Crossing the Street

by Campbell, Molly D. ;

  Gail rolled her eyes and flapped a hand at me. “Get this over with.”

  “Yes, Gail. Del Hicks SNEEZED. And copious amounts of what I will politely call mucus spewed out of his nose, cascading down his face and onto his shirtfront. Remember this, kiddo?”

  Gail brought her lips together tightly but said nothing.

  “Yes. Poor Del. A victim of the pollen count. But the worst part, as you know, is that Del picked up his napkin and WIPED HIS FACE.”

  Gail burst out laughing. Tears came to her eyes.

  “Right? He mopped his face. He didn’t realize that there was SNOT all over his shirt. And I nearly vomited. And you suddenly announced that you had to go to the ladies’ room and YOU ABANDONED US.”

  I leaned forward and put my head between my knees.

  Gail, who hates to be reminded of past failures, moved on. “That was then and this is now. I learned from that. Theo is nothing like Del Hicks. I give you my word.” Gail rubbed my back soothingly, but giggled again.

  I sat up and shot her a look. “I am just fine with the way things are.”

  Gail stopped laughing. She wrinkled her nose. “You are completely out of touch with reality. Completely. So I am going to override your stupidity and arrange drinks for us with Theo and Rick. Period and end of story.”

  Did I really want to stick with the status quo? I tried to imagine myself at Ella’s age, clumping through my apartment on my walker, trying to sort through my murky gray matter to remember why I needed to come into the living room. I pictured the hairs growing out of my chin, my sagging breasts, and orthopedic shoes. No family—all dead. Alone, except for a parrot that would probably outlive me.

  I nodded weakly. “Okay. I will give you and this Theo guy one final chance.”

  I have never been very good at standing up to the tsunami that is Gail on a mating mission. I wondered if I needed to buy some new black pants and perhaps shop for Spanx.

  That night, sitting on my sofa in my underwear, the fan blowing directly in my face, my hair puffing gently against my neck, I shut my eyes. A boyfriend. I tried to picture Theo. But all I could see were the pale, watery eyes, the flushed cheeks, and the greenish slime remaining on Del Hicks’ beige sweater after he wiped his face.

  ▷◁

  The blind date. Gail had set up this meeting at Hugo’s, a trendy eatery that was newly open. But just for Saturday lunch—Gail’s version of “failsafe.”

  Hugo’s was the newest restaurant in Framington. Just a dozen or so tables, mismatched chairs at each, set with candles and fresh flowers. I am not sure if there is actually a Hugo—I heard that the owner named it after a dog in a poem.

  The small, hip place looked very New York. The walls were bright yellow, dotted with abstracts. It smelled faintly of rosemary. I walked in and immediately spotted Gail with two guys. I knew that the one wearing Chuck Taylors, tattered cargo shorts, a red tank top, and a man-bun had to be Rick. Steamingly attractive. The one in penny loafers with socks had to be Theo. Natch.

  It was too late to turn back. They had already spotted me. Gail waved coyly. I wandered over reluctantly, an insincere smile pasted onto my face.

  They all stood. This was getting worse. Gail began the sales pitch.

  “Beck, I’d like you to meet my friend Rick Ramsey. (She indicated hottie man-bun, of course). And this is Rick’s friend, Theo Blackburn.

  Theo stretched out his hand, and we shook. I have to admit, it was a quietly firm and manly shake. But it lasted just a couple of beats too long, and I was forced to retract my hand. Awkward. I think Theo must have felt it, too, because he knocked his chair over as he scrambled to sit down. The four of us nearly bumped heads as we all attempted to right the chair, reassemble, and finally sit. Ugh.

  I tried; I really did. “Gail tells me you two met playing baseball?”

  Theo cleared his throat. He looked very earnest. “Well, no, actually, Gail and I met via work. I manage the title company where she does a lot of real estate closings. Rick and I play softball together.” His eyes were cocoa brown and they did sparkle a little. And when he smiled, I took note of the fact that he probably knew about Crest Whitening Strips.

  “Oh, yes, I knew that.” Brilliant comeback.

