If You Were Here

“Maybe we’ll just close our eyes for a minute and… mmph.” And like that, he’s out.

I’m about to drift off too, when I hear the opening credits of TMZ, followed by a familiar voice and a bunch of bleeps. I sit up and grope for my glasses.

“So bleep you, bleep your bathtub, bleep the Japs, bleep your grill, bleep your mother, and bleep your bleeping bleepity bleep. Your dogs are cool. But bleep your cats and your bleep face.”

What the bleep?

Glasses finally on, I see shaky cell phone footage taken from my house, replaying everything that went down today. Then Harvey Levin comes on-screen, reporting, “Producers have pulled the plug on Vienna Hyatt’s new reality show after today’s violent outburst.”

The cute surfer-boy reporter with the wild mane of blond hair adds, “Yep, it’s over before it even began. I guess anyone wanting to spend One Night in Vienna will have to do it the old-fashioned way!”

Harvey continues. “Ha! You know that’s true. I’d hate to be in her shoes. No, wait. I’d hate to be hit by one of her shoes!” Cameras pan to the whole team at TMZ laughing before the scene cuts to a shot of Manny trying to shake away all the cartoon birds flying around his head. “Will our favorite bad girl seek revenge for her axed show? Wait. What am I talking about? This is Vienna Hyatt! Of course she will!”

Then TMZ launches into a long retrospective of all her old feuds. My God, that woman’s fought with everyone. And I’m not just talking about the usual Paris-Lindsay-Kardashian-du-jour-Britney conflagrations, although by Vienna’s own admission, Ms. Spears currently holds a spot on the buddy list. Her extended enemy list includes the regular suspects, such as all the kids from Laguna Beach, The Hills,⁷⁹The City, and even Jersey Shore. But it doesn’t end there, oh, no. Vienna’s had words with everyone from Arnold Palmer to Ahmet Zappa. According to TMZ, she even pissed off the Dalai Lama by shoving him when he accidentally walked in front of her at the step-and-repeat banner wall at a Free Tibet event.

Harvey returns to the screen. “And when Vienna gets revenge, you’ll hear it here first!”

After the segment ends, I hop out of bed to find the remote, which is located directly beneath Daisy’s ample rump. I give her a quick smooch on the snout, switch off the television, and climb under the covers.

Before I fall asleep, I snuggle closer to Mac; then I say a little prayer of thanks that we’re up here in Abington Cambs now and will never have to deal with Vienna again.

Chapter Eight. FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

“Doorbell! Mac, the doorbell! Come on, let’s get the door!”

We’ve been waiting for our first official doorbell ring for what feels like forever. The movers mentioned that coming up to Abington Cambs is a huge pain for them, because the neighbors are always getting in the way with all their welcome baskets and impromptu wine-based meet-and-greets.

At the moment, I’m not concerned whether the new neighbors might cause the movers “a pain,” since we’ve waited over a week for our stuff to arrive. Thirty miles away! Eight days of waiting! Turns out after foreman Manny was hit in the head, he had a little trouble reading the bill of lading back at the warehouse and our things were shipped via rail to Atlantic City, not Abington Cambs. Straightening this all out took forever — and more than a little yelling on Mac’s part. Every day the moving company would promise “tomorrow,” but after a few days, we wondered if tomorrow would ever actually come. (Please don’t tell Mac, but part of me wonders whether, if he’d been a little less shouty on the phone, things might have been resolved faster.)

Anyway, after we left the city, we slept at the Patels’ house for three nights while we waited for our beds and stuff to arrive. Kara’s parents assured us we could stay as long as we wanted, but that seemed like such an imposition. Also, after a couple of days, Kara freaked out over being obligated to visit, and Mac became really interested in learning to cook Indian food, which. . no. So we bought an air mattress and a couple of beanbags and officially moved in here. Those three items plus what we packed in overnight bags comprise all of our accessible belongings, as I refuse to replace what I already own.

Mac and I have been “urban camping” for five days, and all I want to do is sit on a chair with a back. I’ve been trying to write my novel since we got here, but I keep going off on tangents about sturdy, comfortable Amish furniture. I’ve waxed on and on about stately farmhouse tables and wide-slatted rockers, varnished and lovely and solid. I devoted eight pages to the matching bedroom set Amos handcrafted for his zombie crush, Miriam, but instead of reiterating how conflicted he was about his unrequited, undead lust, I… Well, why not just read it for yourself?Amos: Miriam, my sparrow, please direct your loving gaze to the dovetail joints on this fine sleigh bed that are as firm and strong as my bond to you. Pay special heed to the curved footboards I crafted with my own hands.Miriam: Why, Amos, are you making your wanton intentions clear, that this shall be our marriage bed?Amos: Uh, sure, yeah. But please note the ergonomics that went into the curved shape of the headboard that would make it ideal for late-night reading or snacking or perhaps watching television. I mean, if we watched TV. I didn’t make the headboard out of any kind of stupid fabric, so it’s not going to hold stains or any odors. And I hand-tooled and lacquered the wood in a cherry stain because I know it’s your favorite finish, because it’s not too light like honey oak and not too dark like mahogany, and really, this particular color would go so great with, say, a really awesome antique Persian rug, you know?

I ran some of the new pages past my niece Claire, and she said they “sound like an IKEA catalog, only boring-er.”

Another downside of not having our things — and trust me, there are plenty — is that we haven’t been able to prepare meals, since our pots and pans have been wending their way back from the boardwalk. For the first few days we lived on takeout, and that got so old that I found myself missing Mac’s culinary abominations.⁸⁰ All I wanted was something from my own kitchen, so we resorted to microwave cookery. As luck would have it, the nice microwave in the big kitchen died the second I tried it, so we’ve been using the antique one in the basement. Said microwave is perfectly functional, but I’m afraid it’s going to go all Hot Tub Time Machine on me and send me back a few generations every time I nuke a hot dog.

But now the moving truck is here at long last, which means the neighbors have been alerted to our presence. Somebody’s at the door, and I may be even more excited than the dogs, who are leaping and howling at the possibility of visitors. I can’t believe I’m finally living in a place where I’ll know my neighbors. I’m not the kind of gal who’d run next door to borrow a cup of sugar, but after so many years of being anonymous in the city, I’ve taken a shine to the prospect of brief, friendly chats with other homeowners when we’re getting our newspapers in the morning.⁸¹ I’m cool with the idea that someone might keep an eye on our place when we go on vacation, not because they have to, but because they want to. I’m a little bit enamored by the idea of trick-or-treaters, and I’m thrilled with the notion that someone might sell me Girl Scout Cookies.⁸²

When I was growing up, the street where we lived looked run-down and depressing, yet a closer-knit community could not be found. Sure, a few families allowed their dirty children to play outside at night in their pajamas, but even so, every single adult in the neighborhood watched out for those ragamuffins. We banded together to shovel Mrs. Kingery’s driveway, and we picked up Mr. Signorelli’s arthritis medicine once he got too old to drive, and brought casseroles every time the Kubiaks had a new baby.⁸³ If indeed it takes a village, Spring Street was that village.

As we make our way to the door behind two elated, scrambling dogs, I quiz Mac. “What do you think we’re getting, a fruit basket? Maybe a pie? Ooh, I hope it’s wine!”