“A rooster,” I say.
“A rooster?” Shelby and Mark say together.
“What on earth—oh, dear God!” Shelby says when the thing goes off a second time. “What on earth are they doing with a rooster in a New York apartment?”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to know,” I say wearily, getting up to check on the lasagne.
Of course, the rooster isn’t the half of it. For some reason these people seem to have difficulty with the concept that, when you turn the water on in the bathtub, it’s generally a good idea to keep an eye on it. Three times, it’s overflowed in the last week, streaming down my walls and straight into the apartment downstairs (which I gathered from the irateness of the little old lady who charged up here and banged on my door until I thought she’d break it down). The last time, the water came through the light fixture, exploding the lightbulb. While I was sitting on the john. Took me an hour to pick all the glass out of my hair.
“But it’s against health regulations to keep farm animals inside city limits,” Mark says. I see him look up at the ceiling, which is now shuddering. “And why is it crowing now?”
“Ask the rooster,” I say, then add, probably a bit too loudly, “Oh, shoot! I completely forgot to pick up the bread for tonight!”
“That’s okay, honey,” Shelby says, but I divert her by directly delivering the next line in my script to Mark.
“Would you mind terribly running down the to bakery at the end of the block and picking up a couple of loaves?” I’m already to my purse, digging out my wallet to give him a ten. “Maybe take the kids with you, get them éclairs or something for after dinner?”
“Sure, no problem,” Mark says, walking right into my trap. “Where is it again?”
“Just turn right when you get outside, then right again and keep walking. It’s about a half block down, you can’t miss it.”
He calls the kids, refuses my money, disappears.
“Gee. That was subtle.”
I turn and look at Shelby, just managing not to blink innocently. “What?”
She pushes a stream of air through her lips. “Yeah, right, you forgot the bread.”
Okay, so subterfuge isn’t my strong suit. But neither do I buckle easily under pressure, which circumstances have given me more than ample opportunity to prove this past little while.
“I did,” I say with conviction. “Really. I mean, with everything on my mind, I’m doing well to remember my name.” I flounce back into the living room, sink back into the chair, realizing if I say or do a single thing to steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go, she’ll know I’m lying. Fortunately, I don’t have to dangle the bait in front of her, because she just reaches right down in the bucket and grabs it herself.
“Isn’t that great, about Mark’s new job?”
“Sounds pretty good to me. I mean, it’s just what he’s wanted, right?”
“Absolutely. And as I told him, since I’m home anyway with the kids, he doesn’t have to worry about his hours.” Bright smile. “We’ll be fine.”
I wait. She fidgets with the arm of the sofa, then says, not looking at me, “You want to hear something crazy? The magazine called, offered me a job.”
“What’s crazy about that?”
She laughs. “I have two children under the age of five, that’s what. As if I could go back to work now. As if I’d want to. Anyway, with this new opportunity for Mark, it would disrupt the kids far too much if both of us were away—”
And wouldn’t you know it, just when things are getting good, Mark and the kids return, laden with bags. Methinks there’s more there than a few loaves of crusty bread and a couple of éclairs.
“You know what they had?” Mark says to Shelby as both kids climb up onto the sofa with Mama, chattering like magpies. “Fresh-baked pumpernickel!”
Shelby seems to perk up. “Really?”
“Yep. Weren’t you just complaining the other day how you hadn’t had any good pumpernickel in ages? Here… take a whiff of this.” He takes the round, uncut loaf from the bag, carries it over to her.
“Oh, God…that smells so good!”
“Didn’t I tell you? Huh?”
Shelby giggles, gently swats him on the stomach, then loops her arms around Hayley’s waist to return the tiny girl’s effusive hug. “Honestly, you’re as crazy as the kids.”
Geoff joins me in the kitchen to help me slice the bread, spread the garlic butter inside. Only he starts in again with his cupboard-clawing routine, which he goes through at least three or four times a day. And each time, as I do now, I open it, show him there’s nothing for him inside, then show him his food. Do you have any idea how long it takes a corgi to work his way through a forty-pound bag of dog food?
Shelby wanders in about this time, stares at the bag.
