I could ace a Jeopardy show on Gardenia Beckel. I’m awash in the minutae of her life. “Gardenia’s Seventh Grade Crush for $500, Alex,” I hear myself saying. Brian sees I’m overwhelmed and comes to my rescue.
“So, Ms. Beckel,” he begins in a smooth-as-silk voice that drips respect as well as admiration, “can you tell us a little about your life as a policeman’s wife? Was it hard wondering if he was going to come home safe every night?”
Gardenia stops, stares at him as if noticing him for the first time, and blinks fast, as if she’s about to cry. She stops herself, though, and stands, going over to a nearby glass-topped cabinet, searching for something. I’m hoping it’s a piece of memorabilia, something about Steve, but instead she returns with a cigarette, lighting it in one fluid motion with a jumbo-sized porcelain apple, where a happy little worm serves as the switch. Now, who on earth thought of that one — wholesome fruit as ignition for unhealthy tobacco? Gotta love the entrepreneurial spirit.
She blows smoke and points the cig at me. “You sure do look familiar. You ever go to Shrine of the Little Flower? Sing in their choir, maybe?”
I shake my head “no” and repeat Brian’s question.
“Yeah, it was tough,” she says, plopping on her sofa and laying an arm along the fluffy pillows. “It puts a lot of strain on things. On your relationship. After a while, you start living every day like it’s the last, you know. Like tomorrow will never be there.” I notice she’s talking as if she was afraid her days had been numbered.
“Were you ever threatened by anyone — any bad guys, that is — any criminals from cases your husband worked on?”
She barks out a smoker’s gravel-toned laugh. “Hell, no. I’d like to see them take me on.”
Brian scoots forward on his chair and continues to press her. “But you must have been afraid sometimes,” he says. “Wasn’t there at least once — maybe one case — that scared you?”
She takes a long drag on her cigarette. She looks into the distance past Brian, past me, past everything in the apartment. Her face is transformed into something sad. Her eyes soften, and her mouth relaxes, turned down by what actually looks like grief. For the first time, I see the shadow of the woman she used to be.
“Yeah, there was one case. Immigrant smuggling.” She shakes her head. “That was bad news. For everybody …”
She proceeds to tell the tale as she knows it, choking up when she gets to the part about the awful night her world collapsed, the night the man she loved was killed — my father.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A HALF HOUR later, I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything except cry on Brian’s shoulder in the car. After dropping an atomic bomb on my heart, Gardenia/Gwendolyn Wright Paluchek Beckel would have kept on with the small artillery had Brian not led the rescue mission and air-lifted us out of there.
My father and Gardenia — I can’t think it. It’s one of those heartbreaking thoughts that the mind builds barriers around, that reason won’t penetrate. My father and Gardenia — they were involved.
Not knowing Michael Balducci was my father, Gardenia had prattled on, mournfully, about a cop named Mike with whom she’d had a “thing,” and how it was the “darkest day of her life” when she found out he’d been killed on duty — how hard it was because their relationship had been secret and she couldn’t share her grief with a living soul. It changed her, she told me, and ruined her marriage.
I couldn’t say a word after this. I was stiff and white and stunned, and Brian, observant of course, had said some things — who knows what they were — to get us out of there. But not before Gardenia went on and on about Steve Paluchek, and how he helps her out by giving her cash for her mom’s care since Clay left her in debt. But sometimes Steve doesn’t understand how expensive things can be for the elderly, she said, what with all the medical supplies and the special aides and whatnot. Sometimes, she added, taking care of her mother also means “taking care of herself” since she’s the one driving up to Pennsylvania every week to look in on the woman. Steve was the one who dragged her east, by the way, to take care of her mother.
All of this washed over me like the sea on stone. After she dropped her info about Dad, I turned into a mute, an unthinking blob in a school uniform. Brian tried to dislodge us several times— “We really have to go now …” — but only managed to pull us free after a half hour more.
One thought races through my head: I can’t tell Connie — never, ever, ever tell Connie.
After I’m through sniveling and sobbing, Brian sighs and raises my chin.
