Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland Read online

  The Harley idled in front of me and the biker grinned. He had a tattoo on his neck of a striped cat with lettering below that read, I LOVE PUSSY. “Wanna ride with me, sweet-cheeks?”

  I tried to smile but my lips were trembling. “That sounds cool, but I’ve already got a date.”

  Within seconds, two of his friends zoomed up. One pulled out a pocketknife and picked his nails with it. He was skinny and missing a front tooth. “Got a real cutie there, Charlie.”

  They moved their Harleys closer forming a semi-circle around me. Charlie puckered his lips and made a kissing sound. “Sure would like some of your gravy.”

  I prayed silently. Then real panic set in. I felt a tear bubble up in the corner of my eye. No, don’t cry. Don’t let them see how scared you are. “I reeally have to go now. My boyfriend is waiting. And he’s quite a big guy, you know.”

  Another motorcycle drove up as the Charlie dude sneered, “Did you hear that? She got a big boyfriend.”

  “It’s true, motherfucka,” said a voice behind me. “She’s Chris Reynolds ol’ lady.”

  I turned around and faced the one-eyed black guy from Rodman’s on a Harley. “Doc?”

  He winked. “I like a chick who remembers my name.” His Harley idled as he pulled out a long knife from a holster on his belt and cut his index finger with it until blood dripped down his hand. Then, he rubbed his hand on Charlie’s cheek. “Fuck off or you deal with me.”

  Charlie wiped his face with his jacket sleeve. “We was just having a little fun.”

  The whites of Doc’s eyes shone in the dark. “She’s family.”

  Seconds later the three dudes fired up their engines and sped off.

  Doc and I coughed from the exhaust blowing in our faces.

  “I-I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  “What the fuck is Chris doing letting a hot chick like you walk out here by yourself?”

  I shrugged.

  “They shouldn’t bother you no more. If anyone even leers at your toenails, you let Doc know.” He pointed down the street at a dilapidated old house. “Chris just lives over there.”

  Doc followed me on his Harley as I scrambled down the street to the rundown house and knocked on the door. When Chris opened it, Doc waved and sped off.

  Chris stood in a dim hallway lit up with a blinking red bulb. A skinny guy with frizzy hair opened a wood door that read 1A and waved at Chris. The sound of Van Morrison’s song “Crazy Love” blasted from a stereo on the next floor.

  Chris took my face in his hands and kissed me until I felt dizzy. I started to tell him about the bikers and Doc, but he placed a finger on my lips.

  “Shhhhh. Let’s go upstairs.” He took my hand and led me up a flight of rickety stairs to the second-story apartment, and opened the door.

  We entered into the living room. The aroma of marijuana and vanilla-scented candles filled my senses. A tall guy with a ponytail and Zorro-style mustache sat on an overstuffed couch strumming a guitar. Next to him sat a big-boned woman with huge breasts, rimless glasses, and chalky makeup.

  Chris introduced us.

  The guy named Ben nodded. He set aside the guitar, picked up a glass bong, and filled it with weed from a baggy. “Wanna hit?”

  Chris darted his eyes. “We’re headed to the attic.”

  Ben passed the bong to me. “You gotta have at least one hit.” He looked over at the chick next to him. “It’s Ivy’s birthday.”

  Chris looked at me. “Want to?”

  “Sure.” I was an old timer at this now, no big deal. I smiled at Ivy. “How old are you?”

  She didn’t bother to answer.

  Ben clicked the lighter on the bong and said, “Ivy’s twenty-one today.”

  I inhaled and began coughing uncontrollably.

  Chris smacked my back, but I continued hacking. “Get her a glass of water, Ivy.”

  The woman stood and rolled her eyes. “These U.B. girls can never handle our weed.”

  Chris and Ben were hovering over me when she returned moments later with a glass of water. I had stopped coughing but felt spacey from the hit. Their pot was stronger than the stuff at Bodine Hall.

  Ivy handed me the glass, then took a hit from the bong. She too began to cough.

  I held out the glass. “Want some?”

  She sneered, not bothering to respond.

  I felt the need for conversation. “Are you the psychic?”

