by Amelia Wilde
Brandon: What the hell, skylar? WHERE R U???
I scrolled through the hurt, the obvious frustration, the confusion. Jane hadn’t told him where I’d gone, but Brandon was too smart not to figure it out eventually. It was clear from the messages that he knew I was angry about something and determined to leave. I scrolled to the last one, which practically stopped my heart.
Brandon: I meant it, red. Never.
I turned off the phone again and pulled the covers over my aching head. His meaning was clear. He’d never stop chasing me. I’d done the right thing in deleting the voicemails—if I heard him say it aloud, I wouldn’t be able to ignore the part of me that didn’t want him to stop. But this was for the best. And more than that, it was good that I’d come here to remind myself of what I was protecting.
“Skylar Ellen Crosby!”
I grumbled again at the sound of sturdy shoes on the rickety wooden stairs. The door burst open with a loud thwack against the wall, and before I knew it, the blankets were yanked away by a pair of small, strong hands that belonged to an equally small, strong body.
“Hey!” I yelped, pulling the blanket back up, but sitting up all the same. “I was sleeping!”
Bubbe patted her immaculately set bob, which was loaded with so much hairspray it hardly moved. It was Sunday, which meant that she had her weekly mah-jongg game at the community center, but not until three. She was dressed in her favorite outfit, dark-brown, poly-blend slacks and a matching sweater set, over which she had her favorite kitchen apron, which, if the pattern of orange and brown flowers was any indicator, was purchased around the same time my dad was born.
I couldn’t help but smile a little at the sight of her. Bubbe wasn’t the most stylish lady on the block, but she was, as my dad would say, definitely an old-school dame. She also looked like a garden gnome.
“Skylar,” she said again, pointing a manicured finger at me. “First you traipse down to the club last night and drink too much whiskey with your father. That’s right, he told me. My Danny doesn’t keep anything from his ma.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples. God, my dad was such a mama’s boy. After escaping my apartment yesterday morning, I had chosen to hole up at the NYU library rather than face Bubbe’s interrogation in Brooklyn. I had begged another family emergency with my instructors and gotten a round of apologetic support from them.
I had surfaced at Nick’s sometime after eleven. Messina and his crew were nowhere to be seen, but Dad was. He wouldn’t play for the foreseeable future, but he was as dedicated to his band as ever. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, said nothing when I took a seat next to him at a small table near the band. He just raised his soft-casted hand to Nick for another drink, his other hand holding the cane he needed to get around.
We had watched them play for hours, us two wounded Crosbys with our sad little glasses of whiskey. The combination of liquor and jazz managed to keep me from looking at my phone; the sight of my dad cradling his maimed paw while he watched his best friends make music without him was enough to maintain my resolve until morning.
Now I faced my grandmother.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Bubbe said as she tapped on the face of her gold-chain watch. “Your father’s been up since nine, and he was out just as late. It’s time to have breakfast like a civilized family before you go back to school. I don’t know why you’re here, Skylar, but you need to get your keister back to Boston tonight.”
She cocked her head, waiting for my smart-ass response, but when our eyes met, she crossed the room and pulled me to her small body.
I didn’t cry—Crosby women rarely cried, and mostly when no one was there to see them. I had left my tears on the train. But I laid my head on her shoulder and let her rock me like a child, taking comfort in her familiar scent of wool, flour, and Chanel No. 5.
“Was it that rich goy who stayed at the Waldorf?” Bubbe asked, brushing my hair lightly, occasionally picking out tangles.
Wordlessly, I nodded. She patted my head once more and then pushed me back upright so she could look me over properly. It didn’t matter that I was twenty-six; I would always be her little girl.
“Tell me everything,” Bubbe ordered.
