Give me the SATs any day. They’re a heck of a lot easier than this.
“No detective’s record is going to be spotless,” I argue. “Unless the guy was involved in … in drug-dealing or worse, I’m not sure looking at his records tells you anything.” I assume Connie has his records. She has contacts at the police department.
“Well, try this on for size, Pollyanna,” she seethes. “Steve Paluchek could be the reason you never knew our father.”
CHAPTER THREE
WHO NEEDS greasy fries to mess up your stomach when your sister’s pulling off a series of rapid-fire emotional punches to your gut? I start to cough on the fry I just stuffed in my mouth. After a few seconds of hacking, Doug’s brow creases.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod and get back to my phone call.
“What does that mean?” I ask Connie. I hear her heave a sigh and imagine her sitting up on the twin bed she’s slept in since childhood, now covered with an exotic Indian print I’ve begged her to leave me in her will.
Why is a woman in her late twenties still living at home, especially when said woman purportedly owns her own business? Good question, one that my sister — said woman — doesn’t like to think about.
You see, Connie had this great idea of starting her own firm after she worked a year for a small police force in western Maryland. She’s been doing okay, but not okay enough to afford her own place. She did try moving into one last year, just a couple blocks away from home, but it had so many things wrong with it — bad plumbing, capricious heating — that she ditched it as an abode and just uses it as an office. Except she really uses her bedroom more as an office than her actual office. An office address, however, looks better on her business cards than, say, “Bedroom #2” and our residential street.
“Paluchek was supposed to be on patrol the night Dad was killed,” she hisses over the phone. “Dad took his place.”
“I know that.”
“Paluchek chooses the one night of the year when something bad goes down.”
This has been a source of resentment for Connie over the years, something as constant as rain in spring or fog in fall. The first time I confronted her about the way she treated Paluchek, she coughed up the scoop she’s now repeating — Paluchek was supposed to be on patrol, not Dad. So, one can reason that Paluchek should have taken the bullet that night.
“Connie, you knew all this. We all knew it. It does not a guilty man make. Paluchek was just lucky. And Dad was—”
“Horse baloney,” she says. I hear the bed squeak as she gets up and walks across the room. A few seconds later, I hear her unzipping her attaché case. “I’ve collected quite a file on Paluchek over the years, my dear, and it’s chock full of historical goodies. He was investigated by IA right after Dad died.”
“How’d you find that out?” My eyes narrow but my skin prickles. IA is Internal Affairs.
Just because Connie’s paranoid about Steve doesn’t mean he’s clean as a whistle.
“It pays to know the person who operates the office shredder,” she says mysteriously. “They were purging files at headquarters,” she explains,” after backing up everything electronically. I got the papers before they went in the trash.”
“He was investigated for Dad’s death?” I swallow. Doug raises his eyebrows at me but continues chomping on fries.
“For things related to it. Look, what time are you coming home?”
I look over at Doug. Good question, Con. What time am I coming home? Will Doug suggest a date? Will he finally tell me he’s definitely coming up for the Junior/Senior Ball?
Without waiting for an answer, Connie continues.
“Get your butt home soon, kiddo. I want to get all our ducks in a row before Tony rolls in from Burger Boy. We can present a united front to Mom tonight.”
Connie might be crazy, but the fact that she’s asking for my help tells me all I need to know. This is serious.
I hang up and look at Doug. He’s smiling. Across the table, he reaches and gives my hand a little squeeze. His eyebrows shoot up in a question before he opens his mouth.
“You want to go to a movie tonight?”
Is the Pope German?
Yes, yes, yes, I want to go to a movie tonight. I want to sit in a dark theater and watch anything — even a mindless action flick with cars careening into walls and bursting into flames as their heroic occupants walk away unscathed. I’d watch Blue Lagoon, for crying out loud, or anything with Tom Cruise if it meant I could lean my weary head on Doug’s shoulder and pretend I was young again. You know, fifteen. Pre-SATs.
Instead, I have to do the unimaginable. I have to say …
“Sorry. Can’t. Some family thing just came up.”
