Loose Screws (24 page)

I stop in my room long enough to change into a pair of shorts and a tank top, then pad barefoot to the kitchen. The day hasn't cooled off any, so the fans are still going in the living room and kitchen windows. My grandmother is wearing a loose white T-shirt—mine—over a pair of hot pink capris—also mine. Which probably accounts for the fact that, instead of hitting her three inches below the knee, they hit her three inches above the ankle. The black orthodpedic shoes add an interesting twist to the look.

She glances over from the stove—where else?—and gives me a sheepish smile. “I wear these while clothes are in laundry. You do not mind?”

I shake my head, going for the dog's leash hanging on a hook in one of the cupboards. “Color looks good on you.”

“You think so? Oh, you don' have to take out the dog, your mama, she took him out before she left.”

Geoff throws her a chagrined look, as though gypped out of the doggy equivalent of going back into his fave online chatroom, as I say “Left?”

I pour myself a glass of tea, then lean over to scratch the dog's head. Back on food watch, he barely acknowledges my presence, apparently afraid if he lets my grandmother out of his sight, she'll disappear.

“
Sì,
she's out. Again. With
that man.
”

Hey. You don't suppose…?

“What man?”

“The one she does not tell anyone about.”

So much for that. Then it occurs to me… “Does it bother you, that she's dating somebody other than Dad?”

Nonna halts her mission—which, judging from the mass quantities of food she is setting out on the table, is to feed the entire Upper West Side—to give me a weird look.

“Since your father has been in the grave for eighteen years, no. Come, sit. Eat while itsa hot.”

A three-second scan reveals roast pork and manicotti and spaghetti with marinara sauce and foccacia bread and salad…and God alone knows what's for dessert.

“Nonna, honest to God—who on earth do you expect to eat all this?”

She shrugs. “I'ma never sure what you might be in mood for, no? So I figure, I cover all bases.”

I sit, pile a little of everything on my plate. “So tell me…is this the way you cooked for my grandfather?”

“Oh,
sì.
It was what was expected of women then, you know?”

“Seems like a helluva lot of work.”

She smiles at that.

“What?” I say.

“A woman who pleases her husband in the kitchen can count on him pleasing her later in the bedroom.”

And she's not even blushing.

“So,” she says, tucking into her own dinner, “you make a decision about Gregory?”

I shake my head.

“
Grazie a Dio.
I think I like this Nick better, anyway.”

“What makes you think—”

She gives me a look, cutting me off. “
Cara.
You think is a secret, the heat between you two?”

I do, however, blush. Nonna laughs.

“That's just…” Oh, hell. “Sex.”

“And this is a bad thing?”

I give her my best grown-up, woman-of-the-world look. “It wouldn't work, Nonna.”

Only she gives one back that sends mine whimpering into the corner. “And you think it would with this Greg?”

“Well, I did once before, obviously.”

She mutters something in Italian. I let it go. Then I say, “Were you happy with Poppa?”

Her eyes dart to mine. “What is this question?”

“Were you? I mean, did you ever regret marrying him?”

“It was arranged marriage. I had no choice in the matter.”

My brows rise. “I thought you were a war bride?”

“Was a quick arrangement.” She smiles.

I say, “Oh.”

Then she laughs. “That does not mean I was not content. My parents, they chose well, this handsome soldier going back to States in two days. And Carlo was a good man. Good provider, good in bed…” She lets out a heavy sigh, shakes her head, then returns to earth. “But,
sì,
maybe I do have one regret.”

“Which is?”

“That I sleep with only one man. Women today, they can—
come sei dice?
—comparison shop, yes? Not that I can complain,
capice?
Your grandfather, he understood what makes a woman happy. What to do to make her welcome him into her arms night after night. Still, I think it would have been nice, to see what sex is like with another man. Only now, is too late.” Her shoulders lift, drop. “Who would want me?”

I laugh, and that should have ended the discussion. But something else is nagging me. “How have you and Nedra managed to get along so well all these years? The two of you are so different.”

Nonna gets up to get more sauce for her manicotti. “I think it is
because
we are different that we can live together.” She grins at me over her shoulder. “We do not fight over who cooks, for one thing, no?”

“Well, that's certainly true.” Cooking has never been my mother's forte.

Nonna returns to the table. “But I admire your mother. Even if I do fear for her immortal soul.”

You'd have to know my grandmother to understand the depth of the love behind those words. Steeped in old school Catholic tradition, Nonna really
does
worry about my Jewish mother's soul. Enough that, after more than thirty years, she still harbors hope that Nedra will see the light. Of course, there's a better chance of a member of the Gambino family being canonized, but you know how it is. “You admire her?”

Twin black brows lift. “Do not sound so surprised,
cara.
There is much good in your mother. For one thing, I
never see my Leo so happy as when he is with Nedra. For another, she is woman who knows who she is, who follows her heart—”

Hmm. There's that phrase again.

“What is not to admire in that?”

“But the way she always picks losing battles…” I shake my head. “Why does she always have to do things the hard way?”

Nonna tilts her head at me. “And is bad for a woman to fight for those who cannot? Who has the courage to be one of the drops of water that will eventually wear away the rock?”

Okay, I have to think about this one. But in the end, I say, “No, of course it's not
bad
…but what's the point?”

“The point is,
cara,
that more women should have her balls.”

I burst out laughing, but from across the table, Nonna is frowning at me.

“What?” I say.

“You are very like her, I think.”

“What?”

“
Verissimo.
Is why you two fight so much.”

“Nonna, no disrespect, but that's crazy. We're nothing alike. In fact, we fight so much
because
we have nothing in common.”

“No, no…you fight because you and your mother, you are both strong women. Stubborn women. Your mother, she isa stubborn for to fight for what she believes in,
sì?
But you, you are stubborn for to fight
against
who you really are.”