  Ben poked her arm. “Ivy’s an astrologer.”

  She cleared her throat. “I can do your chart sometime, if you like.”

  “Great. Sounds like a cool occupation. I’ve been looking for a career where I don’t have to watch the clock all day. My mother wants me to be a teacher, but—” I glanced around the room feeling like a jerk. Everyone stared at me like I was from Pluto.

  Ivy smiled mockingly. “How old are you, Laila?”

  “Sev… Eighteen.”

  Ivy snarled at Chris. “Jesus, seventeen? Where do you find these little girls? This one’s barely out of diapers.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was speechless, unable to defend myself.

  “Poison Ivy strikes again,” Ben said, waving his hands. “Stop scaring all the U.B. girls away, would you, please? Chris and I like having them around.”

  Ivy slipped out of the room without another word.

  I yelled, “Happy birthday,” but I don’t think she heard me. Moments later a door slammed. Chris, Ben, and I sat on the couch passing the bong around. Ben strummed his guitar between tokes.

  My head felt like it was floating, my words slurred.

  “So what’s happening at the Union?” Ben asked.

  Chris squinted. “No one can agree what to do, the stupid fucks. I say, meet violence with counter-violence. That’s what we did in Berkeley.”

  He seemed so sure.

  Ben shook his head. “This isn’t Berkeley, man. You’ve got a bunch of rich kids from Long Island pretending they’re revolutionaries.”

  I gulped. Is that how they thought of me?

  Ben passed me the bong. “Protesting the war or fighting for equal rights is more important than a new Cadillac or fancy clothes. People in Berkeley understand what counts in life. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” I said. “No question.”

  “We never should have left there,” Chris said.

  Ben shot him a sideways glance. “We didn’t have a choice, man.”

  These guys were beyond cool. I couldn’t wait to tell Denise. “Wow, you lived in Berkeley?”

  Chris put his arm around me. “For a few years. Wish we were there now.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “It got too hot for us,” Chris said.

  “Hot? I thought San Francisco… ” He didn’t mean the weather, stupid.

  Ben smiled. “Never you mind. I’m going to crash. See you guys in the morning.”

  Chris turned on the portable black-and-white television perched on wood crates and began to rub my shoulders. We watched an old Humphrey Bogart movie, but I paid more attention to his fingers on my back.

  “Would you like to go up to my room, Laila?”

  “I-I, sure.” You can do this.

  We climbed another set of stairs to the attic. The room was pitch black. Chris lit two candles then kissed me, searching my mouth with his tongue. Should I tell him? Will he think I’m a jerk?

  His hands slipped under my blouse. I felt excited. The feelings were new to me. Way better than Denise had described. “Chris, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “What?” He didn’t want conversation.

  He kissed my neck, slipped off my sweater, and smiled when he realized I had no bra. He stared at my naked breasts in the candlelight. “So beautiful.”

  Should I tell him now?

  He gave me soft butterfly kisses on my mouth and neck. His tongue tickled my ear while he unzipped my jeans and glided his hand down inside my panties.

  Oh, this fe
els sooooo incredible. Maybe I should wait. My emotions crisscrossed like the laces of my boots.

  Then, suddenly, the door burst open and someone snapped on the light.

  I quickly covered my chest with a pillow.

  Doc stood before us with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You gotta get outta here, man! The pigs will be here any minute. They busted Drake up in Fairfield.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Funeral

  Queens, New York, 2012

  On the drive to get Katie at the airport, I reflect on the significance Denise played in my life. I remember her as a feisty girl with a zest for life, and I can’t fathom how she’d ever reached a point of committing suicide.

  When I arrive at JFK International, I follow the signs to car rentals and check the Chevy back in at Avis. They inspect the damage and do the paperwork for me to get a new rental that I’ll pick up later. I take a shuttle to Jet Blue baggage claim to wait for Katie’s arrival.

  I check my iPhone for messages. There’s a voicemail on my phone from Darlene McIntire. “It’s official. I’m V.P. Call me.”

