Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  “Hey! Yeah. Hell of a night to be out.” Fordham said, wiping the corners of her eyes in case she was pooling mascara. “I can’t get the car to start.”

  “No worries, beautiful. I just left my sister’s. I was watching my nephew.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, heard through the grapevine you got divorced. Not to worry. Frankie’ll take care of you.”

  Fordham was glad it was dark and Frankie couldn’t see her grimace. Three years after the divorce, she could only imagine the stories that her bored, shallow neighbors had circulated about the demise of her marriage.

  He pulled out a pocket flashlight, went under the hood, and stroked each wire with such care and precision that Fordham wished she were one of them. “You just need a charge,” Frankie said, shutting the hood. “I’m kinda cold. How about we get some coffee first?”

  Fordham checked the time. Whitty would still be out with Dorie. She hadn’t been out with a man since the summer, when an ex-coworker had set her up with his unattractive friend, some weirdo who took her picture the second she stepped out of her car. He said it was to commemorate their first meeting, but she got a Silence of the Lambs vibe and split before dinner. But this would be different since she already knew Frankie—sort of.

  They went to the Starbucks around the corner and sat in a booth. It was moderately busy. She wondered if sitting at a table would be more appropriate. This wasn’t a date. A date would involve some kind of plan and an hour or more in front of a mirror scrutinizing hair, shoes, and cellulite. A date with Frankie could disappoint her if it didn’t work out. This was a casual meeting...

  Then he started stroking her hand, and it became a date. “Your ex-husband had it all, and he missed it like an exit on the highway.” Frankie blinked, showing off his killer blue eyes and thick dark lashes. He was tracing little circles on her hand as he spoke, and she imagined what that would feel like on her breasts.

  “He never had much of a sense of direction.” All she could think about was where Frankie’s hands were going.

  “Some people can’t stay the course, and they get lost... you have such soft skin,” he said, running his fingers along hers.

  “It’s nice to feel appreciated,” she said, enjoying his touch.

  His phone rang. Frankie mouthed that it was a doctor, and she hoped it was nothing that might stop them from kissing before the night was over.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Really, Doc? Now? But it’s so early!” He ended the call with a huge grin that exposed the kind of straight white teeth actors coveted.

  “What did the doctor say?” Fordham asked, holding her breath a little.

  “My wife is in labor! I’m gonna be a dad! Sorry, beautiful. I gotta jet.”

  Frankie Tancredi left without even paying the check. Fordham trekked back to the car. Maybe she would never learn enough about cars to be a mechanic, but one thing Frankie Tancredi had taught her was to never invest in a smooth ride and to always be in the driver’s seat.

  But moping in the driver’s seat was doing nothing for her just then. She got out of the car, ignoring the persistent rain, and looked under the hood again. Maybe Frankie was wrong. She went to the glove compartment and got the manual. The initial checklist was geared toward dull-normal.

  Okay. It might just be that simple. She wiped a few hoses with a paper towel, tightened a loose cap, and got back in the driver’s seat. The car cooperated. She cranked up the heat and headed home. Screw you, Frankie Tancredi.

  Once the car started, Fordham went back to wanting to ring Margo’s neck and scream at an imaginary Abe. She barely had the energy to take out the box of Junior Mints she had stashed in her seat pocket. But once she managed to get them, she was immediately soothed by the oozing goodness as the candies melted in her mouth. A new, unfamiliar job was not on her agenda, especially with Gil out of town and Whitty feeling neglected by him. It was going to be difficult to explain to Whitty that now Fordham would be less available too. She wondered how she was going to manage with there being even fewer hours in the day. Somehow, she was going to have to make Whitty understand that she had to do this, that everything happened for a reason, and that even though there was no logical explanation for them to be so thoughtlessly inconvenienced, someday there might be an answer.

  Short answer: she would take her to O-My Sushi for miso and her favorite ikura hand rolls and then to Kiki Sweets Café for the richest, gooiest, most delicious brownie sundae on the planet. If nothing else, Whitty would have no room to be angry and might be too gripped by nausea to think about their new predicament.

