by C. L. Donley
“Whatcha doing here, gyal?”
“I got fired.”
“Jus’ so?? Why?”
“They said I had someone punching my time card.”
“Fuh true? Did you?”
“No, mama.”
“Yuh can’ lettem bad talk you, Cynt’ya!”
“They gave me a severance. A big one.”
“Severance?”
Cynthia showed her mother the check.
“Whutta Benji say? His faddah run the place, ent?”
“His ‘faddah’ wrote deh check, mama.”
Bev took the check from her hand and examined it.
“Deh man put dis in yuh hand, Cynt’ya?”
“Yes.”
“Why? He writin’ personal checks to a gyal, eh? Does Benji know ‘dat?”
“Benji wasn’t there,” Cynthia cryptically replied.
“Yuh not stayin’ wit’ im no more?”
“No, mama. We broke up.”
“Yuh don’ make sense, gyal—”
“Benji is engaged! To be married. He didn’t tell me! I had to find out from his father! Everyone warned me about him, but I didn’t listen. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore, I don’t wanna be there anymore, he offered me a severance and I took it. Okay? Now ‘den, do yuh wanna hear deh plan, awat?”
“Who ask you ‘dat,” Bev slowly said with her eyes narrowed on her daughter, her hands slowly going to her hips. “Now I’m sorry to hear about yuh Benji. I liked dat boy. But get ‘dat back chat outcha voice an ‘den tell me de plan, gyal.”
Bev was able to get back the rent money she saved but her deposit to the apartment was lost. But for the first time in a long time, it was a hill of beans rather than a crippling setback.
They found themselves back in the van, but only temporarily. Cynthia was a wreck. She had a constant onset of jitters that couldn’t subside, not to mention a wicked broken heart, and a horrid personal rain cloud of guilt each time she tried to cheer herself up with the money or her tidy severance package.
She couldn’t sleep and when she did, she woke up in cold sweats, expecting to wake up in a modest high rise looking up at a vaulted ceiling, only to again be greeted by the sight of the felt fabric of the van’s ceiling, which only caused her more disorientation. Was that six months at the Dvorak group, those months in Ben’s arms, even real? Without the check, she would’ve had no proof.
Most days, she hoped it truly all was a dream, just so she didn’t have to face this unknown future suddenly alone and cold. The thought of food repulsed her, she started to lose weight. Her life had become an excruciating series of baby steps. If she could just make it all the way to Jersey where her mother was. Then if they could just make it to the bank. Then if they could just get the check to clear.
Bev suggested Cynthia sit down with a manager and let him handle the check, rather than going through the line. Even then they were told to “wait right here” at least a half dozen times while phone calls were made and numbers were triple checked. It could’ve been racist, but Cynthia got the feeling that having an amount of money like that released to anyone was bound to be an ordeal. Finally, Cynthia suggested they call him directly.
“I think Sol would prefer this to be handled as discreetly as possible,” Cynthia suggested. She couldn’t know what they were thinking she meant by that, but finally someone drummed up the courage to take her advice, and they were out of there in the next twenty minutes.
She opened an account while she was there just to make things easy. If the account went under $10,000, she would be charged a significant penalty. The plan was to buy a house at auction for no more than $30,000 and put no more than $50,000 into it. They simply could not go over budget. Cynthia would find another job, put off school a little longer and… the plan stopped there. They were free to live in the moment rather than swing from vine to circumstantial vine. If they could just get the right house.
“The next property up for auction is 324 Indigo Drive, 3 bedroom 2 bath, 1421 square feet, bidding starts at $15,000.”
A week later they were at the Jersey Home Auction house.
“$15,000,” Cynthia piped up in front of the auctioneer.
“You can just raise your hand, sweethawt,” the auctioneer informed her.
A few others raised their hands until only two bidders were left, Cynthia and another gentleman who looked like he knew his way around an auction. The auction went on tediously in thousand dollar increments. The housing market was still no where near recovery, only the risktakers and people with piles of cash were left.
“$40,000,” Cynthia suddenly said. Her mother grabbed her arm. With that, her opponent instantly backed off.
“Sold!” said the auctioneer.
“Looks like our budget just shrunk a bit,” Bev muttered.
“But we got it, mama! It’s ours. And no one can take it from us,” Cynthia smiled. She took her hand and gave it a victory squeeze.
Her opponent came up to them and shook their hands, a young looking guy who looked more like a former gang member than someone who would be at a house auction.
“You lovely ladies overpaid, you know that, right?”
“It was worth it,” Cynthia smiled.
“You must be an owner-occupant.”
“I am.”
“Well, I like to do a little research before these things. I’ve lived in Jersey my whole life, I know the city, and I know this house. It’s gonna need some work.”
“We know, we’re prepeared.”
“Well, if you ever need help, I know a lot of good reputable contractors and such. And in a few years, you’ll probably want to sell.”
“Trust us. We ain’t nevah movin’ again, Dan,” Bev laughed.
“Still. You never know,” the man said, retrieving a card from his pocket.
“Gabriel Alvarez,” Cynthia read the name.
“That’s me.”
“Nice to meet you, Gabriel,” she said as they shook hands.