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“Alla years I know your mama, even after your papa dies, she is happy. She is content. She does not sit in corner like mouse and wait for life to find her, she goes out looking for it. I think she feels good about who she is. But you?” She blows a puff of air through her lips. “You keepa yourself busy,
sì,
with your work and your friends, but I do not see the happiness in you. You do not look for life. You run from it.”

I must be too shocked to be angry. Still, I say, “
Run
from it? After everything I've done the past few weeks to overcome all the crap that's happened to me? I haven't exactly been sitting in a corner, either.”

Her dark eyes seem to sear straight through me. “Only because life keeps throwing you back into center of room. But instead of stretching your arms, feeling your freedom, you only try to get back in corner, back by walls you know, where you feel safe.” Her mouth droops. “And now I make you angry.”

“No,” I say, although I notice that my hand is knotted by my plate.

“Ginger,
cara…
” Nonna leans forward, grabs my fisted hand, gently strokes it open. “I have watched you for many years. I see how you try to be not like your mother, ever since you were little girl. But you try too hard, you see? It is like you, um, decide who it is you should be, instead of finding out who you really are.”

She lets go of my hand, sitting back in her chair to continue her meal. “When you bring home this Greg, I think, isa not man for you. He is nice, yes, but not enough for you. And I am right,
sì?
To run away from wedding—
pah!
I do not know what he wants now, why he comes back, but isa not good. Trust me.” She slaps her hands on her thighs, rises from the table. “You wanna cannelloni?”

Man. This is the most my grandmother has said to me at one time since I can remember. Besides her hearing problems, English is hard for her, so she's not given to lengthy dissertations. For her to have forced herself to say as much as she just did shows just how strongly she feels about the subject. Which is why I'm sitting here right now waiting to get my breath back.

On top of everything else I've been through, having my grandmother tell me I'm just like my mother is the last thing I need. I mean, have you ever heard anything more preposterous? Yes, maybe I have deliberately chosen a path as divergent from my mother's as possible. There's a reason for that. But every decision I've made, about my career, my lifestyle, even about Greg, stemmed from what I genuinely wanted to do. I've never done anything on impulse,
for heaven's sake. Unlike Nedra who
does
first and
thinks
later.

And no, I'm not counting the Nick episode, so you can't, either.

Of course, I can't discount Nonna's observation about my being unhappy. Although that's probably too strong a word for whatever it is I'm feeling. Have felt. I just don't think my malaise has anything to do with…what was that she said? My resistance to being like my mother? What is that supposed to mean, anyway? That I'm suppressing latent Socialist tendencies? That I'll find peace and a sense of purpose on a picket line somewhere, carrying a placard and shouting obscenities at gray-haired men in Brooks Brothers' suits?

I don't
think
so.

A freshly made cannelloni lands in front of me. I mutter “thanks” and begin to shovel it in, letting the whipped cream squish between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. When I feel Nonna's hand on my hair, I look up. “Your mother, she loves you very much. And she worries about you.
Sì,
she does, so do not make face. You look in her eyes, you will see.”

After dinner, I threaten my grandmother with bodily harm if she doesn't let me clean up. She and the dog go into her room to watch TV; I put a dozen plastic containers in the fridge, wash the dishes, then head for my own room to read or something.

Nedra has removed the file cabinets into the empty room beside mine, so I have some space back. Of course, I filled it up with new bookcases and what's left of my books after the fire, but it still doesn't feel right. Not like home.

Whatever that is.

For reasons totally beyond me, I dig the Tiffany box with the ring in it out from underneath my new underwear, snap it open. Just as I crawl onto the bed, Geoff comes wandering in. He lays his snout on the edge of the bed and whuffs at me; I haul him up onto the bed and show him the ring. He seems mildly interested. Until he
discovers he can't eat it. So he lies down and pants on my knee.

“I could sell this, you know,” I say to him. I'd had it appraised for insurance purposes. I wouldn't get quite that much, I don't imagine, but enough to maybe get me out of here. “But somehow, that doesn't seem right.” Geoff groans. “I know. I guess I should give it back to Greg, don't you think?”

But that doesn't seem right, either.

I hear several of the locks being undone. A few minutes later my mother, dressed in a black-and-red print kaftan I think she wore to my high school graduation, stops at my door.

“You're home early,” I say.

She smiled. “It was just dinner. And no, I'm not going to slip and fill in any more blanks.”

Damn. “Just answer me one thing—do I know him?”

“Not going to answer that.”

“Oh, come
on,
Nedra—”

“Ginger? This is my business. Not yours.”

Guess I can't argue with that.

I surprise myself by patting the space beside me on the bed. Nedra surprises me by taking me up on the invitation. Geoff doesn't seem to care one way or the other.

The bedsprings groan under her weight as she sits. I catch a whiff of expensive perfume. I wonder if
he
gave it to her, since I can't ever remember Nedra wearing perfume before.

She nods toward the boxed ring, still in my hand. “You're not thinking of putting that hideous thing back on, I hope.”

I have to laugh. “Hey. I increased my left biceps by a full inch from wearing this.” My laughter fades as I stare at it. It really is pretty, in an ostentatious kind of way. “But no. Although I suppose I should think of
something
to do with it.”

Nedra crosses her arms. “I know a women's shelter that could use a good-size donation.”

“Hell, so could your daughter. But…” I snap shut the
box, lean over to set it on my nightstand. “'Tis not mine to sell.”

“I think technically, it is.”

“Well, Miss Manners, I wouldn't feel right about it. In fact, I'm thinking about taking it over to Greg's, handing it back to him. Speaking of giving back…what's doing with His Most High Featheredness in the other room? Have you heard from the Ortizes lately?”