Hanging by a Thread (13 page)

“Great. Thanks.”

He bangs his hand twice on the banister, then continues up the stairs.

I pick up the bodice to rip out the last seam so I can replace the bloodied panel—Heather might not find it amusing—but after a few frustrated minutes, I give up.

Leo's in the living room in his recliner, watching football.

“Going to Tina's,” I yell out as I pass. “Taking the car.”

“Make sure you put gas in it, don't leave me with an empty tank.”

“Got it,” I say, shutting the door behind me.

 

Tina's not home when I get there, but I figure I'll give her an hour, what the hell. If she's not back by then, I'll leave, taking it as a sign that I'm not meant to beat the living daylights out of her.

Not that I really intend to beat the living daylights out of her. I cart spiders outside and let them loose, for God's sake. But you know what I mean.

I'm sitting on the floor in her hallway, reading a Dean Koontz, when the elevator door opens and out she pops. I have never actually seen somebody turn white as a sheet before.

“Ellie!” Nervous smile. “What are you—?”

“Honey, you got some heavy duty 'splainin' to do.”

Underneath her leather jacket, her breasts heave with the force of her sigh. “I take it you've talked to Luke?”

I get to my feet, trying to massage some feeling back into my butt. Bad-ass Queens broads, the pair of us, in our leather jackets, tight jeans, two-story tall boots. “How'd you guess?”

On another exhalation, she opens her door and gestures for
me to go in. The door barely snicks shut behind her before I light into her.

“You were
cheating
on him?”

Amazingly enough, she gets even paler. At this rate, she's going to turn invisible. But instead of answering right away, she dumps her jacket on the sofa and goes into her kitchen, an open-to-the-living-area jobber. “Wanna beer?”

“No, I don't want a beer. I want some answers. Some straight answers, this time.”

Tina pulls a can of Pabst from the fridge and pops off the tab, knocking back five or six gulps like a guy. “It wasn't something I planned, okay?”

“Are you out of your
mind?
”

After another swallow of beer, her mouth tilts into a sad, ugly smile. “Was there ever any doubt?” Then: “So…what did Luke tell you, exactly?”

“That you said there was some guy in Long Island City. And that the baby wasn't his?”

A second passed, then she nods.

Am I the only one here having a hard time making the pieces fit?

“Let me get this straight. You had a problem with telling me you were carrying another man's baby, but you didn't with telling me you wanted to abort your
husband's
kid?”

This time, when she lifts the beer can, her hand trembles. “It seemed like the lesser of two evils, what can I tell you?”

“The truth might be nice.”

Her eyes shoot to mine. “I
am
telling you the truth!”

“And I'm supposed to know this how? For crying out loud, Tina—every time I turn around, the story's changed! Why the hell weren't you up front with me to begin with?”

“Because I was scared shitless, okay? I didn't know what to do. I couldn't
think…
”

“Oh, Tina…” I collapse onto one of her dinette chairs, a
throne-size upholstered swivel number on casters. “You could have had the baby. Luke probably wouldn't even have known it wasn't his.”

After a second, she says, “The father's, um, a redhead. If the kid'd come out with red hair, he would've known. Besides, how honest is
that?
”

Oh, brother.

“Is the affair over?”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes. It didn't even last that long, you know? A few weeks, maybe.”

Gotta admit, she'd be damn good on the witness stand. Of course, she'd burn in Hell later, if you believe in that sort of thing, but Tina's never been much for planning ahead. “Then why did you let Luke think otherwise?”

She looks confused for a second, then seems to recoup. “Because it was the only way I could think of to get him to let me go.”

So Luke hadn't been imagining her pulling away. Still…“Dammit, Tina…if you wanted out, why didn't you just tell him that?”

“Because that wouldn't've been enough, don't you see?” The wall-to-wall carpet sucks up the sound of her heels as she swings around the counter to sit across from me. “He'd've wanted to talk, or go to marriage counseling. He wouldn't've accepted it, just like that. You know how protective he's always been about me, how he'd always make excuses for the crazy stuff I did. I had to do something drastic, or he would've seen our breaking up as somehow
his
fault. That he'd somehow failed me. And after everything he's done for me, I just couldn't do that to him.” Her mouth twists. “And I didn't want him to feel sorry for me anymore.”

