10. Jenna #3
“No!” I shout as I hit Record on my camera.
McCarthy’s face lights up with pure delight. “I’m more impressed that you tested those weapons. You girls were insane. Those 1940s weapons were held together by prayers and chewing gum. You ladies had balls of steel. ”
Zephyr has his phone camera out and shoots me a thumbs-up as he records their interaction from another angle.
McCarthy takes Mavis’s wrinkled hand and kisses it. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
“That’s more like it. Finally, I’m treated with a little respect around here.” She thumps her cane on the ground.
Without me even having to beg, plead, threaten, or prod, McCarthy offers his arm and slowly leads my great-grandma over to the wooden bench on the porch.
Something in me warms toward him when he kneels right down on the pine-needle-strewn deck.
He looks up at Mavis with boyish delight as she answers his questions about her thoughts on various weapon-systems inventions during World War II, how much input they let her have, and what it was like flying one of those ancient planes.
“They were workhorses, let me tell you. Not like these flying Game Boys you young people have today with your satellites and shit. I took one of those birds all the way up to thirty-nine thousand feet.”
“Amazing.”
“They fly dead straight. Got my pussy eaten in the middle of a flight once. That bird just kept on going.”
“Can we keep it PG?” I beg.
“I caught syphilis from a brigadier general. Ain’t nothing PG about that. Told him he better get me some of those newfangled antibiotics or I was going to tell his betrothed what he was up to.”
McCarthy flashes me a dazzling smile.
She’s nuts, he mouths, laughing silently.
I can’t help but snap his photo .
When we have enough footage, Zephyr brings out a little handcrafted foldable table that I can set my laptop up on.
“The video, these photos…” Zephyr whispers to me while McCarthy and Granny Mavis are still chatting animatedly. “Jenna, you’re brilliant to think of this.” He gives me a quick hug and a proud pat on the shoulder. “And the caption you wrote to go along with it? Pure poetry.”
I hardly have to make any edits to the photos. However, I do have to cut out the syphilis story from the video clips. Then they’re posted.
Mom is bringing out refreshments. And yeah, it’s a lot of cucumber muddle, but there are also fried squash blossoms stuffed with cheese and mushrooms.
As I eat the snacks, the likes and comments pour in, especially once Netflix tags the posts, referencing their newest historic action movie about female air pilots.
Relief floods me.
I did it. Finally!
I can do this. It’s going to be okay.
I respond to comments on the post while McCarthy continues to chat with Granny Mavis. The other elderly women buzz slowly around him, occasionally grabbing a handful of his biceps or thick blond hair before Mavis threatens to sic her dog on them.
When he doesn’t have that sneer stamped on his face or contempt lacing his voice, McCarthy has an almost boyish charm.
He’s got his suit jacket off and his white shirtsleeves rolled up.
And yeah, he does have a gun at his lower back, but can anyone fault me for thinking the leather straps of the holster look kind of sexy crisscrossing his massive shoulders and back?
Um, yes, we can. We are engaged. I slap my forehead .
McCarthy half turns at the noise and gives me an honest, genuine smile.
Damn, he’s hot.
He shifts, and my traitorous eyes slide down to his backside as Mavis beckons him closer to look at something in her enormous bag.
Whatever it is seems to shock McCarthy.
“That is… very cool, ma’am.”
She winks.
“Granny…”
Then McCarthy is crossing the yard in long, loping strides. He drags me by the arm and hisses in my ear, “How does that woman have enough TNT in her purse to blow a crater in this island?”
“Honestly, at this point in my life, that would be a blessing.”
“Didn’t get the video footage you needed?”
“Actually”—I gaze up at him smiling down at me—“it was exactly what I needed.”
“More refreshments,” my mother sings, floating out to the yard with a large tray of steaming cheese-and-herb-covered flatbread and the single solitary egg, soft-boiled and cut open to expose the bright-orange jammy yolk.
“McCarthy, you can have the egg. Big strong man like you needs his protein.” Willow waves him over to the tray.
“It’s a damn shame,” Granny Mavis begins, thumping her cane on the floor. “One egg in three months. That bird eats better than I do and does nothing but shit and make a hellacious racket at three in the morning.”
McCarthy draws back. “Wait, do you honestly keep chickens that can’t lay eggs? What kind of farm is this? ”
“Exactly!” Mavis rails. “In my day, a chicken that didn’t lay eggs got eaten. Have we had chicken pot pie? Have we had chicken noodle soup? Have we had chicken and dumplings?”
“I couldn’t possibly!” my mother cries, reaching for the chickens that are gathering around to peck for crumbs around her feet.
“I can butcher it for you,” McCarthy offers, reaching to unbutton his shirt.
“Take that one first.” Granny Mavis points at Edwina. “She pecks at my dog Magnum.”
Bombs fall. Tornado sirens blare.
I have an apocalyptic vision of McCarthy in that pristine white shirt, covered in blood, holding a headless chicken.
Protests outside of RDC headquarters. People dressed up in inflatable chicken costumes, waving signs outside his penthouse building.
Me sitting in front of Bethany as she fires me and tells me I can’t even get reimbursed for my accrued PTO.
“They are pets!” I scream, running into the fray. I snatch up Edwina. “Photo shoot is over! We’re leaving.”
“But you didn’t eat your goat cheese and grass.” The smirk is back.
“You only just got here. Stay for music circle. You can spend the night!” my mom begs.
“Cupcake, you can sing?” McCarthy’s eyebrows rise.
“I’d hope so, considering she can’t drive or get a decent man.” Granny Mavis harrumphs then waves her cane at the elderly residents, who are slowly stumbling toward McCarthy. “Back! Don’t scare him away, or he won’t come again.”
“He’s never coming back here,” I promise .
“Not even for the equinox?” my mom cries, running after us as I grab Truman, who was napping on McCarthy’s suit jacket, and drag him through the house, a herd of seniors behind us.
“I put a care basket in your car!” my mom calls from the porch.
“I’m a prisoner here!” Granny Mavis yells. “McCarthy, take me with you! I’m surrounded by imbeciles.”