Free Loose Screws by Karen Templeton

says, clear as day, “Bullshit.”
    My face warms at the implications of that expression, even as anger incinerates the remains of sandwich and fruit in my stomach. What? I want to scream. You got a problem with believing that maybe, just maybe, they really do like me?
    And while I’m sitting here, trying to get my breathing under control, I hear Nedra take a deep breath, then say, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. After all, I don’t suppose it’s fair—” she looks pointedly at me “—to hold the parents accountable for their children’s irrational behavior.”
    I tear off a bite of roast beef sandwich and masticate for all I’m worth. Hey—there was nothing irrational about agreeing to marrying Greg. I’ve had one irrational moment in my entire life, and that took place ten years ago, in a cluttered supply closet smelling of musty mops and Lysol and Aramis. I catch on quick, as they say, and that lapse of judgment has not been, nor will it be, repeated. Obviously, considering the events of recent days, I cannot always prevent my being made a fool of, but I can at least control my contribution to my own downfall.
    In the meantime, Phyllis is waving away my mother’s half-assed apology with another smile and some murmured reassurances about her understanding. But the damage has been done. True, after this afternoon, I probably will never see Phyllis Munson again. But I wouldn’t have minded leaving things on at least something of an up note, for crying out loud. But noooo, my mother has to open her big mouth and screw everything up. As usual.
    This is exactly what I was afraid would happen, because it always does. It simply never occurs to Nedra that she doesn’t have to voice every thought that goes tromping through her brain. I really don’t give a damn if she hates Greg’s guts—I’m not exactly in a forgiving mood myself—but why take it out on the man’s mother?
    Not to mention her own daughter?
    I’m so upset, I can barely get down more than ten or twelve bites of the chocolate mousse Concetta has brought out.
    Suddenly I realize Phyllis is saying, her voice tinged with sadness, “You have a wonderful daughter, Mrs. Petrocelli, which I hope you realize,” and I nearly choke on what I now realize is the last spoonful of mousse.
    Fortuitously, Concetta picks that moment to appear with the extremely welcome news that Bill is waiting for us out front. My mother and I both spring up from our chairs as if goosed, although for very different reasons, thanking our hostess for the lovely lunch as we angle ourselves in the direction of the doors.
    â€œNo, please,” Phyllis says, rising to her feet. She’s around the table in an instant, her hand grasping mine. “Would you mind,” she says with a fixed smile for my mother, “letting Bill show you around the house and grounds? And you can assure him his father won’t be here, that he called and said he wouldn’t be home before dinnertime.” Then the smile zings to me. “I’d like a minute alone with Ginger.”

Four
    â€œA nd then what happened?”
    It’s the next afternoon. Sunday. Terrie is looking at me with huge black eyes across Shelby’s Danish contemporary dining table in the three-bedroom West End Avenue apartment Shelby’s in-laws bought for some ridiculously low ground-floor price when the building went co-op in the early eighties, then “sold” to Shelby and Mark for an even more ridiculously low price when they decided life was better in Boca. My cousin, a pair of tortoiseshell barrettes holding back her perky little blond bob, sits on the other side of the table, a forkful of Nonna’s ravioli poised exactly halfway between her plate and her mouth. Her expression is equally poleaxed.
    I’m still shaking from yesterday. After Bill dropped me and all my junk off about four, then took