  Gail pointed to the menus. “Shouldn’t we order something? I absolutely adore the egg salad here. And the roast beef sandwiches on pretzel rolls are great!” Gail was really pushing; her voice was an octave higher than normal—a telltale sign of anxiety. She often squeaks when things get really uncomfortable. I felt a squeak coming on.

  “Theo, Gail is right. The roast beef is delicious. But they are huge—would you like to split one?” A feminine ploy. I could eat two of them without taking a deep breath, but I was on my best behavior—for Gail’s sake.

  He smiled. Again with the white teeth. And with the smile were dimples. “That sounds just about right. Would you like a beer with that? Oh, can we get beers here?”

  So he wasn’t a wuss. He liked beer at lunch. Not as bad as I thought. Rick and Gail also split a roast beef, and we all had beer. Well, beers. Actually, we all had a few. Gail told her best dirty joke, the one I always laugh at about the guy who has pockets full of condoms, and we all had tears streaming down our cheeks. It turns out that Rick was as smart as he was good looking, and Theo could match Gail’s condom joke with one that was even funnier about a short man at a circus. Before we knew it, it was three o’clock, and the manager kicked us out to get ready for the dinner crowd. Not a bad afternoon.

  Gail and Rick mounted his Harley for an afternoon cruise, and that left me and Theo standing on the pavement, soaking in the heat. My armpits trickled. Using the take-out menu I took from the restaurant as a fan, I tried to air out my midsection without looking too ridiculous. I failed.

  Theo, as crisp and dry as I was soggy, asked “Would you like to sit over there on the bench where it’s shady?” He had taken note of my moisture.

  Before we sat down, he brushed some stray twigs and what looked like fresh bird poop off the bench with his handkerchief. Note: handkerchief. Not Kleenex. I wasn’t sure about this—the only men I knew who used handkerchiefs were over eighty. But it was a very thoughtful thing to do, as the bird poop was fresh, and it defiled his handkerchief. But Theo popped it back into his back pocket without hesitation. I was impressed with that, to be sure.

  “So you write books. Gail says you’re really talented.”

  Shit. I wondered just how much of my talented subject matter Gail had shared. I fanned a bit faster. The menu wilted. “Yes. I write for women.” Let’s just leave it at that, please . . .

  “Women’s fiction? Wow. Would I have heard of any of your titles? Or maybe my mom has read some of your books?”

  Shit. I had a choice. I could lie, and then get muddled up in that same lie later, as always happens, or I could go for broke and just hit him right between his innocent Midwest eyes with the truth. I hesitated, licked my dry lips, and went for broke:

  “Actually, Theo, I make my living writing erotica. That, and selling coffee at Starbucks. But I bet you know which one of those occupations pays most of the bills.”

  There was a pause, in which Theo’s baby browns bulged slightly and he caught his breath. But then his eyelids relaxed, and he took a breath. “Wow.”

  I waited for something more. But Theo just smiled fixedly and crossed and recrossed his legs. His yellow linen Bermudas rode up his thighs a bit. He had firm thighs. I wanted to stroke them, almost.

  “Yes. Well. The reason I write what I write is that it is lucrative. These days, there are about a million books written every month. The competition in the publishing world is cutthroat. It’s very hard to sell fiction. I’m a good writer, but after having my novel rejected a hundred or so times, I realized that I will probably never be a Nora Roberts. So I began writing erotica. And it sold. It keeps selling. There is a growing
market out there for it. So this is what I do. For now. I still want to rewrite my novel and get it out there. But in the meantime, this pays the bills.”

  The menu by this time was worthless. I crumpled it up and set it next to me on the bench. Theo recrossed his legs yet again. I felt a huge impulse to split and run.

  “I get it.” He grinned, dimples blaring. “I bet they are just like that Forty Shades of Grays book. It’s a movie now and everything.”

  Okay. This Theo guy might just be a prince in Bermuda shorts and an alligator polo. I grinned back and settled into the bench. Just then, a cool breeze ruffled his mouse-brown hair. It was thinning, but not in an unpleasant fashion.

  ▷◁

  When I got home, I told Simpson all about it. We sat on my bed, with the Lumineers on iTunes for atmosphere, and I described Theo to Simpy. “Actually, he’s fine. He has those sort of good looks that nobody really notices, if you know what I mean.” Simpy blinked. “Like Jesse Eisenberg. Unprepossessing.”

