Carried Away

by P. Dangelico

  “Which one is he staying in?” I ask as I watch Turner’s back disappear around the corner. “Wait, let me guess––the Poe?”

  “The Hemingway.”

  Dammit. That’s the one next to mine.

  “What are your plans, now that you’re back?”

  The dreaded parental third-degree. I knew it was coming. Nan made dinner, her signature meatloaf, and I’m shoveling down the third slice when it starts. I look across the kitchen table with my fork suspended in mid-air. My father’s expression is carefully neutral…for now.

  Behind him, hanging on the wall, a new painting keeps stealing my attention. It’s a winter landscape, austere and minimalistic but stunning in its simplicity. My eyes keep wanting to rest there.

  “Nice painting.”

  “You should tell Jake. It’s one of his,” Dad casually informs me.

  The surprise it written on my face. Wow, I’m batting a big fat goose egg with that guy. He’s not a bad painter, he’s an amazing one. “Eh, hard pass.”

  “Why exactly did ya get fired?” Nan cuts in. Her expression is far from neutral. While Dad treads softly, Nan stomps around a topic with steel toed combat boots and kicks it in the balls.

  “Umm…a tweet.” I fill my mouth and chew. Stalling is my friend right now.

  “A tweet?” my grandmother barks back.

  “Yeah, you know––Twitter. Have you heard of it, Nan?”

  “Is that what the President does? Sending those little messages?”

  This has all the makings of a super awkward conversation. “Uh, yeah, pretty much.”

  “You lost your job over one of those little messages?” she repeats in total disbelief. Nan is turning 81 in July. She thinks the “world has gone to shit,” as she has repeatedly tells me. I don’t blame her one bit.

  “Yep.”

  “What did you tweet?” Dad says, jumping back in, his attention on me too acute for comfort.

  “I…I…Remember when I broke the story out of college?”

  “The quarterback? The one who beat his wife?” Dad adds.

  “Girlfriend. Yes.” Dad’s not much of a football fan. Baseball and NASCAR have always been his thing. “He died in an accident two months ago and…and I posted the article I wrote. I tried to remind people that he wasn’t exactly a great guy.”

  Silence. I don’t hear a peep out of them for two whole minutes. In the meantime, I’m sweating. This could go either way. What will not happen is that we’ll just move on to a different topic. Because if there’s one truth I would stake my life on, it’s that nobody ever keeps their opinions to themselves in my family.

  “You lost your job because you told the truth?” Nan is a freaking role model. “What kinda shit is that?” Except for the cussing. Nan cusses a lot.

  “Mother…”

  I’m convinced Gene was an anointed saint in a past life. I’ve never heard him utter a single off-color word or remark.

  “What? I’m sorry if it offends your lily white sensibilities, son, but this country is officially dead if a person can lose a job for being truthful.”

  “When did this happen?” Dad doesn’t look as convinced of my righteousness as Nan.

  “The day of his accident. Everyone on social media was talking about it.”

  “Carrie...”

  “Dad, they were talking about his Super Bowl wins instead of the fact that he beat a woman.”

  “The man has family, Carrie. Parents––maybe siblings. Was he married?”

  As a matter of fact, he had gotten married. I remember the shock of seeing the wedding pictures on TMZ and the Daily Mail. He tied the knot six months after winning his third Super Bowl, a mere year and a half after the arrest.

  I absently nod.

  “I’m not defending the guy, sweetie. He hurt a woman and the law should’ve seen to an appropriate punishment. But think of his family…they’re blameless in all this. They’re the ones you hurt by going after him.”

  Dad and his moral high ground. I can always count on him to make me feel like a gutter rat.

  “Dad, I don’t want to discuss this anymore. I honestly don’t think I did anything wrong and they fired me for it.”

  A moment of silence falls once again. Then Dad sighs. “Well, I need help around here. Maggie’s retirement snuck up on us.”

