Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland Read online

  Ivy played with the radio station buttons. George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” came on, and she sang along.

  “This is a sign,” she said. “I really don’t believe in this God bullshit, but I think he heard my prayer.”

  I hoped he’d heard mine, too, and secretly promised him that I’d get on the pill as soon as possible. “Can I ask you a favor, Ivy?”

  She snorted. “I won’t tell Chris about you and Ben.”

  I let out my breath. “Because I drove you today?”

  “It’s bad for the family. Everyone needs to trust each other. The last thing I want is the guys going ape-shit over some chick.”

  “Was Chris the father? I mean, he was supposed to take you to Boston and all.”

  “Let me give you some advice, little girl. If you’re gonna hang around with the family, you need to leave your Long Guyland values back home.”

  “I will, I can. I mean, I was just curious.”

  She sneered. “The father, hmmmm. Could be Chris, or Ben, or Drake, or, come to think of it, there was that sweet afternoon delight with Doc. Got any Darvon? I got one hell of a stomachache.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bagels & Salsa

  Austin, Texas, 2012

  I sleep most of the flight home from New York. As my plane taxis toward the gate in Austin, I stare out the window at twinkling lights, thinking of Ben. I can imagine the sounds of Bob Dylan and Van Morrison blasting from his van’s Bose speakers on the long drive home to Arizona. What would life be like if I’d gone to Tucson with him instead of returning to Eduardo in Austin? A ridiculous fantasy. No way would I do something so insane. Ben Franklin Jones. Still hot as an erupting volcano.

  Eduardo is waiting for me in baggage claim. He’s shaved off his mustache and looks younger, almost boyish. He places a light peck on my lips. The tender, comfortable smooch of a couple married twenty-five years. A contrast to a couple of teens in front of us sharing the hot kiss of newly found love. What would it be like to kiss Ben? I must stop this line of thinking.

  Eduardo grabs my roll-on. “I missed you.”

  I squeeze his free hand. “I’ve just been gone a few days.”

  There’s comfortable banter between us as we walk to the parking lot. Ed tells me there was an announcement in the Austin American Statesman this morning about Darlene’s promotion to V.P. He opens the Acura trunk and throws my bag inside. As we speed down Ben White Boulevard, the chitchat ends. After twenty minutes of silence, Ed clears his throat. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  I feel my face puff like a blowfish and sit back in my seat. The words keep tripping on my tongue and nothing comes out. “I have a migraine right now. I promise we’ll talk when we get home.”

  “I’m not waiting any longer than tonight,” he says. Eduardo is a patient man. He turns on the radio and we spend the next half hour listening to NPR before pulling into the driveway of our lakefront house.

  My dog Willow runs in circles at the sight of me. She shadows me to the deck where I plop down on my favorite lounge chair. A banana-shaped moon shimmers over the water.

  Eduardo arrives with a glass of Mondavi Cabernet, hands it to me. “Are you hungry? I can make tacos.”

  “Are there any bagels in the freezer?”

  He slides open the door to the house. “Toasted with cream cheese?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He returns with the bagel, chips and salsa for himself. “So how was the funeral?”

  “Very sad.”

  Again silence. A mosquito prickles my arm. I slap it silly, then drag my chair closer to Eduardo’s. Where do I start? “Here’s the deal. I spent my first year of college in Connecticut, then transferred to New Mexico with Katie.”

  He rubs his neck. “And that’s why the private detective paid us a visit? Are you running for office perhaps?”

  “That’s cute.”

  He stands and swats a fly on his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me that before you left for New York?”

  I swallow. “There’s more.” I tell him about Joey’s disappearance.

  “That involves you in some way?”

  Small hairs rise on the back of my neck. Once again I contemplate spilling my guts. Yet I fear losing my husband if he finds out the truth. Better to stay quiet. On the other hand, Eduardo and I have never had secrets. Well, except for this.

  The sound of door chimes interrupts my response. Ed offers to see who is there. I retreat to my bedroom and press the intercom button. A female voice speaks to Ed in Spanish. He invites her upstairs to our main living area and offers her coffee. How strange is this?

