by Cora Brent
I loved my family. I loved them and their crazy, dramatic, loud Italian bullshit. But I’d always felt slightly off kilter, a misshapen puzzle piece trying to force itself somehow into the bigger picture. That might be why I climbed on a plane at the age of eighteen and headed for an unknown part of the country. Up until then I’d never traveled west of the New Jersey Turnpike. Arizona was hot and prickly and devoid of Giordanos, or at least the ones I was concerned about. I came home when it was required and usually found everyone more or less where I’d left them. Jack and his brothers passed the years in the mechanic’s shop my grandfather had opened before any of them were born. As for that Giordano patriarch - a booming, barrel-chested vision of intimidation – he’d been dead for years. He was speeding down the Wantagh Parkway in a meticulously restored 1967 Camaro when the car was clipped by one of those acre-long SUV’s designed to hold a family of seventeen. The Camaro didn’t stand a chance, spinning off into the grassy dunes before hitting a tree and erupting in a fiery wall of death that no one, not even the blustering Carmine Giordano, could have escaped from. Less than three months later his grieving widow fled to the sunshine state to marry the high school boyfriend she’d reconnected with on social media. Good for her, I’d thought at the time. I still thought that. I didn’t say it out loud though because my father and my uncles remained all bent out of shape over their mother’s defection. They tended to get bent out of shape easily.
Anyway, there was another subject that was way more off limits than my grandmother. It had to do with my mother. Most of what I knew about Sarah Holstein had come to me in whispers of conversation and a handful of photographs. If I layered all the pieces on top of one another, I could make out the bare bones of a real person. She’d been a neighborhood girl, unremarkable, always with an eye for the handsome Giordano boy up the street.
Then one day, like a sappy young adult novel, he had noticed her too.
My god, they were young. Apparently she’d tried for a while to be something of a mother but just couldn’t make the shoe fit. She was fifteen, same as Jack. When her parents decided to move upstate she cheerfully went with them. And without me.
I’d long since outgrown the phase where I was hungry for details about my mother. I used to map out long conversations with her in my head, all the things we would say to each other the day I grew up and tracked her down. Eventually I did grow up. But along the way I lost the will to seek her out, to come face to face with the flesh and blood myth. I would make my own life. I assumed she had long since made hers.
There were whispers that Jack had never really recovered from Sarah’s abandonment. I never believed that. He used women like normal men used power tools, always thirsting to acquire new ones as soon as the originals showed the slightest hint of wear.
But now everything had changed. Giacamo ‘Jack’ Giordano was getting married.
The pilot’s voice cracked as he took to the speakers to cheerfully inform us that we would be reaching our destination right on time. The weather in New York was currently eighty five degrees with seventy percent humidity. When he warned of an upcoming stretch of turbulence I took a few carefully controlled breaths to settle my nerves. I wondered if this trip would end up being a mistake.
I had stewed about Jack’s wedding announcement for weeks before caving and buying a plane ticket. After all, I had my own problems. For half a year I’d been hiding from something terrible. The entire country saw my ex-fiancé cheat on me when the jumbotron zeroed in on him during half time at the Rose Bowl. He was supposed to be there with his brother. That was what he had told me. Anyway, no one would ever accuse Garret of being smooth under pressure. When someone poked him from behind to let him know he was on camera, he dropped the cute brunette like a sack of bricks and hurriedly wiped the pink lipstick from his mouth before jamming his hands in his pockets and blushing red as a baboon’s ass. If the idiot would have just smiled instead then the world wouldn’t have recognized what a guilty bastard he was.
It was the ten-second clip played around the world, aptly entitled ‘CAUGHT’ and shared by everyone in their social media mother. One version had over three million hits, although half of those might have been mine because I spent a few sleepless days playing it in a repetitive loop until my roommate, Brynna, told me to knock it off and go take a shower.
As for my father, since his status as a chronic player was known throughout the tri-state area, I was rather gob smacked when he called to break the news that he was getting married. The conversation went something like this:
“Claudia!”
