Wing Girl

by Nic Tatano

  I looked at Vincent as he walked along, hands in his pockets. He and Scott had started the day as good guys; in a few hours they had become opposites. One was headed to jail for decades, the other an embodiment of all that was right with the world. Vincent had a seemingly bottomless reserve of decency. After taking care of a woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day for a long weekend, he’d come to the rescue of that same woman, who was about to lose it. Because of her relationship with another guy.

  What would possess a man who thought he had no shot with a woman to treat her with such kindness?

  For a girl whose career was based on gathering facts, I had a lot of problems dealing with intangibles. Love was too much of a gray area for a journalist. But if this was part of the education of Wing Girl, I needed to find out.

  “Nice night,” he said, looking up at the fingernail moon. The Manhattan sky was crystal clear, the rain and strong wind of the weekend having blown all the smog out to the Atlantic ocean.

  “Very,” I said. I’m not sure why I did this, but I looped one arm through his, letting my hand rest on his forearm. He looked at me and smiled.

  “Hope all the sugar and coffee doesn’t keep you up all night.”

  “Nah, I think all that wine cancels it out. I’ll sleep great; fat and happy.”

  “I’m glad about the happy part.”

  I squeezed his arm a bit. “I have you to thank for that.”

  I moved my stride to the right a bit, closer to his.

  We turned a corner and had almost reached my building. I had a flashback to yesterday morning, wondering what to do. Another kiss on the cheek? Invite him up? I had maybe thirty seconds to decide when his cell phone rang.

  Again with the cell phone. But was I saved by the bell, or merely interrupted?

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “It’s Roxanne.” He answered the call. “Hi, Rox, what’s up?”

  He listened for a few seconds and his smile vanished, much like Scott’s had the previous night. Only this time it was real. And I had a pretty good idea why.

  He stopped walking. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” He ended the call and turned to face me. “Belinda, it’s my mother. Doctor says she could go at any time.”

  “Vincent, I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m going to have to say goodnight. I need to get home.”

  “She’s not in a hospital?”

  “No, she didn’t want to die there. She wanted to spend her last days in her house. Anyway, I have to go.” He started to pull away, but I didn’t let go.

  “I’m going with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  I heard Roxanne’s voice as we entered through the back door of the house. It was dimly lit as Vincent quickly made his way to his mother’s bedroom while I followed.

  Roxanne was sitting on the side of one of those adjustable hospital beds, holding his mother’s hand. A beautiful gold-framed oil painting of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall behind the bed, while the nightstand was cluttered with countless prescription bottles. Roxanne looked up and spotted us. “Hey, Grace, look who’s here.”

  The old woman looked like a ghost, but managed a slight smile and raised her free hand. Vincent hugged Roxanne and kissed her on the cheek, swapped places and took his mother’s hand. “Hi, ma, how you doing?”

  “Eh, not so good.” She noticed me as I slowly walked to the other side of the bed. “Oh, you brought your beautiful friend.”

  I took her other hand, which was already wrapped in a set of old mother-of-pearl rosary beads. Her skin was nearly translucent, the veins easily visible. “Hi, Mrs. Martino.”

  “Oh, I interrupted you kids.”

  “No, not at all,” I said.

  Vincent patted her hand. “You need anything ma?”

  She turned to face him, with that look. “Nah, I got everything I need right here.” She squeezed his hand, which told me what “everything” meant. Her breathing was labored as she turned to me. “Honey, you think I could talk to my son for a minute?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Martino. I’ll be outside with Roxanne.”

  “Thank you, honey. At least I can go knowing my Vincent finally found a nice girl.”

  This time my tears were of a different variety.

  ***

  Roxanne was sitting on the couch, sipping a can of diet soda. I sat next to her and wrapped one arm around her shoulder. “How you doing, Rox?”

  She wiped away a tear. “It’s been a tough day. I’m gonna miss her.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “She’s been like a second mother to me.”

  I took her hand. “At least she’s at home and not in a hospital or some nursing home hooked up to machines and tubes.”

  “Yeah. This is the best way to go.”

  “I agree.”

  “Oh, I saw your story and didn’t have a chance to call you. I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be. It’s not important.”

  “Wow, you’re taking this well.”

  “You can’t miss someone who never existed. That’s how I’m looking at it. That’s how I have to look at it if I’m gonna move on.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Your bullshit detector was spot on.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to say anything. So how did you end up out here with Vincent tonight?”

  “He dropped by with some of that soup he’d made for me which I’d forgotten in his apartment and I was a total wreck. He took me out and cheered me up. We were walking home when you called.”

  “He’s nice like that. Vincent’s always had a sixth sense about knowing when people need something.”

  “Yeah. He also seems to be around when I need him.”

  “So you two had a good time?”

  “Yeah, Rox, we really did. Took me out to a nice dinner and a funny movie. It really turned things around for me. What he did tonight was very special. I was so hurt and so angry and so filled with hatred of Scott. He made it all go away. The guy keeps rescuing me. Sometimes I think he’s lurking in the shadows like some superhero waiting for me to need help.”