“Criminy. That’s the biggest bag of dog food I’ve ever seen.”
“I know. I’m wondering if the dog will live long enough to eat it all.”
Geoff whimpers.
“Sorry. Just a casual observation.”
“If I may ask a dumb question…why’d you buy such a big bag to begin with?”
“I didn’t. Brice did. It was in the apartment after…you know.”
She nods. “What’s happening on that front, anyway?”
I shrug, open the oven door, take out the lasagne, slip in the bread, let the door bang shut. “You know as much as I do. Probably more, since I haven’t seen or heard any news in a week.”
Which topic naturally conjures up an image of Nick, an image I immediately, with paltry success, attempt to delete from my brain.
“Hey, honey,” Mark calls from the living room. “Come see this.”
Shelby leaves; I grab Geoff’s empty dish from the floor, scoop out a bowlful of food and set it back on the floor, then stand there watching the dog scarf food as though he hasn’t eaten since Clinton’s first term in office.
The melancholia suddenly hooks one claw around my ankle, threatening to drag me under. I grab a pair of pot holders, carry the lasagne out to the table just in time to see Mark standing behind Shelby with his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them laughing at something the older kid apparently just said. I search my cousin’s face, but see no sign that the laughter, or the contentment radiating from her eyes, is false.
Sorry, Terrie, I think, breathing an inward sigh of relief that this one landmark in my life, at least, has remained constant. Except, right on the heels of my relief comes another feeling, not exactly resentful, but sharp-edged enough to be uncomfortable:
That Shelby has what I thought I was going to get, even though I didn’t know I wanted it. That her life is basically all mapped out, defined, settled, while here I am, past thirty and suddenly unsure of what I want to be when I grow up.
Or who I want to be.
I plaster a smile to my face. “Hey, guys—let’s eat!”
The following Monday, I get home from work, grab Geoff’s leash and whisk him outside before he bursts, then come back inside to find three messages on my machine. One is from the caterers, asking—politely—if I’d sent them the rest of their money. One is from the florist, asking—not quite so politely—if I’d sent them the rest of their money. Now, if the universe had gotten its rear back in gear, the next call would have been from Greg saying, “Hi, Ginge, just wanted to let you know I’ve paid all the bills,” but, since the universe clearly wasn’t interested in being the least bit orderly, the third message was instead from Curtiss James, who had finally answered the messages the lawyer had left about Brice leaving him Geoff.
“Hi, Ginger, we’ll be up somewhere around seven-thirty to pick up the dog, but listen, don’t get too bent out of shape if we’re a tad late, since we’re coming all the way from Forest Hills.”
Hmm. Does that make him the Queen of Queens?
I glance at my kitchen clock: 7:14. I look at Geoff, who’s lolling crookedly on one hip, panting away, his stubby little back paws facing north
while the rest of him faces east. My heart cramps. He looks so happy. I’ve tried to prepare him for what’s about to happen, but we haven’t quite worked out the language barrier problems. I squat down beside him, stroking those wonderful, ridiculous ears. He snaps shut his mouth, clearly aware that something’s not right.
“He’s a nice person, I’m sure,” I say. “Brice wouldn’t have left you to him, otherwise, would he? No, of course he wouldn’t.” Mindless of my dress and panty hose, I slide my butt down onto the floor beside him, leaning up against the cabinets. Geoff plants the front half of his body on my lap, which isn’t a particularly pleasant experience with those bony elbows of his. Especially when a thin ribbon of drool puddles on my right thigh. But I don’t care. After tonight, there won’t be any ribbons of drool to avoid, thin or otherwise, a thought that depresses the hell out of me.
Speaking of depressing. I have no idea why, maybe because I’m bored out of my ever-loving little noggin at work, but Greg’s been on my mind an awful lot the past couple of days. For the most part, that whole episode of my life had congealed into a dull little ache in the center of my chest, but something—maybe watching Shelby and Mark?—has nudged it into life again. I’ve been so busy just trying to stay afloat that I hadn’t fully realized just how much I’d missed him.