  “Laila, there’s a woman here who wants to talk to you,” he shouts.

  I check myself out in the mirror, splash cold water on my face, and run a comb through my tangled hair before walking to the kitchen where they’re seated. I’m surprised to find a striking Hispanic woman with long black hair and a body like Salma Hayek at the table. She speaks in Spanish to my husband, as he places a cup of espresso in front of her.

  Neither of them notice me. Their voices are hushed. She brushes my husband’s hand with her finger. “Mi mamá no va a creer como guapo seas todavía, despues de tantos años.”

  Three years of rusty high school Spanish tells me she said something about her mother not believing how handsome my husband still is. I go behind her chair and tap her shoulder. “Does your mother know Eduardo?”

  She snakes her body around to face me. “You must be Laila.”

  I extend my hand. “And you are?”

  “Juanita Sanchez.” She shakes my hand, then gazes at my husband.

  “Funny coincidence,” Eduardo says. “Juanita’s mother and mine grew up together.”

  She glows. “When Eduardo graduated from high school, I was still a child. I used to have a girlhood crush on him. Silly, no?”

  “A riot,” I say.

  “You do remember my mother’s friend, Virgie?” Ed says.

  I recall an overweight woman decked out in turquoise jewelry speaking Spanish to my mother-in-law in her kitchen. “Yes, vaguely.” I turn to Juanita. “So what are you doing here in Austin?”

  “That’s the coincidence. I came here to see you.” She passes me her card.

  Juanita Sanchez, Private Investigator

  Juanita Bonita Detective Agency

  409 San Mateo Blvd, NE, Albuquerque, New Mexico

  www.Juanitabonitadetective.com (505) 789-9876

  “Clever company name,” I say.

  “Sí, it stands out in the Yellow Pages.”

  I glare at my husband. “This certainly is a coincidence.”

  Eduardo smiles, revealing his one dimple. “Juanita is the detective who paid a visit while you were in New York.”

  “Funny you didn’t mention that you two knew each other when we spoke on the phone.”

  “You didn’t ask,” he says with a stupid grin.

  I rotate my eyes. “Cute.”

  Juanita interrupts our banter. “I have a few questions for you about the disappearance of Joey Costello.”

  Beads of sweat form above my lip. “Who hired you?”

  “My client prefers to remain anonymous,” she says.

  “Why should I talk to you?”

  “Because I have enough evidence to reopen Joey’s missing-person case. And I have friends at the FBI. Better to talk to me than get them involved.”

  I consider my options. Is there a statute of limitations on a missing person’s case? If only I knew what Chris told her.

  Juanita takes out a stiff black notebook from her briefcase. Who doesn’t use a laptop or iPad these days? Perhaps she’s all volume and no content. A few pecans short of a fruitcake? Wishful thinking on my part.

  “I believe you and your friends know what happened to Joey when he disappeared the night before the Kent State shootings,” she says with conviction.

  “Believe what you like,” I say.

  “Chris said that he and Denise
were your friends, not his.”

  Ben warned me about this. “I have no comment.”

  “Did you make a cross-country trip to New Mexico the day after the Kent State shootings? The day after Joey disappeared?” So much for underestimating Juanita Bonita. She’s done her homework.

  “I went to school at UNM in Albuquerque. I’m sure you already know that.”

  She glances at Eduardo, then down at her notebook. A tendril of black hair falls in her face, which she sweeps back. “So you have no idea what happened to Joey?”

  “No.”

  Eduardo interrupts. “Can I get you more coffee, Juanita? Some food perhaps?”

  Juanita smiles at him. One of her bottom teeth is chipped. Not that I’m looking for defects. “No, gracias.” She circles back to me. “Exactly what is your relationship with Ben Franklin Jones?”

  I let out my breath. “You’re grasping at straws.” She knows way more than I ever imagined. “Perhaps you should leave.”

  Ed looks at me. “That’s rude, Laila.”

