Loose Screws (28 page)

I shift the
Times
I bought earlier to my other hip, realizing I'm doomed to get newsprint ink all over my dress. “Except wasn't Sarah like ninety-something when she had Isaac?” I squint in the harsh sunlight at my grandmother. “How would you like to have a baby in ten years, Nonna?”

A horrified look crosses her face. “How you say,
inna you dreams?
”

I laugh, feeling a little better. Because, see, the reason I was taking my mother's bombshell so personally is because, quite simply, I'm jealous as hell.

I'm
the one who's supposed to be pregnant. Not my mother. And now I've just assured my grandmother that
I'll be the one who'll stick around and see my mother through this pregnancy. An offer I didn't make just to hear myself talk, or give Nonna an out. Seriously. This new twist on things might have thrown me for a loop, but I really do want to help…even though that just effectively screws up any chance I thought I had of reclaiming my
own
life. How am I going to have my own babies if I'm busy helping my mother raise my thirty-plus-years-younger-than-me sibling?

Not that babies of my own seem to be in the offing.

Okay, I'm just making myself depressed, here, so I'm going to stop.

Geoff greets us at the apartment door, looking…well, relieved is the only word I can come up with. I frown at the dog for a moment, puzzled. Nonna goes to her room to change, I slog down the hall with the goodies to find my mother sitting at her computer in her office, glasses perched on handsome nose, trolling the Net. I come up behind her, place the fragrant white box beside her, squinting at the screen.

Your Baby and You,
it says.

And so it starts.

Nedra's opened the box, given a gasp of delight. “All morning I've been having these weird cravings—quick, hand me a napkin or something!—but I couldn't figure out for what. Now I know!”

The nearest thing is a tissue, which I hand her, but the first pastry is already half devoured. Nedra has whipped cream on her chin, which I reach over and wipe off with another tissue.

“I better get as much of this stuff now as I can, because you know what my doctor's going to say as soon as I go in for my first appointment.” She puts down her fork, horror streaking across her features.

“What is it?” I say.

“I have to buy
maternity
clothes!”

She sounds both horrified and delighted. I smile, then take a deep breath and tell her about Nonna. And Sonya's offer.

Nedra wipes her mouth, looks at me. “Are you sure?”

“I had to drag it out of her, but yeah. She just told me.”

“Oh, for crying out loud…” Nedra shakes her head, her mouth twisted in annoyance. “Why the hell didn't she just come out and tell me?”

“Sonya just asked her yesterday, at the party. She didn't have a chance.”

“No, I mean before this. That she was unhappy here.”

“Because she wasn't unhappy. In fact, I don't think she fully realized how much she wanted to go back to the old neighborhood until she got out there yesterday, saw all those people.”

“Still, I wonder why she stayed with me all these years?”

“Because…I think she convinced herself you needed her.”

My mother blinks at me. “
I
needed
her?
Are you serious?”

I nod. Nedra laughs a little, stares into the box as if contemplating a second pastry. I push the box toward her.

“Live. The baby will thank you for it.”

She takes a second pastry, this one with almond paste and chocolate icing, and I hear myself say, “I think I've just about got her convinced that she doesn't have to worry about you if she goes, because I said I'll be here for you.”

Nedra chokes. I jump up, run into the bathroom for some water. When I get back, she's staring at me, her hand on her chest, her eyes watery from the choking. She grabs the cup of water from me, chugs down several swallows, then says, “Now you listen to me, and you can relay this to your grandmother, too. I don't expect anyone to mold their life around me, or to give up anything for me—”

“Oh, shut up, Nedra,” I say, and she does, even though her mouth is still very much open. “I just realized I've spent far too much of my life being a self-absorbed brat. Now, you gonna give me the chance to atone for my sins or not?”

“No,” she says without missing a beat.

“What?”

She huffs a sigh, then brushes pastry crumbs off her bosom. “You heard me. Hell, Ginger, I don't even
want
you around. I love you, baby, you know that, but you drive me totally nuts.”

“Then what was all that crap about trying to get me to move back here after Greg's no-show?”

“This is still your home. I'm still your mother. It's written in the contract that you have to be willing to take your kids back if they need a place to recoup, no matter what.”

“Well,” I say, rising, “it's written in
my
contract to be there for my mother when she gets herself knocked up. So deal with it.”

I toss my head, then stomp from the room and down the hall, feeling pretty damn smug, if I say so myself. It's not until I go into the living room, which, as you may recall, looks directly into Nedra's bedroom, that I notice something's missing.

The rooster.

