Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ivy’s Version

Austin, Texas, 2012

Mesquite, cacti, yucca, and desert grasses flash by outside as I veer the Acura through the semiarid plains of southern New Mexico. I’ve never made this trip alone, nor done anything so impulsively. Well, in recent times that is. But last night I grabbed the dog, jumped in the car, and hit the road. I need to see Ed. I need to know if my marriage is still intact. It’s impossible for me to go on until at least this part of my life has clarity.

After thirteen hours of driving with Willow sitting shotgun, a swirling muck of dust surrounds the car forcing me to a standstill. A baby bird lands on the windshield and chirps before it explodes into the dust bowl. I cry out for the bird but feel helpless, unable to see through the cloud of brown sand. Then as quickly as it appeared, the storm blows off to the East and a familiar landscape appears before me.

I pull off the road and idle the car at the gate to a ranch in nowhere New Mexico where Eduardo’s mother lives with his nephew, the drug addict. The skinny kid is standing with a beer in his hand. He waves as he opens the metal gate for me. I wave back and drive down the dusty road to Ed’s mother’s adobe home.

Juanita’s Mustang is parked next to my deceased father-in-law’s Ford pickup. I step from the car and pull open the screen door. Then panic sets in. What possessed me to jump in the car and drive here without telling Eduardo? Only a desperate crazy woman would do such a thing.

My mother-in-law greets me with eyes the size of the
albondiga
s simmering in a pot on the stove. “Laila, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see my husband.”

She grins. “Oh he’s in the bedroom with
 . . .
you better not go in there.” I think my mother-in-law would love to see me hit by a truck.

Maybe a truck would be better. My heart pounds against my ribcage. When I open the door, Juanita is standing naked with her dark hair cascading to her waist. Eduardo watches her dance for him from his mother’s plump feather bed. As she shimmies her beautiful breasts, a dog growls
 . . .

Willow is barking next to my bed as I open my eyes. She jumps on top of the blankets and licks my face.
Thank God.
I’m in my Tempur-Pedic bed in Lake Travis. The sound of
NPR
blares on the clock radio. It’s
6:30
a.m.

I retrieve the morning paper from the driveway, feed Willow, and stumble into the kitchen. Exhausted and desperate for some caffeine, I enter into combat with the Capresso machine. After numerous tries that result in coffee grounds splattered all over the granite countertops, it finally spits out a few puny shots. I’m even less successful foaming the milk that never bubbles and tastes burnt. I miss Ed’s Starbuck-perfect cappuccinos delivered to my bed each morning with a kiss.

I pull the
Austin American Statesman
from the plastic bag and nearly fall off the chair when I read the headline:

LBJ CEO ACCUSED OF SEXUAL HARASSMENT

How did this get out so fast? Did Darlene call the media? She’s got her connections. But is it in her best interest to release this story? How will this affect my career? My future? I slip on my reading glasses and read the rest of the article.

A sexual harassment and retaliation suit has been filed in District Court against
LBJ
’s new
CEO
, Bob Englewood, by Darlene McIntire, Vice President of Corporate Services.

Ms. McIntire’s position was eliminated yesterday as part of
LBJ
’s effort to cut costs and downsize their executive team. The suit claims that she was intimate with Mr. Englewood for the past year, and when he tired of her sexual favors, he gave her new job title the hatchet.

A spokesman for
LBJ
says that the accusations are totally false and Mr. Englewood will be vindicated of all charges.

Ms. McIntire was recently hospitalized in Seton’s psychiatric ward for exhaustion and depression. She is currently separated from her husband of twelve years and has moved out of their Pemberton Heights home leaving her two children in his custody.

No way did this come from Darlene’s camp. It sounds like a smear campaign from Bob E’s defense team. Play offensive. Nip-it-in-the-bud strategy. Would Steve Berman conduct a ruthless defense this way? Forget Steve. There’s only one person who would do something like this.

T
he sound of “Yesterday” on the iPhone deflects my thoughts. My son Liam’s name pops up on the caller
ID
. “I’m glad you’re still home. Mom,” he says. “Is Dad around? I’ve got great news I want to share with you and dad together.”

Neither Ed nor I have told the boys about our separation. Why put them through heartache when neither of us knows what our future as a couple will be? We’ve never discussed it, but I know Ed would not tell them. Put the kids first. An unwritten rule that bonds us. “Daddy’s in New Mexico.” I explain that his grandmother’s friend Virgie died.