  “Hell, waddaya expect? He’s crazy about you.”

  “Yeah, I’m finally starting to get that. And I’m—”

  I was interrupted as Vincent walked into the room, tears streaming down his face.

  Roxanne and I stood up. She looked at him and said, “Is she … ”

  He nodded.

  Then Roxanne did something I didn’t expect. She put her hand behind my back and gently pushed me toward him. “Your turn,” she whispered.

  ***

  In recent years, the term “celebration of life” has become cliché when describing a funeral.

  In the case of the service for Vincent’s mother, it was spot on.

  As I made my way through a house full of people, I was still amazed at how uplifting the funeral had been. Once we got through the Catholic funeral obligatory rendition of Ave Maria (by Roxanne, of all people), which got the tears out of everyone’s system, it was a celebration. Vincent’s beautifully written eulogy had focused on how she lived, not how she died. It had been filled with humorous and touching anecdotes about his mother, stories about her favorite things, and even a tale about her one brush with the Mafia. By the time the service was over, the people weren’t mourners but friends who had been refreshed by happy memories.

  Then we headed back to his mother’s house for food, and there was a ton of it.

  And when I walked by a doorway and took a glimpse into the kitchen, I saw a disaster.

  The counters and center island were cluttered with empty plates, bowls, casserole dishes, pots, you name it.

  And I knew it was time for me to pay Vincent back a little.

  I headed into the kitchen, found an apron hanging behind the door, and threw it on over my simple black dress. The kitchen was dated, with an avocado-green fridge that sounded like it needed a carburetor and Formica countertops to match. I tackled the easy st
uff first, loading the dishwasher with plates and silverware, then turned it on. Then I faced the mountainous task of washing everything else. There was an old-fashioned dishpan in the sink, so I filled it with soapy water and began soaking the first few baking dishes that were crusted with dried tomato sauce.

  Twenty minutes later I had made a small dent, but I knew I’d be here a while. Still it was nothing compared to what Vincent had done for me, so I pressed onward.

  I heard footsteps and turned around to see an attractive thirtysomething woman enter the kitchen. I said, “Hi,” while I continued to scrub a large pot.

  “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Stephanie, Vincent’s cousin.” She was raven haired like everyone else in his family, with gorgeous huge dark-brown eyes and a winning smile. Petite with an oval face and classic high cheekbones, she filled out her own black dress perfectly.

  “Forgive me for not shaking your hand. I’m Belinda.”

  “I’m guessing from the hair color and freckles you’re not related.”

  “Yeah, I kind of stick out here with the red. I’m a good friend of Roxanne’s – that’s how I know Vincent.”

  Suddenly she smiled and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you’re the girl with the flu!”

  Oh, geez. What the hell was this? “Yeah. How’d you know about that?”

  “Oh, he was telling some of us a funny story about a girl he took care of last week who was sick and how every time he asked if you were decent, you had some hilarious comeback.”

  “It was kind of a running gag, and I’m kind of a smartass.”

  “Well, I loved your warped sense of humor, and the way he told the story was priceless. And if you’re friends with Roxanne, you know that smartass fits right in with this family.” She surveyed the wreckage of the kitchen. “Oh my God, have you been cleaning all of this up by yourself?”

  “Giving it my best shot. Unfortunately the dishwasher is already full and I think it needs a new transmission.”

  “Are there any more aprons?”

  “Hanging behind the door. But, really, I can manage—”

  “Yeah, and you’ll be here till midnight.” She grabbed an apron, put it on and tied it behind her back. “You wanna wash or dry?”

  “I’m already wet, so I’ll stick with the washing.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed a dark-green dishtowel and grabbed the pan I handed to her. “You live in the city?”

  “Yeah, couple of blocks from Vincent. You?”

  “Upstate, near Albany. I gotta move, it’s too friggin’ cold up there and winter lasts forever. The joke is that we have four seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter, and construction.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Not when you’re shoveling the walk in April or digging the pumpkin out of a snowdrift in October. So, Belinda, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a television reporter.”

  “Oooh, glamor job.”

  “Not always, but it does have its perks. And I love what I do. How about you?”

  “Travel agent. I love what I do too, but after sending so many people to warm exotic places, I want to live in one.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She finished drying a large pot, then handed me a chafing dish that smelled strongly of garlic. “That shrimp scampi was awesome, wish I knew who made it. So, how long have you known Vincent?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A few months.”

  “Are you two … you know?”

  How the hell do I answer that? Because I don’t know what we are. “I, uh, just got out of a relationship.”

  “Ah, so your dance card is free.”

  “Nice way of putting it, but yeah.”

  “Well, if I were in your shoes, and I shouldn’t be saying this about a relative, I’d be beating a path to his door. Frankly, I’m amazed some girl hasn’t snatched him up yet.”

  Hmmm. My chance to get a little background. The reporter’s hat goes on. “So, he’s never been close to heading down the aisle?”

