Catch of the Day (11 page)

“Hi, Georgie,” I say. “How’s my best buddy?”

Father Tim and I exchange fond smiles over his breakfast, and for the first time in a while, I feel some real hope.

T
HE FIRST DATE
is less than pleasing for both parties involved.

I’ve agreed to meet Oliver Wachterski at a bowling alley outside Jonesport. This way, I think, we’ll have something to do in case we hate each other.

I get to the ratty little building, which is packed. Once inside, I realize that I’ve neglected to ask Oliver what he looks like or tell him what I look like. Instead, we’ve just agreed to meet somewhere at Snicker’s Alley. The pleasing crash of bowling pins thunders around me, and I wander around a little, being a few minutes early. I walk past the game room, music and gunfire twisting together in a rather interesting cacophony. I don’t see any men by themselves; instead, there are fathers and team members and buddies.

I stroll the length of the alley again, pretending to look simultaneously amused and nonchalant.
Ah, the bathrooms. Fascinating.
I stop at the end of the alley, where a cute little family is ensconced. The older kids, both girls, watch as their little brother heaves the ball onto the lane with both hands. He must be only four or five, a small kid, and the ball rolls with hypnotic slowness toward the pins. It hits the left bumper, then drifts back to the center.

“Won’t be long now, pal,” calls the dad. “Getting closer!”

“I think you might get a strike, Jamie,” says the younger sister.

The parents are sitting at the scoring table, holding hands. The woman looks at her husband, smiling, and he gives her a quick kiss.

“No!” the little boy cries out. His ball has stopped in the center of the lane. “No!” He bursts into tears.

Immediately, the older girl picks him up. “Don’t worry, buddy! That’s really special when that happens! Hardly anyone can do that, right, Melody?”

“That’s right, Jamie. You get extra points for that!” The girls exchange a conspiratorial big-girl smile over Jamie’s head.

The alley attendant comes over and ventures out to retrieve the ball. He has a sticker for the boy, which cheers him up immensely. “I won a sticker, Mommy!” he shouts.

I smile. What a wonderful family, I think, studying the parents. They seem to be perfectly ordinary people, neither handsome nor ugly, fat nor thin. And yet they obviously love each other and have tenderhearted kids. How is something so simple so hard to get?

Someone taps my shoulder. “Maggie?”

I turn. “Oh! Oliver?”

He nods. “Nice to meet you.” He’s nice-looking, even features, lovely brown eyes that hint at smiling. My heart rises with hope.

“Hi. Yes, I’m Maggie Beaumont. It’s really nice to meet you, too. I was just watching this cute family. The boy’s ball didn’t make it to the pins, and the sisters picked him up and they were all…” I realize I’m in danger of entering the city of Babble-On. “Well. They were very nice.”

“Want to get some shoes?” Oliver asks. He’s smiling.

“Sure.”

We rent our shoes and find our lane, number thirteen. I forget if thirteen is lucky or unlucky, so I decide that it is indeed lucky. We’re between a group of serious league bowlers and another family with young kids.

“So you own a diner?” Oliver asks.

“Yes, I own Joe’s in Gideon’s Cove.”

“I’ve never been there,” he says. “But now I have a reason to come.” He has dimples when he smiles, and I blush in pleasure.

“Why don’t you go first?” he asks.

The first few rounds are fine. We cheer for each other and chat easily. It’s when I mention Christy that the first warning shot across the bow is fired.

“You’re an identical twin?” he asks.

“Yup.” My smile fades at the speculative look on his face…slightly lecherous, eyebrows raised, smirk on his lips. The boys in high school used to make the same face.

But he says nothing, and when we sit together for a moment, he casually puts his arm around my shoulders.

“This is fun,” he says. His hand brushes my neck, and my skin breaks out in gooseflesh. Not the good kind. He leans in for a kiss. I don’t stop him, but I don’t really want… Ew. Very wet. Very spitty. Tongue already? Okay, enough. I jerk back.

