Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland Page 3

  I smiled, thinking how Ma might say something like that, (omitting the part about Jesus), if I ever brought home a nice Jewish boy. Chances of that were slim.

  Denise’s mother helped Mrs. Costello deliver endless platters of food from the kitchen. First they brought out olives and cheese, green salad, and fresh Italian bread. Then came the lasagna, veal cutlets, and rigatoni. Last, but not least, were an array of desserts, including chocolate cream puffs, biscotti, and cannoli stuffed with ricotta cheese.

  I took a small portion of rigatoni and salad.

  Mrs. Costello piled on a big slice of lasagna and three huge meatballs on my plate. “Eat, eat, honey,” she said. “You could use a few pounds.”

  “No, I need to go on a diet.”

  “What? You a beautiful girl. If I had another son, I’d fix you up with him.”

  I grinned. “But Mrs. Costello, I’m not Italian.”

  “Okay, if I had another son and you was Italian, I’d fix you up.”

  Everyone laughed and I stuffed my face with the delicious food, unconcerned about the calorie count. It was by far the most memorable meal of my lifetime.

  As we prepared to leave, Mrs. Costello gave each of us a bag of leftovers wrapped in tinfoil. She hugged Joey, then clung to him like he was headed off to war.

  He tried to pull away but she held him fast. “Mama, what’s the matta?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I love-a you so much.”

  Joey’s ears reddened in embarrassment as he tried to extricate himself. “I’ll be home for spring break, I promise.”

  She reluctantly loosened her grip. “You’re my favorite boy.”

  Joey smiled. “I’m your only boy, Mama. Your only child.”

  She kissed him on each cheek. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

  She hugged Denise and turned to me. “Italian or no Italian, you’re a nice girl.”

  The Costellos made me feel right at home. What a contrast they were to Ma and Pop who had offered nothing but awkward stares and snide remarks to my new friends.

  On the drive to drop Mrs. Manelo back home, she clutched my arm. “Too bad my son Danny’s not around,” she said. “He’d love to meet you.”

  Denise turned to face us from the front passenger seat. “Yeah, right. Big brother doesn’t get released from the pokey until tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Manelo gritted her teeth. “He’s not in the pokey.”

  “Okay, rehab. I can’t keep his schooling straight,” Denise said.

  “Why you bring up our dirty laundry?”

  “Why do you pretend that my brother is normal?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Eduardo

  Austin, Texas, 2012

  I snuggle in a lounge chair on my deck sipping my third glass of sauvignon blanc as a red-orange sun descends over Lake Travis. Unfortunately, my attempt to anesthetize myself has failed to block out Katie Birnbaum’s phone call. My stomach is in knots. Could we really go to prison for something that happened decades ago? I toss a rubber ball to my Jack Russell terrier, Willow, as I ponder the situation. She returns it ten or twelve times before I tire of the game.

  Having agreed to meet Katie in New York for Denise’s funeral, my immediate dilemma is what to tell my husband. In all the years we’ve been married, I’ve never told him about my roommate Denise. In fact, I’ve never mentioned I spent my freshman year in Bridgeport, Connecticut, either. With good reason. I graduated cum laude from the University of New Mexico, and Eduardo assumes I did all four years of my undergraduate degree there.

  Would Ed understand and forgive me for stupid things I did as a seventeen year old? He was serving in the military while I was getting high and protesting the war in Vietnam.

  What’s wrong with me? Denise is freaking dead. How bad had her life been that she’d choose to end it? Why did we never talk to each other again after?

  “Dinner will be ready in five,” Ed shouts from the kitchen.

  I head to the computer and check my e-mail. There’s an appointment for tomorrow morning in my LBJ Outlook from Darlene. I decline the meeting and explain I have to go to New York for a funeral. My Gmail account has five spams and an e-mail from my sister Amby. Her daughter just got engaged and she’s attached pictures. After checking out the photos, I pull up Facebook. One new friend request from Katie Birnbaum Gold.

  Message: Still love you like a sister. xxxooo Katie.

  I accept her as a friend and respond on her wall. “Love you too. Laila.”