  “She told us last year,” Nan announces, throwing Dad under the bus. Then she winks at me and I bite the inside of my cheek to hide the smile.

  “Be that as it may, I didn’t prepare for it. Maybe I was in denial. Maggie did everything around here…” Dad leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his craft beer. “I’ll pay you half of what I was paying her.”

  That’s almost as much as I was making at my old job. Journalism does not pay in the monetary sense. And without the expense of rent, I can build a nice little savings account pretty quickly. Which means I can move back to L.A. faster than I had anticipated. The worst is finally behind me.

  “Throw in health insurance and we have a deal.”

  By ten, I’m back at the Austen, showered, and tucked in bed scrolling through my Twitter account. I don’t know why I continue to torture myself with it, but I do. As painful to revisit as they are, I read each and every one of the life-threatening direct messages and nasty comments and start blocking those accounts. I refuse to cave to the vicious mob and delete my account. It would imply that I did something wrong and despite what my father thinks I don’t believe I did. Besides, If you can’t stand the court of public opinion, you have no business being in a line of work that gets you this level of scrutiny.

  The sound of the shower running gets my attention. It’s coming from the wall that my headboard butts up against.

  Turner…Jake…Scrooge, whatever, is turning in early. Or maybe he has a gentleman friend coming over. God help that poor soul. And God help me if I have to listen to them doing the dirty.

  The cottages were built in pairs, sharing a common wall, which unfortunately leaves little to the imagination. Another sound, that of the toilet flushing, makes me yearn for ear plugs. I make a mental note to include disposable ones in the welcome basked for guests.

  The thought of Turner entertaining someone piques my curiosity, however. This is usually quite easy to accomplish, but until this moment I hadn’t had the time nor the wifi available to pursue that lead.

  With his sparkling personality, I can’t imagine him trying to pick someone up. Nope, it has to be in a way he doesn’t have to speak and consequently scare the poor guy off. He’s probably on Grindr. Yep, he seems like the lazy sort. Swipe and go would be his style.

  Grabbing my laptop, I Google search Jake Turner hockey player and what comes up has my jaw dropping and a current of awareness riding up my back.

  Holy Swedish meatballs…Jake Turner is famous. And not just famous, he’s an actual superstar.

  Hundreds of pictures populate the screen. Of Turner scoring, of him jumping over the penalty box railing, of him hoisting the Stanley Cup…and smiling. Oh my God, Turner is capable of smiling. And he has teeth. Nice teeth.

  His words come back to me, “I’m alright.” Alright, my ass. MVP this, biggest contract in the NHL that. That lying sack.

  Another picture catches my attention. The one below it. The one of an overturned, crumpled black Jeep smashed against a copse of trees. I click on it and an article pops up. The headline reads…

  MIKE BRESLER, CAPTAIN OF THE STANLEY CUP WINNING TEAM, THE BOSTON BEARS, DEAD AT 36. JAKE TURNER, LEAGUE MVP, IN STABLE CONDITION.

  Sitting up abruptly, I open every article about the accident and minimize the pages. Then I begin to read, my eyes devouring article after article, trying to glean as many actual facts as possible.

  The speculations I find in most of them are nauseating and quickly tossed aside, but the facts remain that Bresler and Turner, long time friends, were driving in a remote area of Oregon, headed to Bresler’s fishing camp the day after their Stanley Cup win.

  The
police report states that Turner was driving late at night when a deer crossed the road. The Jeep, which was traveling at 75 mph, flipped multiple times when Turner swerved to avoid it. The two weren’t reported missing by Bresler’s wife until the next day. By then, Bresler was found dead, thrown from the car, and Turner was clinging to life with internal injuries.

  There’s a lot of blame levied at Turner. A lot of talk about him being extremely drunk and possibly high when they left for the airport. Apparently they chartered a flight to Oregon that same night and picked up Bresler’s Jeep at the private airport. Though nothing was proven and the police report doesn’t indicate any foul play. Still, scrolling through some Twitter stories, it’s clear a large swath of NHL fans believed he was responsible for Bresler’s death.