So I did. I started at the beginning, with the chance meeting in the middle of a snowstorm. I left out the steamy parts that no one in their right mind would tell their grandmother. As I recounted the past few months, Bubbe listened with her characteristic poker face, with only an arched eyebrow when I recounted my rebuff of the trip to Paris and a low sigh as I filled her in on Brandon’s current marriage and what he had done for our family. I left out the exact trouble he’d gotten into with his friends, but made it clear that Miranda had incurred his debt. When I mentioned Messina’s name in the divorce documents, she straightened slightly, but remained silent until I finished my story.
Then it was done. My hands clasped over my knees, I waited for her verdict.
“Well,” Bubbe said after a long, uncomfortable minute. “That’s quite the macher you found for yourself, isn’t he?”
It was unclear what exactly she meant. Macher was a Yiddish word that roughly meant someone with a lot of ambition, but it could also be used as an insult, like “fat cat.” I sighed, ready for the inevitable onslaught against idiot goyim and why I should be dating a nice Jewish boy.
“A mess, but a mensch,” Bubbe said. A man of worth, a man to be respected. She tapped me on the knee. “So, what are you doing here, Skylar?” Bubbe asked sharply. “Despite his troubles, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
I breathed out a long sigh and dropped my head back to my knees.
“I can’t, Bubbe,” I muttered into the bedding.
“What? I can’t hear you when you’re talking into your blanket,” she snapped.
“I can’t!” I protested to the ceiling beams as I thrust my hands out. “You heard the story, Bubbe. You want me with a man like that? A man who’s already someone else’s husband, who’s in some kind of nasty business with the guy who almost killed Dad?”
Irritably, I pushed the comforter aside and stalked across the room, where I yanked a pair of old jeans out of the beat-up dresser. With a loud huff, I stuffed my legs into them, ignoring Bubbe’s obvious disapproval with the holes in the knees.
“I don’t know why you insist on walking around like such a schlumper, Skylar,” she remarked. She was sitting on the edge of my bed as if it were her throne. “I know you have nice clothes—I’ve seen the pictures on the Facebook.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed an equally ragged sweatshirt—an old gray and purple NYU hoodie that I had bought my first day in college.
“Can’t I be comfortable in my own home?” I muttered.
Bubbe loved to argue, and I was used to being picked on. Growing up with her probably predestined my career as a lawyer.
I finished buttoning my jeans and turned around as Bubbe stood up herself. She brushed nonexistent wrinkles out of her slacks and then propped her hands on her hips as she looked me over.
“Please don’t start, Bubbe,” I said, but she held up a hand again.
“The saying goes, behind every strong man is a strong woman.” She paused meaningfully, tapping her fingernail on the walnut trim of my nightstand. “It sounds to me like Brandon is strong enough for my granddaughter, but he needs someone to be strong for him too.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Bubbe shook her finger.
“Ah, ah, ah, no. Let me finish. You tell me this story, and I hear about a man who needs his woman. That’s you, Skylar, not this Miranda who clearly never loved him. I also hear about a man who’s been working to do his best by you and yours. He is protecting this family, and he wants to give you the world. Maybe this business with Victor Messina is a bad idea, or maybe there’s more to it than you think. If it’s bad, it seems to me he would need you to guide him away from it, not run when he needs you also. And you’re running for what? Because you’re scared of his money? Because you’re
scared of his love for you? Maybe, bubbela, it’s because you’re scared of yourself and how you really feel.”
Bubbe paused again. I knew better than to argue back; I’d just get another finger-wagging. So, I stood there, didn’t even dare to move. I watched the dust flecks scatter in the streams of light that landed on the old plywood flooring.
When she had apparently waited long enough, Bubbe spoke again. “There is another person in this family who runs when things get hard, Skylar. A person who runs from the man who loves her. And I think you know who that is.”
My head snapped up. “That’s not fair! I am nothing like my mother.”
Bubbe shrugged and walked to the door, where she braced a hand on the frame. “You are as much your mother as your father, bubbela, and that’s the truth. They each gave you half of your beautiful self, half your flaws, and half your strengths. But it’s up to you which parts of those halves you want to keep, or whether you want to be like either of them at all.” She flicked her head. “Now come downstairs before breakfast gets cold. I didn’t slave away in the kitchen for half the morning so you could turn your nose up at my blintz.”
