Dead by Any Other Name

by Sebastian Stuart

  The thing is, I’d loved her, a lot. She had a kind of magic—she could take a rainy day and turn it into a great adventure. “Oh, who needs silly old school today?” And we would sing and dance around the kitchen, down the long hallway of the East Village railroad apartment, into the bedrooms of her half-asleep drugged-over roommates, and then the crayons would come out and we’d draw elephants and space aliens, bake a cake for breakfast and eat half the batter, she was so pretty and had this goofy laugh and she made me feel so special, and so what if she didn’t really care if I went to school or had a decent dinner or clean clothes, so what if she always had a new boy around her, a new man … who can blame them, the men, she was so fun, so pretty, so warm and lovable, my mom.

  Who left.

  Who never got in touch again, who didn’t care what happened to her little girl.

  My bedroom was lonely and quiet, and lying there I wondered what happened to her. Is she dead? If she’s alive, where is she? I hope she’s still laughing that goofy laugh, still dancing around the kitchen. Does she ever think of me?

  Now my thoughts were spinning, spinning forward to that night when I was fifteen and I didn’t give a fuck, I wanted to live, and I was drunk and the party was wild and we were out on the lawn and I can’t even remember the boy’s name if I ever even knew it or what he looked like, I remember he smelled like beer and pushed my skirt up and yanked my panties down and that it was fast and it hurt and then he got up and walked away and I lay there on the scruffy lawn with a plastic tricycle beside me and I felt … nothing. Then shame and loathing and anger.

  Then my period stopped and I knew and my sad aunt didn’t give a shit, nobody gave a shit. And I wanted to abort the baby and I wanted to keep the baby and raise the baby and love the baby. But how could I? I didn’t know what a mother was, what a mother did. Except make magic and then leave.

  I went to a clinic and scheduled an abortion and then I didn’t show up, I just couldn’t, and I had a baby girl and I named her Anna and I held her and wanted to keep her. But how could I? I had no money, no job, no place to take her. I was alone. And Anna scared me, her naked vulnerability, it scared me—motherhood. So I gave her up when she was two days old, I was too scared.

  And now, lying on my bed twenty-seven years later, I’m wondering about her, what her name is, where she lives, who she’s grown up to be and if she ever wonders about her mother. About me.

  And what’s left? A crazy quilt of sadness, longing, guilt, anger, regret, curiosity, all of it roiling around just out of sight/mind/heart, pushed down by me for twenty-seven years. Demanding now to be heard, dealt with, called up by my feelings for Josie, by my new life in Sawyerville, by middle age, by time.

  But not right now, not tonight. I sat up. The process had begun, but tonight was for celebration, for fun, for putting—as best I could—both Natasha’s murder and my emotional reckoning on the shelf.

  Just for a little while.

  FORTY

  Sputnik walked into the room and gave me a look that said “Are you okay, mama?”

  I reached down and scratched his chest, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  There was a knock on the back door downstairs. I went down and let George in. He was resplendent in a porkpie hat set at a jaunty angle, a spangly purple shirt, shiny black slacks, and a mammoth gold horseshoe necklace that Kanye West would consider ostentatious.

  “Lookin’ good,” I said.

  “So no Josie?”

  “Nah, she can’t bust loose.”

  “Maybe somebody should bust her loose.”

  He followed me back upstairs and sat at the kitchen table while I went into my bedroom and finished dressing.

  “Antonio promised to come when he’s finished with his work at the track,” George called.

  Knowing that just about anything I said would set off a round of reproach, I opted for an Antonio-neutral, “This should be fun tonight.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” George demanded, appearing in the bedroom doorway.

  “It’s supposed to mean that I’m looking forward to the party.”

  “You mean you’re looking forward to my abject humiliation if Antonio doesn’t show.”

  I zipped my lip and headed downstairs. George followed, “Oh, so now I get the silent treatment?”