  As I start to return the call, I spot Katie on the escalator chatting with a muscular guy in a Yankee’s cap. She looks great, thin, tan, dressed in a tailored-suit and leather boots. Her hair, like mine, is streaked with highlights. Unlike mine, she has a stylish Jennifer Aniston haircut, while my hairdo, or lack of one, hasn’t changed much since the seventies. We hug, exchange niceties, then catch the shuttle back to Avis to pick up the new car.

  Katie moves the conversation to the reason we’re here. “You’ve got to find out what Denise wrote in her suicide note.”

  “What do you mean I have to find out? What about you?”

  “Let’s face it, Lai. You knew Denise’s mother. I never met the woman.”

  “I met her once a hundred years ago. Not sure that qualifies me as knowing her.”

  Katie hands the clerk at the Avis counter her driver’s license. She turns to me. “I’ll drive, you navigate.”

  Katie’s at the wheel, and I’m riding shotgun. It brings back memories of the seventies. We head onto the Van Wyck. Lightning and thunder explode like fireworks in the dark cloud-filled sky. I consider telling Katie about how Denise spoke to me through the Grateful Dead song, but instead take out my GPS and punch in the address of the funeral home.

  “Nice you thought to bring your gizmo. You always were the organized one.”

  “I’m in I.T. now.”

  “It fits your personality. Precise, complicated—”

  “Anal?”

  Katie giggles. “Well, yes, I didn’t want to say that.”

  “And you were certainly the daring one. “

  Katie presses my hand. “We’re lucky to be alive. If my girls were to ever do half the shit we did.”

  “Are Ben and Chris coming to the funeral?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I still can’t believe what those two did to us,” I say.

  “Motherfuckers, but they were hot.”

  I laugh. “That they were.” A vision of Ben strumming his guitar is interrupted by a migraine materializing in my temples. I pull out a bottle of Advil from my purse, pop two, and hand Katie a couple. “I can’t tell Eduardo.”

  “Do you think Mitch would understand? He was taking the LSAT for Harvard while I marched on Washington.” She retrieves a Bic lighter from her purse.

  “Please don’t smoke, I’ll get sick.”

  Katie smiles, unfastens the top buttons of her blouse, and sticks a hand inside her black lacy bra.

  “What the hell are you—?”

  Before I finish my sentence, she’s holding a neatly rolled joint. She clicks the lighter and fires it up.

  “Are you ef’n crazy, Katie?”

  She laughs. “You still can’t say fuck can you?”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck. There I said it. But I won’t smoke pot. Haven’t in years.”

  “Loosen up, Lai. You’re so uptight. Always were.”

  I grab the thing, take a toke, and pass it back to her. “I can’t believe you’d fly with this stuff. You are still nuts.”

  Katie laughs. “You feel better though, don’t you?”

  “This is definitely good shit.”

  I’m a frickin’ mess by the time we arrive at the Flushing Funeral Home in a torrential downpour. Why did I let Katie get me stoned? After all these years, she still holds power over me. We race from the parking lot to the weathered brick building. Once inside, a tall man with a carnation in the lapel of his suit leads us to the chapel. He nods at a table with a sign-in sheet.

  I scribble my name and make note of most of the signatures already there. Iris and Bill Gelaro, Benny Capechi, Lillian Rinaldi, Val and Tony Manelo, Tony Gargulio, Sylvie Costello. Costello? No, that can’t be Joey’s mother. I flash back to the amazing dinner I had at the Costello home with Joey and Denise a lifetime ago.

  The room is packed with relatives and friends who shout “Buon giorno, Come sta,” across the room to each other. I feel like I’m back in Tuscany where Ed and I spent our twenty-fifth anniversary.

  One old man wearing a tweed jacket and floppy hat winks at us. Katie winks back at him.

  “Why are you encouraging him?” I ask.

  She slides into a pew. The sheets of rain have converted her L.A. do into a ball of frizz. I imagine my own kinky hair looks worse. The priest stands at the podium and taps the microphone. Everyone in the funeral home stops talking and sits solemnly in their seats. Piped music filters in from an unknown source.

  Katie starts to hiccup. A couple of weatherworn old women sitting in front of us turn and glare. Can they smell the marijuana on us? Katie grimaces at them and follows up with a couple more hiccups.