The kitchen table was laid with the familiar green glass plates and matching juice glasses I had grown up with, along with a large baking dish of Bubbe’s blintzes. Dad sat with his feet propped up while he read the Post and sipped his coffee.
“Hey there, Pips,” he said with a smile.
He pulled his feet off the chair so I could join him. A week’s recuperation had done him good. Most of the bruises on his face had faded, and he no longer had to wear the nose brace. Although there was still a scab on his forehead, he looked almost like himself again. He was still in the same red and gray flannel bathrobe he had worn for so long that Bubbe had to patch the elbows at least three different times. The normalcy of the robe was a pleasant sight
“Morning, Dad,” I said with a quick kiss on his cheek.
Dad pulled on his mustache with his good hand before pouring himself another cup of coffee. The stitches in his hand were due for their first inspection next week, and there were no signs of infection. Bubbe had told me over the phone that he had gone to his first Gamblers’ Anonymous meeting as well as an appointment with a therapist. She’d driven him there herself.
Bubbe sat down and quickly filled the morning silence with a discussion of temple gossip and the latest news from her friends at the community center. Dad and I each simply ate our blintzes, which were filled with sweet ricotta and blueberries, just the way I loved. Once we were finished, Bubbe cleared the table while Dad and I continued to sip our coffee and juice, picking occasionally at the leftovers in the middle of the table. The room was warm and cozy. It was all so normal. Like Brandon Sterling and Victor Messina had never intruded on any of our lives.
“All right, I have my hair appointment, and then mah-jongg at three,” Bubbe announced as she finished wiping down the countertop.
“I don’t know why you need to get your hair done, Ma,” Dad said as he wiped a scrap of blueberry from his cheek with a paper napkin. “You already look like a princess.”
Bubbe set the sponge in its tray by the sink and smiled girlishly.
“You,” she said fondly with a pointed finger. “I’ll see you for dinner. Skylar, will you be here?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve got to catch the four o’clock bus. I can’t miss any more class.”
Bubbe nodded with approval and pulled on her coat, which was the same shade of brown as the rest of her outfit. After checking that her sleeves were even, she marched over to where I sat and tipped her head, indicating wordlessly for a kiss on the cheek. I obliged.
“Love you, Bubbe,” I murmured.
“You too, sweetheart,” she said. “Danny, dinner’s at six.”
“Have fun, Ma.”
Dad raised his good hand in farewell, and we both watched her march militarily out of the house. He then picked up the folded copy of the Post and wordlessly handed me the sections he’d already read.
“So, Pips, when are we gonna see that young man of yours again?” Dad asked once Bubbe had pulled out of the driveway. He took a long sip of coffee.
I sighed. “I don’t think he’ll be around much, Dad. It…it didn’t work out.”
“That’s too bad,” he said mildly, as if he hadn’t told me just a short time ago that Brandon was perfect for me. He paused. “He seemed like a decent guy.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrugged, looking toward the window while I swallowed back tears. I didn’t want to cry, and the fact that it was over with Brandon was still so raw. “Dad?”
“Yeah, Pippi?”
“Dad, have you heard from Victor Messina recently?”
My father stiffened slightly, and the paper in his hands crinkled under a strained grip, but otherwise, he didn’t change his expression.
“He came into the club last week, but he didn’t talk to me,” he said quietly. His good hand went reflexively to cradle the bad against his chest. “To be honest, kid, I just got out of there as soon as I saw him.”
I searched his face for something that might reveal anything he wasn’t telling me. Something like Messina knew who his daughter’s boyfriend was and was looking to shake us down. But there was nothing but a father’s love and concern.
I exhaled with relief. “How was your GA group?”
