Loose Screws

by Karen Templeton

  “There’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure getting everyone out’s just a precaution,” I say, smiling for one poor old gal, her scalp pink and fragile-looking underneath thin white hair held hostage in a row of pin curls. In a crisp, new housecoat splashed with tropical flowers, her feet encased in plastic slippers, she clamps on to my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. She smells faintly of mothballs and old perfume. “I’m sure everyone’s apartment will be fine,” I say.

  She’s staring at the stairs with wide eyes. “You’ll help me down?”

  “You betcha. Hang on…there you go…”

  We take one tentative step toward the stairs, the rest of the tenants swirling around us. The noise is deafening.

  “What’s your name?” she asks.

  “Ginger.”

  She glances over at me at that, then says, “I’m Esther. Esther Moskovitz.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Moskovitz.”

  That gets a smile. “How nice, a young person who uses my last name. Nowadays, nobody uses your last name,” she says, shuffling at about the speed of a glacier along the tiled floor. “Everybody wants to be your buddy, thinks it’s okay to use a person’s given name, like it’s their right or something.”

  Despite the load I’m already carrying, I find myself wondering if I can pick her up, carry her down the damn steps. It occurs to me at this rate, by the time I get her outside, either the fire will be out or the building will have burned down.

  “You’re that new girl who just moved in, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.” Okay, three more feet before we begin what I know is going to be a torturous descent.

  She takes another cautious step, then squints up at me. “You’re Jewish?”

  “Only half. Okay, now just lower your foot to the next step…”

  “Damn,” she says on a grunt as her knee cracks like a gun. “What’s the other half?”

  “Italian.”

  She sighs, clearly disappointed. “Too bad. My grandson just got divorced, so he’s back in the market. But no Italians. His last wife was Italian,” she says, as if that explains everything.

  I hear clanking and stomping and swishing coming up the stairs. A chocolate-eyed firefighter appears on the landing below, sizes up the situation immediately.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he says to the old lady. His grin is huge and heart-stopping, and I just know this man has a pregnant wife and three other kiddies at home. He holds out his arms. “Want a ride?”

  And before Mrs. Moskovitz has a chance to think about it, he gently picks her up and carts her down the stairs. Over his shoulder, I see her startled, shocked expression slowly give way to childlike glee.

  I clomp along behind and, finally, out into the muggy night. The firefighter once again consigns Mrs. Moskovitz to my care, directing us to where the rest of the evacuated tenants are standing, staring up in mute fascination. I turn, gasping at the sight of actual honest-to-God flames leaping out the windows, licking at the night.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Moskovitz says. “That’s your apartment right underneath, isn’t it, honey?”

  My throat closes. All I can do is nod.

  “Hope you have renter’s insurance, because the water and smoke damage is going to be a bitch.”

  I swallow, then ask if she’ll be all right, I just need to step over…here to make a phone call. Nedra answers on the second ring, her voice heavy with sleep.

  I burst into tears.

  “Ginger?” she says, tentatively. Then, “Oh, my God, Ginger! What’s happened, baby? Are you all right?”

  “I need you,” was all I could say.

  “I’ll be right there,” Nedra said. “Just hang tight, sweetie, okay? I’ll be right there.”

  Twenty minutes later a taxi pulls up and Nedra flies out of it.

  I fall into her arms, sobbing like a twit. I can feel her look up. “Wait…that’s the fifth floor, right?”

  “The apartment right over mine.” We watch as a fireman, cantilevered over the street in one of those cherry picker things on the back of the biggest truck, aims the hose at one of the windows. Eerily illuminated by the undulating flames, the hose jolts to life, water rocketing into the apartment. Gallons and gallons and gallons of water, all merrily finding its way down into my apartment, drenching my furniture, my rug, my books…my stuff. My stuff, dammit.

  Not letting go of me, my mother twists us both around to look into the crowd. “You know who lives up there?”

