Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

“Here’sh to a man who …” And she stops because her lower lip is trembling and I’m thinking, Oh crap oh crap oh crap, looking at Mom, whose eyes are watery and afraid.

  Silence vacuum-seals the room while we wait for Connie to finish, or worse, to start crying. People at other tables are getting that uncomfortable look, afraid they’re about to witness a messy scene. Tony’s mouth hangs open, as if he’s watching a bad horror movie. Mom’s hands grip her glass with such force I’m afraid she’ll smash it.

  And then, just as Connie takes a big gulp of air, ready to continue the torture, Steve Paluchek rises, as if in slow motion, holds his glass high, and looks her straight in the eye, locking on her gaze as he speaks in a forceful, soothing voice: “Here’s to Michael Balducci. A fine man. A fine father. And a great cop.”

  My mother exhales and we all drink up. Aunt Rosa cuts the cake and passes out the slices. The crowd resumes its white noise background murmur, but we don’t. We eat without tasting. We stare at our plates and not at each other. We wish this would all go away.

  At last, Mom speaks. “Where did you hear that story about your father?” she asks Connie. “About him firing his gun? I don’t remember telling you.”

  “Kerwin Muppet,” she says, looking at her plate, trying to spear a rum-soaked raisin.

  “Moffit?” Paluchek says. He and my mother exchange what are called “knowing glances.” Unfortunately, my translator can’t decipher their code. But the mention of that name has clearly tripped some alarm.

  “When did you talk with Kerwin?” my mother asks, pretending to be casually interested. But her eyes give her away. They’re narrowed, and her mouth looks tight and unhappy.

  “Dunno. Rechently.”

  “What else did he tell you?” Paluchek asks in a sharp tone that takes me aback.

  It takes Connie aback, too, momentarily sobering her enough to play a card. “He told me about a smuggling ring. Something Dad was working on when he died. The night you were supposed to be on duty—”

  “Connie!” Mom puts her napkin on the table but Connie continues.

  “What do you know about that ring, Steve? Anything?” Connie glares at him, daring him to rebuke her.

  Paluchek’s face reddens. When he presses his lips together, I see his jaw muscles working in overdrive, and he struggles to keep from saying something that would probably hurt Mom and anger Connie. At length, he follows Mom’s lead and puts his napkin on the table next to his empty plate.

  “Nothing,” he says, so low it’s hard to hear him.

  “What?” says Connie. Knowing she’s hit a button, and fueled by alcohol, she presses harder.

  Paluchek looks at Mom as if asking permission, then turns to Connie and leans into the table. “Drop it, Connie. No good can come of it,” he says.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I WAKE UP in a muddle, not knowing where I am.

  Then I remember: I’m in Connie’s room, in a sleeping bag on the floor. Oh, my aching back!

  As consciousness (and sunlight) creep in, my memory returns. Last night, after dinner at Aunt Rosa’s, I drove Connie’s car home. Several “discussions” preceded that. The first was at curbside, where Mom, Paluchek, and even Tony insisted she hand over the keys, with Tony finally offering the coup de grace after all other arguments failed.

  “Either you let Bianca drive, or I ram that sorry piece of fiberglass and steel you call a car so nobody drives it for a month.”

  The other arguments — I mean, discussions — took place on the ride home. Connie might have been looped, but she had just enough of her senses to keep up a running monologue on my driving skills, which she described with more expletives than would an entire Marine unit upon finding out their leave is cancelled.

  A moment, please, while I defend my driving skills: I’m not bad, okay? I’m better than Doug, who is so cautious he stops at every intersection and keeps a steady pace five miles below the speed limit, and I know I’m a notch above Kerrie, who freaks out if she thinks she’s on the wrong road, and uses Mapquest to go from her house to the store down the street, and who once tried to get AAA to issue her a “triptych” map for a drive from downtown Baltimore to Johns Hopkins University, a straight shot up Charles Street. Sure, I lack a little confidence sometimes. I lean into the windshield and squint at street signs sometimes. I go the “long way home” sometimes when I’m not certain if the short way really works. But I get us there and I get us there safely, doing the speed limit, stopping at the right places, and not freaking out.

