Loose Screws (13 page)

“Like hell he will. Ran, Al's room definitely looks like the domain of a twelve-year-old girl. Which will not give the impression you're looking for if you want to pull the wool over your brother's eyes. Which I think is a dumb idea, anyway.”

“You already said that.”

“Well, it's worth repeating.”

Randall sighs. “We're not stupid, Ginge. We'll put all the girl stuff away.”

“Ran—her walls are
pink.
”

“So we'll keep the damn door closed. It's not like he has any reason to go into Ted's room anyway, right?”

“Did I mention I think this is a dumb idea? However,” I say over his groan, figuring this is as good a chance as any to spring this on him, “not only is it really none of my business—”

“Thank you.”

“—but since your brother's going to be here anyway, he can help the two of you help me move.”

A frown smushes down Randall's brows. “Say what?”

“I've got it all worked out. I'm renting a U-Haul, see, and I figure if you and Ted can move the big stuff, Terrie and Shelby and I can do the boxes and what-all. I mean, how long can it take to empty a studio apartment? And if your brother's here, it'll go that much faster.” I smile winningly. “One of you drives, right?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, but…”

“Great. I'll provide all the food and drink you can consume, you help me move. It'll be fun.”

“You know,” Randall says after a moment, “ten minutes ago, I was thinking how much I was going to miss you.” He opens the door, steps out into the hall. “I take it back.”

I stretch up to peck him on the cheek. He just rolls his pretty black eyes.

 

Saturday arrives. And with it, the first rain in a month. I haven't been listening to the news lately, so I totally missed that we were in line to get clobbered by what was left of Hurricane Betsy or Becky or whatever the hell the thing's name is. Damn storm churned right up the coast, stalling out over Long Island.

Today.

And Terrie called at 6:00 a.m., which was not a problem because I'd been up all night packing anyway, to say she had to go into work this morning, to give her a call when we were leaving and she'd meet us at the other end to help unload.

Somehow, she didn't sound all that broken up. And I know how much she hates having to go into work on Saturdays.

Then there's this neurotic dog, who's been cowering in a corner behind the sofa and whimpering for the past three days. Maybe he thinks I'm going to pack
him
up, I have no idea. Poor guy. I've tried several times to explain to him what's going on, but I guess he just can't get past his adaptability hang-up.

Now, having never moved anywhere but within Manhattan, I really have no idea what it's like anywhere else. I assume the chore is not a pleasant one, even in the best of conditions, like sunny weather and being able to back the moving van right up to the door. Here, however, one has to deal with several obstacles not encountered in suburbia, the most crucial one today being that the closest Ted could park the van was down the block. A long, crosstown block. So we decide Shelby—who for some unaccountable reason thought it would be fun to bring Corey and Hayley, her two kids—can stand guard while we move everything down to the lobby, which fortunately is a good four times the size of my apartment. Once my worldly possessions are amassed,
then
we can cart everything to the
van, like a line of ants. With any luck, the rain will have let up by then and/or a parking space closer to the building will open up. Not that I'm holding my breath, but where there's life, there's hope.

But first, we have to get all the stuff down to the lobby, which brings us to Obstacle Number Two: the elevator. Which a) holds four people comfortably, six in a pinch, and b) moves at the speed of a ninety-year-old woman with a walker.

For some reason, other tenants don't take kindly to having to wait while some idiots on the eighth floor load a million boxes onto the elevator, especially when they discover there's no room for them when it gets to their floor. People who before either ignored you or mumbled greetings to you in passing are now out for blood. You realize once you leave, you will never be able to return.

But the best part of all this is the discovery that my sofa bed, which weighs seven million pounds, will not
fit
in the elevator, even on its end. So the guys—including Davis (who is one serious hottie, by the way)—have to carry it down the stairs.

All eight flights of them.

I mentally calculate just how much pizza and beer it's gonna take to make amends. I doubt there's that much beer in all of Manhattan.

Panting, sweating and occasionally swearing, they've made it to the fifth floor. We're all wearing T-shirts and shorts in varying degrees of disrepute, humidity and sweat having long since plastered fabric to bodies. In this weather, my hair is doing a Medusa number around my head, bobbing annoyingly as I follow the guys down the stairs, directing them around the two landings between each floor. I know it's just a sofa, but it's mine and I love it. Besides, I can't afford another one.

“Watch out!” I shriek for probably the tenth time as the sofa back comes perilously close to impalement on a metal newel post. My voice, not the most dulcet at the
best of times, reverberates in the stairwell like a kid banging pots with a spoon.

