by Mara White
Later, I woke up in the tub; my ma had me cradled, rubbing some kind of salve on my backside.
“Fuck, naw. Ma. Stop!” I jumped into my pants, ignoring the searing burn of the welts that covered me. I was still wet and so was the blood. “Sorry I ruined your birthday,” I said as she sobbed. I re-slicked my hair quickly with my dad’s comb and glanced at the clock.
“Danny, please!”
“Don’t wait up for me,” I said and I leaned down to kiss her head. She was good to me and she deserved better. I could hear my dad snoring as I rushed down the stairs two at a time. I could kill him, and not for hitting me—I’d kill him for settling.
I peeked out the window by the door as I threw my jacket over my shoulder.
A Caddy was idling just a few cars up the street. Piccione was inside and the guy they called The Music Maker sat next to him, puffing on a cigar. Who knew then that by the tender age of seventeen, The Music Maker would have me digging holes all over Long Island to bury the bullet-riddled bodies he often carried in his trunk? But by then, I’d had my first taste of power and already started on a journey that I’d always known I was destined for.
That birthday, Ma ran down the stairs with the Waterford crystal in a bag.
“Danilo, take it back. I don’t want trouble, please.” She was crying and flushed, her nightgown still stained with my pink blood diluted from the water in the tub.
“I’ll bring you more. Just you wait and see!” I said. “I’m gonna do big things, Ma. People are gonna respect me.” I kissed her goodbye and ran off down the street.
I didn’t know it then but it was the last time I would sleep in their house. The last time my dad would ever try to steer me in the right direction by beating his lessons into my bones.
Ten years later, the man was too proud to ask for me on his deathbed. He summoned the local parish priest and begged him to have mercy on my soul instead of his. Still, despite the differences, he left me everything he had. The first loading dock in the shipyard I owned was the product of a lifetime of his hard work. That’s what honesty can get you—an early grave from a nasty case of tuberculosis and one goddamned container yard. But I took what he had and made it into something.
And looking back, I probably never would have left had he treated me well. Most of my ambition was born out the fear of becoming as bland as he was. I wanted to stir things up, leave the world with my mark on it and then some. That same night I left, I moved up in the organization. I took a vow of loyalty and set up shop with some gangsters. That very year I met Sal, who later introduced me to Tony. Indigo I dragged with me, kicking and screaming in a short tie and his Catholic school uniform. And look at him now. Look at how far all of us have come.
The glass ceiling wasn’t metaphorical or ironic. Danny hired plenty of women in the corporate offices and the yards themselves employed not only minorities, but immigrants from every far-reaching corner of the earth. It was quite literally a ceiling made of glass.
And although the atrium was open one hour of every day for tourists to tromp all over the glass from above or snap shots of everyone’s feet from below, it wasn’t about architecture either.
The fortune it cost to design, let alone to construct, was more than I would earn in a whole lifetime of working there. It was beautiful in its own way, as a room that was invisible, transparent, hidden in plain sight. Danny had it built precisely to his instruction. You had to take the elevator up one flight and there was nothing on the first floor, minus his glass paradise. There was a waterfall, and tropical plants and flowers, all housed as a back-drop to the glass floor and catwalks. Upon exiting the elevator numerous plaques warned everyone to heed the dress code: No skirts or dresses were to be worn on the first floor. I’m sure this excluded some groups of people and they could have found it to be discriminatory, but Danny made the rules and he was strict about everyone adhering to them.
Minus the busloads of tourists for that one hour, the first floor of the atrium was mostly unused—nobody went up there. In fact, the elevator was only programmed to stop there during that one hour allotted for tourists.
The floor and the catwalks were composed of almost seamless glass, so that it gave the appearance of walking on nothing—an invisible floor to both the tourists above and those gawking below. It looked like whoever was on the first floor was walking on thin air. The illusion was magic–it made your hair stand on end and your stomach do somersaults. But everyone who worked at Montclair avoided it. It might have been a great place to eat lunch, but no one ever did. I went up once on a general tour of the building with Danny and never went back.
Not long into our relationship I became privy as to why Danny went to extremes to build such an extravagant but useless architectural addition. Like I said, it wasn’t a metaphor and it wasn’t there as bait to bring in the tourists. It fulfilled one purpose only and it was very personal. Danny built a glass floor to bring to life a kinky sexual fantasy he’d harbored since childhood.
It was over dinner at a candlelit Italian place—intimate, at a little round table all the way in the back. We were drinking, well into our second bottle of Chianti, and I was already a bit tipsy. Danny got a text from Tony and smiled.
“Tony,” Danny said and then looked up at me.
“I can’t believe that man has been all over me,” I said, remembering the club, the table, the breast worshiping and how wet it made me.
