Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland (16 page)

I glare at him in disbelief.

“Look. I’ll give her a quick call before I leave.”

“Okay. I-I guess.” I scramble to the door feeling desperately in need of fresh air.

Bob E. calls my name.

I turn back around to him. “Yes, sir.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a fine body?”

I feel the heat creep up my neck, knowing full well that he would have sex with me right then, right there in his office if I gave him any indication I’d agree. I turn back around and flee out the door.

Unsteadied by the encounter, I race directly to the parking lot determined on getting home as soon as possible. I call Ed’s cell, which goes straight to voicemail once again. Dialing our home phone results in the nasal sound of my own voice blaring on the Acura’s speakerphone.

I shift the Acura into gear and head up Bee Cave Road to the lake where I can only hope my husband is still waiting for me. Two miles down the road I think about Darlene sitting in her fancy office receiving Bob E.’s devastating call. She looked so childlike when I left her. I dial her cell but it goes directly to voicemail. Same with her office phone. The story of the twenty-first century. I have a weird feeling in my gut and make a
U-
turn. Back to
LBJ
. I can’t leave her this way.

Darlene’s white Suburban is still in the parking lot. I take the stairs up two flights expecting to spend a long evening consoling her. When I enter her office, she’s not at her desk. “Darlene.”

No answer. I figure she’s in the restroom licking her wounds and try Ed again, but the battery of my iPhone is dead. A marriage ended because of failed technology. I reach over Darlene’s desk to grab her office phone and notice open prescription bottles. Xanax, Vicodin, Valium.

Behind the desk Darlene’s slumped motionless in a fetal position. “Jesus, Darlene, what have you done?” My hand shakes as I call
911
. “Hello. There’s a woman unconscious. I need an ambulance right away.”

“Is the woman breathing?”

I prop her up and see that yes, thank God, she is still breathing. “Should I do
CPR
? She’s taken pills.” I read her the name of the medications on Darlene’s desk.

“Just stay calm, honey. You don’t need to do
CPR
if she’s breathing. I’ve dispatched an ambulance. It’s already close.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Husbands

Austin, Texas, 2012

I meet the ambulance at Seton General Hospital and watch the staff whisk Darlene on a stretcher into the
ER
. Her highlighted blonde hair is soaked with perspiration. I rush up to the stretcher and call out her name. She glares at me with limpid eyes as the techs wheel her through swinging doors. A bald guy in scrubs with black hair spraying from his ears turns to me. “Who are you?”

I explain I’m her employee and how I found her on the floor of her office.

“Sorry, ma’am. Only immediate family allowed in here.”

I nod and start back to the drab green couch in the waiting area, but it haunts me when I hear Darlene yelling my name as they wheel her away.

Shortly after, the bald guy with the hairy ears struts over and asks how he can get in touch with Darlene’s family.

I tell him Darlene’s husband’s name.

“Do you have a phone number?”

“Sorry, can’t help you there. I’ve never called the home number, just her cell.”

He walks back through the swinging doors and I sag down on the vinyl couch. I Google the White Pages on my iPhone, and scan through screens for a listing for Richard or Darlene McIntire. None show up. Duh. Most
LBJ
executives have private numbers to avoid unwarranted phone calls from disgruntled employees or dissatisfied electric customers.

I decide to drive over to their Tudor home in the ritzy Pemberton Heights. I’d been to a few of Darlene’s annual Christmas parties and even recall talking to Richard one time. The guy was nice enough, a tall attractive homebuilder who coached Little League and handled the kids’ carpools.

On the drive to their house, I plug my phone into the battery charger and dial Eduardo’s cell on the odd chance that he might pick up. He’s probably fuming at me for standing him up. His voicemail message blares from the Acura’s Bluetooth speaker. At the beep, I relay what happened to Darlene and beg forgiveness for not coming home.

THE STREET IS CLOAKED IN DARKNESS
as I pull up to the curb of Darlene’s enormous home. I step out of the car, fearful I’ve blown the reconciliation with my husband, clueless of what I’m going to say to Darlene’s. Ah, Richard, hello. I’m Laila Levin. While your wife was pining over Bob E., she
OD
’ed in her office.