  I petted Simpson against the grain, which Mom always told me was a complete sin against all felines, but then again, Claire Throckmorton is not an animal person. Simpy absolutely adores it. He leaned into my hand and purred like a locomotive.

  I continued, waving cat fur out of my face. “He is very polite. Pulled out my chair. Opened the car door. Bryan never did that.” Simpy seemed bored. He laid his chin down flat on the duvet. “You, see, that is EXACTLY what I am talking about! There isn’t a whole lot to say about this man. No undercurrent of excitement. No frisson of slightly dangerous sex. I can’t imagine him with handcuffs, for example.” I threw myself down on the pillows and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. “I know, honey.” I gently ran my hand down the cat’s tail. “Safe men are good men. Nobody marries an outlaw. Too dicey. No. People marry the nice guys, and then they have a nice, safe life.”

  I shut my eyes and pictured myself safely married. Wearing sweatpants and a loose fitting, left-over-from-pregnancy maternity top, I wearily push a shopping cart down the Kroger cereal aisle. The four-year-old, let’s call her Lizzy, reaches out her grubby little hand to grab the Alphabits. I wrest the box out of her hand, setting off a litany of whines. Dragging his feet behind me, alternately calling, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom!” or “Tell Lizzy to shut up! She’s hurting my ears!” is my seven-year-old son, Theo Junior. His nose is running, and he stabs at his sister through the bars of the cart with his Star Wars light saber. I ignore them as I try to decide if macaroni and cheese from a box is an acceptable side dish for leftover meatloaf.

  As we check out, the harried woman at the scanner, purple circles under her eyes and a ballpoint pen behind each ear, smiles wanly at my kids as they continue to grizzle at one another. Theo Junior tries to snatch one of the free lollipops out of the plastic container next to the conveyor belt, sending it crashing to the linoleum, multicolored suckers flying all over. Blushing with humiliation at my feral children, I bend to gather up the candy, apologizing profusely to the floor. The checker reassures me. “Hon, those damn things get spilled about forty times a day. Don’t know why the hell—pardon my French—we have to give those things to kids. Rots their teeth.”

  I straighten up and grin at her. “They have been acting up all day. I had to haul off and smack Theo over the head with a pack of Twizzlers a few minutes ago. You know how it is.”

  She nods. “It’s all just snot and fury until they grow up.”

  Simpson rose, stretching. He sat and began to wash his face. “Simp. Snot and fury. What do you think about that?”

  He jumped down off the bed. I shut my eyes. That image of myself as an old lady, stumping around in my apartment with my walker and a parrot floated back into mind. Me, chatting dementedly to a bird. No family. No friends. A loose housedress, tatty house slippers and the distinct odor of urine and mothballs in the air. I rubbed my throbbing temples. Okay. safe it is.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sleeping in is such a luxury. I had gotten up at eight, stumbled over to close the blinds against the glare of the sun, and I was just dozing off again when my doorbell rang. Damn. Simpy jumped down and headed into the kitchen. I swiped my fingers through my tangled hair, realizing the futility, and hobbled over to the door. I looked through the eyehole to see a pair of sparkly barrettes, freckles, and a huge grin. Bob, the Saturday sprite.

  I swung the door open to the full glory of Bob wearing an electric-blue tee shirt, melon orange and shamrock green plaid shorts, pink socks, and red sneakers. She was holding a notebook. “Gran said that I could come over and show you my cat pictures. I’m doing a portrait of Simpson.”

  I stepped aside and motioned her in. “I’m glad you came over. You are just the ray of sunshine I need right now. I slept in.” (Obviously—she picked up on that one immediately.) “Would you like something to eat? Simpy and I need breakfast.”

  Bob hopped in on one foot, holding her notebook high in the air. I shut the door behind her, wishing I still had even a trace of her energy and optimism.

  “Yes. I would love a Popsicle for breakfast dessert. But you should have something nutritious. Like oats. Gran says breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and she makes me eat oats, even though I told her they taste like glue. But she puts raisins in now, and that helps some.”