I stand in shock, staring at the space in the corner of Nedra's room where the cage used to reside, then turn and stomp back to her office.

“Where's Rocky?”

She looks up from her computer, frowning. “The Ortizes came and got him. Why?”

“And you let them take him?”

“Well, yes. Since he's their rooster.”

“But you heard what Nick said, what they're probably going to do with him!”

She lowers her reading glasses to peer at me over them. “And this bothers you why?”

“Jesus, Nedra! Just because I didn't wish to share living space with the thing doesn't mean I want him to get pecked to death!”

She resets her glasses, goes back to clicking away on the keyboard. “They assured me that wasn't going to happen.”

“And you
believed
them?”

The glasses get whipped off, her dark eyes bore into mine. “What choice did I have? Gladys downstairs told me this morning that the guy who just moved in next to her heard Rocky in the airshaft, said he was calling Animal Control tomorrow morning. It was either get the bird out of here immediately or wait for them to come take him
away. While I was trying to figure out what to do, Manny Ortiz called me, said they were living with his cousin out in Weehawken now and he wanted to come get the bird. And he's got a new job, driving for his cousin. He was so tickled, he insisted on giving me a business card…now where did I put it—?” She riffles through a million notes and papers on her desk, hands me a plain white card with black lettering. I scan it, look up.

“His cousin owns a funeral home?”

Nedra shrugs. “In his business, everybody's a potential customer, I guess. Anyway, he's gainfully employed, Rocky will have a yard to strut around in. You should be happy.”

She's right. I should. But I'm not. Which leads me to believe I'm in a lot more trouble than I'd thought.

It also means I have to go back to setting my alarm clock.

Well. On to the next item on my list, which is to trot on down to the Jewelry District and see what I can get for the ring. Yes, I've finally decided to sell it. I did the honorable thing by offering to return it to Greg, right? So I figure I'll take the money, invest it or something. Since it doesn't look as if I'm going to be moving out anytime too soon. A thought which seems a lot less scary than it might have a few weeks ago.

I'm on my way back to my room when I hear my phone ring. Takes me a while, but I finally find it in the bathroom.

“Hi, there, sexy lady!”

It's Ted. I grin, settle onto my bed cross-legged. “Hi, yourself. What's up?”

“Well…got a favor to ask.”

I of course agree without even asking what it is, because these guys have been there for me something like a million times over the past five years, including, but not limited to, nearly killing themselves getting that sofa bed down eight flights of stairs. Anyway, it turns out Randall won this trip for two to someplace very exotic from his company and they'd had it all arranged that Alyssa would spend the week with her mother, who then got an emergency
call from
her
company and has to leave tonight for Europe for a week, so could Al please come stay with me?

“Ohmigod, I'd love it!” I say. “We can do all kinds of dumb girl things.”

Ted breathes a huge sigh of relief. “That beats her going out to stay with her grandmother all to hell.” So we make all the when-I-should-pick—her-up arrangements and then I get off the phone to tell my mother, who's standing at my doorway and is delighted—yes! a refugee!—and my grandmother, who's equally delighted—yes! another mouth to feed!—and Geoff, who doesn't really seem to give a damn. And then I remember I'm supposed to go out with Greg tomorrow night.

Unfortunately, I say this out loud, which apparently causes my mother no small distress.

“I didn't know you were going out with him again.”

“Sure you do. I told you.”

She looks at me. “No, you didn't.”

I think. “Okay, so maybe I didn't. But what's it to you?”

Her hand rakes through her hair, holding it back from her face. “I…just don't want to see you getting hurt again. I don't trust that man.”

“You never did.”

“With good reason, it turns out.”

I sigh. Gee, I do a lot of that these days. “Look, it's just dinner, okay? If nothing else, I'd like to hear his side of things.”

“Are we talking closure, here?”

“Well…”

“Yeah, that's what I thought. Jesus, honey, why on earth would you want to go there again?”

“Jesus, Nedra, why don't we remember we're supposed to be living our own lives here?”

Her mouth seems tighter than usual. “What can I tell you? I worry.”

“Hey.” I plant my hands on my hips. “You can't tell me you want me to live my own life, then throw a hissy fit when I try to. You want this baby, I want to figure out what I'm supposed to be doing here. That includes decid
ing
on my own
what to do about a man I was ready to spend the rest of my life with. To quote somebody else in this room, this has nothing to do with you.”

She gives me an odd look, but says nothing.

