Betty Crocker

“Well, I’ve got him.  I’m just not sure what to do with him.”  Tom set his wineglass down on the patio table with a click and condensation splashed the hot glass surface, and the phone was slick in his hand.   The July sun blasted just two feet of tile along the length of the covered terrace, but it felt like an African veldt.  Loki, his fluffy Maine Coon tabby, lounged in deflated defeat in the shade of a potted clematis, opening one green eye from time to time in disapproval.

“Just have fun, boodles, you deserve it.” Thus spake Bill, ever the sage friend and wise counselor.  Too bad he was wrong 90% of the time.  Tom looked at the phone with annoyance, and the heat was only part of it.

“I am 35 years old and I have had enough fun.” he began.

As he often did, Bill interrupted.  “No, you haven’t.  You were all repressed in the ‘80s and ‘90s because you were trying to be Mr. Perfectpants for your wacky WASPy parents.  You became a serial monogamist.” This last dripped contempt, and he may as well have called Tom a serial killer.

“That’s what I want!  I’ve got all the casual stuff out of my system.  I’m not judging, I just want…”

“You want to be Samantha from Bewitched, is what you want, with your sweet New England-y house on Long Island Sound and your Wedgwood china and your well-maintained car and dinner parties and planting geraniums.  Except instead of Darrin you want a massive linebacker who talks dirty in bed and likes museums.”

Now this was truly annoying, because this was one of the 10% of times that Bill was right.

Taking a gulp of Pinot Grigio, Tom said. “Yes.  Something like that.  Is that so wrong?”

Bill chuckled.  “No, boodles.  But I think your cop with the – how did you say?  Sparkling eyes?  Anyway, he might or might not be the ticket.  Soooo… find out.  But don’t make it so damn serious.”

Pushing his very serious glasses up on his nose, Tom considered.  Slowly, he told Bill: “There’s some things that are… not right.  His clothes are dismal.  His apartment could be nice, but there’s dust bunnies in there that could eat me.  He smokes – not a lot, and he’s considerate, but still.”  Tom unbuttoned his linen shirt and fanned himself with Vanity Fair.  It helped a little.

He could almost see Bill’s eyebrow rise through the phone.  “Let’s recap that last date, k?  Quote: ‘He grabbed my hands and pinned me to the sofa and we made out like it was high school and he’s SO BIG and SO HOT and then he did that thing with his 5 o’clock shadow and my neck that drives me wild.’  Not a dust bunny to be seen.  As I recall, his shirt was off too, so you didn’t have to look at it.  Kohl’s, I bet, or some Big’nTall outlet, cast aside in the dust bunnies while you got your groove on.”

“I’m sorry I told you that.  In any case, it’s a long way from there to geraniums by the sea.”

“I want to meet him.”  Bill announced.

“No way.  You’ll scare him off.”

“He’s been shot at and had large buildings almost fall on him; he can handle me.”

“I think he’d prefer being shot at.  I know I would.”  Grabbing his wineglass, Tom slid inside to the cool air conditioning, padded to the kitchen and poured a refill.  “I can deal with this. I think.”

“Well, you should just enjoy the moment more, is all I’m saying.” Bill was back in sagacious oracle mode again, and it occurred to Tom that his description of the man in question must have piqued some curiosity.  He ducked outside again through the terrace door and parked himself in the yellow Adirondack chair he called The Throne.

A noise from the street below drew his attention, and he stood, leaning over the windowboxes bursting with begonias and mini roses.  It was a failing muffler, and it belonged to a crumbling white Jetta, which belonged to a very large man.  He got out and stretched, displaying wide shoulders straining an NYPD t-shirt which was damp in a few places, then ran a hand through his black velvety crewcut.  Sweat glinted from his brow and forearms.  He was magnificent.  Baggy shorts did little to hide tree-trunk legs and while his midsection wasn’t cut or anything, he was undeniably in great shape.

“Bill?  I think I have to go.” Tom said.

“Later, dollface.”

Shading his eyes against the sun, Tom watched as the big man opened the rear door of the Jetta and carefully pulled out a clay pot with bright pink and white flowers held above glossy green rounded leaves.  When he stood up, he seemed to feel Tom’s eyes on him and grinned.

Geraniums, Tom thought as he waved.  His name is Mike, and he brought me geraniums.

…..

Carefully, the old man took the device from a drawer in the gleaming kitchen and headed for the living room.  The Kid had given it to him for Christmas, and it had proven most handy.  He imagined that The Kid would be all frantic at seeing him up and about with no one else in the room and there would be a lecture about broken hips and pigheadedness.  That was all right.  He had little use for sleep these days.

The french doors to the patio were open and carried the scent of roses, fresh cut grass and geraniums into the room, with a little hint of the ocean.  The warmth was soothing to the old man’s bones and he smiled crookedly as he shuffled over to the mantel.

The first picture on the left was of him and The One.  The old man found it easier to think of him that way, rather than be bothered with names that jumbled themselves up in his head.  They were in a nightclub in the photo, and his arm was looped around The One’s shoulder as colored lights played over both of them.  He turned on the gizmo, which whirred and removed any dust from the braided silver frame.  There had been a kiss that night, and it had tasted of green apples from the drinks they had.

The next picture was in a heavy antique frame that required polishing, which the old man’s arthritic fingers couldn’t manage anymore.  But the gizmo whirred again and the glass sparkled over him and The One in tuxedos on the steps of The Cathedral Of The Incarnation in Garden City.  That had been quite a day.

The third picture was in an enamel frame that said Steven’s First Christmas, and showed the old man, then younger, grinning tightly at the camera over the shoulder of The Kid, a sullen teenager.  The One was giving both of them what was called at that time the side-eye.  It was, in hindsight, a hilarious shot, and the old man grinned toothlessly as the gadget polished it up.

A sleek, modern silver frame was next.  There was The Kid in graduation robes standing next to a young lady with glossy waves of black hair and an insouciant grin.  Julia.  Her name came to him unbidden.  The Kid was grinning too, all the way to his eyes, and his cap was tilted at a jaunty angle.  After a short hum, the silver gleamed around them.

The last picture was in a frame of popsicle sticks with a scallop shell glued to each corner.  It showed the old man and The One sitting on a beach on either side of a girl of about five, all with their backs to the camera.  An unexpected wave had come in and they were each reacting with varying degrees of surprise, and the girl’s shiny black hair was tumbling out of its ponytail.

A hum removed any dust, and this completed the old man’s task.

“Whatcha doin’?” said The One, padding down the stairs.  “You really should be more careful.”

The old man smiled.  In fact, this little chore was kind of exhausting and he headed for the sofa.

“Minding my business.” he said to The One, in a tone that suggested that he do the same.  He placed The Kid’s gadget on the glass-topped end table carefully, then sat.

The One plopped down on the sofa next to him, and both men regarded the garden outside.  Slowly, the old man turned to The One.  There was more than a trace of a square, stubborn jaw and his eyes were alight with mischief and humor.

“Mike,” said Tom, more clearly than he’d spoken in months,  “Can you get me a scissor?  I want to bring some geraniums in.”

“It’s  gonna cost you a kiss.”

“I may be ninety-whatever, but I remember how to do that.”