  She grabbed another stack of dishes and handed them to me. “Eh, he’s had girlfriends, but you could always tell they weren’t quite right for him. Problem is, he’s soooo particular. Has such high standards.”

  “Yeah, I know the type.” And I see her in the mirror every day.

  “He’s always wanted someone who’s really smart and can take care of herself, but who doesn’t have a problem being put on a pedestal by an old-fashioned guy. I know, that’s a contradiction, a kick-ass chick who doesn’t mind being a girl, if you know what I mean.”

  Again, mirror.

  An hour later we were nearly done. I heard Vincent saying goodbyes at the front door and noticed the level of conversation had thinned out. “Sounds like the crowd’s about gone.”

  “Yeah,” said Stephanie, just as the dishwasher stopped running and beeped. “And so are the dirty dishes. We make a good team.”

  “It reminds me of when I was a kid. We lived in an old house without a dishwasher. I’d forgotten what it feels like to get your fingertips looking like prunes.”

  Footsteps were followed by Vincent’s voice. “What are you two doing in here? I was gonna clean this up.”

  “Bullshit,” said Stephanie. “You’ve had enough on your plate today without washing them too.”

  “Yeah,” I said, as I handed Stephanie the last pot and rinsed off my hands, then dried them with a dish towel. “This was no big deal.”

  He looked at the stack of clean dishes and pans. “Like hell, you guys did a mountain of stuff here.” He exhaled, looking like he’d hit the emotional wall. “But thank you. I really appreciate it. I’m dead tired.”

  Roxanne entered the kitchen and spotted me. “There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you. And here you are playing Suzy Homemaker.”

  “She and Steph did all the dishes,” said Vincent.

  “Very nice,” said Roxanne. “Your carriage awaits, if you wanna ride home.”

  I folded the dish towel and put it next to the sink. “Yeah, I’m ready to roll.” I turned to Vincent and took his hands. “Really beautiful service today, Vincent. I’m sure your mom loved it. I hope I get a sendoff that nice.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “So I’ll see you around the neighborhood. Hey, remember, you’ve gotta take me back to the pastry shop to sign my picture.”

  ***

  So once again, I was cruising home in Roxanne’s land yacht and we were maybe five minutes from home. The radio was tuned into a classic eighties station, filling the air with an old Paula Abdul song, when suddenly she reached out and turned the thing off.

  “So, Vincent’s not a monster, huh?”

  “What is this, groundhog day?” I grabbed the back of my head and backed against the passenger-side window. “And don’t hit me. It hurts when you do that.”

  “I’m just yankin’ your chain. And relax, I only hit you when you’re bein’ a stunad.”

  “Good to know. I’ll wear a football helmet next time I’m acting like an idiot.”

  “Sooooo … ”

  “Sooooo … what?”

  “You look good in that kitchen.”

  Okay. Where was she going with this? The avocado fridge matches my eyes?

  “Vincent’s gonna eventually move back into his mother’s house, you know.”

  Oh, that’s where she’s going.

  “It’s a great house,” I said.

  “Andddddd … ?”

  “Terrific view from the back yard.”

  Sideways glare. “That all?”

  “Fine! You win! He’s not a monstuh. (I’m imitating her accent.) He’s a really good guy! And I like him! There, I said it! Happy?”

  “Andddddd?”

  “And … I don’t know, Rox. I’m confused.”

  “Too soon since you broke up with he who must not be named?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. This is all new to me.” I was staring straight ahead, as if the road signs were going to
magically offer an answer, and I started waving my hands. “I mean, look at everything that’s happened in the last two weeks. I get the flu and break my shoe with the damn red sole and Vincent plays nursemaid for four days, he helps me break a big story, my big story reveals my boyfriend, who I think is about to have sex and lose his virginity is actually married and has been committing federal crimes and screwing the city of New York instead of me and never felt anything for me and likened me to a prostitute, Vincent shows up to rescue me again, his mother dies just when I’m about to… I end up washing dishes in his house and you say I look good in that kitchen and it’s all too much to process because my life is one long run-on sentence with tangents all over the place and I don’t have any damn emotional punctuation marks left to make it stop so I can figure it all out!”

  Roxanne looked at me with wide eyes, then pointed at the coffee shop straight ahead. “You wanna stop at Starbucks for some decaf?”

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t process all of this. It’s happening too fast.”

  “Whoa, hang on a minute!” Roxanne pulled over about three blocks from my apartment.

  “Why are you stopping here? I live on eighty-second. This is seventy-ninth.”

  “I know. But let’s back up to that part of your little monologue on speed when you said just when I’m about to. You were just about to what?”

  Damn, the woman doesn’t miss a trick. “I don’t know that either! He was walking me home, we’d had a great time, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to invite him up for a while, if I’d be leading him on, if I did that and might eventually break his heart, if I should just thank him and go home. And I never had to make the decision because of your phone call.”

  “What do you think you would have done?”

  “That’s the point. I still don’t know.”

  “I see.” She slowly nodded as she turned off the car and put one hand on my shoulder. “But you think about it, yes?”