Loose Screws

by Karen Templeton

Geoff throws her a chagrined look, as though gypped out of the doggy equivalent of going back into his fave online chatroom, as I say “Left?”

  I pour myself a glass of tea, then lean over to scratch the dog’s head. Back on food watch, he barely acknowledges my presence, apparently afraid if he lets my grandmother out of his sight, she’ll disappear.

  “Sì, she’s out. Again. With that man.”

  Hey. You don’t suppose…?

  “What man?”

  “The one she does not tell anyone about.”

  So much for that. Then it occurs to me… “Does it bother you, that she’s dating somebody other than Dad?”

  Nonna halts her mission—which, judging from the mass quantities of food she is setting out on the table, is to feed the entire Upper West Side—to give me a weird look.

  “Since your father has been in the grave for eighteen years, no. Come, sit. Eat while itsa hot.”

  A three-second scan reveals roast pork and manicotti and spaghetti with marinara sauce and foccacia bread and salad…and God alone knows what’s for dessert.

  “Nonna, honest to God—who on earth do you expect to eat all this?”

  She shrugs. “I’ma never sure what you might be in mood for, no? So I figure, I cover all bases.”

  I sit, pile a little of everything on my plate. “So tell me…is this the way you cooked for my grandfather?”

  “Oh, sì. It was what was expected of women then, you know?”

  “Seems like a helluva lot of work.”

  She smiles at that.

  “What?” I say.

  “A woman who pleases her husband in the kitchen can count on him pleasing her later in the bedroom.”

  And she’s not even blushing.

  “So,” she says, tucking into her own dinner, “you make a decision about Gregory?”

  I shake my head.

  “Grazie a Dio. I think I like this Nick better, anyway.”

  “What makes you think—”

  She gives me a look, cutting me off. “Cara. You think is a secret, the heat between you two?”

  I do, however, blush. Nonna laughs.

  “That’s just…” Oh, hell. “Sex.”

  “And this is a bad thing?”

  I give her my best grown-up, woman-of-the-world look. “It wouldn’t work, Nonna.”

  Only she gives one back that sends mine whimpering into the corner. “And you think it would with this Greg?”

  “Well, I did once before, obviously.”

  She mutters something in Italian. I let it go. Then I say, “Were you happy with Poppa?”

  Her eyes dart to mine. “What is this question?”

  “Were you? I mean, did you ever regret marrying him?”

  “It was arranged marriage. I had no choice in the matter.”

  My brows rise. “I thought you were a war bride?”

  “Was a quick arrangement.” She smiles.

  I say, “Oh.”

  Then she laughs. “That does not mean I was not content. My parents, they chose well, this handsome soldier going back to States in two days. And Carlo was a good man. Good provider, good in bed…” She lets out a heavy sigh, shakes her head, then returns to earth. “But, sì, maybe I do have one regret.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I sleep with only one man. Women today, they can—come sei dice?—comparison shop, yes? Not that I can complain, capice? Your grandfather, he understood what makes a woman happy. What to do to make her welcome him into her arms night after night. Still, I think it would have been nice, to see what sex is like with another man. Only now, is too late.” Her shoulders lift, drop. “Who would want me?”

  I laugh, and that should have ended the discussion. But something else is nagging me. “How have you and Nedra managed to get along so well all these years? The two of you are so different.”

  Nonna gets up to get more sauce for her manicotti. “I think it is because we are different that we can live together.” She grins at me over her shoulder. “We do not fight over who cooks, for one thing, no?”

  “Well, that’s certainly true.” Cooking has never been my mother’s forte.

  Nonna returns to the table. “But I admire your mother. Even if I do fear for her immortal soul.”

  You’d have to know my grandmother to understand the depth of the love behind those words. Steeped in old school Catholic tradition, Nonna really does worry about my Jewish mother’s soul. Enough that, after more than thirty years, she still harbors hope that Nedra will see the light. Of course, there’s a better chance of a member of the Gambino family being canonized, but you know how it is. “You admire her?”

