Love and Other Four-Letter Words

by Carolyn Mackler

  My eyes paused on the half-finished sketch clipped to a makeshift easel near the window. When we weren't hustling somewhere or another, Mom had been working on this pen-and-ink cityscape, where the layers of buildings were enunciated with streaks of charcoal.

  The doorbell rang. I hugged the robe around myself, wondering if I shouldn't have thrown on some real clothes. But the phone lady didn't even end up setting foot in our apartment. She just tossed me a slip of paper with our new phone number and requested that I stick around until they were done tinkering with the cables in the basement.

  As soon as she started toward the elevator, I developed an instant case of cabin fever. Not that I had anywhere to be for the next two months, but I couldn't stand the idea of being incarcerated in the apartment for an indefinite period of time. And so began the longest forty-five minutes of my life, which went something like this:

  Pace back and forth across the room. Takes seven steps, six with longer strides.

  Pour a bowl of cereal. Consider how this is my fourth consecutive meal of Cheerios because it's the only edible thing in the apartment, other than the no-longer-frozen peas and the staples, not exactly dream cuisine.

  About to douse my cereal with milk when Moxie stares at me with her irresistibly please-please-me doggie eyes. Serve her a dish of Kibbles 'n Bits. Before I drown in self-pity for my lack of culinary variety, I remind myself that Moxie has whimperlessly stomached dog chow for seven straight years. Raise the milk carton to toast her.

  Eat leaning against the counter, shoveling spoonfuls into my mouth. Remember how Dad used to call this a sacrilege, insisting we always sit down for meals, something about cherishing moments. Slurp down the remaining milk. Swipe away my lacto-mustache with the back of my hand.

  Power up the laptop, stranded on the kitchen table since Mom's onslaught of cover letters last week. Compose an e-mail to Kitty, giving her our new phone number. Will send as soon as the dial tone is working. Reread. Too somber, all about how New York City sucks and I wanted to cast myself off the rooftop when I called her from a pay phone and her mother said she was sailing with Jack on Cayuga Lake. Delete.

  Peel back a Band-Aid to inspect the mama of all blisters on my heel. Slight improvement since Mom's daily walking regimen has come to a standstill, what with her impending job interviews.

  Compose a new e-mail to Kitty, trying to sound perky and upbeat. Include an embellishment of my elevator encounter with the Johnny Depp look-alike, aka J.D. Reread. Too perky and upbeat. Delete.

  Rinse out my cereal bowl. Omit dish soap. Feel like a rebel.

  Pace back and forth across the room, this time lifting my knees like those Q-tip-headed guards at Buckingham Palace. Salute. About-face. Wonder if people know for certain when they're going bonkers, or if one day they just find themselves strapped in a straitjacket saying, Me? But why?

  Compose a generic e-mail to Kitty, asking her to call me tonight. Wish my screen name was cool like hers (hellokitty), so the next time I'm at a party and throngs of guys are sinking to their knees, begging to be my love slave, I can casually quip, “It's guitarchick at whatever dot com.”

  “Gin!” I slammed my cards onto the kitchen table.

  “Damn,” Mom moaned as she fanned her cards in front of her face, “I just picked up a king.”

  As Mom tallied her hand, I gulped my lemonade, pausing to touch the icy glass to the back of my neck. Even though it was after seven, the apartment was feverishly hot, the exhausted old fan providing little relief.

  Mom's headache finally lifted in the early evening, which is lucky, since job interview numero uno is tomorrow morning. I have to admit, I was taken aback when she rose a little while ago, her face ashen, the grooves under her eyes the shade of ripe plums.

  I'd just been heading out to the corner market that's a block from our building. It's not your average convenience store with Hostess Cupcakes entombed in so much dust they would stump an archaeologist. It's stocked with soda and toilet paper, but it's also got this enormous salad bar. And I don't mean wilted iceberg lettuce, chickpeas and discolored American cheese. I'm talking gourmet cuisine—everything from sushi rolls to sliced kiwi to fried chicken, all of which you can scoop into plastic containers that they snap shut with rubber bands and weigh on the scale.