  I’ve stopped blubbering long enough to follow her gaze. “The m-man in the white sleeveless T-shirt, I think. The one with the heavy moustache.”

  My mother gives me a squeeze, wipes my cheeks with the palm of her hand, then leaves me to go talk to the man in all probability responsible for ruining what scraps of my life were left to ruin. A minute later she returns. I notice she’s wearing a sweater over a cotton nightgown.

  “Grease fire in the kitchen. They were frying something, I didn’t quite catch all of it, he was speaking a Spanish dialect I didn’t know—”

  “Chicken,” I say, my voice dead.

  “What?”

  “Were they frying chicken?”

  She looks at me as if I’ve lost it. “I have no idea. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure they had someplace to stay tonight.”

  My turn at incredulity. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Noo-oo, why would I be kidding you?”

  “You would actually offer the people responsible for destroying your own daughter’s apartment a place to stay?”

  Her brows dip, the expression in her dark eyes more stunned than angry. “No, I hadn’t planned on bringing them home with us. But I know places where they could have stayed, gotten help. As it happens, they’ve got relatives in the Bronx, they’ll go there for a while, the man said. But honestly, Ginger…” She huffs out a sigh. “Those people have probably lost everything they owned. For all intents and purposes, they’re homeless. You’re not.”

  She reaches over, takes my tote from me and starts toward the cab. I click along behind, hugging my purse—and my thoughts—to my chest. As I pass the upstairs family, I see the man my mother talked to, cuddling a toddler to his chest. A woman I assume is his wife clings to his arm, looking up at the apartment, her eyes huge with worry. Three or four older children huddle at her side, one little girl with her thumb in her mouth.

  And, safe in its cage at the man’s feet, the rooster cocks its head at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say sometime later in the taxi.

  I sense my mother stir in the darkness at the other end of the seat. “For what?”

  “For being such a shithead.”

  She chuckles. “You’ve been through a lot this past month. You’ve every right to be a shithead.”

  I find that comforting, in a bizarre sort of way.

  At four in the morning, the streets are nearly deserted. The cabbie hits all the green lights; we’re home in what seems like only a couple minutes.

  Home.

  I suck in my breath, shocked at how easily I slip right back into thinking of my mother’s abode as mine. But it’s only temporary, I tell myself as Nonna, in a sleazy nightgown through which one can easily see her udderlike breasts, greets us at the door, takes my purse. I can’t stay here, after all. Not for a second longer than absolutely necessary. Just as soon as…

  Just as soon as what? Nonna ushers me to my old room, my freshly made double bed turned back, welcoming me. I have no money, probably no furniture, and a job that pays diddly. I swallow down the panic that threatens to overwhelm me, reminding myself it could be worse, I could have been killed.

  Those people upstairs might have been killed. Their children…

  “We talk in the morning, sì?” my grandmother says, pulling the covers up over my shoulders as though I’m still a little girl. Her heavy accent—the legacy of a woman who didn’t even speak English until her marriage to an American GI during the war—washes over me like a gentle breeze.
“In the morning, we plan. We start to fix.” She leans over, places cool, soft lips on my cheek, her long white braid slipping over her shoulder and tickling my neck. “You are safe, cara,” she whispers, then tiptoes out of my room.

  A new round of tears slip from my eyes, stain my pillow. I hate feeling sorry for myself, but my resistance is shot to hell. So might as well enjoy my pity party, right? Even if I am the only one here to appreciate it.

  Oh, dear God. That which I have most feared has come upon me.

  Safe? Yes, I suppose I am. Physically, at least. But what do I have left, besides a ring I don’t know if I can bring myself to sell? And a Vera Wang wedding dress that’s still, as far as I know, in Ted and Randall’s apartment somewhere. Everything, everything, has been taken from me. The man I loved, my apartment, my job…even my dog. Okay, so Geoff never was my dog, but you know what I mean. The point is, here I am at thirty-one, starting over from scratch.

