Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

  The fact that Mom’s called Paluchek by three separate names during this oration has me staring at Connie, blinking Morse Code messages with my eyes. Uh-oh, I telegraph, she hasn’t decided what we should call him.

  Egads, she shoots back. As God is my witness, I will never call this man my father. For some reason, Connie’s messages often sound rather antebellum in my head.

  Tony thinks it’s all just great. Great great great. Cool. Neato. When did you make up your mind, Mom? And what took you so long? And is there any more chicken? Tony is a veritable geyser of good wishes, which covers for the deafening silence coming from Connie and me before Mom shoots us both worried looks.

  Connie and I are sitting next to each other. We rarely do, so Mom probably figures something’s up. Connie, a master of deception herself, immediately puts the kibosh on the worry-creases by saying, in a voice absolutely drunk with cheer, “Wowee, Mom, that is fan-tas-tic news! That is tre-men-dous! Congratulations!” And she gets up and gives her a little hug around the neck.

  I do a weak imitation of this without the hug. We eat the rest of the meal in virtual silence, but this is normal in our family, so I’m sure Mom isn’t concerned. When we chow down, it’s serious business. You can’t be at a table with Tony and not pay attention. Your hand might get stabbed by a fork as he’s reaching for more food. Tony might look like a harmless all-American boy, with short bushy hair and tall, muscled frame, but he’s really a ferocious eating machine.

  Mom and … the Man-Who-Will-Replace-Dad … talk a little about how they’ve been “dating” (ick ick ick—my mother dating? Does not compute! Does not compute!) for a while now but didn’t want to say anything. And how “Stevie” kind of nudged things along with his proposal. Cue the Brady Bunch music.

  Actually, no need for that. “Stevie” doesn’t have kids of his own. He was married years ago, but it ended in divorce before they had kids. He explains this as he tells us what a lovely woman we have for a mother and how he doesn’t want us to feel he’s rushing her into things, because they’ve known each other a long time and … blah blah blah.

  I study him while he talks and wonder if he could be as dastardly as Connie thinks he is. He’s about six feet tall and built like a fighter — solid muscles and a bullet-like head that seems to be standard-issue to those who choose law enforcement or security careers. His hair, brown with faint traces of gray, is in a retro crew cut, except my guess is it’s not retro to him. And his eyes, which can only be described as twinkling, are maple syrup brown, set above high tanned cheekbones and a straight, short nose.

  After a special dessert of Baked Alaska, which has me thinking the consolation prize for this marriage might be better food, Connie says she has some important papers to go over, and Tony says he’s going to the movies, and I remember Doug’s invitation and am thinking it might not be too late, after all, to take him up on it, when Connie asks me to join her upstairs.

  “I want to talk to you about that project I suggested you help me with,” she says in a schoolmarmish voice, standing in the archway to the living room.

  By this time, I’ve backslid into thinking I’m not sure I see the point in pursuing this “project.” Mom is marrying the dude. She’s clearly besotted by him, laughing in that funny fawning way girls from the beginning of time have laughed to impress the men they are smitten with. He could say the moon is made of cheese and she’d giggle.

  “I want to help clean up,” I simper at Connie. I start clearing the table. If I hurry, I can reach Doug before he settles into a new plan for the evening.

  “Here, let me,” Connie says, rushing to grab plates and put them in the dishwasher. “Then you can help me.”

  “No, really,” I say, grabbing a plate from Connie’s hands. “I’ll do it. You go ahead and do whatever it was you were going to do.”

  “I insist.” She grabs the plate back. “Then. You. Can. Help. Me.” Her lips are a thin bloodless line, and her cheeks are red from suppressed rage.

  Mom laughs and stands up. “You girls go on. I’ll clean up.”

  “Angie, honey, let me help you with that.” Paluchek scrapes out his chair and takes some dishes to the sink.

  Angie, honey? Connie and I stare at each other in horror.

  Connie grabs me by the elbow and leads me upstairs, whispering in my ear as we go.

  “I’m following him home,” she says.