  Anyway, after I managed to get us home, Mom suggested I camp out in Connie’s room to make sure she was all right. At first, I resisted, but Mom pushed me over the edge with a little heart-to-heart.

  “I know this is a big adjustment for you — my engagement to Steve, that is,” she said. “But it’s probably hardest on Connie. She was only ten when your father died. A very vulnerable age. I don’t think I’ve realized until now just how hard it was on her.” And then she got one of those troubled, distracted looks, where I had the impression she was wondering if she should say more. In the end, she did say more, and I’m itching to share it with Connie, to add it to the pile of jigsaw pieces we’re collecting. Except that makes me feel like I’m betraying Mom a little.

  “Mrrrmph.” Connie rolls over. She opens one eye. She scans the room. She sees me. “Nightmare?” she asks.

  Yeah — one named Connie. But I just nod, letting her keep the illusion, at least until she’s more awake, that I came into her room because of a bad dream. She sits up and immediately grabs her head as if hitting it on something. “Killer headache,” she murmurs. “Must be my sinuses.”

  Oh yeah.

  I sit up, too, hugging my knees. Downstairs, I hear Mom making coffee. She’ll probably head off to Mass soon, but I’ve decided my Connie-watch qualifies me for a get-out-of-church card today.

  “We need to talk,” I tell Connie, who decides to take the path of least resistance and lays her head back on the pillow.

  “I need some Advil,” she moans.

  All right. So I get it for her, along with several Dixie cups’-worth of water from the upstairs bathroom.

  “What’s with all the cups?” She squints, pointing to the row I’ve placed on her bedside table.

  “You should drink lots of water. I didn’t want to go downstairs for a glass.”

  She nods and starts swigging the water, cup by cup.

  I can’t wait anymore — she’s awake enough, and I’ve got to tell her what I found out. “I know why Mom was so unhappy about you mentioning Kerwin Moffit,” I say.

  Connie stares at me, confused. She’s probably trying to remember a) who is Kerwin Moffit? and b) when did she mention him in front of Mom? In a few seconds, I see her fog clear.

  “Not just Mom,” she whispers, leaning against her headboard with a pillow over her eyes. “Paluchek. He was downright angry about it.”

  “Mom says that, after Dad died, Kerwin tried to hit on her — at Dad’s funeral.”

  “That certainly fits his macho-man persona,” she says in a monotone. Then, after a pause, “That doesn’t explain Paluchek’s animosity, though.”

  “Maybe he was just being protective.”

  She lifts a corner of the pillow to stare at me with one eye. “Being protective would mean telling me Moffit’s a chauvinist or a cad.” She swallows and groans, placing the pillow back on her head. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, as if talking hurts. “Paluchek told me to drop it. There’s something he doesn’t want me to find out.”

  I have to admit it — she has a point. The look in Paluchek’s eye, his tone, the way he clearly suppressed a truckload of anger before speaking — they all suggested something more. Connie’s still got some mojo, even with the hangover. That’s a relief.

  “Maybe he’s also paying off Moffit,” Connie says.

  “What?”

  “He’s paying Gardenia. He was investigated, which implies a payoff. Maybe he’s paying Moffit, too
. To keep some secret.”

  I straighten. “So you think they both know something?”

  “It’s a possibility.” She leans back, and though she doesn’t moan, I know she’s hurting. I see her swallow hard a few times again, suppressing a retch. Thank you, Connie, I think to myself. Don’t need silly public service announcements about the bad stuff that comes from drinking. I have my own walking, talking, breathing example of a hangover right here.

  But my problem now is, who do I believe? Who do I sympathize with? Mom or Connie? Mom trusts Paluchek. Connie thinks he betrayed our father. Mom loves Paluchek. Connie loathes him.

  Oh, geez! They don’t cover this stuff in religion class. It’s all about good and evil there, not about loyalties split between two good people.

  Connie’s in front of me now. I’ll work that problem.

