“You don’t have family dinners?” Aunt Helen asked.
“I’m an only child.”
“Cyd is too,” Jimmy said. “You’re perfect for each other. Look, Eddie, look at Squid. She’s all red.”
I decided in that moment to tell Uncle Ray about the missing petty cash, if he ever spoke to me again.
For the first time in my life, I was having a hard time getting eggplant parmesan down. I needed to do three things. First, get Roger out of here. Second, give my uncle time to cool down. Third, move into Mrs. Barsky’s apartment, possibly tomorrow. In the meantime: diffuse.
“Roger is interested in parasailing packages and seeing the Great Wall of China.”
“Well you’ve come to the right place. We’ve been around for forty-two years, about ten years before Cyd was born,” Uncle Ray said. Really? Did he have to give up my real age? “And Cyd’s the life and soul of the business.”
“It’s almost like she’s married to it,” my cousin Joey chimed in.
“Yeah, no one else will take her,” Jimmy said, laughing. The nephews laughed too.
“Oh now, boys, you know that’s not true, is it Cyd? But enough about the business. We all want to hear about your trip,” Uncle Ray said. “Do you have any announcements for us this time?” They all waited. I looked at Roger’s dimples and the way his hair was falling over his eyebrows. Enough, I thought. Time for drastic measures.
“Yes, I do. Roger is my ‘plus one.’ For the Tanzania package.”
“You won the trip?” Roger asked.
“I did. I just found out.”
“Great. Uh. That’s fantastic.”
I took a breath. “Do you still want to go?”
“Of course. Of course I do.” He looked worried. My family will do that to a person.
“I thought you just met,” Uncle Ray said. “Isn’t it a bit early for a safari? You know what they say—nothing ruins a new romance like traveling together.”
“We’ve been dating on the Internet for awhile, haven’t we Roger?” I kicked him under the table. At least I hoped it was him.
He looked at me. “She’s even more wonderful in person, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Let’s have our dessert in the den,” my mother said, rising. “Ray, you and Eddie look after Roger while Cyd helps me in the kitchen.”
I had to let them take him. I had no choice.
As soon as the kitchen door closed, both my mother and my Aunt Helen were all over me. Who is he? How could you meet someone on the interweb? But a doctor, how great. Unless he was a serial killer.
“He’s a chiropractor, Mom. He’s very, very nice. In fact, he even defended me against Peggy Newsome.” That shut them up for awhile. I started scraping red sauce into the disposal. I heard the clank of the good china behind me and the sudden slippery rush of hot soap and water.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were going to Atlantic City?” my mother said.
“Would you?” I asked. “It was important for the business. We have to compete with all these Internet sites and I need every possible advantage and contact I can to fight for us out there. And you know he would have said no.”
She kissed me on the top of the head, which was unusual, while Helen lowered her arms into the soapy water up to her dangling triceps, which were loose enough to start a tidal wave.
“But you can’t meet people on the Internet,” Mom said.
“Where else? Chadwick’s? I’ve dated everyone in Bay Ridge. And didn’t you see how polite he was?”
“Ted Bundy was polite. How else are you going to get someone into your car before you dismember them?” Helen said, eating the last tiny bit of garlic bread off one of the plates.
“Mom, please, you know I’ve wanted to go to Africa since I was five and now I have someone to go with. You can’t let Uncle Ray take this away from me. I earned it.”
“I know you did, honey, but it’s his business. In this economy, you have to be careful.”
“I’m tired of being careful,” I said, scraping harder.
“Well, that’s pretty clear, meeting someone on the Internet,” Helen said.
“He’s perfectly harmless and exactly what he says he is.”
“He could be killing your uncles right now,” she said. My mother nodded.
There was a bloodcurdling scream. I dropped one of Mom’s plates and we all went running into the den.
Chapter Eleven
There was Roger, wrestling my Uncle Leon right under Gary, our bison head. My shortest brousin and Uncle Tony’s oldest, Frank the cop, had his service weapon pointed at them. I ran forward just as Roger let Uncle Leon go.
