“That’s wild,” Derick chimes in after a grunt that snaps the cabinet door right into place, no squeaks, no wobbles. Two instructional videos and he’s an HGTV pro.
“Movies are unpredictable. You never know what you’re going to get. I can’t handle that in my life anymore. I need simple sitcom prediction—comfort, laughs, Rhoda walking into Mary’s apartment without knocking. Mary mothering the newsroom.”
Ditching the tennis ball back where I found it, I collect the plastic brush and rubbing alcohol. It took forever getting the funnel into the spray bottle and pouring in the foul-smelling liquid. At least that part’s done, though I fear the burning scent has singed my nostrils for eternity.
“I read too. Well, I read with my ears. Audiobooks that Candice, my home aide, downloads for me when she comes. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and even the large-print editions are difficult but sometimes doable. Even after the surgeries for the cataracts. I didn’t catch the macular degeneration soon enough. Too stubborn to see the right doctor.” She snaps her head in our direction. “Don’t go saying anything about my stubbornness, you hear me? I know I’m stubborn. I’m difficult. I heard it my whole life. I heard it on every set before I was running my own and even sometimes after. She’s amonster. She’s alunatic. She’s abitch.” She licks her thin lips. “Heard that last one from my ex-husband too.”
I did a lot of research at Rosevale on female directors in the 1970s, pioneers in a push for gender equality in a bro-y field. The pay gap is still gross, and opportunities for female directors (not even considering trans female directors or nonbinary directors) are still slim. At the time, many men wrote off female directors as too emotional or too “bitchy” to oversee an entire production. Plus, they thought there were too many other men in line already, waiting their turn for opportunities, so they couldn’t let women “cut.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” I know it doesn’t wipe away her bad memories or her bad eyesight, yet it feels like the right thing to say. Not that I speak on behalf of the universe, or anything. I just want her to know that I’m on her team.
“It was what it was. Men cower at women like me. Peter’s movies wouldn’t have been half of what they were without me, even though he never gave me the credit I deserved. He drank himself into oblivion in his trailer during half of them, while I oversaw everything,” she says. “Bitchis only a word. Young people seem very comfortable with it now. It can’t hurt you, but I will say, it hurt me back then. I was juvenile. Now?Psh. Now, call me whatever you want, just don’t let me hear it or I’ll show you what this bitch can do.”
With a playful smile, she smashes the first of the “trash” dishes on the floor. Shards of pewter ceramic spill across the linoleum.
“Hey, I just—”
“Don’t be a stinker!” Alice shouts, smashing another and then passing one to Derick. Relishing this too much, Derick smashes three cracked plates in quick succession, the floor becoming a mosaic of destroyed dinnerware.
Not wanting to be left out, I take the smallest cup and hurtle it at the floor. It doesn’t even break. It just skitters away and lands by Derick’s socked feet.
We really didn’t think this through. We’re three people nearly barefoot, trapped in place by pointy shards ready to slice us open.
“Damn, Ms. K,” Derick says, “you’re cool as hell.” He tosses me the cup again. “Give it another go.”
I sigh, swing back with force, and smash it to smithereens. It feels good. Almost great.
“That’s it!” Alice says. “Now, someone throw me my shoes and you boys clean this up.” She pauses and then adds, “Oh and you’ll need to sweep and mop again. Oops.” She snickers slightly before disappearing.
At least our clutter is contained to one corner of the kitchen, the one we didn’t need to wade through to get to our shoes. I slip my feet into them and waddle back to my seat, the lace tips tapping on the linoleum the whole way. My hands are coated in dust and vinegar, and I can’t make it to the sink to wash them without crunching through the wreckage. Apparently reading my thoughts, Derick pops my right foot onto his lap. At the table, in an oddly sweet gesture, he starts tying the laces for me. I’m happy to note he uses the bunny ears method, not the popular around-the-loop bow. It’s a peculiar quirk of his, maximum cuteness.
It makes me want to ask about the Instagram post where he called me handsome. To clear the air about the basement cuddle. But what good would that do? I don’t want him to think I’m reading into anything. If this is our new normal, I kind of like it. I don’t want things to change.
He grabs his backpack before letting me go. With a playful grin, he gifts me a bag of cherry Pull ’n’ Peel Twizzlers and a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Screwing all day works up an appetite.”
I swallow a laugh as I clean off my hands and then accept a Twizzler, thanking him before biting into the sweet, stringy candy.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he clamors, looking horrified. “Did you just eat a Pull ’n’ Peel Twizzler without pullingorpeeling?”
“So what? You get more bang for your bite this way. More flavor.”
“You’re a monster. You wouldn’t eat string cheese without stringing it! You wouldn’t eat a Kit Kat without breaking off a piece! The instructions are right there in the jingle!”
“Kit Kats are too messy. Chocolate gets melty.” I’m wiggling my digits to emphasize my adverse feelings.
“Weirdo.” He leans back in that infuriatingly unflappable way, spreading his legs apart and letting his arms go limp. “By the way, I’m in for the Manhattan trip you texted me about. I’ll use my dad’s account to get us bus tickets and my mom’s rewards points at one of the Midtown chain hotels. I can book us their usual room. As long as Alice gives us the all clear.”
“Really? Are you sure? I don’t want to put anybody out.” Not that I have the money to finance this trip, and Oscar didn’t make any mention of reimbursement.
“Way more than sure.” He gives me a soft bro-punch to the bicep, completely negating the shoe-tying and candy-gifting. “I finished the cabinets. Let me help you with the floor.”
He grabs the mop, while I grab the broom. Halfway through, Alice returns with the box from my first day here. Setting it down, she looks at us both long and hard. When I cross to her, she nods twice and then leaves the room.
An olive branch for the mess she made.
Derick smiles as he wrings out the mop. I know he’s curious too, but he’s willing to let me have a moment to geek out over whatever golden goodies she’s stashed in here. I open the box and devour each notebook, paper clipping, review, and photo. It’s a shadow box that belongs in an exhibition.
At the bottom, I get the confirmation I was looking for. One weathered seafoam notebook is made up entirely of unsendable letters written to Tammy, dated after her death. In a convoluted way, this exercise is kind of like my almost-kiss emails. Toward the end, missives from 1978 taper off into blank white pages, but before they do, she’s written:
