by Lizz Lund
“I told you, I’m fine!” she said, rubbing her neck.
“Then why are you rubbing your neck?” I asked.
“You see!” Aunt Muriel cried.
Ma turned her head and glared at me. “Don’t be such a helper,” she hissed.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Ma looked at me again. “I know! I’ll get a massage, if Mina gets one! She could use it!” I felt the tiny twinge pinching my right cheek again. That is, the cheek that’s not associated with my face.
“Well, Mina? Your mother’s spine turning into a pretzel or not is completely up to you,” Aunt Muriel warned.
I sighed. I wanted to say no thanks, thought about the impending guilt and then thought again. My cheek pinched again. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea.
After some more bickering about when Aunt Muriel should schedule the next round of massages, she herded my family out of my house. Annie bid farewell, in search of a motel since Vito’s real niece had displaced her guestroom privileges. Bauser agreed to take Jim and leave me without supervision, since he’d been convinced that Vinnie was a bonafide guard cat, thanks to Annie. Helena went back to Vito’s, to call her folks and check on her mini-Marie.
“Hey, I gotta get going, Toots,” Vito said. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow!” He flashed a wide, gappy grin; his bridge was out. I glanced carefully down at the coffee table, sofa and end tables. No toothies. I hoped he’d had them in his pocket and Vinnie hadn’t hid them away as a treasured cat toy.
“Huh?” I asked politely.
“Tomorrow’s Thursday! The 72 hours will be up! I’m gonna adopt Stanley!” he beamed, and practically skipped out the door.
I looked at Vinnie. Vinnie looked back at me. We shrugged. I hoped that Stanley was still unspoken for, and that everything would work out for both of them. I supposed things would, so long as Stanley didn’t eat any of Vito’s cooking.
Vinnie trilled at me and threw himself on his back for a belly rub and purred. I went along and gave him his well-deserved scritches. Another silent-but-deadly poot wafted up at me while Vinnie lay back looking smug and happy. I coughed and got up ‘butt’ quick.
“Pew! Man, oh man, oh Manischewitz. No more pepperoni for you!” I said, waving my arms at him.
Vinnie trilled something back at me which didn’t sound exactly complimentary.
CHAPTER 12
(Thursday)
I dozed off on the sofa. Again. Which meant waking up to Beevis and Butthead at about 4:30 a.m. fully clothed, with sandals. Me, not them. But apparently I pass out neatly since my feet were dangling nicely over the sofa arm and asleep.
Meanwhile, my right arm rested painfully on Vinnie’s belly. The pinch in it spread down through my right butt cheek and proceeded to whip up a Charlie Horse. Ouch. I tried to roll my shoulder. It rolled back at me. Vinnie lay on his back, snoring contentedly, his paw hooked across his nose.
“EEEK! EEEK! EEK!” screamed Marie.
Oh crap. She’d been left to watch the ‘The Muppet Movie’ running in repeated loops all night long. After her all night movie marathon, she probably thought ‘The Muppet Movie’ was more like ‘Gremlins XXIV’
I staggered upstairs and found out I was right, of course.
Marie hissed at me. “I know, I’m sorry,” I agreed. I turned the Muppets off. “Here, have an early breakfast and a long snooze,” I said, petting her head then closing her door.
I looked at my bedroom. My bed sat waiting, neatly made and inviting. I sighed. No point getting in it; I was up now.
I shuffled downstairs awkwardly and uncomfortably to make some coffee. While the coffee perked, I went into the powder room. That’s when the front door opened and I heard Vinnie trill at someone.
“Shhhh, shhh, Vinnie,” I heard Vito say. “Let Mina sleep.”
I shook my head, took a deep breath and came out.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t think you’d be up this early,” Vito whispered. I yawned, shuffled into the kitchen, and squinted at the clock on the stove. It blinked 5:00 a.m. I groaned. “I gotta whole bunch of deliveries I gotta make this morning, before I take Helena to the train. And before I go and adopt Stanley.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay, Vito; you don’t have to whisper. I’m awake.”
“Oh, hey. That’s right!” He brightened. “Hey, I’ll just be a minute, okay?” he said and ambled down my basement steps.
“Help yourself.”
