Hanging by a Thread (21 page)

Frito glances up from his bath, apparently finding this all
highly entertaining. As do I. And Starr, who's not even trying to suppress the giggles.

Lest you think me cruel and unfeeling, however, let me relate a particular incident from several years back, when I was eight and Jen twelve.

Our parents had left her to baby-sit while they ran a few errands. Jen locked herself into the bathroom—our only bathroom, remember—to take a bath. Where she stayed for two hours. And I had to do Number Two. A fact of which I apprised her, to no avail. And I'd been expressly forbidden to set foot outside the house by myself, so I couldn't go next door to Leo's and Nana's or the Scardinares.
And
when our parents returned to find me sobbing hysterically because I'd messed my pants, Jen insisted she never heard me ask to get in.

Granted, my parents didn't believe her for a second, so it wasn't as if she got away with it. But her punishment at my parents' hands—an apology (insincere) and having to clean the toilet every day for a solid month—didn't go nearly far enough, in my opinion, to negate the pain and humiliation to which I'd been subjected.

Nor did it stop her continued torture of me, via methods increasingly nefarious, for the rest of the years we spent under the same roof. Ergo, I am totally enjoying her misery. I have been waiting many,
many
years for this.

The cat yawns again, then somehow curls his lip, a shard of light glancing off his snaggletooth. He takes a leisurely survey of the room, then refocuses on the yelping, possessed person in our kitchen. Finally, after due deliberation, he once again hauls himself off his fat haunches and continues his journey. By now, Jen is backed up against the counter and shrieking her head off. Unperturbed, Frito swerves to swipe up against her shins. Jen looks at me, terror shining in her now reddened eyes, and says, in a very small voice, “Please?”

I sigh. It was a sweet moment, but we all know how fleeting those are.

I scoop up the cat; Jen heaves a huge sigh of relief. Of course, she has no idea there's half a can of tuna in it for this rumbling furbag in my arms.

Oh, yeah, he and I are compadres now, boy.

Sagging against the sink, Jennifer sneezes, three times in rapid succession. My conscience twinges.

“Starr, honey—maybe you should take Frito to your room for a bit.” When child and cat are gone, Jennifer says, “I don't subbose you could fide someplace else for himb to stay while I'm here?”

I said
twinges.
Not
goes over to the other side.

“Jen, moving back in was your idea. And I suppose, when it comes down to it, this is still your home. If you want to stay here, fine. But I'm not turning my life, or my daughter's, upside down for you. The cat stays.”

Her chin lifts, making her nearly swollen shut eyes look even slittier. “I can't believe,” she says, blowing her nose, “that you'd choose that hideous creature over your own sister.”

“I'm not. I'm choosing my
kid
over my sister.” I cross my arms, feeling close to victory for the first time since Starr opened the door to Jennifer earlier this evening. “If that's a problem, you can dip into that nice little capital gain you and Stuart have just realized and go to a hotel.”

She sniffs. Twice. “Where's the nearest all-night drugstore?”

Not exactly the words I'd hoped to hear.

“Over on Atlantic Avenue,” I say.

Like I said, God.
Serious
talk. So pencil me in.

T
he cat got tuna, anyway. Hey, he gave it his best shot, right? And I have to say, it's nice to know somebody around here is looking out for my best interests.

Damn thing still won't let me pet him, though. Miserable beast.

The next morning, Starr and I left Jennifer making strange thumping noises in Leo's old room (I don't want to know) and went over to the Gomezes', since it occurred to me this new baby's nearly ten days old and I haven't given her a present yet. All I had to do was wrap it, though, since—after the third girlfriend gave birth within as many months a couple years ago—I finally realized how much time and energy could be saved by simply buying baby gifts in bulk every year or so. The first time I plunked a half dozen white sleepers with little androgynous creatures scampering about and as many teething rattles at the Macy's checkout, the saleswoman looked at my
stash, then at me, and asked if it was hard getting enough sleep with sextuplets.

Liv is fully dressed but reclining on the sofa in the living room, the baby observing the world from her little bouncy chair on the floor. Starr plops down cross-legged on the floor to watch her, elbows on knees and chin in hands, whereupon Erik, the three-year-old, begins regaling us with a minute-by-minute account of everything the baby's done since they all got up that morning. Definitely an argument for stopping after one kid.

Blissfully ignorant that half the babies born in Queens in recent years have cut their teeth on this very model of teething ring, Liv oohs and ahhs over the gift, then thanks me for at least the tenth time for taking the two older boys off her hands after little Dani's birth.

“Oh, please,” I say, “fuhgetabout it, it was no big deal.”

Really, the tic in my left eye is hardly even noticeable anymore.

Still, here I am on her floor, tickling the baby's chubby tummy and making all those idiotic sounds people make at babies. Barely visible over chubby cheeks, slate-blue eyes stare back at me, unimpressed. Between the cat and this kid, I'm batting zero.

“Did I have that much hair?” Starr asks.

“Much” is an understatement. This poor kid looks like she's wearing a cheapo Dracula wig—black, stiff and dangerously flammable.

