by Lara Reznik
We rolled around and I found myself on top. He lightly bit my neck, and moved back on top. Seconds later, he moaned and slid off of me.
I felt sticky-wet between my legs. “Chris. Was I okay?”
He didn’t say a word.
“You know, I never got to tell you this was my first time.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.” His voice sounded strange. He bolted from the bed and snapped on the lamp.
I squinted in the harsh light of a bright yellow bulb, blinked twice, and thought I was still hallucinating.
There before me stood Ben Franklin Jones.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Note
Flushing, New York, 2012
The private detective who visited Chris in Tucson is now at my lake house in Austin. Chris broke the pact and told her that Joey and Denise had been my friends. Do he and Ben think I’m still the naïve seventeen-year-old they knew in 1970?
Katie peels out of the Starbucks’ parking lot headed for Denise’s mother’s house in Flushing. “Which way do I turn?”
“I don’t want to go there,” I say. “Chris has betrayed me. Why should I help?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Katie says. “We all need to see this note.” She snatches the GPS from the console and attempts to program in the address. “Damn it, can you give me a hand here?”
I shake my head. “Hello. Did you not feel the hostility of Denise’s brother? The guy’s a psycho. This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed his bipolar behavior.”
Katie pulls out a cigarette from her purse, tosses it back. “I’ll distract big brother.”
“How will you do that?”
“I haven’t lost my touch.” She bats her eyelashes for emphasis. I remember what a guy magnet she was back in the day. “Tell Mrs. Manelo it’s a matter of life and death.”
My temples ache. I pull out the bottle of Advil, pop another two. “And when she asks why?”
“Improvise, for chrissakes. Tell her you know something about Denise’s past. A problem with drugs, anything that might interest her.”
I’m beginning to despise this grownup Katie B. She hits every damn pothole in the road as if on purpose. The car bounces, lurches, and clunks as the rain splatters the windshield. A burning sensation in my ear radiates to the back of my neck. Doctor Lee calls it a cluster headache. I get them whenever I stress out.
Then my iPhone rings. 512 area code from Austin. One of these days I’ll learn how to enter my contacts. “This is Laila.”
“It’s Darlene. I need you back at work ASAP. Things are changing really fast.”
I explain I’m still in New York at a funeral but should be back at work tomorrow. “What’s going on?”
“Gotta go,” she whispers, and hangs up the phone without telling me any news.
I pray I still have a job when I return.
Despite my protests, Katie and I arrive at the Manelo’s brownstone house twenty minutes later, then drive around the block three or four times before landing a parking space.
Katie knocks on the door and a tall man in a suit invites us inside. A blast of fresh garlic, tomatoes, and oregano stimulates my nostrils as I follow Katie. The living room is filled with people sitting on overstuffed furniture, speaking in English and Italian. Everyone glares at us again. The two Jewish girls from Mars have not taken the hint.
Mrs. Manelo greets me with a hug. “Thank you for coming, Laila. I apologize for my son. He was always so protective of his sister.” She nods at Katie, who steps in front of me.
“I’m Katie Birnbaum. I knew Denise at Bridgeport, too.”
Mrs. Manelo gives Katie a cursory smile, then grips my hand. “Would you like to see Denise’s room? I remember when you came many years ago and we went to the Costellos for dinner.”
I nod and follow her through the living room.
Katie gives me a thumbs-up.
This is going easier than planned with no sign of big brother. I trail behind Mrs. Manelo up the creaky wood stairs to a dark hallway. We enter Denise’s room, a shrine to the sixties. There’s a single bed, a small antique desk, an oak dresser, and walls of posters. I envision a teenage Denise looking up from her bed (in an altered state, of course) at the posters of Jimmy Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane, Jim Morrison, and the Grateful Dead. A candle and incense sit on the desk. A tattered Indian spread covers the small bed. It’s weird. All these years and Denise’s mother never changed the decor.
Mrs. Manelo slumps onto the bed and pats the spot next to her.
I park myself at her side.