  By the time she approached her pristine tree-lined street in Bardonia, a hamlet in Rockland County about twenty-three miles from Manhattan, the rain had stopped and the moon had begun to peek through the fading clouds. Driving down the block, she could practically taste a Diet Coke and feel the welcome of her new queen-sized bed and Posturepedic pillow. It was late, and she was sure that Dorie and Whitty had eaten and were watching TV. She would say a quick hello and pass out. But as she drew closer, she noticed a plumber’s van sitting in her driveway.

  Fordham parked on the street and rushed through the front door. “Hello? What’s going on?”

  A chaotic mess of papers and cartons was spread around the family room. Fordham was only half-sure she wanted an answer. She didn’t see any water. Maybe whatever had brought the plumbers would not cost her the spa weekend she’d planned with Evie. If they could quickly fix what they had to, she could go to sleep and deal with the mess in the morning.

  Her mother came in from the garage, carrying a carton. At sixty plus, Dorie Price was anything but a senior citizen. She was staunchly independent and highly opinionated. Her best friend, Gloria, had once described her as a cross between Golda Meir and Shirley MacLaine, possessing intense wisdom, wholesome beauty, and a strong desire to control a nation, the universe, and everything in between.

  Under normal circumstances, Dorie would have been reluctant to entertain guests or leave the house unless her hair was done and she’d “put on her face,” an expression that used to make Whitty innocently ask her where it was so she could bring it to her. Dorie’s style wasn’t quite definable. Some days, she went for an Ann Taylor look, and other days, she seemed to have been dressed by gypsies.

  That night was an exception. Dorie had allowed Gallo Plumbing to come in to fix the pipes even though she was in sweats and Fordham’s father’s old black T-shirt, a souvenir from Las Vegas that read, “God Kissed My Dice. Now I’m a Holy Roller.” She said she still wore it because no matter how many times it was washed, it always smelled like Arnie Price. Arnie had worn that T-shirt the night he persuaded Fordham to join him for bingo at the synagogue in New City. She was home from college for the weekend, and Dorie was away, visiting Gloria. Arnie didn’t want to go alone. Fordham lost, but he won a hundred dollars and took her out for sushi at Nobu in Tribeca to celebrate. They drank sake and talked about luck—how some people came by it naturally and how others made their own. He’d said he was among the luckiest because he had it both ways. And she’d believed him.

  “Hi, honey,” Dorie said, breaking the memory. “Glad you’re home. I tried your cell phone, but I couldn’t get through.” Dorie continued to organize the mess without stopping to notice Fordham’s reaction. “We had a little accident. Whitty and I didn’t even get the chance to go out.”

  “A little accident?” shouted Whitty, who was working beside her grandmother. “Me and Mom-Mom have been moving boxes forever! Mom, how many times have I told you—you can’t run the dishwasher and the washing machine and take a shower all at the same time! We have old pipes.”

  Fordham had passed cranky at the driveway and was now working on miserable. “It’s ‘Mom-Mom and I,’ not ‘me and Mom-Mom,’ and I can promise you, young lady, now is not the time to be lecturing me about anything!” She zipped around Whitty to check on the condition of a large box marked Divorce.

  Whitty wasn’t finished. “It’s just that sometimes you
—”

  Fordham flashed Whitty a disdainful scowl, and Dorie prudently intervened. “Sometimes, a smart young lady should go to the garage and see what else she can bring in. Go on. Listen to your grandmother.”

  The plumber and his assistant came in from the garage and went over to the toolbox they’d left in the family room. They didn’t seem to notice Fordham, which might have bothered her if she hadn’t been beyond exhausted. The younger of the two men was bending down intently to watch the older man fiddle with a pipe. His jeans were falling, revealing a slight dimple right at the top of his butt. She didn’t mind the momentary distraction.

  “Fine,” Whitty said. “I get it. Even if I am right.” Frustrated, she headed for the garage as quickly as her labored gait would permit.