“Remember the pictures in your baby book? You were so bald I had to tape a bow to your head so people would know you were a girl.”

That gets a priceless look, as Liv says, “So, I see you have company.”

This is like saying Attila the Hun's evil sister dropped by for a visit. But since Starr is sitting here, I simply say, “My sister. Jennifer.”

“Oh. And?”

I let the baby grab hold of my finger. Her eyes get bigger, but that's about it. Frankly, unless they're your own, babies are kind of boring at this stage. Like goldfish but without the charisma.

“We're—” I glance at Starr, who's totally mesmerized by the multilimbed blob in front of us “—very different.”

“Gotcha,” Liv says. And I have the feeling she does.

The kids troop upstairs to play; a minute later, Liv's grandmother, who's apparently returned from wherever she'd been when Daniella was born and who tells me to call her Dolly, everyone else does, scoops the baby out of her seat and whisks her off for a bath, leaving nothing behind but a blurred impression of an impossibly red beehive and a hot pink track suit. After she's gone, though, I catch Liv's frown.

“Is something wrong?”

Her eyes shift to mine. “Your grandfather took care of Starr, didn't he?”

My chest gets tight. “Yeah. Why?”

“Did you ask him to, or did he volunteer?”

I laugh. “More like he refused to even consider anybody else doing it.”

“See, that's the way Dolly is. She lives for these guys, especially since she quit working several years ago, but I'm beginning to worry that taking care of them is getting to be too much for her. At the same time, I know she'll be hurt if I even suggest getting someone else in to help. She was really upset about not being here when Daniella was born, but my uncle had gotten her this nonrefundable, nonchangeable plane ticket so she was stuck. Oh! Damn, I think my brain's leaked out through my tits….” Liv carefully propels herself off the sofa, then gingerly makes her way across the room to a small roll-top desk. “It finally hit me that today's the fifth of the month and I'd totally spaced the rent check. Why didn't you say something?”

“I figured you had other things on your mind.” I look at the
check she hands me, my gaze zinging to hers as she lowers herself back onto the sofa. “What's this?”

“Something extra for watching the boys that week. And no arguments.” One side of her mouth lifts up. “I know you said it was no big deal, but these are my kids we're talking about. They can be just a bit rough on the nerves.”

“I was just doing you a favor, for God's sake—”

“I know you were. But I don't like taking advantage of people if I can help it.” She grins. “Even landlords. And by the way, once I get the wind back in my sails, if you ever want me to, um, trim your hair or something…”

I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “Trying to tell me something?”

“Don't take it personally. I'm so desperate to do something besides wipe poopy butts and play cow I offered to cut the
paperboy's
hair today!”

Which I guess answers my earlier question. About stay-at-home moms feeling just a bit…stifled. Occasionally.

A little bit later, after I've gathered Starr and we head back over to our place, I think, Why couldn't I have gotten a sister like that? A thought immediately derailed the minute we step inside and Starr says, “C'n we get a baby someday?”

“Honey,” I say, hanging up our jackets, “you were pushing it with the
cat.
”

She lets out one of her sighs, but she knows better than to press the issue.

 

Jen's been here for about a week now and we haven't killed each other yet. A positive sign, I'm thinking. Of course, this might be due partly to my having sequestered myself in the basement to figure out this damn bridesmaid dress (Heather's wedding is eight weeks from today; she's coming for her first mock-up fitting later this afternoon and if I don't have sketches to show her, she's going to freak), and Jennifer not
being here much. All in all, a highly agreeable arrangement. Would that we'd thought of it as kids. Might've made childhood a tad less hairy.

Speaking of hairy, both literally and figuratively: since it's Saturday, Jason doesn't have school, which means he's been over here since just before lunchtime. Which means my kindness-to-moony-teenage-boys allotment for the day is just about used up. He keeps looking at me like he wants to tell me something; I keep acting like I'm too busy to talk. Because I have a real strong feeling I know what he wants to tell me, and an even stronger feeling I don't want to hear it. I've been down this path before (believe it or not), with Ricky Carver, in the ninth grade. Fleshy, myopic and pimply, Ricky trailed after me like a homeless mutt, always managing to somehow cross my path even though we didn't have the same schedule. Finally one day he cornered me after gym class and confessed his love. I'm not sure which of us was more humiliated. I do know that I never want to go through that again.

I don't get it—it's not as if I'm wearing hot pants and a low-cut halter top. Or ever have. In fact, it's kind of chilly today, so I'm in a sweatshirt and baggy drawstring flannel pj bottoms, my hair's in a ponytail (and anyone who's ever tried to put layered hair in a ponytail knows how attractive
that
is), my face devoid of makeup. I'm even wearing my glasses. Last time I caught my reflection in the mirror, I looked like one of those tabloid photos of some star under a Her Sad, Final Days headline.

And yet here Jason is, like a seagull hovering over a garbage barge.

Why can't the kid be like any other boy his age, jerking off over some X-rated Internet site or something? How fascinating can it be, watching me swear at a sketchpad?