“Everyone calls me Gabe.”
They got back in the van, just a van again and not a house, for the first time in two years. They pulled up to the modest little yellow property in Hoboken with the bay window, modest yard, and a towering tree that was sure to be a beautiful source of shade in summer.
The house had no keys, so they essentially they had to break in. Luckily the back door was open.
The house had been winterized and was as cold on the inside as it was outside. When they walked in, they couldn’t believe their eyes. Glass all over the floor. The hardwood had been deliberately damaged. Paint all over the countertops.
“Whappen here? Likkle jhanjats knockin’ about, lookin’ fuh melee, awat?”
“Not likely. Look.”
Bev turned to look at the living room wall where “F u c k P e n n y - W i l d e” was spray-painted in big black garish letters, the name of the lender that repossessed Bev’s house and apparently this one too.
“Anudda satisfied customer, ‘den.”
“Shit.”
“We needed ‘dat extra $10,000, Cynt’ya.”
“We woulda lost the house, mama.”
“Yuh heard de man. He said we overpaid!”
“For an investor, mama! He’s just gonna get another house at another auction. But this is our home. We don’t have deadlines, we got time, and we still got plenty of budget. We replace the windows, paint the walls, fill in every scratch in this floor if we have to. We fight up, we’ll be fine.”
The tour of the house got a little more dismal the more they looked. Tons of trash and clothing were left behind. The previous owner even took their rage out on the plumbing system and poured concrete down the toilets and sinks. When they opened the refrigerator it was still full of food from God only knows when. At least it was January and not July. Cynthia instantly bolted out the back door at the sight, vomiting and retching in the backyard. Bev slowly followed her out and knelt beside her with trepidation.
“Yuh need t�
�go to the hospital Cynt’ya.”
“I’m fine. It’s that fucking refrigerator, it’s disgusting.”
“Yuh haven’t eaten since you and Benji broke up,” Bev replied.
“I’ve just been anxious since I got this money that something will go wrong, that’s all. And now we have a house. It’s a mess, but that’s okay. We’re here. It’s over. Besides, we don’t even have insurance.”
Bev sighed. That’s when she had to admit that she’d failed as a parent. Cynthia’s burden was much too high and heavy. Not to mention she was starting to suspect her sudden onset of sickness was more than just a broken heart and “anxiety.” Lord, she hoped Winston wasn’t watching right now, God rest his soul.
“Whut yuh got looks like more ‘dan just tabanka Cynti. Leh we go. Now fuh now.”
Cynthia was in no state to argue. Whatever she’d thrown up couldn’t have been food. She was jittery and probably dehydrated. Wobbly, she got on her feet, leaning on her mother as they got back in the van. Even though the house had been a sitting mess that she’d never laid eyes on before today, she drove away worried that they were leaving the doors unlocked. She smiled. Next order of business was to call a locksmith.
13
Present Day
“Ms. Gordon, Mr. Dvorak is here to see you.”
“Now? In the lobby?”
“Yes ma’am. Shall I send him your way?”
“No, I’m coming out. Thanks, Jeanine.”
Cynthia feels a flurry of butterflies, a now common occurrence as she wordlessly gets up from her desk and half jogs her way to the lobby, where Ben is standing before her, smiling and holding a bouquet of flowers. The butterflies in her stomach become bees. Killer bees.
“Ben? What are you doing here?”
“You don’t sound happy to see me.”
“No… just surprised.”
He gives her a kiss on the cheek. Slowly she closes her eyes.
“I can come back.”
“No, it’s… a good a time as any, I guess. Hold my calls, Jeanine. And put these in water.”
The walk down the hallway seems as unusually long as it is quiet.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the strategic location of your office, Miss Gordon.”
She looks over her shoulder with a fond grin, stopping just before the door to give him another kiss.
“I thought you might,” she smiled. “I made sure it was well insulated.”
“Care to test it out?”
“Another time.”
When they walk through the double doors to her spacious office, Ben is startled to see a little white girl with long legs, taking up considerable room on the roomy tufted couch in the corner. Her hair is long and straight, almost stringy. She is watching some mysterious show on a medium sized tablet that seems to be about fashion.
For a good ten seconds, he is utterly clueless. Ten measly seconds, between the past and reality, before the world comes crashing down on him weighty and overwhelming. Like suddenly falling between one of the cracks in the Grand Canyon.
When Cynthia sees the knowing come across his face, she is utterly devastated. She has no words, so she sits behind her desk and holds back her emotion as much as she can for the sake of her daughter, who has absolutely no clue what is going on.
Ben still hasn’t moved. He is staring and staring. He spent enough time in the mirror to know what his own eyes look like, and she had them. He asks the question anyway.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Ella,” Cynthia announced shakily.
Eventually, Ella realizes this is no ordinary meeting at her mom’s office, and that Ben certainly looks like no ordinary client.
She sits up, looking alarmed as if she has failed to prepare for something. She looks to her mother for guidance, who isn’t much help, her own face raw with emotion. She looks up at the gentleman who is looking at her, the two of them looking at her in the same way and she comes to the logical conclusion. They are a family.
