Chasing Stanley

by Martin, Deirdre

  “Mitchell, care to tell me what happened to your New Year’s resolution?”

  Jason stared at Ty with incomprehension. Back in January, he told his coach that his New Year’s resolution was to keep his nose clean: no more hangovers, no more breaking curfew, no more impulsive actions on the ice. He’d kept to it, too. It was a way of keeping his mind off Delilah.

  Seeing her all the time, whether out walking in the neighborhood or when they came together over Stanley, always left him feeling melancholy. He still believed they were hopeless as a couple, but that didn’t halt his attraction to her. He liked to think she felt the same way, but he had no proof; maybe his male ego just needed to believe it. They were always polite to one another, though Delilah seemed intent on keeping conversation between them minimal.

  Without his even noticing it, winter had turned to spring. All the snow had melted, leaving the ground beneath it soggy but full of promise. People had a bounce in their step as they walked down the wide city streets. And the New York Blades had easily clinched a berth in the playoffs, which were one week away.

  Ty hadn’t asked him to take a seat when he called him to the office, so Jason remained standing somewhat tentatively by the door.

  “I don’t understand,” Jason replied in response to Ty’s question.

  “I thought you promised to be a good boy,” said Ty.

  “I have been!”

  “Oh yeah? Come here.”

  Ty motioned for Jason to approach his desk. Coming closer, Jason saw a mound of newspaper clippings. Ty picked one up.

  “ ‘New York Blade Jason Mitchell checked out the Victoria’s Secret Spring Fashion Show with brother Eric in tow. Both boys had front-row seats and very big smiles on their faces.’ ” Ty picked up another clipping. “This is from the Sentinel: ‘Blades winger Jason Mitchell was spotted dancing with Playboy model Tula at the opening of the Village’s hottest new club, Marimba’s.’ ” He picked up another. “Here’s a gem from the Post: ‘Which two hockey-playing twins were seen partying to the wee hours of the morning at socialite Gigi van Lichtenstein’s birthday party? Hint: one plays for New York and the other for New Jersey.’ ” Ty put down the clippings. “I could go on,” he said, sweeping his hand above the desk, “but I won’t.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

  Jason was completely befuddled. “I don’t understand,” he repeated. “There’s nothing there about me getting drunk or misbehaving, because I don’t do that. I was just out doing stuff. Nothing controversial.” Ty raised an eyebrow, and Jason’s hackles went up. “What, I’m not supposed to have a life?”

  “You have a life. It’s on the ice.” Ty picked up the clippings and crumpled them into a ball, throwing them into the garbage. “I don’t want this kind of shit dogging us as we go into the playoffs.”

  “What kind of shit?” Jason protested. “I went to a party. I went to a club. I went to a fashion show. There’s nothing unsavory about any of those things! When you played for St. Louis, you stepped out all the time. What’s the big deal?”

  When it came to Ty Gallagher, silence was anything but golden. The longer Ty stood behind his desk with his laser-like gaze locked on Jason’s face, the more Jason wished he’d had the brains to just say “Sorry, Coach” and have done with it—even though in his estimation, he had nothing to apologize for.

  “Three things,” said Ty in a controlled voice. “Number one: don’t believe everything you read. When I played for St. Louis in the early nineties, half of the crap they printed about me in the paper wasn’t true. And even if it was, I had three Stanley Cups under my belt to mitigate any damage my supposed partying might have caused. How many Cups do you have, Mitchell?

  “Number two: it was a different time. Players weren’t put under the microscope with the same intensity they are now, nor were they expected to be role models both on the ice and off. That’s not the case anymore.

  “And number three: St. Louis was owned by one fat, rich guy named Joe Barza who didn’t give a shit what we did off the ice, as long as we delivered—which we did. In case you haven’t noticed, the Blades are owned by Kidco Corporation, who pride themselves on providing family entertainment, whatever the fuck that means. When Kidco people start coming to me and complaining, then we’ve got a problem. I have enough on my plate without worrying about corporate breathing down our necks. So, while I appreciate the dedication you’ve shown on the ice, and the moderate restraint you’ve shown off it, I have to ask you to avoid events involving models, the word party, or anything else these suits might misinterpret. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be.” Ty looked empathetic. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Big time,” Jason muttered.

