But I keep these thoughts to myself. For now.
“So I take it Luke doesn’t know you’re here?”
She laughs, but it’s not a pretty sound. “What, do I look like somebody with a death wish?” She finishes off her drink and gestures toward Jose for another. “Jesus, it’s cold tonight. You sure you don’t want something with a little more zing to it?”
My mother alarm goes off. “Tell me you didn’t drive over here.”
“What are you, the DUI police?”
I decide to leave it for now. But if she’s not walking steadily when we leave, no way is she getting behind the wheel. “So what’d you tell Luke?”
“He thinks I’m grocery shopping.”
I stuff about fifty little pretzels into my mouth at once, then say around them, “You don’t think he’ll get suspicious when you get home with no groceries?” Not to mention the fact that she’s gonna smell like, well, somebody who’s been hanging out in a bar.
“Like I’m not gonna pick up some things before I go home, geez, Ellie. Besides—” she picks up a little white box off the seat beside her “—I made a swing by Oxford’s and picked up a couple of those Napoleons he likes so much.” At my crestfallen look, she smiles and produces a second box, which she shoves across the table. “And éclairs for you.”
I clutch the box to my bosom, inhaling its bakery smell. “I owe you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna hold you to that.”
Jose brings us her drink and my Coke; she picks it up, her wedding rings a flashing blur. Her first engagement ring was so small you had to take it on faith there was a diamond in it. But Luke does pretty well now, I gather. So for their fifth anniversary last year, they upgraded to two carats. Looks real good with the long maroon nails.
I set the box on the seat beside me so I won’t be tempted to rip into it before I get home, then get down to business. “So. What’s going on?”
That gets another long look, then Tina hauls a purse the size of Staten Island onto her lap; before I know it, she’s lit up a cigarette. Which is now a huge no-no in New York bars.
“What the hell are you doing?” I growl across the table. Tina spews out a stream of smoke and holds the cigarette under the table, giving me a look like a she-wolf whose pups have been threatened.
“There’s like nobody here, okay? God, quit being such a priss.” Then, after another quick, surreptitious pull, she says, with no emotion whatsoever, “I’m pregnant.”
We stare at each for a heartbeat or two. But the instant her cigarette bobs to the surface, I lunge across the table and grab it, dumping it into her drink.
“Bitch,” she mutters, calmly lighting up again. Tina’s got these pale blue eyes, like ice. And right now, the look she’s giving me is fast-freezing my blood. Which doesn’t prevent me from going for the second cigarette, but her hand ducks under the table before I can get it. “Chill, for God’s sake. It’s not like I’m keeping it.”
My gaze jerks to hers. “You’re not serious.”
“You bet your ass I’m serious.”
This is too many shocks on an empty stomach. “But Luke…” I lean over, whispering. “You know how much he’s always wanted a kid—”
“And you know how much I don’t. And swear to God, if you tell him, I’ll never speak to you again.”
My eyes burn, and only partly from the smoke. I hate this. Hate secrets. Especially ones that put me in the position of having to lie to somebody. “So why are you telling me this?” I sound whiny and I don’t care. “Why are you making me an accessory?”
“Because I need you to go with me when I…you know.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you, who else? What, I’m gonna ask my mother? Luke’s mother? One of my sisters? Who else can I trust, huh?”
I feel sick. Who knew being trustworthy could be such a liability?
Tina puffs some more, then says, “God knows how this happened. We always use protection. Always.” I look at her with what I expect is a chagrined expression; I was on the Pill when Starr happened, too, which she knows. Tina sighs. “Sorry. I forgot.”
And because I am doomed to be the sympathetic one, I realize just how much this is tearing her apart. Criminy, she’s shaking like somebody coming off a three-day bender.
“Yo, Tina,” Jose shouts from the bar. “Put out the cigarette, babe, you wanna get my butt in a sling here?”
She blows out a breath and dumps the second butt in her drink, then goes for my pretzels.