  Connie and I hunker down in her room for two full hours before “Stevie” leaves. Tony, oblivious to everything, had taken off right after dinner, leaving Mom and the Man-Who — you get the picture — alone. In the living room. With only one light on. And the TV on low. I couldn’t bring myself to go down there. Didn’t want that image seared into my brain.

  Not that I would have had a chance to spy on the two lovebirds anyway. Connie kept me occupied for the whole two hours with a rant that would have made any dictator proud. She went through Paluchek’s IA file again, pointing out inconsistencies and trouble spots. She told me about times when Paluchek would show up, out of the blue, at some of her school soccer matches or drama club presentations, and how it creeped her out. She told me his ex-wife moved to California, and it was probably to get away from him. She filled my mind with so much “stuff” those two hours, I could barely think straight. Heck, I was ready to confess. To anything. Just make her stop. Please.

  But now, when we finally hear the downstairs door and the goodnights, Connie leaps up and grabs her keys.

  “How will you explain this to Mom?” I whisper, following her down the stairs. I carry my shoes in my hand because Connie isn’t waiting for me to put them back on.

  “Mom!” Connie calls out without missing a beat. “I need to pick up something at the drugstore. Be right back. Bianca’s with me!”

  As Mom’s weak “okay” drifts out to us, Connie opens the door and runs down the street to her old blue Saab.

  She already has the motor on and is edging away from the curb when I jump into the front seat, losing one of my shoes in the process.

  “Hey! Wait a minute!”

  “No time,” she mutters. “He’s already turned the corner.”

  “But my shoe—”

  “They were ugly loafers to begin with.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WE HEAD DOWN dark roads made darker by the fact that Connie keeps turning her headlights off so Paluchek won’t notice we’re following him. And why are we following him? I ask the Ace Private Investigator. Doesn’t she already know where he lives? This elicits some mumbles about “wanting to see what he’s up to.”

  I feel sorry for her. I mean, as much as any daughter, I want to make sure my mother is headed for happiness and not heartbreak, but Connie’s taken it up a notch, to tinfoil-hat territory. “See what he’s up to”? What, is he going to lead us to a big flashing sign that says “Buried Secrets Here!”?

  I’m about to offer some soothing words of wisdom I hope will penetrate her conspiracy-fogged brain when she drives any sympathy out of me by swerving hard to the right.

  “Connie!” I scream as she nearly runs into a parked car on Potomac Street. “He’s a cop. He’ll get suspicious if he sees a car with no lights on behind him. He’s used to noticing those things!”

  With a growl, she flips her beams on low and comes to a standstill, letting him get several blocks ahead.

  “Good!” she says at last, shifting into gear. “He’s headed for the Jones Falls.”

  We head there, too, which means weaving through narrow streets until we get to the entrance ramp for the Jones Falls Expressway, a major ribbon of concrete gashed through the city, connecting it to the suburbs beyond. The Jones Falls itself used to be a feeder for numerous mills on the western part of town. Some old factory smokestacks rise into the gloomy dark like the Tower of Mordor. We zoom past the Pepsi sign near Cold Spring Lane, a place-marker for traffic reports during rush hours, and head up and out of the city.

  Once on the expressway, it’s easy for Connie to let her c
ar fade into the constant pack that roams the road — cars filled with folks heading out to neat little lawns and Pennsylvania townships.

  “Where’s he headed?” I ask, peering ahead at the swarm of red taillights.

  “He lives in the county. Brand new house, somewhere in Hunt Valley.”

  Hunt Valley is a pricey neighborhood north of the city — north of other suburbs, too, along the York Road corridor, like Lutherville, Timonium, and Cockeysville.

  It’s not the kind of area a cop should be able to afford. “Maybe he lives in the poor section,” I suggest.

  Connie snorts. “Yeah, right. The half-million-dollar section.”

  She smoothly changes lanes and hangs back, keeping her eyes on Paluchek’s car.

  “Which one is his?” I ask, having trouble keeping my eyes on the dark vehicle.

  “It’s the spanking new Beamer.”

  It’s a BMW? Paluchek owns a BMW? And lives in Hunt Valley? Maybe Connie is right. Something is off here.

