Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

  Connie isn’t receiving eye messages, though. She’s hard at work trying to persuade the deaf receptionist to put her through to Eunice. I give her a finger wave and mouth, “Come home. Dinner.” Then I vamoose.

  Knowing that Mom doesn’t want us investigating connections to Dad’s death, I’ve got a whole story concocted by the time I arrive at our door a few minutes later, and I’m so proud of it, I start to spill it as soon as I walk over the threshold.

  “Hey, Mom! Connie’ll be here in a minute. Somebody hired her to figure out who’s scamming their great aunt at Park View Village Retirement Home in Ephrata, Pennsylvania. Something to do with a Nigerian prince who writes letters to these poor souls telling them they won a big jackpot lottery. And then he gets them to give him their bank account numbers and he cleans them out faster than you can say …”

  Mom walks down the stairs staring at me as if I have two heads. And as I look at the shadow I cast on the wall, it does look as if I have two heads. I turn. Steve Paluchek stands behind me.

  “Come on in, both of you. Pizza should be here any minute.”

  As we move into the living room, Mom gives Steve a quick kiss on the cheek. She asks me some questions about school, tells me I look tired, and then goes to the stairs to call Tony, who has apparently moved from sleeping on the sofa to sleeping on his bed.

  “I swear,” she says, “it’s such a rarity to have everybody here together. Calls for a celebration, don’t you think?” And she waltzes off to the kitchen, where I hear her uncorking the Chianti. Poor Mom. All of us together — with Steve — may be more a cause for a mediator than a celebration. And we’re not all together anyway. Connie’s not here.

  Alone in the room with Steve, I smile and do the nervous nod. Then say, “Great weather we’re having, huh?”

  He stares at me, an irritated set to his mouth and eyes. It’s the same look he had in the restaurant when Kerwin Moffit’s name came up — suppressed anger.

  “Bianca,” he says in a low voice my mother won’t hear, “tell your nosy sister she’ll stay away from my former mother-in-law if she knows what’s good for her.”

  The doorbell rings. Pizza’s here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CONNIE LEANS BACK on her bed and puts her hands behind her head. We’ve finished dinner, helped Mom clean up, made small talk, and watched Steve leave. Our jaw muscles ache from smiling so much, and now Connie’s spilling the beans on what she found out when she talked with Eunice Wright, Steve’s former mother-in-law. “Nothing,” she says. “The poor woman has beginning-stage Alzheimer’s — at least that’s my guess. She talked about Jimmy Carter still being president, and she kept mistaking me for her cousin Constance-Marie.”

  I sit cross-legged on the floor, pulling at bits of Connie’s flokati rug. I realized halfway through my pizza that I didn’t need to worry about homework tonight since I have that field trip to Hopkins tomorrow. So it’s free sailing the rest of the night, as long as I find enough toothpicks to hold my eyes open.

  “Did you notice,” Connie asks, “what Paluchek had in his pocket?”

  I yawn. “No.”

  “A brochure from Fontaineblue West.”

  “So?”

  “It’s a wedding hall!”

  “They are planning a wedding, Connie.”

  “But he’d written dates on it — dates in June. I wonder when they’re thinking of scheduling this shindig. Has Mom said? Has he?”

  Well, yes, I tell her. Mom had mentioned a fall wedding.

  “Then you see? They’re thinking of moving things up! They’re racing to the altar, godammit, and we have to stop them!”

  Because she’s brought him up, I figure now’s the right time to divulge Steve’s warning to Connie. It simmered in the back of my mind all through dinner like a kernel in a popcorn bag with the microwave on high. I can’t wait anymore.

  So I tell her. She leans forward, her jaw dropping open as I repeat the warning.

  “He called me nosy?”

  “Yeah. But that’s not the point …”

  “I am not nosy!” She stands up and harrumphs over to her dresser, where she’s put her cell phone. She picks it up and places a call to Kurt. He’s not there, so she leaves a message, asking him where she can get phone-tapping equipment.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I ask, leaving out the fact that it probably falls into the “nosy” category, too.