Actually, now that I mention it, he's not watching me at all. Actually, he's slumped down into one corner of the couch, eyes shut, gently nodding to whatever he's plugged into. Frito's on
his lap—of course—kneading the baggy denim lying in folds around his knee, fang glittering in the soft light from the lamp by my desk.

Maybe the kid gets off on just…smelling me?

I spread out the sketches I've done. Or at least, the ones that don't make me gag. There are twelve, six of which I'll show Heather. The others I intend to burn. Now I remember why I didn't major in design. I mean, really—does the world really need another sucky designer?

So why am I looking at these sketches and thinking…I want more? To do more? To
be
more?

“Hey, dude—what's wrong?”

Startled, I realize Jason's come up beside me, giving me the oh-God-don't-be-unhappy look. I'm even more startled to discover my cheeks are wet.

“Nothing,” I say, wiping my eyes on the hem of my sweatshirt. “Just that time of month.”

Usually a guaranteed male repellent.

Except for this time.

Before I can say,
“Holy crap!”
Jason's yanked me against him so hard I nearly lose my balance. Since his hoodie smells like week-old Mickey D's, this is not a pleasant experience. Especially as my breasts are squished into his ribs. If this is giving the kid a woody, however, I have no idea, because believe you me I've got my butt jutting out so far you could fly a squadron of fighter jets between our pelvises.

Which doesn't stop him from kissing me.

I allow myself precisely one hundredth of a second to debate the don't-want-to-hurt-his-feelings vs. must-stop-this-NOW issue. Hands clamped on his shoulders, I push back, trying not to yelp when inertia keeps his mouth moving after me like a heat-seeking missile.

“Jason?” I try to sound gentle, since I doubt screaming
“What the hell do you think you're doing?”
would do a whole
lot for his obviously fragile self-esteem. “What was that all abou—?”

“Jason!”

That's not good.

We both look over; Luke's standing at the foot of the stairs, holding my grinning, blessedly clueless, daughter in his arms. Luke, however, is not grinning. He whispers something in Starr's ear, then sets her down. She goes skipping up the stairs, leaving Luke free to glare and fume.

“Go home, Jase,” he says softly.

“I was just—”

“Home. Now.”

“Luke,” I try to get in as Jason says, “She was crying—”

“I was not!”

“—so I was just trying to make her feel better, was all.” Jase hangs his head like a Beagle who's just piddled on the carpet. An apt description, considering how he smells. “Geez, I didn't mean anything by it.”

I'm not sure how to take that.

“Go home,” Luke repeats. “We'll deal with this later.”

“Hey!” I stomp around the table to get up in Luke's face—okay, chest—hands on hips, breasts up and out. Woman on warpath stance. “Whatever this is, or isn't, it's between Jase and me, okay?”

Luke lifts one eyebrow, only to immediately frown. “Jesus, Ellie, you
were
crying. What's wrong?”

Isn't this where we came in?

“Nothing, for God's sake, I was just feeling a little blue— I'm entitled—but I'm fine now. So can we just forget the whole thing?”

“So,” Jason says behind me, “can I stay?”

“No,” Luke and I say at the same time. Understandably enough, the kid looks crushed. And confused.

“If you were on Luke's side to begin with,” he says, shov
ing his stringy hair out of his eyes, “why'd you pretend you weren't?”

Why do kids always think people have to be on
sides?

I let out a little sigh, then walk over and lay my hand on his arm. “Jason, honey? Please don't take this the wrong way, but you need a life. Of your own. And hanging out over here all the time ain't it.”

His whole body sags. “Thought you liked it when I came over.”

“I do,” I say, squeezing his arm. “Every once in a while. But as long as you're here, you're not out there. Making friends and all that stuff.” I refrain from adding “your own age.” I'm not that stupid. Or mean. I angle my head to look up under the shaggy hair. “I can't be your girlfriend, Jason. And I know we need to talk about this—”

“Forget it! Just…forget it!” Hair flying, he cuts through the room and storms up the basement stairs. When the reverberations stop, I turn to Luke. The caveman scowl is still firmly in place; his gaze remains fixed on the stairs for several seconds before it shifts to me.

“You okay?”

I go back behind my table, laying out the sketches to glower at them some more. “I think maybe you should be asking Jason that, not me.”

“He ever try somethin' like that before?”

“No. And I doubt he'll try it again, so unknot your boxers. No boy in his right mind would deliberately embarrass himself like that twice. Oh, for crying out loud, Luke,” I say when the scowl deepens. “It was just a kiss. From a kid who's seventeen and confused and horny.”

“It's the horny part that worries me.”

“Why? Because you're afraid I might succumb to temptation and end up having a hot and heavy affair with your baby brother?”

“Don't even
say
that.”

“I don't believe this! How could you even think I'd—” For some reason—Luke's crazed expression, my precarious emotional state, the fact that Mme. Attila has moved back in—I burst out laughing. When the hysteria subsides, I say, “Luke, sweetie? For one thing, I can take care of myself. So you can unplug the Damsel Defense System, okay? For another, you're wasting brain cells on something that ain't gonna happen, in this or any other lifetime. Although…” I lean across the table. “You might want to take him under your wing and give him a few pointers. His seduction technique is from hunger.”