  Katie is doing okay. Soccer mom, successful kid. Hello, a post from Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Oh, and twelve hundred sixty-two friends. I have thirty-three.

  Ed’s voice booms from the intercom. “Dinner’s on the table.”

  I put my iMac to sleep and stroll to the kitchen. Should I tell him the truth?

  Ed squeezes lemon into a dish on the counter. His skin is bronze from gardening. At sixty, my husband remains good-looking, muscular, curly hair gone silver. He places a plate of grilled salmon with dill sauce in front of me. “How was your day?”

  “You know how I hate those damn manager meetings. Hours and hours of the same b.s. How was yours?”

  “Not bad. Finally got the rent from Marcus. Fixed a broken window at the vacant Frontier Trail house.” Ed spends most of his time puttering around some rental properties we own while he’s studying for his real estate license.

  Why don’t I just tell him? We’ve had a solid marriage for over twenty-five years. Our two boys are grown, compassionate human beings thriving in their chosen careers. Not that all is perfect. Besides my husband losing his job, I suffer from occasional migraines and a herniated disk. Eduardo’s nephew just got busted for drugs after we paid for his rehab.

  “Honey, I’ve, ah, got to go to New York for a couple of days.”

  He meets my eyes. “Something wrong with the folks?”

  “No, no, an old college friend died, and I want to attend her funeral.”

  “I’m sorry. Who died?”

  “Denise Manelo. You don’t know her. Katie Birnbaum called today to tell me about it. She’s flying in from L.A.”

  “Did she live with you and Katie in college?”

  “No, well, sort of.” I’m such a lousy liar. I should just come clean with it.

  He reaches across the table, pushes a loose strand of hair back from my forehead. “How come you’ve never mentioned this Denise to me?”

  “She dropped out after freshman year. We kind of lost track.”

  He studies my face. “She must be someone pretty significant for you to fly all the way to New York.”

  Once again, my iPhone interrupts. A 520 area code pops up and I assume it’s my sister. I haven’t had time to program my contacts in yet. “Hi, Amby.”

  “Not Amby, sweetheart, it’s Chris. I’m calling from Tucson.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  You Can Take The Girl Outta Long Island

  Long Island and Queens, New York, 2012

  As my plane makes its final descent into JFK, I think about Chris’s phone call. Since Ed was standing right next to me, I’d told Chris I’d call him back. But when I tried reaching him later in the evening, he didn’t answer. Since then, I’ve called him numerous times leaving two voicemails, but still no call back from him. What did he tell that detective? How much trouble are we really in? I try to imagine what Chris is like now. Does he have a legitimate career? Is he married with a family?

  After an uneventful landing, I take the shuttle to the car rental terminal. Before long I’m headed to my parents’ house in West Meadow. No way can I come to New York and not visit them. Katie will arrive tomorrow from L.A. and we’ll drive together to the funeral.

  As I inch along the Long Island Expressway absorbed in an audiobook of Amy Tan’s, Joy Luck Club, a red Suburban full of teenagers bangs into my bumper, then speeds off into the horizon like nothing happened.

  “Jesus Christ!” Welcome back to New York. This is par for the course on the Long Island Expressway,
one of the thousand reasons I live out west. Thank God I followed Ed’s advice and purchased the extra rental insurance. I take a couple of breaths, continue onto Southern State, and exit at West Meadow.

  The landscape of my hometown is littered with endless tract homes and strip malls filling every nano-inch of space. I turn onto Lindy Drive feeling like I’ve just stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone. The place is treeless and gloomy. It’s been this way for years, yet I still imagine the evergreen and red maples of my childhood. Even worse, as I pull into the driveway of our house, I discover my parents recently covered the old wood shingles with ugly aluminum siding.

  I skip up the three steps of the porch the way I did as a kid, press the doorbell, and then peer through the storm door. My ninety-year-old father shuffles down the hall, his legs weak from bad circulation. He unlatches the door and greets me with a giant hug and kiss. “Your mother’s asleep. She didn’t expect you for another hour. Should I wake her?”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll see her later. When did you get all that siding?”

