Loose Screws

by Karen Templeton

  Now you have to remember that, up to this point, I had convinced myself the guy was either dead, kidnapped, or had an otherwise perfectly reasonable explanation for his vanishing act. When it was immediately obvious the first option was moot, and the second was highly doubtful—this was not someone who sounded as if a gun was being held to his head—that left me with Door Number Three. Which wasn’t looking promising, either.

  “…I know you’re probably angry—okay, extremely angry.”

  Yeah, okay, I’d been that a time or two in the past forty-eight hours.

  “…and you have every right to be. What I did was unforgivable, and if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never completely understand why I bolted like that. No, no…that’s not entirely true. I guess I…um…panicked. About us, about getting married, about the way you’d set me up on some sort of pedestal—”

  I choke on my cake.

  “—and I realized I hadn’t taken the time I needed to think this through…”

  By that point, my ire was beginning to perk quite nicely. I mean, hey—there was some reason why he couldn’t have arrived at this conclusion before I spent my entire life’s savings on food that nobody ever got to eat?

  And what is this I set him up on some sort of pedestal crap?

  “…I mean, I really didn’t see this coming, so I don’t want you to think this was all a game or anything like that. But…God, Ginge, I’m slime.”

  No argument there.

  “…my main regret is that I didn’t realize how I felt until I was getting ready to leave the house on Saturday. I guess I’d just gotten so caught up in…everything, I didn’t take five minutes to ask myself if I was really ready for this…”

  The man is thirty-five frickin’ years old, for God’s sake. When did he think he would be ready?

  “…I mean, the sex was great, wasn’t it?”

  I looked over at my coffee table and sighed.

  “…and who knew my parents would file a missing person’s report, for chrissake? I mean, I hope that didn’t cause you any more distress…”

  Oh, no. Not at all.

  “…and I hope maybe one day, we can be friends again, although I’ll completely understand if you hate my guts.”

  You think?

  “…anyway, I’ll settle up with Blockbuster sometime this week—”

  Which answered that question. Still haven’t found that sucker, by the way.

  “—if you wouldn’t mind dropping off the flick when you’re out? And I guess maybe we should arrange for you to get your things, whenever it’s convenient? Maybe you could call Mom. I mean, that would probably be easier, don’t you think?”

  Hence the Scarsdale pilgrimage.

  “Oh, and listen…” I heard what could pass for a heartfelt sigh. “I didn’t mean for you to get saddled with all the bills, I swear. Please, send them on to the office, okay? I promise I’ll take care of them. Well.” Throat clearing sounds. “I guess…well. ’Bye. And, Ginge?”

  “What?” I snapped at the hapless machine.

  “This has nothing to do with you, okay? I mean it. You’re really terrific. God, I’m sorry.”

  You got that right.

  After fast forwarding through the rest of the messages, all from my mother, I glanced down at the cake to discover I’d somehow eaten half of it. Not that this was really any big deal since—don’t hate me—I can eat anything I want and never gain weight (although I have a sneaking suspicion all those calories are lying around my body like a bunch of microscopic air mattresses set to inflate on my fortieth birthday). But it was all sitting at the base of my throat when I started to cry—a sobbing-so-hard-I-can’t-catch-my-breath jag that, combined with the cake residue in my mouth, made me choke so badly I thought my brain was going to explode.

  Five minutes later, reduced to a limp, shuddering, sweating rag, I came to the disheartening conclusion that although eviceration with a dull knife would have been preferable to what I was feeling at that moment, I still loved the scumbag. Nearly a week later, I still feel that way. I mean, why else would I have put away a dozen bags of Cheetos? I should hate him, I know that, but I’ve never been in love before, not really, and I find it’s not something I can just turn off like a faucet. Which either makes me very loyal or very stupid. Yes, I’m hurt and furious and want to inflict serious bodily damage, but when I played back the message (oh, and like you wouldn’t?), he just sounded so upset….

  Well. Anyway. I sat, still shoveling in cake and letting my emotions buffet me when the phone rang, making me jump out of my skin because I’d pushed the ringer too high. Too stunned to remember I wasn’t supposed to be answering, I picked up.

