Not Exactly a Love Story (14 page)

“I’m running now, Mom.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t take all that long, does it? You like to cook a whole lot more than you like running. I’m thinking you could start dinner when you get home.”

There was a catch in my breathing all of a sudden, and it had nothing to do with running. “You mean pop a casserole in the oven or something?”

“I mean, I’ll tell you what’s for dinner, and you could start chopping onions and cleaning the chicken or whatever.”

“Something like what Dad used to do, you mean?”

“Exactly. You like to cook, Vinnie.”

I was seized with a dark and not unreasonable anger. It lodged in my throat, making my words come out choked and oddly spaced. “I think it’s time you learned how to get along in the kitchen on your own, Mom.”

My mother’s features slipped and blurred, shifting again to a trembling fury. “What did you say?”

“You had that arrangement with Dad and you gave it up. You have a new setup with Mr. B. I’m not responsible for anything you overlooked!” I was shouting everything. I don’t know how I got so angry so quickly. “You want a cook, you make enough money to hire one.”

“Get out!” she yelled. “Out!”

It shook me, but I stood my ground. “Out? You want me to move out?”

“No,” she gasped. “No, I … I meant, go to your room. I want you out of my sight!”

I let my manner imply that I knew better but I was letting it pass. But my hands were shaking. I could hear my mother crying until I closed my bedroom door. I felt like I had a wooden stake buried in my heart. If I could just reach in and tear the whole mess out, I’d be better off.

I didn’t feel any better an hour later when Mr. B came upstairs to tell me he had decided to take my mother out for lunch. A message delivered in somber tones. This was no doubt inspired by my mother’s emotional upset. She probably felt as bad as I did, maybe worse. But my sympathy went to Mr. B. The bachelor life must have begun to seem like one of his fondest memories.

Dad dropped by later in the day. He came to the door, knocked,
and, when I answered it, asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I got my jacket, wondering if Mom had called him.

“Did Mom call you today?” I asked as I got into the front seat.

“No, why?”

“No reason.”

“I got a fare for a wedding out here today. I have to go pick them up later, get them back to the airport in time for a flight. So we can hang out for a couple of hours.”

Because it was so sunny and looked like it
ought
to be warm, we drove with the windows down, letting the air blast us. We got cold, but we did it anyway for about half an hour. Then we rolled up the windows without saying why.

I knew Dad had something he wanted to tell me. Man to
man. In the spirit of shared confidences, I told Dad about the leather pants. It felt like such a long time ago, it seemed almost funny to me now. I made it funny, anyway. Dad laughed so hard he had to pull over and wipe the tears from his eyes.

But when I said, “Anything new in your life?” Dad answered, “Not much.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing to talk about just yet.” We looked at each other and looked away. Dad rescued the moment, asking, “You got the tank set up yet?”

“There’s a lot to read up on.”

“Give me a call if you run into a problem.”

“Sure, Dad.”

I felt like an awkwardness stayed with us for the next hour. We got the hang of saying something into those spaces where it was most obvious, and it got better. But not necessarily comfortable. Like swimming.

Mr. B’s car was in the driveway when Dad dropped me back home. Things were back to normal, if a little quieter than usual. I could hear Mom talking about taking a painting class, Mr. B making encouraging noises. I stood at the kitchen window, and I was there when the Lincoln hummed into the driveway.

Biff got out, dressed like a guy on a date for once, not like he was about to knock heads in a scrimmage. No doubt he had a big night planned. I turned away and went to say hello to Mom and Mr. B.

Would Patsy come home in time? Or did I mean so little to her that she could toss our conversations aside? I could call her again tonight.

Of course, I’d no longer have the upper hand.

Then again, did I ever? She was out on a date, and I was waiting for her to come home.

Dinner was spaghetti and meatballs from the deli section of the supermarket. The crepe paper–green parsley flakes they used for garnish were a dead giveaway. However, Mr. B didn’t complain, and I didn’t either.

I went upstairs to write a book report, thinking about everything but. I wrote badly. By ten o’clock, I was haunting the windows, hoping to see Patsy come home.

At 11:35, the car pulled up in front of her house.

I’d been sitting near the window, and I heard the car idling. I could look out from behind the edge of my curtains without getting up from my desk.

They sat there till 11:53. If she’d known I could see her, or at least the car she sat in, I’d have accused Patsy of playing with me. Finally, she burst out of the car. That’s how it looked. She ran up the sidewalk. Biff got out and followed her partway, then stopped and sort of wandered back to his car. Odd.

I didn’t have time to think about it. It was twelve a.m. I dialed. I reached to switch off my lamp, then caught myself. If she sat anywhere near a window while she waited for the
phone to ring, she might notice that my light always went out just before the first ring. I left it alone.

Ringing.

“Ignatio?” From underwater. Like a clogged drain. “I couldn’t find an H name.”

“There aren’t many,” I said, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I was still worried about the lamp. It’s just this kind of little detail that trips up big criminals.

“I thought you were going to call later tonight.”

“Don’t pick a fight, okay? What’s wrong? You don’t sound too good.”

“Maybe you should’ve called someone else,” she answered back. She was quick, but she didn’t have the usual snap.

“I called you.”

She said, “Nasty habit.”

“They say that makes the best … partnerships. Whatever.” It felt strange, talking to her with the light on. Personal. Like asking her into my room.