Her hand, speckled with age spots, trembles nonstop. “Denise used to make fun of me for not redecorating her bedroom. Part of me always thought my little girl was coming home to live with her mama. But in reality she never did want to live here with me again.”
I rub my temples, still throbbing from the cluster headache. In the next room floorboards are creaking and I fear Danny is in there waiting to pounce. I’ve witnessed his temper more than once.
The room smells like mothballs and dirty socks with a touch of cinnamon incense. I want to ask Mrs. Manelo about the suicide note, knowing I may never get this opportunity again. But when I look at her proud Italian face so weathered and hopeless, I take the conversation in a different direction. “What was Denise like these last years?”
She pulls out a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabs her eyes. “Denise didn’t live a very happy life. She worked as an IRS auditor for many years and hated her job.”
I stroke her hand. “She never married?”
“She didn’t even date after she came home from Tucson.”
“When was she in Arizona?”
She sighs. “In the early seventies. When she got back to Queens, I tried to fix her up with boys but she refused. Such a pretty girl…” Her voice trails off.
Another old woman materializes in the doorway. She’s tiny with yellowed features and cheeks crosshatched with razor-fine creases. “She never got over my Joey.”
I stand and gulp, “Mrs. Costello?”
She inspects me like I’m merchandise at a flea market. “A day still doesn’t go by that I don’t cry for him.” Pain distorts her sunken face.
“I can only imagine.”
“You a nice girl. I remember you come to my house for dinner.” She turns to Mrs. Manelo. “Potrebbe capire forse?”
Mrs. Manelo interprets. “Can you understand?”
I tell her I have two boys. “There could be nothing worse than losing a child.”
“What’s worse is never knowing what happened. My husband Joseph died of cancer a few years ago. Un uomo rotto. A broken man.”
“Maybe the tragedy of Denise’s death will finally bring answers,” Mrs. Manelo says.
My heart races. Here’s my shot. “Perhaps I-I can help. Did Denise leave any kind of note?” Fat chance she’ll just hand the thing to me.
Their eyes lock in a grimace of grief. Mrs. Costello gets down on her knees and cries, “You say you’re a mama. Do you know what happened to my Joey?”
The desperate whine in her voice pierces my ears and my heart. I remember Joey giving her a bear hug when we arrived for dinner back in1970. How she clung to him when we were leaving.
My legs are so wobbly I nearly collapse on the floor next to her. “What did Denise say?”
Mrs. Manelo starts weeping, too.
I feel like I’m crossing the boundaries of sanity.
She opens a drawer in the desk, takes out an envelope and hands it to me. “Perhaps Laila has answers.”
The envelope is unsealed. I read the words, To My Beloved Mother scribbled in Denise’s handwriting. My hand trembles as I unfold the note inside written on beautiful cream-colored linen stationary.
Mama, I can’t live with this anymore. Tell Mrs. Costello that Chris Reynolds knows where she can find Joey. Tell her it was no accident.
No sooner had I read it, Katie appears in the room and seizes my hand. “Let’s get a move on.”
The two old ladies’ mouths hang open and they clutch their chests like they’re having dual heart attacks. Katie pushes me toward the doorway.
I should jerk loose from her, stay and comfort the two frenzied old women who have lost their children. At the least, I should give them back Denise’s note, clearly the right thing to do.
I yank free from Katie and hand the letter back to Mrs. Manelo. “I’m sorry.”
Katie’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
“Trust me.” I race down the stairs with Katie tagging behind me.
Heavy footsteps thunder above us. I turn back briefly to see fat Danny. His face is red as rhubarb. “I called the police. They’re on their way, bitch.”
I bite my tongue and taste blood in my mouth. “Oh Jesus, we’re in trouble now.”
Katie and I reach the front door with Danny loping behind us huffing, then THUD. I rotate around and see him spread out on the floor.
Outside the rain is now a mere drizzle. There’s a powder-blue VW bus with green-and-white Arizona plates, double-parked across the street. The window rolls down and Ben sticks his head out. “Get in.”
