by Tara Wylde
“So we rallied round, plugged the SHIT out of this thing. We amped up the games, went crazy on the food, paid for Facebook ads, plastered the whole BOROUGH with fliers, even rented a hall when we saw how tiny the restaurant was.
“RUNNING TOTAL: $9K raised, $1.5K paid out in ad/venue expenses. I shit you not, we went ALL out!
“The whole time, Joe and Elina were borrowing smaller amounts from individual club members, but no-one had any idea of the scale of this. We weren’t exactly comparing notes. It wasn’t till September that Cherie was like...hey...hasn’t his chemo been going on for a LONG ASS time? Which, I did some research, and it seemed like it COULD go on longer, but a normal course of treatment is 3-6 months. And he’d been doing it for over a year, at this point, while being somehow well enough to go on bike rides the whole time? Something smelled fishy.
“That was when we finally started tallying up the financial aspect of it, and this is just from PayPal transactions with confirmed receipts, NOT including cash gifts/non-confirmed e-transfers/food and other goods:
“RUNNING TOTAL: ~$19,980!!!!!!!!!
“Once we started investigating, really comparing notes for the first time, everything fell apart. We found doctors who didn’t exist, medications that wouldn’t be prescribed for his specific cancer, records of him on Facebook at times when he was supposedly in intensive care...plus, he and his fiancée couldn’t keep their stories straight about whether those scars came from surgery or (LOL) military service.
“Me, Cherie, and Paula were the ones to confront Elina, when Joe stopped responding to our messages. She claimed to have no idea what was going on, and actually went to an ATM and reimbursed me and Cherie on the spot. Paula also confirms she’s received just shy of $900, but never got a response when she asked when she might expect the other ~$1,200, or when the rest of our members would be getting their refunds.
“So far, there’s no solid proof Elina was part of the scam. But the last communication I had with her, she was still living with Joe, and wouldn’t say whether or not she planned on going through with the engagement, so...hmmmmmm.... Draw your own conclusions.
“THE SILENT AUCTION: This is still going forward! Everything’s already set up, and no-one wants their donations back, so...what else are we supposed to do? But proceeds will be going to cancer research, and NOT to these scammers.
“UPDATE: The auction was an incredible success! I want to thank everyone who came out, and everyone who boosted the signal! Your generosity was amazing, and we actually earned $22,672, which may be more than our combined losses...and not a penny of it will see the inside of Joe Bentivoglio’s greedy pockets!
“SON OF UPDATE: Joe Bentivoglio’s social media accounts have been deleted. Elina Petrova’s are gone as well, which doesn’t look great for her. She returned another $2,250 total to a few of our members who were able to get in touch, but hasn’t responded to e-mails or phone calls since the silent auction. There’s still no confirmation she was actively involved, or knew what was going on...but let’s just say she was either in on it or dumb as a box of rocks. Plus, she didn’t start returning money to anyone besides those of us who confronted her face to face till legal action was mentioned.”
I reach the end of the post, and sit there staring. Wow. I’ve heard of this type of thing, but never seen it up close and personal.
I feel cold. I reach for my coffee, but that’s cold too. Actually...did I even make coffee before I sat down? Think that might’ve been there from earlier. Gross.
She couldn’t have been part of it...right? I mean, she wouldn’t—she wouldn’t tell me where to find it, if that was true....
Skimming the comments, a good half of them are about her—first rule of the Internet: never read the comments! Not many are supportive. Most, I’d call downright abusive. They raise some decent points, though: why would she return all that money, if not a guilty conscience? Why wouldn’t she leave the asshole right away? How could she live with him, and not notice the unexplained income?
I should text her.
I have no idea what to say.
I check out a couple of the other articles, and a YouTube clip of a news report, but don’t learn much of substance. There’s a lot of interest in Elina, a lot of discussion of her involvement, her character, her looks...fucking vultures!