“What does?”

“One person’s neurosis neatly fitted into someone else’s.”

I figured she’d object to the idea she might have a neurosis, but she said, “I went out tonight. He wouldn’t let me out of the car.”

“What?”

“He tried to make like he was joking. I told him I didn’t want to mess around, but he wouldn’t give it up.”

“What did you do?” I got up and started to pace, three
steps away and three steps back, pulling the phone cord with me. All this crap going on while I’m watching from the window and I can’t even tell.

“I grabbed the ashtray and dumped it in his lap. Some of the ashes were still hot. He thinks smoking looks smart. Anyway, I jumped out while he was yelling and brushing himself off.”

“Why’d you go out with him?” I was angry and I didn’t try to hide it. Anything was better than the slipping, sliding dread that made me weak. “I mean, couldn’t you tell Biff was a jerk?”

“All my friends think he’s pretty cool.”

“They’ve been out with him, these girls?”

“He’s a big shot in school. You know how it is, Iggy. My friends see me as something like the leader of our group. So they thought it was cool that he asked me out.”

“Clique,” I said, feeling another queasy ripple of adrenaline in my veins.

“What?”

“That’s what your group is. A clique. Like you’re too good for most and very choosy about the rest.”

“That’s your opinion,” she said shakily.

“And you know what else?” I yelled.

“What?”

“If you’re the leader, how come you’re doing what they tell you—”

Click.

Then again, maybe those friends didn’t have as much of an influence as she claimed. She sure didn’t care what I thought.

On Sunday, Mom and Mr. B had a day planned. Mr. B was keeping us in separate corners till the room cooled, the way he did with guys who got hot under the collar in gym class. He said he’d drive into the city with her, walk around a little, see a matinee, go out to dinner.

Mom poked her nose into my room to give me a rundown on the sandwich supplies. I could’ve gone out for a so-called run while they got ready. Instead, I holed up in my room, muttering to myself over the poorly written instruction sheet for the fish tank’s air pump.

Mr. B brought me a fried egg sandwich as if he was accustomed to cheerfully bringing obnoxious people breakfast in bed. He was in and out quickly so he could dress for the day, and I could hear Mom using that chirpy little voice she’d reserved for him when they were dating.

My mood started to improve. That odd little chirp in Mom’s voice had bothered me a few months ago, but not anymore. I’d realized it was the voice of my mom being happy. I wanted her to be happy. And I wanted him to be happy. I didn’t think of Mr. B as a dad, but I thought of him as family.

After they’d gone, I set to work on the fish tank. For about three hours I muddled through, washing gravel,
playing nice with a plastic Oriental bridge with attached bonsai-like trees, sorting out the filtering system.

When I added water and got it all working, I spent an hour getting my homework finished. By then it was late enough that Mom and Mr. B would be headed for the restaurant. And I was hungry.

I looked in the fridge to see what my options were. Another egg
sandwich or PB&J. And of course there were the deli packages, paper-wrapped.

But I found a few small zucchini in the same crisper. Mom only bought vegetables that were out of season. Her urge to enjoy them lasted until she was faced with the problem of how to cook them.

The zucchini made me want to sit down to Dad’s cooking. I went through the contents of the kitchen shelves and found a box of linguini. Uh-huh, I said to myself as I chose a small can of chopped tomatoes, another of mushrooms. Back to the fridge. A rather soft onion. Cream, for Mr. B’s coffee, but I wouldn’t use it all. Good enough.

I’d make a variation on a pasta-and-sour-cream dish
Dad used to make the night before he had a busy day of auditions. Whoever got in first put it into the oven to reheat. But I could make the sauce while the pot boiled and have a hot meal in half an hour.

Once I’d collected the main ingredients, I turned on the radio, unbuttoned a couple of shirt buttons, and flipped up my collar. Vincenzo was cooking tonight.

I was giving the spaghetti a toss when someone knocked at the kitchen door. Snatching at a sauced stick of zucchini, I popped it into my mouth as I answered the door. Patsy was standing outside, shivering in a soft dark sweater with a wide neck that left one shoulder to fend for itself in the cold.

“Hi. I thought since we’re neighbors …,” she said, and shivered. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” God. Maybe she’d guessed. Guessed but wasn’t sure.

Her eyes slid past me to the spaghetti dish. And then, as if she might bolt, she added, “Didn’t your parents go out?”

“They did,” I said, licking my fingers free of the sauce. She’d been watching? I stepped back so she could come in. Might as well learn the worst.

“I have a kind of favor to ask and I hope you won’t be offended.” All at once she sounded less sure of herself than the Patsy I knew, and she looked decidedly uncomfortable. “See, I need some Italian first names. Men’s names, and your stepdad is Italian.”

This visit wasn’t about me. At least it wasn’t about making an accusation. I hoped it was okay to be talking to her like this—my T-shirt was being put to the test.

“Italian first names?” she repeated, like maybe I hadn’t been paying attention.

I decided not to catch on too quick. “What are they?”

She said, “I don’t know.”

I turned obtuse up to maximum. “I gathered you don’t know, but if you don’t give him the list, how can he translate?”

“I don’t need a translation. I want him to
give
me a list. Just go through the alphabet and give me a few names for each letter. Do you think he would do that?”