“Hey, Jack.”
“Listen kid, I know I’ve been parentally unavailable to you for most of the big moments of your life due to my chronic immaturity and limited natural empathy for other human beings, but I want you to be thrilled about the fact that I’m getting married. Yeah, married! I’m going to double the shock of this announcement by telling you that your soon-to-be-stepmother is Anya Malone. And even though Anya was a vicious bitch to you in high school, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble welcoming her to the family with open arms, right? RIGHT??”
Actually, my memory might be doing some paraphrasing for me. But the gist was the same. After an infinite queue of forgotten flings, Jack was getting married. That news was startling enough.
When he’d said the name ‘Anya Malone’ I was sure the Z-Pack I’d been taking to cure a nasty bout of bronchitis was causing audio hallucinations. I’d heard they were seeing each other but couldn’t imagine anything serious would come out of it.
Anya Malone was three years older than me. That had put her in the same class with Rocco, who was officially my uncle but really more of a brother. Anya was a beautiful, pretentious douchebag who lived around the corner with her little brother and a scarcely seen wheelchair-bound mother. Anya had the looks, the popularity, and the golden prom queen crown. But she was as nasty as a sand snake. When I started high school she seemed to harbor a special kind of vicious dislike for me, either because my flat-chested freshman bones offended her somehow or because she nursed a not-so-secret crush on Rocco, who refused to curl up at her feet like a dog. One day when I tried to ditch school after lunch I stumbled upon Anya and her minions sunning themselves on the football bleachers and discussing their female classmates in charming fashion.
“Common fucking pathetic snatch, all of them,” Anya sniffed as she buffed her pink fingernails. Then she noticed me ogling the scene not five yards away. She smiled. “Like that,” she said cheerfully, pointing at my gawky body.
It was a dumb insult and I could have flung a thousand better ones back at her. But instead I just slinked away with my head down, feeling like a slug because that was what Anya Malone was good at. She could make you feel like a wad of discarded gum that had been stepped on, ceremoniously rolled in camel shit, then shoved up the hairiest ass on the lacrosse team. Some people had that kind of power, almost without trying.
Now Anya Malone was technically going to be my stepmother. The news remained disconcerting.
I’d unplugged from social media after the Caught episode. If I hadn’t I probably would have been tempted to cyber stalk Anya, trying to figure out if she was the same gorgeous bitch I remembered.
It almost didn’t matter who she was. I couldn’t picture Jack being married. I couldn’t picture it at all.
My eyes flew open at the impact shudder of the plane’s wheels touching the ground. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding as we rocketed forward for a few terrifying seconds and then gradually slowed before taxiing to the terminal.
As I followed the herd of travelers through La Guardia Airport I didn’t bother to rush, figuring the odds were pretty low that Rocco would actually be here on time.
The baggage claim was a circus of armpit odor and growling dissidents. It seemed to take an eternity for my bright red duffel bag to come rolling down the carousel. I grabbed for the handle and the portly guy in front of me grunted, jerking forward as if h
e was planning on helping. But then he kind of shoved me out of the way so he could latch onto a decrepit Lucite trunk.
“Thanks,” I muttered, “Look at you, all full of courtesy and shit.”
The guy shot me a pale, moon-faced glare so I didn’t mind when my heel accidentally trampled one of his exposed toes.
I was wrong about Rocco. I found him right outside the terminal, lounging against the hood of a cobalt blue Mustang as if he’d been staged there.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to park here,” I observed by way of greeting.
He grinned, showing that he was just too cool to give a damn. It also showed how strongly he resembled his brothers, especially Jack.
“Course I’m not. How the hell are you, Claud?”
“Fabulous beyond description, Uncle Rocco.”
He snorted. We used to think it was roll-on-the-floor hilarious to confuse the hell out of people with the details of our family.
“He’s your what? I don’t get it.”
“What do you mean she’s your niece? You mean your cousin or something, right?”
