by Lynn S.
But her father, a hard man, just reminded her, “Fata prostata—” Pappa Popescu found every opportunity to call her a stupid girl “—we must continue. That ship will not wait for us. Your mother is saying her goodbyes and you want to keep her here; selfish as you have always been. Say goodbye and see she dies in peace. It is more than what I can guarantee for you or me if we end up in the hands of those damned hunters.”
The man spat on the floor, blood and saliva touched the ground.
“Pappa, we can bury her. We can use one of the boxes.” Adriana raised a scrawny arm to one of the four boxes they carried. The wood smelled of humid earth and a bit of decay, but it was better than leaving her mother curled up like a dead dog under an olive tree. It was the human thing to do, what she deserved. The man simply grabbed Adriana by the shoulder and, digging his nails deep in her flesh, pushed her toward her agonizing mother.
Adriana swore he’d pay for the years of abuse that found a pinnacle in what he made her do that night. Holding onto her mother, the blonde girl kissed the dying woman’s cheeks, closing her eyes, burying her tearstained face in the curve of her neck, sobbing. She took all her mother had left to give, even the cold that crept through her skin. Adriana Popescu said goodbye to her humanity that night when her mother was no more.
No one…no one could ever give her back what she lost that evening. Not the lovers who would eventually cross her path, or the man who held her down enough to marry her, change her name, and give her a daughter. Whenever Marissa, curious about Adriana’s side of the family asked her about them, she simply answered, “Mariushka, I don’t speak about the dead. It all happened eons ago if you ask me. They are no longer here and I don’t even remember their faces. We are here for the now, sweetheart. My bridges are all burned, and I don’t like turning ashes.”
Adriana lied. About everything, to everyone. It was something she had grown used to. She remembered all those moments. Every goddamned day, and most of all, the nights that brought her the freedom she so craved.
While her family, originally from Romania, came to America to live in the Eastern European enclave of Kingston, New Jersey, the girl with platinum hair and curious green eyes decided to explore livelier places.
It took her an eternity for her figure to start showing signs of puberty, but when the time finally came, there was no doubt she had the right curves in all the right places. Her wiry frame filled out quite nicely and her legs, long and shapely, became quite an attribute. Heavy yet wide waves of platinum hair fell halfway down her back. In time, people became curious about her, talking in whispers, trying to figure out why her father kept her to himself, isolated from her peers. Pappa Popescu had no other remedy than to allow Adriana some leeway, so as to keep gossip and nosy neighbors out of their business.
Adriana was quick to take a chance. For years, she remembered no more than the terrible feeling of hopelessness that assailed her when the sun peeked through her window. She hated the march of days, subdued to her father’s will. Once she could distance herself from Pappa Popescu, even a bit, the young woman decided to move to New York City with some friends.
Freedom was limited, as even in the distance she belonged to her father. Her friends, though close to her in age and taste, were not really her own. They were people carefully chosen to help her father keep track of every move she made. The community paid respect to Popescu, following rules no one spoke of and yet were enforced in a land far away from their place of birth.
At first she was sad. Pappa opened the door to her cage, yet made sure to clip her wings, but New York made her confidence grow. Soon enough, she was the best of girls by day while at night, her precious, unsupervised time was spent on 42nd Street. She discovered that it was easy to convince bar patrons that she didn’t only belong, but deserved to be there. Somehow, the compelling nature of her voice and those green eyes that sparkled in her oval face charmed those she allowed into her circle to do her bidding. It was easy to ask, and even easier to receive certain attentions; gifts that included money and jewels, things that she stashed away and saved, waiting for a chance to really run.
She had to work, just like all of them did, and Adriana soon found a way to make connections outside of her close-knit community. That, and her nightly excursions were things she managed carefully, as notes on her progress where sent to Pappa on a weekly basis and a monthly visit was required, as to tend to his needs.
Her father was harsh and never measured words. Why should he? It wasn’t like he cared to weigh his actions against others either. During one of her visits, he plainly told her that if he were to catch her doing something, anything out of the ordinary as to expose them both, he would gladly drive a dagger in her heart until blood congealed, sticky and blackened.
Adriana had seen enough in Romania, and in her mother’s eyes, to testify for the veracity of that statement. He might even revel in it, maddened as her father was. His favorite phrase, one he concocted by quoting from the Bible and his own paranoia, was something along the lines of, “It is quite reasonable to see one die to protect the many in times that call for common sense amongst men and monsters.”
Adriana always asked herself which one her father was—man or beast. Pappa Popescu seemed to scorn all the so-called freedoms of this new world. He cherished anonymity and never really rested, looking over his shoulder, drowning in his madness. But he was her father, in more ways than one. Pappa had his daughter safely held to the ground, as pinned with an iron bar.
The daughter had to comply with her family’s demands, and that was why she got herself a job at a restaurant near the train station on 30th Avenue. She was well liked, even had a couple of tricks up her sleeve that kept the costumers coming. For example, it was customary of her to commit all to memory, letting go of pen and booklet. The platinum blonde never failed, no matter how big the party or how many items people ordered off the menu; quick service and a smile were guaranteed. She never forgot a face or a name, making her regulars feel important. After all, most of these people spent their lives being nothing but a number in a productivity report. It was her business to make them feel at home.
