Let's Be Frank (6 page)

Pulling my third beer from the ice, I say, “I
am
fine,” punctuating my statement with the hiss and pop of the can’s pull tab. “I’d be better if they’d refrain from playing tonsil hockey in front of everyone, but… I guess you can’t have everything.”

She laughs. “Gosh, that went on forever! I almost reminded them their parents were in the room, but I didn’t want to sound like a fuddy-duddy.”

“Speaking of parents, plural, where’s Dad?” I ask, hoping to permanently change the subject.

“Oh, he’s around somewhere. Watching the game, most likely.”

I’m not all that concerned or interested in his whereabouts for his sake. I’m more curious as it relates to me. I’d prefer not to be cornered for a man-to-man today. I know he’s only trying to help, but sometimes his heavy-handed pep talks do the opposite of what he’s intending, and they depress the crap out of me.

With a parting pat on my bicep, Mom says, “Slow down on those beers, huh? Load up a plate and go watch the game.” She moves off, flagging down Heidi’s mom to compliment her on the food and the decorations.

I look down into the nearly empty can in my grip and sigh. She’s right; nothing good will come from getting drunk at this thing. At the very least, I’ll have to get someone to drive me home. But I’ll need to keep drinking to watch the game. It’s a real conundrum.

Not hungry—at all—I decide to seek out some different company, some people with whom I’m more comfortable. Since I’ll be forever relegated to the kids’ table at these joint family things, I might as well get chummy with my peers.

*****

When I round the bottom of the basement stairs, I see ten kids, aged nine and younger, clustered around a board game on the floor. It almost physically hurts to look at some of them, especially Heidi’s sister Sonya’s three blond boys, because they look so similar to the mental image I once had of the kids in my fantasy life with Heidi.

Most of her nieces and nephews were babies when she and I broke up, so they don’t remember me, but the oldest ones do. I stitched Kingsley’s eyebrow when he split it open on the corner of a coffee table one Christmas. He’s the first one to acknowledge my presence now.

“Hey, Uncle Nate!” The nine-year-old, unaware the title he’s given me no longer fits, scrambles to his feet and points to the board on the floor. “We’re gonna talk to dead people with the Ouija Board.”

His announcement shakes loose my irrational and self-indulgent melancholy, and I have to stifle a laugh. “Cool. Mind if I play?”

Seven-year-old Remus scoots so I can squeeze between him and his four-year-old brother, Percy. I place my hand on the pointer, or planchette, and wiggle my eyebrows across the board at Hermione. The eight-year-old giggles.

“We’re gonna ask to talk to our Grandma June. She died,” Hermione informs me.

“I heard about that,” I say seriously, “and it made me sad. I liked Grandma June.”

June, who’s been dead for a couple of years now, was Heidi’s grandma and the kids’ great-grandmother. She and I kept in touch after the break-up, and she once confided in me that she thought I was probably better off without Heidi.

Oh, Grandma June… I wish you were here today.

In addition to Greta’s gang, Hans’ three daughters—Amber (eight), Ruby (six), and Violet (four)—and Sonya’s three—Jude (six), Justin (five), and Jeremiah (three)—surround the old Parker Brothers game board. Since Kingsley’s the oldest, he takes charge of asking the questions of dearly departed Grandma. Hermione has a pencil and a pad of paper, which she says she’ll use to write down the letters for the longer answers.

“Grandma June, are you in Heaven?” Kingsley intones earnestly.

Nothing happens. Bless their hearts, none of them has figured out that someone has to move the planchette. I gladly take up that responsibility and move it to
Yes.

The kids squeal, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

“Do you like it in Heaven?”

I slowly and smoothly nudge the pointer around the board, resting briefly on each of the letters: F-O-O-D-I-S-G-O-O-D.

When Hermione reads the words in their entirety, she glances at me, as if to verify that’s what Grandma June meant.

I shrug and pull the corners of my mouth down in a contemplative frown. “I hear the food’s excellent in Heaven, so that makes sense,” I state.

