Loose Screws

by Karen Templeton

  But, oh dear God, I want to.

  Jeez. Now I know how Terrie feels.

  In Greg’s and my case, however, there’s all this past stuff I can’t just summarily dismiss. I mean, Greg’s and my relationship was a no-brainer. At least, it was before. Look, you know how, when you’re with most guys, you end up exhausted by the end of the evening, just trying to figure out where you stand, what they want, what they’re thinking? That if you accidentally brush up against them when you’re walking, they’ll take it as a come-on? Or…or if you suggest doing something that could even remotely be construed as In The Future, they get this look on their face like somebody just told them their genitals were going to self-destruct within the next twenty seconds? But, somehow, it was never like that with Greg.

  Being with Greg was easy. Comfortable. I knew, almost from the first time we met, that I could count on him to be, well, just Greg. I never had the feeling he was trying on different personae, the way most men do, trying to be what he thought he should be, or what he thought I wanted him to be…and God, that was nice. And maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but to me, it was heaven. Greg understood me, understood what I needed.

  Who I needed to be.

  Unlike being with somebody like, say, Nick, who keeps me on edge all the time. Demanding things of me I can’t even identify, let alone do.

  Demanded, I should say. Past tense.

  “You’re thinking too hard,” Greg says, a smile in his voice.

  And he’s right. I am.

  It’s just dinner.

  “Monday after work?” I say, and I can hear his exhaled breath on the other end of the line.

  Do you know how long it takes to ride the subway from 116th Street and Broadway all the way to Brooklyn?

  “So,” Nonna bellows, “you’re really going to go out with that Greg again?”

  Does that answer the question?

  We’re standing on the platform at 14th Street, waiting for the L train. Last leg of the journey. I’m very aware that the air, such as it is, is teeming with billions and billions of sloughed-off dead skin cells. “You know, you look absolutely adorable in this,” I say, plucking at the sleeve of her new dress.

  “Don’ change the subject. Why you do this? Why you setta yourself up for heartbreak again, eh?”

  I lean down, trying to direct my whisper right into her ear, taking care not to hook my lip on a rhinestone clip-on earring the size of a hubcap. “I’m not setting myself up for anything. Except dinner.”

  Her mouth twists, disgusted. A garbled message blasts through the station. Years of practice enable me to decipher it.

  “Damn. Ten minutes before the next train comes. Come on—let’s go sit down.”

  I hustle her over to a nearby bench; we just manage to squeeze our butts into the last two spaces, hugging our purses to our stomachs.

  “Sei pazza!” she mutters.

  I sigh. Yes, I probably am crazy. I also know this isn’t going to go away simply because I don’t want to talk about it, so, despite an audience of roughly a thousand people, I decide to explain what Greg and I had—maybe still have—ending with, “He made me feel safe, Nonna. What’s so bad about that?”

  “Safe? Pah. You want safe, get a Saint Bernard.” She squints at me. “You wanna man who will excite you, getta you juices going.”

  I blush. “Not to worry. Greg gets my juices going just fine.”

  She bats the air between us. “I notta talk about that.” She leans over, then whispers, only not, “Anything witha hand and mouth can get those juices going. Summa day, maybe I tell you about me and Graziella Zambini, righta before the war.”

  Along with at least a dozen other people, I stare at my grandmother for several seconds, then shake my head and say, “I’m not looking for exciting, okay? Exciting wears me out. Hey, what are you doing?”

  She’s grabbed my shoulder bag, digging around in it for the romance novel she knows is inside. She yanks it out, lifts a brow at the cover, then wags it in my face. “You don’ want exciting? Then why you read thisa stuff?”

  “For escape, Nonna.” I pluck the well-thumbed book from her hands, stuff it back inside my bag. “Besides, that’s fantasy. Not reality.”

  She shrugs. “You show me a woman who doesn’t wanna be swept off her feet, I show you a dead woman.”

  I can feel the African-American lady beside me shaking with silent laughter.

  Mercifully, the train comes screeching into the station.