“Are you all right?”
No, I’m not. The bright sun of late afternoon has given way to the royal blue dusk of a spring evening, and if I don’t get home soon, I’ll just evaporate.
“Can I borrow your cell phone again?” I ask between sniffles.
“Sure.” He pulls it from his pocket and hands it to me. I wipe my eyes and call home, adopting the brightest, chirpiest tone I can possibly muster. “Was hanging out with friends,” I tell Mom. And no, I don’t have a cold. Just having a lot of laughs.
Brian drives me home in silence. I’m glad I’m not alone but also wish I was. My thoughts have congealed into some sticky, gloppy mess of confusion, one piled on top of another so I can’t pull strands free, and I’m glad for that. I don’t want to have to reason this one out. I would rather not think about it. I’d rather just … be who I was before — before Connie called me at the mall to get me on this case with her. How naïve I was to think that Connie’s request to help on this case would be a good thing!
Soon, we’re at my house. Brian has not said anything on the way home. He knows a secret. I need to make sure it stays that way.
“I was wondering if you’d—”
“Don’t worry. I’m not the blabbing type. And I wouldn’t be blabbing this.” He double-parks the car outside my house. The sky has faded to a velvet blue/black. The first stars are out. The air is an embrace of softness. He walks me to the door, carrying my backpack as if I was an invalid.
“Look, she was an idiot,” he begins. “You can’t be sure—”
But I can’t stand to hear any excuses for what Gardenia had to say. I can’t stand it one second. So I look up into Brian’s blue eyes, blue as the early spring sky, blue as hope, and I lean up to him and … I kiss him.
Yup, I kiss him. It’s not a pity kiss. I do it for me, not for him. And it feels good. It feels like coming home to a place where whether to kiss the guy was my biggest dilemma.
I thank him and head on in, immediately pasting on my face the look of light good cheer, of no-trouble-in-the-world. Of me, before this meeting with Gardenia.
As soon as I walk through the door, Connie barrages me with probing questions about Gardenia Beckel. I can’t tell her what I know about Dad — I just can’t — so instead, I ask, “How come you didn’t figure out who Gardenia Beckel really was?”
“I had a hunch,” Connie insists, “but other things got in the way.”
She does ask me what Gardenia told me and I make up a story on the spot. Only part of it is story — thanks to Gardenia’s willingness to spill, I’ve got more details than Connie would ever want about the woman’s life. I just leave out the parts that sting. I end with the explanation of Gwendolyn’s weekly trips.
“She visits her mother in the nursing home,” I say. “And, by the way, Steve gives her money for her mother. That’s the reason for the checks.”
Connie seems disappointed with this latest bit of evidence. I try to use it to get Connie to drop the case. Mom’s going to marry the guy, I explain to her, and I don’t want you moving to San Diego or Miami without me.
Connie smiles, but uses the opportunity to give me a pep talk about not giving up, about how, if you stick to something long enough, you’ll get it, how you really can accomplish what you want if you try hard enough. Hmm … where was that speech when I was worried about my SATs?
Then she points out the
thousand different leads that prove Steve Paluchek is Evil Incarnate. She tells me about a few of those, how she found out from someone on the force that Steve was not particularly well-liked when he was a beat cop, that he was written up for “playing fast and loose” with the police code of conduct, essentially making up his own. But I hardly listen. First, this is not new. It’s merely an elaboration on what she had on the guy the first night she spoke to me about the case. And second, I keep expecting her to offer up a clue that might lead her into the dense jungle of heartache I’m trying to steer her away from.
I have to get out of there, so I mumble something about homework and go to my room before she can tell me, or ask me, anything more.
Kerrie calls me a few minutes later trying to nail down our plans for our TexMexBra expedition, and I actually agree with exaggerated enthusiasm. Saying “yes” represents the Old Bianca, the one who knew one true thing — her father was a true blue hero. Going to the mall with Kerrie will be like good old times.
My heart’s heavy with unexploded secrets, so I have to reveal at least one.
“You what?” Kerrie screeches at the news that I kissed Brian.