  She doesn’t answer my question. “I have to keep tabs on these wedding plans, Bianca. What if they elope before we have a chance to sort all this out?”

  I sit up. “You’re going to tap a policeman’s phone?” Not only is she nosy. She’s nutsy.

  She laughs. “I’m not stupid. No, I’m tapping our phone.”

  “What?!” Our phone? That means my phone! I don’t have a cell phone. I rely on the ol’ land line for actual conversations, except when I borrow Mom’s cell. I can’t have my sister listening in on my calls!

  “You are nosy!” I tell Connie. “Way beyond normal nosy. Even for a PI. You’re … you’re uber-nosy!”

  She gives me a “Now, now, Bianca, let me explain things to you” look. “It’s clear to me that Mom is getting uncomfortable with the big fuss of a wedding—”

  “No, she’s getting uncomfortable with the big fuss we’re kicking up about the wedding.”

  Connie ignores me. “And she’s already done the big wedding routine, so it’s not like she’s dreaming of walking down the aisle with bridesmaids in fuchsia dresses. She’s already done that scene.”

  “Did her bridesmaids wear fuchsia?” I’ll have to take a look at those old wedding photos.

  “So she and Paluchek might just head to City Hall one day and tie the knot, then come home and tell us it’s a done deal, just like she did with the engagement.”

  Hmm … that’s certainly a possibility. Despite Connie’s many fake smiles in Paluchek’s presence, her antagonism toward the man might as well be painted on her shirt in Day-Glo Orange. Mom’s picked up that vibe and might decide she’s had enough.

  But tapping our phone? This is the end of what little privacy I have, and it’s killing any sympathy I have for Connie’s emotional lunacy.

  My only consolation is that Kurt doesn’t return her phone call. Maybe he’s out of town on some deep secret spy mission and won’t get back to her about wiretapping for another five years when I’m safely out of the house, ensconced as a student at the College for Lowest Quartile Students.

  The next morning, I’m finally feeling well-rested, and everything magical about springtime is wrapped up into a tight coil of a day that promises nothing but excitement. The soft sweet breeze of April teases at my sheer curtains, blowing in the scent of wet concrete from an overnight shower. Birds chirp and gurgle like kids with a secret, and somewhere in the distance, the faint strains of the oldie “O-o-h, child, things are gonna get easier” plays like background music to a movie-like life.

  Because it’s a college field trip day, I get to wear “civvies” to school. I opt for a skirt — a neato Indian-print cotton thing in earth tones that I pair with a rust-colored tee that doesn’t make me look half bad, even without the PyrexBra. I put on dangling earrings, then spend a good twenty minutes trying to determine if my legs are too pale to go without stockings. The whisper of spring nudges me to forgo the leg-squeezing panty hose. It’s a new season, the prelude to summer. I slide into a pair of ballet-slipper-style flats and am good to go.

  Tony drops me off at school because Connie’s still sleeping. At the office, I hand in my permission slip for the Hopkins trip, then make sure my homeroom teacher knows I’m here before heading to the lobby outside the auditorium, where we’re supposed to assemble for this journey.

  Kerrie races by on her way to her locker and almost doesn’t recognize me. When she sees me, her face lights up in wonder. I must look good. She gives me a quick smile and a hello and scurries off. Brenda arrives, dressed in a halter top and jeans skirt. The halter’s a no-no on
our school dress code, but she’s masked it with a funky gray spencer, which I’m sure she’ll discard once we’re in the van.

  A few kids I know only by name and face chatter with fake cheerfulness, or fake gloom, meant to cover nerves. There are only about nine of us, and I’m looking around, trying to figure out who the teacher/chaperone will be because I didn’t pay attention to the original notice. Brenda gives me the skinny.

  “Sampson’s our guide,” she says, rolling her eyes. “He organized this.”

  Sampson shows up, collar open and necktie in hand, and my guess is he’s using it like Brenda’s spencer — as a dress code decoy that will find a pocket as soon as we’re off school grounds. While he notes who’s here, he sips at a Starbucks coffee cup and looks at his watch.

  “Van’s here. Might as well get rolling.”

