Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love by Maryrose Wood
Authors: Maryrose Wood
Tags: Fiction
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drive-through, after Charles went into meltdown and started screaming for a Happy Meal. After he got it he gave me the chicken nuggets, ate a few fries, and busied himself with the crappy toy du jour for exactly five minutes. Then he fell asleep in his car seat.
Dad drops off a sleeping Charles and a tired-but-still-“Wasn’t that super?”-ing Laura at their house before driving me home. I give Charles a tiny kiss goodbye on his head, but he doesn’t stir.
By the time the Camry makes it to the East Village it’s after eight. It’s cold and dark out, but the kind of cold and dark that’s full of streetlights and yappy dogs being walked and boisterous people spilling out of cafes. Truly, there’s no place like home.
“Bye, kiddo!” Dad says. “See you at lunch with what’s-his-name. Wednesday or Thursday. I’ll check my book and call you.” We smooch and he waits till I’m safe inside the building before he drives away.
Upstairs, Mom’s folding laundry and having her tot of Shiraz and grooving to some Bjork. That’s a relief. Sometimes I catch her playing Billy Joel on the sly, usually when she’s doing housework. Mom may run an esoteric bookstore in the East Village now, but once upon a time she was a nice girl from the Long Island suburbs. That’s where she met my dad, in fact.
I know I’m supposed to wait to ask her about matters pertaining to X until Matthew is here, because that’s what Matthew and I agreed, but I was mulling something over in the car and out of my mouth it pops. “Mom,” I say. “Why don’t you get a boyfriend?”
From the look on her face, you’d think I suggested she join the NRA. She rolls an entire sock ball before answering.
“Felicia,” she finally says, in a voice that makes her seem taller than she is, “relationships take
time
. Relationships are
work
. I don’t
have
any time, and I have
more
than enough work, and I
was
in a relationship for many years and it’s just not that easy. A
boyfriend,
” she continues, and now she’s looking at me sternly, as if it’s me we’re talking about and not her, “is NOT the only golden road to happiness.”
But it couldn’t hurt, is what I’m thinking. “I’m just saying,” I say. “Dad has moved on. You guys just didn’t have IT, you know? The X-factor. The catnip of Love. But maybe it’s out there, somewhere.”
Mom clams up, rather uncharacteristically, I should point out. She rolls another sock ball, except the socks don’t match and she doesn’t notice.
“Well,” she finally says, with a rough sniff. “Even Meg Ryan got divorced, in real life. So who knows anything?”
8
Our Next Interview Leads to a Barefoot, Bruising Lesson of Love
R andall’s karate school (which he calls a dojo) is in Chinatown, and as we rumble our way downtown on the N train, zooming through subterranean tunnels that were blasted through the rock of Manhattan a hundred years ago, Matthew and I wonder what Randall’s sensei will be like. I’m imagining a wizened Asian fellow prone to pithy, inscrutable statements. Matthew is picturing more of an action-hero type, sort of Jackie Chan meets Keanu Reeves. Clearly, there has been too much Blockbuster in our young lives.
We duck and dodge our way through the throngs of tourists and bargain hunters on Canal Street and arrive at a weather-beaten wooden door painted bright red, sandwiched between an herbalist’s shop and an Off-Track Betting storefront. There’s no sign and no buzzer, but it’s the address Randall gave us. The door is unlocked. I guess if your hands are lethal weapons you don’t worry so much about locking the door.
We push the red door open and step inside. Nothing but a rickety wooden staircase up a dark stairwell.
Matthew turns to me. “Creepy!” he whispers. “This is fun!” He’s half right, in my opinion. But up the stairs we go, Matthew in front, till at the top we turn left and enter (insert sound of Chinese gong, reverbeverbeverberating!):
Dad drops off a sleeping Charles and a tired-but-still-“Wasn’t that super?”-ing Laura at their house before driving me home. I give Charles a tiny kiss goodbye on his head, but he doesn’t stir.
By the time the Camry makes it to the East Village it’s after eight. It’s cold and dark out, but the kind of cold and dark that’s full of streetlights and yappy dogs being walked and boisterous people spilling out of cafes. Truly, there’s no place like home.
“Bye, kiddo!” Dad says. “See you at lunch with what’s-his-name. Wednesday or Thursday. I’ll check my book and call you.” We smooch and he waits till I’m safe inside the building before he drives away.
Upstairs, Mom’s folding laundry and having her tot of Shiraz and grooving to some Bjork. That’s a relief. Sometimes I catch her playing Billy Joel on the sly, usually when she’s doing housework. Mom may run an esoteric bookstore in the East Village now, but once upon a time she was a nice girl from the Long Island suburbs. That’s where she met my dad, in fact.
I know I’m supposed to wait to ask her about matters pertaining to X until Matthew is here, because that’s what Matthew and I agreed, but I was mulling something over in the car and out of my mouth it pops. “Mom,” I say. “Why don’t you get a boyfriend?”
From the look on her face, you’d think I suggested she join the NRA. She rolls an entire sock ball before answering.
“Felicia,” she finally says, in a voice that makes her seem taller than she is, “relationships take
time
. Relationships are
work
. I don’t
have
any time, and I have
more
than enough work, and I
was
in a relationship for many years and it’s just not that easy. A
boyfriend,
” she continues, and now she’s looking at me sternly, as if it’s me we’re talking about and not her, “is NOT the only golden road to happiness.”
But it couldn’t hurt, is what I’m thinking. “I’m just saying,” I say. “Dad has moved on. You guys just didn’t have IT, you know? The X-factor. The catnip of Love. But maybe it’s out there, somewhere.”
Mom clams up, rather uncharacteristically, I should point out. She rolls another sock ball, except the socks don’t match and she doesn’t notice.
“Well,” she finally says, with a rough sniff. “Even Meg Ryan got divorced, in real life. So who knows anything?”
8
Our Next Interview Leads to a Barefoot, Bruising Lesson of Love
R andall’s karate school (which he calls a dojo) is in Chinatown, and as we rumble our way downtown on the N train, zooming through subterranean tunnels that were blasted through the rock of Manhattan a hundred years ago, Matthew and I wonder what Randall’s sensei will be like. I’m imagining a wizened Asian fellow prone to pithy, inscrutable statements. Matthew is picturing more of an action-hero type, sort of Jackie Chan meets Keanu Reeves. Clearly, there has been too much Blockbuster in our young lives.
We duck and dodge our way through the throngs of tourists and bargain hunters on Canal Street and arrive at a weather-beaten wooden door painted bright red, sandwiched between an herbalist’s shop and an Off-Track Betting storefront. There’s no sign and no buzzer, but it’s the address Randall gave us. The door is unlocked. I guess if your hands are lethal weapons you don’t worry so much about locking the door.
We push the red door open and step inside. Nothing but a rickety wooden staircase up a dark stairwell.
Matthew turns to me. “Creepy!” he whispers. “This is fun!” He’s half right, in my opinion. But up the stairs we go, Matthew in front, till at the top we turn left and enter (insert sound of Chinese gong, reverbeverbeverberating!):
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