“Is this…is he my…” she finds herself afraid to say the word in case he was a stranger. She wells up at the very dilemma, relieved when her mother instantly begins nodding emphatically.
She told Ella they would meet soon. She hadn’t wanted to traumatize either of them. But she’s realizing now that that was impossible.
Ben gets down painfully on one knee, almost instinctively, so that he is just below her eye level. Ella openly weeps as she wraps her arms around Ben’s neck without any emotional barriers.
Cynthia is being stabbed with knives. She watches as her daughter’s apparently secret and desperate dream comes true, a dream that Cynthia has denied her. She can’t decipher Ben’s face, which is obscured by Ella’s arms draped over his shoulders. He slowly caresses her back with his big hands in a downward motion, instantly communicating that he is here now, and that is how it was going to be. Slowly her sobs of relief subside.
Cynthia too is lulled into a sense of security. Maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry with her. Maybe…
But the guilty rot in her stomach overwhelms her, and she is suddenly locked out of their sweet reunion.
“Ell, let me and your father talk for a second,” she says while Ella wipes her face.
“Unfortunately, I have to leave,” he says, without looking at Cynthia. Ella’s silent distress washes over him like a tidal wave.
“But I’ll be back, okay?” he directs at Ella. He touches her face as he looks in her eyes, until the fear in her expression is replaced with trust. Ella nods.
“Can I come see you tomorrow?” he asks. She nods again, giving a little laugh.
Cynthia gets up from her chair and goes around her desk as Ben is slowly back up on his feet.
“I’ll walk you out,” she says.
He doesn’t answer as he heads for the door, Cynthia hurrying on his heels. Slowly she closes the office door behind her and rushes down the hallway to keep up with him. He sure was fast, for a guy with a limp.
“I was going to tell you,” Cynthia tries to assuage him in a low voice. “After the reveal. I had to prepare her, Ben.”
Ben stops. He turns to look at her, his eyes filled with condemnation, as though her very words astound him at their selfishness. She doesn’t know if he’s expecting her to keep talking, or if he’s going to hit her.
“He told me what would happen if I contacted you,” she barely eeks.
Ben turns around and commences walking, down the hallway, across the lobby and out the door. Cynthia follows behind him, waiting until they are outside, out of earshot of her receptionist before she continues.
“You said it yourself, he could smush us like an ant.”
“That’s his granddaughter, Cynthia. He’s not a monster.”
Cynthia stops walking, but Ben doesn’t.
“He knew,” Cynthia says to his back.
Ben stops and slowly turns around.
“What?” he furrows his brow, walking back towards her.
“He found out. Of course, he found out!”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, breathing as though he would pass out. They were practically nose to nose.
“You think I built all this in five years with just 100 grand??” she snipes in a low tone as if terrified anyone else but the two of them could hear. When it’s clear she has his attention, she continues.
“That day in his office… I signed a non-disclosure. But there wasn’t anything in it about a baby. I didn’t find out myself until a few weeks later. I tried to keep it secret as long as I could. I wore baggy clothes, I barely went out because I figured out he was still having me followed. When Ella was born he… I got home from the hospital and there were flowers. He sent us money. Lots of money,” she whispered, choked up as if right back there again. “If I didn’t spend it, he sent more. If I didn’t cash the checks, he wired it. He was fucked and he knew it. It was getting out of his control. It freaked us out how much he was freaked out.”
> “So you kept taking the money, and you kept my daughter from me.”
Cynthia takes a breath, waiting to see if Ben will let her explain. She doesn’t want to. Her mouth fills with excuses and she wants to throw up.
“Mom started getting sick…” it pains Cynthia to acknowledge, to relive, but she needs him to understand. “She couldn’t work, she didn’t have insurance… she didn’t even want to go to the hospital, she just wanted to spend as much time with Ella as she could before she…” her voice trails off, and for a moment Ben thinks she might actually throw up.
“He paid for the treatments. He paid for everything. So she could be home. And then when she… I wasn’t planning on being some big-time designer. I sold the house for triple what we bought it for, and I figured I could do the same thing again and again. I didn’t have a choice, really. I was 22 and the only person I had in the world was gone. School was definitely off the table after all that. I couldn’t stand getting handouts from your father. I vowed to pay him back and he just kept making the debt unpayable. It was unbearable. Whatever I didn’t use to start Indigo Properties went into a trust fund for Ella.”
“I don’t hear anything about you contacting me.”
“…I couldn’t risk it until I knew we were safe. Until Indigo Properties was safe.”
“Ten years, Cynthia? Ten.”
“You kept getting engaged, the Dvorak Group was always in the news. Sometimes I would see you on the street—”
“That’s your excuse? You thought I was, what, too unstable?”
“If you would’ve rejected her, then I would’ve literally had to kill you,” Cynthia patiently tries to explain, her hands pressed together as if in prayer. “I would’ve risked putting my neck out there for nothing, and then I would’ve had to kill you, if your dad didn’t kill me first. And then I would be in jail and she would have no one. It was just easier for you to not know.”
“Ten years! Cynthia!” he exclaims, his tone is so mournful that Cynthia’s heart breaks.
“He made me think you were the bad guy, that you toyed with women like me all the time…”