  “If you can’t stomach the idea of toeing the line for corporate, then do it for me. I need you to stay one hundred percent focused on the ice. Got it?”

  Jason nodded reluctantly.

  “Good,” said Ty, beginning to sort through items on his desk. “You can go now.”

  Jason was on his way out the door when he impulsively stopped and turned.

  “Coach?”

  Ty didn’t bother to look up. “Yeah?”

  “You really think I’ve shown dedication on the ice?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound like too much of a dweeb.

  Ty glanced up briefly. “You could show more.”

  Jason shook his head and headed back out the door. He should have known better than to ask Ty for a flat-out compliment. Even if Jason was the greatest player since Paul van Dorn, Ty would never tell him so directly. Instead, he’d give him more ice time, which had definitely been the case the past few months.

  No underwear shows, no parties, no questionable activities. He may as well just sit home and watch TV.

  It made him miss Delilah all the more.

  “Pssst. What’s with the little catering tent?”

  Delilah rolled her eyes impatiently before answering Marcus’s fifth question in as many minutes. Perhaps she should have thought twice before asking him to be her escort to her father’s wedding to Brandi.

  “It’s called a chuppah. It’s a bridal canopy. The bride and groom stand under it and recite their vows.” She peered at him in amazement. “You’ve really never been to a Jewish wedding before?”

  “Never.” Marcus tilted the yarmulke on his head to a rakish angle. “Does this work for me?”

  Delilah pushed the skullcap to the back of his head where it belonged. “No high jinks, Marcus. I mean it. This day is really important to my dad. The last thing he needs is to see me trying not to laugh.”

  Marcus looked disappointed. “I promise to behave.”

  “Thank you.”

  Delilah fanned herself with the wedding program, trying to remember the last time she’d been in temple. It had to be three years ago, when Grandma Ida died. She glanced around; the place was packed with family friends and business associates of her father’s, some of whom she recognized, most of whom she didn’t. According to her mother, a number of old family friends had refused to come because they thought the wedding to be a farce. She wondered how many were at her mother’s house with her right now, helping her through this “difficult day.” Delilah herself had made it a point not to stop by Mitzi’s today. The last thing she needed was her mother weeping and wailing, or calling her a traitor because she chose to attend.

  “Oh my God!” Marcus whispered, pointing discreetly at a male version of Brandi seating himself across the aisle. “I know that guy from somewhere!”

  “I think that’s Brandi’s brother,” Delilah murmured. “From what I’ve been able to deduce, he’s a gay porn star.”

  “That’s where I’ve seen him—in Good Night and Good Lick! Honey, you better introduce me to him at the reception if you want this friendship to continue.”

  “I don’t even know him!”

  “Well, get to know him. After all, he’s your stepuncle now.”

  Delilah gave a small shudder. Somehow, in the back of
her mind, she never really thought this day would come. Yet here it was, complete with porn stars, packed pews, and a planned reception for over three hundred people at Leonard’s of Great Neck. Delilah tried searching for something positive about the day. Well, Marcus was with her, that was one thing. And Brandi hadn’t asked her to be her maid of honor.

  Delilah closed her eyes, listening to the drone of voices all around her. When she was small, she used to dream about getting married in this temple. For a split second, her mind put her and Jason up there beneath the chuppah.

  Jason. Every time she thought about him, or saw him, a part of her wanted to suggest reconciliation; she missed him that much. But then she’d remember how incompatible they were, how he wasn’t happy unless he was out on the town every night, and she was more comfortable around dogs than people. Every time she opened the paper, there he was with Eric, going to this debutante’s party or that club opening. If that’s the life he wanted for himself in New York, more power to him. But it wasn’t the life she wanted to lead.