  My heart is racing and all I can do is stare at the white wall that separates the Austen from the Hemingway. It all makes sense now.

  I scan the article for a date. The accident happened in June, the day after they hoisted the Stanley Cup, four years ago…which works out to be exactly one month before my story broke.

  Chapter 7

  I was ten when my mother decided to leave us for a woman and move to New York City without explanation. Word spread fast and had two very dramatic effects.

  One, my father was suddenly very popular with every divorcée and widow in town, all of them desperate to play therapist slash lover. Which inevitably made Jackie and me targets of a lot of unwanted attention. Jackie had no problem icing everyone out; nobody does bitch better than Jackie. In contrast, I fell prey to every kid’s mom who invited me over for after school playtime. Even when their child hated me and told me so repeatedly.

  The second effect was that kids being kids, tortured me. My father having to explain that a woman can love another women and live as a family is something I’ll never forget. It was mind boggling to me, taking me forever to reconcile. Jackie tried in her own way to explain it to me, but all I did was argue with her that it couldn’t be true because I’d never seen a family with two moms. In my ten-year-old head, Zelda had my dad. What could she possibly need another woman for?

  That year pretty much set the stage for the next seven. Kids started to exclude me from birthday parties and after school events. And before long I was eating lunch at school by myself.

  All that changed in the eighth grade, when Gina Polizzi moved into town. Originally from Staten Island, her big Italian family had moved here to open a pizza shop. None of my classmates made any effort to get to know her. But having been raised with four brothers, Gina had no boundaries and no problem taking a seat at my table without invitation. We hit it off immediately.

  We banded together over our shared mutual misery, our love for Sex and the City, and a healthy dislike of anything sports related. Two outliers whose only sin was not being pretty enough or thin enough or unique enough to fit in with the jocks, or the cool kids, or the computer nuts.

  Gina had a quick tongue and a happy-go-lucky-attitude so most of the kids didn’t mess with her the way they did me. I attached myself to her like a barnacle. Unfortunately for Gina, allowing me to attach myself meant she was ostracized too.

  The next day, with great trepidation, Nan lends me her 1972 baby blue Mercedes and I take a trip into town. Time to rip off the Band-Aid. The more I postpone facing the people who still live here, the worse it’ll feel.

  My first stop, the supermarket to pick up a few essentials.

  I’m pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, lazily browsing, when Jackie calls.

  “What the actual fuck,” she says as soon as I answer.

  “No kidding.” Because we both know she already got the story out of my father.

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Everything? That would require four hours and three cocktails.”

  “Okay, the highlights then. What were you thinking driving through a nor’easter?”

  In my line of sight, I spot a women leaving the store and freeze, questioning my eyes. Tall, thin, chin length brown hair…

  “Hello?” she adds when I don’t answer fast enough.

  “Sorry. I just saw a woman that looks a lot like you-know-who.”

  “Nah. She’s in New York,” my sister assures me. “She just did the View…” It sure as hell looked like her. “Carrie? You didn’t answer my question. Were you high driving in those conditions?”

  That snaps me out of my musings.

  “I was thinking that my credit cards are maxed out and my sister didn’t let me move in with her.”

  “Carrie––”

  “Whatever. I got my revenge. Your pink cashmere sweater is trashed, bitch.”

  She snorts and it makes me smile. I miss her already. “How the baby?”

  “Fine.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t push. “Dad said some guy named Jake saved you? Sounds exciting. What happened?”

  A storyboard of images from the past few days comes to mind, and I almost giggle. How can I possibly explain? So I strip it down to the bare bones. “Basically, I crashed the rental in his driveway out on 73, he pulled me out of the car, and I was stuck at his place for two day.”

  A moment of silence follows.

  “I can barely get you to shut up most of the time and you choose now to be cryptic? What’s he like?”