I change into gray capri pants and a matching tunic—serviceable, but chic—slip on a pair of backless sandals, stuff the ring box into my purse, then go searching for the Yellow Pages, which I finally find in my mother's office. Ten minutes and a half dozen phone calls later, I get the name of someone to ask for at the Diamond Exchange down on 47th Street, which I scribble on the back of a business card on my mother's desk, which also gets stuffed into my purse. A half hour later, I'm there; twenty minutes after that, I've got a big, fat check in my purse…and that business card. Which, yep, you guessed it, is the one Manny Ortiz had given to my mother.

I stand there on Fifth Avenue, staring at the card…

No, I can't do this. I mean, I didn't even like the stupid bird. What do I care what happens to him?

I pivot north, march smartly past Rockefeller Center, cross the street and cruise Saks for a half hour or so, then head back across Fiftieth Street to the uptown IRT station. Only, when I get to Seventh Avenue, I cross the street to the
downtown
station.

I do not believe I'm doing this.

My heart is thundering in my chest as I refill my Metro-card. I mean, even if I manage to find these people once I get to Weehawken, what the hell do I think I'm going to do? A single woman commando raid to rescue a chicken? Then what?

I stand at the turnstile, my card hovering over the slot. I can still change my mind. Turn around, go back up the stairs, cross the street, go home.

In the distance, I hear the roar of the oncoming train.

I ram the card through the slot and hurtle myself through the turnstile.

B
y the time I catch the bus at Port Authority that will take me to Weehawken, I am a woman obsessed. Or maybe possessed. I ask the driver if he perchance knows which stop is closest to the address on the card; he doesn't, but the thick-waisted little Cuban lady who just got on ahead of me does.

Feeling cheered that I at least won't be riding the bus aimlessly around Weehawken for the next two hours, I sit, resisting the temptation to gnaw on a hangnail. Shortly thereafter, the bus spits me out on Kennedy Boulevard. Behind me, across the river, looms midtown Manhattan. In front of me, stupidity does.

Having no earthly idea where I'm going, I head west, praying for guidance. Or at least somebody who speaks English. Finally, I get directions to the funeral parlor, which turns out to be only a fortuitous few blocks away. The parking lot is virtually empty, which means—thank God—I'm not interrupting anything.

The front door is open. I go in, following the sound of voices to an office down the hall. Two heads snap up at
my sudden appearance, a man and a woman's, both middle-aged, dark-haired. Startled.

“I'm looking for Manny Ortiz,” I say before either of them can hit me with a sales schpiel. Not that talking about my own death particularly bothers me—exactly—it's just that it's highly unlikely I'd choose to be interred in Weehawken.

“He's off today,” the man says. “Can I help you?”

“It's…personal. I don't suppose you could tell me where he lives? We, uh, used to be neighbors. In Washington Heights.”

I guess I don't look terribly threatening, because the man nods, then gives me directions to the Ortiz house. Which turns out to be his, as well. Ah, the cousin.

Central Weehawken—the emphasis being on the “wee”—is filled with shady streets lined with a mishmash of housing styles in varying degrees of upkeep. The Ortizes live on a worn-around-the-edges street that was probably, at one time, almost elegant. The house itself is a brown clapboard two-story with a porch, circa early twentieth century. A dog barks as I approach; cooking smells emanate through the screen door when I get to the top of the porch steps.

I realize I have no idea how much, if any, English these people speak. And my Spanish is from hunger.

Mrs. Manny comes to the door, the youngest one on her hip. Her hair is piled atop her head; one bra strap, red, has escaped from under her black tank top to strangle the top of her arm.

“Mrs. Ortiz? My name is Ginger Petrocelli. I was looking for your husband?”

She squints at me, then grins, revealing a missing tooth.

“You are woman from old place!” she says, standing back to let me in. That I've shown up out of the blue doesn't seem to either surprise or worry her. She shifts the baby higher on her hip to shake my hand, tells me her name is Benita. “Come in, please. House is mess, but with so many children…?” She shrugs. “We hope to get our own place soon. You would like a Coke, maybe?”

“No, no thank you.” Relieved at least about the lan
guage thing, I scan the living room, filled with bulky Mediterranean-style furniture on carpeting the color of root beer slush. The room is clean, the “mess” strictly kid effluvium—toys and crayons and stuff. “I can't stay. I just…came to see about the rooster. Rocky.”

She turns to me, her smile fading. “The rooster?”

“Yes. My mother was taking care of it? Your husband came to get it this morning?”