This might sound totally off the wall, but I see a glimmer of understanding here I've never seen before. Tina's never been stupid, and she obviously needs to talk to somebody with
some major degrees up on their wall, but she's always had a knack for not seeing what didn't suit her purpose. I'm not sure even Luke gets just how much his feelings for Tina are based in large part on his compassion for what she'd been through, but I sure as hell didn't think Tina had an inkling that's what was going on.

What
I
didn't get, however, until this moment was just how crappy a foundation that makes for a real relationship. I mean, I'd simply accepted it for what it was. The fact of their being together superseded the reasons behind it, I guess. Which is what comes, I suppose, from making these decisions without understanding
why
you're making them. Just as I'd accepted my relationship with Daniel without taking two minutes to analyze why I thought I loved him. Had I done that, my life might've turned out very differently.

Had I thought through a lot of things, my life might have turned out very differently.

“Then why didn't you tell him you had an abortion?” I ask.

She looks down at her nails, then tucks them into her fist. The iridescent rose polish is badly chipped, which only goes to show what a bad state she's in. I don't think I've seen Tina with a neglected manicure since she was seven.

“I don't know,” she says quietly. “I guess because I just couldn't bring myself to admit I'd gotten rid of his baby.”

“I thought you said it wasn't his baby.”

“But I'd told him it was! Dammit, you're confusing me!” Tears glitter in her eyes. “I know I've made a huge mess of things, okay? And I know both of you will probably hate me, but that just proves my point, doesn't it?”

“What point?”

“That I don't belong with him. He doesn't deserve me. He deserves
you.
But as long as he was tied to me, he was never gonna see that.”

For the second time that afternoon, I feel as though some
one's clunked me over the head with a brick. Even as we speak, cartoon birdies are tweeting over my head.

“You don't believe me?” she says.

The only thing I believe right now is that I've been somehow catapulted into an alternative dimension where the language is the same, but the words all have different definitions.

I get up from the table. “Now I know you've lost it.”

“Not about this, El!” She rises as well, scooting around to block my exit. “You have every right to think I'm off my nut, that everything I say is circumspect—”

Wow. I didn't even know she knew that word.

“—but just think about it, okay?” She rams her hand through her already windblown hair, her eyes enormous. “Whenever he's needed somebody to talk to, who does he go to, huh? You, that's who. Not me. Me, he just screwed—”

“You, he
married,
lughead—”

“—I mean, I tried to pretend it was okay, him picking me over you, that maybe one day he'd love me for real, you know? But it never happened. His dick might've been in bed with me, but the rest of him belonged to you. So I'm removing myself from the picture. And by making him hate me, you'll look even better.”

Suddenly, shock and confusion give way—once again—to anger. Or maybe it's indignation, I can't quite tell.

“Christ, Tina. I don't know what's worse, listening to you blow off Luke's feelings for you, or the fact that you think you can just…just hand him over like a coat you've grown tired of!
Here, Ellie, go ahead and take it, the lining's a little worn, but you should still be able to get some use out of it!
”

“
No!
God, Ellie—that's not what I meant at all—!”

My phone shrills in my purse. Since I don't know what else to say, anyway, I fumble for it, wiping tears from my eyes as I answer it.

“Ellie?” Frances says softly. “Honey, where are you?”

Too shaken to puzzle out why she's calling me, I say, “I just went out for a little while, to get some air—” I grip the phone so hard it nearly slips out of my hand. “What is it? Ohmigod, something's wrong. Is Starr—?”

“Starr's fine, baby. She's with me.” She pauses. “It's your grandfather. You need to come home right away.”

T
he paramedics did what they could, but Leo was already gone. Starr had found him, dialed 9-1-1, then called Frances, who came right over and took charge.