The manicured lawn is punctuated with rosebushes that exude an intoxicating smell. If there’s a heaven, this is what it smells like. I ring the doorbell chimes and within a few seconds the carved oak door swings open. Richard appears with disheveled brown hair in a sleeveless undershirt and khaki shorts. He gazes at me with no recognition.

I introduce myself and tell him what happened. Tears fill his eyes. Evidently they’d had a big fight and he told her to leave.

“I never dreamed she would do something like this,” he says shaking his head.

He’s so sweet, how could Darlene have done what she did?
“Believe me, she regrets everything.”

“Let me see if the neighbor will watch the kids. Do you mind driving me to the hospital? I’m a bit shaky.”

Do I mind? My own marriage is hanging by a thread, sir.

I wait in the car while Richard takes the kids to a neighbor’s house. Checking my iPhone, I see that Ed hasn’t returned my call. I start to dial his number when Richard appears and straps himself into the passenger seat. I tell him I’ll drive him there, but he’ll need to get another ride home. The more I try and extricate myself from Darlene’s life, the deeper I get sucked in.

When we arrive at the hospital, he opens the car door and gets out. I plan to head to the lake. Hopefully, Ed is still waiting there.

I’m about to take off when I hear a tap on the window. Richard pleads with me to accompany him to see Darlene. “She may not talk to me alone. I want to tell her that we’ll work it out. People have affairs all the time, don’t they?”

Oy vey.
“Sure they do.”

He wipes his brow. “I feel so guilty now. I shouldn’t have told her I was taking the kids.”

I touch his arm. “You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

We take the elevator to the fifth floor and step off into a sterile green room. The smell of disinfectant mingled with a fishy odor makes me want to gag. A couple of shrimp tacos sit on a paper plate next to an overweight nurse at the reception desk.

Richard tells who he is and she points in the direction of the room where his wife has been admitted.

Darlene appears asleep as Richard and I shuffle inside the room. He takes her hand. “It’s me, honey.”

Her eyes open but they appear glazed over. “Bob E.?”


Richard drops her hand like it’s a cockroach. “It’s your idiot of a husband.”

“Bob E., you do still love me? I’m so glad you came.”

The color of Richard’s face matches the vomit green walls of the hospital. He shakes his head then turns toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I touch Darlene’s hand. It’s ice-cold. “Can’t you see?” I say. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“Oh, I see all right. She’s in love with that asshole and she’s nuts to boot. I’m out of here.”

“Give me a minute with her. I’ll meet you in the reception area.”

He rushes out the door and I squeeze Darlene’s hand. “It’s Laila, honey. Do you recognize me?”

She shuts her eyes. “Go away, Laila. I need to sleep.”

My iPhone vibrates on the ride down in the elevator. I glance at the display and smile when I see it’s finally Eduardo. I say, “Honey, did you get my message?”

“I didn’t get your messages and quite frankly I no longer care.”

“You don’t understand. My boss—”

“I could care less about your boss. I’m on my way back to Frontier Trail,” he says.

“If you’ll just let me explain.”

“Here’s
my
explanation. After lying in our bedroom for the last two hours with four-dozen roses in vases, we had a visitor at the front door. Jerk that I am, I opened the door dressed in my boxers thinking it was you.”

I swallow. “Who was it?”

“That’s why I called you. The guy flashed a badge and said he was with the
FBI
. He asked if you were home. I believe he’s still waiting out front in a black Chevy Impala.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Plaid Suitcase

New Mexico, 1970

Joey and I stopped for gas on the drive down to the Albuquerque airport. I veered the Mercedes off the road into a Texaco station. Joey staggered from the car and winced as he leaned on his crutches.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about me.” He pointed at a phone booth adjacent to the gas station. “I’m gonna call Uncle Donnie to see about getting me a plane ticket. Pull the car over to the self-service area and I’ll fill up the tank after I speak with him.”

While Joey hobbled off to call his uncle, I eased the Mercedes to the pump area. They didn’t have self-service stations back east and I’d never pumped my own gas before. Snowflakes thickened and the wind kicked up. Damn. I thought we’d seen the worst of the storm up north. A white veil of snow covered the mountain range. We needed to get back on the road to Albuquerque or we’d miss the flight. Lord help me if that happened. Between Ben and Chris in Connecticut and psycho Angel in Taos, there was plenty of pressure to get that suitcase cross-country on time. I felt so relieved to have Joey with me. We’d do it together.

