Ride the Titanic! Read Free

system, Captain America. And do it now.’
    ‘But doctor. . .’
    ‘Now!’
    I stand there, mind blank, as she does a final quick comb-through, swipes on lipstick, conducts a two-second facial analysis in the mirror, and then turns and pokes my chest with a red nail-polished finger.
    ‘Don’t get me wrong, Mike, your ride’s a good idea. Always was, and Vegas is a clever switcheroo. But we need to keep our own ship from sinking before we worry about yours. Capisce?’
    ‘You’re right,’ I mumble, my caffeine-fueled dreams deflating by the second.
    ‘I’m sorry, but you know I am.’
    She stands on her tiptoes, reaches up and slips her arms around my neck, her eyes motionless as she stares at me until I can feel her soul inhabit mine. And then she smiles that incredible smile of hers. I simply cannot help loving this woman. I just do. Even when she’s right and I’m wrong. Like now.
    ‘Sometimes life sucks,’ she says.
    ‘It can’t suck forever.’
    ‘True, and when that time comes, I just want to be with my babies.’
    ‘And I just want to build my rides.’
    She presses her head against my chest, takes a deep breath and lets it out. ‘Remind me how I became a mother again at forty-one.’
    ‘We had sex.’
    ‘Ah, yes, THAT.’ She runs her fingernail along my jawbone. ‘Fabulous sex, now that you mention it.’ Then she sighs again. ‘I thought Fiona would be the only opera in our lives.’
    Besides our twins we have a twelve year-old daughter with a flair for the dramatic. Despite Sullivan for her last name, Fiona has Geena’s Italian heritage and is a Corelli through and through. Which is fine by me. My Galway Bay ancestors spent their lives trying to stay alive in the old country. No pasta for them. No wine. Just beer and potatoes and fog and futility. ‘Thank God for the Italians,’ I always say whenever I sit down to one of my mother-in-law’s stupendous ‘Sunday Suppers.’
    A final fingernail poke, followed by a passionate kiss. ‘Collatione e pronta?’
    I feel a sudden, unexpected arousal. ‘Sure, but I thought you had to work today.’
    ‘ Collatione means breakfast. Why don’t you learn some Italian? Pop would be so happy.’
    ‘When I get time.’
    Another fingernail poke. ‘After you start your new job you’ll have plenty of that.’
    ‘Job’ is right.’
    ‘Final offer’s today?’
    All I can do is nod numbly, the way a man does when accepting a last cigarette before the firing squad. My interview with an HVAC company to design air conditioning systems for office buildings, has gone well so far.
    Geena sighs wistfully. ‘I forget what it’s like to have two paychecks.’
    ‘While trapped in a cubicle all day long.’
    ‘Poor baby.’ Her lips are soft and warm on mine. ‘But you can spend your nights with me.’

‘For the last time, eggs are ready,’ I shout to an empty kitchen, holding a skillet of perfectly cooked, over-easy eggs – the way everybody likes them – and not a soul in sight.
    ‘Damn.’
    The secret to a great breakfast is the same as a great theme-park ride; everything needs to be ready all at once: eggs, ham, grits, toast, pancakes – whatever you’re making, whether it’s roller coasters or rashers of bacon, timing is everything, including the riders showing up when they’re supposed to, damn it.
    Fiona finally breezes in, texting away and humming a tune.
    ‘Sit and eat.’
    ‘In a sec.’
    ‘Now. Eggs are ready.’
    ‘Daddy!’ She plops into her chair. ‘I’ll weigh a TON if you keep feeding me the way Nonna does. Can’t I just have toast?’
    ‘You could stand a few pounds.’
    ‘No way!’ She shakes her thick auburn hair.
    I say softly, ‘Let me ask you a question. Be honest. Promise?’
    ‘Promise.’
    I make a quick check to make sure the coast is clear. ‘What if Ride the Titanic was in Vegas?’
    ‘You mean that boat thing you wanted to do when I was a little girl?’
    ‘You’re still a little girl, and it’s a