Dad leaned back in his chair with a rueful chuckle. “You’re a shit liar, kid, just like your old man. The group’s all right. I’ll keep going. It’s interesting to meet people going through the same stuff, I guess.”
I nodded. At this point, I didn’t care why he was going, so long as he was.
“Good,” I said as I stood up and cleared our empty dishes to the sink. Then I walked back to where Dad sat and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, leaning down to rest my chin on his collarbone. “Love you, old man.”
He was quiet for a moment, then reached up with his good hand to squeeze my wrist. “Right back at you, kid.” When I let go, his smile made the thin skin at the edges of his eyelids crinkle. “The Mets game is on. Do you want to watch?”
I stood up and shook my head. “No, I have to get ready. I’ll probably just pack up and take the train into the city, see if I can catch an earlier bus.”
With a nod and a squeeze to my shoulder, Dad shuffled out of the kitchen, and I suddenly felt like I could breathe a little bit easier. Maybe I’d been running away, but coming home had definitely been the right decision.
I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and turned it on. Another text message had arrived.
Brandon: Skylar, I deserve an explanation. Please. I’m begging u.
A few seconds later, another appeared.
Brandon: Don’t make me come down there.
I sighed. The jig was up; I knew it wouldn’t take him long to figure out where I was. It was time to deal with reality.
I started up the stairs, pulled up Brandon’s number, and pressed dial.
“Skylar?” His answer was frantic and abrupt, right after the first ring.
“Hey,” I said softly as I started the ascent to the attic.
“Skylar, Jesus Christ, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’m fine. I’m in New York.”
“Did something happen? Is your dad okay? Your roommate wouldn’t tell me a goddamn thing, just that you weren’t coming back. What the hell is going on?”
“Brandon, I—”
I paused on the rickety wooden steps, unsure how to proceed.
“I want to hear you say it, Red.” Brandon spoke softly, even a bit dangerously. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, you should at least have the guts to say it to me straight. If not in person, then right now.”
I sighed again. Victor Messina, Victor Messina. I chanted the name over and over to myself until a ball of red rage burned steadily inside me. I thought of the bruises on my dad’s face, the look of his limp, frail body in the hospital bed.
I remembered the shrill hysteria in Bubbe’s voice when her only son was in the hospital. The looming question of whether or not he would ever make music again.
And for some reason, Brandon was giving money to the guy who did this to my family and hid it. It was obviously out of some kind of misplaced gallantry, but I couldn’t be involved either way.
“It’s over,” I bit out.
The stairs protested loudly as I jogged the rest of the way to my room. I slammed the door and collapsed onto the bed, inhaling the faint scent of lavender fabric softener. I could do this. I could.
“What? Why?” Brandon’s voice was sharp, biting through the scratchy cell phone service.
“I just…” I paused, thinking about how to say this without actually having to say it. If he really was in league with Messina and for some reason it wasn’t above board, then chances were, I shouldn’t know about it. “It’s too much. Miranda. The whole divorce. The lies. I’m twenty-six, Brandon. I can’t deal with all of that, and I shouldn’t have to. It’s not worth the trouble.”
I winced at the last statement, knowing it would hurt. I had to wait several seconds with my face buried in my pillow, listening to his uneven breathing over the phone. Just when I was about to ask if he was still there, he spoke, the timbre of his normal baritone shaky and uneven.
“Is that really how you feel?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “It is.”
“You’re not even going to give me a chance to defend myself?”
“I already did,” I said more strongly than I felt. “It’s done. It’s over, Brandon. Please don’t chase me anymore. You deserve to move on with your life…just not with me.”
My heart ached at the thought of him doing just that. I wiped a tear rolling down my cheek and shook my head hard to will away the others. Several more seconds passed. I flipped over to my back and stared up at my ceiling, counting the open rafters. My cell phone was warm against my ear, but that wasn’t the reason I was starting to sweat.
“Brandon?” I asked after counting at least fifteen more rafters than actually existed. “Are you there?”