by Lara Reznik
“No one’s gonna miss you, honey.”
“I’m not ready to make love to you,” I said.
He squeezed my hand. “We can just talk if you want.”
When we got to the attic, Chris lit two lemon-scented candles. We lay together in the lumpy bed fully clothed and talked. The music of the Stones, Jefferson Airplane, Donovan filtered in from downstairs.
Chris kept repeating how miserable he’d been at the thought of losing me. “I hadn’t cried in years,” he said. “Not since my father left us.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ll never forget how you took such good care of me when I was sick. No one has ever been so caring to me before.” He brushed strands of hair from my eyes then kissed me.
“I thought it was okay to just talk,” I said.
“Do you know how horny you make me?” His mouth moved to my neck.
I pushed him away. “If it’s just about the sex, then I’ll go home.”
He smiled and sat up. “With guys it’s always about the sex, sweetheart. But I’ll keep my mitts to myself tonight. I owe you that much.” He grabbed a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit up a cigarette. “Want one?”
“No thanks.”
“What do you want, Laila?”
“I-I don’t know. To just feel like I belong somewhere, I guess.”
“Do you feel like you belong with me?”
“Sometimes. But other times I feel I’m an outsider. Your lifestyle is strange.”
“For a girl from Longgg Guyland.”
“Now you sound like Ivy,” I said.
He put his arm around my shoulder. “It was meant with affection. I like Long Island.”
“Yeah right. Your friends act like I’m an alien.”
“You’ve proven you’re the real deal, honey. We’re all beholden to you now.”
“I won’t ever fit in with your crowd,” I said. “When I was in New Mexico we went to a party at Dennis Hopper’s house. You want to meet strange people.”
“Dennis Hopper, like in Easy Rider?”
“Yep. I loved New Mexico. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen in my life. The mountains and the sky. There was something magical.”
“Want to move there with me?”
“Right.”
“I’m serious,” he said.
“Like my parents would let me go that far away.”
“Do you have to ask Mummy and Daddy permission for everything you do?”
“I want to finish college and they’re paying the bill.”
“There’s gotta be a college in New Mexico. We’ll figure it out. Maybe we could pay for it ourselves by buying product from Angel and transporting it back here.”
“No way.” I said. “I want nothing to do with that business ever again.”
“Okay, I get it. So what do you say?”
“I have to think about it.”
Chris fell asleep shortly after. I spent the night reflecting the merits of his proposition to go with him to New Mexico. It would give our relationship a chance at a fresh start. Maybe without Ben in the picture, we could work things out. And if they didn’t work out, I’d be in the Land of Enchantment. How bad was that? I thought about Andrea and Jackie, the two girls from West Meadow who used to make fun of me. They might be rich, but I was now hip and cool. I wondered what they’d think of me now.
The next day, Chris and I went to the U.B. library. The librarian showed us a section on reference books on colleges and universities. We located The Princeton College Review and found the University of New Mexico, New Mexico State, and Highlands University. The university in Albuquerque was rated the best of the three and the tuition was incredibly cheap. Eight hundred dollars a semester for out-of-state students including room and board. We decided to apply there.
Bridgeport tuition was two thousand plus twelve hundred dollars a semester for the dormitory and meals. My scholarship covered the tuition but not the twenty-four hundred a year in living expenses. UNM would save my parents eight hundred dollars a year. Money was tight with my family. They still had Amby to put through school. Maybe I could persuade them for me to go to New Mexico if I played up how much money they would save. At best it was a shot.
Two weeks later, Chris and I sat together in the attic reading our acceptance paperwork to UNM. I began to have a queasy feeling about the whole idea. Did I really want to go two thousand miles away from every person, place, and thing I’d ever known? Go there with Chris Reynolds, the guy I’d recently caught in bed with another chick? Time for an excuse. “The folks will never go for this.”
He gave me a crooked smile. “Got it covered. Angel said we could bring back product every few months. It should pay for both our tuitions and a place to live.”
“What do you mean we? I told you I’m done with that business.”
“We, meaning me and Ben.”
I could barely breathe. “Ben’s coming with us?”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ivy’s Version
Austin, Texas, 2012
Mesquite, cacti, yucca, and desert grasses flash by outside as I veer the Acura through the semiarid plains of southern New Mexico. I’ve never made this trip alone, nor done anything so impulsively. Well, in recent times that is. But last night I grabbed the dog, jumped in the car, and hit the road. I need to see Ed. I need to know if my marriage is still intact. It’s impossible for me to go on until at least this part of my life has clarity.
After thirteen hours of driving with Willow sitting shotgun, a swirling muck of dust surrounds the car forcing me to a standstill. A baby bird lands on the windshield and chirps before it explodes into the dust bowl. I cry out for the bird but feel helpless, unable to see through the cloud of brown sand. Then as quickly as it appeared, the storm blows off to the East and a familiar landscape appears before me.
I pull off the road and idle the car at the gate to a ranch in nowhere New Mexico where Eduardo’s mother lives with his nephew, the drug addict. The skinny kid is standing with a beer in his hand. He waves as he opens the metal gate for me. I wave back and drive down the dusty road to Ed’s mother’s adobe home.