  I swear, Paula looks twice as pregnant as she did the last time I saw her, which was, what, a couple weeks ago?

  The house reeks of tomato sauce and garlic, booze and cigars, Paula’s perfume. “It’s twins,” she says with a laugh, following my eyes to her middle. “Boys, no less. Aiyiyi, am I gonna have my hands full or what? And oh, my, don’t you look pretty as a picture, Aunt Renata? Come here and let me give you a hug, sweetie!”

  Okay, if somebody tells me this woman is just putting up a front, that she’s not as happy as she genuinely seems, I’m going to shoot myself.

  “Your mother didn’t come?” my cousin asks me, her plucked brows dipped.

  “Said she wasn’t feeling well. Upset tummy or something.”

  “Oh, dear…nothing serious, I hope?”

  I shake my head, although this is the second time my never-sick mother hasn’t been well in less than a month. If she’s not all right when we get back, I swear, I’m going to get her to go for a checkup if I have to dump her into the grocery cart and wheel her there.

  The house is positively abuzz with voices and laughter and Frank Sinatra. A caravan of dark-haired kids streaks past, shrieking and giggling. I peek into the kitchen as Paula leads us back to the family room where the main party is, see a half-dozen loud, bosomy women I only vaguely recognize doing whatever it is domesticated women do in kitchens. Chopping and stirring and what-not.

  “Okay, ladies, you’re on your own,” Paula says, still smiling. “Food’s in the dining room, just introduce yourselves.”

  Paula’s Colonial Revival family room has been invaded by a tribe of Italian gnomes, several of whom look a little stoned, frankly, although the affliction is more likely rampant deafness. My great-uncle Sal, however, apparently had a double dose of uppers with his All-Bran this morning.

  “Renata!” His grin is eerily reminiscent of Kermit the Frog’s. But with teeth. Lots and lots of teeth. Which I suppose compensate somewhat for the five strands of gray hair stretching across his bald pate. His arms look too long for his frail-looking, shapeless body; if it weren’t for his suspenders, no way would he be able to keep up those rust-and-vomit green-plaid polyester pants. “Comma here and give your brother-in-law a bigga hug.”

  They kind of lurch toward each other across beige sculpted wall-to-wall, arms precariously spread, Sal’s white patent-leather loafers glittering in the sunlight slanting through the patio doors leading out to the backyard. Two feet before they actually dock, Nonna says, “You toucha my butt, you loosa you teeth.”

  Sal does this asthmatic braying sound that passes for laughter, “Heh…heh…heh. I loosa them already, t’irty-t’ree years ago. So too late.”

  They embrace carefully, so bones won’t shatter. Although they still manage to knock both their glasses askew. They part just as gingerly, fussing at each other.

  Wow. It’s been ten years, at least, since these two have seen each other. Paula’s wedding. That Nonna hasn’t given any indication that she’s missed her old neighborhood, not in all the time I’ve known her, seems odd. Then I look at her eyes as they sweep the crowd, the way they light up as this one or that grasps her hands or hugs her, and I realize, ohmigod, she has missed them.

  So why didn’t she ever say anything? Nedra or I would have been happy to bring her out for visits once in a while—

  “Paula definitely gives a wild party, doesn’t she?”

  I swing around so hard, I nearly knock myself over. Nick’s hand shoots out, catching me by the elbow.
My nipples immediately tingle.

  Damn.

  He looks at my head. Nods. “Looks good.”

  “Thanks.” Then I frown. “I thought you were supposed to be at work.”

  He shrugs, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his knit shirt. Black this time, tucked into soft, black jeans. “Decided to take a few days off. After the case was solved, you know?”

  “Congratulations on that, by the way. Saw it in the paper.”

  His eyes are positively hooked to mine. “Thanks.”

  “I, uh, take it there was no problem with, um, the dog food?”

  His expression doesn’t change. “It never came up.”

  I nod.

  “So,” he says, “how’s it goin’?”

  “Oh. Good, actually. Got a new job, one I think I’ll actually like.”

  “Hey, that’s great. And…whatshisname?”

  “Greg?”