“He’s nice. I like him.”
“But what about Doug?”
“What about Doug?” I repeat. “Still haven’t heard any more from the dude.”
“Did you call him?”
“No. He should call me.”
Kerrie ponders this for a moment. “Was it nice — the kiss?” Her voice is breathless with anticipation. How quickly she, too, has dumped Doug as my boyfriend. If he only knew …
“Yeah, it was sweet. I think I like him.”
“He’s cute. And number one in the class. He’ll probably be valedictorian.”
I remember what he said about writing essays. “He’ll hate writing the speech,” I say. Maybe I can help him with it. And now I envision my life as a speechwriter for a famous politician. Hmm … not bad. And it probably doesn’t require a Harvard degree either.
Before long, we’re talking hairstyles — Kerrie thinks I should try highlights on mine — and I’m feeling the old fun mojo returning.
But when I turn out the light, I see Gardenia Beckel leaning forward, ashes trailing from her cigarette and her breath foggy with whiskey, whispering ugly secrets in my ear.
U2’s “Beautiful Day” blasts from my radio as I primp for school the next day. I’ve cried out my sorrow. My tear ducts are empty. I’ve awakened feeling fierce. I’m in control now — I have to be. Connie’s a wreck, and she’ll be even more of one if she finds out about Dad. I’ve got to take the lead.
No bad dreams last night. No dreams at all. Just deep sleep brought on by the best narcotic in the world — sheer exhaustion. Now that I’m rested, my mind is working overtime, and as U2 says, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m energized with newfound determination. I can fix things. Not all things, but the things that will cut and sting my family. I know Gardenia and Dad’s secret and I’m determined to protect it like a Centurion around Caesar.
The way to get Connie to stop sniffing where she shouldn’t is to solve the case for her — tie it up in a neat, tidy bow. Despite the info from Gardenia, that part of the mystery remains. I’ve played out numerous phony solutions, ranging from the complicated lie to the subtle, based-in-truth red herrings.
I think of all these things as I cut my hair.
Yes, I cut my hair. Maybe it’s Kerrie’s constant Bianca-makeover attempts. Maybe it’s the U2 song. Maybe it’s kissing Brian. Maybe it’s denial. Whatever it is, I’m determined to keep Connie from the truth, and to make this my own beautiful new day.
A year or so ago, I had my hair in some short, sophisticated style, a default arrangement from a Kerrie-initiated Bianca-Improvement Project gone bad. She’d had this idea I’d look great in wavy hair, so she bought a “wave” set to dunk on my head. Although I tried to tell her it was a home permanent set, she was not dissuaded. The result was a mass of brillo-like frizz that wouldn’t stay down, even under the bandanas the school refused to let me wear. My mom took pity on me and escorted me to a posh downtown beauty salon one night, where I was shorn and shaped and transformed into everything Kerrie wished I would be.
Alas, haircuts grow out. And I never bugged Mom to take me back to the joint because it’s expensive and our dollars stretch only so far — at least until I learn my real last name is Molinowsky. I figured if she was going to spend money on me, there were lots of other ways I’d like to use it. A leather jacket, for instance. Or some new shoes.
So now I’m determined to figure out how to do this hair-shaping thing on my own. How complicated can it be, right? A little off here, a little off there, some layering — and what is layering except uneven cutting?
A half hour later, I’ve layered in a cut so close to my head that I might qualify for induction into the military. A half-inch of hair crowns my head, except for the inch I’ve let caress my neck. Okay, so it’s not the sophisticated style Mom paid for. It’s more punkmeets-waif. But I like it. I clean up the debris while sneezing up a storm, shower, and throw on a little make-up to accent my eyes and lips. Then I loop through some big hoop earrings, toss on the ol’ uniform, and I’m all set to go.
“What the—?” Connie says when I come downstairs.
“Haircut,” I say, grabbing my backpack. Because she has her car keys in hand, I assume she’s driving me to school. I hear Tony turning on the shower, then his voice lovingly calling downstairs.
