Loose Screws (14 page)

“Oh, right.” I laugh, which is probably not the smartest thing to do, but I can't help it. “Can you honestly say, if you'd seen the
real
Jarrod and Boyd before you started dating them, things would have gotten as far as they did?”

“Hell, no. And just think of all that heartache I could have avoided. Not to mention the cost of two divorces.”

“Okay, so maybe that wasn't the best example I could have used. But…well, how many women have the balls to let a man see the real
her,
either, right off the bat? I mean, I sure as hell don't. Do you?”

Terrie apparently thinks about this for a bit, finally shakes her head. “I see your point.”

“Besides, who among us isn't screwed up in some way? I know I am. I'm too controlling, for one thing. And manipulative. And I'm sure I've got other imperfections I
can't even see. But I'd like to think I've got some appealing traits, too, you know?
Some
redeeming qualities that would enable another human being to put up with me for the long haul.”

Terrie quirks her mouth up at that, which makes me curious, but not enough to get sidetracked. I'm having enough trouble speaking in generalities. But then she says, “I hear what you're saying, but…”

“But what?”

She sighs. “Hell, I don't even know anymore.”

We walk some more, I think some more, vaguely amazed to discover a stash of unused brain cells I had not heretofore known existed.

“Try this,” I say. “What if there were some sort of full-disclosure clause that came with every new guy you met? You know, like the thingy Realtors have to fill out when they're selling a house? I mean, if you were looking for a house, would you consider one that needs some repairs because it's otherwise in a good school district with a big yard and the price is right? And if so, what kinds of things could you deal with, or overlook, and which ones would you consider a turn-off?”

Terrie swipes her braids back behind one shoulder, her brow knotted. Then she shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope. I'm strictly an apartment girl. Don't want any old house that's gonna fall down around my ears, or turn out to have termites, or that's gonna require constant babying in order for it to be happy. Now an apartment, something goes wrong, you just call the super and he fixes it for you—”

“Clearly you have lived in better places than I have.”

She ignores me. “But you don't have to make a commitment. No commitment, no broken heart.”

“What about sex?”

One eyebrow lifts. “Don't have to live in a house to have sex, sugar.”

“Very funny. I mean, as in long-term, committed kind of sex.”

Laughter erupts from her throat. “Don't need commitment to have sex, either.”

“Yeah. But is it as good without it?”

Terrie looks down at her feet as we walk.

“You don't get a pretty backyard with an apartment, either,” she says, “but that's a sacrifice you make for peace of mind.”

I link my arm through hers, steer both her and the dog around to head back toward my building. “So. Does this mean you're not going to go out with Davis?”

“It does.”

“Terrie, going out with the man isn't the same as marrying him.”

She laughs, the sound hollow. “I know that look in a man's eyes. It's a hungry look. And not just for sex. That, I could deal with. It's a look that says mortgages and minivans and babies.”

“There are worse things in the world.”

“Lord, now you sound like Shelby.” She turns to me. “Life's not a romance novel. Things don't turn out all right just because you want them to.”

“I don't hear Shel complaining.”

Now her laugh is harsh.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You really think Shelby's happy?”

“Well, yeah. Don't you?”

Terrie purses her lips, looks away.

I have just enough energy left to bristle. “What the hell is this? Jealousy?” Terrie's gaze whips to mine. I don't let the reciprocal anger in it derail me. “You know, this is getting real old, the way you keep letting your own bitterness color your perceptions about other people's lives.”

“I am not jealous of Shelby. Or anybody else.” But I see her eyes glitter before she turns away. “Yeah, okay, so maybe my past colors my perceptions a bit. But this has nothing to do with me, I swear. I just know what I see.”

“And what is that? Hey, if Shel's not happy, she sure talks a good talk.”

“Bingo.”

I halt, right in the middle of the sidewalk. “You really think that's all a front?”

“Honey, I know it is. People who are genuinely content don't have to talk about it all the time, or feel so damn compelled to make a case for it. All that stuff she said the other night? You really think that was for your benefit? Or even mine? Uh-uh…that was about a woman trying to convince herself she'd made the right choices.”

“That's nuts, Terrie.”

Terrie shrugs. “Believe what you want to. No skin off my nose. But betcha five bucks I'm right.”