She nods earnestly.

Next question: “Are you here in this room with us?”

Uhhhh…

Yes.

More squeals.

“What do you want us to know?”

The felt pads on the legs of the pointer squeak against the laminated game board. E-A-T Y-O-U-R V-E-G-E-T-A-B-L-E-S.

“Eat your vegetables?” Remus questions, his freckled nose scrunched up. “Grandma June’s upsessed with eating.”

I hang my head and fake-cough to hide my laughter.

Amber pipes up, “Let
me
ask the questions. You ask dumb ones, Kingsley.”

Seemingly unoffended, Kingsley yields to his peer.

“Ahem. Grandma June. Who do you think is more handsomer, Nick or Nate?” she asks, all business-like. I can tell by the giggles from the girls that this is not a new topic.

“Now, guys…” I say. “Grandma June doesn’t—”

I jerk the planchette into motion, making a beeline for the “N” on the board. Widening my eyes at the kids, I say, “The next letter will give us our answer…” pretending to anxiously wonder. Our hands take the quick jump from the lower row of letters to the “A” directly above the “N.”

I gasp. “Grandma June!” I fan my face with my free hand. “Thanks, but… we all know Nick is the handsome one.”

“Yeah!” Amber agrees a little too quickly.

“Nuh-uh!” say Hermione and Ruby in unison.

The boys all make gagging noises.

“Who cares?” yells Jeremiah.

“You were pushing the thingy!” Amber accuses her Team Nate cousins.

“Was not!” Hermione insists, shoving the planchette for real. “If I was pushing it, it would move like that. Grandma June was moving it!”

“Ladies, ladies…” I coax. “Settle down. It’s just a game. For fun.”

“But Uncle Nate, they’re cheating!” Amber cries.

“Are not!” Hermione insists. “And anyway, stop calling him ‘Uncle Nate.’”

“What else are we s’posed to call him?” Kingsley asks, his forehead wrinkled.

All eyes lock on me, and while I try to figure out what, exactly, I am to them now (nothing, I finally come to the depressing conclusion), Hermione butts back in with, “I don’t know, but I heard Mom say to Dad that we have to walk on our tippy-toes around you. Why? Do you like to pretend you’re a ballerina? I like to pretend that sometimes.”

“Me, too!” Ruby pipes up.

“Nobody has to tiptoe around me,” I assure them all.

“
My
daddy said Nick was the better choice, and my daddy’s always right,” Amber boasts.

“Tell that to his cholesterol levels,” I mutter before smiling brightly and sing-songing, “Let’s talk about something happier, like… super-viruses.”

“Wait!” Kingsley shouts. “What do we call you? I always call you Uncle Nate, but now I’m not allowed?”

I sigh and make eye contact with each of them in turn. “Listen. It’s complicated. So you guys can call me whatever you want, alright?”

“Poop Head?” Remus suggests with a giggle.

“Penis Butt?” Percy chimes in with a four-year-old’s version of extreme profanity.

Laughing at their silly potty mouths (hey, they’re not my kids, so I don’t have to be a mature role model), I say, “No! C’mon! At least make it something cool. How about
Captain
Poop Head?”

They shriek and squeal at my joke, getting louder and louder as they throw out more outrageous, “illicit” names. Suddenly, from the top of the stairs, Hans’ voice booms at us, “What’s going on down there?”

I cover my mouth and widen my eyes, shaking my head at the rest of them.

After a suitable pause, Hans barks, “Cut it out, will ya? We’re trying to watch the game.”

When I’m sure the coast is clear, I stage whisper, “Who wants to talk to Grandma June again?”

Ten voices chirp, “Me!” as I set up the board once more.

Chapter Five

This is a test. I know it is. I get it. “Chicks before dicks,” and all that business. Or, as guys like to say, “Bros before hos.”