  I inhale sharply. “But Brian McClelland isn’t here yet,” I say. I’ve scanned the doorways several times waiting for him to show up.

  Sampson looks up, surprised. “He called in sick.”

  Hopkins is gorgeous. Red-brick Georgian-style buildings. Green quads filled with intense-looking students. “The beach” — an area right outside the library fronting on Charles Street — filled with sunning guys and gals. And — surprise, surprise — Hopkins is not just about pre-med. They’ve got all the liberal arts stuff I’ll need if I want to become … well, something other than a doc or scientist. But when the admissions officer starts giving us the run-down on criteria for getting in, I hear the theme music to Psycho screeching in my ear. Average SAT scores are what?! Holy crap! I’ll be lucky if I can count that high.

  Brenda’s fun to pal around with, though, and she gives me the old pep talk about not setting my sights too low, and about not giving up. She also repeats some of Brian’s advice about writing good essays and getting good recommendations.

  “Make sure you ask Sampson,” she says as we sit on the grass nibbling on sandwiches.

  “Yeah, Brian already told me that.” Speaking of Brian, I’m surprised to discover that, unbeknownst to me, I’d looked forward to seeing him. I’d wanted to see Outside Brian. “Too bad he’s sick,” I add.

  “Sampson?”

  “Brian.”

  “He might not be sick. Might be his brother.” And then she tells me how Brian’s younger brother has such bad asthma, his family is often running him to the doctor and the hospital. “Brian wants to be a doctor.”

  “Didn’t know that. Thought he wanted to be a rocket scientist.”

  “Either/or. He’s real interested in this place.” She sweeps her arm around.

  “Should be an easy shot for him,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “He’s really nervous about it. Funny how a bright guy like that can get so crazed about this one thing. He’s got so much going for him.”

  Yeah, funny. Me, I’d never get crazed about just one thing in the college-application universe.

  It’s a great day marred only by Brian’s absence. For the few hours we’re on campus, I feel worthy of being there. Worthy of being considered bright. Heck, I am bright. I know I am. Or at least I hope I am.

  You see, it’s so hard to tell. The problem with teachers like Sampson is they’re so hell-bent on making us feel good about ourselves that we get no real yardstick to determine what we know and what we don’t. So my A’s and B’s could all mean, “Poor child, she does try, so let’s reward that effort and wink about the rest.” Crazy how the push for self-esteem can fill you with so much self-doubt, huh?

  When we arrive back at school, we have only a half hour before the final bell buzzes, so I go to the library and sign up to tutor kids on their college application essays. Why not? Creative Writing is maybe the only thing I’m truly good at. In my head, I’ve written about two dozen college application essays, ranging from the fantastic (“My Life as a Space Alien”) to the heart-wrenching (“The Day My Perm Went Bad”). At least I’ve got that part of the process nailed.

  I’m about to leave the library and head out to the bus stop when I run smack into Brian. He’s coming into the library, head down, and I’m going out, head turned toward the clock, when, kerplunk, we bump into each other in the doorway.

  “Two pieces of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time,” I say. “See? I learned something.”

  He smiles a half smile. “One could argue that you haven’t internalized that lesson, Ms. Balducci. If you had, we wouldn’t have collided.”

  “Hey, we missed you today. Hopkins was awesome.”

  He shoots me a quick grimace, then runs his fingers through his hair. “Couldn’t be helped. Was late. I’ll get there this weekend.”

  “I …” I what? I want to say that I’ll be happy to help him with his college essays, but that seems out of place. “I think you’ll love it.”

  “It’s my top pick.” He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We’re stuck in that wormhole of teenaged social interaction — the awkward silence.

  “I better get going,” I manage to cough up.

  “See ya,” he says.

  No bus ride home for me today! Kerrie, who’s heading out the same time I am, offers me a ride in her family’s spanking new SUV, the one with the bumper sticker on it that says, “I care about the environment and I vote.” I asked her about this once and she looked at me kind of funny, saying, “We got this instead of a Hummer,” as if her family had made a sacrifice. I guess it’s all relative.

