Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
T he next morning, that extra jolt of adrenaline was still coursing through my system because I was wide awake before the alarm even went off. I hopped out of bed, literally, and made Purrfect a scrambled egg topper for her breakfast. She chowed it down, then pulled out the sad cat face, so I made her a second egg.
My ankle was feeling much better. After plenty of ice, and a couple extra strength Tylenol, I felt good as new.
As I finished blending my kale protein smoothie, I took a moment to reflect on my unexpected run of good luck. Even though I ran into Ashley Griffin, hurt my ankle, and didn’t finish the race, all in all, the prior day was a success. Things didn’t go exactly as expected, but in the end, my plan worked.
Now all I had to do was keep the momentum going. Things were falling into place. I just needed to give them a bit more of a nudge. Order would soon be restored, and everyone would live happily ever after.
Feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and recharged, I headed over to Aunt Catherine’s house, where I was pleasantly surprised to find the renovations progressed, despite my absence and neglect. In the front yard, Leo, my landscape guy, had replaced the sod that Gary ruined with his van. He also finished planting the flower beds and added a fresh layer of pine bark mulch. The air smelled like a mountain forest as I walked up to the porch. Curb appeal, check.
Once inside the house, I took a moment to appreciate my genius. The all greige walls created the perfect blank canvas. It was plain now, sure, some might even say boring, but that was only temporary. Adding furniture, window treatments, and some tasteful art pieces would completely transform the house.
I made my way to the kitchen. The new slate grey cabinets looked fantastic. So did the stainless steel appliances. The only thing left to do was rip out the God forsaken wallpaper. As I knew they would, the tiny pink roses and green vines clashed horribly with the rest of the kitchen. I needed to get rid of it as soon as possible.
When I called Gus to confirm the final invoice, I had asked him if he would get rid of it for me, but he said he wouldn’t touch any kind of wallpaper with a ten-foot pole. I reminded him he didn’t have to use a pole of any size to take it down, but that didn’t sway him to my cause.
Standing there, trying to figure out my next move, I had another eureka moment. Purrfect and I would move in to Aunt Catherine’s house. With the walls painted, the flooring down, and the kitchen cabinets and appliances in place, I could start working on all the other things that were vital to selling a house. The furnishings, decorations, and staging.
I would tear out the damn wallpaper myself, in between everything else. If I was staying there, I could focus all my extra attention and effort on the cause. The sooner I had everything finished, the sooner I could list the house, sell it, and never look back. The more I thought about it, the more it all made sense. With things finally going my way, I would capitalize on the momentum and plow full steam ahead. Seize the moment. Rule the day!
I went straight back to my apartment and packed. The good thing about living the lifestyle of a minimalist celibate nun is I had little to box up. A couple of outfits, my pickleball gear, some pots and pans for the kitchen. And of course, Purrfect’s cat supplies. I had already planned on renting furniture for staging, so I called the rental place and paid for rush delivery.
* * *
The next day, I spent most of the afternoon experimenting with different configurations and arrangements until I found the perfect placement for every piece of furniture. I placed hooks for the artwork, measured for curtains, and installed blinds. I staged knick knacks on dressers and books on shelves. I shopped for throw rugs, decorative pillows, and faux flowers for the dining room. In the bathroom, I installed a gold flaked mirror I found at a yard sale. Turning cheap things into something spectacular was my specialty.
When I ran out of ideas to delay dealing with the wallpaper, I pulled up an A.I. chatbot and asked it if Home Depot rented flamethrowers. Turns out they do not. Taking a break to put my foot up, I sat on a rented chair in my inherited house with my inherited cat, glowering at the rose and vine monstrosity. Unable to stomach it any longer, I took a stab at the wallpaper myself. A literal stab, that is, with a knife.
After slicing off a corner, I plucked the edge with my fingers and pulled. It was like pulling off one of those extra sticky price tags they put on with superglue. I would pull free a tiny scrap of a piece and then it would tear and I would have to scrape up a corner or an edge all over again.
After about twenty minutes of effort, only a small circle of wallpaper had come loose, peeling away in a thousand tiny bits. By that point, it wasn’t just my ankle throbbing, my back ached from bending over and my knees felt like they were made of rust after all the squatting. I limped across the kitchen and plopped down in the chair again to consider my options. At the rate I was going, it would take years to scrape off all the wallpaper, the equivalent of a moderate prison sentence. I considered having Gus just knock down the walls with a bulldozer. Does a house really need a kitchen, anyway?
Purrfect watched me from the counter, seeming to enjoy my misery. The wallpaper shouldn’t have even been there. Gary was supposed to get rid of it when I hired him to paint the house. Yet there I was, an unsatisfied customer, staring at a job he never finished. The more I thought about it, the more my frustration grew. It was a matter of principle. When someone hires you to do something, you do it. You finish the job no matter what.
I grabbed my phone and texted Gary’s number.
MARY:
hey
NEW PAINTER:
what’s up?
everything ok?
MARY:
need to talk about the wallpaper
NEW PAINTER:
I’m at little league practice
talk later?