  The man who greeted us in the grey suit taps Katie on the back and whispers, “You might want to step outside for a little while.”

  Katie pinches her nostrils and puffs out her cheeks. “I’m good now.”

  Looking around, I recognize Denise’s mother, a buxom old woman in a black knit dress. Her eyes look sallow and haggard beneath swollen lids. She’s standing with a priest by the casket clutching the arm of Denise’s brother, Danny, an obese middle-aged man with a ruddy boozer’s face, thick mustache, and wraparound sunglasses. Time hasn’t faded my memory of his bipolar personality.

  Denise’s open casket sits on the stage surrounded by wreaths and vases of flowers. The fragrance of roses, lilacs, and orchids sweeten the air. A crucifix hangs prominently above her. Katie joins the line to view the casket, but I remain on the bench. I can’t stomach seeing Denise close up. Many of the relatives kiss the rosary in her hand and return down the aisle with watery eyes. Mrs. Manelo is openly weeping and her face looks pale as parchment.

  Katie returns to the pew dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She places a shaky hand on my arm and murmurs, “She looks so old. You wouldn’t recognize her.”

  I prefer to remember Denise at the beach that first night of college, her luscious strawberry-blonde hair flowing in the sea wind.

  The priest begins. “God our Father, Your power brings us to birth. Your providence guides our lives. And by Your command we return to dust.”

  The congregation mumbles along with the prayer while Mrs. Manelo moans and sniffles.

  During the service everyone kneels on cue except Katie and me. We look at each other and remain seated. It’s as though we have a sign on that reads:

  ‘TWO JEWISH GIRLS DON’T BELONG AT CATHOLIC FUNERAL.’

  The eulogy is solemn although the priest, a husky man with heavy eyebrows and a surprisingly high-pitched voice, clearly did not know Denise. He talks about her job with the state and how she volunteered at the animal shelter for many years. “I’ve heard she was a woman of great energy, a caring, thoughtful daughter, sister and friend to many in this room. Her mother told me she loved music.”

  Especially Van Morrison, The Dead, and Bob Dylan I feel like shouting. But instead I try to recall the beauti
ful, fun Denise I knew, her pouty smile, and yes, her love of music. She played rock-and-roll albums in our dorm room day and night.

  What really happened to her? Why didn’t she marry or have a family? My eyes water. I have a vision of her alone in some cheap Queens’s apartment with an empty vial of pills next to her bed.

  Did she change her mind and try to call anyone at the last minute? Were the last years of her life desperately lonely, filled with guilt? So many questions remain unanswered.

  After the mass, the priest announces that following the burial at the St. Edward’s Cemetery, the Manelos want to invite everyone to a luncheon at their home in Flushing.

  Mrs. Manelo, propped up by Danny, lumbers down the aisle and greets a parade of family and friends. Her thin lips are severely chapped, and her eyes sunken in their sockets. She leans on her son for support. He’s so enormous he makes a good cushion.

  Katie and I join the line behind a frail old woman. When we reach Mrs. Manelo and Danny, I have little expectation that she’ll recognize me after all these years. “I don’t know if you remember me, Mrs. Manelo. I’m Laila—”

  Danny points at me. “You’re the one who got my sister all messed up!”

  I gaze at him in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  He moves so close to my face I can smell his sour breath. “If she hadn’t gotten involved with you and all your weird friends, she’d be here right now.”

  A hundred plus Italian faces are staring at me. The room starts spinning. The last thing I remember is the stench of cigarette smoke and coffee on Danny’s breath…

  WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, I’m surrounded by a circle of people. The old guy in the floppy hat hands me water in a paper cup. “Are you okay?” He and Katie help me stand.

  Katie waves her arms at the small crowd surrounding us. “Show’s over.”

  The group disperses through the exit.

  I hobble to the parking lot leaning on Katie for support. I’m no longer stoned. We’re about to enter the rental car when we hear a familiar voice calling, “Laila, Katie, wait.” We turn and see the guy in the floppy hat and aviator sunglasses. How does he know our names?