I sip my stale coffee. Why does it taste ten times as bitter once it’s cold? Does the flavor intensify with time, or does heat incapacitate the tastebuds?
I’m keeping our date on Sunday. I have to hear her side: I won’t be just another rubbernecker ogling her disaster, refusing to give her a chance. I had a good feeling about her from the start, and I’ve got to trust that. Mark did always say I was a good judge of character.
142
Elina
Nick texts me Friday morning. Can’t stop to read it: every time I take my eyes off Joey, he’s racing down the boardwalk, trying to pet strange dogs, dig through trashcans, eat stuff off the ground. We’re on our way to the aquarium. It’s an expense I don’t need, but the poor kid deserves a reward. He’s been a real trooper, in the wake of the break-in and the dead rat.
I’ve been driving myself up the wall worrying about Nick’s reaction to the Joe debacle, but it’s worse now he’s actually responded. I could be carrying my walking papers in my pocket, without even knowing. I think he’s the type to let me down gently, at least... But I’ve been surprised before.
Maybe I should’ve bit the bullet, told him the whole story face to face.
But then I’d have had to see it, the horror, the disbelief...the judgment.
“Mommy?”
“Yeah, sport?”
“What’s the difference between turtles and tortoises?”
“Ah...I think turtles have flippers, and tortoises have feet. Or—no. Maybe that’s just sea turtles—those turtles in the pet shop had feet. Remember their little claws?” I tickle him under his chin and behind his ears till he admits he remembers. “Eh...I think turtles live in the water, and tortoises are more on land.”
“You don’t know.” My four-year-old is mocking me. Guess the “mommy knows everything” years are over.
“Well, that’s why we’re going to the aquarium. So we can learn all about turtles.”
“Do turtles bite?”
This one, I know. “Yes—yes, they do. And they have salmonella, so whatever you do, look, don’t touch!”
“Look, don’t touch!”
“Perfect.”
Joey gets a little sulky once we’re in the aquarium and he realizes he can’t take any pictures. I gave him my old digital camera last year, and he loved it, but of course that was stolen. Fortunately, he perks up when he spots the colorful clownfish in the reef display, especially when I promise we can come back when he has a new camera.
A new camera... Maybe I can add that to the Christmas list. I whip out my phone while he’s enthralled with the fish and search for cheap digital cameras. Even the shoddiest ones are barely under fifty bucks—and for a little kid, you need something durable, something easy to use. Something that won’t crap out at the first bump or jolt.
I wonder, is Polaroid still a thing? Another quick search tells me it is, and I can’t afford it.
There’s got to be something.
Can’t you take photos with a 3DS? I look those up too: still pricier than Polaroid. Plus, I’d have to get him at least one game if I went with that option.
No camera, then. Maybe an Etch-A-Sketch?
Nick’s text’s still sitting there unread. I glance at Joey: he’s poring over the exhibit notes. His reading’s pretty good, but there could be Latin names in there. I should help him. Besides...which is going to be worse, getting through an aquarium trip with the threat of being dumped hanging over my head, or getting through it knowing I’m history?
I zip my phone into the innermost pocket of my purse. This is the kind of day parents and children are supposed to savor. The stuff memories are made of. And it is beautiful
here, all peaceful and blue and rippling with watery shadows.
Why do my feet hurt so bad?
I mash down my worries, summon my best smile, and let Joey read me the lowdown on the reef exhibit. He’s bursting with pride, even when he has to stop and sound out the unfamiliar words. Maybe I can get him to do the same thing on shopping trips, to keep him from throwing tantrums—tell him I forgot my contacts, need him to read all the signs. He does love to help.
He catches me chuckling at the idea and kicks me in the shin.
By the time I’ve convinced him I wasn’t laughing at him, and reminded him we do not kick, Nick’s safely buried in the back of my mind—not quite out of the picture, but close enough.
