Don’t get me wrong. In a way I was glad that Larry married Roz. After all, she was family. I knew she would love and protect my girls as her own, plus she would make Larry proud on bowling night. Even better, her fast move automatically eliminated the competition, those awful, frosted blond divorcées at the club who thought they invented stretch pants and cleavage.
On the other hand, it is also true that when Lauren was born, my first wish was that she and Shelby would fare better in the sisters sweepstakes than Roz and I. Sadly, the irony has not been lost on me that history does appear to be repeating itself.
Oh, shoot! Look. It’s Lauren driving down Community Drive like she’s Maria Andretti in the Indy 500. She must be headed over to the house. Slow down, honey. We’ve already had enough innocent pedestrians turned into projectile weapons today. Why don’t they ever listen?
Shelby could not get over the fact the day had started as any other, yet here she was, hours later, in her old house on Long Island, seated at her father’s massive, custom-designed desk. She also could not fathom what was he doing with a powerful computer and a cable line hooked up to his modem? Were his on-line needs so great he required an instant connection?
Only last week, ironically, she’d written a column about senior citizens afraid of using computers for fear of catching one of those mysterious, incurable viruses they kept hearing about. “Technochondriacs.” Yes. That’s what she’d called them. And although she hadn’t said as much, based on her father’s long-standing reluctance to embrace anything more high-tech than a cordless phone, she was certain he was a member of this low-functioning crowd. But obviously not.
First jogging, now computers. What was next for him? Honesty as a policy? And what’s your screen name, Daddy? Shelby pondered. [email protected]?
She casually leaned back in his immense black leather swivel chair to contemplate the new man her father had become, when without warning, she was nearly catapulted over the back. “Whoa.” She grabbed hold of the wide arms to regain her balance. “This isn’t a chair. It’s a friggin’ ride at Coney Island.”
“That’ll teach you to insult your father,” the voice of Granny Bea Good piped in.
“Oh, shush,” Shelby replied. “Stop defending him, okay? You know what he did.”
“He’s still your father.”
“Fine. I get the point. Now go back to watching One Life to Live.”
Shelby made sure her feet were planted firmly on the floor before resting her elbows on the cool surface of the desk. Which was precisely the moment she noticed the photo frame in the corner. On one side was a picture of a smiling Dad and Aunt Roz showing off their coveted bowling trophies. Opposite that, a picture of a giggling Lauren and Shelby holding rainbow lollipops the size of their sweet little faces. I remember that day. Shelby sighed.
It was taken B.C. Before the cancer. All Sandy had wanted was to surprise Larry with a nice, new picture of the girls on Father’s Day. But Shelby and Lauren behaved so badly, the photographer threw a temper tantrum to equal theirs. Finally, his weary assistant handed the girls giant suckers, and bingo, they were as smiley-faced as child models. Pity no one snapped a picture after the lady took the suckers back. Now there was a photo op!
Although Shelby had to admit she and Lauren looked darling, it struck her as odd the only picture of her on display was one taken over thirty years ago. And Daddy accuses me of living in the past, she thought. The good news, on the other hand, was at least they’d finally had the good sense to get rid of that awful family photo taken the week Eric opened his ski shop in Vail.
Five years earlier, Shelby had flown out to Denver with Lauren, her father, and Aunt Roz for his grand opening, and if tension could power a plane, there would have been no need for a tail wind. In the span of a few hours the only topic of conversation was the skimpiness of the bag of peanuts since President Reagan forced the country to swallow airline deregulation. Yet hours later, when a photographer Eric hired yelled “money,” they did what came naturally. They stood close and high-beamed their pearly whites.
If she were lucky, that photograph was now part of the rubble in her room, a sign of surrender from Aunt Roz that she’d given up perpetuating the myth they were one, big, happy family. The more likely scenario, however, was that Roz probably tossed the picture after realizing her darling Eric looked stoned, and she looked like a fat, middle-aged cow. Served her right for thinking she could pass herself off as Sophia Loren, just because she bought the same red, billowy ski bib after seeing the actress model it in People.