“Yes. It’s fun. Bowling…well, I’ve always liked bowling. Okay! Your turn! Tie-breaker, so put on your game face! You’re the Red Sox, I’m the Yankees. Actually, I want to be the Red Sox. Okay? So watch out! Give it your best shot.”

Finally, I manage to wrestle my mouth into submission. I stare at my hands and wish I hadn’t bothered using my ultra-expensive rose oil/lanolin/honey cream this evening.

Oliver gives me an odd look and gets up, and I take a quick swipe at my mouth. He picks up his ball from the little conveyor belt and goes into his windup. Just as the ball flies from his hands, he falls to the floor, writhing.

“Ow! Shit! Ow!”

I rush to his side, and the people from lanes twelve and fourteen stop what they’re doing.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”

“My groin! I popped my hernia. Damn it!”

“You
what?
” I wince. His face is bright red, and he’s clutching himself rather graphically with both hands. Several people gather around us.

“I popped a hernia, okay? Just push on it, and I should be able to stand.” Though his face is red, his eyes are…calm. Hmm.

“Do you need any help?” the mother from lane fourteen asks.

“No,” Oliver snaps. “Just push on it, Maggie.”

My hands instinctively grasp each other. “Well… why don’t
you
push on it?”

“Because I can’t! You need leverage! Just do it, Maggie!”

“Push on where, exactly?” I ask. A prickle of mistrust crawls up my neck.

“My groin. Right there. Jesus, Maggie, I’m in pain here!”

Is he? Or is he faking? Would he do this just for some weird sexual thrill? I barely know this guy. I don’t want to push on his groin! Blech!

“Come on, Maggie!” he says.

“Right. Right, okay…it’s just that I never…you know…hernias? I don’t know anything about hernias. Maybe we should wait for a medic. I’ll call 911.”

“No! This happens all the time. For God’s sake, Maggie, just push.” His teeth are gritted now, and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or frustration that I’m not feeling him up. He certainly looks pissed off.

“Um, okay, so where exactly?” I say, biting my lip.

“Here.” He grabs my hand and shoves it on his… well, you know. His male place. The family next to us hustles their kids away.

“Go ahead, honey,” one of the male league players says. “Push.”

Grimacing, I look away and give a tentative push against his, um, flesh.

“Harder, Maggie! Harder!” Is that pain or sexual frenzy? I just can’t tell. “Push harder!”

Oh, crap, is this for real? He certainly isn’t good with pain, and that doesn’t make me like him any better. I push a little harder.

“Will you stop fucking around and do it?” Oliver snarls.

Years of lifting giant bags of potatoes and onions, wrestling economy-size sacks of rice and flour, endless bike riding and walking, have made me quite strong. It’s something I’m rather proud of, my strength. I look down at Oliver’s speculative eyes, and push with all my might.

His scream rips through the air, soaring over the clatter and smash of pins. Every single person in the place turns to look, reducing the racket of the bowling alley to the silence of an empty church, except for Ollie’s shriek. Then his voice breaks out of the range of human hearing, and all is perfectly quiet.

“Better?” I ask.

Twenty minutes later, Oliver is carried out by the ambulance people. “Good luck,” I call as he is trundled past.

“Bitch,” he chokes. His face has returned to bright red from the purple my great strength induced. I feel no guilt whatsoever. Harder he said, and harder he got.

“Well, if he didn’t have a hernia, I hope you gave him one, sweetie,” says a woman leaguer kindly. “I thought he was kind of a prick.”

I smile at her. “Me, too.”

I make a mental note on the drive home: thirteen is definitely bad luck.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
NOTHER GREAT STORY
of the horrors of dating. I entertain half the town with Oliver’s Groin, the latest in a series of laugh-out-loud jokes that comprises my love life. Soon I’ll have enough for a daily calendar.

