Not Exactly a Love Story (10 page)

I stood right above them. I was mostly hidden behind the seaweed, but I could hear the girls clearly. I could even see them, although a grouper passed back and forth at regular intervals, briefly blocking my view.

“Patsy,” Sissy said. “Are you here to buy fish?”

“No,” Patsy said, looking embarrassed. “I came to see you. I feel awful about the other day—”

“It doesn’t matter. Really,” Sissy said, looking apologetic. “I know how things are now.” Then she turned away because Dad was handing over his card.

Patsy stood there for another thirty seconds or so, looking stricken, then left. I went downstairs to help Dad carry the equipment out without making eye contact with Sissy. I acted like I’d forgotten she was there.

Dad and I hit a diner for a three o’clock lunch, and then he drove me home. It was time for him to get back to work. So far as I could tell, he was happy when he was driving.

“Why didn’t you ever do this before, Dad?”

“Drive a taxi?” He looked over at me. “Or you mean, get a regular job?”

I felt stupid. “I don’t mean it like that, exactly. Just, this seems to suit you.”

“We weren’t short of money, Vinnie. And I thought your mother and I were all right. With everything. I liked being the one who stayed home. She liked that I was. Mostly.”

Neither one of us said anything for a minute. I wanted to apologize, but that might have made it worse. I said, “You ought to put up some posters around the apartment, you know? Brighten it up.”

“I’ll help you carry the tank to the back door, Vinnie,” Dad said, turning onto the block where I lived now.

“I’ve got it,” I told him.

He stopped the taxi in front of the house. He helped me with the load, setting it onto the driveway while I trucked stuff to the door. When the trunk was empty, I said, “I’ll donkey the rest of it.”

Patsy came out then, wearing that peacoat again. She appeared to be surprised to see us outside. She gave us an uncertain smile and took off down the sidewalk, walking away with a brisk step.

“Friend of yours?” Dad asked.

“We ride the same bus.” Impersonal, that’s how I tried to sound. I don’t know that I made it.

Dad clapped me on the arm. “Nice scenery you have in
this neighborhood.” And he got into the taxi. When he was lucky, he picked up a fare for the trip back.

“Anthony!” she said, like she was greeting an old friend.

“Anthony?” It caught me by surprise. A point for her.

“No?”

“No,” I said, understanding. “And you mean Antonio.”

“Maybe you’re the wrong guy. You want to say something obscene?”

“I told you. That was a mistake.”

“What does your dad do?”

Safe territory. “He’s an actor.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s not famous. Mostly, he does commercials.”

“Will I have seen any?”

“There’s a dog food commercial running now.” I wished I’d changed it to breakfast cereal, I look a lot like my dad.

“Tell me something else about yourself.”

“I’m shy,” I said.

“Uh-huh. Athletic?”

Careful here, I thought.

Remembering Mr. B’s recent enthusiasm, I said, “Skiing.”

“Skiing is sexy.”

“Skiing is a one-way ticket to frostbite and a runny nose.”

She laughed. “You’re cute, Aldo.”

“Now,
that
you can’t be sure of. And one name per call.”

“One letter per call, that’s our rule. I can try as many names as I like.”

Our rule
. I liked the sound of that. “We’ll see.”

“Very in charge, are you?”

“I’m the only one with a number to call,” I said.

“I think you’re short
and
you have an inferiority complex, Andreo.”

“Italian is not French with an
o
at the end.”

“I bet you get good grades.”

My gut tightened. “Sometimes.”

“So you’re in my classes?”

“Not.”

“You’re sure?”

“There must be dozens of guys in your classes. Why would I need to lie about that?”

No answer.

I breathed a little easier. I said, “Don’t go away mad.”

“I’m not going away.”

“You always go away. I just have to say something dirty.”

“So go ahead, say it.”

I didn’t speak.

“Say it!”

I whispered, “Filthy, filthy, filthy.”

She hung up.

I laughed, I couldn’t help it.

Late the next morning, Mom made scrambled eggs, then fried
them, and finally tossed them into the wastebasket. She forgot to turn on the broiler, so the bacon didn’t burn, but the toast did. This was the point at which Mr. B entered the kitchen, his hair still wet from the shower.

I pulled on a zippered sweatshirt, getting ready to go outside. Plucking the Sunday paper off the lawn was my small contribution to family harmony. “You can’t go out like that again today, Vinnie,” Mom said as she put some frozen sausages into the toaster oven with a couple more slices of bread. “Put on your heavier jacket.”

“It looks warm out.”

“The sun is shining. That doesn’t make it warm out.”

“I think that’s how it works, Mom.”

“Don’t be smart. Was that you sneezing? Maybe you caught a cold.”

I hated that jacket. It made me look like the puffy Michelin Man. I hoped the day would warm up, like it had the day before.

“A cold, maybe,” she said, shaking the jar of vitamin C pills.

“Let the boy alone,” Mr. B said, contemplating a cup of coffee he clearly didn’t approve of. “I sneezed, and I don’t have a cold either.”