I paced over to the gas pump determined to fill the car with gas myself since every minute counted. When Joey returned, he shot me a thumbs-up. “Whatta chick.”

I cracked a smile feeling proud and independent. “What happened with Uncle Donnie?”

“He’s on the way to Newark airport. A ticket will be waiting for me at the
TWA
counter by the time we get to Albuquerque.”

“Did you ask him if he thought Angel will come after you?”

“He’s makin’ nice with some of Angel’s guinea relatives in Jersey.”

“That’s a racist expression,” I said.

Joey groaned. “I’m Italian. You get a pass when you call your own people a bad word. Puerto Ricans refer to themselves as spics. Black people use the
N
word all the time, right?” He climbed into the back seat, and lay down with his head propped on the ugly pink overnight bag. “I’m more worried about those townie friends of yours.”

I found an old sleeping bag in the trunk next to the plaid suitcase and handed it to him. “Trust me. Everybody should be copasetic when we arrive with that suitcase.”

Joey took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. “I don’t have good feelings about those dudes.”

“Go to sleep. It’s a long trip home.” I clicked on the ignition and shifted into gear. Joey cuddled up in the sleeping bag like a newborn baby in a receiving blanket. Every few minutes he’d let out a short whining sound. I suspected his ankle still hurt a lot. And those toes had gone from grey to black.

A blizzard of snow blew across the highway. The wipers barely kept the windshield clear enough for me to see the road. The Mercedes hit a patch of ice with a thud and the car spun completely out of control. My father had always told me not to brake in a skid, so I eased up on the gas and the car spun three-hundred-sixty degrees right back on the road. Joey remained asleep through the tailspin.

The windshield was so iced up I couldn’t see out. I fumbled with the unfamiliar heater controls to get the defrost working better. Within seconds the snow-ice melted enough for me to see the road. Miraculously, the Mercedes continued to drift down the snow-packed canyon roads without colliding into anything else. I took three deep breaths and slapped each of my cheeks with my palm to keep me from getting too sleepy.

I thought about the family. What would their reaction be once they learned Angel had played them and Joey was innocent? The replacement suitcase would settle their debt.

The Panasonic eight-track sound system had speakers in both the front and back of the car. There were numerous tapes in a leather bag to choose from. Traffic
,
Santana
,
Pink Floyd. I slipped a tape of Crosby Stills & Nash in the player as the Mercedes’ windshield wipers and superior defrost system battled endlessly against the snow’s continued descent in thick clumps. I squinted and wiped the fogged window with my wool glove while singing along to
Judy Blue Eyes.

Joey snoozed on.

Soon the lights of Santa Fe sparkled in the twilight on the horizon and the dark storm let up. The Mercedes was so ef-in far out. No way my Daddy’s Chevy Impala, or my friends’ broken down VWs, Pintos and Gremlins could have made it through the mountains in this storm. This car was one fine machine.

The sunrise radiated orange-red flames through the mountaintops. The car clock said 6:09 a.m. The plane didn’t depart until ten. I calculated that we still had plenty of time. An hour to get to the airport, another to park the car, check in, and board. Unless there were further delays, we’d be fine. Lord only knew what would happen if I missed that flight.

Joey bolted straight up in the back seat and started banging his foot on the floor. I peered in the rearview mirror as he unraveled the ace bandage. He was sweating profusely. “Shit.”

He looked scary. “Are you okay?”

“Can’t feel my foot.”

A sign up ahead read Angela’s Café. I drove into the parking lot and pulled up next to a rusty pickup. Then, leaving the engine running, I pressed down on the emergency brake and climbed into the back seat to get a better look at Joey’s foot.

He rolled up his pant leg. The ankle still looked swollen but not any worse than when Jaws had wrapped it. But the two smallest toes on his right foot were black. “We need to find you a doctor.”

“I’m good. Just head to the airport.”

I returned to the driver’s seat. An old guy in a fringed leather coat and a cowboy hat lumbered from the restaurant toward the pickup. I fumbled for the handle to roll down the window but couldn’t locate one anywhere on the door. Out of desperation, I pressed down on a little button, and the window rolled down magically. As the man opened the truck door, I yelled, “Hey, mister, you know where I can find an emergency room?”

