Tim Sandlin - Social Blunders

“ Puh. Rory Paseneaux is no man. He’s a rat. I broke water in the front seat of his precious Chevy and he ditched me. Took off while I was in the Texaco restroom trying to clean up.”

“Sounds like Rory is afraid of responsibility,” I said.

“Rory is afraid of stained upholstery.” Lynette lapsed into a few seconds of silence. Had Rory really abandoned her because she broke water in his car? Southern men are weird about cars, but that was a bit much.

“Babs says you’re paying her hospital bills.”

“I’ll pick up yours too.”

She squealed. “I knew it. I knew you were the nicest man I ever met. Sammi will grow up to be just like you, only a girl.”

“Sammi?”

“Sammi with an i and no e . She’s seven hours older than Sam.”

I had a funny feeling. “Who is Sam?”

“Babs’s baby, of course. We’re going to raise them like twins with different mothers. Sam and Sammi.”

This seemed like good news, but I wasn’t sure. For certain, it was odd. “Are you girls going to tell the kids who their real fathers are?”

“Are you kidding? Here, Babs wants to talk.”

More giggles. More confusion. At least I’d made someone happy. If I have a choice, I’d rather make people happy some way other than giving them money, but I’ll take goodwill however it comes.

“You’re not mad at us, are you, Mr. Callahan?”

“Why would I be mad? I’m honored you named your babies Sam and Sammi.”

“There’s more.”

“Tell him,” Lynette chirped in the background.

“Tell me what?”

“The birth certificate lady said we could write down anyone we wanted as the fathers, so long as he didn’t mind.”

Uh-oh. “Both of you?”

“We hope you don’t mind.”

When I walked into Tex and Shirley’s Pancake House an embarrassed scarecrow stood beside the Please wait to be seated sign, clutching a stack of menus to her breasts. Behind the cash register, King Kong made change for a postman who didn’t seem a bit nonplussed to be receiving money from the paw of a gorilla.

I’ve been disoriented often enough that I know it doesn’t pay to draw attention to the fact. Just keep your head down, pretend everything is normal, and hope that with time the chaos will sort itself out.

“Morning, Mr. Callahan,” Judy said as she poured my coffee. Judy wore long whiskers, pointed ears, and a tail. She said, “I’m a cat.”

My chronic disorientation is triggered by a daydream mentality. Throughout the drive to Tex and Shirley’s, I’d been pretending on their sixteenth birthday Sam and Sammi apply for driver’s licenses and spot my name on their birth certificates. They bolt the license bureau and rush to the Manor House, where I embrace my newfound family and give birthday presents.

Maybe the moral thing would be to adopt them, more or less, right now. Take fatherhood seriously, even though it seemed strange to suddenly have two children by teenage girls I hardly knew. Not that I minded, but it was a major commitment to take on without forethought. I’m prone to quick commitments, probably a reaction against Lydia. She’s so afraid of commitment that back when I was young and she smoked cigarettes, she wouldn’t buy the same brand twice in a row.

I felt sweet breath on my cheek, and when I turned to track down the source, Gilia kissed me. Smack. Right on the lips. Her mouth was supple and soft, yet controlled, with a faint taste of Carmex.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was uptight last night. I have to remind myself there’s a difference between being careful and closing up shop completely.”

With her face close to mine, the situation clicked. “Today is Halloween. That’s why people are in costume,” I said.

“Right.” She slid into her chair. “So what do you say? Can you handle a relationship where you kiss but don’t fuck?”

The suddenness with which Gilia went frank always took me off guard. This wasn’t a woman who wasted time saying “Good morning.” Judy came by with the coffeepot to take our order—cheese blintzes for me and Swedish pancakes for Gilia. I like a woman who eats real food instead of dry toast and skimmed milk.

After Judy left, I said, “Are there kiss limits?”

Gilia pulled her blond hair into a doughnut-shaped bungee cord sort of thing. I forget what they’re called. “Like French?”

“More like necking. Are you talking kiss-hello, kiss-good-bye or a thirty-minute make-out session?”

“I won’t set rules. My only request is I’m not ready to make love, so if we ever do neck to the point where I say okay, you have to ignore me and stop.”

That’s definitely defining parameters. I looked at the hair on her arms and thought of lemon meringue pie. Waking up beside Gilia would be like waking up in a mountain meadow next to a bubbling brook, only without the hay fever.

“I can do that,” I said.

“Great.”

When Judy brought our food Gilia dug right in with butter and syrup, but I only pretended to eat. What I really did was watch her face. Watching Gilia’s face was like watching a time lapse movie of the sky. She registered everything. When I said father , her skin tone darkened. Jack-o’-lantern caused crinkles to dance. After looking at Gilia a few minutes, I didn’t know why I had ever thought Wanda’s face was interesting. Wanda had three basic looks—drunk, sober, and PMS. Gilia had hundreds.

I concentrated on the freckle between her nose and right eye. It was like one of those little thermometers that pop out of turkeys when they’re done. Gilia’s freckle glowed as she approached passion, such as when she raged at Ronald Reagan and the invasion of Grenada. She really cared about current events. Lydia used to be a news junkie, after she stopped drinking and before she went into feminist literature. Now, she’s a single-issue newshound. I’ve never followed the world that closely myself.

“Clark Gaines tried to kill himself in my garage last night,” I said.

Her head did the sudden cock to one side thing. “How hard did he try?”

“He made a Polish joke out of it.”

The freckle kind of spread toward the eye. That was her introspective look. “Poor kid.”

“I think I’ll call Billy this afternoon. All Clark wants is attention, but he’s liable to slip up and waste himself trying to get it.”

Gilia put both hands around a coffee cup. “I remember Clark from company picnics when I was young. He was the kid the other boys depantsed in the woods.”

“I’ve been that kid. Makes for a tough puberty.”

Judy came over to pick up our plates and tell us about the other Judy’s pinworms. We listened with interest and Gilia even asked a consistency question. Everyone needs someone who is interested in their problems, especially career waitresses, but I for one was glad I’d finished my blintz.

While I nursed a final cup—my fifth of the day—Gilia stared out the window at the damp Carolina morning. Rain had been threatening all week, and now it looked ready to dump.

“I’m free tonight,” Gilia said. “Care for a movie? Terms of Endearment is playing at Four Seasons Mall.”

It was my turn to pay. “A movie?”

“Like a date, sort of. We’ll go Dutch so neither one of us worries about strings attached.”

I studied the check closely, making certain Judy added right. “I’d love to, but tonight I can’t. There’s this CEO in from Nebraska whose country club might buy a hundred ten Shilohs, and I’m stuck with the wining and dining. If it’s over early, I’ll call.”

Gilia cocked her head and studied me a moment. Then she said, “Sounds good. Maybe we’ll hit the movie tomorrow night.”