“How far along are you?”
Her shoulders hitch. “Three weeks. More or less.”
“Then maybe you should give yourself a few days to think about this. I mean, right now you’re just in shock.”
“No shit. But the last thing I want to do is think about it.”
I know what she means. Oh, boy, do I know what she means. Because thinking about it opens the door to making it real. Makes it harder to not start thinking in terms of “baby.”
“And they say it’s easier the earlier you have it done,” she goes on. “I’m not waiting.”
Arguing with her right now would be pointless. But if she won’t go without me, maybe I can put her off for a couple days, buy some time for her to think this through. Yes, it’s all about choices, but my guess is panic’s short-circuiting her synapses right now. And when you’re freaked is not the time to make a decision that’s going to impact the rest of your life. Especially when there’s somebody else involved, I think with a sharp stab of pain.
“Tina, honey…you didn’t always feel this way. About not wanting kids.”
“Yes, I did,” she says flatly. “I just thought—hoped—I’d get over it, you know? For Luke’s sake? But I see all my sisters with their kids…and I can’t do it, Ellie. I’ll fuck the kid up, I know I will, just like my mother fucked us up.”
Her assessment of her mother’s relationship with her three daughters is, unfortunately, not an exaggeration. Renee Bertucci was a real piece of work. I have no idea why she put her girls down all the time, why she seemed to think it a sign of weakness to show them any affection. But I do know Tina didn’t spend so much time at my house, or Luke’s, just because of us, but because our mothers spoiled rotten everyone who set foot across their thresholds.
Which apparently Tina, in her near-hysteria, is forgetting.
I know I have to tread carefully through the minefield of Tina’s fragile psyche. One wrong step and she’s gonna blow. So I point out that she’d had plenty of examples of good mothering, then add, “And maybe you should give yourself some credit for learning from your mother’s mistakes.”
Her eyes flood. “Then I’ll probably make other ones, ones I won’t even know I’m making until it’s too late. And what if what they say is true, that our mothering instinct’s in our genes?”
“But sweetie—your sisters are doing okay, right?”
“They’re older. They got out before Mom got really bad.” She looks down at her shaking hands, then back up at me. “I’m not like you, the way you are with Starr.”
My laugh clearly startles her, even as my stomach does another flip. “You don’t actually think I know what I’m doing? Believe me, I’ve lost plenty of sleep wondering if I’m going to screw her up. But honey…this isn’t all about you. You know that—”
“Yeah, but see, here’s the thing, Luke’s totally okay with not having kids. We already discussed it. He says what we have, just by ourselves, is fine.”
Nobody knows more than I what Luke would say, or do, to protect Tina. But I can’t let this go.
“That’s not what he said to me,” I say gently, and her eyes flash to mine.
“Oh, yeah? And when was that? When we first got married? Before that, when we were just kids? I’m his freakin’ wife, Ellie. I think maybe what he tells me carries a little more weight that something he might have said to you ten years ago.”
“I’m not talking ten years ago. I’m talking last month at his parents’, when J
.J. and Julie came in from Jersey with the new baby.”
Confusion knots her brows. “Where was I?”
“I dunno, in the bathroom, maybe? Anyway, Luke came into the kitchen, holding the baby. Said the only thing that could make it better was if the baby was his.”
Her fingers tighten around the glass; she lifts it, remembers the butts floating in there like dead fish, clunks it back down. “I don’t believe you.”
“You can ask Frances. She was there.”
We stare at each other for several seconds, then she awkwardly skootches out of the booth, grabbing her coat and punching her arms through the sleeves. “I always thought I could count on you,” she says, her words trembling. “Just goes to show how much I knew.”
She throws money down on the table, then grabs the bakery box with Luke’s Napoleons and storms out. Without even a hint of a stagger.