  My eyes burn. “Have you been listening to what’s going on here?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m trying to figure that out,” Ed says defiantly.

  Juanita slams her notebook shut. “Está bien. I’ll say buenos noches for now. Marca mis palabras.”

  What’s with the Spanish?

  Eduardo offers to escort her downstairs.

  “No, let me,” I say. Willow follows us to a baby-blue Ford Mustang convertible. I assume she lucked out with a great rental, but then notice the yellow Land of Enchantment plates. “Nice wheels. Long drive from Albuquerque though.”

  “I don’t like airplanes much.”

  “Neither does Ed.”

  She laughs. “Must be a Sabinal thing.” Sabinal is the small ranching town where they both grew up. “We’re happy to stay put on our ranches. Our ancestors have lived there for over three hundred years.”

  “Ed likes travel, just not flying. We went to Italy and Greece for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary last year.”

  “I’m sure Eduardo did you a big favor. Our familias have little interest in Europe.”

  She strikes a nerve. While Ed enjoyed himself, he flew white-knuckled the whole thirteen hours despite a horse-dose of Xanax. It may be hard to get him on a plane again.

  “Eduardo has no idea how wild you were back in the day, does he?”

  “You don’t know me or my husband.”

  “This much I know about Eduardo. He would not approve.”

  “I assume Denise hired you initially. But who’s paying you now that she’s dead?”

  She opens the driver’s door of the Mustang. “If I were you, Señora, I’d tell me the truth of what happened that night. Your amigos viejos will betray you.”

  She’s struck another nerve. No way can I trust Chris. Or Ben for that matter.

  After Juanita peels off, Eduardo and I barely speak. I can’t believe he doesn’t comprehend that Juanita Bonita is out to destroy me. On the other hand, how can I blame him when I’ve omitted so much. I empty the dishwasher, then rattle around the kitchen wiping countertops, polishing the stovetop, scrubbing the sink for the third time.

  Eduardo works on his laptop redoing estimates for a remodel job for one of the rental properties.

  Time to make peace. I open the refrigerator and yell, “Wanna beer?”

  He turns up behind me. “When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I thought your girlfriend had filled you in on everything.”

  “Knock it off, Laila. You’re using her to avoid telling me what the hell happened.”

  “Do you realize she’s trying to ruin me?”

  “If I knew what you did, I might be more sympathetic.”

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “What else haven’t you told me these last twenty-five years?”

  “Ef you.” I feel like a hypocrite. A part of me wants to break the pact and share everything that happened. My marriage is at stake. Maybe worse.

  Ed retreats to our bedroom and slams the door behind him.

  I pour a glass of Chardonnay and head to the deck with Willow trailing behind. Hundreds of stars scintillate above. Willow jumps on the lounge chair and nuzzles next to me. A pungent smell of barbeque from the neighbor’s gas grill sifts through the air. I’ve worked so hard to make my life turn out like this. Eduardo, the boys, this amazing lake house we designed and built together. A few more years at LBJ and I can retire and look forward to grandchildren and travel. Will my dark past ruin my marriage and future happiness?

  I head to the bathroom where I undress, then tiptoe into the bedroom and slip under the covers.

  Eduardo stirs and turns toward me. “You still mad?”

  “Who says I was mad?”

  “You generally don’t cuss unless you’re really pissed at me, no?”

  “How come you didn’t offer me any food?” I ask.

  He touches my cheek. “So you were jealous?”

  I push his hand away. “No way.”

  “Admit it. This is a first,” he says.

  “Okay, maybe, a tiny bit. But you weren’t on my side. That’s a first.”

  “I am on your side,” he says. “But I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened.”

  I choose my words carefully. “This guy Joey was my roommate Denise’s boyfriend.”

  “The one whose funeral you just went to in New York?”

  “Yes. He disappeared the day before Kent State. Some people thought he may have gone out to Ohio and got caught up in that. He was very political.”

  “Juanita said you took off cross-country after Kent State.”