Shelby gently placed the photo back in the corner and picked up a silver Mont Blanc pen from its engraved caddy. As she stroked the cool barrel, she realized the pen wasn’t the only thing in its proper place. The entire office was tidy and organized. A housekeeper’s delight. But how had her father, the King of Clutter, managed such a feat? His office at the plant was legendary for being such a mess he used to joke about dying young, just so the cleaning crew could get a head start. And maybe find Jimmy Hoffa.
She’d always thought it sick that a man who lost his beautiful wife to cancer would take mortality so lightly. And yet her father thought nothing of joking about his death. But now, as Shelby studied his picture and looked deep into the gleam in his eye, she suddenly understood. In his lifetime he’d already experienced the loss of his true love, and with that loss, unspeakable grief. What then was left to fear? Nothing. Therefore, he could tempt fate at whim. Or so he thought. Maybe this accident wasn’t as random as it appeared. Maybe he was getting a sign to stop joking around and start accounting for his sins. And maybe she was the one to tell him so.
Of course. She would send him an e-mail with her revelation. And if he was truly a changed man, he would gladly receive her message. But just as she turned on the computer, she heard Lauren call out. “Shel-bee?”
Shelby was tempted not to answer, although it was probably too late to hide. Better to get the formalities over with and move on to the fighting. Yet even before she could announce her whereabouts, the swivel chair spun around so fast she nearly got thrown off. “Jesus! This thing needs a seat belt.” Then her eyes met her sister’s, and she gasped. Lauren was easily twenty-five pounds heavier than the last time she saw her. And that was what, only two years ago?
“Good God, honey. How do you get your jeans on? With a pliers and a prayer?”
Now it was Lauren’s turn to gasp. She cried out in anguish, nearly flinging a crystal desk clock if a fast-thinking Avi hadn’t followed her into the room and released his wife’s clutch. “Girls. Girls. This is how to behave?”
“I told you I shouldn’t have called her.” Lauren punched Avi’s arm. “Didn’t I say she was the meanest thing?” She sobbed on his shoulder.
“What did I say?” Shelby feigned innocence. “I was merely remarking it looks like you’ve put on a little weight since the last time I saw you. Don’t be so touchy. Relax.”
Lauren tried to speak but sputtered instead.
“Sh, sh, sh,” Avi gently patted her back and glared at Shelby. “Ken’t you see we’re suffering? Our parents’ lives are in jeopardy, and all you ken think about is the crazy scale?”
Our parents? Shelby did a double take. Did someone say inheritance?
Avi looked at his watch and pecked Lauren’s wet cheek. “Avi Bear’s got to go. I have a four at JFK and a six-thirty at Newark.”
Avi Bear? Shelby felt a twinge of nausea watching Avi embrace her sister.
“You okay?” He wiped away her tears. “Try deep breathing. Get in touch with your chi.”
“It won’t help,” Lauren cried out. “I can’t deal with her and deal with them…”
“Be nice,” Avi warned Shelby. “We’re under terrible stress, she’s on medication…“
Shelby signaled she could take it from here. “Go. She’ll be fine. This is old turf.”
Lauren’s eyes opened wide. “Old turf?” She tried to storm off, but Shelby grabbed her arm.
“C’mo
n, Lauren. Stay. I’ll make you some tea.”
“I heard you don’t know how.” Lauren pushed Shelby away and ran down the stairs.
“Yes, but you do,” Shelby followed. “I like that lemon zinger stuff you used to whip up.”
Lauren’s attitude softened, as it always did when Shelby made an effort.
But the only conscious effort Shelby could make was refraining from lecturing Lauren about her high percentage of body fat. Yes, it was a pity she’d inherited the short, stocky Lazarus gene, but all the more reason to diet. They’d have a little talk about vanity when Lauren was in a better mood. Now it was probably best to chitchat. “So”—she clapped—“how did you two meet?”
“Shel-bee! Aren’t you even going to ask how Mommy and Daddy are doing?”
“She’s not your mother. Must we go down this road again?”
“Why?” Lauren wiped her eyes. “Is it out of your way?”
“Yes, and we’ve been through this a million times. It’s a simple concept. Roz is our aunt.”