  Fordham stopped staring at the younger plumber’s butt and opened the Divorce box. Even the sight of the top layer made her cringe. As difficult as their marriage had been, their divorce had been even worse. Eric Darnoff, her lawyer, had promptly bought a vacation home in Costa Rica on what she was sure was her dime.

  Dorie said, “Honey, it’s like your father always used to say. ‘Shit happens. Our job is to make it stink less.’ For what it’s worth, Whitty has been a real help.” She must have noticed Fordham’s despair.

  Fordham watched the younger plumber heading to the garage. “I’m sure. I just hate when she corrects me. You seem to think that’s your job, and I don’t like it much then, either. And after today, I’m not even sure how to do my job.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Margo left. Now I’m the editor of Flowers from the Heart: Love Online.”

  The older of the two plumbers started for Dorie. “Not me.” She tilted her head toward Fordham. “Her.”

  The plumber was holding a pipe that could have been yanked from Abe Lincoln’s house. “Lady, can you come with me? I wanna show you something.”

  Fordham followed the plumber—whose shirt pocket introduced him as Tony—to the garage, where a healthy inch of water was pooling around paint cans, garden tools, and assorted other items Fordham never used but knew were there for a reason. All the important boxes appeared to have been moved to the family room. It was a big job, and she now understood why Whitty had snapped at her.

  There was no sign of her in the garage. Poor kid must have slipped into the kitchen for fortification. Fordham tiptoed around a piece of equipment that she imagined could suck up a swimming pool for lunch and still have room for dinner. Of course, her shoes were history, but that was just another thing to add to the list. And it wasn’t even Friday the thirteenth.

  Tony led her to a corner of the garage where some pipe had broken off because of a water-pressure valve that must have been designed during the Civil War because...

  She wasn’t listening. She wanted to say, How much and how long? That’s all I care about.

  Tony seemed to have gotten the message. He stopped talking and went back to work. Fordham examined the mess she had to walk over to get back to the house.

  “Jerry, gimme the hose.” Tony’s th sounds all came out like d, but at least now Fordham knew the name of the guy with the butt.

  “Which end?”

  “The one you can grab!”

  Tony smacked Jerry on the head and sighed. He appealed to Fordham for sympathy. “My brother’s kid. Got some girl pregnant, quit school, and now I’m stuck with him.”

  Fordham’s disastrous day got the better of her, and she gave herself permission to take Tony’s lead and go off on his nephew. “Oh, really? Is that what happened, Jerry? You just woke up one sunny morning and said, ‘It’s a beautiful day—I think I’ll knock up my girlfriend, quit school, and make my poor uncle clean up my mess’?”

  “Um, not exactly. Like, it was raining a lot, and she wasn’t my girlfriend... yet, anyway. When she said she was on the pill, I didn’t know she meant Zoloft.”

  Jerry shrugged and continued working on the hose. Suddenly, there was a lot of gurgling. Tony panicked. “What the heck... be careful, Jerry! Oh shit!” Ice-cold water shot out of the hose, hitting Fordham in its line of fire.

  “Shit!” She was dripping from head to toe.

  “Jerry, you didn’t turn off the freakin’ water? I told you to turn off the freakin’ main valve. Gimme that! I’m real sorry, lady. The kid is wet behind the ears.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Fordham said, shaking herself off.

  “You know,” Jerry said, staring at her as if he’d just had an epiphany, “you remind me of a Sophia Loren poster my dad has hanging in his toolshed. She’s coming out of the water, and she’s wearing this shirt, and you could see her—” He lifted his hands to his chest and cupped imaginary breasts.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Tony smacked Jerry on the back of the head. “That’s not the way you to talk to a lady. Do you talk to your mother like that?”

  Fordham was more mortified at being likened to Jerry’s mother than at the crude comment. “Okay, I’m going to change now.” She paused then added, “Jerry, why is Sophia Loren in the toolshed?”

  He shrugged again, “Guess she’s one of his tools.”

  FORDHAM NEVER EVEN got the chance to talk to Whitty. The poor kid fell asleep on her homework right after the plumbers left. Luckily, she was light enough to carry to bed. Dorie had also turned in early, and the house was totally quiet by the time Fordham was out of the shower and ready to unwind. She threw on sweats and laughed about how crazy the day had been, starting with Margo’s belly and ending with Jerry’s butt.