Christ. What kind of mother lets her child find dead people in her living room? I should've been there, would've been there, if not for Tina's insanity. Or if I'd followed my own advice about staying out of it. I'm apparently much more upset about this than Starr is, though.

“Leo just went to sleep, that's all,” she said when I finally stopped holding her so tightly she said she couldn't breathe. “And he looked happy.”

A fact which Frances corroborated. And the paramedics, who assured me he'd gone in his sleep, he hadn't felt anything. I suppose I'll have to take their word for it. And after all, that's what we all wish for at the end, isn't it? Just go to sleep and not wake up. No pain, no fear, no knowledge, really.

There won't be a funeral, or sitting shiva, or anything even remotely a service to mark his passing. He was adamant about that. For one thing, Leo hadn't been a practicing Jew since he was a kid, although he went through the motions on High Holidays for my grandmother's sake. For another, after the funerals for my mother, my father, my grandmother, he swore he'd come back and haunt me if I put anybody else through hell like that. Or wasted the money. I'd never known my grandfather to be stingy in his life, but spending money on a big, fancy box that was just going to be put in the ground, never mind a boatload of food he wouldn't even get to eat was, in his opinion, downright idiotic. And if God, or anybody else, had a problem with that, tough. If there was an afterlife, He could take it up with Leo then. If there wasn't, it was all moot, anyway.

He'd made arrangements with a local funeral home some time ago, so all I had to do was make a phone call last night. Easier than making a dentist's appointment, he'd said when he'd told me. So the undertaker's already taken him away. The cremation will be tomorrow morning, and I can get the ashes anytime after that. I have no idea what I'm going to do with them. Leo had made noises about going out to Shea Stadium and dumping them, but can I really do that?

I can't understand why I'm not crying. Funny how I've been dreading this for years, but now that it's happened…

Why can't I feel anything?

Of course, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. The grief will come in its own good time, I suppose. It always does.

Not surprisingly, I totally spaced the interview. Mari was very sympathetic when she called, wondering where I was, saying she'd try to convince them to hold off making a decision until I could get in for an interview. I had just enough presence of mind to tell her not to bother. I mean, what's the point? I can't leave Starr now. And even after we've all adjusted, it's not as if I have anyone I can leave her with, is it?

Mari said she totally understood, asked if there was anything she could do (I said no), to take care and she'd call me in a few weeks. I doubt she will, but whether she does or doesn't is hardly a top priority in my thoughts right now.

Nikky, too, did the I'm-so-sorry-dear-take-all-the-time-you-need number. Although I could hear her suck in her breath when I said it would be at least a week before I'd be able to sort things out. Because of my daughter and all.

“Well, dear…I'm sure you'll do the best you can.”

That's the plan, yep.

 

I knew Leo had left a will, but when I couldn't find it, I called the number listed under “lawyer” in his address book. Somebody named Stanley Goldfine. Stan—that's what he told me to call him—asked me if I wanted him to messenger me a copy or come to his office, which wasn't too far away. I opted for the office, figuring if I had any questions, he'd be right there, but that he send copies to anyone else mentioned in the will as he saw fit. I made an appointment for later this afternoon, called the few remaining relatives who would be even remotely interested in Leo's passing, then steeled myself to call my sister out in Oyster Bay. I got her machine; since I didn't think she'd exactly be broken up over the news, I left a message. I didn't say anything about the will, since I honestly didn't know at that point if she was even in it. Knowing Jennifer, however, I imagine she'll contact
me
about it soon enough.

I asked Starr if she'd be okay with the Gomezes for an hour or so—it's slowly dawning on me that, at least for the time being, I'm a landlord, criminy—threw on a turtleneck and two heavy sweaters (one my grandfather's, one my dad's) over a pair of jeans, slapped on enough makeup so I wouldn't frighten any small children I might encounter, finger-fluffed my unwashed hair, and set off for the lawyer's.

Which is where I am now.