Mom playfully, but also meaningfully, clipped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be the mother here.”

“And I’ll be the stepdad,” Mr. B said with a grin as she set out an open box of donuts—plain, soft white sugar, and cinnamon. I grabbed one and dipped it into Mom’s coffee.

“Vinnie will be the stepson,” Mom said as Mr. B reached for a cinnamon donut. But mine fell apart before I could get it into my mouth, plopping with a wet smack onto the floor.

Stepson.

It was a word that came up with distressing frequency. Each time it did, my heart thudded to a halt. Mr. B and I would be sitting across from each other at breakfast and dinner for the next couple of years, maybe more. We’d spend holidays together, vacations, and even a Saturday-night movie here and there.

Today, for instance, Mr. B had a free day. Sunday at home. So when Mom asked him what he planned to do with it and he said he wanted to clean the kitchen, I said, “I’ll
help.” Mom had already made plans to go into the city for an art show with one of those divorced girlfriends she used to hang out with. She gave us a horrified glance and took flight. “See you guys later!”

When I finally headed outside for the paper, I left the puffy jacket behind. I was glad I did. As I turned to come inside with the paper, Patsy stepped outside in a soft green skirt all full of folds, and a lacy blouse. Like something out of the pages of a magazine. She carried her coat over her arm. It was chilly enough for her to have worn the damn coat, but no doubt she didn’t want to spoil the effect.

I strung out the walk up the driveway. A Lincoln pulled up in front of Patsy’s house. She ran to the car and got in. I heard her talking happily before she slammed the door shut.

I figured the Wall got the old man’s car.

I was assigned the refrigerator, while Mr. B took the enamel top off the stove and scrubbed it with a steel pad. I could see he was likely to go straight through the whole house this way.

The kitchen was only the tip of the iceberg. Mom didn’t have Dad’s touch with the house. Our bathtub drain was often clogged, creating a pool of marshy water. The dining room floor was sticky, and sneakers made a crickly noise as we crossed it. Dust lay in the corners of the dining room chairs because Mom dusted the way I used to do it. Dad always made me do it over.

This is going to sound funny, but I didn’t mind that
Mr. B expected me to help, sharing a little elbow grease. We started to clear the kitchen counter, which immediately necessitated rearranging the cabinets above and below. I talked fish tanks and he talked food.

One thing I’d noticed about Mr. B—he was neat. No. He was meticulous. I wondered if Mom had ever noticed his office during those parent-teacher meetings last year. White gloves had nothing to fear.

I wondered if he ever mentioned to her that each of his gym classes this year have devoted two periods each to climbing over the lockers with a wet rag, cleaning off years of tarlike dust deposits and the occasional ragged sneaker or balled-up sock. We’d disinfected shower tiles. We’d wiped out our lockers only to have Mr. B point out the curled lips of metal inside the vented door as a dirt catcher. He planned to start on the gym supply closet next week.

The janitorial crew must love him.

Mr. B turned on the TV to watch televised reruns of famous games.

I set the fish tank in the living room, in front of a bank of three windows. I laid everything out on the floor around the tank—the air filter, the water pump, the heater, and the light—and started reading a variety of instruction booklets. It would be a couple of weeks before I’d be ready to put any fish into the tank. Maybe a month before I’d get the salt water just right.

It was good the windows happened to be on the north
side of the house. No sun to overheat the water. Also, while feeding the fish or cleaning the tank, I’d be able to watch the comings and goings over at Patsy’s.

Mom came home carrying a small watercolor. She held it up for Mr. B and me, then spent about an hour walking it around the house, deciding where to hang it. During this time, Patsy’s mother made the garbage trip. I looked up as I placed a crystal cave into the blue gravel. I smiled and waved, feeling very boy-next-door.

Mr. B asked, “What are we having for dinner, hon?”

“Dinner? Haven’t you two eaten yet?”

Mr. B shook himself out of his sports daze. “Have you?”

“I grabbed something to nosh on the train,” she said. “But I think there must be some eggs. Some breakfast links in the freezer, maybe?”

The thing Patsy got me thinking about, once the lights were out
and the dial tone
brrrrrred
in my ear, a kind of alter ego took over when I called her. It wasn’t really me she was talking to. No. It was Vincenzo.

At first this felt kind of scary. But the more I thought about it, the better the whole idea looked to me. I couldn’t be held responsible for anything Vincenzo said. And Vincenzo could say—well, anything.

Besides, he only existed for ten or fifteen minutes a day.

At midnight Patsy picked up, opening the conversation with a question. “Have you ever had a girlfriend, Bernardo?”

“Of course I have.” I chuckled. I hated myself immediately.

“Do you have one now?”

“Are you asking, am I cheating on her?”

Silence.

“Currently, I’m only seeing you,” I said. “In a manner of speaking.”

“And I see you, probably every day.”

“Or not.”

“I see you and don’t know it. That’s part of the game you’re playing.”