  Jason had been right about one thing, though: the way she’d handled herself at the Websters’ party had been wrong. She should have thought twice before reading the Websters the riot act, but she was so nervous about the whole evening she hadn’t been thinking straight. Since their phone number was unlisted, she’d tried looking up the Websters’ address on the Internet so she could send them a note of apology, but she got nowhere. In the end, she chalked it all up to experience and prayed that if she ever ran into Tully and his wife, she’d have the grace to apologize.

  “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

  Delilah opened her eyes and looked up. Standing on the aisle, pointing to an empty space beside her, was Eric.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Eric smiled smugly. “Guest of the bride.”

  “The bride’s guests are over there!” Delilah jabbed a finger across the aisle.

  “I’d much rather sit with you,” said Eric. “Is that okay?”

  “Fine,” Delilah hissed. She got up so Eric could move past her and sit down.

  “This is getting good,” Marcus noted breathlessly.

  “Shut up,” Delilah commanded. She turned to Eric. “You’re unbelievable.” Eric just shrugged. “If you do anything to wreck this day, I’ll never speak to you again. I mean it.”

  “You barely speak to me now,” Eric noted. He looked up her up and down. “You look really nice, Delilah.”

  Marcus leaned across Delilah toward Eric. “I picked out the dress.”

  “You have good taste.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Delilah exclaimed in exasperation. She glanced quickly over her shoulder. As she feared in the wake of her outburst, she was receiving some odd looks. She could just imagine what they were thinking: That’s Sy’s daughter. Nutty as a fruitcake, just like the mother.

  If she was feeling edgy before, Eric’s presence sent her nerves into overdrive. Had Brandi really invited him? Had they been in touch since Hanukkah? And if so, how closely?

  Very quietly, the organist launched into the opening notes of Handel’s “Judas Maccabeus,” and the temple fell into a hush as everyone rose in preparation for Brandi’s entrance. Rabbi Kolton, who once told Delilah in Hebrew school that dogs didn’t have souls, waddled his way onto the bimah, followed by Delilah’s father, dapper in a tux. Seeing him, Delilah’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted her father to be happy; God knows he deserved it. But something about this felt all wrong, especially when she flashed back to the image of her mother sitting in her father’s lap at Hanukkah, necking in front of a half-eaten plate of potato pancakes.

  Her father caught her eye and gave her a quick, reassuring wink. Delilah flashed a quick smile back, determined to put up a good front. If this was what he wanted, she’d follow his lead and accept it.

  The guests watched in respectful silence as Delilah’s uncle Mort slowly escorted a tall, birdlike woman in a short, poufy lavender dress down the aisle.

  “She looks like an Easter egg on stilts,” Marcus whispered.

  “Shh,” said Delilah.

  “Almost showtime,” Marcus murmured gleefully. Delilah stole a glance at Eric. He seemed relaxed, not at all like someone on the verge of making a scene over his object of lust. People were craning their necks to look at the back of the temple, anticipation running high.

  Finally, Brandi appeared on the arm of her father.

  Marcus gave a small gasp. “Oh sweet Jesus on a plank of pine.”

  Not only was Brandi’s diamond-studded wedding dress the tightest dress Delilah had ever seen in her life, but her hair was teased into a stiff but lopsided blonde tower, the coiffure equivalent of the leaning Tower of Pisa.

  “It’s the Bride of Gouldenstein,” said Marcus.

  “Yum-my,” Eric murmured lecherously as Brandi started down the aisle. Delilah shot him a dirty look.

  As Brandi and her father approached, Delilah studied the man’s face for any telltale signs of stress or disapproval. If he had any objections to his daughter marrying someone older than him, he certainly didn’t show it.

  The sound of the music faded away. Sy extended his arm to Brandi, the two of them moving to stand beneath the chuppah as Brandi’s dad took his seat in the front pew. Delilah suddenly, unexpectedly, began to weep. It was as if someone had thrown a switch; one minute she was watching the procession down the aisle, the next she was blubbering. Mortified, she pawed through her purse for a hankie.

  Rabbi Kolton stepped forward. “We are gathered here today to celebrate one of life’s greatest moments, to give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, and to add our best wishes to the words which shall unite Sy and Brandi in marriage.”