“Wow,” Leon said, reaching over and touching his toes, then swinging his torso from side to side. “I haven’t been able to do that in fifteen years. I love this guy,” he said, putting his arm around Roger. “He’s a keeper, Cyd.”
I turned to Frank and raised my eyebrows. He put his gun back in the waist of his khakis and shrugged.
“Why don’t you spend the night, kid?” Uncle Leon said. “Our couch is comfortable as hell. That way we can all get to know you better.”
No, no, no. Roger saw my face.
“No, I couldn’t possibly. But I would love to take Cyd out for a coffee, if you don’t mind? Cyd?”
“Absolutely, that would be great. Just let me freshen up,” I said, running for the stairs. I thought about the Minettis surrounded by wild animals on their anniversary safari. I thought about Mrs. Barsky lying on gerbil pellets. I thought about Bobby Barsky, who’d been smart enough to make a run for it when he had the chance. It was time to take mine.
Still, if I was going to pull this off, I had to be quick and I had to be careful. I turned on the tap, as you could hear it all over the house, then ran to my closet. Of course I had done a “practice pack” for my Africa trip. I grabbed my “absolutely necessary” list and did a quick check of my bags. I could put the “absolutely absolutely necessary emergency” things in the carry-on once we were out of the house. I’d found the lightest indestructible luggage set I could afford at Luggage World. I double-checked my passport. I touched all my obsolete globes for luck, pushed my luggage onto the fire escape, did a fake flush of the toilet, and headed down the stairs.
“Ready?” I took Roger’s arm and moved him to the door.
“You sure you won’t stay for dessert?” Uncle Ray asked. “There’s no need to run off.”
“No, we’ll be fine. Thanks for dinner, Ma, it was great.”
“Lovely to meet all of you.” Roger shook hands with my uncles and cousins and kissed my mother on the cheek. “Bridget.”
“Be sure and bring her back.” Uncle Ray said. “She’s still our little girl.”
I could have killed my uncle at that moment, but I figured what I was about to do would hurt him about as much, so I kissed him quickly, and finally managed to get Roger out the door.
“What was all that?” Roger said once we were outside.
“Do you have a car?”
“A rental.”
“Would you mind taking me to the office?” I said, moving him behind a panel truck just down the street. He looked at me funny.
“Cyd, what is going on?”
“Shhhh,” I said, pulling him further behind the truck. Finally, the front door closed and I looked him in the eye. “Did you really come back for me?”
“I came back because I couldn’t do anything else.” He kissed me.
“God, don’t do that, I’ll go all wobbly.” I made him promise to stay there while I ran behind the Faragamos’ hedge and into our backyard. It might seem hard to climb a fire escape in spike heels, but I’d had years of practice. When I got within five feet of the ground, I dropped the suitcase—it was guaranteed for two hundred pounds of pressure. It had wheels, but they wou
ld leave tracks, so I hoisted it into my arms with my carry-on and headed for the street. Happily, Eddie had just aerated the lawn, so my heel marks wouldn’t show. I made it around the corner.
“Running away?” Roger said.
“It’s not a joke. Where’s your car?” He pointed at a Crown Vic. I took his keys and popped the trunk.
“Cyd, honestly, what is going on? You’re acting like a crazy person.”
“Just get us onto another street and I’ll explain everything,” I said. “I promise.” He started the car. “Go right at the stop sign.” I looked back at the house. If any of my brousins were going to follow us, we’d hear a car. So far, nothing.
“Okay, what is it?” Roger said.
“Left here and pull into the back.”
The Redondo Travel sign glowed green in the dark street. Roger pulled down the alley into the parking lot and we headed in. I moved down the hall to my desk and turned on the computer, praying that Uncle Ray hadn’t already deleted the travel vouchers.
“Cyd, honestly, stop and tell me what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that I’m going to Tanzania.”