Vinnie trilled and trotted after Vito. I was going to stop him, but remembered his kitty box was down there. But there were still a ton of Vito’s prescription sample boxes down there, too. Well, at least if Vinnie would let me know where Vito was if he got pinned under an avalanche of drug samples. And vice versa.
I started to pour some coffee, and heard what sounded like the kitty box being scooped out. I was so tired that at first I thought it was good of Vinnie to finally learn how to clean up after himself.
Vito came up with a laundry basket full of medical samples, and a wrapped up bag of kitty stuff. He looked at me and blushed.
“Well, since I was down there and all any-who,” he said.
I nodded thanks and poured two mugs of coffee. Vito lumbered out through my front door, laundry basket and kitty stuff bag in hand. A lot of single people say it’s a drag living alone. I still wonder what it’s like.
Vinnie came back into the kitchen, rubbed against my shins and licked my knee. “Yup, let’s get your breakfast,” I responded automatically.
Then Vito came back through the front door, holding up a pristine white bakery bag. I looked longingly at it. Vinnie banged his paws on top of the counter, waving me on, demanding his cookies.
“Noooooooooow! Nooaw! Now!” Vinnie urged.
“Yes, you’re getting your breakfast now,” I said, and placed his bowl in front of him, per his instruction. Yeeshkabiddle.
Vito stood in the hallway, holding the bag and shaking his head. “Boy, Vinnie sure is one big cat,” he said for the one zillionth time.
“Yup,” I said back.
Vito held up the bag. “Crumb buns!” he announced.
I was impressed. Again.
“So who’s your crumb bun connection?” I asked, getting some plates.
“I cannot divulge a bakery source. Let us just say someone with New Jersey origins continues to owe me a pretty big favor,” he said. I shrugged.
“So my plan’s this,” Vito said seriously. Which was tough since his mouth was covered with powdered sugar. “I’ve gotta finish up this month’s… deliveries.”
“Right,” I said, biting into more of my crumb bun and gulping more coffee. But it didn’t seem strong enough. I seriously wished stores would label coffee with ratings: WAKE UP!; OMG – YOU’RE LATE!!; and READY TO PAINT THE LIVING ROOM TWICE. Times like these, the last one wouldn’t go amiss, I thought.
“That should give folks about a month’s warning to look for their, uh… product somewheres else,” Vito added with an exaggerated wink. He looked like he had something stuck in his eye.
“What are you going to do with the rest of the stuff in the basement?” I asked.
“Huh?” Vito said, jiggling crumb bun crumbs from his shirt and onto his plate.
“The rest of your luggage in my basement?” I asked loudly.
“Oh! Like I said, I’m going to finish up this month’s deliveries. I should be finished in a couple days.”
“You mean all that stuff in the basement is just two days’ worth of deliveries?”
“Well sure; you have no idea how many prescriptions doctors write for older persons,” Vito said, biting into his crumb bun again.
I rubbed my neck. Dim visions of Vito, Aunt Muriel and Tina in fluorescent orange prison jump suits throbbed through my head. My butt twinged. I rubbed it. Vito looked at me.
“Maybe yous wanna sit down, or have some alone time or something,” he said and blushed. I nodded and sat down on the floor.
Vinnie came up and sniffed at my crumb bun, then looked up at me. His muzzle was dusted with a snowy coating of powdered sugar. I moved to wipe it off but he hissed at me and stalked away. Apparently he had a thing for crumb buns, too.
“So this morning I got it alls worked out to make some urgent deliveries first. Then I’ll take Helena to the train station. I offered to drive her back to Jersey myself, but she wants to talk to my brother first, and kind of work things out like. But I’m pretty sure he’s figured out where she’s been and all.”
“How come?”
“Because when she called to check on the baby, she said she was staying at Uncle Vlad’s,” he said. I smacked my forehead with my hand just like Ma and Aunt Muriel, forfeiting any claims of individuality from my genetic cesspool. “Hey, but this could be nice!” Vito said quickly. “Maybe they’ll come visit. We could barbeque,” he mused. I stared straight at him, which he returned with a blank, sappy gaze. I rolled my eyes. Before Vito got descended on by his family at large, most of which probably was at large, I was going to have to whip up a batch of chutzpah and ask for my spare key back. Or pretend there’d been a drive-by lock changing by an OCD locksmith.
