by Eddie Joyce
He stepped around her. The street was empty, all the stores shuttered. She stepped in front of him again. She was still clutching the cigarette and the lighter.
“Bobby, are you fucking kidding me? Don’t do this. Don’t ruin the night. It was just a joke. I’m your wife. I love you.”
He leaned down, his expansive blue eyes came to rest right in front of hers.
“You’re a bitch.”
He stepped around her again and this time, she let him go. He walked off in the direction of his parents’ house and didn’t look back. She turned around and saw Franky retreat into the Leaf. She smoked the cigarette Franky gave her alone, outside the bar, rubbing her arms to keep them warm. When it started to rain, she went back inside the Leaf.
Five months later, Bobby was dead.
She thought about that night often in the years after Bobby was killed. After the kids were in bed, she’d smoke half a pack a night in the kitchen alone, cursing him.
I’m a bitch, Bobby? Cigarettes are bad for you? Fuck you, Bobby. I’m still here. I’m still here and you’re fucking dead, Bobby. Running into burning buildings is bad for you, Bobby. Cigarettes are fucking dandy.
She’d wake in the middle of the night, lungs raw, and beg his forgiveness. Smoke a cigarette in bed and ask him to forgive her for that too. Every night for almost two years. The cigarettes in the kitchen, the curses in her head. Tougher to quit the second go-round. Tougher because she needed to quit this time, needed to quit for the kids. It took a few tries. She used the gum.
* * *
Someone knocks on the bathroom door. Tina sneaks a last drag and then stubs her cigarette out in the sink. She turns the faucet on and splashes some water on the smeared ash. Stephanie stands and lifts the toilet cover; Tina drops the butt into the commode. Stephanie lowers the lid, sits back down on top of it.
“Who is it?”
“Alyssa.”
“One second, sweetie,” says Stephanie.
Stephanie wipes her face one more time, stands up. Tina takes a swig of Scope and spits into the sink. A languid haze of blue nicotine smoke lingers, despite the vent. Tina opens the door. Alyssa stands on the other side, a sour look on her face. She looks at Stephanie, whose eyes are still swollen from crying.
“Jesus, everyone is crying today.”
“Alyssa, enough. What do you want?”
“Were you guys smoking in here?”
Stephanie raises her hand.
“Guilty as charged.”
Alyssa eyes her mother.
“I let Aunt Stephanie smoke one cigarette, Alyssa. She won’t smoke any more tonight. Right, Steph?”
“Right. My bad. Won’t do it again.”
Alyssa rolls her eyes, a practiced gesture of exaggeration.
“We’re hungry. Can you order the pizza?”
“Sure. What do you want, Steph?”
“Whatever is fine with me.”
Tina reaches for her wallet, takes out some money, and hands it to Alyssa. “There you go.”
Alyssa hesitates. “Aren’t you going to order it?”
“Alyssa, the number for Vertuccio’s is on the fridge downstairs. Dial it. Tell them what you and Bobby want. Give them our address. When they come, pay and give the delivery guy a tip. This is not rocket science.”
“Okay, okay, don’t have a shit fit.”
“How many times do I have to tell you about the language?”
Alyssa shuffles away, saying something under her breath. Tina shouts after her.
“Were you eavesdropping?”
She hears Alyssa lumbering down the stairs. Stephanie walks out of the bathroom.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. Thanks for taking the bullet on the cigarette.”
“Do you think she heard?”
“Maybe a little, but not the whole thing. She stomps around like an elephant. We would have heard her.”
“How’s she taking this whole Wade thing?”
“Menzamenz.”
“She get her period yet?”
After thirty years of friendship, Tina no longer bothered trying to discern a logical pattern to Stephanie’s questions.
“No.”
Stephanie shrugs.
“God got my kids mixed up. She’s built like her father, she’s already taller than me. Meanwhile, little Bobby got my genes. He’s a sprite.”
“Any boys?”
“No, not yet. I keep praying she’ll wake up one day with some shape, a set of tits, something.”
“Life isn’t fair.” Tina chokes back a dirty look. Stephanie wouldn’t know the first fucking thing about being the ugly duckling, wouldn’t know about being tall and lumbering or short and flat-chested. Since the sixth grade, she’s gotten plenty of attention from the boys.
Tina checks the time. Wade should be here any minute. She’s not ready. She walks back into the bathroom. She grabs another lipstick, something more demure.
“Are you nervous about tonight?”
“I am.”
“Have you guys . . . ?” Stephanie makes a slapping gesture with her hands.
“Have we what?”
“Fooled around yet.”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Stephanie drapes herself inside the door frame.
“Tina, have you fooled around with anyone since Bobby?”
“Jesus, Steph, no.”
Stephanie adopts a look of mock surprise.
“What about Tommy Patek?”
Four years ago, Tina went out on a few dates with little Bobby’s baseball coach. His wife had run off to Florida with her trainer and left him with two young kids. He was a nice-enough guy with stale breath and a fragile psyche. On their third date, he took Tina to a Spanish restaurant in Mariner’s Harbor. He excused himself to go to the bathroom as soon as they sat down. Fifteen minutes later, Tina’s cell phone rang. It was Tommy, calling from the parking lot. He was rambling and Tina suspected he was drunk. He said he was confused and that he couldn’t keep seeing her, that he had left money with the maître d’ for her dinner and a cab home. Then he hung up.