  “You find any more on Gardenia?” I ask.

  “She’s a regular at a couple liquor stores in her area,” she murmurs. “Haven’t found much else. Haven’t had time.”

  Translation: I’m still not paid up on my super-duper database.

  “So what do you want to do?”

  She breathes deeply. She lifts the pillow from her head and looks at the water cups, but they’re all empty now. She stands and puts her hand on her stomach.

  “Find Gregory Holdene,” she says, after which she beelines it to the bathroom, where I hear her puking her guts out for five straight minutes.

  Gregory Holdene became Paluchek’s partner once Paluchek split with Winslow, after Dad died. And he seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Connie tells me this, leaning back in her huge but battered LeatherLounger desk chair in her storefront office. She bought all her furniture from her childhood friend and former high school prom date Sammy Balliglio, who sold it when his law firm went kaput — his lawyer license had been suspended when he was caught playing a shell game with clients’ money. The chair might have suited Sammy’s oversized ego, but when she sits in it, Connie looks like a little girl playing office.

  I sneeze. It’s dusty in Connie’s office — even right after she cleans it. Termites are probably building condos in the walls, kicking up a bunch of miniature sawdust as they drill and burrow.

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and she’s been through a bunch of free databases looking for Holdene, and Gardenia, whose record is oddly blank. Connie’s hangover is just about gone, which means she’s sober enough to wonder why she said I could come with her on this hunt through the wilds of the internet.

  “Don’t you have homework or something?” She narrows her eyes at me. I sit on a folding chair to her side, notebook in hand, pen at the ready. So far, I’ve jotted down the names and addresses of a few “Holdenes” we’ll call. At least I assume we’ll call. Connie probably assumes she’ll do all the calling.

  “Don’t have any,” I say. Hey, it’s the truth. For once in my pathetic little life, I’m caught up. My chapter analyses of The Scarlet Letter and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn are sitting in my backpack next to my pens and papers, surely boring them as much as they did me. My Algebra worksheet is safely tucked in the back of my math book, numbers and symbols as neat as a row of corn. And my French paragraph on La Belle France is, voila, stuffed in my notebook.

  Connie scoots the chair back and stands. “I need a break.”

  My guess is she needs a nap.

  “You can go home and I can stay here,” I say.

  “And do what? I have sensitive material here.”

  This is nonsense. She wouldn’t leave sensitive material in this flea-trap. It’s got “Rob Me” practically written on the smudged windows.

  “I need to finish a few school things.”

  “You just said you did your homework already.”

  “Other projects.”

  “You can use the computer at home.”

  “Look, I’ll be along in a few, okay?” I narrow my eyes right back at Connie. Weakened by her hangover, she backs down and leaves, telling me to make sure I lock up and come home, in a half hour at the most.

  Once she’s gone, the blessed cone of silence descends. Yeah, I could have used the computer at home. But it’s a rare treat to have a computer to myself, with no one hovering nearby, no threat of a “are you still on?” wafting in from the next room. I know how to exploit opportunity, and I see one here.

  I immediately check my e-mail and am delighted to find a dozen messages I actually want to read. I delete twice as much spam without opening it, then click through the e-mails, starting with the least important — messages about assignments and school projects, and a broadcast e-mail from the editor of The St. John’s Chronicle asking those of us who’ve written for it in the past for articles on our Junior/Senior Ball with a “Best of …” theme (“Best Prom Dress Store,” “Best Limo Deal,” “Best Florist,” etc.), and that sends a spear through my heart because Doug still hasn’t told me whether he’ll be free that weekend and willing to come back to Maryland.

  Two e-mails are from Brenda. I open those and at first, yeah, I have to admit I’m disappointed to see they’re nothing more than chit-chat, with nary a peep about police records. But as I actually read the messages, I have to admit they’re interesting … and even funny.