  I led us out the back door and headed across the street to Chow as George said, “Boy, for a therapist you sure are passive aggressive.”

  The party was just getting started. Abba had pushed the tables to the sides and filled the place with tea lights, there was an amazing spread along the length of the counter, a small bar was set up, and people of all ages, sizes, and mojos were pouring in, dressed up fine and ready to party the Hudson Valley night away. Pearl was standing behind the counter, her usual dazedness having morphed into what looked to me like full-fledged shock.

  Mad John ran over and wrapped himself around me.

  “Jan-Jan!”

  George quickly set up his laptop and speakers for D.J. duty and the music started to roll. The dance floor filled up quickly. Mad John was an interesting dancer: he basically leapt ecstatically up and down in place, occasionally bouncing around a bit, sort of like a human pogo stick.

  I got a glass of wine and found Abba in the kitchen pulling more food together, nursing her own glass of vino.

  “This is going to be one hell of a shindig.” I raised my glass. “To you.”

  We toasted. “It’s important to celebrate the good times,” she said. “And this town has been very good to me … So what’s up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem distracted.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind. You know, Natasha Wolfson and all.”

  “It’s the ‘and all’ that I want to hear about.”

  I sat on a stool and clocked the party through the pass-through.

  “I can’t stop thinking about Josie.”

  “I know you can’t. And I need extra help around here desperately. Put your heart and my restaurant together and it equals time to bring that girl home.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’ll be here to help you any way I can, and you know that George, in spite of himself, is about as rock solid as a person can be. That man would take a bullet for you. You’d have a lot of support.”

  I felt something well up inside me, something big and scary and maybe beautiful. The party was growing wilder by the second, people were calling out congratulations to Abba, popping their heads into the kitchen, raving about the food, dropping off presents.

  All the action was comforting somehow, but I felt detached, like there was an invisible shield between me and the hubbub, even the music sounded far away, and then I heard her voice echoing across the years—Come on, baby girl ‘o’ mine, it’s a special day, a magic day, we’re going to go out and play … and she took my hand and swung our arms like we were sisters and off we went, out into the streets of the East Village, to Tompkins Square Park where the trees were the fresh green of spring and she waved to everyone and danced around with her arms out and kissed me and hugged me and loved me … she did love me, didn’t she?

  “There she is—my daughter, the star!”

  I was pulled back into the kitchen by the arrival of a thin, elegant black woman wearing a silk mandarin jacket and matching pants, her gray hair tight on her head, her face—fine and beautiful with Abba’s amber-green eyes—broken into a wide grin of pure pride.

  “It’s my mama!” Abba cried, looking like a little kid.

  They kissed and hugged. Then Abba turned to me, “Janet, this is my mom, Liz. Mom, Janet.”

  Liz Turner took my hands in hers, “What a pleasure.”

  “Indeed.”

  Jay-Z and Alicia Keys singing Empire State of Mind came on and Liz broke a few moves. “It’s always so good to be back home.”

  “Mom spends most of her time out in Berkeley these days, though she still has her house up in Catskill. How was your flight?�
��

  “It flew.”

  “Striped bass for everyone,” Zack bellowed as he and Moose blew into the kitchen.

  “We got the goods, baby!” Moose dumped a barrel of glistening fish into the huge stainless sink. Moose was six-feet-six of pure male id—he and Zack together were a testosterone orgy.

  “I hope you know you’re cleaning those suckers,” Abba said. Their faces fell. “You heard me, get to work.”

  Zack came over and gave me a kiss, “Hey, babe.”

  “Hi, Zack,” Liz said.

  Zack turned to her, took her hand and kissed it, “Now that the queen is here, this is officially a party. This is my buddy Moose.”

  Moose nodded from the sink, where he was already elbow-deep in fish innards.

  “I need a smoke,” Liz said, “Keep me company, Janet?”