  “Hey, Ginger? It’s Nick.”

  Bet you saw that coming, didn’t you?

  I, however, didn’t. And I thought, oh, yeah, like this is really going to make me feel better. I rammed my hand through my hair, only my engagement ring got caught in a snarl, which made me wince, which launched me into another coughing fit.

  Nick asked if I was okay, but of course I couldn’t reply because I was choking to death. “Hang on,” I croaked into the phone, then lurched toward the sink, gulped down a half glass of tepid water since I’d run out of bottled. Yech.

  A minute later, I picked up the phone and got out, “Guess who I just heard from?”

  “I know,” Nick said. “I just got word. Munson’s fine.”

  He almost sounded disappointed.

  Bet Nick wouldn’t just walk away like that, I thought, only to remember that’s exactly what he’d done.

  My gaze drifted to my left hand and the engagement ring the size of Queens I’d worn proudly since Valentine’s Day. Two carats, emerald cut, platinum setting. Hell, for this puppy, I’d even let my nails grow out.

  I haven’t decided what to do with that, either.

  But back to the phone call.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Great news, huh?”

  “Damn,” Nick said softly. Like it wasn’t a swear word, somehow. “What happened?”

  Much to my chagrin, tears again stung my eyes. “He left a message on my answering machine. My answering machine.”

  “You’re kidding me? Man, that is so lame,” Nick said, and anger tried to suck me back in. And it would have felt good, I suppose, to have just gone with the flow for a minute. But then I reminded myself of the conscious choice I made as a child, not to let my emotions control me, to make decisions based on reason and logic, not on passion and impulse.

  That I am not my mother.

  And at that moment tranquility rippled through me. Or it might have been a breeze from the open kitchen window. But for just a few seconds there, I felt that everything was going to be okay, that maybe the storm had tipped my boat, but it was completely within my power to right it again.

  I stretched, popping the knotted-up muscles at the base of my neck. “He was very apologetic, though.” My voice seemed eerily level, even to my own ears. “I mean, he’s not sticking me with the rest of the bills or anything.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Scaring you? Why?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be incoherent and breaking things right about now?”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be dumbfounded or indignant. “That would be like me saying all men sit around every Sunday afternoon, watching sports and stuffing their faces with nachos and pork rinds.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  I huffed a little sigh. “Greg didn’t.”

  “No, all he did was go AWOL on your wedding day.”

  I frowned. Just a tiny one, though. “But he said—”

  “I don’t give a shit what he said. Guy doesn’t even have the balls to tell you in person. He treated you like dirt, Ginger. Like I should’ve called you after…you know. Paula’s wedding. But I didn’t. And even though I was only twenty-one and still functioning on half a brain, that still makes me scum, which I can live with. But what that g
uy did to you…dammit! Why aren’t you more pissed?”

  “Because anger is counterproductive—”

  “That’s bull. And holding it in isn’t healthy.”

  “Then you must not be paying attention in those anger management classes they make you take,” I said, feeling my face redden. What the hell was this guy trying to do to me?

  “Managing it isn’t the same as stifling it.”

  “Speaking of stifling it—”

  “I bet you’re even still wearing his ring.”

  “That’s none of your bus—”

  “Take it off, Ginger. Now.”

  That’s when, in the process of swiping my hand across the face, I scraped my nose with one of the prongs (something I’d managed to do at least once a day since I put the damn thing on, if you want to know the truth), which was just enough to send me over the edge. So I yanked off the ring and hurled it against the counter backsplash. The clatter was surprisingly loud. And satisfying.

  “Is it off?” Nick said.

  “I hope you’re alone,” I said, suppressing the urge to paw through my cookbooks before the roaches carted it off (yeah, we got ’em on the East Side, but they’ve got little Louis Vuitton gold initials all over them), “because do you have any idea how your end of the conversation sounds—”

  “Is…it…off?”