We walk in silence for a minute or so, but my head is spinning. Even if what Terrie's said is true, how would I have missed it? Of course, I have been a little preoccupied of late, between the preparations for the wedding and then the assorted catastrophes that have befallen me since. Still…

“But she hasn't said a word.”

Terrie laughs. “You think she's gonna come right out and admit her life is going down the tubes? But did you notice how quiet she was tonight? Looked to me like Little Miss Bubbly done gone and lost all her fizz.”

“She's never done well in the heat, you know that. And the kids were totally wired today…” I shake my head. “I figured she was just tired.”

“Tired is right. Tired of that life she wants everybody to believe is so damn enchanted.”

“You sound angry.”

“Well, I suppose that's better than
jealous.
In any case, I'm pissed
for
her. Not
at
her. It's just…shit, I've been expecting something like this for a long time, since we were still kids.”

“You have? Why?”

We've arrived back at my building. A pair of low brick walls flank the front step; Terrie lays her palm on top of one of them to check for wetness, then sits down. I follow suit.

“What has that girl ever had to fight for, Ginge? Everything's always been handed to her, everything's always gone her way. I don't mean she didn't work for her grades or her career, because I know she did. But even those
weren't the struggle it is for some of us, you hear what I'm saying? Same thing happens when she falls in love. What other boyfriends did she have before she met Mark? I mean, serious ones?”

I think back, then shake my head. “I can't remember.”

“That's because there weren't any. She meets Mark, they fall in love, they get engaged, they have the hitchless, tasteful wedding, that apartment lands in Mark's lap, they have two kids, a boy and a girl, no complications, no hassles.”

She pauses. “Everything's always fallen right into place her whole life. How could she not expect things to just continue that way? She's conditioned to believe in happily-ever-after, simply because she's never known anything else. She doesn't have the coping mechanism for disaster that I have.” With a grim smile, she faces me. “That you have, too. Now.”

I think over everything she's said, although I know I am too wiped to absorb most of it. “Naïveté isn't a crime, Terrie.”

“No. But it is a liability.”

I yawn, shake my head. A shiver raises goose bumps down my arms. I skim my palm along the erect hairs on one arm, trying to order my thoughts.

“You think Shelby's changed?”

“I think life is forcing her to,” Terrie says. “Like it forces us all to, at some point.”

I frown.

 

I pass out within seconds of falling into bed a little after one, not even giving a damn that the dog has crawled up beside me. Only I wake up, heart pounding and sweaty, less than an hour later.

This is
so
not fair. I'm exhausted to the point where breathing is a chore. Yet here I lie, listening to Geoff
whup-whupping
beside me in a dream, hyper-aware of every little noise in the apartment. I tell myself it's just the new apartment heebie-jeebies, combined with being overtired. What else could it be?

Maybe I don't want to know the answer to that.

Cursing, I get out of bed, stumble through a forest of unpacked boxes over to the window, where I fold my arms across my sleep T and stare out at the street below. It's begun to rain again, softly.

An odd ache for I know not what takes root in the center of my chest, spreads up and out until my throat clogs, my eyes burn.

This is nuts. I found a great apartment in less than two weeks, I'm no longer unemployed, I'm even over the hurdle about my mother's finding out I've moved. Okay, yeah, there are still some major issues to be resolved, but basically I've yanked back my life from those fickle gods, shown them who's da man. Hell, by all accounts I should feel unbearably smug right about now. Not like, well, whatever it is I am feeling.

Geoff hops off the bed when I pad into the kitchen for a bottle of water. For him, life can be boiled down to one simple equation: kitchen=food. He snuffles at the seam of a closed bottom cupboard, then looks up at me and whines.

“Your food's not in there, doofus. Besides, there's still some in your dish if you're desperate.”

He paws at the cupboard. Exasperated, I open it and show him.

“Look.
No food.
Nothing but pots and pans. Happy now?”

I can tell he's not, but he takes his stubby little body off to collapse on the floor nearby with a heavy sigh. I get my water, return to the living room to continue my ruminations. The weird, icky feeling goes right with me.

I feel…disoriented. Off balance. Okay, so I figure part of it's because of what Terrie said about Shelby—even though I'm not taking her at her word, not until I've had a chance to feel Shelby out for myself—but it's more than that. It's Terrie, too, letting a never-before-seen vulnerability leak through. It's Greg not being who I thought he was and Brice getting bumped off and my mother making normal, friendly overtures and my unsettled feelings for Nick (oh, don't look at me like that—you actually
believed
all that crap about my not being attracted to him?) and the
fact that—big sigh here—I'm really, really dreading starting that job on Monday.