He says he doesn’t remember her very well.

“Can you tell me the news?”

“Are you sitting down?” he asks.

I sit. “Yes.”

“I got accepted to Stanford.”

“Oh my God. Mazel tov.” Liam had applied to Stanford law school as a long shot. We all assumed he’d be at
UT.

“I hate to ask, Mom. The financial package they offered falls short—”

“Are you kidding? Stanford. Of course, we’re there for you, honey.”

“It’s got to be tight with Dad out of work.”

“He’s not out of work, he’s retired. We’re doing just fine. Dad’s got the rental thing going and all.”

“You sure? 
U.T.
would be a lot cheaper. Maybe you should talk to Dad first. I have a few days before I need to respond.”

“I already know what he’d say. So do you. Send the acceptance out today. FedEx it. Stanford, for godsakes.” Eduardo would work three jobs if it came down to making Stanford happen for Liam.

We say our goodbyes and I try to savor the moment. I’m thrilled for my son. But what if I lose my job now? What if I go to prison? Damn it. I will make this all work out. If not for me, for Liam. He will go to Stanford.

Time to confront Poison Ivy at work. After a hot shower, I stand wrapped in a towel in my closet debating what to wear. Finally, I select the most conservative outfit I own, a navy suit that looks like it came straight from a
1950
s
JC P
enny catalogue. White silk blouse with pearl buttons, pantyhose and navy pumps to match. June Cleaver would approve.

WHEN I ARRIVE AT
my
LBJ
office, I open my Outlook account and scan through the many unopened e-mails. There’s an appointment from my former boss, Victor. Another one sent from Geisha Girl about a meeting with a guy named Max Fowler. Bob E. is also listed on the appointment. I Google “Max Fowler in Austin,” and learn he is a retired judge who now works as a mediator.

I start to call Victor when the smell of opulent perfume assaults my nostrils. No surprise to see Ivy holding the
Statesman
article in her hand. She takes a seat before I offer her one. “Tell me something, Laila. Do you like this office?”

If truth be known, I’d kill to get my old office back. My old job and my old husband. I remind myself to keep my trap closed.
You need this job!
“What do you want?”

She holds out her hand and inspects her manicure. Casually like she’s hanging out at the nail salon. “You’ve always been such a smartass. Where does that get you, Guyland Girl, huh? Back in the day, the boys tricked you into taking a little trip to Taos. Last month Darlene asks you to play the messenger and now your job’s at stake.”

“Old news,” I say.

She smiles. “Ya think? Well, here’s some old news. Chris Reynolds called me last night. He’s asked me what I remember about that dude Joey Costello disappearing.”

“You weren’t there that night.” I gulp, recalling she had gone home for her grandmother’s funeral.
Thank God.

She cranes her head. “Funny, I don’t remember it that way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“People don’t recall what happened that night the same way you do, Guyland Girl.”

I hold her gaze. “Really?”

“Would you like to hear my version?” she asks.

“What version?”

She sighs. “I came home very late that night after Grannie’s funeral. When I got in the apartment, I heard a commotion in the attic and rushed upstairs to see what was going on. Ben and Chris were standing there as
you
pushed Joey out the window.”

My anger is sudden and ferocious but I can barely get a sound out. “Is this a joke?”

She stands up and heads to the door. “You will play ball with us at Fowler’s office, right?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Saab

Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1970

The adventure of a lifetime, or the most idiotic decision I’d ever make? Should I move to New Mexico with Chris and Ben? There were a hundred good reasons not to go. But relocating out west with the two of them sounded so exotic. I would no longer be known as that boring Laila from Long Island. More like Faye Dunaway in
Bonnie and Clyde
, or Katherine Ross in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. Jackie and Andrea, eat your hearts out.

Later that afternoon, I returned to Bodine to get clothing reinforcements. Katie barreled down the hall shouting my name as I stepped from the elevator. She wanted to know about Ben. I hadn’t seen much of him since the party. Rumor had it, he was shacked up with a chick in Westport.

She sucked in her cheeks. “It’s been two weeks and no word from him. Do you have any idea why?”

What advice could I offer? “Did you guys—?”

She grins. “Fuck?”

“Well, yeah.” I’d gone up to Chris’s bedroom to talk, and when I woke up in the morning both she and Ben were gone.