  “Yeah. Greg. You kick him out on his ass?”

  I could lie. I should, probably. “Not exactly.”

  Nick doesn’t seem surprised. In fact, he doesn’t seem much of anything. “So you gonna get back together with him.”

  “How do you go from ‘not exactly kicking him out’ to ‘getting back together’?”

  He looks away, shaking his head, his mouth pulled up in a half smile. One of those man looks, you know? Then he leans close, whispers in my ear, “You jump outta my bed like you found fleas in it, then I see this guy in your apartment, looking like his dog just died. Then I see how you look, and believe me, it doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.”

  I lick my lips, trying to ignore my pounding heart. See, this is just what I was talking about, the way guys like Nick always put you on the defensive, somehow. You can’t just be with them, you’re always having to justify yourself.

  “We went together for nearly a year, Nick.” Now I look away, watching my grandmother toddle around the room, having the time of her life. I look back at Nick. “I have to give it a chance. Give him a chance. That’s just me.”

  “You love this guy?”

  “I did.”

  His brows lift. “Did?”

  “Hey, he hurt me. I’m not denying that. And frankly, I’m not sure what I feel for him. About him. But I just can’t…walk away, okay?”

  Those cool blue eyes keep mine snagged for several more seconds, then he does exactly that.

  Damn.

  These old people sure know how to party, boy. Two hours later they’re still going strong, boogeying their skinny little butts off to Big Band music and stuffing their faces with a whole bunch of things they probably shouldn’t, and laughing. Oh, my, the laughter. Oh, yeah, there are the occasional spats to break up—somebody remembering some infraction or other that happened forty years ago, stuff like that—but for the most part, they’re having a blast.

  And so am I, amazingly enough. I’ve danced some myself—you haven’t lived until an eighty-year-old man who barely comes up to your boobs has taught you how to swing dance—and generally tried to forget about all penis-enhanced lifeforms under the age of forty.

  But eventually, the old guys wear me out, causing me to seek sanctuary in Paula’s living room, where she’s lounging on the sofa, her sandaled feet up on the coffee table. The youngest-to-date is asleep beside her, his head in what’s left of her lap. His cheeks are flushed pink, his curls tousled, his mouth open just enough to emit soft snoring sounds. Paula is barely fingering his curls, a serene smile on her face.

  I flop onto the recliner across from her. She looks up, her smile broadening into a grin. “I can only hope I’ve got that much energy left when I’m that old.”

  “I somehow think you will,” I say, and she laughs. I take a swig of the diet Coke I’ve been hauling around for the last hour, nod at her belly. “So. You think this will be it for you and Frank?”

  “Yeah,” she says on a sigh. “High time we do what every other fertile Catholic couple does and ignore the pope. Six should just about do it.” Her head lounges against the back of the sofa. “But the kids are so excited about the new babies. The oldest two helped me get out the baby clothes yesterday.” Another laugh. “Not that they stayed packed for very long!”

  “You don’t mind, having so many kids?”

  She lifts up her head, her brow furrowed. “Mind? Why would I mind?”

  “They don’t leave much time for anything else.”

  “Anything else…? Oooh, I get it. Look, Ginger, I’m not like you, you know? I was never really good at much in school, never really wanted a career. This was all I ever wanted, to be a mommy, to be a wife. What more could I want, huh?” She looks down at the baby again, stroking his cheek. “Maybe my choice isn’t exactly politically correct or whatever you wanna call it, but it’s my choice. I’m happy with it, and frankly, I don’t give a damn what anybody else thinks.”

  After a moment I say, “So how does it feel to be the only unconflicted woman on the planet?”

  She hoots. “Pretty damn good, if you wanna know the truth.” Then she frowns. “Nick told me you were gettin’ back together with your boyfriend?”

  I sigh. “I didn’t say that and Nick knows it. What I said was that I have to give it a chance.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning, we’re having dinner on Monday.”

  Her mouth screws up, as if she wants to say something but is figuring it’s better not to. And no way am I going to encourage her. Then she does say, “As long as you do what you want to do, Ginge. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  A phone rings from within the pile of purses by the sofa.