“You would have fucked him if I had told you to. You would have come all over Tony’s cock. Begged for it, in fact.”
I felt flushed because Danny was right and warm because I loved it when he talked dirty. But Danny didn’t let Tony do it; he’d wanted me all to himself.
“Which one of my brothers would you want inside you?” He took a sip of wine. His face was as smooth, he believed it to be a completely reasonable question.
“None! I only love you.”
Danny chuckled at my response, like I was an amusing child. “Really? I’m talking about fantasies, Sunshine, they don’t have to be real. Desire isn’t a shameful thing like society would have us believe. Desires are treasures, they are the beautiful secrets we hold deep. Sharing your desires and fantasies with someone can be the most intimate act there is.”
I nodded my head solemnly.
“Sunshine, share your desires with me.”
I got chills when he said it because I was scared of what lay at the bottom of Danny’s well. His fantasies had to be extreme because he was such an intense, not to mention experienced, person.
“I would have preferred one of the men who set up the card game,” I blurted out and then quickly bit my lip. I didn’t want Danny to become angry with me. I was embarrassed for saying it.
But instead, he threw his head back and laughed. He was delighted at my answer and his hand snaked around my waist. He couldn’t stop laughing. He even brought his napkin up to blot at the tears in his eyes.
“The Hispanic one, with the awful tattoos?” he asked.
I nodded my head, my worry dying down because he was clearly amused.
“I guess there is still some residual from the trailer park. The broke-ass kid with the tattoos is the one you’d want to fuck?”
I nodded again and Danny found it hilarious.
“I’m sorry, Sunshine, I can’t stop–” His eyes teared again at the notion and I couldn’t help but break into a smile.
“Tony and Indigo are worth millions, Sal is worth more than me. They could hand you mink coats on a yacht with the bat of an eye, but you, Sunshine, you—like the greaser from the Bronx.”
I pouted a little because now he was laughing at me. “What’s your fantasy, big shot? Maybe I’ll think it’s funny!”
He held a napkin to his face and got his hysterics under control. “You’re right, Peach. I’m sorry. I do have a fantasy and it’s funny you mention it because I was hoping you could fulfill it for me. Actually, I need you to fulfill it as soon as possible.”
He was suddenly seri
ous and the unease returned. I didn’t want it to involve other people. Knowing Danny, his fantasy was probably dark and dangerous. A gang-bang or something violent. I didn’t think I wanted any part in it.
“It involves the glass ceiling at Montclair. What do you say to that, Sunshine? Would you indulge me?”
A tendril of fear curled in my stomach, but there was also the nip of a thrill. I wasn’t certain I trusted the look in Danny’s eyes but I found myself nodding.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to, Danny.”
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Mara White is a contemporary romance and erotica writer who laces forbidden love stories with hard issues, such as race, gender and inequality. She holds an Ivy League degree but has also worked in more strip clubs than even she can remember. She is not a former Mexican telenovela star, contrary to what the tabloids might say, but she is a former ballerina and will always remain one in her heart. She lives in NYC with her husband and two children and yes, when she’s not writing you can find her on the playground.
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While she’s in the bathroom, I chug one last bottle of water before we head out, per Bridget’s request. I’m happy and feeling good. Bridget and I had a great time tonight at our engagement party. She’s laughing up a storm as we get into the car. As we pull out to make the hour drive home, she cranks the radio. “Regulate” is playing. We both sing along and laugh. Bridget holds my hand between good songs. Her new engagement ring sparkles every so often and makes me feel proud. Snow has started to drop down from the sky. The back roads are dark and twisty and unlit but it’s the fastest way home, which is still another ten minutes out. The moment I hit the brakes, I know something is wrong. It’s like my brain isn’t talking to my leg fast enough or maybe the road is too icy. I stomp down harder on the brake. I stomp down. Bridget screams next to me.
I gently hold the matchbook between my thumb and index finger in my pocket. It’s worn and frail now, but it still anchors me. I’m standing next to the truck in the driveway. I blink twice.
Doctor’s appointment.
Groceries.
Unloading.
Right.
I hate it when I zone out like that. I’ve been fatigued lately.
“Hey, Dad,” my son says, as he brushes past me with bags of groceries. I grab an armload and follow him in.
“Luke—” I say, as he sets them on the counter. He turns and pushes his too long hair from his eyes. I need to remember to get him to the barber.
“You ready for a night of fun, old man?”
I laugh and shake my head no. “It’s just a birthday. No need to get crazy.”
“Yeah. Well, a birthday means cake, at the very least. Oh, can I have twenty bucks? Dillon and Max and I want to go to a movie later.”
“Who’s driving and what movie?” I ask, while putting dry goods away.