Lauren filled the kettle while taking deep breaths to settle her nerves. “You call her whatever you want, but to me she’s Mommy. Okay? It’s not my fault the woman who gave birth to me died when I was four, and much as I try, I don’t remember her.”
“Well I do, and trust me on this, Aunt Roz was a lousy consolation prize.”
“Enough!” Lauren slammed the kettle on the stove. “Leave her alone, Shelby. Please.”
Shelby sighed. Touchy, touchy, touchy. “Fine. Sorry. I’ll start over. Tell me what happened. Tell me how they are.”
But no sooner did Lauren try to bring Shelby up to date than the floodgates opened. Family and friends began calling and stopping by, each one hungry for information. How did the accident happen? What were the doctors saying about Larry’s and Roz’s prognoses? What could they do to help? Translated, should they send over dinner or dessert? A brisket or a babka?
“It’s Dr. Gold,” Shelby covered the mouthpiece on the phone. “I can’t remember. Is he the dentist from the club, or that lunatic chiropractor from across the street who pees on his lawn?”
“Neither,” Lauren interrupted her cell phone conversation. “I think he’s Daddy’s podiatrist. No wait. His proctologist.”
“He wants to know if they were knocked unconscious.”
Suddenly Lauren broke down like a ’57 Chevy. “Daddy was. Mommy wasn’t, poor thing. She was just lying there in her own blood, screaming for help. She couldn’t even move her legs. Couldn’t tell if Daddy was dead or alive. That’s probably when she went into shock.”
Shelby took a deep breath and repeated the story, grateful for her years of experience as a detached reporter who could deliver information without emotion. But after the first few calls it dawned on her that people weren’t calling to offer comfort. They were calling to receive it.
“I know. I know. It’s a nightmare. But don’t worry Mrs. Kaplan. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
“Yes. Such a terrible shame. It could be months before they rejoin the bowling league.”
“No, really. Go see the movie. I’ll leave a message the second I hear anything.”
Or worse, they wouldn’t hang up until Shelby agreed to consult with their doctors, presumably the only medical practitioners on earth who could save Larry and Roz.
“Really? Harold doesn’t limp anymore. That is amazing.”
“A healer? I don’t think so. No, I’m sure he’s the best, it’s just not our style. Oh. I see. Lauren asked you for his name…”
In one sense, Shelby was grateful for the barrage of inquiries, as it gave her no time to think. On the other hand, as the grim details of the accident unfolded, reality hit hard. No amount of reporter’s objectivity could negate the facts. Her father and Aunt Roz had suffered serious, life-threatening injuries and the next twenty-four hours were critical.
Chapter Five
“Is this the home of Lawrence and Rosalyn Lazarus?” a young boy in shirt and tie asked.
“Yes,” Shelby replied. “Can I help you?”
“Ma’am, I’m Richard Rienzo from Newsday. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about this morning’s accident?”
This kid was a reporter? He barely looked old enough to deliver the paper.
“Sure. Come on in,” Shelby led him into the living room and extended her hand. “I’m Shelby Lazarus. Chicago Tribune.”
The cub looked baffled. What didn’t ring a bell? Chicago, or the Tribune?
“Whoa. They must be pretty important people if the out-of-town papers are here.”
Shelby sighed. Had a village reported a missing idiot? “Hello? I’m family of the victims?”
“Oh. Got it. Actually, your name is familiar. Maybe later I should ask you about a job.”
“Don’t you already have a job? Isn’t that what brought you here?”
“No, it’s just a summer internship. But I’ll be graduating from Ithaca next year and then…”
Jesus! A celebrated member of the press suffered a tragedy and the best Newsday could do was send over a kid who still needed his ass wiped?
“Okay. First rule of thumb, Richard. Never hit on a source. It could really piss them off. Particularly if they’re in the middle of a personal crisis.”
“Right. Of course. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure this is very difficult for you. I’ll need just a few more minutes of your time.”
