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She’s a bit of an odd bird, always onto some new thing every week. She tells me that she likes to take trips down rabbit holes of adventure. This means that she will find one new thing, get obsessed, read everything she can about it, and then move onto something else in the blink of an eye. Apparently, it keeps her young, at least at heart. She’s ninety-two, and last week she tried horse racing — won a blue ribbon in an amateur league. I’m still not sure where she got the horse.
I have the cat carrier in hand by the time Pumpkin is done with her food. She looks up at me with haughty golden eyes, looking like she would raise her eyebrows in annoyance — if she had eyebrows.
“Come on, Punk,” I croon. “We are going to Bubby’s for a few days. Just chill, and I’m sure she will share anchovies with you when we get there.”
Despite my attempts to temp her, I end up chasing my cat around the apartment for the next fifteen minutes ruining my dress shoes and getting muddy cat prints all over my ivory duvet. It is going to have to be dry cleaned, and that does not make me happy. This day just keeps getting more stressful.
Cat finally contained, I pack a quick bag and head off to the subway. Bubby lives in the Bronx. It’s not as convenient for work but no sense in getting upset about the situation. Personally, I try to roll with the punches — no matter how odd they are.
****
Bubby is wearing a pink turban when she opens the door of her apartment. With one skeletal hand, she reaches for Pumpkin’s carrier and pulls me inside with the other. “Get settled, doll,” she hums. “I just put the kettle on for tea. Did you eat?”
I shake my head and look around her cluttered apartment. “No, Bubby. I just saw the damage, packed up and headed over.”
Bubby’s living room has been redecorated since the last time I was here — which was only this past Sunday. I’m not too surprised. Change and my grandmother are fast friends. I set my purse and bag down on the new, large, round wooden table and glance at the mismatched chairs that surround it. There are six. Bubby is expecting a lot of company.
Heading to the kitchen, she drops the cat carrier to the floor, causing Pumpkin to let out a mournful meow. “I don’t have time to fix much,” she tells me. “Just a sandwich or two.”
I drop my bag onto the couch that is overly crowded with throw pillows of all colors. Leaning against the narrow kitchen doorway, I watch my grandmother work, observing the flamboyant robe she is wearing. It is covered in orange and yellow butterflies. Most of them clash with the rest of her purple pantsuit and pink turban. Thankfully, I do not get my fashion sense from my grandmother.
While slapping a few thin slices of turkey lunchmeat onto a few pieces of dry bread, Bubby looks over at me. “What’s going on with you?” She raises a wispy, bleached-blonde eyebrow. She thinks bleaching her hair makes her look younger. It doesn’t. “Usually you are talking my ear off about work or your friends.”
I blink at her, realizing that my mind has drifted back to the broad shoulders of Christian Keeley and the way his tight black t-shirt showed the vee of his torso. His jeans, also black, had ridden low on his hips dangerously close to another part of his anatomy that I am dying to see. A sigh escapes my lips.
“Ahh,” grandmother hums. She turns back to the counter, shuffling the sandwiches over to a pale pink plate. After handing me the plate, she points at the table in the living room. “I hear the sound of boy trouble. Better sit down and tell me all about it.”
Staring at the plate in my hand, my throat closes up. It’s not just the sad sandwiches. It’s the idea of telling Bubby exactly what my boy trouble entails. Could you imagine? Bubby, I let a strange man eat me out and then found out that he is my new boss. I can feel the color draining out of my cheeks.
Bubby pushes me with her hip so that I walk over to the table. Picking a chair with an extra-tall back — the thing looks like something out of a gothic cathedral — I slump down and set my plate before me. Taking a chair across from me, my grandmother looks at me expectantly; her eyebrows pushing up against the pink turban that is hiding her hair.
“You know I don’t date, Bubby.” I fake a laugh, but Bubby’s eyebrows only climb higher.
“Bullshit.”
“Bubby! Language.”
She snorts, then casually regards the chipping nail polish on her fingernails. “Please. Don’t sass me, child. You swear like a sailor.” This is true. “And I know you are over the moon about some lad. I remember that look from when you were with that last boy…Jered.”