  She does a wicked imitation of our social studies teacher, Mr. Sampson, a young dude just out of college who spends half the class period telling us about his undergraduate exploits, as if that’s supposed to impress us. About 99.9 percent of his students adore him because he’s got long curly hair that touches his collar, big blue eyes, and a fragile-looking physique that makes you want to take care of him. I myself fell into his slavishly adoring fan club at first. But I was quickly deprogrammed when I received a paper back with all sorts of comments he clearly meant to be clever but came off to me as rude. They even contained several misspellings (like using “discreet” for “discrete” — there’s a difference and I know it).

  Well, turns out Brenda has been deprogrammed, too. “sampson told me friday my papers are too ‘dadactic’ so i said i was trying very hard to quell my inner anarchist. he looked at me like i was crazy. i smiled and thanked him profusely for his ‘keen insights’ and asked if he wouldn’t mind writing them down for me so i can use them as a guide in future papers. he really lapped that up and so i got really specific on what kinds of notes would help me the most — in outline form with citations of specific texts. he didn’t seem to get the fact that i just gave HIM an assignment. hmm… should i grade it when he offers it to me? btw, he obviously meant ‘didactic’ and probably slept through the college lectures on dadaism. hey – you take any sat ii’s yet?”

  This girl’s a peach. She assumes I know what “didactic” and “dadaism” mean. And you know what? I think I do — sort of. I’ll look them up in a sec. But first, I can’t resist taking the time to write back, so I fill a few paragraphs with my own Sampson stories. I have to admit she has me beat, though. Giving him an assignment and he doesn’t even realize it? That’s brilliant. I tell her I haven’t taken any SAT II tests yet — I’ve got enough problems with the first set, I’m not ready for the sequel — and ask her for the scoop on them.

  Her other e-mail is about (insert ominous music here) colleges. She’s looked at William and Mary, Penn State, and University of Maryland, and is going to check out Hopkins soon.

  “it bugs me to think of going to school in my home city – wanna get away from the parental units, bless their little hearts – but jhu is just so criteria-matching. it’s a good size, great rep, nice campus, and…. has a kickass writing sems program….”

  Speaking of writing, she logs on and starts IMing me just as I finish reading her e-mails. She tells me she might have another “police potboiler” in her and hopes to get to it later tonight. “it’s about a very special mission,” she tells me.

  “Something dangerous?” I ask her. Maybe Brenda’s found out something about the gang activity.

  “a little. will start writing soon.” And she th
en she asks if I’d be interested in checking out Hopkins with her when she goes to an Open House.

  Hey, it’s a way to get out of school for a day — a legitimate way.

  I finish up my response, sympathizing with her school-search angst and sharing some of my own (like, uh, whether I’ll even be considered for anything short of the schools advertised on the back of matchbook covers). I also tell her I can hardly wait to read her next “short story,” thanking her profusely for her creative efforts on my behalf.

  I’ve made a new friend. Imagine that!

  I read through some Kerrie e-mails, also about college hunts, but also asking what I’m up to. She’s been trying to get hold of me. I decide to actually phone her back when into my box pops a fresh e-mail from the man himself — the Dougster.

  Subject: “April weekend visit”

  Heart leaps for joy. He’s going to come to the Junior/Senior Prom!

  The e-mail itself: “just found out i have a big exam the monday after that weekend. don’t know about my schedule.”

  That’s it? That’s all he’s saying?

  But I’m not a Balducci for nothing. I’m a master interpreter. A translator of the highest order. A virtual mind-reader.

  And here’s what my decoder ring tells me this e-mail is really saying:

  Exam schedules are posted far in advance. What I didn’t know was whether I’d let it impinge on my social plans. If, for example, a really exciting prospect appears, such as an athletic event involving the word “playoffs,” or an invite to a restaurant whose name rhymes with “Scooters,” I might be inclined to ensure my studying is up to date and I can take the break. I don’t want to take a break coming to Maryland that weekend.

  And here’s the translation for the big fat empty white space following this miserly missive: I’m too much of a coward to tell you an outright “no” and I don’t want to break your heart, Bianca, but you should ask someone else to the prom and tell me you’re going to do it so I can act all magnanimous and kind by saying it’s okay with me.

  I feel like crying. I feel like screaming. I feel like kicking things— things named Doug.