa Pebbles for breakfast, I swear, I’d hear her scolding me. ‘What kind of breakfast is that? It’s full of sugar.’ She never let us buy sweetened cereal. I had to go to Minnie’s house to get my Cocoa Pebble fix.”
“Yeah, so did I.”
Nina doesn’t seem to hear him. Her big dark eyes have a faraway, wistful expression she gets whenever she misses her mother.
“I know my mother wouldn’t want me to leave next summer, Joey.”
“Nina, don’t feel guilty about that. You deserve a life of your own.”
“Yeah, but my mother’s idea of a life of my own would be to stay here, get married, have a bunch of babies, and live next door to Pop so that I can take care of him in his old age.”
“Don’t worry. I’m next door to your father. I’ll do that.”
“Yeah, you and Susannah. I’m sure she won’t mind changing Pop’s diapers when he’s eighty.”
Joe laughs, despite the hollow feeling that has suddenly come over him.
By next summer, Nina really will be gone, and he’ll be . . .
Lost. You’ll be lost without her.
But that’s ridiculous. He won’t be lost.
She’s a friend. He’s had plenty of friends come and go through the years.
Fiancées, too.
Nina’s leaving shouldn’t be any harder than losing Minnie, or Amanda.
Just because Nina’s always been there, next door, in his life . . .
Well, that doesn’t mean she always will be, or should be. And it doesn’t mean he won’t be able to survive without her.
Anyway, with any luck, by next summer he’ll be in a serious relationship, at the very least. Maybe even married.
After all, Joey reminds himself, when you find the right woman at this age, you don’t waste time on a lengthy engagement.
So maybe Nina’s right.
And . . . well, who knows? Maybe this Susannah will be the right woman for him.
Maybe by this time next year, Nina will be flying home from Paris for his wedding.
“You know, Nina, when I get married, I think I’m going to have you as my best man,” Joe says abruptly.
“Really?” She looks pleased. Sort of. “But . . . what about Phil?”
Phil. Joe smirks. His older brother has been living in Silicon Valley for years now, and hasn’t been
back to Queens since he left. The only time Joe ever sees him and his wife, Marnie, is when they’re visiting their parents in Vero Beach.
“Phil had his chance, and he blew it,” Joe tells Nina. “Was he the one who comforted me when Minnie left me at the altar? No. You were the one who picked up the pieces. So next time, you deserve the honor.”
“Thanks, Joey. I’d love to be your best man. What would you call me?”
“My best woman. Because you are, you know that?”
“Thanks, Joey,” she says again. “So who gets to be the lucky girl?”
“You are. I just told you.”
“No, I mean who are you going to marry?”
“Who knows? Maybe I won’t ever get married.”
“I thought you wanted a family.”
“I do. I can adopt and be a single dad.”
“You don’t want to do that, Joey,” Nina says firmly, sipping her second beer. “You work too much. That wouldn’t be fair to the baby.”
“Who says I have to work? I can quit tomorrow if I want and live off the interest of my investments for the next twenty years. And believe me, that’s what I’d do if I adopted a baby. Or hired a surrogate to have one for me.”
“A surrogate? So you’ve really thought about all of this?” She looks dismayed.
“Yeah. I’ve thought about it. A lot. So how about it, Nina?” he teases, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth. “Have my baby. Please?”
Nina’s reply is lost when the bar explodes in deafening cheers as the Yankees score one . . . two . . . three runs.
Joe stares at the television for a few minutes, then looks at Nina again.
“What were we talking about?”
“Never mind,” she says, wearing an expression he can’t read. “It wasn’t important.”
LYING IN THE twin bed where she’s slept every night for the last thirty-six years, Nina can’t sleep.
After the first hour of restlessness, she turned on the bedside lamp and picked up her new library book, a travelogue. Caught up in the account of a woman’s solo journey into the depths of a South American rain forest, Nina was frustrated when Rosalee came in and made her turn off the light.
Here she is, a grown woman and still sharing a room—and frequent bedtime bickering—with her kid sister.
The Nine Month Plan Page 6