“I know, that’s great.”
“I mean I’m going tonight.”
“Now? What’s the rush?”
“I hope this doesn’t jeopardize your faith in me as your travel consultant, but the truth is, I’ve never actually been outside the greater New York/New Jersey area.”
“What? You talked to me about Tahiti for twenty minutes. Did you make that all up?”
“Of course not. I know everything you need to know about Tahiti. Theoretically.” I was already at my desk, searching for an e-mail from our partners, Adventure Limited. “Look. I’ve booked over five thousand successful trips, all from this desk and, except for a few mishaps beyond my control, have never had any complaints. We have a seventy-five percent return rate for our customers and it’s only that low because some of them die before they can afford another trip.”
“I still don’t get it—why tonight?”
“My uncle says I have to cash in the trip and put the money back into the business.”
“But you worked so hard.”
“Exactly.” There it was: “CONGRATULATIONS MS. REDONDO! YOU’VE DONE IT!” I gave a sign of relief. My travel documents were attached and correct. I looked up at Roger. “Uncle Ray always does this. Now that he knows about Atlantic City, I guarantee he will guilt me into it.”
“What’s so bad about Atlantic City?”
“It’s a long story. Roger, I swear, if I don’t take this trip, I will die in that house. Theoretical is not enough. I’ve wanted to go to Africa my whole life. I want to stand on a clove plantation and I want to see a lion and I want to know what the hell I’m talking about when I tell my clients the squat toilets are fine.” I thought about my ancient clients squatting over a hole with their walkers, and sped up my Internet search. “Also, my next door neighbor has been murdered.”
“Murdered? I thought she had a stroke.”
“Nope, murdered. And her son doesn’t even know she’s dead—I can’t pass up a free ticket to his last known abode.”
“The son is there? In Tanzania?”
“He was. Maybe someone there will know where he is.”
“What about me? I thought I was your ‘plus one.’” Roger said.
“I’d love for you to come with me. Of course I would. I just figured it was too short notice. Don’t you have work?”
“Can I make a call?”
I nodded and kept typing while he walked down the hall. He came back just as I had confirmed my flights. He was smiling.
“I’m in. I can postpone a few clients. I’d be crazy to turn down a free trip to Africa, especially with you.” He was being so perfect, he was making me a little nervous.
“You don’t mind that I have to do some work while I’m there?”
“Of course not.”
Was this happening? I checked the system and saw I could make it work.
“Do you have your passport?”
He reached into his jacket and handed it to me.
I opened it and did a double-take. “What the hell is this?”
“Roger’s my nickname.”
“Roger is not a nickname.”
“Would you have spent the night with me if I’d told you my real name?”
He was right: Seymour Pettigrew Claymore III was not a sexy name.
“Why Roger?”
“It’s kind of stupid.”
“Try me.” I started filling in the two visas Adventure Limited had supplied.
“Okay. When I was little, I hated being an only child. So sometimes I pretended I had a brother and we both had walkie-talkies. I would take one in the yard and leave one in my room.”
“And talk to yourself?”
“Well, yes. Lots of kids have imaginary friends, it’s psychologically healthy.”
Except me, I thought. No one ever left me alone long enough.
“Apparently, I said ‘Roger that,’ a lot, so my nanny started calling me Roger. It stuck.”
Who could hate that story? He looked at me with those Raisinet eyes and I thought, what the hell? I hit confirm, e-mailed for a pick-up at the Dar es Salaam airport, and headed to the Tupperware cabinet. Roger followed me, then stopped in the hallway.
“Shit. Wait, Cyd. Don’t we need a bunch of shots?”
“I know a guy,” I said.
Chapter Twelve
Six hours later, Roger and I were kicking our luggage through JFK, our arms aching and incapacitated by injections. Roger’s sandals made a dull thud against the canvas of his World Wildlife Fund duffel bag, while my Charles Davids snapped against my purple polka-dot hard-shell case.