I didn’t respond to his last text. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance, so I snatched up my keys and started marching toward the door. It had nothing to do with wanting to see Gary again, just to be clear. I swear.
* * *
When I got to the park, I waited in the parking lot to surveil the scene. The sun was so bright it pierced Charlotte’s tinted windows like they were plastic wrap. I cranked the climate control all the way to blizzard. Charlotte hissed as frigid air billowed out of the vents like a tornado.
I waited until little league practice ended, and the parents collected their dirt stained, sweat soaked children. I saw Karen go out onto the field to wrangle Cary. They walked back toward the dugout with Gary and Kyle. Ugh. The last thing I needed was Karen distracting Gary from Janet, when Gary was supposed to be distracting Janet from Jack. That’s when I saw the yellow Corvette roll into the parking lot, its engine rumbling like a tiger. I would have recognized it anywhere. Ralph???
I sunk down in my seat to avoid being seen. The Corvette pulled into a parking spot, then Ralph got out and waved. What the heck??? Before I knew what was happening, Karen sprang from the dugout and pranced over to Ralph. I stared, dumbfounded, as they hugged. For a split second, I considered the possibility that I had somehow slipped into another dimension.
After the generously warm greeting, Karen fetched Cary, and they all squeezed into Ralph’s car. The doors closed. The tiger growled. Ralph, Karen, and Cary all rode off into the sunset together. I was definitely in another dimension, for sure.
It took me a moment to process what I had just witnessed. Ralph and Karen? Together? As in together together? To be fair, I had told Ralph to keep Karen away from Gary, without specifying the techniques. Whatever I might have thought of his methods, I had to admire Ralph for not half-assing it. Ralph full-assed it all the way. Making a mental note to interrogate Ralph later, I made my way over to the baseball field.
When Gary saw me, he didn’t seem surprised. “Great,” he said, slipping a baseball glove on one hand. He punched his ungloved fist into the leather with a SMACK . “You’re just in time to help.”
“What exactly am I helping with?” I eyed the baseball he was holding suspiciously.
“Swing practice.” Gary smiled.
“Mary!” Kyle dropped his bat and ran over to greet me. I was shocked when he grabbed onto my legs for a hug. Gary’s smile only widened. Much like Purrfect, I think he enjoyed my discomfort.
“So how many home runs did you hit today?” I asked, looking down at the small human wrapped around my lower torso.
Kyle took a moment to think, squinting in the sun. “Zero,” he announced.
“You’ll get a bunch next time, I’m sure,” I said..
“You haven’t watched me play, have you?” Kyle picked his bat up and skipped to home plate.
“So you want to play outfield or catcher?” Gary asked from the pitcher’s mound.
“Neither?” From Gary’s face, I could tell that wasn’t one of my options.
“Catcher it is,” Gary said. He got me a glove from his coach’s bag and helped me slide it on to my hand. “All you have to do is stand behind home plate.” Gary pointed. “Then try to catch the ball if it comes to you.”
“I know how to play catcher,” I replied.
“You play baseball?” Gary looked amused.
“My dad made me play when I was little,” I explained.
“Interesting,” said Gary.
“Not really.” Before we started playing golf together, my dad made me play little league in an attempt at daddy-daughter bonding. I spent a lot of time on the bench.
As I moved behind home plate, I could tell Gary had his doubts. “What, you don’t think I can do this?” I asked.
Gary shrugged. “I never said that.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“I think you’re thinking it right now.”
“I think you think too much,” Gary said.
“I think I think just enough.”
“I guess we’ll see,” said Gary. “Okay Kyle, let’s show Mary what you’ve got.”
We took our positions. Out on the pitcher’s mound, Gary held the ball up in the air, waiting for Kyle to set his stance. Kyle hefted the bat with both hands, resting it on his shoulder as he set his feet.
“Okay now, keep your eye on the ball.” Gary twisted the ball in his hand, waiting for Kyle to stay still. “Just before it crosses over the plate, that’s when you swing.”
Kyle nodded, the batting helmet flopping back and forth on his head.
Gary pitched. Kyle missed. I picked the ball up off the ground and tossed it back. This went on for the next five minutes.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “His grip is too low,” I told Gary, pointing down at Kyle’s bat. I squatted down, so that Kyle and I were face to face. “Hold the bat like this.” Gently, I adjusted the position of his hands. “Move up a little. There. Now step back from the plate a bit. Give the ball a little more space.”
I put my hands on Kyle’s shoulders and tugged him back another step. “Now, as soon as the ball comes down, right about here.” I drew an imaginary line in front of him. “That’s when you swing.” A flock of vultures perched on the fence for a front-row seat, their beady black eyes fixed on the proceedings.
“Pitch it,” I ordered Gary, backing up a step.
Gary didn’t look very confident. Neither did the flock of vultures. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”
Gary tossed the ball. It sailed through the air, an easy backspin making it float in slow motion. In unison, the vultures turned their heads to watch the ball rise, then fall, gravity pulling it toward home plate.
As soon as the ball reached the spot I had shown him, Kyle jerked the bat backward as hard as he could pull, building momentum in the windup.
Crack!