Whichever offensive, profane way you like to express it, the sentiment is the same: friends will be around
after
the inevitable breakup, so loyal friendship trumps romantic partnership every time. Or should. I suppose. Until you’re married. Then you’re supposed to reverse position on that and forsake all others. Is it any wonder we don’t have a clue as a society what we’re doing when it comes to all this shit? I mean, it’s confusing as hell!

I will say one thing for men, though: at least we don’t parade potential mates in front of our friends like some kind of premarital inspection.

I might understand if I don’t pass muster with Frankie’s best friend, Betty, it’s game over, but that doesn’t mean I don’t resent it. I do resent it. Why does this Betty person get the final say? And what if I don’t even
want
to move on to the next level with Frankie? It’s sort of presumptuous of her to assume that’s the case.

As a matter of fact, after a few dates, I’m starting to think she’s not worth the trouble. And I’m not only talking about sex. Give me
some
credit. I’m not one of those guys who thinks a woman owes it to me after a few dinners and drinks and my sitting through some godawful comic book movie (during which she moaned and drooled over every silicone-coated man in tights that flew, zoomed, and leapt across the screen). I don’t feel even close to the way I need to feel about a woman to go
there
with her.

But—at the risk of sounding like a misogynist asshole—she’s said more than one or two things about her past relationships that make me think she doesn’t have the same standards for sleeping with people that I do. There. I said it without using any ugly, judgmental words. I’m not judging her; I’m merely observing and comparing.

But that means I’m starting to wonder what about me doesn’t meet her seemingly low standards for sexual candidacy. And it’s messing with my head a little. And leading me to do uncharacteristic things. Like, obsessively checking my breath and chewing gum, even though it aggravates my temporomandibular joint dysfunction (TMJ, or jaw pain, for those of you laypeople out there); dressing more preppy, then less preppy; experimenting with body sprays and colognes and deodorants… It’s costing me a fortune, all for something purely academic, since I don’t think I’d say “yes,” even if she suggested we did have sex.

And now
I’m
being evaluated by the best friend? I don’t know… It chafes, that’s all. Honestly, if I weren’t feeling so vulnerable right now, like I’m running out of chances, like maybe I’ve bailed too early too many times in the past, I would have already lied several times about being too busy to hang out with her, hoping she’d give up on
me
before I had to have that awkward “It’s not you… well, yeah it is” conversation.

“So, is she always late?” I ask Frankie as we nurse our second drinks and wait for Betty to arrive.

She rolls her eyes. “Yep. I have a feeling she likes to make an entrance.”

This insight makes me laugh. “Just a feeling? You’ve never called her on it?”

With a tiny shake of her head, she replies, “Nope. But when she gets here, you’ll see. In the meantime, I need to use the bathroom.”

Before I can object to her leaving me alone as her best friend is about to arrive, she practically climbs over me in the booth with a “Be right back!”

“But—” I sigh and watch her trot toward the bathrooms. “Great,” I mutter, facing forward and training my eye on the front door.

Not too much time elapses before the door opens. A black-haired woman in a black cashmere coat, red scarf, and matching red leather gloves blows in with the cold, snow-scented air. She pauses on this side of the threshold, stretches even higher in her three-inch heels, and scans the room, ostensibly to find Frankie and me. Since I’m in the first booth directly in her eye line
and
I’m only one of a half-dozen patrons in the place this early on a Friday, she sees me right away, but she takes her time acknowledging me with a regal nod and slow smile.

We have a live one.

She sashays toward me, as if she’s in slow motion. Drawing even with the table, she pulls her gloves from her fingers, one-by-one, and waves one of the gloves in the direction of the bar. “Cab Sav, Russell!” she bellows at the server, who’s kept his eyes on her every move from his vantage point, leaned against the bar.

Turning her full attention to me, she stands expectantly next to the table.

“You must be Betty,” I say, for lack of any better way to kick off the introductions, considering our mutual acquaintance has apparently fallen into the toilet. There’s no chair for me to pull out for her, but I slide from the booth and stand, offering her my hand to shake.