“Maybe one day we could get together,” he said.
I put my hand out for the change. He handed it to me, his fingers lingering in my palm for a second too long.
“I’m kind of seeing someone right now,” I lied.
“Me, too,” he said. “But I think my mistress would like you, too.”
“Let me get back to you,” I said, thinking, doesn’t anyone have straight sex anymore?
I opened the door to my apartment, noticing that the lights and radio were on. “I’m home,” I shouted.
My mother emerged from her-my! — bedroom.
“Bubbie,” she said, “how was your day?” Then she looked at my cheek and gasped, “What happened?”
“Oh,” I said. “Would you believe a crazy man on the street just ran up to me and did that?” I took my wal et out of my pocket. “He didn’t even want my money. Just hit me and ran off.”
“Poor baby,” my mother said, taking my shopping bag from me. “Oh, look-ice cream!”
She never did suffer from an overabundance of maternal concern.
“Oh,” she said as we sat at the kitchen table eating ourselves into oblivion. “I think that bitch Dottie Kubacki had one of her friends cal here tonight.”
“What do you mean?” I mumbled though a mouthful of chocolate.
“I picked up the phone and this deep voice said,
‘Tel the whore to stay away from us or someone’s going to get hurt.’ Can you imagine her cal ing me a
‘whore’ when she’s the one fooling around with my husband? What a bitch.”
I was pretty sure the cal wasn’t meant for her.
“It was probably just a wrong number,” I told her.
“Or a prank cal. It doesn’t sound like Dottie’s style.”
“The woman almost shot you to death!”
“Yeah, but to be honest, she didn’t know it was me. And I was peeping into her window at the time.”
“I stil say that woman is capable of anything,” my mother grumbled.
Just then, a crashing noise came from the window. We both turned to look.
Gunshots!
“Get down!” I shouted at my mother.
“What?”
I threw myself in her lap, knocking both of us to the floor. “Someone’s shooting at us!” I cried.
Apparently, Michael Harrington wasn’t going to be satisfied with a warning delivered by phone.
“Ow!” my mother screamed.
“Mom!” I would never forgive myself if my mother got hurt because of my involvement with the Harringtons.
“My hip!” she moaned. “Ow!”
Shit, she’d been shot!
I looked at her. “I’l cal the cops,” I told her. I was about to crawl to the phone when I looked at her again. “I don’t see any blood.”
“Of course there’s no blood,” she said, standing up. “You just almost broke my hip with that meshuggana move you pul ed. Are you trying to kil me?”
“Get back down!” I shouted, pointing at the window where more bul ets struck the glass.
“Someone’s shooting at us!”
“Those aren’t gunshots,” my mother said.
They weren’t?
I listened again.
The sound was more of a tapping then a blasting.
Ooops. OK, maybe I did overreact. Had I taken my medicine today?
“Someone’s throwing something at the window,” she said. “Rocks or… pebbles. I haven’t heard that sound since…”
Hip hurting or not, she ran to the window like a schoolgirl. She flung it open and we heard him outside: “Don’t sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone else but me…”
My father’s singing voice was legendarily bad, but my mother’s face glowed as if she was listening to Sinatra.
I joined her at the window. My father was standing on the street in a white tuxedo and tails. He held a bouquet of blood red roses. A white limousine was parked on the street behind him, the driver holding the door open.
A smal crowd gathered behind my father. More street theater. These are the moments New Yorkers live for.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your golden hair,” my father cal ed.
My mother blushed and waved him away.
“Come on,” a guy who looked like a construction worker (and was actual y pretty hot) cal ed out to her.
“Give da guy a break.”
“Come, fair lady, upon my glorious steed.” My father gestured towards the limo.
My mother blushed and put her hands on her cheeks.
A
fifty-something
African-American woman shouted at us, “Honey, if you don’t get your ass down here, I’m going with him!” The crowd laughed.
My mother turned to me. “What do I do?”
“Wel,” I said, “you could hop on the fire escape and climb down, but since you’re wearing white slacks, I’d probably take the elevator.
“Should I forgive him?”
“I don’t think you have anything to forgive him for, Mom. He never laid a finger on Dottie Kubacki and you know it.”
My mother smiled wisely. “You see, what he’s doing now? I think this is what I needed.”
My father began singing again “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…”
My mother leaned out the window. “If I come down, wil you promise to stop singing?”
The crowd laughed.
“You cal this singing?” my father asked. More laughter.
“What I cal it,” my mother said, “is very sweet.”
This time, the crowed “awwwed.”
“I’l be right down!” my mother shouted and she skipped-actual y skipped! — to the door. “I might not be back tonight!” she tril ed to me.
“You better not be back!” I cal ed back to her.
“I love you,” she said.
“Love you too, Mom.”
I watched for a minute as my mother emerged from the lobby door and ran into my father’s arms.
Given that she had at least thirty pounds on him, most of it in the bosom, I was surprised he didn’t fal over.
The crowd cheered. So did I.
And not just because I had my apartment back.
My father watched as the limo driver guided her into the backseat. When he closed her door, my father turned to me. “Not bad for an old man, huh?”
“I’m proud of you Dad,” I said, my eyes for some reason fil ing with tears. Must have been relief.
“Your old man, you have to admit, he’s stil got it,” my father said. “Now, you won’t miss her too much, wil you?”
“I’l survive.”
“You’re a good boy. Thanks for looking after her.”
“Thanks for taking her back!”