  When I returned from the market, Mom was at the kitchen table, shuffling a deck of cards. Sitting in the other chair, I offered her some of my sesame noodles, but she said she wasn't hungry. Though a few minutes later, as I dealt our hands, she opened the Cheerios and began eating handfuls directly from the box. Another Dad no-no.

  “Your turn to deal,” I said, scooping up my flushes and runs and threes-of-a-kind. We were neck and neck: Mom with 71, me trailing behind with 64. The winner was the first to reach 100, so at this point it could be anyone's game.

  Just then, the phone rang. A jarringly foreign sound but nonetheless music to my lonesome ears. Maybe it was Kitty! I lunged across the room.

  “Hello?” “I'm calling for Sammie,” a guy's voice mumbled. “This is Sammie.” “Hey, it's Eli.”

  I paused for a second, wondering how Eli got our number. Mom. She must have called Shira when I was out. I glanced at Mom, who was busily waterfalling the cards together. It makes me uncomfortable to talk on the phone when someone else is in earshot. Even though they always try to look like they're not eavesdropping, you know they are. Everyone does. You just can't help it.

  “Hey.” I tried to sound casual. “What's up?”

  “Some friends and I are blading in Central Park on Saturday and I wanted to see if you'd like to come.” Eli fired off his words without pause or intonation. Sort of a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious of an invitation.

  The first thought that popped into my mind was that Shira put him up to this, just like the other night with the Bear Mountain episode. I can see it now….

  Shira: You should bring that Sammie Davis along with you. I doubt she has a friend to her name. And with that wreck of a mother! Crying all over the salad when we were in the kitchen … and I'd already added salt to the dressing.

  Eli: Awww, Mom, you don't mean LifeSavers?

  Shira: Now, Eli … why don't you look at it as one of your volunteer causes? And besides, those sure didn't look like LifeSavers to me. Mountains, maybe …

  LifeSavers, mountains …I'll show them I'm not a charity case. I am a rock. I am an aaayayayland. …

  “Ummm, it sounds great,” I stalled, glancing at the calendar, which I'd finally gotten around to hanging up yesterday, “but I'll be away for the Fourth of July.”

  Mom paused middeal. Was she in on this scheme too? Did she ask Shira to ask Eli to ask me? Why doesn't someone just lodge a bullet between my ears?

  “Well, I hope you have fun,” Eli said.

  “Yeah … thanks.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Okay, bye,” he said.

  “Bye

  ” “Who was that?” Mom asked as soon as I hung up.

  “Eli.

  ” “What did he want?”

  “Nothing.” I began sorting my hand.

  “Where are you going on July fourth?”

  I was on the verge of asking her if we'd stopped playing gin and started playing twenty questions, when the phone rang again. This time I let Mom get it. But as soon as I heard her ask if it was muggy in Ithaca, I flew out of my chair and grabbed the phone.

  “Kitty?”

  “Sammie!” she wailed. “I just got your e-mail!”

  “Can you hold on for a sec?” I asked. I stretched the phone cord into the other room and closed the door. “Okay, I'm back.”

  “Oh, Sammie …I miss you so much. You wouldn't believe how much has happened since you left.”

  I reached over to Mom's bedside table and grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper. I always doodle when I'm on the phone, mostly while the other person is talking. Don't get me wrong; I didn't inherit a single one of Mom's artistic genes. It's nonsense stuff mostly,
hearts and triangles and three-dimensional houses with bubbles of smoke billowing from the chimney. After eight years of friendship with Kitty, I bet I could cover the Sistine Chapel with my doodles, if I'd held on to them all.

  It ended up being a brief conversation because Jack beeped on the other line to report that he was on his way over to pick her up. They were heading to a graduation bash and Kitty was panicked because Jack's ex would probably be there.

  As Kitty described her outfit (at once casual and sexy), I tried to concentrate, but my mind was working a double shift. Part of me was missing Ithaca. I'd love to be getting ready for a party right now, even if I just ended up in a corner sipping lukewarm beer. At least it would be familiar. I began drawing a house. At the same time, I feel a million miles from Ithaca. To Kitty's credit, she did ask me about the Big (Rotten) Apple. But as soon as I began telling her about our building, she interrupted, making me promise that within the next month one of us would visit the other … some way, somehow.