I felt the wood smash into my knee and I dropped faster than a lead balloon carrying a grand piano filled with bowling balls.
Then, even faster than it had launched in reverse, Kyle’s bat surged forward.
Thwack!
It was a perfect strike. Wood impacted leather. The ball rocketed forward.
Gary never had a chance. Before he could even process the fact that his son had finally hit a pitch, the baseball plowed into his groin with testicle crushing brute force. Gary screamed like a banshee, then dropped to his knees. Fueled by adrenaline, dazed by his first taste of success, Kyle forgot to drop the bat as his body swung around.
Still doubled over from the searing pain in my knee, my head was now at the same height as the spot where I had told Kyle to smash the ball.
I looked up.
I saw a blur of lacquered wood.
I heard the crunch of wood on flesh.
I felt the splash of liquid, warm and sticky.
My head began spinning. A ballerina out of control, twirling and twirling, faster and faster.
Then it wasn’t just my head spinning. I was spinning. The ground was spinning. Everything was spinning.
The last thing I saw were the vultures, also spinning in the air right above me, slowly circling in their descent.
* * *
We sat on the splinter laden wooden bench inside the dugout. The air smelled like clay and sweat, but the tin roof shielded us from the sun. Luckily, there was plenty of ice left in the cooler. And a few juice boxes, too. I sipped on a grape juice while wearing a bag of ice on my head. Gary nursed an apple juice with a bag of ice on his crotch. Kyle sucked on a fruit punch, his straw sucking air like a cat fur clogged vacuum.
“Nice hit, by the way.” I toasted Kyle with my juice box.
Gary shot me a look, his face red and blotchy. Probably a side effect from the intense groin pain.
“What?” I shrugged. “It was.” I gave Gary an apologetic smile. I wasn’t sure how much he blamed me for the impromptu circumcision. “Thanks for chasing away the vultures, by the way. I thought I saw them calling dibs on my body parts.”
“I couldn’t let that happen,” said Gary. “Your corpse would have impeded the base runners.” Gary repositioned the bag of ice on his privates. “You going to be okay?”
“I think so.” Nothing was broken, that I knew of, and the ice had brought most of the swelling down. I still had a lump on the side of my head the size of a turnip and my knee was now the same shade of Periwinkle as my ankle.
We sat a bit longer, nursing our wounds and sipping on juice boxes.
“Are we still going swimming?” Kyle asked. “You promised we could go swimming if I hit the ball.”
“He definitely hit the ball,” I noted.
“Maybe I can turn on the sprinkler in the backyard after dinner,” Gary offered.
“What are we having for dinner?” Kyle asked, swinging his legs back and forth on the bench.
“We’ll have to stop at the store and get something.”
“Can we have pasta?”
The fight drained out of him. Gary said, “We’ll see.”
I still hadn’t asked Gary to finish the wallpaper and somehow, after the baseball to the groin incident, it didn’t seem like the right time to ask. I had to get Gary in a more relaxed setting. Or at least wait until the crotch swelling eased.
“Aunt Catherine’s house has a pool,” I said cheerfully. Gary’s expression was less cheerful, more suspicious.
“Who’s Aunt Catherine?” Kyle asked.
“My aunt,” I answered.
“She’ll let us swim in her pool?”
“She’s dead,” I explained.
Gary was already shaking his head. “Mary, it’s already been a long day. A long week, actually. I just want to go home and rest. Plus, I still have to make dinner.”
“I’ll make dinner,” I said. “Whatever you want to eat.”
“You know how to cook?” Gary looked doubtful.
Somehow, I kept my reassuring smile in place. “I’m an amazing cook. I love to cook. I cook all the time.” Turning to Kyle, I asked. “What’s your most favorite meal ever?”
I figured asking an eight-year-old what he wanted to eat for dinner was a low-risk question. Spaghetti maybe? Elbow macaroni? Cheese raviolis perhaps? All I would have to do is throw some noodles in a pot, boil them, and throw it on a paper plate. Bon appétit!
“Anything I want?” Kyle asked.
“Anything you want,” I confirmed. I noticed the vultures still sat on top of the fence watching me and smiling. One of them licked its beak.
Kyle took a moment to think, drumming his fingers on his chin. “Osso Buco,” he said at last.
“Os-so what now?” I thought maybe the bat to the head affected my hearing. I looked at Gary for confirmation.
“We went over to Karen’s house for dinner last week and that’s what she made us.” Looking over at Kyle, Gary said, “I guess it made an impression.”
“So Karen made this osso busso thingy?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to do that.” Gary pulled another apple juice from the cooler and tossed me another grape. “Kyle, Mary’s not making Ossu Buco. We’ll just order pizza.”
“No.” At first I wasn’t sure if I had said it or one of the vultures did. I had never made Osso Buco. I had never tried Osso Buco. Five minutes earlier, I didn’t even know that Osso Buco was a thing that exists.
“If Kyle wants Osso Buco, then that’s what I want to make,” I announced.
Kyle’s eyes lit up with excitement. So did Gary’s, but in a different way.
“Are you sure about this?” Gary asked.
“Of course I’m sure.” I figured if Karen could make Osso Buco … how hard could it be?