Loose Screws

by Karen Templeton

  “I used to paint, when I was younger. I thought I’d take it up again.”

  “You’re not thinking of giving up your career, are you?”

  I tell myself it’s only my own paranoia making me hear that hint of condescension in his voice.

  I look over, smile. “Oh, no. Just a hobby. It relaxes me.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  That he didn’t say anything about wanting to see any of my work isn’t lost on me.

  I fold my mottled hands tightly in my lap, staring at the purple-and-red swirling designs in my long crepe skirt. Although it’s still pretty warm, the breeze coming through the open window is strong enough to raise goose bumps along my arms, right through my knit tunic.

  “Greg, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Greg looks over, smiling benignly until he sees my expression, at which point the smile vanishes. “What?”

  Okay, folks, batten down the hatches.

  “My mother is pregnant.”

  He starts to laugh, then stops. “Christ, you’re serious.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “But she’s…isn’t she too old?”

  “Apparently not.”

  After a moment of tense silence he says, “Is this one of those artificial insemination things?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh. Well. Um, is she planning on marrying the father?”

  “According to her, no. It’s…complicated.”

  “Tell me he’s not married.”

  “No, it’s not that. But the thing is, I’m telling you this, now, because you need to know I’m going to be there for her. To help, if she needs it.”

  He looks vaguely horrified. “You mean, as in living with her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. If that’s what she needs. My grandmother’s probably going to move back to Brooklyn, so I’m all my mother’s got.”

  That begets, understandably, a moment of silence. Then he says, “She’s a grown woman, Ginger. Plenty of single women live with their kids on their own.”

  “And maybe my mother will decide she can, too. I’m just saying, this is something I have to be prepared for. That’s all.”

  After a moment he says quietly, “I can’t believe you’d let yourself be coerced into doing something like this. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve always been about making your own choices—”

  “Hey.” I reach over, lay my hand on his arm. “This is my choice. Nobody’s coercing me into doing anything I don’t want to do.”

  He covers my hand with his, then sighs. “Sorry. I’m just…concerned for you, that’s all.”

  “Thanks.” I take back my hand. “But nothing’s been decided yet. I just thought it was only fair to let you know how things stand.”

  He leans back against the seat, his arms crossed, apparently mulling this over. Then he nods, slowly, and says, more to himself than to me, “Yeah, I suppose that could work…” Another second or two passes, then he looks over at me, takes my hand in his, lacing our fingers. It feels…nice. Not earth-shattering, but nice. “It’s a shock, certainly, but not insurmountable. Hey, I knew going in that your mother’s a bit on the…eccentric side.” He laughs, although the sound isn’t as substantial as I might like. “I doubt anything she could say or do would surprise me.”

  I manage a smile that I hope doesn’t come across as too panicked.

  We’re nearly there. Greg leans over, taps on the Plexiglas window. “Right past that dry cleaner’s. Yes, that’s it.”

  We pull to a stop, Greg shoves a much larger bill than necessary into the pay slot, waves to the driver to keep the change, as usual. I find this encouraging, for some reason.

  The restaurant is intimate and stark, lots of black laquer and chrome with touches of the same purple that’s in my skirt. Not exactly conducive to appetite stimulation, but then, dining out in New York isn’t nearly as much about eating as it is about being seen eating out. Which is why so many of these places can get away with charging forty bucks for a couple of shrimp nestled with a square of something gelatinous on a bed of bitter greens. Of course, not too many of them stay in business, either, while the cheapo comidos chinas y criollas dives that dot Broadway like a string of pearls just keep trucking along, year after year.

  “They may be waiting for us already,” I hear Greg say to the maître d’, which certainly gets my attention.

  “‘They?’”

  He gives what I’m sure he thinks is a confident smile. In reality, he looks as though he just swallowed something extremely vile.

  “My parents showed up this afternoon, totally unannounced. I invited them to join us. I hope you don’t mind?”

