This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  “Like some Grim Reaping Martha Stewart?” my brother asks.

  The bartender slides two greasy red baskets in front of us.

  I rub my hands together and dig in.

  “You’re not answering me,” my brother says.

  “Off with his head!” I say, biting into my juicy cheeseburger. I wipe my mouth with my napkin. My brother watches me, carefully.

  “Don’t you dare tell me I have to be strong,” I say.

  “You have to be strong,” Ronnie says. He’s ignoring his food, which is odd for him, because that guy can really pack it down.

  “How long has it been, Maddy? three, four months? And you’re still obsessed. You think killing Carlton is going to bring you closure?”

  “I know it sounds crazy, Ronnie, but I think it’s the only sane thing to do,” I mumble.

  “Ask yourself why,” my brother replies. He likes to do this. It’s a counseling technique.

  I decide to ignore the question.

  “Mange, mange,” I say, pointing to his food.

  He pushes the basket away from him. Okay. Stop the presses. My brother never does this. He can usually pack away a cheeseburger, maybe two, and still manage to stay rail thin.

  He swings around on his bar stool and stares at me, his fist pressed against his thigh. His green eyes are bright and flashy so I know he’s upset.

  Ronnie and I are both full-blooded Italian on our father’s side, and while we each got the naturally tan olive skin and thick dark hair, my brother got these flashy green Italian eyes—while I was stuck with boring, run-of-the-mill hazel. Ronnie’s eyes are so expressive when he’s angry, he could make even the biggest felon in a motorcycle gang take two steps backward. My brother isn’t a big guy, but he’s got enough Italian Stallion in him to make other men think twice.

  “What’s going on with you, Maddy?” he says, slapping his hand against the bar. “You’ve never been like this. You’re the bounce-back kid, remember? Always Miss Positive. Where’s the person who says if life gives you lemons, put on a party dress and go out for cocktails? What did you do with my big sister?” he demands, and his face is dead serious.

  I swirl an onion ring around in ketchup. Pop it in my mouth. Chew.

  “You don’t know all the facts,” I say.

  “I know Carlton was a shit head,” Ronnie says. “I knew it from the first day I met Prince Charming.”

  “You should’ve told me!”

  “I did. Remember? I said, ‘Maddy, watch out for this cat.’ I wouldn’t trust a man who looks at himself in the mirror for that long—especially after he takes a freakin’ piss. I swear we were in the john together and he was gussing around with his hair like he was the Prom King!”

  I think for a moment. I don’t remember my brother saying this but I was so blinded by Carlton’s sun, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  “You don’t understand, Ronnie. I can’t sit back and let him railroad all over me!”

  “Cut your losses,” my brother says. “Start a new life—without dick face.”

  I shake my head back and forth.

  “You’ve gone through way more trauma than this, Maddy! Remember when Mom and Dad died? You told me it was God’s will. And that they were in a better place. You were solid as a rock. What are you saying? That you got taken by some lousy guy. So what? So now you’re a wet noodle? Some weak-willed, whiney-ass girl?”

  “I’m unemployed, Ronnie! I sank everything I had into that company!”

  “You got sucker-punched by that bastard. But what are you gonna do? Lie down and let him kick dirt in your face? Or stand up, brush yourself off, and tell him to go fuck himself? I mean, c’mon, Maddy. You can get a new job. A woman with your talent and credentials. Fuckin’ A, Maddy—you started that company from the ground up and ran with it. You made him successful. He was the face of the operation. But you were the brains. The woman behind the scenes. You can do it again.”

  This is, apparently, my brother’s idea of a pep talk. He doesn’t realize how hard it is to jumpstart a brand new company. How I spent four years working my tail off—day and night. And how, after this sucker-punch, I just don’t have it in me.

  I realize, suddenly, that I need a major chocolate fix.

  I raise my arm in the air, wave crazily at the bartender, and say, “Yo!” The bartender strolls over.

  “Have you decided to get shit faced?” he asks.

  (P.S. I really hate it when people say this.)

  “Do you have chocolate milkshakes?” I ask.