“You’ll throw your back out. Let me get a porter,” Roger said. “Come on, we’re armless.”
I rolled my eyes. “Waste of money. We’re doing great. You just have to get a rhythm going,” I said, alternating my carry-on and large bag, one kick at a time. He shuffled beside me and apologized as he misjudged his punt and knocked his luggage into an occupied stroller, edging it toward a moving escalator. I angled my next move in the direction of the British Airways First Class line. No kiosks for us. You couldn’t use your relationship with a kiosk.
“This way.” I tried not to scream as the punctures in my arm swung into a stanchion.
“I thought you said you traded our first-class tickets for coach.”
“For coach tickets plus five round-the-world vouchers, good for three years. Then I used two of the vouchers to upgrade us back to our original seats.”
Roger’s eyes went wide. “You are a good travel agent.”
“Well, I try.”
As we waited for a family to check twenty-five bags, I thought about the last few hours: breaking up Dr. Kevekian’s poker game, his warnings about the side effects of our “last minute” typhus shots, Roger fainting during the yellow fever vaccine.
I had left my personal cell phone in my room in case Uncle Ray tried to triangulate, so I had called my brousin Eddie from Doc’s landline.
“Eddie Redondo, Redondo Imports,” Eddie answered. I hesitated. “Cyd? How could you have a guy show up at the house? Are you nuts?”
“Come on. Have you ever seen Uncle Leon take to anyone that fast?”
“Yeah, well there’s no accounting for taste.”
“Exactly. Anyway, I really like him. And it’s not many guys who walk into our dining room and not run out screaming. So, I’d like to spend the night with him.” I held my breath.
“You barely know the guy, Cyd.”
“Look, it’s not like I’m going to marry him tonight,” I said, “but I’m getting up there and things start to dry up.”
“Echhh,” he said.
�
��Anyway, will you cover for me until morning? Just tell them I called and might be late.”
“No way. You are not dragging me into this. We’re already dead for the whole Atlantic City thing. No. Sorry.”
“You still owe me bail money.” There was a long pause.
“Okay. Don’t get pregnant.”
“I’m thirty-two. I probably need in vitro.”
“You’re going to jinx yourself.”
“Hey. Love you. Thanks for doing this.”
I hung up, feeling awful. I hadn’t actually lied to him, I’d just understated the truth.
Roger elbowed me. The pain in my arm returned my brain to the airport line. We were next. I kicked the big bag first, trying to leverage it onto the luggage weigher with my hip while I smiled at the ticket agent.
“Hi, Amy. Cyd Redondo. Redondo Travel.” I handed her the tickets as Roger put his carry-on on the scale. “What are you doing?” I said.
“Checking my bag.”
“But you can carry that on, easy.”
“I’m happy to leave it to the professionals. Especially when I’m crippled.”
“As your travel agent, I wouldn’t advise it.”
“It will be fine. I do it all the time.”
He was a grown man, what could I do? I got us seats together in the bulkhead, then kicked my carry-on toward security, keeping an eye out for any Redondos or Redondo spies who might be trolling the terminal. My uncle knew a lot of people.
My lack of arms made security tricky. By the time we got through, some of the feeling had begun to come back—mostly in the form of pain. I could move enough to grab two bottles of Calvin Klein Obsession in Duty Free before we were at the gate and onto the jetway for my first-ever international flight. Once down the aisle, I wasn’t quite able to get my carry-on over my head, so I grabbed the blanket and hid it underneath my legs.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t just check it.” Roger offered me the window seat.
“Eighteen-point-four percent of bags get lost on international flights. That’s almost a fifth. And it goes up five percent with every connection. I recommend my clients always take the maximum amount of carry-ons with at least a few essentials on board. For example, Tupperware.” I pulled out one of my nesting containers and grabbed the First Class goody bag. I dumped the contents—socks, an eye mask, lip balm, moisturizer, ear plugs the color of a Creamsicle, and a miniscule toothpaste—into my container and burped it.
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