My consolation prize is a dog-eyed look of disappointment from Doug. He kind of shrugs and his lower lip sticks out a little in an almost-pout. Then he looks up and suggests we wander around for a bit until it’s time to meet up with Kerrie.
It’ll have to do.
As we hold hands and roam the mall, I tell him my worries about getting into a decent college. He tells me how cool Richmond is, and he ends up talking more than I do, which is really telling you something. He, after all, is a guy, while I am a chatterbox.
I’m distracted by the phone call from Connie, though, and I’m also feeling a little left out as Doug goes on and on about all the games he’s been going to, parties he’s been attending, even interesting classes he’s been acing. Imagine that. College has interesting classes. I knew there was a reason I wanted to go. Anyway, it feels like I’m peering over the fence at a noisy, colorful party I wasn’t invited to.
So, by the time we hook up with Kerrie — in front of Victoria’s Secret — I’m not sure her little plan has had the desired effect at all. If anything, I’m more troubled than I was before, and now I’ll have to gush all the way home about how grateful I am for her efforts and how clever she is.
“We don’t have to rush home,” Kerrie says, grinning. She has several new bags in her hands. That gal sure knows how to power shop. “Or if you two want to—”
I hold up my hand, stopping that thought from pricking me. “I have to get back. Connie called and I’m supposed to be home.”
Kerrie sticks her lower lip out. “Well, maybe later you two can—”
“Nope,” I say, stopping her again. “Family thing.”
“Then maybe tomorrow, you and Doug can—”
Doug stops that one. He shakes his head. “I have to be at my aunt’s for a big brunch. And then we’re headed back to Virginia before it gets dark.”
So this is it. My — what was it, an hour maybe?—reunion with Doug. He reaches over and gives me a big hug goodbye, promises to catch up with me on the internet, and that’s that.
But still, Kerrie is beaming as Doug heads for Macy’s and the parking garage.
“You have to try these new bras, Bianca. You won’t believe how they feel — and what they do for your figure.”
Kerrie has been gabbing nonstop since we got in the car. That’s okay. Talking distracts her when she’s driving, which keeps her from freaking out. She’s still not comfortable behind the wheel, and sometimes she just stops in the middle of the street while she’s figuring out where to go or what to do.
The first 15 minutes of the drive, she peppered me with questions about Doug and, knowing what was expected of me, I gushed about how thoughtful she was for setting up the meeting, which is true, really. It’s just that sometimes Kerrie’s obsessiveness can get in the way of things.
For example, here’s what she said when I told her thanks for the umpteenth time:
“I’m so glad it worked out like I planned! I knew you’d be thrilled! Doug told me he was planning on calling you as soon as he got in, but I told him I’d set this up, and since you like to sleep late on Saturdays, I figured it was a perfect plan.”
Sigh. Yeah, I like to sleep late. But I like to talk to Doug more. Kerrie preempted that possibility with
her “perfect plan.”
Anyway, we moved on from how great the plan was to talking about what she bought — the jacket, jewelry, jeans, and the magic bras — and that’s what got us to “Kerrie’s Latest Mission” — that is, to get me inside a Victoria’s Secret, buying expensive bras that are so powerful, they’re not designed, but engineered to make you look like a Pamela Anderson even with an Olive Oyl bod.
Poor Kerrie. She’s tried makeovers with me before, usually with disastrous results. A year ago, there was The Perm. (Need I say more?) And last fall, she concocted some facial spa treatment that ended with an emergency call to a dermatologist. Amazingly, she always emerges from these events unscathed.
I don’t hold it against her, though. It’s kind of sweet, if you think about it. It must get lonely there in Beautiful Girl World. She wants to get me a passport.
When she pulls up to my house in Highlandtown, a section of row homes in the eastern part of the city with lookalike marble steps and brick fronts, she gives my arm a squeeze and smiles.
“Don’t worry, Bianca. Doug’ll come up again for the prom. And you can always take your SATs over again.”