I ache with that dull pain that comes from being torn between wishing you could turn back the clock and acceptance that you can’t. I slide out of the booth, slip my coat back on and settle up with Jose. For a second or two, I consider leaving the éclairs—they seem tainted now, somehow—then reason prevails and I return to the booth to retrieve them. I cram on my hat and button up, almost looking forward to the slap of frigid air in my face.
On autopilot, I start back home, huddled against the cold, my own thoughts not much less screwy than Tina’s are right now, I don’t imagine. I’m shattered that there’s no way I can be objective about this, whether I understand—in theory—her dilemma or not. In fact, it stuns me, how much I’m against her having an abortion. Because doing it behind her husband’s back…how is that right? But if she tells him…
I know Luke. There’s no way he’d ever make Tina have that baby if she really didn’t want it. But it would kill him, I know it would, if she didn’t.
Hunger, cold and confusion have joined forces in an attack at the base of my skull. I quicken my pace as if I can outrun this irritable, judgmental, hypocritical person trying to take over my body. All I want right now is my grandfather’s house and my brisket and my kid and, if I hurry, Will and Grace—
A hand snakes out of the darkness and grabs my wrist, spinning me around as I let out a scream loud enough to reach Yonkers.
chapter 4
“Jesus, Ellie!” Luke winces, letting me go. “You trying to deafen me or what?”
“What did you expect, skulking in the shadows like that! I nearly peed my pants—!” My eyes go wide. “Were you following me?”
“No, numbskull, I was following my wife—”
“Who is out there, please?” heralds a delicate, musical voice from several houses away. We glance up to see a tiny silhouette standing on her top step, haloed by a yellowish light. “Ellie Levine? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Patel,” I say, moving closer so she can see me, shielding my eyes from flamingo spotlights. “It’s me. And Luke.”
“Luke? My goodness, you two gave me a fright!”
“Sorry, Mrs. P.,” Luke calls out. “I just startled her, I guess. It’s okay.”
The woman shuffles back inside her front door as Luke grabs my arms and crosses the street, making me hotfoot it beside him. Like all the Scardinares, Luke’s not particularly tall—maybe five-eight—but he’s built like Fort Knox and he’s got a grip like iron. Especially when he’s pissed. Which is my guess, at the moment.
“Where’re we going?”
“Back to your place. I’m freezing my ass off out here. What’s in the box?”
“Tina brought me éclairs. You’re getting Napoleons. Which she expects you to be home for when she gets there,” I point out. The cold has exponentially expanded the Coke in my bladder, my urgent need to pee distracting me from the potentially disastrous track this conversation could take if I’m not careful. Not that I have any intention of blabbing her secret, but Luke has been able to see inside my brain before we were potty trained.
Maybe I shouldn’t think about potties right now.
“So if you knew where we were,” I say, “why didn’t you just come inside?”
He snorts. “Like she’d be real happy to know I followed her, for one thing. And like it would’ve done any good, for another. I figure I’ve got a much better chance worming the truth out of you—hey!”
I may be short, but these thunder thighs come in handy for sudden stops.
“And if that’s what you really think, buster—” I say, peering up at him from underneath the slouched beret, my arms crossed—sorta, this coat is kind of bulky “—you can just haul your butt right back home.”
He gives me one of his sullen, hooded looks, shakes his head and turns back around, continuing down the block. I wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck and trudge after him. When we get to my steps, he stops, his breath puffing in front of his face.
“Can I come in?”
“I told you, I’m not—”
His gaze slams into mine, knocking my breath on its butt.
“And maybe I just need to talk, okay? To somebody who might actually listen. But who won’t go nuts on me, either.”
I’m starving, PMSing and my best friend has just dumped a secret on me I have no idea what to do with. He’s assuming a lot here.
“Fine,” I say, pushing past him and on up the stairs, wondering just how long I’d hold up in an interrogation type situation.
Guess I’m about to find out.