  Delilah sniffled loudly, drawing a look of consternation from Marcus.

  Rabbi Kolton turned to Brandi. “Do you, Brandi, take Sy to be your husband?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Say ‘I do,’ dear,” corrected the rabbi with a patronizing smile.

  “I do, dear,” said Brandi.

  “Do you promise to love, cherish, and protect him, in good times and in adversity, and to seek with him a life hallowed by the faith of Israel?”

  “I do.”

  “Shit,” Delilah snuffled quietly as the rabbi turned to her father.

  “Do you, Sy, take Brandi to be your wife?”

  “I d—”

  “Stop!”

  There was a split second of silence before the entire congregation turned in unison, gasping as the sound of Mitzi’s voice blasted them from the back of the temple.

  “Sy!” she sobbed, holding out her twiglike arms to him. “I love you, you stupid old bastard! Don’t do this! Come home!”

  All eyes swiveled back to the bride and groom. Brandi’s mouth was hanging open like a recently caught trout; Rabbi Kolton appeared apoplectic. As for Delilah’s father . . .

  “If you want me, I’m yours!” he called to Delilah’s mother. He looked at Brandi. “Sorry, bubbele. When true love comes to bite you in the ass, you have no choice but to offer up both cheeks.”

  He ran down the aisle toward Mitzi, the two of them disappearing as mayhem erupted in the temple.

  Delilah covered her face with her hands. “This isn’t happening,” she trilled in a singsong voice, the words muffled.

  “Daaaaddddyyyy!” Brandi’s wail filled the temple as she stood before the now agitated congregation, stamping her foot. Her hair collapsed like a deflated soufflé.

  “I better go to her,” said Eric, practically climbing over Delilah to get to the bride before her father.

  “Who the hell are you?” Delilah heard Brandi’s father growl at Eric.

  “I’m a close friend of your daughter’s, sir.”

  Delilah took her hands from her face just long enough to see people beginning to focus their scrutiny on her, the outlaws’ only child.

  “Get me out of here,” she begged Marcus. “Now.”

  “This is the most exciti
ng wedding I’ve ever been to in my life!” Marcus exclaimed, shielding Delilah in the crook of his arm as the two of them scurried as fast as they could down the aisle.

  “Disgraceful, just disgraceful,” Delilah heard someone tut-tut.

  “Once a jackass, always a jackass,” she heard her aunt Lois drawl, never her father’s biggest fan.

  “That liver-spotted old bastard you call a father is going to pay for this!” she heard Brandi’s father call after her.

  “He already did!” Delilah yelled over her shoulder.

  She and Marcus burst through the doors of the temple just in time to see her parents peel out of the parking lot in Mitzi’s blazing white BMW.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” Marcus wondered aloud.

  “Hell,” Delilah answered wearily. “Just take me home.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “I heard about your folks.”

  Delilah gave a curt nod of acknowledgment as she ushered Jason and Stanley into her apartment. It had been two days since the wedding debacle, and in typical Sy and Mitzi fashion, Delilah hadn’t heard a word from either of them. For all she knew, they’d wound up a twisted wreck on Northern Boulevard after fleeing the temple. Or maybe they were hunkered down at the house for a second honeymoon. Delilah hadn’t tried to call, nor did she intend to. If the newly reconciled couple wanted to make contact, they knew her number.

  She offered Jason some tea, which he declined. He was about to embark on a road trip with the Blades, so Stanley would be staying with her. Delilah loved having Stanley here, despite his stubborn insistence on trying to hop on the bed or sofa when she wasn’t looking. He was the only one of her “students” to test her this way after being trained. Even so, it was hard to get mad at him.

  Delilah crouched so she was eye level with Stanley and began scratching his chest, prompting a huge belch.

  “You rude boy,” Delilah chided as she turned her face away. He’d been burping a lot lately. Delilah had a sneaking suspicion Jason had been feeding him cheap biscuits on the sly, not the organic lamb and rice brand she gave as treats to all her charges. She was tempted to ask him, then thought better of it.