  I nodded, she took my hand and led me out to Abba’s small back patio. We sat at a round bistro table, she took a joint out of her bag, lit up, took a toke, blew it out, and then sang:

  “Puff, the magic Negro.”

  We laughed and she offered me the joint, I shook my head.

  “I never smoke at home,” she said. “My current husband disapproves.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a retired professor of African-American studies at UC Berkeley. Lovely man, a bit snooty at times, but well-heeled, great sex, and we’re both from the loose-leash school of marriage. It works.”

  She looked up—the night was black and moonless, tossed with stars. “Look at that Hudson Valley sky. And smell that old man river.” The slight breeze carried the river up to town, damp and earthy, loss and promise.

  “I’m crazy about your daughter,” I said.

  “Isn’t she something? She’s always been an independent little cuss.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I raised her that way. Can’t stand that clingy nonsense. You have any kids?”

  I hesitated. “No. Never really had the urge. The idea of being a mother scares me.”

  “There’s nothing to it.”

  A bitter little laugh escaped me.

  “I took my cues from the animals,” Liz said. “They let their young know they’re loved, teach them how to hunt and hide and fight and play, and then it’s hasta la vista, baby, mama’s got her own bag.”

  My mom taught me to get my own Cheerios, does that count? Half the time the milk was sour, but they tasted fine dry. And she taught me to expect nothing and trust no one, especially your own fucking mother.

  But listening to Liz, I knew with urgent finality what I had always suspected—that it could all be different, that motherhood wasn’t rocket science, that I didn’t need a degree, that I could trust myself, that women had been raising children for thousands of years and it just took a mix of commitment and discipline, kindness and common sense.

  “Liz to Janet, come in please?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Well, hand it over.”

  This time there was no stopping the wave, and this time I didn’t want to stop it. I stood up.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” I said.

  I ran across the street and got in my car, took out my phone and texted Josie.

  “I’m coming for you. Pack light.”

  “Been packed for weeks.”

  I pulled out of my driveway and headed toward the thruway. And then, for some crazy reason, I turned on the windshield wipers.

  FORTY-ONE

  I knocked on the Maldens’ front door. Doug Malden opened it; his wife, Roberta, stood behind him.

  Now that the moment was here, I suddenly felt vulnerable, presumptuous, rude, guilty. “Hi, I’m Janet Petrocelli, a friend of Josie’s.”

  “And what can we do for you?” Doug Malden asked.

  Josie appeared on the staircase behind them. Seeing her, my courage returned.

  “You can let Josie go with your blessings,” I said.

  The Maldens looked at me like I had two heads.

  “I want to take Josie back to Sawyerville with me. We’re going to talk to her caseworker on Monday and petition family court to make the move legal. I know this is very sudden and not really fair to you, but it’s just … it’s just that I feel very strongly that it’s best for Josie. And for me.”

  Doug Malden took this in, stuck his hands in his pants pockets, and stood up straight.

  “And exactly what kind of family would you be bringing her into?”

  “Me. My family. There’s me. There’s my pets.”

  “Your pets?”

  “Yes. Lois, Bub, Sputnik.”

  “Sputnik?”

  “He’s a great guy, terrier mix, scruffy, bright enough, he’s crazy about Josie.”

  “Is he now?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, my goodness. What could be better for a young girl than to be taken out of a nice clean Christian household and thrown in with a single woman and a dog named Sputnik?”

  “I have friends, too, there’s Abba and George and Mad John and—”

  “Mad John?”

  “He’s a very upstanding little guy.”

  “This is outrageous.”

  “I know it is, and I’m sorry I didn’t give you any warning but … but …” I looked over at Josie, she was beaming at me like a mom at her tongue-tied kid, “… but Josie is loved in Sawyerville, and I’m taking her back, back home.”

  Josie came down into the hallway. “Mr. and Mrs. Malden, you’ve been good to me and I’m appreciative, but I belong in Sawyerville with Janet.”