God. I feel like an earthquake or hurricane survivor or something. Here I've been so busy getting my life back in order, like a beaver single-mindedly rebuilding its broken dam (and yes, I know I'm mixing metaphors, but what the hell do you want from my life? It's freaking three o'clock in the morning), I totally missed the fact that my entire landscape has changed. Now that I've finally stopped to catch my breath, I have no idea where I am. The landmarks are still there, but they no longer seem familiar.

Tears I have not allowed myself since the day after the wedding slide down my cheeks, tears of confusion and frustration more than actual self-pity. I have never been an indecisive person. For most of my life, I thought I knew what I wanted. For most of my adult life, I've managed to get it. Keeping order is what I do. Who I am. Or at least, who I thought I was until about ten minutes ago. How did I manage to miss that my whole world—or at least, the one I thought existed—has changed, that everyone around me is changing, and the coping mechanisms that have stood me in good stead for so many years are no longer working?

Sweet Jesus. What do I do now?

T
he following Friday evening, 5:16 p.m. Shelby and Mark and the kids are coming for dinner. They're late, which isn't surprising since I imagine the traffic's pretty weird on the Henry Hudson Parkway right about now. And which is good, because I'm scurrying around the apartment playing Martha Stewart. Okay, my version of Martha Stewart, which is to make sure there's no crud stuck to the silverware, the rug is vacuumed and Geoff hasn't left a barf pile somewhere. It's gotten hot again, not as bad as it was but enough to make my hair bug the life out of me. However, I'm feeling very hostessy in this rayon slip dress I found in a little hole-in-the-wall shop on 181st Street and I even took time to give myself a pedicure, so my toenails are this bitchin' fuchsia color. So you see, I'm trying for upbeat, I really am. But…

Big sigh here.

Okay, this is the thing. You know how I said I was dreading this job? That I had a real bad feeling about it? Well, honey, chalk up one for premonition.

I mean, Brice may have been a rotten, weasely sonuvabitch, but at least he knew what he was doing. These peo
ple have their heads so far up their asses they can see out their navels. A conclusion I've reached after less than a week.

First off, the so-called “designers” are nothing more than glorified salespeople. Which I knew going in, but still. I didn't spend four years in design school and seven years at one of the top firms in the city to follow Suzy and Joe Schmoe back and forth across the furniture floor for two hours while they dither about whether to go with the leather sectional or the English chintz trad sofa and matching love seat. See, I'm not about giving people
choices.
I'm about listening to what they want, taking notes, then saying, “This would be perfect,” and they go, “Are you sure?” and I say, “Absolutely” and they take it. And love it. Badda-bing, badda-boom, done, done, done. It's nigh unto impossible to railroad somebody when they're standing in the midst of a sea of a thousand sofas. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

And all for a lousy ten percent, too.

I figure I took in this week, after taxes, all of three hundred dollars. Now, tell me, how far do you think that's going to go in New York? Hell, that wouldn't even cut it in Des Moines. The head of the design studio assured me I'd be able to pull in my goal figures, no problem, even though it would take a couple months before the special orders came in and the cash flow started seriously gushing.

Uh-huh. Um, excuse me, but customers aren't exactly knocking each other down in their split to get there.

You can imagine how wonderful it made me feel when I told some of the other “designers” where I'd worked before and they all said, in unison, “So what are you doing
here?
”

You can also imagine how wonderful it made me feel when I called up my former clients from Fannings to say, Hey, guess what, I'm in business again, when could we make an appointment? And every single one of them—with profuse apologies, of course—informed me they'd already taken their projects elsewhere.

So much for loyalty.

There's no way I'm going to survive at that place. No
way—

My buzzer buzzes. I call down, buzz Shelby and the gang in.

And why, you may ask, am I having my cousin and her family to dinner less than a week after moving in?

Why the hell do you think?

Well, actually, there are two reasons. The first is, I still haven't quite let go of that self-fulfilling prophecy theory thing, that people who act as though everything's hunky-dory can make it happen for them. That whole who-am-I-where-am-I-and-where-do-I-fit-in business just gives me the willies. I don't want to think about any of that now, I
can't
think about any of that now, and I figure surrounding myself with people whose situation is potentially more screwed up than mine is a damn fine avoidance maneuver.