  It was after nine, and Fordham hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. Her stomach was gurgling. She couldn’t decide between Cheerios and leftover cold noodles in sesame paste. Neither was grabbing her, but she got a pair of chopsticks.

  Something about seeing her mother in her father’s T-shirt was making her uneasy. She thought she had made her peace. His death had been from an accidental overdose. The “accidental” part was suspect, since he’d been swimming in debt, but that was the final conclusion. Either way, it was over, and there was no purpose in conjuring up the anger and disappointment. Sure, she had defended him when she was talking to Margo. A dead man couldn’t speak for himself. But deep down, where she wanted to feel loyalty and respect for her father, she found resentment and emptiness.

  Maybe a cup of tea would help. Her grandmother always said, “A good cup of tea is like a bath for your soul.”

  She switched on the light fixture over the center island. It was unusually modern for a turn-of-the-century piece, with four hanging pendants connected to one central unit. She and Dorie had found it when they were shopping in Nyack, a quaint little town near the Hudson River. Arnie had only been gone a couple of months when Dorie had called, requesting mother- daughter time. She suggested a waterside lunch and a shopping trip. Dorie, who normally didn’t want to go out much during that time, sounded insistent. Fordham wondered what was up. Anyone who mattered was in good health, and Fordham’s third cousin being elected as president of her chapter of Nutrisystem didn’t warrant a celebratory meal. Maybe her mother had already found someone new. Fordham wasn’t sure how she’d react to that so soon after her father’s death.

  But lunch had nothing to do with family or a new man. Dorie was trying to find a pleasant way to tell Fordham she was flat broke and then some. She’d been a stay-at-home mom, and since Arnie had insisted on being the breadwinner, the situation had never changed. But now, Dorie was stuck. She told Fordham that having to ask to move into her home was making her crazy, but she had no choice. A new light fixture and lunch wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. Fordham didn’t understand. Arnie had to have purchased insurance policies and other assets. Their house had been in freakin’ Dellwood, a posh old neighborhood in New City.

  The kettle whistled, disrupting Fordham’s thoughts. She got her mug and accidentally added enough honey to make her teeth hurt. She didn’t mind. Somehow, the sweetness seemed like a good idea. She adj
usted the dimmer switch to make the room glow as if it were basking in candlelight. She smiled, remembering the over-the-top candelabra Dorie had brought home during one of her redecorating phases. Arnie had griped, “Who does your mother think I am—Liberace? We don’t even have a piano.” But Dorie had loved it, so it found a home on a marble end table.

  There was no denying that Arnie Price had a good heart and was loved by everyone. Especially his bookie. Dorie had known he enjoyed gambling. They used to go to Atlantic City with Gloria and her husband—and after the divorce, her second husband—at least once a month. Fordham and Gloria would play the slots, and the guys would hit the tables. Arnie never won big or lost much, or so he said. He liked the horses. They went to Monticello Raceway a few times during the summers but spent more time at the flea market than at the track. Even their trips to Belmont had been more about finding new restaurants in Queens than about the horses. Or so she presumed.

  Dorie was crazy in love with her husband, who was almost fifteen years her senior, and she never questioned his actions. He treated her like gold, gave her anything she wanted, helped around the house, and watched soap operas with her. She was more satisfied than most women she knew, she told Fordham.

  So it was all the more shocking when Dorie got a call from her attorney, after Arnie passed away, saying he had to meet with her immediately to discuss how to proceed. Arnie Price was a good soul who had spent every penny they had and every penny they didn’t have to support his gambling addiction and secure the life he knew his adoring wife wanted. And as a grand finale, he had cashed in his life insurance policy.

  Dorie blamed herself. During their lunch in Nyack, she said, “Your father may have fumbled here and there—no one is a saint—but bottom line, it was my fault. I chose to look the other way. I had to. Besides you, he was the light of my life. Some women love hard, and when it catches up with us, we deal with it.”