  Nineteen

  Of course I don’t mind Greg’s parents being here. Exactly. Not that I wouldn’t have preferred a bit more time to deal with feelings and issues and things on a one-to-one basis with their son before turning this into a reconciliation-by-committee thing, but it’s not as if I can’t cope. My neck is burning, however, as we march over to the white-clothed table tucked inside a high, round, black booth that reminds me of a whirlie ride in a theme park, because I might have appreciated a little warning.

  His silver hair gleaming, his navy-blue suit impeccably tailored, Bob Munson rises at our approach, giving a warm smile. I get The Handshake—one hand firmly around mine, the other gently clasping my shoulder, his sharp blue gaze radiating “sincere.”

  “Oh, my goodness, look what you’ve done with your hair!” Phyllis exclaims in the slightly sluggish speech of a woman with a couple of Manhattans under her belt. As always, she’s expertly coiffed, her delicate frame swathed in something pale, simply cut and expensive. A large diamond pin in the shape of some sort of animal—a dragon, maybe?—hunches just under her left shoulder. She lifts her hands, my cue to lean down for a don’t-really-touch hug. Her perfume nearly knocks me over. “It looks absolutely adorable, sweetie! Doesn’t it, Bob?”

  Is it me, or does she seem not quite as warm as I remember?

  “What? Oh, yeah.” Greg’s father scrutinizes me, slightly squinting, then turns to his son. “Greg, a Scotch? And white wine for you, Ginger?”

  Dining out with Bob Munson is always an exercise in self-assertiveness. “Actually—” I smile up at the waiter, a dimpled I’m-only-doing-this-to-pay-for-my acting/dancing/singing/music lessons type. “I’d prefer designer water, please.”

  After the slight pause that ensues while everyone absorbs my gall, the men’s conversation settles on politics and work, while Phyllis grills me about my new job.

  Fine by me. Compared with every other potentially incendiary topic that comprise Ginger’s Insane Summer, at least this won’t blow up in anyone’s face.

  We’ve gotten as far as the appetizers, a house special potpourri of totally unrecognizable delicacies. Feeling reckless, I pop something into my mouth and chew with abandon. Not bad, actually. Just don’t ask me what it was.

  “And how is your mother, dear?”

  Hmm. Step away from the land mine and nobody will get hurt.

  “Oh, she’s fine,” I say. “Getting ready for the new school year. Teaching an undergrad course this semester, I think, for the first time in ages.”

  “Ah.” Phyllis picks something from the platter, studies it, lowers it to her plate. “I trust she managed to stay out of trouble this summer?”

  I’m barely aware of the hitch in Greg’s conversation, a foot away from me. I look up, catch Phyllis’s eyes riveted to mine.

  She may be a little numb from her drinks—she ordered another one after Greg’s and my arrival—but she is far from drunk. And there’s a hardness to her smile that cuts straight through me. That weird one-note piano piece from Eyes Wide Shut starts playing in my brain.

  I smile back. “She hasn’t done anything to get herself arrested this year, if that’s what you mean. Anyway, she pretty much confines her work outside the lecture hall to women’s causes. She finds fund-raising more effective for imp
lementing change than protesting. Although,” I say with a little laugh, “with my mother, you never know.”

  Phyllis’s smile freezes solidly in place.

  Fortunately, our orders arrive, and the next few minutes are spent admiring and praising the food. Which isn’t bad, actually. A little pretentious, perhaps, but at least I can find the swordfish under the sauce.

  Bob Munson lifts his wineglass.

  “To the kids, back together, just like they should be.”

  Underneath the table, Greg squeezes my knee. When I glance at him, he winks. A wordless “don’t worry about it.”

  “Now, Robert,” Phyllis says, “let’s not jump to conclusions. I imagine you two have a lot to…work out yet, don’t you?”

  We all stare at Greg’s mother. His father is obviously stunned that his wife actually disagreed with him, however obliquely, and I’m pretty sure Greg is right behind him. I’m not sure what to think, however. I mean, really, I should be grateful that someone else here understands that it’s far too early for assumptions. But something in her tone is setting off alarms. I’m getting a real strong feeling I’m not the one she’s trying to protect here.