Shelby’s heart raced as the kid sorted through his notes, rattling on in graphic detail without so much as a wince. “Lawrence Lazarus, sixty-five, and Rosalyn Lazarus, fifty-nine, while out on a morning jog, were struck from behind on Royal Lane, Manhasset, by the driver of a 1993 Ford pickup, a Mr. Juan Pedro Martinez, thirty-two. Both victims were rushed to North Shore University Hospital, where they remain in critical condition. It is believed Mr. Lazarus, found unconscious at the scene, suffered the most extensive injuries, contusions over 40 percent of his body, collapsed lungs, fractured ribs, a fractured hip, sprained neck, a ruptured spleen. Mrs. Lazarus suffered multiple abrasions of the head and chest, a fractured nose, broken arm and leg…”
As the kid droned on, all Shelby could think of was how bitter the medicine tasted when it was hers to swallow. Didn’t this callous, mechanical moron with a pen understand he was speaking about her flesh and blood? How could he be so insensitive? And yet she knew better than anyone, learning to feel nothing came more easily than one would suspect.
“It’s why they call it a story,” Ian McNierney used to drum into her head. “It’s not real. Unless, of course, you’re the bloody victim, and then it’s very real. But that’s none of your concern.”
“Who’s at the door?” Lauren called out from the kitchen.
Clark Kent, Jr., she was tempted to say. “A reporter from Newsday,” Shelby yelled back.
“Oh God.” Lauren rushed in to peer out the living room window. “Not the damn media.”
“Excuse me?” Shelby stood, hands on hips. “Do we have a problem with the press?”
“Sorry.” Lauren blushed. “I forgot. But you understand, Shel. Who needs to be exploited at a time like this? You think Channel 7 is on their way over? Maybe I should go change.”
“This is my sister, Lauren…what did you say your new last name was again?”
“Richard Rienzo from Newsday.” He shook Lauren’s hand.
Thataboy Richie, Shelby thought. Get over it. Who wants to waste time speaking to a lowly print journalist when the possibility exists they can see themselves on the evening news?
“Can you tell us anything about the savage beast who hit them?” Lauren wiped her nose.
“Yeah, did they arrest the guy?” Shelby piped in. “We heard he tried to flee the scene.”
Richard flipped to the back of his notepad. “Actually, ma’am, the vehicle was impounded, but there was no immediate evidence of mechanical failure, although further testing will be done in the next few days. License and registration were valid, the driver had
no priors, no DWI…”
“What about a green card?” Shelby sniffed. “Is the guy here legally? What do you bet he’s halfway back to the Dominican Republic by now.”
“No, ma’am. I just spoke to him a little while ago. He’s over at the hospital. He’s all shook up. This is the first time anything like this has ever happened to him. He owns the landscaping company, the truck, a nice home, he has a family…”
“I didn’t see him at the hospital,” Lauren said. “Was he hurt?”
“No, it seems he’s there on a vigil now. He’s very concerned about your parents.”
“No, he’s concerned about us pressing charges,” Shelby said. “Why did he try to flee?”
“Actually, according to the police report, he was running for help. In fact, a witness corroborated that the man flagged down a motorist and used her cell phone to call an ambulance.”
“I don’t understand,” Lauren cried. “If he’s such a nice man, why did he hit them?”
“He said he was doing the speed limit but the glare from the morning sun was so bad he couldn’t see a thing, and then boom! Until he got out of the truck he had no idea what he hit.”
“The poor man,” Lauren cried. “We have to talk to him, Shelby. Tell him we forgive him.”
“Sure. Let’s bring him a bottle of wine, too. Are you crazy? No contact, Lauren. I mean it. Next thing you know you’ll be inviting him for Thanksgiving. Let the attorneys handle this.”
Shelby then thanked the reporter for his time, making sure he understood he’d just been dismissed. Better to get rid of him before he remembered he wanted to pump her about a job.
“Let’s go tell him we forgive him,” Shelby mimicked as she returned to the kitchen.
Lauren followed, then took one look at the feast on the table and couldn’t resist. “Wasn’t that reporter nice?” She nibbled from the tray of cookies.
“Lovely.” Shelby watched her in horror. “Doesn’t this feel really creepy to you?”
“No.” Lauren attacked a platter of cold cuts and coleslaw from Ben’s Kosher Deli.
A Little Help from Above Page 5