Which leads me to the second reason for inviting Shelby and company tonight, which is that, despite my best intentions, my conversation with Terrie has been rattling around in my head like a marble in a tin can since that night we talked. So I've decided to see for myself if Shelby's okay. Hey, I've known my cousin all my life. If there's really something wrong, I'll spot it, sure thing. And tonight, I'm not going to let anything distract me. I've got it all planned, how I'm going to surreptitiously find out what's up.

Of course, if it turns out Terrie's right, I may want to kill myself. Yeah, Shelby might be a little over the top, optimistically speaking, but her marriage to Mark has been my benchmark for Getting it Right for the past six years. I do not want this to be on the rocks, believe me.

But I do want to
know.

We do lots of hugs-and-cheek kisses when they spill into the apartment, the kids making an immediate beeline for the hapless dog. Who, fortunately, seems to be cool with it. You never know with Geoff. Not that he's ever snippy or anything. He's got far too much class for that. He can, however, be rather cool when the mood strikes. Aloof.

We do the “Do you want something to drink?” routine, I slip into the kitchen to get Shelby a glass of ginger ale, Mark a Scotch on the rocks, all the while watching their interaction. Which seems the same as it's always been, as if the two of them are encased in a sparkling, iridescent bubble of affection. Bound together by invisible threads. Something. Actually, sometimes their cootchie-cooiness drives me up the wall, but tonight I find it reassuring. Shelby seems relaxed enough, giving Mark a smile when he hands her her drink.

I have always thought these complemented each other perfectly, like when, after months of searching, you finally find exactly the right sweater to go with that marked down skirt you bought on impulse, and then the two together become your favorite outfit? Mark's the kind of guy you look at and the first word that comes to mind is “comfortable”. Nothing remarkable, lookswise—sandy-blond hair, thinning on top, wire-rimmed glasses over hazel eyes, the beginnings of a paunch—but pleasant enough. A gentle man whose brow crinkles in concentration when you're talking to him, as if straining not to miss a single word. Which I suppose is a good thing for a pediatrician. I'm struck tonight by how much he and Shelby look like brother and sister, since her coloring's very similar.

“What are we having?” Shelby asks. She's wearing a loose, tan cotton jumper over a white T-shirt, expensive leather sandals. A velvet headband holds her hair off her roundish face, making her look ten years younger than she is. “I'm starving!”

Okay, now that's weird. Shelby's no anorectic, but I've never in my life heard her admit to actually being hungry.

“Lasagne and salad.”

Hey, I can do lasagne. Especially when it's a pan of Nonna's that she gave me, oh, three months ago? All I had to do was defrost that puppy, then stick it in the oven for thirty minutes, which I do now. My kind of cooking, boy.

The salad is done, the table is set, the kids are occupied… I go back out into the living room, settle into the wing chair. We talk about nothing for a few minutes, warming up the way people do who haven't been together
for a while. Also, as nice a guy as Mark is, when the conversation veers down decidedly female paths, he's the type to stand up and say, “Oh, well, I suppose I'll leave you ladies to it,” after which he'll kiss Shelby on the top of her head, then wander off to his office or something. Unfortunately, that tactic only works if we're having dinner at their place. Since he's here, he's stuck. And since neither of us want to watch the man go glassy-eyed, we stick to safe subjects.

“So,” Shelby says, “how's the new job?”

“You know how first weeks are,” I say with a shrug. “Settling in and all.”

Her eyes narrow, just a hair, at my skirting the question. Now Terrie would have no qualms about dragging the truth out of me, kicking and screaming, but Shelby knows if something's wrong, I'll come out with it soon enough, whether anybody wants me to or not. Why hasten the inevitable?

The kids get into a tussle about something inconsequential. I get up, give them drawing pads and colored pencils, send them to the bedroom where we can keep an ear out but still play grown-up.

Shelby then volunteers that Mark's been invited to join a consortium of physicians on Park Avenue. She's beaming. Mark makes “It's nothing” noises, but I can tell he's very pleased.

“That's wonderful!” I say.

“Might mean longer hours to start, though,” he says, just as Shelby jumps and says, “Oh, my God! What was that?”

I shut my eyes. Just for a moment.