Tina ordered a carafe of sangria, a shrimp and chorizo appetizer, and seafood paella. She asked for the check halfway through her second carafe of sangria. When the embarrassed waiter brought it over, she opened the black check holder to discover the crumpled twenty Tommy had left her sitting on top of a scribbled bill.
There was no fourth date.
“We made out on his couch one time. His seven-year-old daughter walked in on us just as he was getting to second base.”
“Oh, very high school. Role playing. You slut.”
Tina doesn’t respond, keeps applying the new lipstick.
“You’re lying.” Steph presses.
“It’s the truth.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve never slept with anyone beside Bobby.” She lowers her voice, down to a hoarse whisper. “I don’t fucking believe you.”
“I didn’t say that. Jesus, I don’t want to talk about this. Not tonight.”
“C’mon, Tina.”
“I’m trying to get ready. Jesus.”
“Was that his name? He-zeus? Was he Dominican?”
“Enough. Junior year, Bobby and I broke up for like three months, when I was away at school. I don’t even remember why. Anyway, I went out with this other guy, Dave McKinley, a few times.”
“You and the Irish guys.”
“He wasn’t Irish, he was Scottish. And Bobby is half Italian.”
“So what happened?”
“We had sex twice. The first time I was drunk and the second time he was. Nothing special, no big deal.”
“Did you ever tell Bobby?”
“No.”
Tina sometimes wonders what Bobby did during the three months they were broken up. She asked him when they got back together that summer. He said he got drunk with his friends same as usual, confessed that he made out with Chrissy Nolan in the back of the Leaf one night, but that was it.
He was probably telling the truth. Bobby was incapable of deceit. Capable of calling her a bitch. Capable of drinking more than he should. But not a lie. Not a big one anyway.
When he asked her the same question, she lied. She never mentioned Dave McKinley or the other guy that she dry humped for a week. She said she’d focused on her studies, gone to the gym, some other bullshit. She acted hurt at the Nolan revelation, as if it were a huge betrayal, even though they were broken up, even though she’d done far more than Bobby.
And he believed her! He spent the whole summer trying to make amends, treating her extra nice. All because of a drunken make-out with Chrissy Nolan.
And what does she wish today? That Bobby had fucked Chrissy Nolan. Fucked her senseless. Fucked her for two months straight. So he didn’t go to the grave having only slept with her. So that Bobby had as much joy and sex and fun in his life as possible without betraying her. She visualizes it sometimes, a naked Bobby trying to manage Chrissy Nolan and her long colt legs in the back room of the Leaf. It always makes her laugh.
Good for you, Bobby, she thinks.
Doesn’t stop her from shooting Chrissy Nolan nasty looks every time she sees her. Doesn’t stop her from enjoying the fact that Chrissy Nolan is no longer thin and spry but thick and desperate, that her skin, once as pale and delicate as an eggshell, has grown ruddy with age and alcohol, that the alluring brown locks have become a mess of short, tangled hair dyed blond on the cheap.
“So you haven’t gotten laid in like nine years?”
Stephanie is swinging from side to side in the door frame. Tina regrets this entire conversation, regrets having asked Stephanie to watch the kids in the first place. She should have asked Amy or Gail. But Amy’s in Florida and Gail, well, she couldn’t very well ask Gail.
“I would have fucked half the Island by now,” Stephanie says ruefully.
No doubt, Tina thinks.
The doorbell rings.
“So what’s this guy Wade like?”
Tina thinks for a beat and then answers.
“He’s different.”
“Meaning?”
Tina hears the front door open downstairs. She hears Bobby Jr.’s excited hello. She can’t hear the substance of Wade’s reply, but the tenor of his voice soothes her. She wants to be away from Stephanie, in the car with Wade. She’s missed him, she realizes, and that’s both scary and reassuring. Stephanie walks out into the hallway, shouts to Wade that Tina will be down in a few minutes. She reenters the bathroom with a grin.
“He’s cute.”
Tina is almost done. She flexes her eyes taut, applies some eyeliner.
“And rich.”
“Steph, how could you even tell that?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I don’t know. He lives in Manhattan. He’s friends with Peter.”
“So he’s rich.”
“I guess so.”
Why is she doing this, making her feel bad? What difference does it make? Why is she denying it? Yes. He’s rich. So what?
“So that’s what you meant when you said ‘different’.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She turns, done with the mirror.
“How do I look?”
“Hot. Classy.”
Tina looks down. She bought a new outfit for the night. A simple black dress. Prada. She tries to remember whether she ever wore anything this expensive when she was with Bobby. Probably not. They were kids. She feels like a fraud. She wants reassurance from Stephanie that what she is doing is okay, that it’s not a betrayal, that nine and a half years is an appropriate amount of time, that Bobby would be okay with this. But she’s cautious about showing Stephanie a softness. Something in Stephanie’s behavior tonight makes Tina think of fishes being gutted.