  This is the last straw. I’m exhausted. Defeated. And worst of all, no better off than one of those vagrants I used to resent my parents taking pity on, all those years ago.

  The fire department let us into the apartment the next afternoon. And, yes, it’s every bit as awful as Mrs. Moskovitz assured me it would be. There’s no fire damage per se, but it smells like the Devil’s barbecue. And the water damage…

  I look at my lovely, drenched, sooty Pottery Barn sofa and begin to weep.

  “Come on,” my mother says softly. “Let’s see what’s salvageable.”

  There are places that specialize in cleaning fire-damaged stuff, she’s saying as I pick through the soggy debris. (And here I was complaining about the upstairs neighbors’ bathtub overflowing.) There doesn’t appear to be any damage to the bedroom, other than that awful smoke smell, so maybe my clothes will be okay, she says. My papers and bills and stuff are all in a metal file cabinet, so all of that is fine, as are maybe half of my books if I can air them out enough. The other half, those in the bookcases closest to the kitchen, are ruined, as is all my furniture, my printer, my entire entertainment system, such as it was.

  Silently, I carry over a box I brought, dump the files from the cabinet into them.

  “Your insurance should cover most of this, you know,” Nedra says.

  Yes, I do have renter’s insurance. At least that. But that won’t pay for replacing all my stuff plus the upfront costs for renting another apartment. Which depresses me just to think about, going through that again.

  I call the insurance company that afternoon to file a claim. Very sweet, very sympathetic lady with a Southern accent on the other end of the line says to hold on while she brings up my account.

  I hear computer keys clicking, soft music in the background. Then an, “Oh, dear.”

  I shut my eyes. “Anything wrong?” I say, although of course there’s something wrong, every goddamn thing I touch these days goes wrong so why should this be any exception?

  “Well, um, according to our records, we never received your last premium payment.”

  “Oh, no, there must be some mistake. I sent that check in…” I grab my checkbook out of my purse, frantically flip through the register.

  I laugh nervously. “Okay, hold on a sec, I’m a little upset and not focusing clearly, here—”

  “That’s certainly understandable,” Miss Sweet and Reasonable says soothingly. “You just take your time, honey.”

  But two more frantic flips does not reveal a check made out to my insurance company. Okay, I’m screwed.

  “W-when was that due again?”

  “May 25th.”

  Which means the thirty day grace period ended…yesterday.

  I thank the nice lady and hang up, contemplate doing the same to myself, except I know I don’t have the cojones. And I’d never be able to live with myself if I gave Nonna a heart attack.

  I’ve never, ever forgotten to pay a bill. Never. But I sure as shootin’ missed this one.

  I look up at the heavens and say, “Why?”

  There being no answer forthcoming, I do what any sane woman would do in my situation: I take to my bed.

  Four, five mornings later, who the hell knows, I sense my mother looming over my bed. I don’t have to see her to know her hands are planted on her hips.

  “Okay, grieving’s over. Get the hell up.”

  “Get the hell out,” I mumble and pull the covers over my head.

  “Hey. This is your mother you’re talking to.”

  “I know that.”

  The covers are yanked back. Damn, it’s bright. “You’re worrying Nonna.”

  The one argument for moving my carcass out of this bed I might actually consider. Which Nedra knows.

  “And Shelby called, wanting to know why she couldn’t get through on your cell.”

  “You told her, I suppose?”

  “It’s not exactly a secret.”

  I roll partway over, clutching the sheet like a baby its security blanket. “Which means she probably called Terrie, right?”

  “Honey, if I know Shelby, she’s probably taken an ad out in the Post. Jesus, Ginger, your breath stinks. Now get up and function, for God’s sake. I’m going into school for a meeting, I’ll be back at lunchtime. The cleaner’s said your clothes would be ready by this afternoon.”

  I stare down at the pajamas I was wearing the night of the fire, which have probably fused to my skin by now. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to wear in the meantime?”

  “Check the drawers and the back of the closet. There’s stuff there from when you still lived here.”

