by Mary Campisi
Since the afternoon he’d made a fool of himself at Greta’s front door with that ridiculous note card, she’d been extra gentle with him, like he was a wounded duck who couldn’t find its way back to water. He was no damn duck and he wasn’t wounded, but there was something about her warm hand on his and that smile that calmed him more than a double scotch.
He’d been to her house four times since “the talk”; two of those included dinner with the whole clan. Elizabeth was a miniature version of Greta, blonde, blue-eyed, but damn those sticky hands. She giggled every time she called him Mr. Harry, so much so that Greta blushed and explained when a four-year old called someone Mr. Harry, it meant just that, Mr. Hairy. Whatever. As long as the kid didn’t throw up on him or expect him to read bedtime stories, he was good. The boy, Arnold, was eight and a bruiser but shy and clumsy. Poor kid needed some work in the self-esteem area. Maybe he could start by ditching his name and using initials instead. Harry would have to find out the kid’s middle name and maybe he could make a few suggestions.
And then there was Helene. The witch of Chicago. Harry didn’t care if she thought he was a degenerate; he was a degenerate. Or had been, until recently. It would take a good amount of scrubbing and a few hundred hours of practice to make him a decent human being, but he’d give it a go. The old lady could look down her wide nose at him, mutter in German, and never address him directly, and he was fine with that. But screw around with Greta, demean her with snide comments about her clothes or the meals she prepared or didn’t prepare? Those were fighting words. The old bag even picked on poor Arnold and little Elizabeth, calling them brats and ungrateful. Harry vowed the next time she started up, he was going to forget his pledge to clean up his mouth and let her have it, starting and ending with the F-word.
“Mr. Harry?” Elizabeth stood in the doorway, dressed in pink shorts and a purple polka-dot top. “Mama said you’re taking us to the zoo today.”
“That’s right.” How the hell he’d volunteered for that job was not worth considering. Wouldn’t a shrink have a blast with that one?
“I like the elephants.” She took a few steps toward him, her sneakers lighting up as she moved. “Do you like elephants?”
“Sure.” Damn, he should have gone on that safari to Africa when he was twenty-five. Then, he’d tell her a thing or two about elephants. Instead, his knowledge was limited to what he’d seen on television and the circus he’d attended as a kid. He’d never made it to a zoo, never had a desire to see animals locked up and kept from roaming free and doing what they would. Maybe it reminded him too much of marriage, cage and all, especially the part about not being able to roam free and do what came naturally.
“Arnold likes the monkeys. They poop all over the rocks.”
“You don’t say.” Harry scratched his chin and nodded. “Guess they don’t have toilets, huh?”
She giggled and bounced toward him, stopping when she was a step away from his feet. Her blue eyes sparkled, just like her mother’s. “No, silly. Monkeys don’t use toilets.”
Harry grinned. “At least they don’t have to wait in line.”
She giggled again, her face lighting up. “Mr. Hairy,” she said in a singsong voice. “He’s kinda scary.” Next came the hopping from one foot to the other and hand clapping. “Mr. Hairy, he’s kinda scary.” She held out her hand and said, “Dance with me.”
“That’s okay, I’ll just watch.”
“No, I want you to dance. Arnold won’t ever do it. He’s no fun.” She hop-hopped back and forth, twirled around and clapped. “Mr. Hairy, he’s kinda scary.”
It was catchy in a ridiculous way, but so what? He’d known entering into a “relationship” with Greta, whatever that meant, was going to be foreign, and hell, maybe ridiculous. At least the kid had rhythm, and she could hold a note. Harry shook his head and stood. What the hell? Elizabeth clutched his hands and hop-hopped. “Now you, Mr. Harry. Hop on one foot, then the other. And sing, ‘Mr. Hairy, he’s kinda scary.’” The first hop was the worst because he knew he looked like a fool, but after that, it was kinda fun.
That’s how Greta found them, hopping around the cracked linoleum kitchen, singing a silly song about Mr. Hairy being scary. The second Harry spotted her standing in the doorway dressed in white shorts and a blue top that matched her eyes, he clamped his mouth shut, planted both feet on the floor, and cleared his throat.
