Finally, I manage to wrestle my mouth into submission. I stare at my hands and wish I hadn’t bothered using my ultra-expensive rose oil/lanolin/honey cream this evening.
Oliver gives me an odd look and gets up, and I take a quick swipe at my mouth. He picks up his ball from the little conveyor belt and goes into his windup. Just as the ball flies from his hands, he falls to the floor, writhing.
“Ow! Shit! Ow!”
I rush to his side, and the people from lanes twelve and fourteen stop what they’re doing.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”
“My groin! I popped my hernia. Damn it!”
“You what?” I wince. His face is bright red, and he’s clutching himself rather graphically with both hands. Several people gather around us.
“I popped a hernia, okay? Just push on it, and I should be able to stand.” Though his face is red, his eyes are…calm. Hmm.
“Do you need any help?” the mother from lane fourteen asks.
“No,” Oliver snaps. “Just push on it, Maggie.”
My hands instinctively grasp each other. “Well…why don’t you push on it?”
“Because I can’t! You need leverage! Just do it, Maggie!”
“Push on where, exactly?” I ask. A prickle of mistrust crawls up my neck.
“My groin. Right there. Jesus, Maggie, I’m in pain here!”
Is he? Or is he faking? Would he do this just for some weird sexual thrill? I barely know this guy. I don’t want to push on his groin! Blech!
“Come on, Maggie!” he says.
“Right. Right, okay…it’s just that I never…you know…hernias? I don’t know anything about hernias. Maybe we should wait for a medic. I’ll call 911.”
“No! This happens all the time. For God’s sake, Maggie, just push.” His teeth are gritted now, and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or frustration that I’m not feeling him up. He certainly looks pissed off.
“Um, okay, so where exactly?” I say, biting my lip.
“Here.” He grabs my hand and shoves it on his…well, you know. His male place. The family next to us hustles their kids away.
“Go ahead, honey,” one of the male league players says. “Push.”
Grimacing, I look away and give a tentative push against his, um, flesh.
“Harder, Maggie! Harder!” Is that pain or sexual frenzy? I just can’t tell. “Push harder!”
Oh, crap, is this for real? He certainly isn’t good with pain, and that doesn’t make me like him any better. I push a little harder.
“Will you stop f**king around and do it?” Oliver snarls.
Years of lifting giant bags of potatoes and onions, wrestling economy-size sacks of rice and flour, endless bike riding and walking, have made me quite strong. It’s something I’m rather proud of, my strength. I look down at Oliver’s speculative eyes, and push with all my might.
His scream rips through the air, soaring over the clatter and smash of pins. Every single person in the place turns to look, reducing the racket of the bowling alley to the silence of an empty church, except for Ollie’s shriek. Then his voice breaks out of the range of human hearing, and all is perfectly quiet.
“Better?” I ask.
Twenty minutes later, Oliver is carried out by the ambulance people. “Good luck,” I call as he is trundled past.
“Bitch,” he chokes. His face has returned to bright red from the purple my great strength induced. I feel no guilt whatsoever. Harder he said, and harder he got.
“Well, if he didn’t have a hernia, I hope you gave him one, sweetie,” says a woman leaguer kindly. “I thought he was kind of a prick.”
I smile at her. “Me, too.”
I make a mental note on the drive home: thirteen is definitely bad luck.
CHAPTER SEVENANOTHER GREAT STORY of the horrors of dating. I entertain half the town with Oliver’s Groin, the latest in a series of laugh-out-loud jokes that comprises my love life. Soon I’ll have enough for a daily calendar.
My second date from Father Tim’s list of eligible bachelors is Albert Mikrete. We meet at a steakhouse on Route 1, Al and I. And while he is a good-looking man, financially secure, considerate and pleasant, and while we agree that Maggie Mikrete would be an excellent name, and while he was apparently quite brave during his colonoscopy last month and his cataract surgery in January, we decide at the end of our meal that perhaps we aren’t quite right for each other.
“You’re a lovely girl,” Al says as he pays the check (at least there’s that). He puts away the pictures of his grandchildren and smiles. “And you’ve been so kind to an old man like myself, sitting here all night, listening to me go on.”
“I’ll probably kick myself for letting you go,” I say, horrified to realize that Al’s been my best date in years.
“Well, I can’t wait to tell my bridge club that I went on a date with a sweet young thing. Imagine! Me, dating a woman forty-six years younger!”
We laugh and hug and part as friends, and he drives with painstaking care out of the parking lot, another senior citizen fallen to my charms. When I get home, there’s a wheezing, laughing message on my machine from Father Tim. “Oh, shite, Maggie,” he says, and I smile at the rare curse. “You’ve already gone, then. Well, by the time you get home tonight, you’ll find that wires got a wee bit crossed…” He dissolves into more gales of laughter. “Ring me when you get in.”
I pick up the phone and hit number three on speed dial. “You’re speaking to the future Mrs. Albert Mikrete,” I say when he answers.
“Oh, Maggie!” he says. “I’m so sorry. It seems that Father Bruce was thinking of the wrong person…tell me it wasn’t awful.”
“It wasn’t, actually. He has beautiful grandchildren.”
This causes another shower of laughter, and I lie back on my bed and listen happily.
That Sunday as I field the after-church brunch crowd, I’m surprised to see Al come in. He waves vigorously as I serve the Tabors their pancakes.