  He wipes his hand on a bar towel and informs me, “I’ve got milk and ice cream but none of that chocolate syrup. So I can make ya’ vanilla.”

  My brother reaches down and pulls a Hershey bar from his messenger bag. “Use this,” he says, slapping it down on the bar.

  “This is my little brother and my hero,” I tell the bartender.

  “Aw, how sweet,” the bartender says in a deadpan voice.

  My brother shoots me a look.

  “You know, Maddy. Real assassins don’t drink chocolate milkshakes,” he says.

  I guess he has a point.

  “If you want me to kick his ass, I’ll kick his ass.” Ronnie grabs his basket and finally bites into his cheeseburger.

  I try to imagine my brother and Carlton scuffling around on the ground. My brother would win, of course. Assuming that it was a fair fight. But I wouldn’t put it past Carlton to use some cheap, dirty trick. Like throwing sand in Ronnie’s eyes and punching him in the kidneys.

  “I don’t want you to get involved,” I say.

  “I don’t want you to get involved,” my brother chirps, mimicking my voice.

  “Maybe I should hire someone.”

  My brother sits back on his stool and claps his hands together. “Bravo, Maddy. That’s just what you need. A hit man. Good idea.”

  “Do you know someone?” I ask. And it’s not an off-the-wall question. My brother knows some shady characters from his drug-running days. He used to work for a man named Snoop Santino, one of the most notorious drug kingpins in South Texas.

  “What about…” I hesitate. “What about Snoop?” I ask, finally.

  I’ve got Ronnie’s full attention now.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he says, in a soft tone. When my brother is infuriated, he speaks in a hushed tone like this. It’s entirely frightening.

  “You don’t know what you’re messing with when you throw out a name like Snoop Santino,” Ronnie says.

  “Well, we’ve both known him since we were kids.”

  “Yeah, Maddy. That was back then. Before he got damaged. Before he decided to nose-dive into a life of thieving and drug dealing.”

  Then Ronnie does something that he rarely does, ever. He pulls up the side of his T-shirt, and points at the bullet wound. It’s on the left, near his rib cage. “Clean entry and exit” is what the surgeon told me that night. When Ronnie was fighting for his life.

  “Remember who I was with when I got shot, Maddy?”

  I’m quiet. Maybe bringing up Snoop Santino’s name wasn’t such a good idea. But deep down, people envy criminals, don’t they? Isn’t that why the Sopranos was so popular?

  After he got shot, my brother found God.

  Now that Ronnie’s on a mission to save every teenager from drugs, he sometimes meets up with street dealers and asks them to stay away from schools.

  “Leave the kids alone,” he’ll say to a small-time street dealer. Ronnie tries to reason with drug dealers. He travels to the periphery of the city, to streets where the cops don’t even go, and meets the dealers in person. And they respect him because he used to be in the trafficking business himself. He used to be in the employ of Snoop Santino, so Ronnie’s name is known around certain circles, as they say.

  My little brother meets with street dealers and lays out both a moral and logical argument for why they shouldn’t sell to minors. And after each meeting, he says, very sincerely, “Thank you for your
time.”

  He’s got cojones, my brother.

  I’ve asked him how he gets the dealers to agree to stay away from schools. “What do you offer them, Ronnie? Besides a moral argument?” I ask.

  “I cut my own deals,” my brother says, simply. So I haven’t pressed the issue.

  The bartender shoves a milkshake in front of me. It’s good and thick. I can see pieces of Hershey bar stuck in the sweet sludge. I reach for the glass, but Ronnie swipes it away from me.

  “Hey!” I protest.

  “Not so fast, sister.”

  He takes a sip from the straw and smacks his lips, as if he’s just tasted heaven. He slides the glass toward me, because, for all his bark, my brother is really a big, fat softie.

  I take a sip from the straw, but nothing comes out. So I use a spoon instead.

  Delicious…

  “Let’s forget about Snoop, then. You know of anyone else with muscle for hire?” I say.

  Ronnie puts his cheeseburger down, licks his fingers. “You can’t be serious,” he says.

  I stare at him, with my plain-Jane hazel eyes.