“Mama!” Elizabeth clutched Harry’s hand and tried to make him move. “Mr. Harry was dancing with me.”
Greta’s lips twitched. “I see that.”
The child smiled up at him, her small hand lifting his in the air so she could twirl underneath his arm. “Singing, too. He’s a good singer. Do you want to hear him sing?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t.” Harry twirled her once more and released her. “Unless she likes the sound of a sick frog.” Elizabeth giggled and grabbed his hand. “We’re going to see the elephants, Mama. Mr. Harry likes elephants, too. Not monkeys, like Arnold.” She scrunched up her nose. “They poop on the rocks. Mr. Harry said that’s because they don’t have toilets, but I said monkeys don’t use toilets!”
“Well.” Greta didn’t even try to hide her smile this time. “This is going to be an interesting trip.”
Two and a half hours later, that proved to be the understatement of the day. Harry couldn’t decide what bothered him more: the overabundance of people talking, pointing, screaming, eating, or the caged animals in their supposed “natural” habitat. Say what you wanted, the poor bastards were trapped. A cage was a cage, even if it had a nice view and a manmade watering hole. These animals couldn’t take a crap or fornicate without people gawking. It was unnatural and left a pit in Harry’s gut that made him worry he might heave. He glanced at Greta who walked ahead with Arnold while Elizabeth lagged behind, clutching his hand. Relationships might proclaim to foster a natural habitat but only through the confines of a cage. And marriage? Hell, why was he even thinking about that? Marriage was a death sentence. End of story.
“Mr. Harry, I’m thirsty.” Elizabeth smiled up at him. “Can I have a lemon ice?”
“Sure. I could use a drink, too.” A double. “You hungry?”
She glanced at her mother’s back, turned to him, and whispered, “Starving.”
“Why are you whispering?” he whispered back.
“Mama said not to ask you for anything.” When he pointed at her mother, she nodded.
He winked at her. “Well, I’m hungry and Harry Blacksworth doesn’t stuff his face in front of a hungry kid. Greta,” he called. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.” He’d seen a kid walk by with a double-decker ice cream cone. And another chomping on a hot dog. Damn, did it have sweet onion and ballpark mustard? What about a burger and fries? Funnel cakes? Soft pretzels? Hell, onion rings? He wanted all of them, could almost taste the grease and salt on his tongue. Just thinking about all that food bumped his cholesterol and blood pressure up a few notches. He’d do an extra cardio workout tomorrow, maybe even hop on the bike. But today he was having those damn fries and a hot dog. Maybe two.
She stopped and turned. “We can eat in the picnic area. Let’s make our way to the car so I can grab the picnic basket.” She smiled at him. “I made you turkey on rye with a slice of avocado. Yogurt, grapes, peanut butter and jelly for the kids.”
Harry didn’t miss the way Arnold’s gaze kept sliding to the hot dog booth. What kid would pick his mother’s peanut butter and jelly when he could stuff himself with a hot dog and fries? “Save that for later.” He grinned. “If you make me walk this whole zoo, I’ll need a snack just to have the energy to drive home.”
“It’s not necessary to buy them food.”
He shrugged. “If it were, I wouldn’t do it.”
She hesitated. “Thank you.”
You’d have thought he bought her a necklace from Tiffany’s. Her eyes got all bright, like she might spill a tear or two, her voice wobbled, her face flushed pink. All this for a hot dog and a lemon
ice? A tiny part of him wanted to see that joy on her face every day and know that he was responsible for it. He pushed that nonsensical idea from his brain and said, “We’ll hit the hot dog stand first, then we’ll work our way to the cotton candy and funnel cakes.”
“And the lemon ice?” Elizabeth asked, clapping her hands.
He almost said, “Hell, yes!” but caught himself. “Sure, lemon ice it is.”
“And a soft pretzel with mustard?”
The boy spoke. He usually didn’t talk much when Harry was around. Whether due to shyness, maternal protection, or just plain awkwardness, it was hard to tell. Harry guessed it could be a combination of all three. He didn’t think he’d much like it if some man came sniffing around his mother. “You got it, Arnold.”
“This sounds like an upset stomach waiting to happen,” Greta said in her “mother knows best” voice. “You are not going to eat all of that food and get sick.”