  “Mother got this deal. Looks nice, huh?”

  “Terrific. Can I make you lunch, Pop?”

  He looks relieved. Their caretaker Maria has the day off and he’s clueless in the kitchen. I whip up a tuna salad and prepare him a sandwich. He sits at the Formica table in a torn vinyl chair, working on the New York Times crossword puzzle. I’m always amazed he does it in pen. I place the sandwich and drink on the table in front of him.

  “Hey, Laila, that looks great.”

  “So what’s new besides the siding?”

  He shakes his head. “Your mother hasn’t been feeling too well lately. She sleeps all the time.”

  “What’s all the time?” I ask. “One nap, two naps a day?”

  He throws up his hands. “She barely gets out of bed at all. Maria brings her food on a tray.”

  It’s clear I need to visit more often than every two months. But it’s hard coming back here for me. Not just because of the pressure at LBJ. Speaking of work, I check my iPhone. There’s a text from Darlene McIntire telling me that Bob E. is now officially the new CEO.

  Pop looks on in wonder. “Where did you learn to do all that?” Technology has passed my father by. I bought him a computer but it sits idle in the den.

  After cleaning the dishes, I tiptoe through the house, noting how dowdy everything looks. The wallpaper is peeling and the white Italian tile floors are chipped. Plastic still covers the sectional couch. I smile. Yessiree, forty-five years old, and the sofa still could pass for brand new.

  I enter Mother’s bedroom. A 1947 sepia-toned wedding portrait sits prominently on the dresser. Pop’s eyes are hand-painted turquoise; Mother’s full lips are ruby-red. They seem so young and vibrant. Movie-star good looks, both of them.

  My mother hasn’t opened her eyes. “Ma, wake up, it’s Laila.”

  Her eyes pop open. She appears so small and helpless in the king-size bed.

  “Laila, my tatala, what time is it? I didn’t expect you so soon.”

  I give her a hug and kiss. She feels scrawny and fragile. “The flight landed early.”

  “What a nice surprise that you came for a visit.”

  “I told you about Denise.”

  “I barely remember her, your college roommate. Wasn’t she Italian?”

  “Yes, Ma. They’re having a rosary for her tonight. Her funeral is tomorrow.”

  She sits up on propped pillows. “You were such a disappointment to us in those days.”

  “I’ve told you I’m sorry many times. It’s ancient history, for chrissakes.”

  “Of all the girls, I thought we could trust you to go away to college. And then you disappear out west with Katie and that boy, what was his name?”

  “Chris.”

  She shakes her head. “I never liked that boy or that friend of his.”

  “You preferred those cheerleaders from high school.”

  My mother arches an eyebrow. “What was wrong with them? Jackie Lippman and Andrea Goldstein. Nice girls from good Jewish families. I still see Jackie wheeling her mother around Waldbaums.”

  “They made my life miserable.”

  “Really, I had no idea. Can you get me my housecoat?”

  “Of course.” I open the door to her small walk-in closet and pull the string attached to the bare light bulb above. All her matching polyester pants suits and dresses are perfectly lined up. I locate her favorite flowered muumuu and slip it off the hanger. As I reach to turn off the light, I notice a bright orange dress with a white ruffled collar by itself in the back.

  I can’t believe that dress still exists after all these years and it’s in pristine condition. I’d only worn it once. I close my eyes and recall the day I stood in a toilet stall in the girls-room at Woodland Junior High School.

  I WAS ABOUT TO OPEN THE DOOR when, through the crack in the stall, I saw my two new friends Jackie and Andrea at the sink mirrors applying makeup. We’d recently moved to West Meadow from the Bronx. They’d welcomed me into their little clique of girlfriends and it meant everything to me.

  Jackie began coating her mouth with candy-pink lipstick. “Can you believe that ugly schmata Laila wore on Friday night?”

  Andrea shellacked her hair with hairspray. “Vomit-orange with white ruffles around her neck? She looked like Little Bo Peep.”

  Jackie stuck her finger down her mouth and fake-gagged. “I think she buys all her clothes at John’s Bargain Store.”