  In a little while, we’re zooming around a curve onto the hookup ramps to the Beltway. The traffic gets heavier as a herd of cars zips by, while we stay in the lane for I-83, the highway that runs parallel to York Road heading north to the Mason Dixon line and Pennsylvania.

  “He’s probably just going home,” Connie says, disappointed. Did she expect to catch him in a bank heist? Following him home was her original mission, after all. Mission accomplished.

  “Why don’t we head back? My foot’s getting cold.”

  Connie shoots me a quick glower, then turns her attention back to the road.

  “Hel-lo,” she mutters under her breath. Up ahead, I see Paluchek’s car flashing its right turn blinker. He’s exiting the interstate. Not at Hunt Valley, but at Lutherville/Timonium.

  Connie pulls off with him and passes him quickly. When I ask why, she tells me to shut up, then explains that she doesn’t want him getting suspicious. She keeps checking her mirror and eventually makes a quick right off of York Road, nearly cutting off a pickup truck barreling north.

  “Hey, watch it!” I yelp. Connie says nothing. She pulls a fast uturn and heads back to York, then down another side street where she must have seen Paluchek drive.

  It’s a residential area, with trim ranchers and old split-levels nestled on dark velvet lawns. Traffic is nil, so she cuts her lights again and slows to a creep. Her engine’s as silent as a nun’s hum.

  “Where is he?” I whisper, straining to see in the darkness.

  “Shhh!” She keeps inching forward around a curve and into a cul-de-sac. Then, with a sharp yank, she stops the car, knocking my head forward into the visor.

  “Hey!”

  “We lost him.” She lets out a curse. “I thought he turned here. Maybe not.” Her arms hang on the steering wheel and she slumps forward, irritated with herself. She starts tapping her fingers on the wheel, tilts her head, looks out the window, then heaves a big sigh of defeat.

  “C’mon, let’s get going. At least we’ll find your shoe,” she says. She flips on the headlights and backs the car up, getting ready to turn around. But as she swings the car in a sharp turn to get out of the cul-de-sac, the headlights stretch beyond the homes and catch a glint of metal. Chrome. Shiny chrome license plate frame.

  “Hold it! Back up!” I instruct Connie to point the car toward the houses to our right. “See there — through the trees!” I point to a parking lot beyond the trees, one street over. There, facing us, is Paluchek’s car. “It’s him,” I murmur.

  “You memorized the plate?” Connie asks, incredulous. She doesn’t wait for an answer, but swings the car back onto the street, heading toward York Road. Before hitting the main thoroughfare, she turns right onto a tiny sidestreet neither of us had noticed when she originally turned off of York.

  “No, but I recognize the plate frame. It’s one of those fancy ones. Ravens football.”

  “Good work, kiddo!” In a few seconds, the street gives way to a parking lot for an apartment complex. Connie smoothly glides the car into a spot a few cars away from Paluchek’s and cuts the engine. The lot surrounds a three-story garden apartment building, but we have no idea which one Paluchek might be in. I’m about to ask her “Now what?” when she smashes her hand on my head, shoving me down.

  “That’s him! Hide!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AS I GRAB Connie’s hand and shove it away from my head, I hear a man’s voice coming from the apartment complex. It sounds angry. Then I hear a woman yelling, “You have a lot of nerve coming here!”

  “Ow!” Connie’s watch is caught in my hair! I pull her hand back and try to pry my hair out of her wristband.

  “Shut up,” she hisses, pulling away. “Hey, you’re scratching me!” She swipes at my arm.

  “Stay still while I—” I grab her wrist and hold it still, but it’s hard work because she’s twisting away.

  “Be quiet, I tell ya.” She yanks her hand away from me, ripping out about a two-inch swath of my hair. At least it feels that way to me. Yeeouch!

  Paluchek’s voice is loud enough now for us to make out more words.

  “I’ll be back. And I’ll expect an answer! No more lies!” His heavy footsteps tread down metal steps. Then there’s a fast clip-clop as he double-times it to his car, flipping the electronic key and flashing his car lights. As he gets closer, my heart starts to pound. Did he see us? Will he recognize Connie’s car?

  I sneeze.

