Chapter 4 – Tony's Day
When Tony arrived at the front door the next day, he winced at the memories of the last time he'd watched over Ducky's mother.
He hoped the elderly woman didn't remember him and think he was an Italian Gigolo Furniture Mover/Dog Groomer. He'd had quite enough of Contessa's growling bitchy demeanour – an appropriate description, he thought – trying to bit the hand that groomed her, and Tony swore that if he had to move a table or an armoire, he'd walk out and tell Palmer it was his turn again.
"Mrs. Mallard? It's Anthony DiNozzo. Remember me, Ma'am?"
The door swung open, and Mrs. Mallard stood, with the same dignity and posture as she'd demonstrated in front of Tim, the day before.
"You are Italian," she noted, with a huffy sniff. "An Italian Gigolo!"
Tony sighed. He'd been sure that Ducky said his mother suffered from dementia. Or maybe, it was just everyone around her who suffered from her dementia.
"No, Ma'am. I work with your son, at NCIS. That stands for Naval Criminal Inves…"
"Do not patronize me, boy! Why do you young men all seem to think that I don't know what NCIS stands for? My son and grandson have worked there for years. And Timothy works there too," she said, with an air of authority. "Donald lied to me. Timothy is not, in fact, a drunkard."
Tony shook his head. He wasn't even going to TRY to figure out what she meant by all of this.
McGee, a drunk? Not hardly. But her grandson? Ducky didn't have any kids, as far as he knew… Oh, no - wait. Could she be talking about Jimmy? Oh, yes. That was right, too. Jimmy had once mentioned how he called Dr. Mallard's mother "Grandmother" to avoid confusing the old woman, who had somehow gotten the idea into her confused mind that Jimmy Palmer was her grandson.
"I don't suppose you still have your… oh, never mind. I see they're still here." Tony stood stock-still, as Tyson, the biter, sniffed around his feet and growled quietly. Finally, the small dog approved of his arrival, and went off to harass a rawhide bone that Tim had brought the day before, to occupy the yappy creatures that Ducky seemed to barely tolerate. It had worked for him, too – Tim had tossed the bones into the middle of the back yard, and hadn't seen hide nor hair of them, until Ducky arrived home and they whined and scratched at the back door, wanting to be let back inside.
Tony figured, he couldn't be that lucky.
"Look what I brought, Mrs. Mallard," Tony said, tired of standing in the doorway. He held up a grocery bag, and reached inside, to pull out a package of digestive biscuits. "I thought they'd be good with your tea this afternoon."
"What do Italians know about making tea? At least that Irish boy knows how to make a good, decent cup. Although he did not put rum in it, like I would have preferred. But I suppose, I did lock the cabinet to keep him out."
Tony smiled in spite of himself, at the air of dignity that this old woman so clearly possessed. It was no wonder that Ducky was so devoted to her – she was a strong woman, in spirit, if no longer in body. "I'm sure Tim knows how to make a very good cup of tea, Mrs. Mallard. But you haven't given mine a chance yet, either. You forget, I've also worked with your son for years. You pick up a few things, working with someone for that long."
"We shall see about that, Anthony," she said, stepping aside, and grasping his offered arm.
"You may be a gigolo, but you have very nice buttocks," she said, grasping his left butt cheek and giving it as solid a squeeze as her arthritis-weakened hand could muster. Tony nearly yelped in surprise, but quickly regained his composure. "Really Mrs. Mallard, I promise you, I'm not a gigolo. But I have to agree with you, in all modesty, about my buttocks." He winked at the older woman, as her eyes lit up in cheeky delight. "I may be old, Anthony, but I am not dead."
Tony grinned to himself. So far, so good. Maybe this day wouldn't be so long after all.