All three men glare at me.

“Hey,” I say cheerfully, “look at it this way. It's the last thing out of the apartment. Well, except for the dog, and he can walk.”

“Hey,” Randall shoots back, inching backward down the stairs, his hands full of lead-weight cranberry velveteen, “am I mistaken—careful, Dave, damn!—or do we get to reverse this process when we get to the other end?”

“Well, yeah—oh! Watch out for that corner! But that's only four flights, not eight.”

“Four flights
up,
” Ted squeezes out past the corded muscles in his neck.

Well, there was that.

Maybe I could feed them all next Saturday, too.

We finally reach the lobby, sofa and male tempers all reasonably intact. Shelby is ineffectually nagging the kids to quit climbing the stacked boxes. A woman I've never seen before comes through the door, her umbrella streaming. She pauses, peering with some interest at my wing chair, then points to it, addressing whoever will answer her.

“How much you want for the chair?”

“I'm not selling it! I'm moving it!” I snap, which sends her scurrying off to the now-free elevator.

I convince myself it's not raining as hard as it was, even as I unwrap the first of several plastic drop cloths I purchased from the hardware store the minute it opened this morning. While the men discuss strategy—they're all being really good sports, I have to say—I shroud the sofa in two of the sheets, securing the plastic with twine. I survey my handiwork, inordinately pleased with myself. Hey, if this new job doesn't pan out, maybe I could start my own moving business—

“Ginger? What the hell is going on?”

I whip around to meet my mother's stymied expression.

“B
ust
ed,
” Randall mutters behind my back.

“Nedra! What on earth— W-why are you here?”

The entire bottom tier of her long denim skirt is soaked. “You weren't answering either of your phones,” she says, folding up her Totes umbrella. “I got worried.” Her gaze flicks over the lobby, then back to me. “Now I know why. You're moving?”

I nod, feeling, oh, about six?

“Were you planning on telling me?”

“Of course I was.”

“While I was still alive?”

All eyes, including the doorman's, are zipping back and forth between us.

“It was kind of a last-minute thing,” I say, then explain what has brought us to this moment. More or less.

Nedra looks hurt. “I don't understand. Did you think I would disapprove or something?”

I link my arms over my damp rib cage, purse my lips. Decide to tell the truth. “No. I thought you would nag me about moving back in with you. I just couldn't handle that.”

Her brows lift. “Which? That I might nag you, or living with me?”

“Either. Both.”

“Holy crap!” Ted suddenly yells, digging in his shorts pocket for the keys. “Two people just moved their cars from in front of the building at the same time! Go, go,
go!
”

Like crazed lemmings, we all rush outside. It's still pouring, but we don't care. Ted dashes up the block to get the van while the rest of us literally stand in the blessed double space, yelling at anyone fool enough to try to park there. Shelby's kids are jumping up and down underneath the awning in front of the building, laughing. My mother turns to me. Rain is streaming down her face like tears.

“Can I help, or will that crowd you too much?”

We see the van gliding up the block, cutting through the drenching rain like a red-and-silver whale.

Lightning flashes; the kids scream. Thunder rolls across the city, shuddering the ground. “You really want to?” I yell as the rain comes down even harder. We're all now soaked through.

“No,” my mother says sarcastically. A minivan tries to nudge us out of the parking spot; she bangs on the hood.

“Don't even think about it!” she yells, and the flummoxed man behind the wheel jerks the steering wheel in his split to pull away. Nedra whips off the soaked scarf, starts to laugh. “It was like this on the day your father and I got married, did you know that?”

We step up onto the sidewalk so Ted can park the van. “No,” I say, backing underneath the awning. Rain sluices off it in a solid sheet, the noise obliterating further conversation. I realize how little I really know about my mother, how I've avoided letting her get close enough to share her life with me.

I shiver, only partly from the rain.

She nudges my arm. I look over. “You should change out of those clothes.”

“What's the point?” I yell back, and she nods in agreement. We all go inside; the men decide to load the big items first, work the smaller ones around them. Ted and
Randall argue good-naturedly, like an old married couple. I wonder if they've caught Davis's curious expression as he watches them.

Busted,
I think to myself with a smile.

 

Many hours later Davis wanders into my new kitchen, Bud in hand, squatting down to pet the dog, who has refused to let me out of his sight since his supposedly harrowing trip between Ted and Randall in the van. (I have tried to explain to him that he wouldn't have much cared for sharing a taxi with two overexcited children, but to no avail.)