  “Gotta be yours,” Paula says as the little boy stirs beside her. “Nobody else has a cell.”

  I think about not answering—who on earth could it be?—except curiosity won’t let me ignore it. So I get up, pawing through a mountain of fake leather handbags with gaudy clasps until I find my trusty Coach bag and the obnoxious, demanding phone that therein resides.

  “Is this Ginger Petrocelli?” a man’s voice, tinged with Pakistani or Indian overtones, asks.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Dr. Pahlavi, calling from St. Luke’s hospital. Your mother is here, in the emergency room.”

  My heart wedges into my throat. “Ohmigod—what’s wrong? Is she okay? What—?”

  “Please do not trouble yourself, Miss Petrocelli. Your mother is stable for now. Resting. We are running some tests—”

  “Tests? For what?”

  I feel Paula’s hand grasp mine.

  “To find out what the problem is, to rule out the obvious. I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone, but Mrs. Petrocelli has asked for you—”

  “Yes, yes, of course…” Shit! “But I’m in Brooklyn, it may take a while. Is she okay, though? I mean…”

  The doctor chuckles. “I doubt her condition is life-threatening. Just some precautionary measures, you understand. Again, please do not worry. We are taking very good care of her. Whenever you get here will be okay.”

  I turn to find myself surrounded by the gnome tribe, my grandmother’s worried eyes the first ones I see.

  “Nedra’s in St. Luke’s, they won’t tell me what the matter is…we have to leave, get there…”

  A strong, firm hand grabs my elbow. I look up into determined blue eyes.

  “I’ll drive you,” Nick says.

  I am in no condition to argue. Hell, I’m in no condition to do anything. If I’d had to get us back to Manhattan on the subway, no telling where we would have ended up. In the back seat, Nonna is muttering her way through the rosary with enough fervor to raise the dead.

  “I don’t get it. Nedra’s just never sick. Never.”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Nick is saying, his voice low, calm. The voice a cop uses to keep people from jumping off ledges. And I know he knows he probably shouldn’t be calling me “honey,” but right now, I really don’t care. “The doctor said it wasn’t an emerge
ncy, right?”

  “Then w-why did she go to the emergency r-room?”

  “Ginger. Breathe. No, not gulp…breathe.”

  “Dammit! What are all these cars doing on the road?” I flap frantically. “Why can’t you put the red light dealie on the car roof, do your siren, you know, get the freakin’ lead out?”

  That elicits a gasped, “Per Dio!” behind me, followed by a marked increase in rosary recitation speed.

  “Because,” Nick says calmly, stopping for a red light, “that would be abusing my position.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and glower.

  A scant half hour later, I burst into St. Luke’s ER like a crazed woman, Nonna tottering along behind me, Nick bringing up the rear.

  “I’m looking for Nedra Petrocelli!” I practically yell at the poor nurse or aide or whatever the hell she is at the desk.

  She doesn’t even look up. “Down the hall, second exam room to your right.”

  I shoot down the hall and into said room to find my mother on her feet, clothed, and looking slightly…stunned.

  “Nedra! What happened? Are you okay? They called and said they were doing some tests…”

  Her hand goes to her heart. “Christ, Ginger—how did you get here so fast?”

  “Nick was there, at the party. He brought us back to Manhattan.”

  We’re in each other’s arms now, she’s stroking my hair and trying to shush me out of my anxiety attack. “It’s okay, bubelah, it’s okay…”

  Whoa. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her call me that.

  I pull back, look her in the eyes. “What’s…wrong?”

  A funny smile plays across her mouth. “You know how I said my stomach was bothering me? Well, then I got dizzy and I thought, okay, this is dumb, but what could it hurt to come over here, see what’s going on? I mean, just to be on the safe side, right?”

  She pauses. I freak.

  “Ohmigod, it’s your heart, isn’t it? Do you need surgery? What—?”

  “No, honey, it’s not my heart.”

  Relief rushes through me, only to be immediately followed by an even more sickening dread. “Oh, shit! Is it…is it…?”