The aquarium’s small, but there’s plenty to see. Joey seems especially taken with the sea otters. Despite his disappointment when I tell him he can’t take one home, I make it through the afternoon with a cheery kid...and without being guilted into any treats from the gift shop. Maybe, on some level, he gets that we’re running on empty.
I end up carrying him home, sleepy and sticky, but still chattering about turtles and sharks. How he managed to get sticky when we didn’t have any snacks, I’ll never know. I make Maria promise to give him a bath before I head for work.
The bus takes its sweet time coming. I don’t risk sitting down to wait: it’s hard enough, not falling asleep on my feet. And Nick’s text’s bothering me again—if I read it before work, will I be a mess? If I don’t, will I be able to concentrate?
Ugh! I barely know him! How pathetic am I, working myself into a frazzle over some random food pantry guy, someone I’ve met all of three times—
—and been mostly naked with twice?
I’m not this person. I’m tough: I’ve endured much worse. I whip out my phone, grit my teeth, and read:
hey!
hope you’re not working too hard!
what time for the garden on sunday?
Attached, there’s a gif of a tiny, mouselike creature falling backwards off a kitchen scale. It is kind of hilarious, but...really? Not even an acknowledgement?
Maybe he never Googled Joe. Maybe he thought about it and decided he wanted the story from the horse’s mouth.
I hate not knowing. I should ask. Put myself out of my misery. But then he might demand an explanation, right here and now. Over text. Which I don’t exactly have time for, and can’t face, and—no. Just no.
I stick with the question at hand: How about 1? Gives us most of the afternoon.
He texts back just as the bus pulls up: perfect. you like greek food? heard about this new place, thought we might try it.
Love Greek! :-)
also perfect. see you sun!
So... He’s still planning on dinner. That’s...probably good?
I don’t end up having a lot of time to obsess over it. The night’s a busy one: from six till midnight, there’s not a moment when my section isn’t full. I get screamed at by some lady who can’t understand why we don’t have ranch dressing, and threatens to leave a bad Yelp review. Some college kid puts a roach in his salad to avoid paying the bill, but he’s not nearly sneaky enough. Half the dining room sees him do it. Two old ladies actually do manage to skip out—one of them in a fucking walker! How the...?
My tips suck, and my feet are beyond pain. I stop feeling them around seven. By nine, the ache’s resurfaced in my ankles. It spends the rest of the shift creeping up my legs till it settles in my lower back.
By the time the last diners clear out, well after one, I’m sick with fatigue, barely standing. Vanya shoos me out the door. I feel bad, not helping close up, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially with tomorrow promising to be twice as bad. There’s a two-for-one promo on; those are always bad news. They bring out the cheapos and jackasses like nothing on earth.
Paying Maria eats up every penny of my tips, and an extra ten bucks to boot. So... Tonight was a bust. All that for—for—I add it up quickly, in my head: a net loss of $16.50.
I could fucking cry.
Instead, I put the first coat of paint on Joey’s bike: cherry red, just like I remember. I take a quick shower and faceplant into bed without setting the alarm. Doesn’t matter: Joey’s up with the sun every day. He tries to be quiet, bless his heart, but...yeah. If he’s up, so am I.
When I finally find my way to bed, I keep imagining I can smell Joe Sr.’s cheap cologne on my pillow. Takes me forever to fall asleep, and when I finally do, I dream I’m trying to take a bath. Someone’s in the water behind me, with an arm around my neck. He keeps pulling me under, making me cough and splutter. I can’t wake up.
143
Nick
I’m half-convinced Lina’s going to stand me up again. Instead, she’s early, waiting in front of the Aquatic House. She waves when she sees me coming. I wave back, picking up my pace as I realize she’s shivering, rubbing her bare hands together.
“You should’ve waited inside!”
She stuffs her hands into her pockets. “Wasn’t sure if you’d been here before, if you’d know where to go.” An embarrassed look flits across her face as she glances around. “Though, I guess there’s...kind of a lot of signs. And maps. And that arrow thing.”