  “You know, you’ve got a real problem with patience—”

  “Goddammit, Ginger—”

  “Yes, Nick. The ring is off. Happy?”

  “Delirious. Did you throw it?”

  I shoved my hair out of my face. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did—”

  “Hard?”

  With a weighty sigh, I hauled myself off the stool, leaned over to squint at the backsplash. Sure enough, there was a tiny scratch. Which I will swear was there when I moved in. Since I was in already in the neighborhood, I picked up the ring, then I sat back down with a grunt, twiddling the bauble between my thumb and index finger. “Hard enough.”

  “Good,” Nick said, with a note of my-work-here-is-done accomplishment in his voice. “Anyway. Just wanted to touch base. Let you officially know you’re in the clear.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

  Silence strained across the line.

  “So. You take care, okay? And, Ginger?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t put the ring back on.”

  After he hung up, I sat and listened to the dial tone for several seconds, my body humming like I’d just had insta-sex.

  So now that you’ve been treated to Day 3 of How Ginger Spent Her Honeymoon, we can skip ahead to the equally fun-filled present, where I’m doing the catatonic number in front of the tube. Nick hasn’t called since. Not that there’s any reason he should.

  And the ring is safely snoozing in its little Tiffany box, tucked underneath my undies.

  And, as you may have guessed, the I’m-gonna-right-this-boat feeling passed. I might have ridden the crest for a moment or two, but then the wave took me under again. I hadn’t fully realized how much I’d loathed dating until I no longer had to. The gruesome prospect of having to start over is more than I can bear thinking about.

  Credits roll on the screen in front of me, which means it’s later than I thought, which means I have to face the music, or in this case the shower, and fix myself up at least enough so I don’t frighten little children when I step outside. Last time I caught my reflection, I looked like an electrocuted poodle. And I really should take the cake plate back to Ted and Randall. Maybe I’ll look sad enough that they will take pity on me and fill it up again. I’m thinking maybe chocolate-chip-macadamia-oatmeal cookies. Or brownies would be good, too…

  My phone rings again. I hesitate, then answer.

  “Cara?”

  My heart stops. It’s my grandmother.

  Who never, ever, ever makes phone calls.

  “Nonna, what’s—?”

  “Your mother, she is onna her way to your place. Inna taxi. But you never heard it from me.”

  For about ten seconds after Nonna hangs up, I contemplate the fortuity of Greg’s not being dead and my consequent removal from the N.Y.P.D.’s suspect list because now it will take them longer to connect me to my mother’s murder. Of course, if and when they finally did, maybe Nick would have to come back and question me again—which held a definite appeal, over and above being rid of my mother—only I don’t think I could stand the look of disappointment in his eyes when he found out I dunnit. So I guess I’ll let my mother live.

  And please don’t take my ramblings seriously. I can’t even set a mouse trap.

  In any case, while I’ve been standing here plotting my mother’s demise, the clock has been quietly ticking away. Now I quickly calculate how long it will take a taxi to get here from Riverside Drive and 116th Street and realize I can either clean me or clean the apartment, but not both, which provokes a spate of agitated swearing. Not that my mother’s a neat freak, believe me—until Nonna came to live with us after my grandfather died when I was ten, I didn’t even know you could make a bed—but one look at this place, and she’s going to know I’m not exactly in control.

  Not an option.

  Naturally, every single muscle immediately seizes, a condition in which I might have remained indefinitely had not the doorbell rung. I let out a single, one-size-fits-all expletive and force myself to the door. Tell me Nedra got the one cabbie in all of Manhattan who actually knew where he was going.

  I peer through the keyhole, practically letting out a whoop of joy. When I yank open the door, Verdi engulfs me from the open door across the hall as Alyssa, my neighbor Ted’s twelve-year-old daughter, grins up at me, all legs and braces and silky honey-colored hair and big green eyes. I am so grateful it’s not my mother that I don’t even care about my fried poodle head or that the melted chocolate splotch on my jammies right between my booblets calls attention to the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Not that Ted would care, although I’m not sure I’m setting a good example for Alyssa.