Juanita’s Mustang is parked next to my deceased father-in-law’s Ford pickup. I step from the car and pull open the screen door. Then panic sets in. What possessed me to jump in the car and drive here without telling Eduardo? Only a desperate crazy woman would do such a thing.
My mother-in-law greets me with eyes the size of the albondigas simmering in a pot on the stove. “Laila, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see my husband.”
She grins. “Oh he’s in the bedroom with . . . you better not go in there.” I think my mother-in-law would love to see me hit by a truck.
Maybe a truck would be better. My heart pounds against my ribcage. When I open the door, Juanita is standing naked with her dark hair cascading to her waist. Eduardo watches her dance for him from his mother’s plump feather bed. As she shimmies her beautiful breasts, a dog growls . . .
Willow is barking next to my bed as I open my eyes. She jumps on top of the blankets and licks my face. Thank God. I’m in my Tempur-Pedic bed in Lake Travis. The sound of NPR blares on the clock radio. It’s 6:30 a.m.
I retrieve the morning paper from the driveway, feed Willow, and stumble into the kitchen. Exhausted and desperate for some caffeine, I enter into combat with the Capresso machine. After numerous tries that result in coffee grounds splattered all over the granite countertops, it finally spits out a few puny shots. I’m even less successful foaming the milk that never bubbles and tastes burnt. I miss Ed’s Starbuck-perfect cappuccinos delivered to my bed each morning with a kiss.
I pull the Austin American Statesman from the plastic bag and nearly fall off the chair when I read the headline:
LBJ CEO ACCUSED OF SEXUAL HARASSMENT
How did this get out so fast? Did Darlene call the media? She’s got her connec
tions. But is it in her best interest to release this story? How will this affect my career? My future? I slip on my reading glasses and read the rest of the article.
A sexual harassment and retaliation suit has been filed in District Court against LBJ’s new CEO, Bob Englewood, by Darlene McIntire, Vice President of Corporate Services.
Ms. McIntire’s position was eliminated yesterday as part of LBJ’s effort to cut costs and downsize their executive team. The suit claims that she was intimate with Mr. Englewood for the past year, and when he tired of her sexual favors, he gave her new job title the hatchet.
A spokesman for LBJ says that the accusations are totally false and Mr. Englewood will be vindicated of all charges.
Ms. McIntire was recently hospitalized in Seton’s psychiatric ward for exhaustion and depression. She is currently separated from her husband of twelve years and has moved out of their Pemberton Heights home leaving her two children in his custody.
No way did this come from Darlene’s camp. It sounds like a smear campaign from Bob E’s defense team. Play offensive. Nip-it-in-the-bud strategy. Would Steve Berman conduct a ruthless defense this way? Forget Steve. There’s only one person who would do something like this.
The sound of “Yesterday” on the iPhone deflects my thoughts. My son Liam’s name pops up on the caller ID. “I’m glad you’re still home. Mom,” he says. “Is Dad around? I’ve got great news I want to share with you and dad together.”
Neither Ed nor I have told the boys about our separation. Why put them through heartache when neither of us knows what our future as a couple will be? We’ve never discussed it, but I know Ed would not tell them. Put the kids first. An unwritten rule that bonds us. “Daddy’s in New Mexico.” I explain that his grandmother’s friend Virgie died.
He says he doesn’t remember her very well.
“Can you tell me the news?”
“Are you sitting down?” he asks.
I sit. “Yes.”
“I got accepted to Stanford.”
“Oh my God. Mazel tov.” Liam had applied to Stanford law school as a long shot. We all assumed he’d be at UT.
“I hate to ask, Mom. The financial package they offered falls short—”
“Are you kidding? Stanford. Of course, we’re there for you, honey.”
“It’s got to be tight with Dad out of work.”
“He’s not out of work, he’s retired. We’re doing just fine. Dad’s got the rental thing going and all.”
“You sure? U.T. would be a lot cheaper. Maybe you should talk to Dad first. I have a few days before I need to respond.”
“I already know what he’d say. So do you. Send the acceptance out today. FedEx it. Stanford, for godsakes.” Eduardo would work three jobs if it came down to making Stanford happen for Liam.
We say our goodbyes and I try to savor the moment. I’m thrilled for my son. But what if I lose my job now? What if I go to prison? Damn it. I will make this all work out. If not for me, for Liam. He will go to Stanford.
Time to confront Poison Ivy at work. After a hot shower, I stand wrapped in a towel in my closet debating what to wear. Finally, I select the most conservative outfit I own, a navy suit that looks like it came straight from a 1950s JC Penny catalogue. White silk blouse with pearl buttons, pantyhose and navy pumps to match. June Cleaver would approve.
WHEN I ARRIVE AT my LBJ office, I open my Outlook account and scan through the many unopened e-mails. There’s an appointment from my former boss, Victor. Another one sent from Geisha Girl about a meeting with a guy named Max Fowler. Bob E. is also listed on the appointment. I Google “Max Fowler in Austin,” and learn he is a retired judge who now works as a mediator.