  “Don’t you tell me where you belong. I’m the adult here. You’re just a girl,” he glanced down at her bum leg, “a girl with problems.”

  Josie looked at him for a long moment, turned, ran up the staircase, and was back in a flash with a suitcase, a backpack, and a laptop. Her way forward was blocked by the Maldens. Then Roberta Malden placed a hand on her husband’s forearm and took a step back, “We can’t force her.”

  Doug blew out air and muttered, “This is the damnedest thing.” But he followed his wife’s lead and stepped back.

  Josie walked past them and out of the house.

  As she and I headed down the front walk to my car, two words kept going through my head: Oh shit.

  FORTY-TWO

  I wish I could say the drive back to Sawyerville was filled with high spirits, giddy chatter, estrogen-fueled bonding. It wasn’t. It was filled with doubt and second-thoughts on my part, and a considerate reserve on Josie’s. We touched on the mechanics of her starting back up at Sawyerville High, on working with her caseworker to make the new arrangement legal, and just generally dancing around the gorilla in the Camry.

  When we got home, Josie carried her stuff upstairs and reclaimed her old room, Sputnik went frigging shortcakes, Bub flew upstairs and got in the action, Cruella De Cat slunk around with her tail swishing, pretending she didn’t care. I had a lot of junque in the room and Josie and I lugged some of it down to my workshop. When she was more or less settled in, she sat on the bed and said, “Thank you.”

  Now that Josie was here my ambivalence was receding, morphing into something that felt right and doable, and that simple “Thank you” pretty much sealed the deal. This kid was special and I was one lucky chick to have her in my life. In fact, it kind of felt like I had more to gain from the deal than she did. She’d already forced me to open up and be straight with myself, to look my scariest demons right in the face—to admit that little Anna tore a hole in my heart, that my abandonment by my mom was still a chasm of longing and anger—to practice what I’d preached to my clients for all those years, that denial is a dead-end and closure is a myth, that trauma leaves a scar and that scars can be beautiful, badges of kindness and humanity.

  “There’s a bunch of people across the street who will be very happy to see you,” I said.

  “Let’s go.”

  FORTY-THREE

  The party was pouring out into the street in
front of Chow, folks smoking and laughing. Inside the dance floor was jammed, food was being devoured, flirtations blooming, heated discussions going down, this was one helluva bash. I scanned the room—no sign of Chevrona.

  Mad John saw us and let out a cry of joy that could be heard in Cincinnati, then ran across the room and leapt on Josie, wrapping himself around her. Pretty soon George, Zack, and Abba were giving her their own version of the same. All the attention was a little much for her and she retreated to the kitchen with Abba to help her stay on top of things—Abba being a natural-born host, more concerned with her guests’ pleasure than her own.

  Zack pulled me out onto the dance floor and we boogied for a while. My heart wasn’t into it. It had been a big night for me and I could feel emotional exhaustion coming on.

  “You okay, babe?” Zack asked.

  I nodded. He danced close to me, our bodies touched.

  “You did a mitzvah,” he said. “And one mitzvah deserves another—let’s head over to your place.”

  “Not tonight, Zack.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve just got too much on my mind, I’m wrung out.”

  He looked hurt, in an exaggerated sort of way. Then he shrugged. “All right. I get it.”

  “In fact, I think I’m going to head home.”

  He put a hand on the back of my neck, it felt warm and comforting and sexy. “I’m proud of you, Janet.”

  Just when I thought Zack was too glib, too shallow, too yo-dude for me, he did something like this. I kissed him, “Thanks, Zack.”

  “Let me walk you home.”

  “That’s okay, you stay and have a good time.”

  Once I got out in the night air, I felt better, the wide open sky, the air growing humid, promising some September heat, that thick enfolding Hudson Valley heat that seemed to kick the world into low gear. Maybe it could slow down my churning wheels.

  I got home and realized that I was too wound up to sleep, so I put Sputs on his leash and we headed down toward the town beach on the Esopus Creek.