  Kerrie listens to me gab about how much I liked Hopkins and oohs and aahs at the right moments, but as she arrives at my home, she smiles and says, “That’s great, Bianca. These visits really help you hone in on all the things you want in a college.” So Kerrie thinks Hopkins should just be the start of my list of desired college characteristics, not the goal itself. This sparks some anger in me, and I want to argue about it, but I’m too danged tired, and Kerrie is just so sweet and clueless about how her Bianca-Improvement Schemes affect me that it’s not worth mentioning. Besides, if I stay in the car too long, she’ll start talking about TilexBra shopping again.

  Too late. Before I parachute down to the ground from the seat, she beams a smile at me and says, “We’re going to get to the mall together this weekend!” End of story. I’d managed to avoid that previous mall attempt, but she won’t be dissuaded again.

  I hear voices in the kitchen as soon as I’m through the door, so I wander in. I’m surprised to see Connie and Kurt, both sitting at the kitchen table.

  Kurt looks awful. Usually the dude is macho plus, but this afternoon his grunge look comes off as too-lazy-to-wash. His perpetual five o’clock shadow has drifted into not-yet-a-beard territory, and he’s wearing a tacky orange tee shirt adorned by some Fells Point Bar logo. In his mouth is an unlit cigarette he’s clearly itching to smoke (no smoking allowed in the Balducci household) and his arm is raked with long scratch marks, as if someone took a giant fork and pulled it up toward his bicep. Ouch.

  Connie nods hello while I go to the fridge to grab some juice.

  “Hey, Kurt. What’s up?”

  Before he can answer, Connie interjects, pointing at my outfit. “Did you skip school today?” she asks in the high, angry voice of outrage. Outrage is Connie’s favorite emotion.

  “No. Trip to Hopkins.”

  “For what?”

  I ignore that and look at Kurt. “You want anything?”

  Kurt shakes his head. “Too many painkillers in my system as it is.” Funny he should assume I’m offering him alcohol. I only meant to offer a soda, water, or juice — things I can legally handle.

  “What happened?” I sit at the table while Connie shoots me a look that means, Who invited you?

  “He had an accident,” Connie says, the outrage still in her voice. “Somebody rammed his jeep last night. Somebody down by the docks.”

  I straighten. “Where we were?”

  She nods.

  “It might not be related,” Kurt says, twirling the cig. He looks at me, then at Connie. Translation:
Don’t alarm your sister, Con. She’s just a babe. At least Kurt is looking out for me.

  “You’re beat up pretty bad.” I point to his arm.

  “That’s my cat. From taking him to the vet.” He seems serious.

  Kurt is a complex man.

  “He was snooping around where we were,” Connie says, ignoring Kurt’s eye message. “And a big truck followed him, disappeared, then rammed him in the side. He’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”

  For the first time, I notice a pair of crutches by the table. My gaze shifts to Kurt’s feet. His left one’s in a cast. Following my glance, Connie continues, “Ankle bone, hairline fracture.”

  I am speechless. If this is what those goons will do to a big guy like Kurt, what would they do to girls like me and Connie? And what were they trying to do that night?

  Connie gets up and hands Kurt his crutches.

  “Where you headed?” I ask, thinking they might be leaving on some big investigative outing that I could join.

  “I’m taking him to rent a car while his jeep is fixed.” She scoops up some items on the table. Among them is a key. “Just stopped here after his doctor’s visit.” Kurt going to the doctor. Kurt with a cat. I’m mentally rejiggering my image of the man.

  “What was that?” I point to the things she’s crammed in her purse.

  “What was what?”

  “The key.” It looked exactly like the key I found at the bottom of a box in Steve Paluchek’s closet.

  “Kurt had it made from that image I pressed. He traced it.”

  I look at him.

  “Post Office box key,” Kurt says. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  Before I can ask, Connie answers the question: “They changed them the year after Dad died.”

  I’m beginning to think Connie’s right about Mom moving up the date for the wedding. She’s got a brochure in her purse about civil marriage ceremonies. It was right under her extra pair of glasses. Hey, she asked me to get her checkbook, and I saw it, okay?