“Then, after I drop Helena off at the station, I’m gonna adopt Stanley!” Vito went on brightly. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra box of tissues, would you, Cookie?” he asked.
I clambered back to my feet and looked around the living room. The remains of one of Vito’s Econo-size tissue boxes was perched on the coffee table. I grabbed it and put it next to his crumb bun bag.
He nodded and brushed his remaining crumbs off into the sink. He took the tissue box and walked toward the front door, then stopped. “Don’t worry, Toots. Even when I have Stanley, I’ll still make time to Swiffer for you. After the crowd you’ve had these days, your floors sure could use it,” he tsked, shaking his head and leaving.
I looked into my coffee mug, and toward the liquor cabinet and pictured the bottle of whiskey I wish I had and knew I didn’t. Well, it’s the thought that counts.
I hopped in the shower, and was just getting out when the doorbell rang. I dripped and swore, brushed Vinnie away from trying to climb into the tub with me, threw on my bathrobe and headed downstairs. I opened the door to find Bauser and Norman and Jim. Jim sat up pretty and leaned. Bauser propped him up with his knee.
“Uh, hi,” I said, opening the door. “Isn’t this a little early?” It was just after six o’clock.
Norman sighed. “I’ve been up since three, anyway,” he said, walking in, followed by Bauser and Jim.
“The horses?” I asked.
“Cat wrangling,” Norman yawned. “The horses sleep in until five. So I figured I might as well finish painting the side of the barn. Then I got to some weeding, watered the vegetable bed, vacuumed and made breakfast for the girls.”
I shuddered. No wonder Norman took naps on his towel at lunchtime. Clearly married persons with families have lots more chores than I ever imagined. While I, on the other hand, remain chore challenged and am becoming increasingly dependent on Vito’s Swiffer addiction.
“We’ve got a clue,” Bauser said. He stepped into the kitchen with Jim, and his eyes immediately fell upon the crumb buns. I made some more coffee, dug out some more plates while Bauser, Norman and Jim nosed around inside the bag.
“So what’s the clue?” I asked.
Before they could answer, the doorbell rang again. I rolled my eyes and went to answer it. It was Trixie.
“How’re you doing? You want some coffee?” I asked her, at the same time wondering why none of my friends used telephones.
Trixie rolled her eyes. “I’d rather have a shot and a beer.” She sighed. “What a night! You wouldn’t believe.”
I nodded and agreed, while my right butt cheek winced with another shot of pinch de jour.
I looked around at the accumulating breakfast crowd. Well, at least no one could accuse me of living in isolation. Trixie looked around the kitchen, then at the powdery sugared muzzles of Jim, Bauser and Norman.
“Sorry,” Norman gulped. “If we’d known you were coming we wouldn’t have let Jim have the last crumb bun.”
Trixie waved him off. “That’s okay. I’m not much for sweet stuff, anyway,” she said.
“I guess not, if you’re up for a bump and a beer for breakfast,” Bauser said.
Trixie shook her head. “What a night,” she repeated and sighed. I felt sorry I didn’t have any beer for her.
“I can give you a Mug o’Merlot? Or a Bloody, I think… well, sort of…” I trailed, realizing I hadn’t re-stocked tomato juice, or vodka, even with my mega marathon grocery extravaganza.
Trixie squinted at me, considering. “What do you mean, ‘Bloody, sort of’?”
“I don’t have any tomato juice. Or vodka. But I do have some wine, and some canned spaghetti sauce,” I answered.
Everyone winced. Including Jim and Vinnie. “Yuck,” Norman said.
“Just a minute here,” Bauser piped up, and jogged out the door. The rest of us looked at each other and shrugged.
Trixie had her head inside my fridge, trying to figure out what she wanted me to make her for her third shift dinner-breakfast, when Bauser strolled back in carrying a cooler. He plopped it down on the counter and opened it to reveal two six-packs of Krumpthf’s. He broke open a can for Trixie and handed it to her.
“You might want to use a strainer or a coffee filter first,” Norman advised.