Not that I think things will ever go back the way they were. Not now. Intuition tells me too much time has passed, that if Greg were going to repent, he would have done it by now. I keep thinking I should give Phyllis a call, just to check if he’s surfaced, but that would sound pathetic. And God knows, I don’t want to sound pathetic.
I suppose I could sell the ring to pay the bills?
The doorbell buzzes. Geoff looks up at me expectantly. I give him a gentle hug around the neck, then clumsily get to my feet.
“Hi,” says the brightly smiling vision in the hall when I open the door. The vision sticks out a much bejeweled hand. “Curtiss James. You must be Ginger.”
Dear God, it’s a walking bordello. Skin-tight red leather pants, sheer purple shirt (heavily beaded), flowing print scarf, red cowboy boots. Spiked, bleached-blond hair, but with fashionably dark roots. Many earrings.
I smile, trying not to squint from the glare. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Now, now, Ginger’s a great name. After all,” Curtiss says, sweeping—and I do mean sweeping—into the apartment, “it certainly did well by Ginger Rogers. Christ, what a fabulous apartment! I’ve heard great things about some of the places up here, but this is the first one I’ve actually been in. Ohmigod, is this Geoffrey?” Curtiss turns to me, hand on chest. A pinky ring with a rock as big as Central Park winks back at me. “This can’t be Geoffrey—he was just this big—” he spreads his hands six inches apart “—when I last saw him.”
The dog and I look at each other. Geoff’s expression says, “You’re kidding, right?”
“So…you’ve already met?”
“Oh, God, yes, although Brice and I were already having problems by then. I was the one who thought a baby might help save the relationship. But you know how that goes.” He squats down, pats the floor in front of him. “C’mon, Geoffrey. C’mon, baby…yeah, that’s a good boy…”
Geoff has not only gone to Curtiss, but flopped onto his back to get his belly rubbed. The dog twists his head around to look at me, upside down.
Traitor.
Still, some of the tension inside me eases at how much Curtiss actually likes the dog. I mean, if I have to give him up, I just want to be sure he’s going to be loved as much as I…
Damn.
“I’m sorry it took so long for the lawyer to find me,” Curtiss now says. “My honey had a photo shoot in Aruba, so we decided to make it a working vacation. And God, did we ever need one!”
A two-parent home is good, right?
“So how come Brice got the dog when you two, um, split up?”
By this time, Curtiss is sitting cross-legged on the floor (although how he’s managed that in those pants is beyond me) dragging a set of manicured nails repeatedly across Geoff’s chest. The dog is doing everything but groan.
“I decided Brice needed him more than I did.” He glances up at me, his smile a little sad. “He was a lonely sonuvabitch.”
“He was horri—” I catch myself. This man had been Brice’s lover, after all. But Curtiss gives me a surprisingly charming smile.
“Yes, he was. Although with his background, it’s not surprising his people skills were a little lacking.”
He says this as if I should know what he’s talking about. I don’t. Nor do I particularly want to know. Because then, knowing me, I’d end up feeling sorry for the man. And poof! Years of perfectly justified antipathy would go right down the tubes.
Curtiss gets to his feet, rearranging himself in the pants, then says, “Well, I hate to dash, but Liam’s circling the block in the car. So, if you could just give me Geoffrey’s things…”
“Oh. Of course.”
I’ve already filled a plastic bag with his bowls and toys and stuff. I get it from the kitchen, digging a pink rubber ball out of the bag. Geoff yips and wags his rump. “Not this time, sweetie,” I say over a tight throat, then to Curtiss, “This is his favorite. If I can’t get him out much, I toss this for him for a half hour every night. Otherwise, the way he eats, he’d look like a torpedo. Which reminds me…”
I return to the kitchen, lug out the half-full bag of food. It’s probably down to twenty-five pounds, but I still feel as though I’m dragging around a dead body. “This is the only dog food he’ll eat.”
Curtiss eyes the bag curiously. “Guess I won’t have to buy any for a while.”
“There’s a…yogurt container already in it.” I will not cry, I will not cry. “He gets two scoops a day.”
“Got it. Well, honey,” he says to the dog, snapping his leash to his collar. “Let’s go meet your other daddy!”