Rocco bent over and snatched my bag, hauling it over his left shoulder in a grand gesture that was meant to attract some attention. Rocco liked attention, something else he had in common with his brothers. A pair of spray-tanned New Jersey Medusas dripping with garish gold jewelry paused and exhaled a pungent cloud of Chanel. They batted their thick fake eyelashes at him.
“Told you ten minutes ago to get your muscle car ass outta here!”
The sweaty airport attendant was now underfoot. He planted his feet wide apart on the cracked concrete and looked poised to charge. If I wasn’t exhausted and already wilting in the Atlantic coast humidity I might have been interested to see what would happen. Rocco, like all the Giordano men, didn’t have much patience for being challenged.
“Come on,” I pulled at him as a male voice in the background bellowed loudly about fucking tourists, “let’s get out of this nightmare.”
“Heck, yeah,” Rocco agreed as he tossed my bag in the trunk of the car. He gave me a quick hug before heading around to the driver’s door. “Glad you made it out, Claudia.”
“I’m glad I did too,” I said with false brightness. Rocco had a knack for sensing bullshit and he threw me a look before climbing behind the wheel.
I settled into the hot passenger seat and pulled the belt across my waist as Rocco gunned the engine obnoxiously.
The air felt different out here. Heavier. It was probably scientific, probably because of the dew point or one of those other technical concepts only understood by roughly eight people in the entire world. But the more dramatic side of me insisted that the effect was psychological, due to all the stifled, confusing feelings about returning to my place of origin. That’s what my therapist would have said.
I wouldn’t stay. My return flight was in eight days, long enough to attend the wedding of the century and stick around to help care for my great-grandfather while Jack and Anya flitted off to their honeymoon in Atlantic City. I couldn’t say when I’d be willing to travel back again.
But for now I was here.
I was home.
CHAPTER TWO
EASTON
DONE waiting on UR ass and so tired of being felt like CR@P or like a disposable plate and OMG U think UR SHIT IS SO HOT so I am done with U so do not call U R NOT getting any more of this you piece of man whore FUCKING baggage! Peace out!!!
I blinked several times at the illiterate text from someone named Katie and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.
Disposable plate?
I made a weak attempt to remember who Katie was and why she was bugging out. There were tons of Katies in the world and I knew a few of them. Suddenly an image popped into my brain; green eyes and brown hair that smelled like lavender up close. She was like a million other girls; boring and giggly and always gossiping about shit like whose bag had designer letters. She did suck my dick a couple of times though and I could swear it had been her idea. It wasn’t like she didn’t get anything out of it; I bounced her around on my finger long enough for her to come or at least put on a show of squealing and shuddering like she’d seen some bad porn and figured that was how it was done. I thought she was probably faking but that was her own fucking problem. I never promised her so much as a slice of pizza so I couldn’t imagine why she was shitting Frisbees right now. I didn’t really care. I deleted her contact info and tossed the phone on the plastic crate I used as a nightstand.
The sheets were damp and clingy with sweat. I kicked them aside with disgust. The garage apartment wasn’t well insulated and the morning was already sticky with late June humidity.
I rolled the other way on the bare mattress, faced the paneled wall, and started to handle my dream boner. I remembered why it was there; somewhere in the restless night I was getting busy with a girl I used to secretly spank it around to regularly but hadn’t thought about much in a while. I was only thinking about her now because I knew she’d be flying in today for the wedding. There might not be any reason to get excited. I hadn’t seen Claudia in years and she could have three chins and saggy tits by this time. But for now I thought of her the way she had been when she left here and she was perfect. So right there in my head I was sticking it to her good and she was fucking loving it.
That’s right. LOVE. ING. IT.
“EASTON!”
Jesus H Christ. My sister had the shrillest voice in all of Nassau goddamn County and that was really an achievement.