  Connie glares at me from her crouched position. Her eyes are shining like flashing skeleton irises on a Halloween decoration— she’s not too happy with me. We hear Paluchek stop, walk a few more steps — is he headed our way?—pause …

  And then, finally, we exhale as we hear him open his car door, get in, and start his engine. When its purr has faded into the night traffic noise, Connie exits the car, heading toward the apartment complex.

  I trundle after her, forced to use an odd limping stride in my one-shoe state.

  “Wait up!” I call after her. “What are you going to do anyway?”

  She keeps going and says nothing — she doesn’t even look back. I follow her to a second-floor apartment door, labeled “Gardenia Beckel.”

  “This has to be it,” she says. “He only walked down one flight, and the other apartment on this level looks empty — no name tag.” Connie tugs at her white collarless shirt and picks lint off her black Capri pants. She wets her lips and smoothes her hair where it clumped up from my affectionate tug. As she raises her hand to knock, she looks at me, her lips curling. “Straighten up. You’re a mess.”

  I pull at my tee and finger-comb my hair. That’s about all I have time to do before the door flings open, revealing a hard-looking woman with a cigarette in her hand, already talking.

  “I told you to—” She stops herself when she realizes it’s not Paluchek. “What do you want?” she says to Connie.

  Gardenia Beckel is a bleached blonde with hair pulled back in a beach-blanket pony tail. She’s one of those women who either aged prematurely or dresses too young. Her face is heavy with make-up, the day’s mascara sooting up her eyes and cherry lipstick congealing around a collagen-puffed mouth. She wears a pink open-neck polo shirt so tight I swear she bought it in the children’s department, and white pants so snug I can almost make out the dimples on her knees. She toddles on three-inch hemp espadrilles, and her breath smells like whiskey.

  Connie steps forward and smiles so broadly I swear she’ll bust her lip.

  “Why, hello, ma’am. If I could just have a moment of your time, I’m with the Church of the Evening Star Mission of the Resurrected Christ and I have a free Bible for anyone who’s willing to listen to a few minutes of the Lord’s word on this blessed evening of grace and peace when the heavens are open to hear the prayers of the most worthy and humble alike among us, so if you could be so kind as to let us step in for a few moments, my sister and me — her name is Laetitia — did I mention that she’s a poor thing? Lost the use of her leg in a hor
rible accident, which is why she can only wear one shoe …”

  I’m in shock. Connie is a veritable Disney World fountain of blather. It’s mesmerizing. She has me ready to shout “I believe!” when Gardenia invites us in. Or rather, when Gardenia backs up in what is probably a combination of horror and fascination as Connie forces her way into the apartment. Playing my part, I limp in after.

  Inside, we stand in the foyer of a modest living room decorated in … beige. Beige carpeting, beige sofa unit curving around beige walls, beige lamps letting off a beige light, beige jazz — or bland at least — in the background. On the glass coffee table sits an open bottle of bourbon and a half-full glass.

  Connie continues to prattle on as my eyes roam. I figure I’m supposed to be soaking up everything viewable for later analysis. Why else would she have brought me in with her?

  “… and my darling sister Laetitia’s condition also includes a rare bladder affliction that requires her to empty it on a quarter-hour basis or risk fevers and tremors that make even the angels weep, so if you’d be so kind as to let her use your bathroom …”

  Okay, I get it. I’m supposed to pretend to go potty and scope out the joint. I nod enthusiastically. I’m afraid to speak. I don’t want to interrupt Connie’s sermon, and I know I couldn’t compete with it anyway. Gardenia opens her mouth to say something, but this just makes Connie ratchet up the volume, shrieking out warnings about damnation and the importance of helping the “sorely afflicted whose lives are dependent upon the mercy of strangers in whom the milk of human kindness surely runs swift and true …”

  Gardenia points toward the hallway. I nod again and limp in that direction.

  I don’t know how much verbiage Connie has left in her, so I make quick work of it, first ducking into a bathroom decorated in so much pink it makes me feel like I’m caught inside a Pepto-Bismol bottle, and then peeking out to make sure Gardenia’s not looking before vamoosing into a back bedroom.