  In spite of my panic, I grin back, although I can feel it tremble around the edges. Alyssa’s my buddy; I’ve sat for her more times than I can count since Ted won custody of her four years ago, no mean feat for a gay man, even today. In the last year, she’s begun to notice boys, which I gather is about the same time her father did. But you know how it is, always easier to talk to someone outside the family about these things….

  I notice her hands are clamped around a plate of cookies. Oh, yeah—things are definitely looking up.

  “We got concerned when we didn’t hear you leave the apartment,” her father now says, looming behind his daughter. I get a glimpse of a faded navy T stretched across a solid torso, and bare, hairy legs protruding from the bottoms of worn drawstring shorts—the freelance writer’s summer chained-to-the-computer ensemble. Underneath silver-splintered, dark brown hair as curly as mine, worry lurks in hazel eyes as he takes in my less-than-reputable appearance. “I hope you didn’t spend longer than ten minutes to get that look, honey, because, trust me, it isn’t you.”

  My attention really, really wants to drift back to the cookies, but I suddenly remember the peril I’m in. “Oh, God. My mother’s on her way. In a taxi.”

  Ted looks at me, glances over my shoulder into my apartment. I swear he blanches. He, too, has met my mother. “Got it. We’ll be right there.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

  Ted throws me a glance that brooks no argument, then says, “Al, go back inside and get the box of trash bags. And grab Randall while you’re at it.”

  Knowing the cavalry is coming shakes me from my stupor enough to send me back into my apartment, where I once again freak out. Where did all this crap come from? Do I really subscribe to this many magazines? Why do I have so many dishes? And where am I going to stash it all?

  I grab the wedding dress, then stand there doing this bizarre, twitching dance with the thing—there’s no way this puppy is gonna fit in any of my clos
ets and the only door behind which I could conceivably hide it leads to the bathroom. Where I need to be right now—

  Randall, Ted’s lover, slips his bold, buff, black, bald self in through the open door, lets out a deep bark of laughter. He’s in High-Wasp casual mode—Dockers, blue Oxford, striped tie, penny loafers. And a diamond earring. “Lord, woman—you have a consolation orgy in here or what?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ted and Alyssa return. To my immense relief, she still has the cookies, which she sets on the counter. A synapse or two misfires.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know how it got this way. Are those for me?” I finish with a bright smile for Alyssa.

  “Uh-huh,” the kid says. “Dad taught me how to make them this morning.” She peels back the Saran and carries the plate over to me. Randall pries the crushed dress from my hands before I salivate all over it. I take a cookie, watching him stride out the door. It is a bittersweet moment.

  “The place got this way, honey,” Ted says, deftly picking up the thread of the conversation, “because you’re a pack rat living in a shoebox. Okay, Al,” he says to his daughter, attacking the corner where the desk used to be, “the object is not to clean, but to make it look clean.”

  “You mean, like when Mom comes over?”

  “You got it.”

  I stand there munching as the child calmly opens a closet, begins shoving things inside like a pro, while her father straightens and stacks and fluffs. “You know,” he says, “a cousin of mine just got a three bedroom in Hoboken for probably half what you’re paying for this dump.”

  That’s enough to make me stop chewing. “But it’s in Jersey.”

  Ted considers this for a moment. “Good point.”

  Randall returns, sans dress.

  “What did you do with it?” I ask.

  “Do you really care?”

  “I—no, actually.”

  It might be my imagination, but I think I see something akin to relief in his dark eyes. I don’t think either Ted or Randall cared much for Greg, although they never said anything. Then a grin stretches across Randall’s molasses-colored face, popping out a set of truly adorable dimples, before he says something about hiding a wedding dress being a damn sight easier than hiding Ted when Randall’s mother pops in for a visit. So I grab another cookie, since they’re sitting right there on the coffee table, and start in about how, since Randall’s well into his thirties and not married, his parents might have a few suspicions, when Ted straightens and says, “Hello, Miss Chatterbox? I’m busting my butt here while you’re standing here dispensing advice about honesty issues?”