Funny. Luke and I talk probably two or three times a week, but I’m just now realizing we haven’t been alone together since before he and Tina got married. Not really a conscious decision, I don’t think, as just something we naturally fell into, considering the situation. No sense giving tongues a reason to wag and all that. So it’s been a long time since Luke’s been in my kitchen without Tina being there, too. The last time being…gee, I guess not too long after I realized I was pregnant.
I open the fridge to get the brisket; he reaches around me to get a bottle of grape juice, his arm grazing my shoulder. I smell the cold on him, his aftershave, the residue scent from his leather jacket, which he’s draped across the back of the kitchen chair just like he has for the past ten years. He smells like a man, not the hot, sweaty boy who used to pin me down and tickle me mercilessly when we were kids.
We separate, him to find a glass, me to thunk the foil covered pan onto the counter. I slice brisket as he pours—glug, glug, glug—while Mario boops and beeps from the living room. My grandfather didn’t seem particularly surprised to see Luke, but I’m sure I’ll get the third degree later.
I steal a glance at Luke as I plop three slices of brisket on a plate. He’s wearing a thermal Henley and snug jeans, worn Adidas, muscles I still can’t quite believe are there (he was pathetically scrawny as a kid). He keeps his dark hair short these days, hugging his scalp. I get the impression he thinks it makes him look tougher. Maybe it does, I don’t know. The planes of his face do seem sharper, though. Although the long, black lashes kinda kill the effect.
Intense, dark eyes meet mine; one brow lifts. Heat rising in my face, I duck back into the fridge for leftover peas, noodles, thinking I can’t remember the last time I had a man in my kitchen. Had a man standing in my kitchen. That there was a man standing in my…oh, never mind.
I don’t get out much, can you tell?
Silence blankets the room, more pungent than the aroma of rewarmed brisket. Luke sips his juice, watching me, as I remove my delayed dinner from the microwave, carry it to the table in the pumpkin-orange kitchen I keep threatening to repaint, one of these days. I hear Luke’s glass clunk onto the counter, our unspoken thoughts stretching between us like tightropes neither of us dares to cross.
“You’re uncomfortable,” he says softly.
“A little, maybe.”
“Me, too.”
I carefully cut my meat, fork in a bite, chew, swallow. I’m too hungry to not eat, even though I don’t really want to. This weird, three-way friendship between him and Tina and me is based,
if nothing else, on our being able to trust each other implicitly. That confidences are inviolate. We only have one rule—that the only secrets we keep from each other are those that would do more harm than good to reveal.
A rule I find I like less and less as time goes on.
“So you’re really not gonna tell me what she said.”
I get up to get a glass of milk. “I’m really not.”
“Okay, then how’s about I tell you how things look from my perspective, and you can just nod if I’m getting warm.” I return to the table with my milk, which I nearly spill when he says, “She wants out of the marriage, doesn’t she?”
“What? No! Ohmigod, Luke—” I crash into my chair. “Where on earth is this coming from—?”
Leo ambles into the kitchen, gives me a hard look. “You okay? I thought I heard you scream.”
“That was hardly a scream, Leo, sheesh.” But he’s already spotted the Oxford box. “What’s in there?”
“Éclairs. Take one.”
He undoes the box, grinning at me and winking at Luke. “Then make myself scarce, right?”
“That’ll do.”
Chuckling, he gets a plate down from the cupboard, lifts out one of the éclairs. He nods his head in my direction but says to Luke, “You think she looks run-down?”
“Leo, for God’s sake—”
“Yeah,” Luke says, eyeing me. “I do.”
“See…” My grandfather licks his fingers as he looks at me. “He agrees with me, you’re working too hard.”
This would be an opportune moment to point out I probably wouldn’t look so run down if everybody would a) give me a chance to get dinner at dinnertime and b) leave me the hell alone and stop looking to me as their own private Ann Landers or whichever one it is that’s still alive. But I’m too damned tired to go there.
Hanging by a Thread Page 5