  After we hung up, I furiously scribbled windowpanes and a doorknob onto my house. I felt a jumble of emotions. I guess I want to see Kitty some way, somehow. I mean, I should, shouldn't I? After all, she's my best friend. So would someone please tell me why I feel lonelier than I did before she called? I pressed the pencil so hard against the paper that the tip snapped off.

  I'd just rejoined Mom at the table when the phone rang for a third time.

  “I'll get it,” I said, standing up. “It's probably just Kitty calling back.”

  “Good … because I've got to take something for these cramps.”

  As Mom headed into the bathroom, I lifted the receiver to my ear.

  “Kitty?”

  Silence.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Sammie?”

  Dad.

  “Sammie …are you there?”

  Oh, shit.

  More silence.

  More throat clearing.

  “Yeah …,” I finally said. My throat was constricting.

  “Mom gave me your number this afternoon.”

  “Hmmm” was all I could say. My air supply was rapidly dwindling.

  “How are you?”

  I considered saying, Hurt, stranded, asphyxiating and wishing the last few months of my life had never happened, but instead I said, “Fine.”

  “How's Mom?”

  I considered reminding him that he'd spoken with her a few short hours ago, but instead I said, “Fine.”

  More silence.

  Mom was flushing the toilet.

  “Did you want to speak with her or something?”

  “No.” Dad's voice cracked. “I just wanted to make sure you're—”

  “Fine,” I cut him off.

  “Right … fine.”

  Still more silence.

  The water was running in the bathroom.

  “Well, I'm going to go now,” I said.

  “Okay … fine,” he said.

  “Fine.”

  By the time I hung up, my underarms were soaking through my T-shirt. It must have been a hundred degrees in the apartment.

  “Was it Kitty?” Mom asked as she dried her hands on a paper towel.

  “Huh?”

  “Was it Kitty … calling you back?”

  “No.” I paused. My throat was so tight it felt like I'd swallowed a whole bagel. “Wrong number.”

  Mom gave me a long stare. But then she flopped back in her chair, shuffled the cards and dealt herself a hand of solitaire.

  Ihave a new job. It's called Elevator Duty. Here's the description: I jump on every opportunity to ride our elevator in the hopes that the automated doors will open to reveal Johnny Depp, hunk of the fifteenth floor.

  I know you, he'll say, luscious lips producing a seductive half smile.

  Not in the biblical sense, I'll giggle coquettishly, remembering a line I once heard on a late-night talk show.

  Not yet, anyway. J.D. will wink, tickling me in that special spot above the waist, below the boobs. Kitty always says that as soon as a guy reaches for her T-spot, she knows she's got 'im, putty in her palm.

  But after nearly two weeks of dressing sexy every time Moxie needed to pee, I began to worry. Maybe J.D. doesn't live in the building. Maybe meeting him was a one-time thing. Maybe he took one look at me and called his realtor, begging to move somewhere, anywhere. But then I'd remind myself how he asked if we'd “just moved in.” That means he's familiar with the residents. That means he lives here. And on would go my slinky black tank top, Mom's lacy camisole, a tad of lip gloss, a spritz of vanilla musk, et cetera, et cetera.

  Early Saturday morning, Moxie began circling the apartment, her nails clicking against the hardwood floor.

  “Shush,” I moaned, covering my eyes with one arm.

  The sun was flooding through the windows, which meant that it was a little before eight, a half hour before I usually wake up. Armed with a pocketful of Baggies, I've been walking Moxie in Central Park every morning, where a beagle owner tipped me off to the policy that dogs can be off their leashes before nine A.M.

  I wouldn't typically rise at the crack of dawn during summer vacation, but I've taken pity on the old girl, having to adjust from a house with a yard to two cramped rooms and millions of strange snouts sniffing every imaginable inch of her. Also, when Mom was still in her “doing NYC” phase, if I skipped out in the morning, she'd often depart without insisting I join her. Which would then grant me a few peaceful hours around the ranch, reading, playing guitar, surfing the Web. Even though Mom has now scaled back on the programming front, walking Moxie has evolved into a routine for me.