  Twin black brows lift. “Do not sound so surprised, cara. There is much good in your mother. For one thing, I never see my Leo so happy as when he is with Nedra. For another, she is woman who knows who she is, who follows her heart—”

  Hmm. There’s that phrase again.

  “What is not to admire in that?”

  “But the way she always picks losing battles…” I shake my head. “Why does she always have to do things the hard way?”

  Nonna tilts her head at me. “And is bad for a woman to fight for those who cannot? Who has the courage to be one of the drops of water that will eventually wear away the rock?”

  Okay, I have to think about this one. But in the end, I say, “No, of course it’s not bad…but what’s the point?”

  “The point is, cara, that more women should have her balls.”

  I burst out laughing, but from across the table, Nonna is frowning at me.

  “What?” I say.

  “You are very like her, I think.”

  “What?”

  “Verissimo. Is why you two fight so much.”

  “Nonna, no disrespect, but that’s crazy. We’re nothing alike. In fact, we fight so much because we have nothing in common.”

  “No, no…you fight because you and your mother, you are both strong women. Stubborn women. Your mother, she isa stubborn for to fight for what she believes in, sì? But you, you are stubborn for to fight against who you really are.”

  “What on earth makes you say that?”

  “Alla years I know your mama, even after your papa dies, she is happy. She is content. She does not sit in corner like mouse and wait for life to find her, she goes out looking for it. I think she feels good about who she is. But you?” She blows a puff of air through her lips. “You keepa yourself busy, sì, with your work and your friends, but I do not see the happiness in you. You do not look for life. You run from it.”

  I must be too shocked to be angry. Still, I say, “Run from it? After everything I’ve done the past few weeks to overcome all the crap that’s happened to me? I haven’t exactly been sitting in a corner, either.”

  Her dark eyes seem to sear straight through me. “Only because life keeps throwing you back into center of room. But instead of stretching your arms, feeling your freedom, you only try to get back in corner, back by walls you know, where you feel safe.” Her mouth droops. “And now I make you angry.”

  “No,” I say, although I notice that my hand is knotted by my plate.

  “Ginger, cara…” Nonna leans forward, grabs my fisted hand, gently strokes it open. “I have watched you for many years. I see how you try to be not like your mother, ever since you were little girl. But you try too hard, you see? It is like you, um, decide who it is you should be, instead of finding out who you really are.”

  She lets go of my hand, sitting back in her chair to continue her meal. “When you bring home this Greg, I think, isa not man for you. He is nice, yes, but not enough for you. And I am right, sì? To run away from wedding— pah! I do not know what he wants now, why he comes back, but isa not good. Trust me.” She slaps her hands on her thighs, rises from the table. “You wanna cannelloni?”

  Man. This is the most my grandmother has said to me at one time since I can remember. Besides her hearing problems, English is hard for her, so she’s not given to lengthy disse
rtations. For her to have forced herself to say as much as she just did shows just how strongly she feels about the subject. Which is why I’m sitting here right now waiting to get my breath back.

  On top of everything else I’ve been through, having my grandmother tell me I’m just like my mother is the last thing I need. I mean, have you ever heard anything more preposterous? Yes, maybe I have deliberately chosen a path as divergent from my mother’s as possible. There’s a reason for that. But every decision I’ve made, about my career, my lifestyle, even about Greg, stemmed from what I genuinely wanted to do. I’ve never done anything on impulse, for heaven’s sake. Unlike Nedra who does first and thinks later.

  And no, I’m not counting the Nick episode, so you can’t, either.

  Of course, I can’t discount Nonna’s observation about my being unhappy. Although that’s probably too strong a word for whatever it is I’m feeling. Have felt. I just don’t think my malaise has anything to do with…what was that she said? My resistance to being like my mother? What is that supposed to mean, anyway? That I’m suppressing latent Socialist tendencies? That I’ll find peace and a sense of purpose on a picket line somewhere, carrying a placard and shouting obscenities at gray-haired men in Brooks Brothers’ suits?

  I don’t think so.

