by Jo Barrett
Henry sighs and leans back in his chair, hands behind his head like an executive. “I wouldn’t trust him with my dry cleaning, kiddo.”
“What should I do?”
“Cancel the meeting. You don’t want to get in bed with these guys, Maddy. They’re in the big leagues. And they play dirty.”
“Carlton set up the meeting. I can’t cancel it. And what about the company? You said it yourself. It’s almost impossible to get that kind of start-up money.”
Henry put his hand in the air, like a stop sign. “Don’t say it,” he said. “Don’t tell me I’m about to lose the best marketing and P.R. person I’ve ever had to Forest Connors. Look, kiddo. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay as much as this shop can afford.”
“I’m sorry, Henry. But Carlton needs me. And this company is my baby. You always told me if I had the opportunity to go in my own direction, I should take it.”
Henry sighs, puts his hands to his forehead and rubs his temples. “Well I don’t want to stop you. But beware of the Connors clan. Apples don’t fall far from the tree, my dear.”
“Oh come on, Henry. It was twenty-five years ago. Don’t you think Forest Connors has changed? I mean, everyone makes mistakes.”
He gives me a pointed look. “If you think you can teach an old dog new tricks—think again.”
“Clever,” I say.
I stand and walk toward his door. Then pivot on my heel. “I guess Polaks aren’t as dumb as they look,” I say.
Henry pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels from his drawer and pours a small shot into his coffee mug. “How do you sink a Polish navy ship?” he asks, flashing me his trademark smirk.
“Put it in water,” I reply. Because I’ve heard them all before.
Chapter 17
Some poisons aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. But cyanide. Cyanide really does the trick.
You think I would’ve learned my lesson from the brownies. I mean, really. But here I am. On a cyanide research binge. Clicking away at Web page after Web page. Cyanide this, cyanide that. I’m becoming an expert in the stuff. Here are a few fun facts about cyanide: number one, it’s deadly. Like deadlier than arsenic and strychnine and a new song by Britney Spears.
Number two, it’s been around a long time. The Russians tried to kill Rasputin in 1916 by feeding him cyanide-laced wine. In World War II, Hermann Goering, Heinrich Himmler, and Adolph Hitler were reputed to have used cyanide pills to commit suicide. Even U.S. spies were issued cyanide pills to be ingested if they were captured.
Number three, you can’t buy the “poison pill” on E-bay. Which is a shame, because I’m sure there are lots of women out there, lots of frustrated wives and girlfriends, who’d put up a highly competitive auction. Let the bidding begin, ladies.
I stand from my desk and shuffle into the kitchen to make a pot of breakfast tea. It’s ten o’clock on Saturday morning and I’m already antsy. How will I fill my day? With cyanide Web pages?
I know I should feel liberated and free as a bird. But unfortunately, the silence, my dear friends, is deafening. I’m alone. Alone with a capital “A.” Alone in my kitchen. I grab my phone and clutch it against my chest. I swear if I don’t reach out and touch somebody, I’m going to lose it.
I dial Heather’s number.
“Pick up, pick up—” I say, hopping up and down. Doing a rain dance as the phone rings and rings. Heather always answers on the first ring so I’m worried she’s not home.
“Hey Maddy!” she chirps into the phone. She sounds out of breath. “Sorry. I was painting the second bedroom. It’s going to be the cutest little nursery when I get finished!”
“When can I see it?”
“Maybe a week,” she says. “So what’s up?”
“You’ve been studying the Talmud. What does it say about murder? Is there ever any justification?” I ask.
“No,” Heather says, flatly.
“You sure? I thought the Jews were big into the whole ‘eye for an eye’ thing.”
“Hang on a sec,” Heather says. I can hear her rummaging through a book, flipping pages. “Here. It says something right here,” she says.
“What does it say?”
“It says—Get Over It, Maddy.”
“Okay. I just want you to think about all the murder throughout history that was considered justified. Like Clint Eastwood in The Unforgiven.”
“That’s a movie,” Heather says. “Not history.”
“So you’re saying the military can bomb villages and kill hundreds of innocent women and children, but I can’t OFF one lousy ex-fiancé?”