I stand at the door, watching them walk down the hall, the bag of food hefted onto Curtiss’s nonexistent hip. They reach the elevator. Curtiss shifts the food to his other hip, pushes the button, calls out, “Thanks for taking care of him!”
“No problem.”
The elevator grinds into place; the door opens. And just as I’m thinking Geoff doesn’t even have the courtesy to say goodbye, the dog swings his head around and looks at me, yips once, then trots onto the elevator.
The apartment seems almost unbearably empty. And quiet. Which is odd considering that, a) I’ve lived alone for ten years, I like living alone, and pre-Geoff, I’d never even had a parakeet to take care of, and b) the people upstairs must be getting ready to sacrifice that rooster, if the vibrations coming through the ceiling are any indication. But like most New Yorkers, I’m pretty good at tuning out noise not directly related to me, wild rumpuses included.
Hunger propels me into the kitchen, where I contemplate dinner. Gotta keep up my strength and all that. Let’s see…I root amongst all the few mystery packages shivering in the fridge, my butt hanging out to Jersey….
Well, there’s some deli stuff in the drawer that will soon need carbon dating in order to tell how old it is, about three bites of pasta salad, something in foil I no longer recognize, which I rewrap and stick back in. And some lasagne left over from the other night, although after three days, I’m getting pretty sick of it. But—and this is the bright note to the evening—I bought another loaf of that fine French bread, and thus can make some more garlic bread.
So. Pop a serving of lasagne into the nuker, slice up the bread, spread the garlic goop on it, turn on the oven…
What on earth is that strange…pinging sound? Yes…it’s definitely coming from the oven. Curious, I open the door—
Something flies out and bounces off my chest. I scream, throwing myself backward over the step stool, just catching sight of a gray streak zipping across my kitchen floor to vanish underneath the molding at the base of my sink.
It takes me a minute. Then I scream again, jumping up an
d down and forking my fingers through my hair whilst violently shuddering, vaguely aware of my current resemblance to my upstairs neighbors. After my hysteria runs its course, I drop onto the top of the step stool, listening to my thudding heart as I look over at the cabinet that Geoff had kept pawing at all the time.
And what were the odds Hunka Munka and all the little Muncateers were snickering behind their little furry paws? Or maybe not. Maybe their sentinel’s close brush with broilerdom has sobered them somewhat.
I tell myself I’m only imagining the scent of seared mouse fur.
I give up on the garlic bread idea—wouldn’t you?—eat the lasagne, the three bites of pasta salad, and half a thing of Godiva chocolate ice cream, then get into my jammies and click on the tube, where I sit, zombie-like (except for the occasional jerking to be sure I wasn’t seeing rodents zipping past), until I apparently pass out in the wee hours without bothering to turn off the TV or pull out the sofa bed. At least, such is the state in which I find myself when, at some ungodly, still-dark hour, somebody decides it would be fun to repeatedly ram a four-by-four into my door.
“Jesus!” I yell. “What the f—”
“Get out!” a deep male voice booms on the other side. “The apartment above you’s on fire!”
Ten
Talk about your motivational speeches. Now gagging on the smell of smoke, I grab my robe, shove my feet into the first shoes I find, which happen to be the Lucite-bottomed mules, yank my purse off the kitchen counter and my tote bag with my laptop and cell phone off the wing chair and book it out of there. The hallway is riddled with cussing and yelling and about a million people all bumping into each other, the children excited and babbling, the old people wandering in dazed circles like rundown wind-up toys.
Trying to tie my sash around my waist while hanging on to all my crap and stay balanced on these stupid shoes, I take two or three seconds to wake up, get my bearings. Figuring the firefighters—there are two of them, scary as grizzly bears in their full attire, lumbering and jangling as they try to direct the tide toward the stairs—have better things to do, like, oh, put out the fire in the APARTMENT RIGHT ABOVE MINE, I take over herding the more confused and frightened of the older people down the hall and toward stairs I doubt any of them have used since 1966. Yeah, I’m scared shitless, too, but at least I have a clue as to what’s going on.
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