Stanley Goldfine is one of those men you look at and think, gee, I bet he wasn't bad-looking when he was younger, except then you realize he's not old enough that you should be thinking this. Not a sharp edge anywhere on the man. Rogaine-fuzz blurring a rapidly retreating hairline, behind which lurks wavy, suspiciously dark hair. A beer keg where the six-pack abs should be. Still, he's got kind blue eyes behind his tortoise-shell wirerims, a soothing voice and a very sweet smile. In other words, a chicken soup kinda guy—dependable, comforting, good for you.

I can't remember the last time I had chicken soup.

Anyway. Stan shows me into his office (pleasantly, but not ostentatiously furnished, in neutral colors) dispenses the standard condolences, then motions for me to have a seat. Since I'd never heard my grandfather mention him, I ask him if he knew Leo well.

“No, not really,” Stan says, settling in behind his desk. “He just contacted me to draw up the will a few years ago, then once again after your father's passing.”

He prattles on about this and that, nothing that needs my full attention, while I process that his gray suit is a few years old, I'm guessing, American-made, good quality but not top-of-the-line. And slightly ill-fitting—a little pulling at the shoulders, the sleeves a trifle too long—as though they didn't have his exact size at Men's Wearhouse so he took the closest thing, then couldn't be bothered with alterations. I glance at his left hand, and…yep. Just as I thought. Indentation, but no ring. The telltale mark of the recently divorced.

I think of Luke and my chest cramps.

“Do you want me to read it to you, or read it yourself?”

What? Oh, right. The will. Which I'm about to read because my grandfather just died. Yesterday. I feel this emotional…heave. Like when you know you have to throw up but you're not quite ready to let it go, yet. So I should be thinking
about that, not about this guy's ill-fitting clothes—and the fact that it's taking everything I have not to ask if he'd like me to rework those armseyes, take up those cuffs—or Luke, or anything not directly related to why I'm here. God, I'm a horrible person. Then again, maybe this is some sort of defense mechanism, shielding me from reality until I can think about it without becoming hysterical.

I look across the desk at this benign little man and say, “I think I'd rather read it myself, if that's okay.”

“Sure, sure, not a problem. Actually, tell you what…” Stan gets up, jiggling some loose change in his pocket. “My coffeemaker bit the dust this morning, so how about I just pop out for coffee, give you a little time to yourself? Nothing worse than having someone hang over your shoulder. Can I get you anything?”

Well, heck, since he's offering. “A hot chocolate, maybe?”

“One hot chocolate, coming up. I'll be back in two shakes. Oh—there's a pad and pen right there, so you can jot down any notes you might have.”

After he's gone, I smile a little. Who on earth says “two shakes” anymore? I settle back in the chair and start to read, peripherally aware of the soft drone of the receptionist talking on the phone on the other side of the closed door, the clanking of the radiator under the window, that undeniable hum in your own head you can only hear when you're in a quiet room. I've always wondered what that was. Your own energy, maybe, like an engine on idle?

The first part of the will's straightforward enough. Since my name's been on Leo's bank and money market accounts, that all passes to me, anyway. For what it's worth: the last time I saw any statements, he wasn't exactly rolling in it, although he was never in danger of going bankrupt. Then we come to a few small bequests to a distant relative or two I'd never met. Jennifer and I are equal beneficiaries of a modest life insur
ance policy, which I already knew, and I get all the furniture—such as it is—in the house, which I didn't. He and my grandmother had already set up a trust fund for Starr, which he'd continued to contribute to; that'll come due when she's eighteen.

Then we get to the good stuff. A pair of good stuffs, actually.

First, he left the rental house to me, the other one in trust for Starr. But she can't sell hers until she turns twenty-one, and I can't sell mine as long as either of the current tenants wants to stay. Then, before I can fully absorb the implications of that bit of news, I see a codicil, added a couple years ago, that leaves all the funds in another, heretofore unknown money market account, to one Sonja Koepke.

The door opens behind me. “Well, then,” Stan says, “how are we doing?”

I look up. “I'm not sure. Who's Sonja Koepke?”

A tidy little frown settles between his brows as he removes the hot chocolate from a white paper bag and sets it in front of me. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

I frown back. “My grandfather didn't tell you?”