  The next thing I knew, Moxie, with her oh-so-stinky dog breath, was panting in my face. I pushed her away. She slobbered back. We went on like that for about five minutes (pant-pant-push-push-slobber-slobber) until I finally lugged my tired legs onto the floor and maneuvered a bra under the T-shirt I've been sleeping in for the past several nights.

  So that's how, five minutes later, I found myself trapped in the elevator with J.D., a Yankees cap on his head, baseball bat and glove in hand, grinning and asking me, “Hey, what's up?”

  I began shaking like an earthquake. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, not after I've spent weeks rummaging through the apartment for any and every article of clothing with a thread of lace! And I was so busy holding my breath because I hadn't brushed my teeth that all I could do was mutely nod. I was petrified that if I cracked my lips, J.D. would:

  Clamp his mitt over his mouth, like an oxygen mask.

  Clobber me with his bat on grounds of stench pollution.

  As soon as the door reopened, we piled out of the elevator. Me to exhale before I fainted. Moxie to gobble a biscuit from the super, who had just finished spraying down the sidewalk. J.D. to saunter toward Central Park, probably for an early game. I remained in front of the building, mesmerized by the way his butt fit into his shorts, not too snug, not too baggy, swaying as he walked.

  “¿Te gusta?” the super asked me. Do you like it? in Spanish.

  I forced my eyes away from the object of my carnal desire. The super was gesturing to the air, warm but not humid, promising a beautiful day.

  “Sí.” I nodded. “Me gusta.” “Perfect for Fourth of July.”

  I'd forgotten it was July fourth! The day that Eli Rosenthal and his friends were blading in Central Park. The day I told him I'd be out of town. I'm not so paranoid as to think they'd hit the park this early. But if you lie to someone about going away, you'd better make a damn good effort not to cross their path.

  “Is there another place to bring dogs besides the park?”

  As the super told me how to get to a dog run about fifteen minutes away, I made a mental note to add Scope to my roster of Elevator Duty preparations.

  The dog run turned out to be right behind the Museum of Natural History, which is in this enormous castlelike structure that stretches along a few blocks of Central Park West. I've
only been there once, when I was eight and Dad took me to see the dinosaur skeletons while Mom attended the gallery opening of a friend from art school.

  As I unlatched the metal gate and started across the dog run, Moxie hung close by my side, even though I'd already taken off her leash. There were three dogs frolicking in the dirt, nipping at each other's scruff. Moxie gets intimidated in canine social situations, and I have to say, who am I to blame her? I sat down on one of the benches lining the perimeter. Moxie crouched under it, resting her head on my foot.

  “Scaredy-dog?” A middle-aged man with bloodshot, droopy eyes and several chins guffawed as he pointed to Moxie, pleased as Punch about his play on words.

  He was a few benches away, so I pretended I hadn't heard him as I scratched Moxie's ears.

  “Dogs these days are so antisocial,” Scaredy-Dog murmured to the woman next to him, who was intently reading The New York Times.

  Without glancing up, the woman nodded as she sipped from her tall white coffee cup. I couldn't believe Moxie was being picked on like this! Just as I was considering whether I should tell him that, a stubby little terrier, white with caramel-colored patches, tugged a girl through the gate. The girl, barely five feet tall and wearing a knee brace, attempted to restrain him. But as soon as she removed his leash, he made a beeline for Moxie, wagging his truncated tail like a hummingbird. As Moxie drew back her ears and raised the fur on her neck, I gripped her collar.

  “Don't worry about him.” The girl flounced down next to me. “He defies all small-dog stereotypes. He's as mellow as …”

  As she trailed off, I quickly studied her. She was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. She was wearing a Gap T-shirt with a jog bra underneath, running shorts and sneakers. Her sandy-colored hair was pulled back from her tanned face, which was pretty, in spite of a medium case of acne.