  “I have to agree about the oats. Mostly I just have coffee for breakfast. With milk, for protein.”

  I opened the cat food cupboard, and Simpy wound around my legs, purring extra loudly. He adored his cat kibble. I poured some into his bowl, and he began crunching in earnest. Cat crunching can make even kibble sound delish.

  Bob slid into one of the two chairs at my little café table. Setting her notebook carefully down on the glass top, she drummed her fingernails, swinging her legs underneath her like pistons. We listened to the coffee as it dripped through the filter into the carafe. “I love your house. It is so much more cozy than Gran’s. You have old-fashioned stuff in here, but it doesn’t look old-fashioned. I like your stove and the black-and-white checkers on the floor. Gran’s house isn’t cozy, even though she has cozy-type things. But her house is always dark. And it is so hot; Gran is cold all the time. She says air conditioning gives her arthritis. So it is hot and dark and kind of smells like mushrooms. But it is safe there.”

  I tried not to react to Bob’s insecurity. I poured myself a mug of coffee, added milk, and sat down opposite Bob. She beamed back at me. “Well, I think as people get older, they lose some of their ability to regulate their body temperature. So they get cold.” I sounded like an infomercial—my God.

  “Gran is nice, though. But she says that she is out of practice raising children. She says that she is running low on patience at times, like when I make a racket.” Bob sighed and looked longingly at my freezer door.

  “Oh, kiddo—I forgot!” I set my mug down, pushed off the table like the crone I felt I was, and opened the freezer door. “Oh, gosh. I need to put Popsicles on the list. All I have is one orange pop left.”

  Bob nodded enthusiastically, and I gave her the pop and sat back down, stifling a groan.

  “Beck, what is the matter? Are you sick? Do you have a ‘sick headache?’ Gran gets those.”

  “No. I know. I look sick. I was up very late last night, writing. I have a deadline. But that’s not important. Why don’t you show me what you drew?”

  Slurping, Bob opened her notebook. The first drawing was of a tiny gray-and-black blotch behind a lot of black vertical lines. “That’s Simpson in the shelter, sad and lonely and scared. Somebody just dropped him off there. He doesn’t have a mother.”

  I nodded gravely.

  Bob wiped a sticky finger on her tee shirt and turned the page. Now the blotch was bigger, and had stripes. He was sitting on what looked like a brownie, “Your sofa cushion,” she explained, and he had very long whiskers sticking out from both sides. His front legs looked like Q-tips. He smil
ed.

  Bob turned to another picture, this one of a tall woman with brown hair, which was overlaid with black shading. The woman resembled me, which was remarkable. Bob was a talented artist in the making. The woman had an expansive red grin, and in her arms was what looked like a tiger-striped marshmallow with pointy ears. Simpson exactly. Blue squiggly lines radiated from both sides of the woman and cat. I pointed to them.

  “Happiness. The cat is purring, and your heart is popping like popcorn with love.”

  She stopped, wiped the orange drippings from her chin, and looked up at me.

  “That is very interesting. How did you know about the animal shelter? I actually did get Simpson at one.”

  “I guess I just figured that you got Simpy at a shelter. My dad and I used to go to the shelter, back in Iowa, before he was redeployed. He told me that he wanted us to have a pet. But just as we were deciding, he got his notice. I cried when I found out. But he said that I shouldn’t worry, because when he comes back this time, he will be finished going overseas, and we will definitely get a cat.

  This kid and her hard knocks. My God. “Bob, this is something to look forward to! But can I ask you about the popcorn thing?”

  Bob grinned. “My dad said that the first time he saw me, when the nurse at the hospital put me in his arms, he took one look at my little face, and his heart popped like popcorn with love. He said that when your heart does that, it means you will love that person forever.”

  Of course.

  “And I am glad my pictures are the real truth, because I love Simpson, and he deserved to get out of that shelter.”

  Naturally. I watched as Simpy wandered over and rubbed against Bob’s scuffed little legs. He purred as she reached down to stroke his head. As she whispered something that sounded like goody boy good into his ear, I felt quite buoyant all of a sudden.

  And I was so relieved that my house had no mushroom odor.