“Thought I’d stop by and see you, sweetheart,” he announces loudly, adjusting his hearing aid. The diner becomes quiet. “I wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had on our date.”
I smile. “Me, too, Al.” At least this time, I’m not embarrassed. Or drunk.
“WHAT ABOUT KEVIN MICHALSKI?” Father Tim asks the next week, taking his usual seat at the diner.
“I used to babysit him,” I answer, gazing out at April. Sadly, it doesn’t look different from muddy March, though the air is a bit gentler. There may be a slight fuzz of red on the distant oaks, but I can’t really tell.
“Ah. And that puts him out of the running, does it?”
“He must be twelve or thirteen years younger than I am, Father Tim. He’s nineteen years old. I’d like someone who can buy a six-pack.”
“All right, then,” says Father Tim. He seems to have really gotten a tickle out of arranging my dates and consults his list with a serious expression. “I’ve one last man to try, and if that doesn’t work, I’m giving up on the world of dating.”
“You realize how that sounds, don’t you?” I ask him.
“This one’s a winner, mind you,” he says. “I’ve been saving the best for last.”
“Crafty of you,” I murmur.
He grins. “You’ll thank me for this one, Maggie. You will.”
“Good,” I say. “Because this is your last chance. If he doesn’t work out, I’m putting myself on eBay.”
The breakfast crowd is now finished. Octavio is singing in the kitchen, Georgie is packing up leftovers for me to take to the soup kitchen, and Judy is painting her nails in the corner booth. I’ve already baked five dozen chocolate chip cookies for the fire department tonight, and later this afternoon, I’ll do my Meals on Wheels route. Mrs. K. and I have plans to watch a movie together…The Cave, I think she said. She likes a good scare. It’s a typical day, busy, full, tiring. Not a bad day at all.
But loneliness gnaws at me, and filling my time with pleasant tasks ain’t cutting it. While watching a gory movie with Mrs. K. holds its charms, it’s not what I really want. I want to watch a movie with my husband while our kids sleep upstairs. He’ll ask me if I want some ice cream as I go upstairs to check that the covers haven’t slipped off the baby. Then he’ll say, “Hey, move over,” so he can sit next to me and play with my hair. “I love you,” I’ll say, and he’ll answer, “Thank God for that.”
AFTER MRS. K. HAS fallen asleep on our movie, I creep up to the apartment, satisfied that Colonel, even if he isn’t young, would at least alert me to the presence of evil. Then, I supposed, he would watch me be slaughtered by the creature that he barked at, and eventually he’d probably curl up and gnaw one of my bones for the rest of the night.
“You wouldn’t eat me, would you, boy?” I ask, getting him a chew stick just in case. He takes the treat delicately from me and lies down gingerly. His h*ps must hurt. “You’re the best, Colonel.” He glances at me and thumps his tail in agreement.
I go to my little desk in the corner and glance out the window. From here I can see the harbor and the few lights that twinkle sweetly there. I turn on my computer and go on the Internet. I usually don’t surf unless I have a reason, but tonight, that loneliness is waiting to pounce. I’ll just look. No one will ever know.
Last night I babysat for Violet. I love my niece so much, marvel at her perfect dimpled hands, her sweet breath, silky dark hair, her fascinating, pulsating soft spot. After Christy and Will left, I did what I usually do?pretended she was mine. Do I covet her? Absolutely. I cooked her some carrots and oatmeal, ground up some chicken and gave her a mashed banana for dessert. Then I bathed her and let her dump water out of a cup for a half hour, nearly becoming drunk on the smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo.
Holding her on my lap, I read The Big Red Barn seven or eight times. Violet never failed to be charmed at my animal imitations, and every time I said, “Cockadoodle doo! Moo, Moo!” she would turn to me, eyes dancing, her little pearl teeth gleaming with saliva.
When I could keep her awake no longer, I sat in the rocking chair in her room and settled her against my chest, humming tunelessly until she fell asleep, holding her until my arms trembled from not moving. Laying her in the crib, I pulled up her tiny down comforter just so, arranged her bunny and her moose to be close to her head but not too close, and watched her sleep, pink as a new rosebud, her eyelashes a sooty smudge on her cheeks.
“I love you so much,” I whispered. I rather hoped she would wake up and fuss so I could comfort her, but she slept deeply, not moving as I stroked her cheek with my pinky, the least rough of all my fingers.
Right. So. Can’t have a baby if I don’t have a mate.
I type in a few terms for Google, then click on the first Web site that comes up without giving myself time to chicken out. Before I am allowed to see who is ripe for the picking in northern Maine, I must first answer some questions. Are you a woman seeking a man? I most certainly am. Then I enter in my approximate date of birth and zip code. Pick a user name, I am ordered. Okay, I think. Something nauseating and memorable. “Booboobear.” Sorry, that name is already taken. Please choose again. “Reallyniceperson.” Sorry, that name is already taken. Please choose again. I glance at my dog. “Colonel McKissy.” Sorry, that name?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mutter. I type in some gibberish and finally get through. The next few questions are easy…my body type, hair color, eye color. For these, I’m truthful. Body type, average. Eyes gray, hair…hmm. Am I light brown or dark blond? Dark blond sounds more alluring, so dark blond I am. Then we get to the interesting stuff. Body Art. Does double piercing my ears count? Apparently not. The choices include things like inked all over, fanged and branded. Branded? Do people get branded these days? Should I invest in a brand, perhaps?