I shrug. “What happened to your gloves?” I seem to remember her having a red, fuzzy pair that made me think of the warmest parts of winter: firelight, hot chocolate, knitted blankets.
“No idea. I swear, I came home last night and threw them on the shelf, just like always, but this morning...pfft.” She flips her palms up and rolls her eyes. “Just...gone. Maybe I do have rats, plural.”
“Or maybe it’s the socks-in-the-dryer phenomenon.” I pop up an imaginary sock-puppet and make it speak. “‘Y’know, I’ve loved, loved, loved cuddling your feet all these years. Honestly, it’s been great. Oh!—the memories! I’m getting misty!” I do an exaggerated sniffle. “But I think the time has come...for us to go our separate ways.’” I make my hand-puppet dip its “head” in apparent regret. “’No hard feelings, right?’”
That gets a laugh out of her, but I can tell she’s nervous. I’m not going to draw this out. As soon as I can find a place to sit, that Band-Aid is coming off.
I’ve decided I’m more concerned for her than about her. Hours of pacing and reading and obsessing and considering have left me with a gut feeling there’s a whole other side to this story, something that’s made her wary, made her hard. The way she rebuked me when I showed up at the restaurant, that was defensive, not aggressive—I’m more convinced than ever.
There’s a rough wooden bench overlooking a fenced-in pond, full of the biggest lily pads I’ve ever seen. It’s partly shielded from the walkway by low, swaying branches: a peaceful spot. I guide her to it. Lina seems relieved to take a seat, leaning back and stretching her legs like it’s the best feeling in the world. I notice she’s wearing sensible shoes, cute but flat.
“Been on your feet a lot?”
She groans. “You have no idea. Waiting tables on a weekend, with a two-for-one special going...ugh.” For a moment, her eyes close, and I can see how tired she really is: there’s a hollow, bruised look to her eye sockets, and she’s pale, really pale. I feel bad doing this, but putting it off might be even worse.
“So...Joe.”
Lina exhales roughly. “Joe.” She’s fiddling with the zipper of her coat, staring at something beyond the lily pond.
“So, I guess I....” In all my fevered imaginings, I only thought about what she might say. Probably should’ve concentrated on my side of the conversation. “I had some... I figured I should hear your side.”
Lina’s lips tighten. “My side....” Outside, the sun comes out from behind the clouds. It filters through the hanging leaves and sparkles on the water.
“Maybe if you started from the beginning—how you met? What you saw in him? Like, I guess he couldn’t always have been the monster I read about online.”
She nods. The sun’s in her hair, too, bright golden spots dappling
her head and shoulders. I’m tempted to call the whole thing off, tell her it’s too beautiful a day to waste on painful memories. Tell her I trust her, tell her it’s none of my—
“I was eighteen when we met. He was twenty-five.” She’s still playing with that zipper, twisting the tab back and forth like she’s trying to tear it off. “It was... I was walking home from work, and he started walking beside me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was fresh out of the Marines, just back from Afghanistan, and he didn’t—“ She breaks off abruptly. “I....”
“What’s the matter?”
“I mean...here you are, trying to get to the truth, and I have no idea... I—even the things I took for granted, the things that were just...part of who he was....” A cloud passes overhead. She dips her chin under her collar, like she’s trying to hide behind it. “He had the uniform. The medals. Even the scars. But I never met anyone he’d served with, never saw him get mail from, uh...from any kind of veterans’ groups, or.... Wouldn’t there be something, if you’d...?”
I shrug again. I’m honestly out of my depth: military service isn’t my area of expertise.
“Anyway, I guess, just... Whatever I tell you, you might want to take it with a grain of salt. If any of it’s lies, all I can do is swear they’re not mine.”
She’s going to hurt herself with that zipper: she’s gripping it tight enough that I can see where it’s digging into her fingers. I pull her hand away and find it cold as ice. Rubbing the warmth back into it seems too intimate for this moment, so I offer my gloves instead. She pulls them on without looking at me.