“Dillon’s mom is going to drive us and I don’t know yet.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You don’t know yet?” I wait expectantly for his response, even though I know it’s not worth it. It’s rare that teenagers have answers to anything these days.
“What? We’ll just decide when we get there,” Luke shrugs. If I try really hard. If I dig down to the recess of my forty-five year old brain, I can almost remember what it was like to be a fifteen year old boy.
“Okay,” I tell him.
Luke puts groceries away with minimal complaints, while I start dinner. It’s just the two of us now and although he misses his mom and God knows I do, too—she was much better at parenting than I—we do well together. Then again, we’ve had the last five years to get our routine just right. When he’s finished with the groceries, he sets out two place settings at the kitchen island. It is rare for us to use the dining room anymore. It seems too formal for us. It’s reserved for Friendsgiving and Christmas Eve. I dish out the chicken cacciatore to each plate, before joining him.
“Did you post it yet?” he asks, between bites. He sounds like a savage beast when he eats. His mother would be horrified. I really need to remember to chastise him more about that. What happens when he takes a girl out for dinner and eats like that?
“No. And chew with your mouth closed.” Luke gives me a lopsided grin. Never mind. If girls run for the hills over his poor table manners, it saves me a world of stress over worrying about him knocking her up by mistake. Chew away, son, chew away.
“Dad, come on. Just post it. Seriously, it’s like a one in a gazillion chance that anything will come of it.”
I finish chewing my bite; mouth closed. I think dinner needs more pepper. “I know. I know,” I answer. He’s right, though. I could put it out there into the great interweb and it may never even be seen. The odds . . . well the odds are not in my favor at all. I’m not sure which is more comforting—knowing that nothing may come of it or the fact that it could find its way to her.
“I mean, just, you know, time and all that. Plus your birthday is a good time to do something like that. Mom always said . . .”
“Birthdays are good luck,” we finish in unison, which makes Luke grin again. The kid has the easiest smile I’ve encountered.
It looks just like his mother’s. Wide and genuine and kind. He’s a good kid, with a lot on his plate. Rory’s death hit him hard. I don’t want to think about his mother. Not right now anyways. And I don’t want to think about time. “What time is Edie picking you up?”
“Seven thirty,” he answers. I nod my head and clear the dishes, while Luke cuts two massive slices of birthday cake for us. He stabs a candle into the center of one slice and licks the stray frosting off his fingers. He pulls something out of his pocket and slides it across the countertop to me.
I unwrap the newspaper wrapping and smile. A matchbook from Sloane’s. How he managed this one, I have to know.
“Thanks, Luke! This was the missing one.” I run my free hand across my salt and pepper hair. Life’s funny like that, sneaking up on you, adding lines and colors to your body that didn’t used to be there. Forty-five. I’ve already loved and lost and loved again and lost again, but still feel like I have lifetimes left to live but I don’t want to do it alone. Dating scares the pants off me. I haven’t done it in so long, I’m not sure I can anymore. There’s too much baggage. Too much history to share. Too much hassle.
“I know. I had to mow the guy who hadn’t done his lawn for three weeks to get that, but it was worth it, to complete the collection.” Luke’s smile is shy and he won’t really look me in the eye. He’s going through the I-don’t-really-do-touchy-feely-talk-about-my-emotions stage. It’s been an adjustment from the mama’
s boy Rory left me with, but we’re making it work.
I’ve collected matchbooks for the last twenty years. The goal started as one from every diner in the great State of New York. After Luke was walking and talking, we decided to collect them from anywhere we travelled. But the Sloane’s matchbook was the very last diner in New York that we needed. People don’t really make matchbooks to give out anymore. It’s a shame. They’re like mini postcards. Memories. I put the matchbook aside for the moment. Luke lights the one candle and sings terribly and loudly the Happy Birthday song for me. I blow out the candle and this year, I make a wish. But I can’t tell because then it might not come true.
Luke finishes his cake just in time for his pick-up. Dillon’s mom, Edie, honks the horn and Luke leaps from his chair. He slaps me on the shoulder and yells happy birthday on his way out the door. I sigh and lean back in my chair. The house is still.
Quiet.
Lonely.
I put the radio on the Nineties station. I rinse all the plates from dinner and dessert and load them into the dishwasher. “Regulate” comes on. A chill runs through me and I shudder. I touch my hand to my pocket. To the matchbook and then I resolve to make my birthday wish come true.
It’s time.
New York >Fairfield >personals >missed connections post
The last day of 1995—m4w
I met you in the snow on the last day of 1995, the same day I decided to kill myself.
One year prior, I’d killed my fiancé, and a mother, a father and a daughter. We were at a party and I was intoxicated when I drove my fiancé and me home. Only I was the only one who ended up making it home. The lives and families I’d destroyed in that accident, haunted me. They still do.