“We won’t,” Elizabeth said. “Will we, Arnold?” The boy shook his head.
“Oh, Greta, let them have what they want.”
She narrowed her eyes on him as though he were kid number three in the group. “You won’t think that when they throw up in your car.”
Harry laughed. “I’ll take my chances.”
He hadn’t needed to worry about Greta’s children overdoing it. Apparently, their mother had trained them well, or maybe they’d barfed up too many times from overeating. No, the real person he should have worried about overindulging was himself and his inability to control his behavior, which resulted in bad consequences. Harry had his hot dog and fries, followed by a funnel cake, a generous swirl of Elizabeth’s cotton candy, peanuts, and a lemon ice. He should have said no when he spotted Arnold eyeing the double-decker ice cream cones, but he knew the kid wouldn’t eat one unless somebody else did. And since Elizabeth and Greta were munching on a funnel cake, that left Harry to face a double-decker ice cream cone that he knew could put him over the edge. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint the kid, so he bought two cones and forced one down, bite by bite. When he finished, his stomach gurgled like a stopped-up toilet and his head spun with sugar overload. All he wanted to do was get home and lie down.
“Harry? Would you like me to drive?”
He shook his head. Greta drove ten miles an hour below the speed limit, and he couldn’t afford to lose valuable minutes away from his bathroom. If he hopped on the highway, he could drop Greta and the kids off and be in his house in forty minutes. They’d just gotten on the highway when Elizabeth called from the backseat, “Thank you, Mr. Harry. I had the bestest time.”
“I did, too.” This from Arnold. “Thank you.”
Greta slid a glance his way, her face bright with admiration. “Thank you, Harry, for a lovely day.”
Something about the way she said it, her voice all soft and warm, and those eyes looking at him like he was a hero, shot to his heart, reverberated in his chest until it hurt, then landed in his gut with a bang and a thud. Harry sucked in air, tried to clear his head and his gut, but it was too late. Bits and shreds of hot dog and lemon ice slushed up his throat. Shit, he was going to puke! He pulled the car off the road, checked for cars, and jumped out before Greta could inquire if he was all right. Forget making it down the small embankment where he could puke his guts out without three spectators. Harry knelt down, opened his mouth, and hurled.
“Harry?”
Greta? “Go away.” Sweat filmed his forehead, his neck, his face. He sipped in air, fought the urge to puke again.
“Here.” She stood behind him, waved a tissue over his left shoulder. He grabbed it, swiped at his forehead and mouth.
“Leave me alone.” He did not want her standing here, witnessing this.
She ignored him, held out a bottle of water. “I’ve seen people throw up before.” She paused and he swore there was a hint of humor in her voice when she said, “And I usually get stuck cleaning it up. Here.” She shook the bottle by his ear. “Rinse your mouth. You’ll feel better.”
“I doubt it.” He took the bottle, sipped and swished water in his mouth before spitting it out. Three more times and he didn’t feel like a walking puke zone. Harry sat back on his heels, closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his stomach quiet.
“Mr. Harry?”
He opened one eye, squinted at her. “What?”
“You can take Mr. Squiggly home with you tonight. He’ll make you feel better.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“I’ll loan you my special pillow,” Arnold said. “It always helps me.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Was he the only one who thought this whole situation was bizarre? Greta and her kids were standing within smelling distance of his barf pile and acting like it was no big deal. Who were these people? Was this what families did? Rushed in to help when one of their clan humiliated himself and acted like it was normal? Harry drank more water, spit it out in a high arc.
“I can do that, too,” Arnold said, guzzling water from his plastic bottle, then arcing it past Harry’s landing.
“Me, too.” Elizabeth attempted to send an arc of water and ended up spraying Harry’s shirt. “Ooops.” She covered her mouth, looked at her mother, and tried not to giggle.
Harry shook his head and let Greta help him to his feet. “I’m driving,” she said as she guided him to the car with Elizabeth and Arnold close behind.