  Once again I pause before speaking. Nothing I say is a lie although there are some omissions. “Katie and I had already applied to UNM. When the Kent State massacre happened, Bridgeport closed along with a lot of other universities. We decided to head out to New Mexico early.”

  “And Denise?”

  “She stayed behind.”

  “Why does Juanita think you’re mixed up in this guy Joey’s disappearance?”

  “Denise’s suicide has brought the whole thing up again. Joey’s mother was at the funeral.”

  “My God, Laila. You didn’t mention she committed suicide.”

  Oops. “It, er, was too painful for me to talk about.”

  He sits up in bed. “Damn it, Laila. What else have you omitted?”

  “Nothing. That’s it. I drove cross-country with Katie to go to UNM.”

  Ed yawns. “I’m not buying it, but we’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ve got to get up early and drive down to Frontier Trail. Ellen hasn’t paid the rent. We can’t afford another vacancy.”

  He’s right. Two vacant houses would be a financial hardship right now. But I don’t dare say that or he’ll take it the wrong way. I’m grateful for the reprieve from dealing with any more questions tonight. Before long, we cuddle together in spoonsies fashion like the old married couple we are.

  I’m just about to fade into sleep when Ed says, “So who is this Ben Franklin guy?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Emancipation Proclamation

  Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1970

  By the time Ivy and I reached the belching smokestacks of Bridgeport, her jeans were soaked in blood. “My God, if you won’t go to the hospital, maybe you should see a doctor,” I said.

  “Just get me upstairs.” She groaned and grasped my arm as she faltered from the car and down Main Street to the family’s house.

  I helped her up the stairs and unlocked the deadbolt of both the front door and the upstairs apartment with her keys. The place was dark and solemn as a funeral parlor. Ivy wobbled into the bathroom moaning of stomach pains and leaving a trail of red dots.

  I followed her inside the john and filled the yellow-stained, claw-foot bathtub with hot water. She slid off her bloody pants and the rest of her clothing and threw them in a pile on the fractured linoleum floor.
r />   Red-brown blood caked her pubic hair and mottled her thighs. She clung to my arm as she climbed into the tub. “Can you make a pot of tea and bring me a cup? Christ, ooooh, this pain is bad!” She held her hands on her swollen tummy. Spurts of red fluid snaked around the tub.

  All that blood scared me. “This isn’t normal. You should go to the hospital.”

  “Just get the fucking tea, okay?”

  My first inclination was to see if Chris was in the attic, but I rushed to the kitchen, set up the teakettle, and retrieved a box of Constant Comment tea from the pantry. Then I raced upstairs and clicked on the lamp. Chris was sound asleep in bed. It felt like a lifetime since I’d seen him, but it was only yesterday. I thought about my lovemaking with Ben. Should I confess what happened? Would he ever forgive me? Maybe not right now. His face looked chalky. “Chris, hello. It’s me, Laila.”

  Chris didn’t move.

  I touched his arm then applied more pressure. Even when I snapped my fingers above his face, his eyes remained shut. As I moved my face closer to his, I nearly gagged from the stench of his breath. But thank God. For a moment, I feared he was dead.

  The wood stairs creaked with the sound of footsteps. A somber-looking Doc stood in the doorway dressed in khaki pants and a white lab coat. If not for the eye patch, I wouldn’t have recognized him in that garb. “He’s gonna be okay, honey.”

  “Are you sure? He hasn’t moved.”

  “He had a bad trip. I gave him a couple of Quaaludes to bring him down. He’ll sleep it off for a few days. What the hell happened to Ivy?”

  I told Doc about our literally aborted trip to Boston.

  He explained that when he arrived at the house he noticed the trail of blood and the sound of the teakettle shrieking. He followed the red splotches from the bathroom to Ivy’s bedroom where he found her sprawled on the bed.

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  He touched my cheek. “She’s resting. I gave her something to help with the stomach pain.”

  “What are you a doctor or something?”

  He flashed a gold-capped smile. “I was studying to be a surgeon when I lost my eye. Now I’m working as an orderly at St. Joseph’s.”