Katie and I jump inside the van. She sits shotgun, and I crawl in the back onto a bench seat with torn cloth interior. I feel like I’m in a seventies time warp. The bus put-put-puts down the street leaving a thick cloud of smoke behind.
“What about the rental car?” I say.
“I’ll take care of it later,” Ben says. He turns the corner and peers at me in the rearview mirror. “You get the note?”
“She had it,” Katie said shaking her finger at me. “But the numbskull gave it back to Mrs. Manelo.”
“Because she’s suffered enough,” I say.
“Well, fuck. Where does that leave us?” Ben asks.
Katie points her finger at me. “You screwed up big time.”
Ben exits onto the Cross-Island Parkway and we pass a sign to JFK.
“Both of you calm down,” I say. “I’ve memorized what was in the note.” I share the contents with them.
Katie glares at Ben. “What did Denise mean by, ‘It was no accident?’”
Ben screeches to a halt at a gas station. His face looks bloodless. “Denise was delusional. Anyone who commits suicide has got to be, right?”
Katie says, “I don’t know.”
Ben takes her hand, then turns back and glares at me with his irresistible gold-flecked eyes. Eyes I once adored. “I swear on everything that’s holy to me, my dog, Bro, my niece in Seattle. Joey’s death was a tragic accident.”
I must believe him. I do believe him. I’ve trusted his story for years.
Dreamed of him, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Big A
Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1970
In the harsh glare of a bare light bulb, Ben Franklin Jones stood naked before me. I watched him slip on his Levis while I remained wrapped in the sheets of the lumpy bed. He was a work of art, like Michelangelo’s David. Tall and lanky with tufts of dark hair trickling down his chest to his navel. His black mane fell sleek to his shoulders like a proud Indian. He grabbed a rubber band from his pants pocket and fastened his hair into a ponytail.
I wrapped the blanket tighter around me. “What do we do now?”
Ben’s eyes twinkled. “You really thought I was Chris?”
“Why would I think anyone else would be in his bed?”
He rubbed his chin. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Disappointing, no way. Strange, bizarre, yes. “I-I had a good time.” More like a great time. An amazing time.
He bent down and kissed my forehead. “Yeah, it was fun.”
Fun. Like bowling? I thought something powerful and beautiful had transpired between us. Fun barely expressed my feelings of the night. But then I had assumed it was Chris. I felt like a little girl in a grown woman’s nude body.
Ben pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, lit one, and offered it to me. “What happened here doesn’t leave this bedroom.”
I took a puff and coughed. My mouth felt like sandpaper and the smoke tasted gritty and foul. I stubbed it out in a bowl on the nightstand. Ben’s order made me feel miserable. The rainbow of love we’d discovered last night now vanished over the horizon. Stupid girl, you are so out of your league. “My lips are sealed.”
He pulled at the flesh of his cheek. “We, ah, Chris and I have some history in this department.”
My temples throbbed. “So, we pretend last night never happened?”
He handed me my clothes from the floor. “How about I buy you breakfast at Rodman’s?”
I quickly dressed and padded down the stairs behind Ben, feeling hurt and confused. When we reached the living room, Ivy glared at us from the couch. She wore her silk robe and a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. Sunlight peeked through the open blinds illuminating pockmarks on her face. “You two just wake up?”
Ben grabbed her arm. “It’s not what you think.”
“Yeah, and my uncle has a big blue weenie,” Ivy said.
“We just crashed together, nothing happened,” I said.
“Right. Like I believe a stupid chick from Long Guyland.” She turned to Ben. “I got bigger fish to fry today.”
He sat down next to her and placed his arm affectionately around her shoulder. “What’s up?”
Ivy slid off her slipper and rubbed her toes on his foot and up his leg. “Got a smoke?”
I stood watching their banter in a kind of surreal state: Sore, sensitive, and still smelling of sex. Simple fact. What happened between the sheets last night meant nothing to Ben. I had lost my virginity to a man that was already playing footsies with another woman.
I was invisible.
Ivy took off her rimless spectacles and dabbed her moist eyes with a tissue. “Chris was supposed to take me to Boston for the Big A today.”