“Hey,” he says, standing to lean against the counter, watching me teeter precariously on a step stool as I stuff rarely used kitchen tchotchkes on an uppermost shelf. “Need some help?”

“Uh, sure. Hand me that cappuccino-maker, would you? No, not that. Yeah, that.” He hoists the thing up to me, grinning.

“Women sure do collect a lot of shit.”

“Well, hell—gotta fill up all these cupboards with
something.
How's the party holding up?”

“Since it's been a good half hour since anybody's said anything worth remembering, I think it's just about petered out.”

I really like this guy. He's charming, without trying to be, if you know what I mean. I chuckle, rearranging everything I'd just put on the shelf to accommodate the newest arrival. Gee, no more having to deal with all of Annie's stuff in my cupboards. And I haven't seen a single roach. Hallelujah.

It took nearly forty-five minutes to get up here in the horrible weather, then another two and a half hours to get everything off the van and into the new apartment, even with two extra sets of hands. And wouldn't you know, the rain stopped at the precise moment the very last box had been hauled inside. The good news is, however, that it's drastically cooler. I've got all the windows open, letting in a sweet-smelling breeze.

My mother and Shelby et al left in a shared taxi some
time ago, leaving me with Terrie, Davis, Ted and Randall, all of whom I think are just too tired to move. I can relate. I'm about to topple over myself. But I'm determined to get my kitchen in at least reasonable order before I go to bed.

I smile down at Randall's brother. “Hey. I can't thank you guys enough for all your help.”

Oh, man—breath-stealing smile alert. He's got the same dimples as Randall, the same long, curly black lashes. But he's got hair.

“My pleasure,” he says, his voice deep and laced with humor. “So tell me,” he says, lowering his voice. “Is it my imagination, or are my brother and Ted more than just roommates?”

I freeze. Damn. “What makes you think that?”

“Not being born yesterday?”

I heave a great sigh. “I told them they'd never get away with this.”

“Especially as I found out Ran was gay years ago.”

I nearly fall off the ladder. “You're kidding?”

“Nope. But I figured, if he didn't want to talk to me about it, that was his business.”

“He's afraid if your mother finds out, it'll kill her.”

“Wha—? Oh, for God's sake—who the hell do you think told
me?
”

I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle my laugh. Then I lower it and say, “And how
is
she taking it?”

Davis shrugs. “Disappointed, I guess, that he won't be giving her grandchildren. But more disappointed that he doesn't feel he can tell her.”

“She won't confront him about it?”

“No way. Says it's up to him.”

A burst of laughter floats in from the living room. Davis smiles.

“They seem well suited for each other.” There's an almost wistful quality to his voice that makes me look at him. He smiles, shakes his head. “No, I'm not gay. Just lonely.”

“Randall said you were divorced?”

He takes another swig of his beer. “For nearly five years. It doesn't get any easier.”

I think of Nick. Of Terrie. Of myself, although I'm not quite in the same league. You let yourself hope, then trust, then believe…and then it all crumbles out from under you, leaving you afraid to hope and trust and believe, ever again.

“Ted and Randall have been together for about six years,” I say quietly. “Ted's got a daughter, Alyssa. She lives with them, usually.”

One side of Davis's full mouth tilts. “Which I'm assuming accounts for the pink bedroom?”

“And the Barbie collection and the 'NSYNC posters.”

“They must've hidden those,” he says, giving me this smile, and I think, duh, lonely man, new in town, is flirting with recently jilted single woman. Only that thought no sooner shuffles past when he says, “Your friend Terrie…” He rubs the back of his neck. “She seeing anybody?”

Oh, of course. Double duh. Even as busy as I've been all afternoon, I did catch Davis's attention drifting to Terrie off and on. But then,
every
man's—every straight man's, anyway—attention drifts to Terrie eventually. Especially when she's wearing a tank top that keeps slipping off one shoulder and shorts that are probably banned in some countries.

“Not that I know of,” I say casually. I descend the ladder, start unwrapping dishes, beginning to hallucinate about being in bed. Which is another thing. I now have a bedroom, but no bed to put in it. I glance over at Davis. “Why don't you ask her?”

“I don't want to come on too strong.”

“A word of advice. Terrie doesn't do subtle very well.”

Davis grins.

“And another word of advice.” I pad over to the door, check to make sure she's out of earshot, then look back at Randall's brother. “She's divorced, too. Twice.”

Davis sighs, then nods. “Move with caution, in other words.”

“Yeah. Which is tricky to do while not being subtle.”