The cowboy peered into the Mercedes and gaped at Joey’s foot. “Holy shit. You better git yourself there soon, son.” He took a stubby pencil from behind his ear and wrote down directions to Santa Fe General Hospital on a crumpled receipt from his wallet.

THE EMERGENCY ROOM APPEARED EMPTY
save the petite Mexican receptionist at the counter. She crackled chewing gum while playing a game of tic-tack-toe with herself. Joey introduced himself and held out his foot. The woman bit her lip and told him to follow her, leaving me with a thesis worth of medical forms to fill out. I completed what I could: Joey’s name, the North Hall dorm address, approximate weight and height. I made up answers to the rest. Did he ever have the chicken pox, measles, or mumps? Sure, why not?

When I was done, I padded down the hall to the area where they kept the
ER
patients. Joey was groaning in one of the cubicles, and I yanked the curtain open. The same tiny nurse was taking his pulse. When she was done, I gave her the forms.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “
Gracias
, Mrs. Costello.”

Mrs. Costello? I started to open my mouth and set the record straight, but Joey cleared his throat and smiled at me. “You’re the best, sweetheart. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Minutes later, a beautiful woman in a white starched jacket entered the room. A thick black braid ran down her back, and her cocoa-colored skin had a satiny sheen. She extended her hand to Joey, then me. “I’m Dr. Yellow Horse.” Her palm felt calloused like a laborer.

I’d never met a real American Indian person before, and thought she was one of the most beautiful human beings I’d ever seen. I watched as she scrutinized Joey’s chart, then very gently touched his toes. She kept blinking her brown eyes. Her bronze skin paled at least a few shades. “We have no time to waste, sir. Your two little toes have serious frostbite and gangrene is setting in. They’ll need to be removed.”

Joey’s eyeballs protruded like a Pekingese lap dog. “What do you mean removed?”

“No easy way to say this, Mr. Costello. The tissue in those toes is dead. If we don’t amputate them, you could die. The longer we wait the more dangerous it is.”

“I want another opinion. We’re flying to New York in like an hour. I’ll see my doc in Queens.”

Dr. Yellow Horse shook her head. “You don’t have that option. If you fly, it will make this condition worse. Possibly lethal. Do you understand, sir?”

Joey turned the color of an alligator and remained silent.

She glared at me. “Can you sign these papers for your husband?”

“I’m just a… a friend.”

“Please step outside for a moment, Miss?”

“Levin.”

I stood in the hall for what felt like eternity. Maybe an hour. Sweat formed above my lip and ran concentric rings under my arms. The thought of Joey losing his toes made me sick. What will happen to him? What’s in store for me now that I’m certainly going to miss the plane?

The curtain swished opened and Dr. Yellow Horse appeared in the hall. “Your friend has signed the consent for surgery. He’ll be in very competent hands.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“Okay. But he’s on a valium drip… an
IV
that makes him sleepy. Don’t stay too long.”

When I reentered the room, Joey was like a different person. His leg was propped up on pillows and he grinned at me like a little boy greeting his mama for a bedtime story.

I rushed to his bed and gave him a hug.

“I’ll never forget what you done for me, Laila. Dr. Yellow Horse said I coulda lost my foot. A couple a toes ain’t nothing. She says with physical therapy I’ll walk normal again.”

“If I had gotten you out of the blizzard sooner, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You saved my life. Now catch that plane. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“I-I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

“The nurse called Uncle Donnie. He’ll be here tonight. It’s all cool.”

“Are you sure?”

He pressed his lips together. “Ben has no business getting you involved in this.”

“I can only blame myself for the trouble I’m in. But what will you do?”

“Uncle Donnie will take care of me. When I’m better, I’ll call Denise.”

“I’ll tell her what happened. She’ll come visit you,” I said.

“No. Promise me you won’t tell her about any of this. She thinks I’m taking care of my mother in Queens.”

“But—”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, I promise.

“And get away from that crowd before it’s too late,” he said.

“I’ll try.” But was I ready to bolt? Those Bridgeport townies had a weird power over me. Especially Ben. I couldn’t explain it. Not to Joey, or Denise, or least of all myself.

And then there was the matter of that plaid suitcase.