“Sì, sì, comprendo.”
She lets the toddler down, then smooths her hair off her pleated brow. “He is in the back, with the others.” She licks her lips. “My husband is not here. I do not think he would want you to see…”

But I'm already halfway through the house, storming through the immaculate kitchen to the walled backyard, which has been divided into a number of small pens. Each one contains a rooster.

No hens, just roosters.

I turn to Benita, who is regarding me with worried eyes, even though, in theory, there's nothing I can do to make trouble. After all, I have no proof the cocks are being kept to fight.

“Is not my idea,” she says quietly, her arms folded across her doughy stomach.
“Hombres estúpidos.”

There are four of the creatures, majestic things in their own chickenish way. I can't save them all. Nor can I stop the
“hombres estúpidos”
from continuing the practice, not today, not by myself. Calling the authorities would be useless. But suddenly, I understand what drives my mother, and others like her, to fight what might seem like losing battles: because, as Nonna said, somebody has to speak up for those who have no voice.

Okay, so it's only a chicken, but it's a start.

“How much is he…worth?”

Benita understands what I'm asking. She shrugs, tells me. I think of the check in my purse, many times larger than the amount she just quoted. I get out my checkbook, add a hundred dollars to her figure, then hand it to the stunned woman. “I'll take him with me,” I say, realizing, with that one sentence, I have just officially slipped over the edge.

 

As I trudge back to the bus stop, a rooster-filled cage in tow, I realize my zeal has faded along with my options. Assuming I even manage to find transportation that will allow livestock, just where do I think I'm going to
take
said livestock once I get on whatever it is?

So much for my foray into impulsive behavior.

Oh, yeah—behold the fun-filled antics of the hip young urbanite, I'm thinking as I switch the heavy cage from one hand, now gone numb, to the other. Gee—I could be standing in line in some coffeehouse right now, schmoozing with other hip young urbanites, not a care in the world beyond which trendy restaurant I'm going to sample next. Instead, I'm schlepping a rooster down the street, the cage banging the hell out of my thigh, hoping against hope that tying the damn thing to my back and swimming the Hudson isn't the only way I'm ever going to escape New Jersey.

For at least the first half hour, things aren't looking too good. When a bus finally comes chugging along, the driver laughs in my face, shuts the doors, and drives off, leaving Rocky and me to choke on exhaust. Nor is there a taxi in sight. By now, I'm working up to having to pee, I'm sunburned, and I'm this close to tears. And no closer to a solution. Just when I'm beginning to envision being interred in Weehawken after all, a large, black vehicle approaches from the north, eventually stopping in front of me.

A hearse. And you get one guess who's behind the wheel.

My blood runs cold (never thought I'd ever have the opportunity to actually use that phrase) as I entertain unpleasant thoughts concerning enraged rooster owners and dumb
gringas.

The dark window on my side lowers. Cautiously, I bend at the waist, peer inside.

“You need a ride?”

Right. God knows what he's going to do to me.

Except then Manny Ortiz grins. A nice grin, not a your-neck-is-thin-enough-to-snap-with-one-squeeze grin. Then I notice one of the kids, a little boy, tucked into a
car seat by his side. “My wife, she tells me what you do, that you buy the rooster. The bird means a lot to you,
sì?
”

“Yes,” I lie.

He chuckles. “You want a rooster, I could have told you where to get one much cheaper.”

“I didn't—” Oh, hell. Like I can explain this.

“Is very generous, what you do. The money, it will help us get a place of our own sooner.
Gracias.
”

I nod.
“De nada,”
I say, which is as far as my Spanish goes. Then I add, because I have absolutely nothing to lose at this point, “And the other birds?”

His brows shoot up. “You want to buy them, too?”

“No, no. But…”

I lose my nerve. Manny sighs, skims a hand across his thick hair. “You women, too soft-hearted.” He slants me a look. “I think about it. In meantime, I will take you wherever you need to go, okay? Your mother and you have both been very good to my family. A ride is the least I can do to repay you.”

I hesitate.

“There is no one in back, if that is what is bothering you.”

Well, hell, I hadn't even thought about that. “No, it's just I'm not sure where to tell you to take…me…”

Oh, God. Dumb and dumber strikes again. “Can you take me to Brooklyn? To Greenpoint?”

“No problem. Put the bird in the back and hop in. Benita, she'll be just as happy to have the little one out of her hair for a while,
sì?
”

I deposit the cage in back then climb in beside the little boy, who gives me a shy, sweet smile.

 

“Jesus, give me a heart attack, why don't you?” Paula is standing in her doorway, her hand on her chest. “Was that a
hearse?
“

I wave to Manny and little Benito as they drive off, then turn back to my ashen-faced cousin. “It's a long story, and I really, really have to pee—”

Her eyes have gone to the cage. And its occupant.