“I think I can handle it,” he says, then strolls out of the kitchen.

 

An hour later in The Night That Will Not End. The guys have finally left; Terrie hasn't. I can tell she wants to talk. Since I've dumped on everybody else a million times the past few days, I don't have the heart to kick her out, even though my brain shut down at least two hours ago.

She's sprawled on my sofa, one foot on the floor, a half-empty wine cooler balanced on her bare stomach. She—or somebody—has stacked all the pizza cartons on the coffee table; I drag in a black garbage bag, dump them inside, collapse onto the wing chair that weird woman tried to buy out from under me.

Geoff trots over to the door and yips.

“Sure,
you're
wide awake and raring to go,” I say, my eyes already closed. “What have you done all day besides nap and poop?”

He yips again. I open one eye, peer at him. He looks as though he'd cross his legs, if they were long enough to cross. With a weary sigh, I drag myself back upright, poking among the hundreds of boxes until I find his leash and a cotton sweater which I shrug into.

“I gotta take the dog out,” I say to Terrie. “Wanna come?”

“No.”

I lean over and grab Terrie's hand, heaving her up off the sofa. “Sure you do. The fresh air'll do you good.”

She groans and mutters a few choice obscenities under her breath, but she shuffles into her sandals, grabs her sweatshirt off the arm of the sofa, and follows me. The elevator is waiting for us, as if it's stopped at this floor so many times today it's been reprogrammed to roost here. We get in, slump simultaneously against the back wall. It's a hideous thing, recently enough painted in burgundy enamel that, with all the humidity, is still a little tacky.

“What did you tell Davis about me?” Terrie asks.

Not that I didn't expect this. “Not much. That you were divorced.”

“As in, available?”

“That you were divorced,” I repeat. “That's a fact. The other's a judgment call. And I don't do those if I can help it.”

Between the third and second floor, the elevator shudders ominously. Neither of us flinches. “And that was it?”

“Okay, he asked if you were seeing anyone. I said I didn't think so.”

“And that's not telling him I'm available?”

“Not in my book. Now, if I'd said, ‘Heck, yeah, that Terrie, she's ripe for the pickin', boy…' now
that
would be telling him you're available.”

I can feel her gaze on the side of my face, can tell, that if she weren't exhausted, she'd be angry.

“How's about next time you just stay outta my business, okay?”

“Telling the guy you're not seeing anyone is hardly getting in your business, Ter. Jeez, lighten up already.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor; the doors part and we emerge, our sandals slapping against the marble floor as we cross the lobby. The dog is yanking me toward the doors, making me lurch behind him.

“Okay, then, new ground rules,” Terrie says as we burst out into the damp, chilled air. Geoff continues to drag me until he can jump off the curb, where he pees for like five minutes. The cold startles me, but not unpleasantly. “I am not interested in meeting a man or going out with a man or dealing with a man and/or his shit, got it?”

“Ever?”

“You got it.”

“Davis seems like a really nice guy, Ter.”

“Uh-huh. They all do, at the beginning. Then they rot.”

“Not all of them.”

She gives me a look. “Says the woman who just got dumped by Mr. Wonderful.”

I am far too tired to go down that road.

“Besides,” Terrie continues, “didn't somebody say Davis was divorced? So right there, what does that tell you?”

“That he was in a relationship that didn't work out? How does that automatically make him a bad person?”

“Doesn't exactly give him high marks.”

“Hey.
You've
been divorced. Twice. That make
you
a bad person?”

She opens her mouth. Shuts it again.

“Now,” I say because I'm on a roll and I can't remember the last time I've been able to render Terrie Latoya speechless, “if he'd expressed an interest and he was still married,
that
would make him a bad person.”

Terrie humphs.

Geoff finally puts down his leg, sighs, then hops back up onto the sidewalk, tugging me down the block. New neighborhood, new smells. Oh, joy. I start walking, Terrie lolling beside me, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her unzipped sweatshirt. An occasional car passes, wicking moisture off rain-sheened streets.

“You know what?” she says, still sounding ticked, but not at me. Not as much, anyway.

“What?”

“The problem is, a man might act all perfect in order to
get
a woman, but once he's sure she's so damn much in love with him she can't see straight, one by one, he lets his flaws outta the closet. And what happens is, the woman just ends up feeling gypped. If not trapped.” She shakes her head, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. “Things'd be a helluva lot easier if they'd just let us see their flaws to begin with, let us decide whether or not it was worth our time and effort to put up with them just the way they are.”