“What is he anyway, Wade? Another mick? Definitely not eyetie.”
“He’s nothing.” She shrugs. “You know, American.”
Tina takes a red silk wrap out of the closet. Another new purchase. The receipt from Saks flashes in her head, four digits before the decimal. Only two items: the dress and the wrap. Absurd. And then the thought, impossible to resist, that the money for these things, things intended to impress another man, is a direct result of Bobby’s death. She wouldn’t have shopped at Saks while Bobby was alive; she barely knew it existed. Bobby’s death made her a different woman, in more ways than she could have guessed. Almost everything about her has changed, but the guilt remains.
Stephanie grabs Tina’s purse, puts the pack of Marlboro Lights in it.
“For later,” she says with a wink. She hugs Tina and kisses her cheek. “Have fun.”
“Thanks, Steph.”
“Where is he taking you anyway?”
“Some place in the city. Per Something.”
“Per Se?”
“That’s it.”
The expression on Stephanie’s face is equal parts admiration and envy. She raises her right hand, rubs her thumb over the tips of her index and middle fingers in a quick, repetitive motion.
“Oh yeah, he’s loaded.”
* * *
Tina feels better when she’s in the car with Wade. His presence calms her, takes her out of her head.
“Sorry about Steph.”
When they came downstairs, Wade was sitting on the couch, watching television with Bobby. He stood up, introduced himself to Stephanie. After she shook his hand, she touched the fabric of his tan blazer and gave Tina a knowing glance. “Cashmere,” she’d said. And then added, “Very nice,” in case her point hadn’t been caught.
“Sorry for what?”
“You know, the whole cashmere comment.”
He laughs. The jacket suits him. So do the blue tie and the BMW. He’s not trying to be something else. This is him. He has money, he won’t shove it in your face, but he won’t hide it either. He’s not ashamed.
“I’m sorry I’m a little distracted. She told me tonight that she’s having another affair. Well, maybe not an affair, but that she screwed around with one of her husband’s friends.”
“Wow, you had some day. How did everything go with Mrs. Amendola, by the way?”
She finds it endearing that he calls Gail Mrs. Amendola. She has to remind herself that Wade knows her, that they may have even met for all she knows. It’s hard to imagine that; they seem to belong to different worlds entirely. But she is his good friend’s mother. He’s probably heard Peter complaining about Gail for years. Sometimes she finds it comforting that they have this preexisting connection; sometimes it makes her uneasy. Tonight is one of the uneasy times.
He’s driving without her guidance, making his way to the West Shore Expressway. She would have taken Hylan, then Father Capodanno to the bridge, but what’s the difference? Six one way, half dozen the other.
“It went fine, I guess. I don’t know. She’s tough to read sometimes. Did you ever meet Gail?”
“Once. In college. At graduation. A few of the families went out to dinner. I doubt she’d remember. There were probably fifty people at the dinner. We were all at different tables.”
He pauses, glances over at her. He’s tucked his upper lip into his mouth, his bottom teeth are gnawing on the indrawn flesh. She doesn’t know all his ticks yet, but she knows this one. He’s hesitating, trying to decide whether to tell her something.
“Go ahead,” she says.
“Bobby was there too. I met him. I remembered that the other day when you told me you were going to tell Gail.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
> “Yeah, I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what, she thinks, sorry you met my dead husband before he was dead? Or my husband? Sorry you told me? Sorry you didn’t tell me sooner? Or just plain sorry? Probably the last. There’s no easy way to talk about this.
“That’s okay. He must have been what? A senior in high school?”
“I think so. I remember Franky was teasing him about his girlfriend.”
“You mean me.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
She does a few swift calculations in her head, trying to line up certain events in relation to this meeting between Wade and Bobby: before or after. She slept with Bobby for the first time in April of their senior year. 1993. April 16th. At her house. Her parents away for the weekend. Peter’s graduation was in the middle of May. When Wade met Bobby, Bobby was not a virgin. They’d already made love. For reasons she cannot fathom, this is important to her. Crucial. Her panic subsides.
“I remember Peter telling me that Bobby and Franky were pretty close. Closer than he was to either of them.”
“Yeah, Bobby and Franky were tight. They were always together. Franky kinda went off the deep end after Bobby was killed.”
How is Franky going to react to all of this? She’s been so worried about telling Gail, but Franky is a different story altogether. He sees every little thing as an insult when it comes to Bobby’s memory; this will be a mortal sin. She’s always sensed that Franky had notions about maybe taking his brother’s place. Never stated, of course. Just a sense. But Franky’s darker thoughts have a way of making themselves heard.
Not tonight. She will not worry about this tonight.
“I’m sorry, but can we talk about something else.”
“Of course . . . tell me about your friend’s affair.”
She gives him the condensed version of Stephanie’s story: the Jets game, the hairs in the sink, Stephanie screwing Tommy Valenti. Wade listens to the whole story before rendering his verdict. He doesn’t interrupt like Bobby would have, peppering the story with exclamations of “No shit” or “Get the fuck outta here.” She can’t help herself; she catalogs their differences.
“Well, you can’t argue with her logic. Who does shave to go to a football game?”