“I'm afraid to ask,” she says, “but why do you have a rooster?”

“Paula? I'm going to piddle all over your stoop.”

“Oh, Jesus, come in. No, wait, leave the rooster…well, shit, I don't know where to leave the rooster! Frank! Come see this thing!”

I scurry down the hall to the bathroom, making it there by the skin of my…teeth. When I come out, Rocky's cage is surrounded by a veritable herd of Wojowodskis in varying sizes. Now that my bladder is empty, I quickly run through the entire series of events that lead up to this moment, at which point Nick comes down the stairs from his apartment, his eyes widening when he sees me. Then he spots Rocky and his eyes narrow.

“Gee. That rooster looks awfully familiar.”

Rocky cocks his head at Nick and kind of…gurgles at him.

“You were right, they were raising him to fight,” I say in a rush. “My mother gave him back to the Ortizes but I couldn't stand it, so I went and, um, liberated him.”

I think that's what you'd call bemusement in Nick's eyes. “And brought him…here.”

My gaze bounces from Nick to Paula to Frank and back to Nick. “It's just until I find someplace else for him, I swear.”

“Ma, he's like, so cool,” Frank Jr., the oldest boy, says. “It's like we're living on a farm.”

“Which we don't,” Paula says, then turns to me. “Honey, swear to God, I'd do anything for you, but I can't keep a rooster.”

My eyes are burning. I feel stupid as hell. And desperate. How come my mother can pull these things off with dignity and I just look like an idiot? “It's just for a few days,” I repeat. “I promise, I'll find someplace to take him. By the end of the week,” I declare, even though, again, I have no idea what I'm promising.

“Ginger—”

“I'll take care of him,” Nick says quietly to his sister-in-law, although his eyes are pinned to mine. “And I'll
find a new home for him, too. I've got connections,” he says when my brows lift.

“Mom, look!” Frank Jr. says. “It's like he knows we're talkin' about him!”

“It's a chicken, for cryin' out loud!” Paula says. “They're like the stupidest creatures on God's green earth!”

At that, Rocky turns his beady little eyes on Paula, stretches up on tiptoe, and crows his heart out.

“Jesus,” she says. “I'm sorry.”

“I owe you guys,” I say, heading for the door before Nick can get to me, even though if I'll admit it, he already has. But I'm not admitting anything. “Anytime you need a baby-sitter, just holler, I'll be here.”

Then I hug Paula and get the hell out of there, fully aware as I hot-foot it down the street toward the subway station that Nick has come out on the stoop and is watching my retreat.

 

Dinner's long since over by the time I get home, although Nonna insists on heating up some leftover eggplant parmigiana for me. Gee, when she goes back to Brooklyn, either my mother or I will have to learn how to cook. Bummer. I tell them both about my afternoon's adventures; they both stare at me, speechless.

“And Nick said he'd take care of it, find it a home?” my mother says.

“Uh-huh.”

Nonna grunts. “An' alla this Greg did was send you roses.”

After dinner, I find my mother in her room, hand her a check. After deducting what I paid for the rooster, it's what I just got for the ring. I've left the Pay To The Order Of part blank.

She looks at the figure, blinks. Looks up at me.

“For that shelter you were talking about,” I say, then go to my room, rip off my clothes and fall into bed, and thence into the first decent night's sleep I've had all summer.

 

In the midst of the weekend's events, I'd nearly forgotten I was supposed to start a new job today. Or that I was supposed to be there at nine, which was twenty minutes ago and I'm just now getting off the bus at Fifth and 86th to begin my sprint over to Lexington Avenue, where Dana Alsworth has her gallery and offices. I'm a veritable vision in Mushroom-and-Creme, right down to my classic, but up-to-the-minute, matching slingbacks. The weather is even being decent—relatively blue sky, relatively oxygenated air, relatively cool crosstown breeze. So, all of this having put me in a good mood (even if I am running late, my mother is pregnant, I spent several hours yesterday rescuing a rooster and I have a date tonight with a man I have no idea what to do with) I skim across the sidewalk at a brisk enough pace to put some color in my cheeks, but not enough to leave me panting when I arrive.

I stop at the showroom's front door, both to catch my breath and ease myself back into what I like to think of as “my” world. As I stand there, I feel an actual transformation take place. The crazed, impulsive woman of yesterday is fading…fading…yielding to the secure, confident, sane creature I used to be.