  Greg laughs, cracking the tension. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Dad. As Mother says, nothing’s been decided yet.” He looks at me, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Ginger told me she needs time, and I respect that.”

  Okay, I feel a little better now.

  “Oh, hell, women always say that.” Greg’s father shakes his head as he cuts into his filet mignon smothered in some sort of concoction I don’t dare look at too long. “Saying they need ‘time’ is just their way of making sure they get exactly what they want out of the deal. Right, honey?” he says to his wife.

  Strike the feeling better.

  “Excuse me, Bob?” I say sweetly. “What is it, exactly you think I’m out to get?”

  “Ginger—” Greg reaches over, takes my hand, his smile stiff. Pleading. “It’s okay.”

  “No, I’m curious. I’d very much like to know what he means by that.”

  “Oh, don’t be coy, honey,” Bob Munson says, chewing away. “You wouldn’t be sitting here unless…” He hesitates, scrutinizing me for a moment, before waving his fork in his son’s direction. “This boy’s got a bright future—a very bright future—ahead of him. No telling how far he might go, in fact. Don’t tell me that fact hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  “Dad, please. I haven’t discussed any of this with Ginger yet.”

  “Any of what?” I say. Blink, blink.

  “Politics, sweetheart, politics.” Bob grins, takes a sip of his wine. “See, by the time the next senatorial election rolls around, I figure the tide will have turned sufficiently to give the incumbent a run for her money. By that time, Greg here will be ready to go up for my old House seat.” Now he points the damn fork at me. “And you’re just the one to help him get it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dad. Stop.”

  Bob falls back against the booth cushions, his bushy brows practically meeting his hairline. “Well, when the hell’d you plan on telling her, son? After you had the campaign buttons made up?”

  Greg lowers his gaze to his plate. When he speaks, his voice is tightly controlled. “I haven’t told her because I haven’t decided anything yet.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s a load of B.S. and you know it—”

  “Dad. Please. I’d like to change the subject?”

  I pick off another bite of swordfish, deciding to keep my big fat mouth shut for once in my life. Maybe it’s just me, but there seems to be something missing here. I know Greg’s a dynamite attorney, in his own soft-spoken, even-keeled way. But I’ve never gotten the feeling he was much interested in either changing the world or reclaiming it. Nor, from what I can tell, does he have the kind of ego requisite to go into public office. In short, the guy is not a born politician. His father is. Whether I agree with Bob Munson’s agenda or not, I have to admit the guy’s got what it takes to get votes. Greg could charm the skin off a snake, but he doesn’t exactly ooze charisma, if you know what I mean.

  And while I might marry a Republican, that doesn’t mean I’d campaign for one.

  In any case, it doesn’t sound to me as if Greg’s exactly salivating over this idea himself, so I decide not to worry my pretty little head about it. Besides, it’s time to order dessert.

  And the conversation mercifully turns to discussing the summer’s movies.

  After coffee, Phyllis suggests visiting the powder room. After all those Manhattans, I’m not surprised. The woman must have a bladder the size of the Gulf of Mexico.

  The ladies’ room is classy but minuscule. I let Phyllis use the toilet first, unsuccessfully trying to ignore her tinkling as I pull out my burgundy lipstick, attempt to repair the damage left by the swordfish and dessert. The toilet flushes, she emerges, and we slide around each other to trade. I no sooner squat when I hear, “You’ve got to talk your mother into aborting this baby.”

  I freeze, mid-pee. Finally, I get both my heart and my urine going again, finish up, then realize there’s no window or anything I can crawl out of to escape.

  I catch my reflection in the mirror when I emerge. Yep, no blood left in the face. “How do you know she’s pregnant?”

  “Bill told me.” She shakes her head, her laugh an inch away from maniacal. “He was too excited to keep it a secret, he said. God, men are so stupid.”

  While I stand there, listening to my own breathing, she whips out her own lipstick, carefully applies it, presses her lips together. Then she looks at me in the mirror. “No comment?”