Trixie looked at the can and winced. “Krumpthf’s,” she sighed. “It’s come to this. Krumpthf’s.”
“I like Krumpthf’s,” Bauser said.
“That’s because you’re cheap,” Trixie replied, opening the can over the sink and grabbing a mug and a coffee filter.
“Frugal,” Bauser corrected.
“What are you doing with a cooler of Krumpthf’s in your car? Are you guys going fishing or something?” I asked.
Bauser looked at me. “I always travel with my own six-pack,” he said. “Besides,” he added, “would you believe there are actually some beer distributors that don’t carry Krumpthf’s?”
I winced.
“It’s actually not so bad, if you mix it with some tomato juice,” Norman offered, while eyeing the remaining cans in the cooler. “But you don’t have any tomato juice at all, right?” he asked me hopefully.
“Just spaghetti sauce,” I replied.
“Too bad,” Norman said.
Trixie finished straining her Krumpthf’s, took a sip and sighed. She reached for her purse and brought out a new pack of Swank’s. “You mind? I can go out back on the deck,” she asked.
I looked around at the fellas. I didn’t know quite what to say, since I was recently guilty of succumbing to the nicotine nasties myself when I thought I’d lost Vinnie. I motioned to Trixie and opened the back door to the deck. Trixie nodded and took her purse and we left the fellas inside.
“So what gives? Why are you scrounging beer for breakfast?” I asked.
Trixie took a short swig of her Krumpthf’s, made a face and then took a long drag of her cigarette.
“First of all,” she exhaled, “it’s Krumpthf’s, not beer. And this isn’t breakfast for me. More like supper,” she said. She took another swig, made a face, and then took another really long drag from her cigarette. “And second, my shifts – plural – sucked.”
“What happened?”
“Well, after your aunt’s church pals Ernie and Evelyn admitted themselves in for barbeque burns, in came the other church buddies, Henry and his old lady Caryl. They all fill each other in about why each other is there, comparing barbeque mishaps and all, when Henry and Ernie start shouting and shoving each other. Eventually, one of the clinical assistants and I got the fellas calmed down. But the next thing you know, the two old girls are hollering at each other and having at it. By the way, did you know Evelyn wears a wig?” Trixie asked.
I balked.
I was still trying to wrap my brain around the fisticuff images Trixie had just pasted inside my head. Fighting? Ernie? Henry? Cat brawl? Evelyn? Caryl? None of this made any sense. It certainly wasn’t very Episcopalian, with the espousing tolerance thingy and all.
“Anyway, the next thing you know, we’re admitting herds of senior barbecue burn victims. It was weird,” she said.
“They all had barbecue burns?”
“Not only that, but they all claimed to be Episcopalian. And you didn’t hear that from me,” she said, taking another drag. “I can’t tell you whether or not they attend St. Bart’s, but their admission forms all had ‘Episcopal’ written in for religion. And apparently they all knew each other. One minute they’re all watching the news calmly. The next minute all hell broke loose.” She put out the stub of her cigarette and lit up another.
“Some old bag thunked her walker on top of some old guy’s foot, then the next moment someone’s toupee went flying. Two other old guys were pointing fingers into each other’s chests so hard that they both claimed to be having chest pains. So then we had to admit them both, just to rule out angina. Then we had the wheelchair babe cruising down the aisle and knocking people down with her sister’s cane.” Trixie shuddered. “Then,” she continued, “Appletree comes in, because of the previous brawl being called in and all, with none other than the Mrs.” Her face downturned in a grimace. “You know, I know the whole freaking town knows about me and Appletree. I get that. But it was pretty embarrassing when I found out the unit secretaries were taking bets which brawl was gonna be next: me and Herself or the sizzled seniors.” She added, “I’m okay with the I-was-the-other-woman thing, mostly. I’m just not so okay about getting beat out by a 4-foot, 200 pound troll with no make-up and bad hair.”
I sighed. I’d heard this before. But I figured it must have been especially painful when encountered in person with the 200 pound troll.
“That’s okay,” I said, patting her head. “You don’t want Appletree, anyway. He’s not much taller than a troll, either,” I said.
She sighed. “I know. I guess it’s just the uniform thing.”