“He wasn’t technically your fiancé, Maddy.”
Oh. So we’re back to this again. Heather, by the way, is big on technicalities.
“What was the Juliet ring? And the ‘I intend to marry you?’ What was that all about?” I ask, and my voice sounds whiney. I’m even starting to annoy myself.
“It was a promise,” Heather says. “But it didn’t work out. You can’t hold it against him for changing his mind.”
I want to tell Heather about the worst thing Carlton did to me. I want to bolster my argument. Lay out my case. But I can’t. I’m too ashamed. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Repulsed.
“Forever, my Juliet. Yeah, right,” I grumble. “Forever sure isn’t what it used to be.”
“He’s a bad seed, Maddy. But at least you found out before anything worse could happen.”
Something worse did happen, I think.
Heather starts talking quickly now. She’s on a roll.
“Imagine if you did marry Carlton and have his children, Maddy. Then what? Then you find out he’s a schmuck, but you’re stuck with a mortgage and a bunch of rug rats.”
“Good point,” I say. I’m resigned to accepting her advice. I know it will make her feel good. As if she’s accomplished something.
“Thanks for the advice,” I say, magnanimously.
I grip the phone and stare up at the ceiling. Thinking of ways to poison Carlton without poisoning the other employees.
I look around the kitchen. At the refrigerator. The freezer.
The freezer! Carlton always kept a vodka bottle in the freezer and took a nip after work. Maybe I could start with that. Cyanide meets Grey Goose.
A-ha!
Perfecto, I think.
“What do you know about cyanide?” I ask, swinging my toe in an arc across the tile floor.
“Oy Vay,” Heather sighs into the phone. My friend, the sorority girl from South Carolina.
“You think I can buy cyanide on the black market?” I ask. I’m really nutty this morning.
“Where is the black market?” Heather says.
“I don’t know. We could Mapquest it.”
“You could get a heat-seeking missile launcher,” Heather pipes up. “You know, since Carlton’s so hot.”
I giggle. God bless my friend Heather.
“Cyanide smells like almonds,” I say.
Heather ignores me. “Come over,” she says. “I’m making a traditional Israeli breakfast.”
“Ooh. Sounds de-lish,” I say. “I’ll be there in a jiffy. Want me to bring anything?”
“Just your appetite,” she says.
Heather loves to cook and I love to eat so, in a way, our friendship revolves a lot around food.
I jump in the shower, wash my hair for the first time in three days, and shave my legs because I don’t want Michael to say I’m “going native.”
Throwing on a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt, I hop in my car. I zip over to Starbucks and buy a pound of Kenyan roast. A gift for Heather. And a little baby Starbucks mug. It’s an eensy-beensy little toy coffee cup for kids. She’ll get a kick out of it.
I arrive at the Wasserstein residence. A quaint one-story “fixer upper” Michael bought when he was still in law school. The house used to be crumbling around the edges, a bachelor pad that smelled faintly of spoiled milk; but after he and Heather got married, she turned the place into a little jewel. She’s
got a knack for homey stuff—potted plants, frilly curtains, tassel pillows, the whole nine yards.
I buzz through the screen door and see that Heather’s outdone herself in the kitchen. On the table are heaping plates of food. She’s got olive bread drizzled with honey, and a platter of creamy, white cheeses. I also spot a salad of cucumbers, fresh mint, and vine-ripened tomatoes. And for Michael, sausage and biscuits, of course.
Michael is sitting at the table, pounding his fork and knife down.
“Food, food,” he chants in a booming voice. “The King requires food.”
“Hey Maddy!” Heather says, rushing over to give me a hug. She smells good, my friend. Like peaches. And her face is rosy and healthy looking. Even pregnant, my girlfriend could be in a Pond’s cold cream commercial.
I notice she’s wearing a Star of David around her neck.
“That’s beautiful,” I say, peering closely at it, and turning it over in my hands.
“A gift from my adorable husband,” she says.
“What’s the occasion?”
“I don’t need an occasion to tell my wife how darned beautiful she is,” Michael says, in his Texas twang.