She tossed her mane of wavy hair back. “We had an amazing night together. I can’t believe he hasn’t called. This has never happened to me.”

“I’m sorry. He’s one of those free-spirit type of guys.”

“Could you find out what’s going on for me, Laila?”

I nod. “Of course.”

“How are things with you and Chris?”

“Good, we’re going out to New Mexico together. We both got accepted at the university there.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Far out.”

Should I tell her Ben’s going too?
“Really rad, huh?”

She grabbed my arm. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Ben.”

“He’s a complicated guy.”
If she only knew the half of it.
“Hey, I better get back. Just stopped in to get a few clothes.” I turned toward my dorm room.

“Laila.”

“Yes.”

“How would you feel if I applied to school out there, too?”

I felt like saying, “No, no you can’t do that!” But what came out was, “Sure, why not? Maybe we can room together.”

After gathering some clothes from my room, I lumbered down the hall with them in a paper sack. I still was careful not to bring much over to Main Street at one time.

As I pushed the button for the elevator, Katie reappeared next to me out of breath. “Got a minute?”

I blinked. “I really have to go. I promise to talk to Ben.”

“No, it’s not about that. I need a ride to the airport. I’m flying to Chicago for my cousin’s wedding.”

“I don’t have a car,” I said.

She pulled out a set of keys from her pocket and dangled them in the air. “It’s yours for the weekend. You just have to pick me up on Sunday night.”

“In your Saab?” I ask.

“None other. Denise was supposed to drive me, but she’s disappeared. I need to leave like now.”

AFTER DROPPING KATIE OFF
at Bradley International’s departure area, I drove back to Bodine to catch up on my homework. I was surprised to find Mary Lou and a skinny girl with freckles hanging out in the hall by my room. “What’s happening?”

“Joey Costello’s back,” said Mary Lou. “His foot is all bandaged up.”

The thin girl said, “When he got off the elevator, he and Denise smooched passionately in the hall. Then they went inside the room and closed the door. Rumor is he lost a couple of toes in a snowstorm out west saving someone’s life.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

Mary Lou’s fat cheeks puffed out. “He’s a true American hero. It’s so romantic.”

“A what?” How did this hero rumor get started? Joey was a schmo who lost his toes because of a drug deal gone bad. For some reason, I thought of my friend Billy Klafter who’d been killed in Vietnam. He was a schmo, too, tricked into fighting in a morally repugnant war. Did anyone consider him an American hero? At least he had died for his country. I doubt the poor guy had even lost his virginity yet.

I knocked a couple of times and said, “It’s Laila,” before inserting my key in the door.

Mary Lou’s lip jutted out. “At least give the guy time with his girl.”

I turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Good night, girls. See ya tomorrow.”

Joey and Denise lay together in her single dorm bed. Joey held his hand out to me. “We love you, Laila.”

I glared at him. “I’m really glad to see you, Joey. But what about Angel?”

He threw his hands up. “No problem. Uncle Donnie took care of everything. I told you he knows people.”

Denise slipped on a T-shirt. “Joey said you saved his life.”

Joey sat up. Drops of sweat clung to the curly black hair of his chest. “If there’s anyway I could repay you.”

“There is something I’d like you to do.” I said.

“Anything, you name it.”

I sat on my bed. “You’re sure things are cool with Angel.”

“I’m positive. So what do you want?”

“I’d like you to talk to Ben and Chris. Tell them what really happened in Taos.”

He rakes his hair with his fingers. “Did you say something to them?”

“No, I wanted to talk to them together with you. When they see your toes, I’m sure they’ll understand the severity of what happened. How sick a person Angel is.”

Joey snorted, “Nothing I say will make much difference to those guys.”

“We’ve got to get this worked out,” I said. “They think you stole the suitcase.”

Denise and I spent the next hour convincing Joey it was important to set the record straight. Finally, he agreed for me to set up a meeting with Chris and Ben.

To my surprise Chris’s first reaction on the phone was that he had no interest in hearing anything the ‘lard butt’ had to say. After some cajoling he asked me to hang on. I heard muffled voices in the background.

“You can bring him by tomorrow,” he said. “Come over by yourself tonight.”

I couldn’t resist asking, “Is that, ah, Ben you were speaking with?” By my calculation, he’d been absent for two weeks now. No one had confirmed or denied where he’d gone.

“Yeah, he just got back from Westport.”