Uh, thanks. The truth comes out. All that pumping me up about how I probably did great on the SATs? Baloney schmaloney. Kerrie knows me too well. If I believe my number two pencil and I crashed and burned, so does she.
I give her a quick smile and get out before she can deflate my ego any more.
As soon as I open the door, Connie races down the steps and grabs me by the arm.
“Where have you been? I told you to get here right away!” she practically screams.
“Hey, that hurts!” I peel her claw-like fingers from my arm and throw my purse on the table by the door. “Kerrie was driving.”
“Bianca, is that you?” my mother calls from the kitchen. Mmmmmm, something smells good in there — roast chicken, maybe. “I’m glad you’re home. We’re having company for dinner!”
Connie shoots her eyebrows up, which in Balducci language means, See, I told you so. Why didn’t you believe me? And what made you think that brown shirt does anything at all for your skin?
From the dining/kitchen area in the back of the house, Mom steps into the living room. I nearly do a double-take. She’s dressed up. She’s got on notched-hem black silk trousers and a turquoise wrap top, and her hair is curled and brushed off her face. I notice she shoves her hands in her pockets. She’s hiding the ring.
“Great!” I say, pretending I know nothing. “When will he get here?”
Connie kicks me. But Mom is too flustered to notice I said “he.” Hearing a pot boiling, she turns back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Around six. Would you call your brother and make sure he’ll be here on time?”
Connie looks at me again, grabs my arm, and drags me upstairs to her room.
CHAPTER FOUR
AS CONNIE TUGS me through her door, I find papers and photos spread all over the bed. She closes the door. And locks it.
“What is all this stuff?” I point to the files open on her spread.
“The goods on Paluchek.”
I pick up some of the papers and begin to read. My face warms and the hair on the back of my neck stands up as I realize what I’m looking at — an Internal Affairs report on how Detective Steven Paluchek was investigated, along with his partner, for being on the take years ago. Specifically, seventeen years ago. The year my father was killed.
“It says he was cleared.” I weakly point to the conclusion at the end of the report.
“All that means is they didn’t have enough evidence.” Connie snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “After that, they reassigned him. That means they didn’t trust him.”
“C’mon, you know it could just mean they thought they’d muddied the water for him and were giving him a clean start. Hey — who gave you this anyway?” I look up at her. “This stuff is supposed to be confidential. It’s a personnel file!” Connie might have connections with the person who runs the shredder, but this stuff is hot.
She tilts her head back and looks down her nose. “I’m a freakin’ investigator, Bianc. Give me some credit.”
“Kurt got it for you.” Kurt is Connie’s sometimes-boyfriend. (Hmm … I’m detecting a pattern here — the Balducci girls only seem to attract “sometimes” boyfriends. Something’s poisoned our gene pool.) Kurt’s a big hunky guy with muscles usually found only in steroid advertisements or Halloween costumes of the Incredible Hulk. And he’s kind of shady. I’m not sure exactly what he does for a living — bounty hunter, he says. Secret agent, I think. Connie’s had an on-again, off-again thing with him for a couple years now.
“Doesn’t matter where I got it,” she says defensively. Bingo. It did come from Kurt.
Connie sits down on the edge of the bed, picking up some papers and tapping them with her index finger.
“He was investigated for being on the take around the time Dad died. Then he was reassigned from homicide to traffic control—”
I grab the file from her. “Not traffic control. I remember running into him on duty once, and he was plainclothes.” Of course, there’s a big difference between seventeen years ago, when he was reassigned, and two years ago, when I ran into him.
“Well, the equivalent of traffic control,” she continues. “In fact, he kind of drifted from assignment to assignment. Like a hot potato. Nobody wanted to keep him.” She shrugs. “Couldn’t get the full file. A bridge too far.”