I give Heather a meaningful look.
“I know, I know,” she says. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”
“Hell, I’ll be the luckiest man in the world if I get to eat!” Michael booms.
“The necklace suits you,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
Heather sets a plate in front of Michael, wipes her hands against her shirt and goes, “Ta-Da! Breakfast is served.”
“It’s Tel Aviv with a dash of South Carolina mixed in!” Michael says, pouring thick white gravy over his biscuits, and licking his fingers.
Heather spoons a small dab of hummus onto a slice of bread and takes a tiny bite. The problem with my pregnant, size 2 girlfriend is she eats like a ballerina.
Meanwhile, Michael and I shovel—I mean, literally shovel—food down our throats. We clean our plates. Michael scrapes gravy and licks his fork, before Heather even sits down with her small portion of cucumbers and yogurt.
He leans back in his chair and pats his belly. “Ahh, that was real terrific, honey,” he says, in his Southern drawl.
Heather beams at him in that way that makes my stomach twist. If only I could have that, I think, as the Perfect Relationship kisses each other and smiles at me from across the breakfast table.
“So when do you officially become Jewish?” I ask Heather. “Does it happen before the baby is born?”
Heather looks at me and I can tell she’s nervous because she twists her napkin in her hand.
Michael rubs her on the back. “The conversion exam with the Rabbi is next week. She doesn’t think she’s ready,” he says.
“I’m not ready,” Heather repeats.
“Of course you’re ready,” I say, pointing to the stack of books on the kitchen counter. “Look at all these books you’ve read—How to Become a Jew; So You Want to Convert; The Book of Jewish Customs—”
“It’s not sticking,” Heather says. She bites her lip and stares down at her empty breakfast plate. “Becoming a Jew—is so hard,” she says, in a quiet voice.
“Come on, Heather. You graduated from the University of South Carolina with flying colors,” I say. “So what’s the process? What is it? A written test?”
“Oral,” Heather says. “I have an oral exam with the Rabbi.”
Michael pipes up, “Then she’ll go through the rituals of conversion. She’ll be immersed in a Mikveh—which is the ritual bath used to purify the spirit. And she’ll be given a Hebrew name.”
Heather drops her head in her hands. “But I haven’t turned our home into a real Jewish home yet!” she says, exasperated. She stands up, suddenly, and bolts to the front door. She swings the door open with a flourish. “Look at this! We don’t even have a Jewish Bazooka outside the doorway!”
Michael shoots me a look. “Mezuzah, hon. It’s called a Mezuzah. And what’s the reason that Jews hang a Mezuzah outside the doorpost?”
He’s quizzing her. For her oral exam with the Rabbi.
Heather stands up straight. Like she’s been called on by the teacher.
“Jews hang a Bezooza to remind us of God’s presence and our duty to fulfill God’s commandments,” Heather says. I can tell she’s memorized this. “The Bezooza contains two portions of the Torah in a small, protective case.”
“Very good,” Michael says. “But remember. It’s Mezuzah. With an ‘M’, hon.”
“Mezuzah,” Heather says, twitching nervously.
“You’re going to do fine,” I say.
Heather pats her stomach. “Oops, duty calls,” she says. She shuts the door and hurries toward the bathroom. “When you’re pregnant, you’ve always gotta go,” she says, glancing at us from over her shoulder.
Michael shoos her away with his hand. “Too much information, hon,” he says.
Michael turns to me at the table.
“Women are crazy,” he says, matter-of-fact.
We push our plates away, and Michael pats his stomach. “That hit the spot.”
I take a sip of coffee, pause, put my coffee cup delicately on the table. “So tell me about this eye-for-an-eye thing? Does Jewish law allow for revenge?”
“Aw, c’mon, Maddy. Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on ol’ Carlton,” Michael says. For a moment, when he was teaching Heather, his Southern drawl disappeared. But now Mr. Texas Twang is back.
“I’m not hung up. I’m obsessed,” I say.
Michael grins. “The passage goes like this: Life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. It’s in Deuteronomy. And it means a punishment in which the offender suffers the exact punishment as the victim suffered. Exact retribution.”