And because she enjoyed memorizing names and faces, one day, Adriana discovered two particular clients, men who would become entangled in her life in different measures. Both met at the restaurant’s bar every Thursday afternoon. One of them, tall with gorgeous thick and wavy dark brown hair, olive skin, and mischievous green eyes, sat in a relaxed manner, body forward, hands firmly holding onto his drink. Sometimes he’d order white wine, which he’d never taste. But dipping his finger in the clear liquid and running it on the edge of the glass, the man seemed entertained with making the crystal sing a tune of sorts. Adriana found this odd and distracting. The green-eyed man was the only one who made her grab paper and pen; just because he managed to throw her off, it didn’t mean she’d give in and return to ask him once more about his order.
“One of these days,” he said with a smile, “you’ll write your phone number on a napkin and I will be able to show my friend that I am every bit as good as I say.”
He had a cocky smile, but still enchanting enough to get Adriana thinking about the possibilities. His game was interrupted by his companion, who was obviously embarrassed by his forwardness. The other man simply held onto his coffee or whiskey with white knuckles.
“Bastian, if you were to be so kind as to flirt on your own time, I’d be more than grateful,” his friend mumbled.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Adriana clicked her tongue and then bit her lip in half a smile. “I guess we are even now. I have a name. I bet I can get your number faster than you’ll find out mine.” And she simply walked away, allowing her coquettish walk to answer any other questions.
It was a game she loved to play, but Adriana knew better. It was in her nature to pay attention to detail and never let herself go. The last thing she wanted was to draw unwanted attention. A nice enough stranger might find himself suddenly thrown into the ring with her fa
ther and his never-ending cycle of blood and violence. Though everything dictated she should keep away, her curiosity got the best of her eventually.
Thursday after Thursday those two men came to her section of the restaurant and ordered mostly drinks. She knew for a fact that the dark-haired one wouldn’t sit in any place else, and that he paid in advance to reserve his table of choice; while the other one, the tall, copper-haired one, though indifferent, at the end played along. It told her that copper needed of brown, and not the other way around.
In a couple of weeks, she got their full names. The ever worried one was Neil O’Reilly, a man who kept to himself but couldn’t help if his face showed up once in a while in a business column. Adriana was delighted in testing her fact-finding skills. One down, one to go. O’Reilly’s friend troubled her. She couldn’t find out much, even after the man confided his nickname: Bastian. She even followed them once, granting their coming and goings outside of Astoria might lend some clues. It was not difficult. The city had a hundred streets, and out of her work uniform, clad in winter clothes, Adriana could be just any other girl. And if they ever noticed, well, she could rely on that silver tongue of hers to convince them their encounter was nothing if not casual. In the end, she discovered that her dark-haired obsession, the playboy who tipped heavily, was called Sebastian Salgado, and that confident disposition that was borderline arrogant came via his Portuguese ancestry. There was no such thing as a well-kept secret.
It is a bad thing to pretend to outshine them all…Saint Sebastian, not in your line of work, Adriana thought, amusing herself. After all, she was quite sure the man was not the Wall Street type he pretended to be. Finance guys didn’t come for drinks at Astoria. That was a fact. What was painfully obvious, though, was that the man who accompanied Bastian in his incursions on 30th Avenue was a legitimate businessman. Neil O’Reilly held onto his whiskey or coffee as though by partaking, he could be granted access to Queens. His leather shoes alone could afford a month’s salary for some of the patrons of her corner restaurant. Curious indeed. Neil was a man willing to walk lengthy distances to keep a secret meeting, and that was enough for Adriana to draw a line.
She decided not to bother him, though that meant not crossing Bastian as well. She’d leave them be, watching their theater unfold. Better to make up stories for those mysterious drinking buddies than to lose them altogether. She found them entertaining, and fun was hard to come by.
Chapter VII
Neil O’Reilly
The autumn of 1983 was not one Neil O’Reilly thought about fondly. His mother died the previous summer and by the time leaves started to fall from the trees, he had also lost all connection with his sister, Tricia. Looking back, he could say the terrible turns of events started on his wedding night, a year prior.
His honeymoon was interrupted by terrible, unexpected news: his father had committed suicide the night of the reception. Police officers knocked at his Plaza suite, as Isabel and Neil were getting ready to check out and catch an airport shuttle. Their sober stances and grim demeanor spoke of bad news before they even verified if he was, in fact, Nathan O’Reilly’s next of kin.
The decision to stay was immediate and Isabel stood by his mother’s side, the newlywed comforting the recently widowed, as it was expected. He had married well; Isabel was a good woman. As his wife took his mother’s hands in hers and calmed her with soothing words, the widow O’Reilly grounded her relationship with the young woman, and soon, even Tricia, her own daughter, was not enough for the grieving widow. She did away with her almost completely as Isabel became her rock. Neil’s sister complained about it, just to receive quite a dry response from her brother.