  My eyes widen. “You saved my old clothes?”

  “Not exactly. I just never got around to throwing them out.”

  Yeah, that sounds like Nedra, who would save newspapers until they decomposed if it weren’t for Nonna’s pitching them on the sly.

  I struggle to sit up, hugging my knees. “I hate to tell you this, but I have exactly two hundred sixty-four dollars in my checking account. Until something comes in, I can’t get those clothes out of hock.”

  “Don’t worry about it—”

  I jump up when my mother goes pale, sinks into the chair in front of the desk in my room.

  “Nedra! Are you okay?”

  She plants an unsteady hand on her chest. “Nothing that digesting your grandmother’s stuffed peppers won’t cure.”

  “Look,” I say, finally untangling myself from the sheets and getting out of the bed. “This is nothing to joke around about. It could be serious. Nausea and dizziness is often the first sign of a heart attack in a woman, you know.”

  Nedra rolls her eyes at me, then gets to her feet, tugging down her blouse over her skirt. “I’m not having a heart attack, Ginger. I’m having agita. A couple of Tums, I’ll be fine. Now, go clean yourself up, for God’s sake. I’ll be back soon.”

  Actually, now that I’m vertical, it’s not so bad. If a little weird, since for some reason, I expected my room to look exactly the same as it had when I left some twelve years ago. Instead, a good half of it’s crammed with file cabinets and bookcases, my bed, dresser and old desk huddled against the wall like bullied children. All my posters, my dolls, the books I deemed too juvenile to cart off with me when I moved out, are gone. Or at least, out of sight. Like my clothes, I’m sure they’re lurking in a drawer or closet, banished but not annihilated.

  I paw through the dresser for undies, shorts, a T-shirt. Did I really used to wear shorts that short? Jeez. What a hussy. Twenty minutes later, bathed and dressed, I plod out to the kitchen to find Nonna, as ever, surrounded by bowls and rolling pins and other cooking paraphernalia, humming to herself as she goes about fulfilling her mission to feed people. Dressed in one of those murky-colored sacks they must sell by the boatload in some dumpy little store on Delaney Street, she beams when she sees me, her arms flying open. I step into her embrace, having to bend over to give her a hug. She is short, but solid, like a tree stump, and she always smells faintly of onions and garlic and talcum powder.
>
  “Sit, sit. I fix you breakfast. You feel better today?”

  “Marginally. What are you making?”

  “I think maybe stuffed ziti. How does that sound?”

  “Like heaven.” She gives me another broad smile, and marginally cranks up another notch. To passable, maybe.

  I let her feed me—pancakes, sausage, scrambled eggs, coffee—after which I feel reasonably ready to face the world. Or what’s left of mine, in any case. I turn on my cell phone, call everyone I can think of who might need to know where I am, including the store to tell them I still need a few days off. Elise Suderman, the head of the design studio, isn’t happy but there’s not a whole lot she can say. I mean, please. What’s the worst they can do? Fire me? Oooooh, I’m shaking in my boots.

  Then I call the caterer, still on the cell’s speed dial. I have no idea what I’m going to say, or how I plan on paying the still overdue bill, but I figure the least I can do is keep the lines of communication open.

  “But we got a check for that on Monday, hon,” the gravel-voiced bookkeeper says, clearly a little surprised.

  My hand grips the phone. “Mr. Munson paid the bill?”

  “Sure did. Even included ten percent extra to cover the inconvenience, he said.”

  My head buzzing, I call the florist, get the same story.

  The hotel? Yep. All paid up.

  Whoa. I mean…

  Okay, this is good news, right? One less thing to worry about, one problem solved. Yet…I don’t know. Something’s…bugging me about this, but I’m too stunned to figure out what it is.

  Over Nonna’s vociferous protests, I wash up my breakfast dishes. And it’s when I’m wiping my hands on the country kitsch terry cloth dish towel that the significance of Greg’s paying off the bills hits me.