  A freshly made cannelloni lands in front of me. I mutter “thanks” and begin to shovel it in, letting the whipped cream squish between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. When I feel Nonna’s hand on my hair, I look up. “Your mother, she loves you very much. And she worries about you. Sì, she does, so do not make face. You look in her eyes, you will see.”

  After dinner, I threaten my grandmother with bodily harm if she doesn’t let me clean up. She and the dog go into her room to watch TV; I put a dozen plastic containers in the fridge, wash the dishes, then head for my own room to read or something.

  Nedra has removed the file cabinets into the empty room beside mine, so I have some space back. Of course, I filled it up with new bookcases and what’s left of my books after the fire, but it still doesn’t feel right. Not like home.

  Whatever that is.

  For reasons totally beyond me, I dig the Tiffany box with the ring in it out from underneath my new underwear, snap it open. Just as I crawl onto the bed, Geoff comes wandering in. He lays his snout on the edge of the bed and whuffs at me; I haul him up onto the bed and show him the ring. He seems mildly interested. Until he discovers he can’t eat it. So he lies down and pants on my knee.

  “I could sell this, you know,” I say to him. I’d had it appraised for insurance purposes. I wouldn’t get quite that much, I don’t imagine, but enough to maybe get me out of here. “But somehow, that doesn’t seem right.” Geoff groans. “I know. I guess I should give it back to Greg, don’t you think?”

  But that doesn’t seem right, either.

  I hear several of the locks being undone. A few minutes later my mother, dressed in a black-and-red print kaftan I think she wore to my high school graduation, stops at my door.

  “You’re home early,” I say.

  She smiled. “It was just dinner. And no, I’m not going to slip and fill in any more blanks.”

  Damn. “Just answer me one thing—do I know him?”

  “Not going to answer that.”

  “Oh, come on, Nedra—”

  “Ginger? This is my business. Not yours.”

  Guess I can’t argue with that.

  I surprise myself by patting the space beside me on the bed. Nedra surprises me by taking me up on the invitation. Geoff doesn’t seem to care one way or the other.

  The bedsprings groan under her weight as she sits. I catch a whiff of expensive perfume. I wonder if he gave it to her, since I can’t ever remember Nedra wearing perfume before.

  She nods toward the boxed ring, still in my hand. “You’re not thinking of putting that hideous thing back on, I hope.”

  I have to laugh. “Hey. I increased my left biceps by a full inch from wearing this.” My laughter fades as I stare at it. It really is pretty, in an ostentatious kind of way. “But no. Although I suppose I should think of something to do with it.”

  Nedra crosses her arms. “I know a women’s shelter that could use a good-size donation.”

  “Hell, so could your daughter. But…” I snap shut the box, lean over to set it on my nightstand. “’Tis not mine to sell.”

  “I think technically, it is.”

  “Well, Miss Manners, I wouldn’t feel right about it. In fact, I’m thinking about taking it over to Greg’s, handing it back to him. Speaking of giving back…what’s doing with His Most High Featheredness in the other room? Have you heard from the Ortizes lately?”

  Nedra busies herself with smoothing her dress over her knees.

  Oh, hell.

  “Okay, look, I did call them, but the phone number Manny Ortiz gave me is out of service, so what am I supposed to do? I don’t even know where he is, now. I…I don’t think they’re coming back.”

  Other people get kittens dumped on their doorsteps. Or babies. We get chickens.

  I just stare at her. She sighs.

  “I promise, I’ll see about finding him a nice place in the country or something. Where he can live out the rest of his natural life.”

  I nearly jump when my mother’s hand slips around mine, which is when I notice the circles underneath my mother’s eyes…and the worry lurking in them. Oh, Lord, Nonna’s right.

  “I know how much it must be killing you not to have your own place,” she says. “If I’d had to move back in with my mother at your age, I think I would have killed myself.”

  Yes, I can imagine she would. If you think Nedra’s something else, you should see Grandma Bernice, who now lives in Phoenix, of all places. I remember, when my grandparents still lived in the neighborhood, going to this little butcher shop over on Amsterdam Avenue she used to like. There was one time we went, I was maybe seven or eight, that she nearly had the butcher in tears, making him drag out every single chicken from behind the glass so she could inspect it. So maybe I don’t have it so bad, huh?