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “Nedra cannot have this baby, Ginger. It’s too…sordid to even think about.”

  Well, that certainly gets the blood flooding back into my face. I yank on the water, chafe my hands under the lukewarm stream. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Besides—” I shake the water off my hands, punch the button to the dryer thingy on the wall “—I don’t see how my mother’s having a baby has anything to do with you.”

  “Oh, please—it has everything to do with me. If Bill’s really the father.”

  I’d whip around, but the room’s too small. “And what makes you think he isn’t? Look, this knocked me for a loop, too, but apparently they’ve been dating for nearly three months.”

  “What a quaint way of putting it. But you know as well as I do the kind of woman your mother is. You were born out of wedlock, too, if memory serves.”

  No way am I continuing this conversation. I turn to leave, but perfectly manicured, frosted nails snag me before I can get to the door.

  “I went along with Robert, after Greg brought you home and Robert said you would be the perfect mate for our son, that your ethnic background could help him get the minority vote. And I do like you, Ginger. You’re attractive and intelligent and you’ve got guts. What I said before, about your being good for Greg, is still true, because he’s going to need a strong woman behind him when he runs for office. That damn mother of yours, however…I always knew she was a liability. I said so to Bob, even though I knew he wouldn’t listen to me about that any more than he’s ever listened to me about anything. But damned if I wasn’t right on the money. If Bill is the father, how pathetic that she had to seduce a man nearly twenty years younger than she—”

  “Okay, hold on a minute! Don’t even go there, Phyllis. Your baby is thirty-four freakin’ years old—which is not twenty years younger, since we’re counting—which is definitely old enough to decide who he wants to sleep with.”

  Angry tears glitter in her faded blue eyes. “No, you hold on. Damned if I’m going to let your mother screw up my life. Or what’s left of it. I sacrificed everything for my husband’s career, and now for my son’s. I refuse to just sit by and let it all go down the tubes.”

  “And my mother should?”

  She lifts her chin a notch. “Either this…situation is taken care of, or you
can forget getting back with my son.”

  I cannot believe I’m hearing this. What, the john’s become a time-travel device, zipping us back a couple of centuries or so?

  “Whether Greg and I resume our relationship has nothing to do with you. Or my mother. Or her being pregnant.”

  She gives a short laugh through her nose. “Greg doesn’t know about this yet, does he?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact he does. I told him this evening.”

  Her brows arch like a pair of synchronized snakes. “You told him your mother’s carrying his brother’s child?”

  “Well…”

  The corners of her mouth lift. “And if it really didn’t matter, why didn’t you tell him the whole truth?” she says, then sashays out of the rest room.

  I have to admit, it was a damn good exit line.

  Pity it wasn’t mine.

  I don’t care if I am wearing three-inch heels. If I don’t walk off some of this agitation, I’ll bust.

  Greg’s parents have gone off to wherever in a taxi; Greg’s insisted on seeing me home, although I imagine he would have preferred taking a taxi to hoofing it.

  “I apologize for Dad,” he says. “I had no idea he’d bring any of that up.”

  I glance over. “Is it true? That you’re thinking of running for office?”

  “It’s…an option I’m exploring.”

  I sigh. “Greg, you hate politics.”

  He stuffs his hands into his pants’ pockets, shrugs. No zealous explanation about what he feels he could accomplish, that he’s gotten what amounts to a calling, nothing.

  And if he’s not driven about that, how committed is he, really, to us? I mean, is Phyllis right, that as long as everything’s smooth sailing, he’ll be there for me, but that the slightest bump in the road—like, say, his discovery that his brother’s the father of my mother’s baby—would change how he feels about me?

  Which, since we’re on the subject, is exactly what, by the way?

  I mean, this is nuts. After that tête-à-tête with Ma Munson in the loo, I should just cut my losses, right? Then why don’t I? Why don’t I just turn to Greg, shake his hand, thank him for a memorable (!) evening, and march my little self up Broadway and out of his life?