“Am I wrong, or are you complaining about my wife’s gentleness? Tricia, I won’t even take this into consideration because you too are hurt. It has been months, all right, but Dad died, and it was not just any good old death. You must be as overwhelmed by it as I am, even more. That is just us, now imagine Mom. She will take time to heal. So let’s leave this for another day.”
“I will not be dismissed, Neil.” Tricia was as resolute as ever to make a case of it. “That woman and her mother are like black birds, smothering Ma. It is not good for her to grieve all day the way she does, and all they seem to do is push her further into it. They have no right to keep her away from us all, and those drapes in the room and on the mirrors…it is morbid.”
“I see Mother every day, and so will you if you decide to stay. She is just spending time with me now. When she is ready, she will go back to Ireland, and that’ll be it.”
“And I wish I could stay here, brother, but that wo—” Tricia decided to switch tone mid-sentence as Neil’s stare became intense. “Isabel, sometimes she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention and it is not even…she looks cross and…hungry, as if craving something she can’t quite have.”
Tricia didn’t mean to use those words, as it was not her intention to touch her belly, unconsciously protective of the child she carried, being four months pregnant, but her words were not lost on Neil.
“This conversation is over, Tricia! I’ll give it to you, you are pregnant and nervous and hormonal and whatever it is that you women go through. I get it, you would like Mother to be with you, and you will have your way because, married or not, you are still a spoiled little brat. So guess what, take Mom with you, go back to Dublin with your husband. Something tells me he grants you to come here every two months or so because he just can’t stand you. Do whatever you want, but if you ever want to visit my house again, you will ask for my wife’s forgiveness.”
Tricia left for Ireland the next day. Mrs. O’Reilly didn’t go with her. She told her daughter to give her a couple more months, promising she’d be back in Dublin for the birth of her grandson. Neil’s younger sister never told her about the rift with her brother, but the calls grew scarce, and when she contacted the O’Reilly household in New York, she never crossed words with her brother or her sister-in-law.
The said couple of months went by and as generations of O’Reilly men before him, Neil lost himself in matters of work, so as to ignore the situation brewing at home. When his mother asked to return to Ireland, the son felt terrible about it. The time spent in New York didn’t do her any good at all. His mother looked beaten, stricken down, sickened with an ailment that affected not only her body, but her character as well. She became silent, sadder, and more defeated than he thought she’d ever allow herself to be.
Neil’s mother had some sort of affliction that was eating at her from the inside. As she crossed the Atlantic, she developed a fever that made her skin burn for six years, until the day she died. The woman became delirious, and in moments of clarity, she’d summon Tricia to her room and recount vivid dreams about a man with dark hair and even darker eyes and pale skin that acted as a mask for his real face. She’d tell her about gardens blooming at night and dangerous ivy creeping through the walls, draining the flowers of their lively color while they slept, cradled between their leaves. Her vision was haunted by beautiful creatures with terrible smiles and the hum of fine black feathers.
Mother O’Reilly died the last day of summer, as Tricia thought it wise to take her out into the yard to make the best of one more precious day in the sun. Her daughter found her crumpled in her seat, her tea cold and untouched.
As Tricia touched her dead mother’s cheek, she seemed warm, even if for a moment. The fever that possessed her, unknown in origin, kept her skin clammy and cold. When her daughter parted her from the scarf she wore almost daily, she noticed three small marks on the base of her neck. Tiny pokes grew infected before her very eyes, turning an angry red and suppurating greenish mucus before settling into the gray expected of dead tissue. Whatever had been killing her for six years finally showed its face.
Neil had been following his mother’s condition, and when he received that final, dry and cold call from Tricia, he knew it was completely done as far as his sister was concerned.
; The death of his mother tore apart everything they still had in common, and now all they had was distance and quite different lifestyles between them. During the years of his mother’s convalescence, Neil visited his mother twice, always in Isabel’s company. Though he was free to see the ailing woman, his sister was never there, leaving him in the company of nurses and caretakers to fill him in. Now Tricia didn’t even have to do that. Neil didn’t even get to meet his nephews. At first it was painful, but eventually, it was all displaced as Isabel became the center of all his attentions.
***
The O’Reillys of Manhattan had been married for six years. Right before the vows it was determined that Isabel would be a housewife, as she suggested her priority was to have children. Neil was happy with that and never doubted being able to provide for as many sons and daughters as they might conceive, but children never came. He saw her mounting distress and neither social engagements nor the prospect of joining the workforce seemed to please her as Isabel became fixated on that one goal.
Neil suggested specialists that she’d agree to visit and then wouldn’t commit to. It was odd, taking into consideration that he quickly settled into the idea of it being just the two of them while she hadn’t. One afternoon, while on the terrace of their Madison Avenue apartment, Neil thought of suggesting something he deemed natural, yet it developed into an angry argument that changed the course of his marriage in a most definite way.
“Isabel, sweetheart. It hurts me to see you this way, so aggravated by something that it is out of our hands. Though I understand not all women see children as something necessary, it is obvious to me that you count yourself as empty without a child. Would you take into consideration adoption? With our position and solvency, it won’t be a problem at all. We could open our home to a child within just a couple of months.”