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“I…I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said, still totally thrown off by the past few minutes.
“Jamie, you’re traumatized, barefoot, and wearing Spongebob jammies. You’re in no condition to go running around the streets of San Francisco. Would you please, please, please come back inside and let me explain all this shit to you?” And then she whirled toward an older man with a poodle that had paused on the sidewalk to gawk at us, and growled, hands on her hips, “Move along, pooper scooper, or else I’m going to shove that poodle so far up your ass that you’ll be shitting puffballs for a month.”
A slightly hysterical burst of laughter escaped me, and the man flushed and scampered away quickly. “You like that?” she asked me with a grin.
And I admitted, “That was one of the most colorful insults I’ve ever heard. And since I was raised in a big Irish Catholic family, that’s really saying something.”
“I was raised by the Russian mafia. By the time I was ten, I knew how to sweep a room for bugs, identify counterfeit hundred dollar bills, and threaten bodily harm in a truly offensive and spectacular fashion.”
“Well, kudos. You must have been at the top of your class at Mafia Threatening School.” I studied her carefully. She might still prove to be totally nuts, but I was damn well going to stick around and hear what Catherine had to say on the whole ‘fake marriage’ subject.
“Nah, I was a distant second behind Dmitri. I’m sure you’ve seen how he gets going when he lays into somebody. He’s got the three C’s down pat: crude, colorful, and completely inappropriate. He makes me look like a rank amateur.” She smiled proudly.
I came back up the stairs slowly as I said, “I’ve never seen that, actually. I can’t really even imagine it. He always seems so refined.”
That drew an unladylike snort of laughter from Catherine. “Oh yeah. He’s refined, all right.” Then she said, “Oh wait, you’re serious!” I blinked at her like I was missing something, and she grabbed my arm and dragged me into the house, saying, “Babe, I have so much to tell you about your cute little boyfriend.”
“Ok. But can we start with the fake marriage?”
“Absolutely.” She led me into the kitchen, saying, “This is gonna be a lengthy discussion. We need to fortify ourselves with some booze. And more ice cream. I’m fucking starving.” She threw open a couple cabinets and sighed in frustration, then looked in the freezer and said, “Does Dmitri have any alcohol besides vodka?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Fucking Russian stereotype,” she muttered, grabbing the vodka, followed by five or six cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. She located a big tray and loaded it up with the booze and ice cream, along with spoons, glasses, bowls, napkins, and Diet Cokes. She stepped back and assessed the tray, then opened and closed a few more cabinets. “He moved his secret junk food stash,” she said. “Do you know where it is now?” She started opening more obscure cabinets, like the one under the sink.
“I’ve never seen him eat junk food. The worst thing I’ve ever seen him eat is ice cream. And cheesecake.”
She shot me a lopsided grin. “He’s probably been on his best behavior. You’ve only known him a week, right?”
“Slightly less than that,” I admitted.
“Oh babe, just wait. He’s still trying to impress you. But one day you’re going to come home and find him covered in potato chip crumbs, wearing his dorky glasses, dressed in some tacky sci fi t-shirt, and playing video games on his laptop. If you still love my nerdy cousin after that, then you’re a total keeper. Oh – and if you’re really, really lucky, he’ll even be wearing his retainer.” She chuckled and shook her head, as if picturing all of that.
“Ok, so you’re talking about Dmitri Teplov, right? I mean, he doesn’t even wear glasses….”
She’d been opening and closing cupboards as we spoke, and now she let out a triumphant, “Ah ha!” Catherine pulled a box out of the cleaning supply cupboard and thrust it at me, saying, “Carry this.” I did as I was told, and she hoisted the big tray up and started to climb the back staircase.
“He couldn’t really have a retainer,” I said as I followed her. “I mean, he’s twenty six. Maybe when he was sixteen, right? But surely not now. You’re just fucking with me.”
“You think that perfect smile doesn’t come at a price?” Catherine asked over her shoulder. “He still wears the retainer, because he’s incredibly vain and worries about his teeth shifting back into their original slightly horrifying position.”
“You know, I never have a clue when you’re joking and when you’re being serious,” I told her.
“See? That’s what I was saying before. Dmitri tries to tell me that no one gets my sense of humor. The jealous fiancé thing when I first came home? That was a joke. Everything I’ve told you since then is the Gods-honest truth.”