  My brother shakes his head. “I’m gonna pray for you, Maddy,” he says. And just like that, he lowers his head, curls his fingers underneath his chin, and begins to pray.

  Ronnie prays a lot. But usually not in public. So he must think this is an emergency.

  The bartender sees my brother with his head bent low over his cheeseburger basket. He raises an eyebrow, and starts to walk over, a worried expression on his face.

  I hold up a single finger and mouth the words, “One minute.” The bartender considers me, and then turns back to his bottles. I sit quietly until Ronnie finishes. My shake is melting but I don’t touch it. My brother, by the way, does not take kindly to prayer-interruption.

  His head finally jolts up and he looks at me.

  “All better?” I ask.

  “There is great power in letting go, Maddy,” he says.

  My brother, the Sensei. God, how I love that guy.

  Chapter 12

  After Carlton gave me the Juliet ring, I expected us to announce our engagement. I practiced saying my name aloud in the bathroom mirror. “Madeline Connors,” I’d say, trying it on for size.

  But Carlton wanted to wait. And I understood why.

  He’d been married before. His “starter marriage,” he called it. She was seven years younger. A blonde bombshell. And a Mormon, of all things.

  I’d found a photograph of her once, in a shoebox Carlton kept high in the closet. Unlike my dark, Italian features, she was tall, with sumptuous blond hair running in long waves down her back. Bright blue eyes, gorgeous, supermodel smile, and dimples the size of Lake Erie. In her lap, she held a Labrador puppy.

  She was the kind of woman who looked like the perfect wife, actually. Not stubby and dark-haired and tragically ethnic like me. Not to sell myself short. I mean, I was a powerhouse on two legs, a firecracker, as they say. And I was pretty in a way, if you looked closely—but I was certainly no knockout. No one had ever suggested I be prom queen. Or a Victoria’s Secret model. In fact, men usually dated me for my “personality,” my “flair,” my “Piatro pizzazz.” But I wasn’t boring in bed, either. I knew my way around a man, let’s put it that way.

  That very night, I cooked Carlton’s favorite dinner. Herbed salmon with new potatoes and asparagus. I splurged on a bottle of Chianti that was much too expensive for my just-out-of-grad-school starting salary. And I had my nails done with French tips.

  Carlton came in from work and we sat at our makeshift “bar.” A card table with two stools I’d put in the kitchen.

  I poured his wine.

  He tasted it.

  “Fancy,” he said.

  I walked around the table and rubbed his shoulders.

  “Ahhh,” he said, as I dug my thumbs into his muscles. I took this as my cue. And asked him casually why he’d gotten a divorce.

  Carlton sat up, suddenly. I walked around the table, plopped down across from him and waited.

  “I bought Megan fake tits,” he replied, finally. “And she still wasn’t happy. She was the type of woman who’d never be happy.”

  He raised his wineglass. Clinked it against mine. “Why are you so curious all of a sudden?”

  “I thought you hated fake breasts,” I said, crossing my arms over my own chest. It’s not like I was flat as a cookie sheet or anything. But I was no double D.

  He sighed. “Hey sweetie. I just walked in the door and you’re already wearing me out.”

  So I dropped it.

  But I didn’t drop the engagement thing. I stood up and served both of us plates of salmon, new potatoes, warm French bread, and salads with blue cheese crumbles.

  We sat across from each other and ate in silence until I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  I sucked in my breath and blurted: “I don’t understand why we’re not telling anyone about our engagement.” Carlton looked up and I flashed him the Juliet ring on my ring finger.

  He rubbed his forehead, a man under pressure. “Look sweetie. I don’t want to introduce you as my fiancée to my family yet. Because you have to understand, Maddy, they’ll think I’m crazy to be engaged again. So soon after my divorce.”

  “You’ve been divorced for two years!”

  “Separated,” Carlton corrects me. “The divorce was just finalized, remember? And I don’t want my dad lecturing me about moving too quickly. He wants me to focus on work, so we can start our own company, sweetie. Don’t you want to hit the ground running? Instead of spending all our energy planning some ridiculous, over-the-top wedding?”

  “I was thinking we’d do something small,” I say. “Intimate.”