“EASTON!” She howled again and I pictured her standing there barefoot with her hands on her hips as she hesitated on the other side of the door that led from the kitchen to the garage. She would never barge in though because she was terrified she might see me naked. Or fucking. Or worst of all, fucking while naked. In Anya’s mind I was still Baby Brother and she needed to coddle me and feed me and for the love of god never ever acknowledge that I had a dick.
Damn her, it was gone. I gave up. Nothing like the bellowing of a big sister to deflate your action. Goddamn shame too because it would have been a healthy way to start the day. Fantasy fucking would have to wait until I got a chance at the shower.
I threw a shirt and shorts over my boxers because Anya would bitch if I didn’t. When I opened the door she was standing there with circles under her eyes and a metal spatula in her hand. She lit up when she saw me. My sister always looked at me with such unconditional pride and joy I could never be annoyed with her for more than a few seconds. Her brilliant smile had once also belonged to our mother, back when our mother could still smile. She’d lost that ability when I was still too young to appreciate how much it meant to have the most important woman in your life smile at you. When I looked back I realized her smile was one of the first things to go. Eventually she would lose everything; walking, talking, her mind, her life.
“Jack went out for bagels this morning,” my sister said, gesturing behind her where Jack was hunched over the morning paper. He was probably the last man in the zip code who opened up an actual paper every morning. The print version of Newsday might still be circulating only because Jack Giordano wished it to.
“So I made egg sandwiches,” Anya finished happily. She’d been making me scrambled eggs on bagels since I was five. She would have been twelve at the time. Even when she went through her heinous phase of furious puberty she still got up every weekend morning to honor that tradition.
“Thanks,” I yawned and moved over to the coffee pot.
Anya set my breakfast on a plate at the round kitchen table. There wasn’t really enough room for the table; the kitchen was tiny, a relic from the postwar days when the whole town sprang up overnight out of dry potato fields.
Jack looked up when I sat down. I was still getting used to living in his house. The Giordano family predated just about everyone around here. They were a landmark, a fixture, a boisterous collection of loud music, men and muscle cars. When Carmine died and Estelle split, Jack got his mother to
sell him the house. His brothers, Rocco and Getty, had already bought a place down the block. They got it real cheap because it was a mess and the last owner was dead in there for a month before anyone got around to checking into why he wasn’t showing up for the bowling league anymore.
“How’s the arm?” Jack asked as I took a savage bite out of my bagel.
I chewed slowly and swallowed, hiding the fact that I kept flexing my elbow slightly. “Was a little tight the past few days but it’s all right now.”
Jack looked doubtful. “You sure?”
The question annoyed me. Of course I was sure. My left arm was my ticket. In two months I’d be down in South Carolina on a free ride, ready to smash some college records and wait for the big leagues to call. I had a hell of a knuckleball and a wicked sinker. Recruiters were impressed. Everyone was impressed. Girls weren’t known to get as wet over baseball as they did over football but I had my followers. Legions of them. I would have had them anyway, even without the status as a local pitching phenomenon. I’d have to be a blind idiot to miss the way women and girls licked their lips and stumbled when they saw me. Acknowledging it wasn’t arrogance; it was just a fact.
“Arm’s fine,” I muttered because the arm had to be fine.
My high school coach always had a thorn in his side over my pitch delivery. He said I wound up too tight, released too hard. He wagged a fat finger and told me it would catch up to me and I swear the asshole sounded almost hopeful. He’d been a catcher who blew his knee out twenty years ago while playing in the minors. I’d watch him wipe his forehead with a dirty crumpled tissue while he lectured me on all the things I needed to change about my pitching. I would always wait until he blew hot air for a while and then I’d say, “Gosh, thanks Coach,” before leaving to find better company.
Jack returned to his newspaper but he put it down again when Anya slid into his lap. Jack Giordano wrapped his hands around my sister’s waist and kissed her neck, which I guessed was his right since she was sleeping in his bed, wearing his ring, and scheduled to be his wife in thirty-six hours. But no guy on earth liked to watch his sister getting pawed, no matter who was doing it. I stared at my bagel instead.