  I smile for my mother. “I’m fine, Nedra. Really.”

  “Of course you are. You’re my daughter.” She leans over, kisses me on the forehead, then seems to force herself to her feet. “Jesus, I’m more tired than I thought.” On a huge yawn, she adds, “Guess I’ll go on to bed, since I’m about to pass out anyway. ’Night, sweetheart.”

  “’Night.”

  After she leaves, I find myself staring up at my paints on the closet shelf. Then bringing them down. Then opening them.

  My fingers tingle.

  So what could it hurt, playing around with them once in a while? You know, as a hobby? I mean, it’s not as if I’d think about doing this for money or anything. And I do have a lot of time on my hands, especially since I doubt I’ll ever date again.

  And while this depressing thought is worming its way into my brain, my cell rings. I freeze. Is it Nick? Greg? Terrie?

  Am I going to stand here and wonder all night or check the Caller ID?

  It’s Paula.

  “Hey, you,” she says, “what’s the big idea rushing off like that on the Fourth without bothering to say goodbye?”

  “I’m sorry, Paula. It’s just…”

  “It’s just that you and Nick are both idiots, that’s what. Y’know, I’d knock both of your heads together, if I could get you close enough.”

  I shut my eyes. “How much do you know?”

  “Well, let’s see. The party ends, you and Nick never come down off the roof—at least, not down here—and then, oh, an hour and a half later you go running off without even taking back your salad bowl. Which is all washed and waiting for you, by the way. So Frank and I figure you two had sex and somebody got scared. And my guess the somebody was you.”

  I hesitate, then say, “It was a mistake, Paula. A rebound thing, you know.”

  “Hey, don’t knock rebounds. Frank was a rebound.”

  “He was
?”

  “Sure. Don’t you remember? Oh, you probably don’t, we weren’t that close then.”

  Not that we’re close now.

  “Anyway,” she says, “I was going with this turkey named Joe Simeone, and we were like an inch from getting engaged. So we were at some party at his friend’s house and I had to go pee, which meant I had to go down the hall to get to the bathroom, only when I passed by one of the bedroom doors, I hear this very familiar male grunting sound coming out from the other side of the closed door, a sound I had, in fact heard in my ear only the night before, if you get my drift. So I thought about bustin’ in on Joe and whoever it was, only I’m a lady, you know? So I waited out in the hall until this little slut Cindy Montefiore came out, her hair this rat’s nest like you wouldn’t believe. And let me tell you, she looked like she was gonna mess her pants for sure. Anyway, I wasn’t interested in her—where was the challenge?—so I barged in on Joe the Schmuck, who still didn’t even have his pants pulled all the way up—”

  Nice image.

  “—only after I punched Joe’s lights out, I got to crying so hard I thought I was gonna throw up. And Frank came to the rescue and took me away, and a month later I got pregnant and we got married and it’s been happily ever after. Now why did I get started on that, huh? That’s not why I called. I’m calling because Grandpa Sal has decided he wants a big birthday bash for his ninetieth in a couple weeks, and guess who’s been elected to give it?”

  And guess who sounds secretly pleased to be so honored? Sal is Nonna’s brother-in-law, my grandfather’s brother. One of two surviving siblings of eight, he’s apparently determined to invite everyone he’s ever known who’s still breathing to this party of his. Which would include my grandmother.

  “So you’ll bring her?” Paula is saying, adding when I’ve apparently held my breath too long, “And I doubt Nick will be anywhere around, if that’s what’s worrying you. This isn’t his family. Besides, it’s on a Saturday afternoon. I think he’s on duty that day. And no, this isn’t a trick. Trust me, I’ve got no energy for matchmaking.”

  A less charitable person might think that’s because she expends it all talking.

  Against my better judgment, I say yes, after which I go next door to my grandmother’s room to find her sitting up in her overstuffed chair, dozing in front of some cop show. She jerks awake when I turn off the TV, then frowns.