My second date from Father Tim’s list of eligible bachelors is Albert Mikrete. We meet at a steakhouse on Route 1, Al and I. And while he is a good-looking man, financially secure, considerate and pleasant, and while we agree that Maggie Mikrete would be an excellent name, and while he was apparently quite brave during his colonoscopy last month
and
his cataract surgery in January, we decide at the end of our meal that perhaps we aren’t quite right for each other.

“You’re a lovely girl,” Al says as he pays the check (at least there’s that). He puts away the pictures of his grandchildren and smiles. “And you’ve been so kind to an old man like myself, sitting here all night, listening to me go on.”

“I’ll probably kick myself for letting you go,” I say, horrified to realize that Al’s been my best date in years.

“Well, I can’t wait to tell my bridge club that I went on a date with a sweet young thing. Imagine! Me, dating a woman forty-six years younger!”

We laugh and hug and part as friends, and he drives with painstaking care out of the parking lot, another senior citizen fallen to my charms. When I get home, there’s a wheezing, laughing message on my machine from Father Tim. “Oh, shite, Maggie,” he says, and I smile at the rare curse. “You’ve already gone, then. Well, by the time you get home tonight, you’ll find that wires got a wee bit crossed…” He dissolves into more gales of laughter. “Ring me when you get in.”

I pick up the phone and hit number three on speed dial. “You’re speaking to the future Mrs. Albert Mikrete,” I say when he answers.

“Oh, Maggie!” he says. “I’m so sorry. It seems that Father Bruce was thinking of the wrong person…tell me it wasn’t awful.”

“It wasn’t, actually. He has beautiful grandchildren.”

This causes another shower of laughter, and I lie back on my bed and listen happily.

That Sunday as I field the after-church brunch crowd, I’m surprised to see Al come in. He waves vigorously as I serve the Tabors their pancakes.

“Thought I’d stop by and see you, sweetheart,” he announces loudly, adjusting his hearing aid. The diner becomes quiet. “I wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had on our date.”

I smile. “Me, too, Al.” At least this time, I’m not embarrassed. Or drunk.

“W
HAT ABOUT
K
EVIN
M
ICHALSKI
?” Father Tim asks the next week, taking his usual seat at the diner.

“I used to babysit him,” I answer, gazing out at April. Sadly, it doesn’t look different from muddy March, though the air is a bit gentler. There may be a slight fuzz of red on the distant oaks, but I can’t really tell.

“Ah. And that puts him out of the running, does it?”

“He must be twelve or thirteen years younger than I am, Father Tim. He’s nineteen years old. I’d like someone who can buy a six-pack.”

“All right, then,” says Father Tim. He seems to have really gotten a tickle out of arranging my dates and consults his list with a serious expression. “I’ve one last man to try, and if that doesn’t work, I’m giving up on the world of dating.”

“You realize how that sounds, don’t you?” I ask him.

“This one’s a winner, mind you,” he says. “I’ve been saving the best for last.”

“Crafty of you,” I murmur.

He grins. “You’ll thank me for this one, Maggie. You will.”

“Good,” I say. “Because this is your last chance. If he doesn’t work out, I’m putting myself on eBay.”

The breakfast crowd is now finished. Octavio is singing in the kitchen, Georgie is packing up leftovers for me to take to the soup kitchen, and Judy is painting her nails in the corner booth. I’ve already baked five dozen chocolate chip cookies for the fire department tonight, and later this afternoon, I’ll do my Meals on Wheels route. Mrs. K. and I have plans to watch a movie together…
The Cave,
I think she said. She likes a good scare. It’s a typical day, busy, full, tiring. Not a bad day at all.

But loneliness gnaws at me, and filling my time with pleasant tasks ain’t cutting it. While watching a gory movie with Mrs. K. holds its charms, it’s not what I really want. I want to watch a movie with my husband while our kids sleep upstairs. He’ll ask me if I want some ice cream as I go upstairs to check that the covers haven’t slipped off the baby. Then he’ll say, “Hey, move over,” so he can sit next to me and play with my hair. “I love you,” I’ll say, and he’ll answer, “Thank God for that.”