Ben stroked her arm. “Where is our boy, anyways?”
“Doc took him home after he freaked out on the Window Pane. He never should have taken three hits.”
I felt sick. “My God. Is he okay?”
“He’s in good hands with Doc,” Ben said.
Feelings for Chris flooded my thoughts. We never got our chance to get together. And now I’d blown it. I gazed at Ivy still playing footsies with Ben. “When is Chris coming back?”
She ignored my question. “I have to be at the clinic by three.” A faint smile formed on her lips as she turned to Ben. “Can you drive me?”
“Sorry. Angel called last night while everyone was wasted. I need to deliver the duffle bags, then head back to JFK. Opposite direction.”
Ivy’s eyes welled with tears. “I can’t believe he’d want you to go so soon. We’re lucky we didn’t get busted with the last run.”
“Agreed. I’ve arranged for a kid from U.B. to do the actual transfer.”
“It’s still pretty dangerous if you ask me. Can’t you put him off a day?”
“Put Angel off? You’re shitting me, right?”
Ivy grabbed his wrist. “I really need a ride to Boston. These appointments can’t get changed and I won’t be able to drive home myself.”
Ben turned to me. “Do you have a license, sweetheart?”
I WAS THE LAST PERSON IN THE WORLD Ivy wanted to drive her to Boston for an abortion. Ben sweet-talked me into it while escorting me back to Bodine Hall to pick up the duffle bags. “No one in the family will ever forget this favor, Laila. Chris will be so proud.”
“Right.”
He leaned down and kissed me on the neck. “I’ll be proud, too.”
He was playing a game of emotional ping-pong with me.
After he picked up the duffle bags at Bodine, we walked a couple of blocks down Main Street to a lime-green Ford Pinto where Ivy awaited. When I opened the driver door and got inside, the stench of cigarette butts made me choke. They were everywhere, the ashtrays, the floor, even the console. A spring poked through the upholstery of the driver’s seat into my re
ar end. I kept shifting from cheek to cheek to try to get comfortable.
Ivy slumped into the passenger seat. She barely spoke, and when she did, it was only to bark directions. “Turn left on Trumbell, no, right next corner, slow down, damn it.”
Would Ivy be grateful to me, and keep her mouth shut?
We had just passed Hartford, about a third the way to Boston, when she insisted we exit I-90 and find a restroom. I drove about a half mile through a seedy neighborhood to a Mobil gas station. Ivy threw open the passenger door before I had come to a complete stop. I watched her ask the attendant for a key and race inside the ladies room.
While waiting for Ivy, I looked out my window at a group of guys loitering with beer cans in their hands. I latched both doors and sang along to Simon & Garfunkel’s Bridge over Troubled Water playing on the Pinto’s AM radio.
A few minutes later, there was banging on the passenger door. Ivy stood with her hands tucked in her jean pockets. Her face was the color of eggshells.
I reached over and pulled up the door-lock for her.
She slowly entered the car. “Head back to Bridgeport.” A pattern of red-brown blotches ran down the front of her jeans.
“Jesus, are you okay? I’ll find a hospital,” I said.
She pulled out a pack of Salems from her floppy macramé purse. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. It’s just a miscarriage.”
“We don’t have to drive to Boston?”
“Brilliant deduction, Laila. I just saved eight hundred bucks. The Butcher can get his blood money from another desperate chick.”
“Who’s the Butcher?”
“Some guy who flunked out of medical school making a fortune performing illegal abortions for rich girls from all the east coast colleges. I had one last year. Believe me, it’s no picnic.”
When we reached the turnpike, I began to panic. Could I have gotten pregnant my very first time? Maybe, right now there was a little pea-sized fetus growing in my belly. Would I soon be headed to the Butcher in Boston for the Big A?
I hadn’t prayed since my Bat Mitzvah when I stood before a large congregation and read from the scrolls of the Torah. It felt strange. If there’s a God up there, pleeease don’t let me be pregnant. I promise not to do anything so stupid again.