  I think of the turkey sandwich Turner made me. “He’s got a mean streak a mile wide.”

  “Yikes. That doesn’t sound like any fun. Is he hot?”

  “Jackie…”

  “What? I’m a hormonal mess. Can a girl indulge in a fantasy or two?

  “Jesus Christ Superstar, you have a husband. What do you need a fantasy for?”

  “Oh, baby sister, thou art so naive. I need new material for my spank bank and poor Charlie’s worn out from satisfying my needs. I think I broke his dick the other day.”

  I nearly throw up in my mouth. “TMI. TMI times ten.”

  “So?”

  Sighing, I stop pushing the cart and picture Turner sleeping in the recliner, the corded forearms, the groves next to his hips. No debating whether he’s hot. I mean, fair is fair.

  “He’s hot if you like the Neaderthalish type. He’s a goon. I’m convinced he’s only half human. I would never be interested in him––even if he was straight. Oh, and he’s gay, by the way. So if that’s your kink, you can haaa…” My voice fades as I turn to grab a box of Cheerios I passed along the way.

  And nearly run right into Turner, a basket full of fresh fruits and vegetables hanging from his hand, an expression of pure contempt on his face. Dressed in black running pants and a black thermal for maximum intimidating effect no doubt.

  “Jackie, I gotta go.” I hang up on my sister without waiting for a response, my voice cracking as a lump of regret fills my throat. There’s no speculating whether he heard me––the look on his face says it all.

  All the blood in my body rushes to my face. “Turner…”

  He breaks eye contact for a moment, long enough to glance around to see if we’re alone. “I’m not gay––not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Turner…” I want to apologize, but the words won’t come out. They stop halfway up my throat. I’m so embarrassed I lose the power of speech.

  He steps closer and his chin comes down. Close enough that I can smell soap and Moroccan Oil shampoo from a recent shower. Close enough that I have to tip my head back to look at him, and as much as I want to hide, as much as I want the floor beneath my feet to crack open and swallow me whole, I force myself to look up at him.

  “I haven’t been with a woman in three years,” he quietly confesses, the rasp like sandpaper on the flushed skin of my cheeks. And although his face is eerily blank, the energy coming from him is unmistakable––he hates me. And he has every right to hate me. I am so ashamed I am absolutely certain I will never wash the guilt off. “…and even on your best day, you don’t tempt me”––his sapphire eyes rake up and down my body––“not even a little.”

  Th
en he walks past me while I stay rooted to the linoleum floor. Just me, my everlasting shame, and a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

  If elementary school was hard for me, high school was exponentially worse. Memories of it are likely to trigger a panic attack so I seldom do it and never voluntarily.

  The five year age gap between Jackie and me was huge when we were growing up. And even though she and I were never in high school together, I was constantly reminded that my drop dead gorgeous sister was at the top of the food chain, while I was more of a bottom feeder.

  Having a sister that was both popular and class valedictorian meant it was a sure bet I would never measure up. Had that been the end of it, I would’ve probably survived high school largely unscathed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that was wrong with me.

  I was a skinny hot mess. A late bloomer. One of those people that had to have braces way past the acceptable age. Mine came off the end of my sophomore year. Even worse, I was cursed with a bad case of cystic acne. What little self-esteem I did have, the acne pounded it into dust.

  People who say you shouldn’t place importance on appearance are either willfully insensitive, or have never been the object of ridicule. It is like dying by a thousand cuts. Each and every day it killed a little more of anything good growing inside of me until I hated myself. Until I couldn’t stand to look in a mirror without wanting to break it. Self-loathing is an affliction that leads down a dangerous road.

  Teenagers can be brutally honest and unknowingly cruel. By the time I graduated high school, the people in my grade probably couldn’t tell you my first name. But if you asked them who Pizza Face was they could point to me immediately. Consequently, I spent all my free time daydreaming about getting out of this god forsaken town and reinventing myself.