“Who got hair all over the bathroom? And who used up all the hot water?” The door slams. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Gotta love that Tony.
As we walk out to the car, Connie keeps staring at my hair. “You didn’t do a bad job,” she says. We get in and she starts the engine. “There’s no shame in being a beautician, you know.”
Those are almost the exact words Kerrie uses when I explain my new hairstyle to her. She gushes out compliments and at first doesn’t believe me that I did it myself. Then, she says, “Wow, Bianca, you could open your own shop or something.” This leads to a discussion of the reality show Blow Out, and I’m thinking, Wow — Kerrie really thinks I can own my own salons, like Jonathan Antin, and not just work in somebody else’s shop. She may not believe I can get into Johns Hopkins, but she still believes in me.
I see Brenda in the hall and tell her I want to talk to her, but by then the first bell buzzes and we’re sucked into the vortex of the school schedule.
It’s afternoon before I catch up with her, and it’s in Creative Writing class, where we have to listen to Mrs. Pangitelli drone on for twenty minutes about setting our sights high. Both Brenda and I exchange rolling-eye glances, because we know Mrs. Pangitelli is upset that Craig Boonsward, a junior and creative writing genius, wrote some hot horror story that got accepted by a Stephen King fan magazine, even though she thinks it’s trite, clichéd crap. Brenda and I can’t even exchange notes for half the class. But at last it’s writing time, and we all bend heads to paper — who writes with pens and paper anymore, for crying out loud — trying to scratch out something Pangitelli will think is worthy of us.
I scratch out a note to Brenda and slip it to her.
“Anything on Bromowich’s?”
Brenda nods. “Owner of Tomovich’s gets robbed by one of his cashiers,” she writes back. “But he’s too afraid to sic the cops on him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“ IT’S GOING TO turn out that the gang had its fingers everywhere,” says Brenda in the hall after class. “Even at Tomovich’s across the street.” “Tomovich’s” equals “Bromowich’s.” “They owned the cashier, and when the cashier threatened Tomovich, the old man took it seriously. He shut down and moved to Florida.”
This has to be the same gang that smuggles illegal immigrants. The same gang that busted up Kurt’s jeep. My father went into Bromowich’s store the night of the murder. For what? To make a connection himself? Or to threaten to arrest a bad dude?
I sigh. Oka
y, move on down the list.
“Do you know anyone at the Post Office?”
Brenda giggles. “You mean like a mailman?”
“No, I mean like someone who works in the actual office, maybe behind a desk or something. Downtown.”
She stops and thinks. Then her face brightens as we near the library. A couple kids have parents who work for the postal service, she tells me. “And Brian’s father is one of them. Why?”
At the mention of Brian’s name, my face pinks up and my fingers tingle. That kiss. “I have a key to an old Post Office box,” I explain, hoping it covers my blush.
“Well, ask him about it! He’s right there.” She points a few feet away to a door where Brian is looking up the hallway and then back again. When he sees me, his face relaxes, but he looks down, as if afraid to be caught.
He was looking for me.
It feels good when someone nice is looking for you and really wants to see you, especially if that someone is a boy. And I have to admit I was looking forward to seeing Brian all day, too. He’s a comfortable kind of guy, and I don’t feel as if I have to be somebody else around him — Cool Bianca or Aloof Bianca or even Flirtatious Bianca. He stammers and makes stupid jokes and compliments my new haircut as he ushers me into the library for our tutoring session, all in an attempt to cover the obvious excitement he feels around me. When we laugh and talk about our day, it touches me to see him as nervous and giddy as I was when I first lit upon — Doug?
Doug here at St. John’s? What?!
Doug stands in the door of the library. I blink. He’s still there. My mouth drops open. I blink again. I didn’t dream it. Doug is here all right, in the flesh, wearing baggy jeans and a sloppy tee as if daring the St. John’s powers-that-be to reprimand him so he can say, “I ain’t a student here no more no more.”
What is Doug doing here on a weekday? He looks from me to Brian and back again. Then he strides on over to me and grabs my hand.
Recovering Dad Page 17