I start to call Victor when the smell of opulent perfume assaults my nostrils. No surprise to see Ivy holding the Statesman article in her hand. She takes a seat before I offer her one. “Tell me something, Laila. Do you like this office?”
If truth be known, I’d kill to get my old office back. My old job and my old husband. I remind myself to keep my trap closed. You need this job! “What do you want?”
She holds out her hand and inspects her manicure. Casually like she’s hanging out at the nail salon. “You’ve always been such a smartass. Where does that get you, Guyland Girl, huh? Back in the day, the boys tricked you into taking a little trip to Taos. Last month Darlene asks you to play the messenger and now your job’s at stake.”
“Old news,” I say.
She smiles. “Ya think? Well, here’s some old news. Chris Reynolds called me last night. He’s asked me what I remember about that dude Joey Costello disappearing.”
“You weren’t there that night.” I gulp, recalling she had gone home for her grandmother’s funeral. Thank God.
She cranes her head. “Funny, I don’t remember it that way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“People don’t recall what happened that night the same way you do, Guyland Girl.”
I hold her gaze. “Really?”
“Would you like to hear my version?” she asks.
“What version?”
She sighs. “I came home very late that night after Grannie’s funeral. When I got in the apartment, I heard a commotion in the attic and rushed upstairs to see what was going on. Ben and Chris were standing there as you pushed Joey out the window.”
My anger is sudden and ferocious but I can barely get a sound out. “Is this a joke?”
She stands up and heads to the door. “You will play ball with us at Fowler’s office, right?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Saab
Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1970
The adventure of a lifetime, or the most idiotic decision I’d ever make? Should I move to New Mexico with Chris and Ben? There were a hundred good reasons not to go. But relocating out west with the two of them sounded so exotic. I would no longer be known as that boring Laila from Long Island. More like Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde, or Katherine Ross in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Jackie and Andrea, eat your hearts out.
Later that afternoon, I returned to Bodine to get clothing reinforcements. Katie barreled down the hall shouting my name as I stepped from the elevator. She wanted to know about Ben. I hadn’t seen much of him since the party. Rumor had it, he was shacked up with a chick in Westport.
She sucked in her cheeks. “It’s been two weeks and no word from him. Do you have any idea why?”
What advice could I offer? “Did you guys—?”
She grins. “Fuck?”
“Well, yeah.” I’d gone up to Chris’s bedroom to talk, and when I woke up in the morning both she and Ben were gone.
She tossed her mane of wavy hair back. “We had an amazing night together. I can’t believe he hasn’t called. This has never happened to me.”
“I’m sorry. He’s one of those free-spirit type of guys.”
“Could you find out what’s going on for me, Laila?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“How are things with you and Chris?”
“Good, we’re going out to New Mexico together. We both got accepted at the university there.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Far out.”
Should I tell her Ben’s going too? “Really rad, huh?”
She grabbed my arm. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Ben.”
“He’s a complicated guy.” If she only knew the half of it. “Hey, I better get back. Just stopped in to get a few clothes.” I turned toward my dorm room.
“Laila.”
“Yes.”
“How would you feel if I applied to school out there, too?”
I felt like saying, “No, no you can’t do that!” But what came out was, “Sure, why not? Maybe we can room together.”
After gathering some clothes from my room, I lumbered down the hall with them in a paper sack. I still was careful not to bring much over to Main Street at one time.
As I pushed the button for the elevator, Ka
tie reappeared next to me out of breath. “Got a minute?”
I blinked. “I really have to go. I promise to talk to Ben.”
“No, it’s not about that. I need a ride to the airport. I’m flying to Chicago for my cousin’s wedding.”
“I don’t have a car,” I said.
She pulled out a set of keys from her pocket and dangled them in the air. “It’s yours for the weekend. You just have to pick me up on Sunday night.”
“In your Saab?” I ask.
“None other. Denise was supposed to drive me, but she’s disappeared. I need to leave like now.”
AFTER DROPPING KATIE OFF at Bradley International’s departure area, I drove back to Bodine to catch up on my homework. I was surprised to find Mary Lou and a skinny girl with freckles hanging out in the hall by my room. “What’s happening?”
“Joey Costello’s back,” said Mary Lou. “His foot is all bandaged up.”
The thin girl said, “When he got off the elevator, he and Denise smooched passionately in the hall. Then they went inside the room and closed the door. Rumor is he lost a couple of toes in a snowstorm out west saving someone’s life.”
I rolled my eyes. “Really?”
Mary Lou’s fat cheeks puffed out. “He’s a true American hero. It’s so romantic.”
“A what?” How did this hero rumor get started? Joey was a schmo who lost his toes because of a drug deal gone bad. For some reason, I thought of my friend Billy Klafter who’d been killed in Vietnam. He was a schmo, too, tricked into fighting in a morally repugnant war. Did anyone consider him an American hero? At least he had died for his country. I doubt the poor guy had even lost his virginity yet.
I knocked a couple of times and said, “It’s Laila,” before inserting my key in the door.
Mary Lou’s lip jutted out. “At least give the guy time with his girl.”
I turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Good night, girls. See ya tomorrow.”