“He’s still working,” I say. “That has to tell us something. They would have canned him by now if they thought he was a bad apple.” It occurs to me we have now referred to our potential stepfather as both a potato and an apple. I wonder when we’ll actually refer to him as …
Ick. Will we be expected to call him “Dad”? This gets the old lump in the throat going big-time. I mean, I didn’t know my father, but he was my father. And from old photos and stories, I’ve kind of come to believe I knew him a bit. Having someone step into that Dad space, possibly expecting to be called the “D”-word — well, that’s just creepy.
Connie reads my mind. Balduccis often do this.
“I am not calling him ‘Father,’” she spits out.
“Well, no. He’s not a priest.”
“You know what I mean. Not Father, not Dad, not Daddy, not Pop, not Pa—”
“I get the picture.” I hand her back the files. “What will you call him?”
She snorts. “Defendant.”
“Connie!” I have never seen Connie so bitter. Except for once. When Tony ate the last piece of strawberry shortcake, from Herman’s Bakery no less, a couple Sundays ago.
Standing up, she scoops all the papers together into an accordion-style dossier and wraps an elastic band around them. “I’m not joking. Steve Paluchek has ‘dirty cop’ written all over him. And he was the reason our own dad isn’t here. He was supposed to be on duty the night Dad was killed. Dad took his shift!”
As much as I’ve liked Paluchek over the years, I haven’t thought a whole lot about how his life was spared and my father’s wasn’t. Dad hadn’t been scheduled to work that night. He could be here today. I’ve liked Paluchek, but the thought shifts my view, and I decide I should at least give Connie the benefit of the doubt.
As she stares at me wide-eyed, smacking the dossier in the palm of her hand, we both hear the front door open below. Tony’s voice, good-natured and husky, calls out.
“Hey, Ma, I’m home! And Steve’s here, too!”
Now it’s my turn to show saucer eyes as I realize what Connie is realizing at the very same moment. Brother Tony has always liked Steve Paluchek. If we can agree that Paluchek is a bad apple/ hot potato/demon seed/whatever — if I can consider the possibility at least — we won’t be able to count on Tony as an ally.
“We should go downstairs,” Connie says in a low voice, clearly not looking forward to it.
“Aren’t you going to — you know — clean up?” I point to her spandex
workout pants and tank top. Her brunette hair is in a tousled pony tail and her face is shiny with sweat. She must have been working out before I came home.
Connie’s not bad-looking — an inch taller than me and with a trim, muscular build — and she usually presents herself well, especially when we have company for dinner.
She sniffs at her arms. “Maybe I should go as I am. Make him think twice about coming over.”
“Con!”
“All right, all right. Give me ten minutes to throw something on. And keep an eye on him.”
“On Paluchek?” What does she think he’s going to do — steal the family treasure?
She just grimaces and nudges me out of the room, leaving me unsettled. I’ve seen my sister petulant and paranoid, but usually because of me or Tony. This is a whole new ballgame.
CHAPTER FIVE
T HE DINNER’S AS awful as you can imagine. It’s the kind of uncomfortable, awkward event in family life that makes you wonder why you never seriously considered entering a convent. At the age of twelve.
When the meal begins, both Mom and Detective Paluchek are giggling like teenagers sharing a secret. It’s sickening. I can barely touch my food — for about thirty seconds, that is. It smells too good to let anything get in the way. Mom has made a chicken casserole with gravy and biscuits on top and a salad with dried cranberries and feta cheese, and she even pours some wine for herself and Paluchek.
We say grace. (We’re what I call “elapsed Catholics.” We sometimes let weeks elapse before attending Mass, but we still pay attention to the little rituals of our faith.) We dive in. And over the clatter of stainless steel cutlery against Correlware plates, Mom breaks the news. She does it in this funny, high-pitched voice that gives me a glimpse of what she must have been like when she was younger — like me, now.
I have not become my mother. She has become me!
She says something about how she and “Steven” have been friends for a long time. And how “Mr. Paluchek” has always been a good friend of the family. “Detective Paluchek” has recently become more than just a friend. She’s agreed to marry him. And won’t we toast their future together? Connie may be jumping to conclusions about him, but she was sure right about this bit of family news.
Recovering Dad Page 2