Hmmph. He looked like shit, felt like shit, and smelled like puke, and nobody cared. He reached in his pocket, dug out his keys, and handed them to Greta. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Harry kept the window down and his eyes closed while Greta maneuvered the Jag toward her house. The car hadn’t been handled so delicately since he drove it off the lot. One day he’d explain what a performance vehicle meant and how it should be handled like a woman: with intensity and attention. She’d think it was a line of bullshit, and she’d be right. He just wanted to get home and crawl into bed for the next fourteen hours, but first they had to stop at Greta’s, so Arnold and Elizabeth could hand over their “get better” gizmos. Whatever. He couldn’t think past the next curve. He dozed a bit and when he woke, Elizabeth stood on the other side of the car with a brown teddy bear peeking at him from the window.
“This is Mr. Squiggly,” she said, “he’ll make you feel all better. Here.” She pushed the stuffed animal through the window. “Now, Mr. Squiggly, take care of Mr. Harry. He has a sick tummy.” She leaned on tiptoe and kissed Harry’s cheek. “Bye.”
“Bye, kiddo.” Harry plopped the teddy bear in his lap and worked up a smile for Elizabeth.
Arnold stepped in front of his sister and stuffed the pillow through the window. “This will help.” The kid almost smiled, but he couldn’t quite get those lips to work in the right direction.
“Thanks, Arnold.”
Greta kissed them both on the forehead and darted to the driver’s side. “I must take Mr. Harry home now and get him settled. Listen to Grandma and brush your teeth.” She got into the car, buckled up, and blew them a kiss. “Prayers, too.”
Harry closed his eyes again with Arnold’s pillow and Mr. Squiggly on his lap. Who would have thought he could feel like crud and be okay with it? Or almost okay? He gave Greta directions to his condo and listened to her soft voice as she chatted on about the day and how much the kids enjoyed themselves. She said she did, too. Was this what couples called “bonding”? Hell if he knew, but it had a peacefulness about it that he kind of liked. It sure beat listening to Bridgett going on and on about her cardio workout and laser surgeries.
“This is where you live?”
He inched an eye open. Luxury condos, gated and secure. Lots of flowers and landscape. “Yup. This is it.” Harry pointed to a parking spot in the first row. “Park there.” He hoped she thought it was a random spot and not his, but one look at her pinched brows told him she knew. If she thought the parking space was overdone, wait until she met the doorman decked out in full uniform. Harry grabbed the pillow and
the teddy bear and hefted his weary body from the car. Greta hurried to his side and guided him along the sidewalk to the ornate entrance and yes, the uniformed doorman. “Stevens, how are you?”
The older man nodded and opened the door with a flourish and a bow. “Very fine, sir. Ma’am?”
“Thank you,” Greta murmured, smiling at him as she passed.
“Lecher,” Harry said under his breath. “He’s after all the young skirts. Ignore him.”
She shot him a look. “Hmm. He probably says the same thing about you.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Probably.”
“And I’m not that young anyway.” She tilted her head and studied him. “He’s probably wondering what happened to your twenty-something sex partner.”
And there it was, slapped right back in his face, like a boy caught with his hand in the candy jar. Greta probably thought about him and Bridgett that way, with Bridgett being the candy jar and Harry’s, ahem, “hand”, being somewhere it didn’t belong. The woman might come across all soft and demure, but she wasn’t to be messed with, that was becoming quite clear. He bet if needed, she could wield a meat cleaver and not on a cut of meat. Harry jabbed at the elevator button and waited for the ding. He’d done a few things in this elevator that might cause Greta to sharpen her meat cleaver.
When he fit the key in the door and eased it open, he waited for Greta’s response. His place had been decorated with two things in mind: relaxation and sex. Leather couch, chairs, geometrical area rugs, stainless steel accents, and white. Lots of white.
“My.” Greta stood in the middle of the living room. “This could be in a magazine.”
“Yeah, well, it’s okay.” He wouldn’t tell her it had been, that once upon a time he’d bedded an interior designer who decorated his house and won a spot in a magazine with it. What did it matter? It was beautiful and impersonal; no photos or expression of personal tastes, nothing but a designer’s opinion of what his house should look like. How sad was that? Sadder still he’d only just acknowledged it? Maybe the barfing had drained rational thought from his brain and left him half delirious and too damn vulnerable. He’d go with that because, dammit, he was not turning into a weak-kneed baby looking for the meaning of life.