He sits back in his chair and puts his feet up. “But don’t get your hopes up. Jewish law doesn’t justify revenge, Maddy. In fact, the Torah strictly warns against taking revenge.” He looks down his nose at me. Like a professor.
“Don’t take vengeance and don’t bear a grudge against the members of your nation,” he says. “Love your neighbor as yourself. That’s in Leviticus.”
“What happened to the eye-for-an-eye thing?”
“It’s outdated. Civilization has progressed so that we no longer punish rape with rape, murder with murder. And besides, Carlton didn’t kill anyone.”
“He killed my spirit,” I say, in a glum tone.
“Ah,” Michael says. “Ain’t that a bitch.”
I throw a napkin at him. And he laughs. “I’ve seen enough snakes in the courtroom to know a snake when I see one. And Carlton is a snake, Maddy. No matter how goddamned good his hair looks. But I hate to say it—”
I shoot my arm in the air. “Don’t say it.”
Heather walks back into the kitchen and crosses her arms over her chest. “We told you so,” she says. “Michael and I both told you so.”
I look at them and shake my head.
“Jews,” I say.
And they both laugh.
Chapter 18
It’s typical to see a great-looking woman with an average-looking guy. It’s highly unusual the other way around. (Unless the woman is super rich and the guy is like her chauffeur or something.)
But that’s how it was with Carlton and me. Carlton was, in all senses of the word, gorgeous. Breathtakingly gorgeous. The type of man who caused you to tuck in your tummy and stand up straight when he smiled at you from across a room. And he chose me. Five-foot-three, size 6, la bella donna, Madeline Jane Piatro.
I never should’ve fallen in love with a man so far out of my league in the looks department. He could have whichever woman he wanted. The only thing standing in Carlton’s way was money. A hefty bank account to keep up with his silver spoon tastes. And then he’d have it all. The looks…and the Porsche.
Carlton’s father, while enormously wealthy, was one of those men who believed in making Carlton “work for it.” Plus, Mr. Connors had a gag
gle of ex-wives and court-ordered support. Over time, these women had managed to ratchet down his sizable wealth. Forest Connors was still a safe multimillionaire. Many, many times over. But, according to Carlton, he’d once had a whole lot more.
Forest Connors also loved showering expensive gifts on the new women in his life. Carlton said his dad once bought a quarter-million-dollar diamond necklace for a woman he’d only known a month. A hairdresser from Abilene.
This drove Carlton nuts. The trophy wives, trophy diamonds, trophy cars, and trophy alimony payments. One thing Forest Connors did give Carlton was a wristwatch. A rare Patek Phillipe he’d bought at a Sotheby’s auction. Carlton wore the watch every day. Even when he rode his bike. It was like a talisman of power handed down from father to son. The watch symbolized Carlton’s future. A future filled with wealth and privilege. Carlton knew it was just a matter of time before his father’s jet-set lifestyle became his own. It was waiting for him like a trust fund—it was right around the corner.
And so, because of Carlton’s status as The Man Who Walked on Water, sometimes I liked to take him down a notch. Show him that I, too, was a force to be reckoned with. While I was neither rich nor drop-dead gorgeous, I still had chutzpa, as Michael would say.
And that’s why I liked to beat the pants off Carlton in tennis.
It’s the one area where I truly excelled. My body seemed made for smashing forehands and backhands low across the net. I might trip while walking in a pair of high heels, but on a tennis court, I was pure grace.
I’d been playing for as long as I could hold a racquet. It was my dad’s thing to enroll me in tennis camp as soon as I could walk. I guess he dreamed of sitting on the sidelines of the U.S. Open one day, clapping as I went head to head with Venus Williams. For an amateur, I wasn’t just good at tennis, I was great.
And so, because of Carlton’s healthy ego, sometimes I had to show him a thing or two. It was all in fun, of course. But I had more fun than Carlton did. He was ultra-competitive and couldn’t believe each time he lost to a mere pint-sized woman and got run ragged in the process. I was no Amazon woman, that’s for sure. But despite my size, I was fast as hell. And I liked to make Carlton chase the ball. It was good for him.