  I wanted to scream but used all my fourteen-year-old willpower to remain silent. They knew my secret. My wardrobe came from discount stores like Kleins and Alexanders, while theirs came from Lord & Taylors and Bloomingdales. How stupid was I to believe my mother that no one could tell the difference? Pop was a fireman. Their fathers owned buildings, supermarkets, and medical practices.

  “Have you ever seen her sister Amby?” Jackie asked as she added a last coat of spray.

  Andrea smacked her arm. “You mean Bucky. Guess they can’t afford to get the poor little thing braces.”

  At that moment, I unlatched the stall door.

  Jackie yelled, “Who’s in there?” and pushed the door in.

  I shoved the door back out and it slammed into her nose which gushed blood.

  “Laila? You’re an animal!” The blood dripped into her mouth and down to her white blouse. She wiped her nose, smearing blood all over her hand.

  “It was an accident,” I said, but couldn’t help smiling.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Jackie said.

  And I did. They went to the principal’s office and claimed I’d punched Jackie in the face. The receptionist called our mothers to school. Mine was less than pleased since she’d just taken a job at Woolworths and had to leave early on her first day of work. I insisted it was the bathroom door, not my fist, that caused Jackie’s nosebleed, but everyone believed the two of them…

  I RETURN TO MY MOTHER’S BED, hand her the muumuu, and hold up the hanger with the orange dress. “I’m surprised you still have this.”

  “It’s such a beautiful dress. Would you like to take it back to Texas?”

  “I don’t think so. Nothing but a bad memory,” I say.

  “Why is that?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Her shoulders sag. “Sometimes I think you don’t appreciate all the sacrifices Daddy and I made for you.”

  “You moved us from the Bronx to Long Island so we could have a better life.”

  “That Bronx neighborhood was going down the tubes.”

  I smirk. “You mean blacks and Puerto Ricans had moved in.”

  “Whatever.”

  “That’s racist, Mother.”

  She fingers the collar of her nightgown. “Hmmm. We may not be as liberal as you, but we’re not racist, dear. We like Eddie.”

  “Ed or Eduardo,” I say. “He doesn’t like to be called Eddie.”

  “We like Ed,” she rolls her tongue, “dddwardo, and he’
s Spanish.”

  “Hispanic.” My sisters have warned me to avoid this type of discussion. Why do I let her draw me in? “Want a tuna sandwich?”

  “I did my best to raise you girls but you always seem so… disdainful toward me.”

  Her tongue can still slice my heart. “You’ll never understand me, Ma.”

  “If you listened to us, married a Jewish doctor, you’d still be here on the island.”

  “But I hate Long Island.”

  “You’d rather live far away from Daddy and me? First New Mexico, then Texas. Don’t get me wrong, Eddie is nice enough, but what good are you to me now that I’m old?”

  Don’t let her guilt trip you. Remember, you visit every few months, split the cost for Maria’s salary with Amby and Rachel. “Do you remember that time when I got in trouble in seventh grade and they called you to the principal’s office?”

  She raises a shoulder. “No.”

  I look her in the eye. “I only got in trouble once. We were in the principal’s office with Jackie, Andrea, and their mothers. They accused me of punching Jackie in the nose. Do you recall what you said?”

  “You want me to remember something I said forty years ago. I can barely recall what I had for breakfast.”

  My voice cracks. “You said, ‘I can’t believe a daughter of mine would do something so disgraceful.’”

  “Punching someone is very unladylike, Laila.”

  “The whole point, Ma, is I didn’t punch her. They lied, and you believed them over me. That hurt more than anything else.”

  She scratches her head. “And that’s why you don’t like Long Island?”

  Tears sting my eyelids. “Yeah, Ma. That’s it.” I reach for her arm and she stiffens.

  “Go make me that sandwich, dear.”

  THE NEXT MORNING my misty-eyed parents wave from their porch as I back out of the driveway. I feel like an escaped convict of my childhood. The banged up rental car makes a clanking noise. I roll down the window. “Love you guys. See you in March.”

  My father yells, “Make sure Avis gives you a new car. And be careful driving. It’s crazy out there.”