  Carlton rolls his eyes. “Please. With my family. As-if,” he huffs. “I mean, my dad’ll have to invite all his goddamned employees. We’ll be lucky to have less than eight hundred guests.”

  “Sounds like a circus,” I murmur. I wonder if Carlton and the supermodel Mormon had eight hundred people at their wedding. But I don’t ask.

  I look down at the table, and I can’t help but think of my parents. See, that’s the problem with drunk drivers. They really take the fun out of weddings. I mean, I wonder if the guy who slammed into my parents’ car realized that if their only daughter ever were to marry, the friends and relatives on the “bride” side would be slim pickin’s. My brother will walk me down the aisle, of course. When the time comes.

  But jeez. Eight hundred people? I’m lucky if I could score twenty people. The church would topple over to one side, it would be so uneven. I can hear the ushers now, “Bride or groom? No wait! Let me guess—Groom, right?”

  I pour more wine in my glass.

  Bottoms up.

  Carlton looks up and says, “Easy with the vino, Maddy,” but I ignore him.

  We eat for a few minutes in silence and then Carlton says, “Look, Maddy. We’ve just graduated and gotten our MBAs.” He scrapes his fork along his plate. “It’s time to do Something Big, Maddy. Start our own company. Not dick around with caterers.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I say. “And on that note—”

  I stand up, excitedly, and hustle around the kitchen. I take Carlton’s plate away from him, clear the entire card table.

  “Hey! I wasn’t finished with that,” he says, playfully, but I ignore him.

  I’ve come up with a novel idea for a company. In fact, I’ve been working on it nonstop for a month. Tonight is the night to surprise Carlton.

  In between my day job as a marketing consultant for a top-notch firm, I’ve been sweating over my computer, working up spreadsheets and models for a new company concept I’ve developed.

  I grab my portfolio book and spread a few news articles in front of him.

  “What’s this?” he asks. I look at him and can tell he’s getting excited. This kind of stuff is totally Carlton’s thing. He lives for it.

  “See all these news articles. They’re talking about how unh
ealthy the school lunch programs are around the country. All these kids are eating really crappy food every day, right? And that’s what might be causing this child obesity epidemic,” I say, and I’m talking quickly now.

  “And now—look at this—” I spread more articles out across the table.

  “Whole Foods is the fastest growing organic foods grocery store in the country. They’ve got a sixty-thousand-square-foot store here in Austin, and are opening stores all around the country. Organic food is becoming more affordable and popular as people are concerned with their diets. So my idea is to combine this organic food craze with busy parents who don’t have time to pack their kids a lunch. These parents want their kids to eat something healthier than the awful slop that the school is doling out.”

  I’m in full presentation mode, now. I raise my hands in the air, like I’ve just shouted Boo!

  “My business idea, Carlton, is Organics for Kids. An organic lunch program for parents on the go.”

  Carlton is silent a moment. I pass him all the charts and spreadsheets I’ve been working on. I go over all of the numbers. It takes us a long time. When I’m finished, an hour has ticked past.

  “See, it can work,” I say. “All we need is a major infusion of cash, and it can really work.”

  I stare down at the table, cluttered with all my data.

  Carlton sifts through the papers, silently. He reads everything. And then he sits quietly a moment, closes his eyes. Like a sleeping Buddha.

  Suddenly, he jumps up, knocking his chair over on the floor. He grabs me and swings me in a circle.

  “Christ, you’ve done it, Maddy! This is it! No one—I mean no one—is doing this. I’ve gotta call my dad, pronto! He can get us the cash we need. He knows tons of investors. Oh my God, Maddy. He’s gonna love this. I’ll set up a meeting with him and some of his buddies. We’ll develop an entire presentation. Something formal. We need more data showing the potential market for this. Pitfalls, expenses, marketing projections—an entire business plan!”

  I pull a cream-colored bound notebook from my bag and hold it in the air. I’ve done the cover myself. Using crayons and several different colors from the box, I’ve printed out the title: ORGANICS 4 KIDS: A BUSINESS PLAN BY CARLTON CONNORS AND MADELINE PIATRO.