Yes, boys and girls, there is a reason why my apartment was so cheap. Actually, several reasons, the least of which is the family upstairs. I can't quite figure out how many of them there are, or how they're all managing to live in a one-bedroom apartment, but my guess is their previous residence was a bit more rural than this one.

“A rooster,” I say.

“A rooster?” Shelby and Mark say together.

“What on earth—oh, dear God!” Shelby says when the
thing goes off a second time. “What on earth are they doing with a rooster in a New York apartment?”

“I've decided I don't want to know,” I say wearily, getting up to check on the lasagne.

Of course, the rooster isn't the half of it. For some reason these people seem to have difficulty with the concept that, when you turn the water on in the bathtub, it's generally a good idea to keep an eye on it. Three times, it's overflowed in the last week, streaming down my walls and straight into the apartment downstairs (which I gathered from the irateness of the little old lady who charged up here and banged on my door until I thought she'd break it down). The last time, the water came through the light fixture, exploding the lightbulb. While I was sitting on the john. Took me an hour to pick all the glass out of my hair.

“But it's against health regulations to keep farm animals inside city limits,” Mark says. I see him look up at the ceiling, which is now shuddering. “And why is it crowing now?”

“Ask the rooster,” I say, then add, probably a bit too loudly, “Oh, shoot! I completely forgot to pick up the bread for tonight!”

“That's okay, honey,” Shelby says, but I divert her by directly delivering the next line in my script to Mark.

“Would you mind terribly running down the to bakery at the end of the block and picking up a couple of loaves?” I'm already to my purse, digging out my wallet to give him a ten. “Maybe take the kids with you, get them éclairs or something for after dinner?”

“Sure, no problem,” Mark says, walking right into my trap. “Where is it again?”

“Just turn right when you get outside, then right again and keep walking. It's about a half block down, you can't miss it.”

He calls the kids, refuses my money, disappears.

“Gee. That was subtle.”

I turn and look at Shelby, just managing not to blink innocently. “What?”

She pushes a stream of air through her lips. “Yeah, right, you
forgot
the bread.”

Okay, so subterfuge isn't my strong suit. But neither do I buckle easily under pressure, which circumstances have given me more than ample opportunity to prove this past little while.

“I did,” I say with conviction. “Really. I mean, with everything on my mind, I'm doing well to remember my name.” I flounce back into the living room, sink back into the chair, realizing if I say or do a single thing to steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go, she'll
know
I'm lying. Fortunately, I don't have to dangle the bait in front of her, because she just reaches right down in the bucket and grabs it herself.

“Isn't that great, about Mark's new job?”

“Sounds pretty good to me. I mean, it's just what he's wanted, right?”

“Absolutely. And as I told him, since I'm home anyway with the kids, he doesn't have to worry about his hours.” Bright smile. “We'll be fine.”

I wait. She fidgets with the arm of the sofa, then says, not looking at me, “You want to hear something crazy? The magazine called, offered me a job.”

“What's crazy about that?”

She laughs. “I have two children under the age of five, that's what. As if I could go back to work now. As if I'd
want
to. Anyway, with this new opportunity for Mark, it would disrupt the kids far too much if both of us were away—”

And wouldn't you know it, just when things are getting good, Mark and the kids return, laden with bags. Methinks there's more there than a few loaves of crusty bread and a couple of éclairs.

“You know what they had?” Mark says to Shelby as both kids climb up onto the sofa with Mama, chattering like magpies. “Fresh-baked pumpernickel!”

Shelby seems to perk up. “Really?”

“Yep. Weren't you just complaining the other day how you hadn't had any good pumpernickel in ages? Here…
take a whiff of this.” He takes the round, uncut loaf from the bag, carries it over to her.

“Oh, God…that smells so good!”

“Didn't I tell you? Huh?”

Shelby giggles, gently swats him on the stomach, then loops her arms around Hayley's waist to return the tiny girl's effusive hug. “Honestly, you're as crazy as the kids.”

Geoff joins me in the kitchen to help me slice the bread, spread the garlic butter inside. Only he starts in again with his cupboard-clawing routine, which he goes through at least three or four times a day. And each time, as I do now, I open it, show him there's nothing for him inside, then show him his food. Do you have any idea how long it takes a corgi to work his way through a forty-pound bag of dog food?

Shelby wanders in about this time, stares at the bag.

“Criminy. That's the biggest bag of dog food I've ever seen.”