“No. Although…” The lawyer finally sits, rooting in the bag for his coffee, which he lifts out so carefully I find myself holding my breath. He shoots me an apologetic look. “I periodically go through my clients' files, to make sure they're up-to-date, see if they want to add or change anything to their wills, and I realized I still didn't have Ms. Koepke's address or phone number. Which your grandfather had told me he'd get to me some time ago.” He shakes his head. “I was going to call him this week, as it happens.”

I decide this is a good time to take a sip of the hot chocolate, which instantaneously smelts my tastebuds.

I jump; so does Stan. “Ms. Levine! Are you okay?”

Unable to speak, I pantomime this whole it's okay/it was just the hot chocolate/sit, sit schtick.

He hesitates, then carefully lowers himself back into his seat. Stanley Goldfine, I decide, is a very careful man. “Are you sure you're all right? Your eyes are red.”

I nod vigorously and croak out, “I'm fine, please go on.”

“Anyway, do you know anybody who might know who she is?”

The searing pain has finally subsided, leaving in its wake a scorched wasteland where my tongue used to be. “I'll ask around,” I manage. “Then there's this part…”

I point to the bit about the houses; Stan cranes his head to see where I'm looking, then turns to that page in his own copy. He reads as he pries the lid off his coffee, squinting slightly, like he won't admit he needs glasses.

“Ah, yes. Thought you'd wonder about that.” He takes a sip of his coffee, then peers at me. “You're not happy with it?”

“I'm not anything,” I answer truthfully. “I guess I figured he'd split them between me and my sister, if anything. Not me and my daughter.”

Something you could almost call a smile twitches at the lawyer's mouth. “I may be speaking out of turn, but I don't think your sister was ever part of that equation.” Then he leans forward. “Your grandfather wanted to make sure you and your daughter always had a home, though. And you can sell the rental house, as long as his conditions are met.”

I smirk. “I don't see either the Nguyens or the Gomezes leaving anytime soon. Not with the deal my grandfather gave them.”

Ten year leases at five percent increases per year, on rents that are below market to begin with—leases he only offered after both families had lived there for a year and proved to him they cared about the property as much as he did. Those two apartments were the best-kept secrets in Queens, let me tell you. No way were either of those families going to leave.

As Stan drones on about property values and how the houses probably weren't in danger of devaluing by the time Starr
might be ready to sell hers—in sixteen years—reality is beginning to entwine its nasty little tentacles through my brain. My grandfather's “ensuring” Starr and I had a place to live translates to the simple fact that, unless I miraculously land some phenomenally well-paying job, we're stuck in Queens for God only knows how long. Hell, we're stuck in that
house
for God only knows how long. And on the face of it, I know Leo meant well. He only wanted to protect us. All of us, including the rental families. Except…except I can't help feeling what he was really saying was that he didn't trust me. That, if he'd left both houses to me free and clear and I'd sold them, that I'd somehow…I don't know. Blow it, I suppose. That I wouldn't be smart enough, or judicious enough, to know how to handle the money.

And you know what the really sad thing about all this is? That I can't for sure say that he wasn't right. I mean, I haven't exactly proven so far that I have a clue how to function in the real world, have I? What have I got to show for my twenty-eight years? A résumé consisting of a string of (let's face it) shit jobs and an unplanned pregnancy, that's what.

“Ms. Levine?” The lawyer's gently spoken words rattle me out of my maudlin musings, which is when I realize I'm crying. Damn. He's holding out a tissue across the desk, which I take and loudly blow my nose. “It's just now hitting, isn't it?” he says kindly.

“Yeah,” I say, wiping my eyes. “You could say that.”

 

There are flowers on my doorstep when I get home. Many, many flowers. I cannot deal with them right now. If ever. I'm not sure what I can deal with, frankly, but death flowers ain't it. If Frances is home, I might go over and let her do the mother hen thing, fix me a cup of hot, too-sweet tea and let me gorge on Milano cookies. But first I have to collect my child. And while I'm at it, this probably would be a good time to reassure
my tenants—I shudder—that they're not being kicked out on the street.