Brooklyn Story (31 page)

Janice and I embraced. “Things are lookin' up,” she said to the three of us after we separated. “I'm so happy for you.” I wondered if she knew how much of a part my manuscript played in what she had just said. I grabbed her hand and gave her the fifty-cent tour before we ended up in my bedroom, where we shared the small space atop my bed.

“What's the latest with Richie?” I asked.

“Unbelievable,” she said. “Must be the Sicilian in him. Tough as nails.”

“Have you seen him much?”

“Yeah. He's home recouping. Needless to say, he won' be smackin' me or anyone else around for a while.” I didn't ask if she had run into Tony. Janice's face turned serious, as if she had read my mind. “Listen, Sam,” she started, “about Tony an' all. I'm kinda sorry now I introduced ya to him.”

“You don't need to apologize, Jan,” I said, and saw the Smith-Corona out of the corner of my eye. “It's my life.”

Janice shook her head. “I shoulda realized that my life was never goin' ta be yours.” Her hands touched my shoulders. “So how are ya? Really.”

“I've been queasy the last coupla days.”

“No wonder. Ya been turned upside down this past week.” Janice put her fingers on my chin and gave my face a once-over. “Almost totally healed,” she said. “You're 'bout ready ta come out again.”

I glanced at my desk and pictured myself sitting in a Greenwich Village café. “I'm through with men for a while,” I said. “It's all about my work right now.”

Janice put her hands on my shoulders and beamed. “That's why I'm here!” she yelled, and gave me a fast hug. “I have to cut back my hours at Dani's 'cause Richie's gettin' funny about it. Ya know, he wants me to be at home and all.” God, did I know that all too well. “I asked her if I could have my girlfriend help me on Wednesday and Friday afternoons and she said yes.” Janice beamed. “That's you, Sam! You can save more money for that move to New York.” That small typewriter is the biggest thing in my room, I thought when my eye caught sight of it again before Janice continued. “I might even move in with ya like we talked about.”

I thought for a moment. “What will she pay?”

“Decent money, the shop is always busy, and it's under the
table. And the tips!” Janice exclaimed. “They add up, 'specially if ya get good at doin' nails, and I know ya will. You're real smart. Then ya get regular clients that ask for ya. Oh, Sam, I jus' know it's gonna be great.”

“Who's gonna train me?”

“That's the best part!
I
will. All ya have ta do at the start is greet people and send 'em ta the diff'rent stations. They got a cosmetician there, too, and she can teach us all about makeup. When you learn to do that and can consult with people, then ya make real dough.”

There was nothing to say but yes to her offer. I had wanted another job to add to my bookstore earnings but I was always afraid that Tony wouldn't like it. That no longer mattered; I could do whatever I wanted and right then, I wanted to make more money. So, Wednesday and Friday I would be at the nail salon and I'd work three days at the bookstore. Not bad, I thought. I would be saving a lot and learning the right way to do makeup. The girls in the old neighborhood overdid their faces with so much rouge and lipstick, they looked more like sluts than high school girls.

I wanted to look sophisticated so I would feel like I belonged in that real world when I stepped off that bridge.

Over the next two months in Bay Ridge I really started to like my new job. Janice was a good teacher and I took to it right away, answering phones, making appointments, getting to know the ins and outs of the business while I kept things running smoothly. The best part was learning about makeup and colors, and all my purchases were discounted so I could try out different shades and combinations of shadows and lipsticks. My sadness about Tony faded over time, and although Janice and I were living farther apart, we saw each other more than before because we were working in the same place. Truth be told, I was amazed that Tony did not reach out to me.

On the afternoons when Janice left early to placate Richie, I worked by myself, happy that no one was telling me what to do or how to live. I really had had no idea how much pressure I'd been under, worrying what Tony thought and where he was and whom he was messing around with. That wasn't a concern any longer; he could see whomever he wished and I didn't have to know about it or find lipstick or anything else in his car.

Janice sensed that I didn't want to hear much about Bensonhurst, but she had dropped a few tidbits about what was going on with the Brooklyn Boys. They couldn't get away from the reality that the murder case was a much bigger deal than
the stolen auto parts were. She told me that when she was with Richie, he always looked behind him as if expecting a tail, and when he was drunk on a few occasions he bemoaned the legal troubles that nagged his crew. She felt as though they were up to something again, but no possible future trouble could stop them from gearing up for yet another score. However, I was more interested in the updates Janice provided about her and Richie. He had become surlier, more distant, and more detached when they were together. I knew from her face that there were more shoves, more slaps, more fists, and more bruises that had healed.

One Friday afternoon when Janice was getting ready to leave the salon, we took a coffee break together. We sat in the back room and chatted while Janice checked her watch a couple of times. “You got an appointment?” I asked.

“Nah. Richie wants me to be home by now, in case he calls. But you know something? It seems like if I stay here, he'll call, but if I go home, he won't. Sometimes I think he has somebody tailin' me.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” I cracked.

Janice sighed. “Yeah,” she said, “these guys are tough, aren't they? But I guess it's worth it.” Even though she had had some tough times with Richie, it wasn't often that she sounded unsure about him as she had then.

“Are you two having more problems?” I asked. “I mean, if you don't mind telling me.”

“It didn't take him long ta get back to his usual ways when he got outta the hospital,” Janice said. “But you know what? With all his shit, I love him, Sam. It's just that sometimes I get the feelin' I'm not enough for him.” Janice looked down at her body and then at me. “Do ya think maybe I should lose a few pounds?”

I reached for her hand. “Stop this,” I said. “You're a knockout just the way you are. Don't allow a man to dictate that.”

“Yeah, well, I don' know if I knock Richie out any more. Remember I told ya if I caught him cheating, I'd look the other way?”

“How could I forget that?”

“Well, I jus' don' know anymore. I'm almost twenty-one and I want sumthin' real,” Janice said, and then paused for a long moment before looking me in the eyes. “It ain't real if he's cheatin', is it?” It wasn't, I knew, but I didn't say anything. My best friend had already come to her own conclusion. Janice went on. “It's the company he keeps besides Vin and Tony. Like those two guys, Sal and Joe. They're like human trash cans, full of filth, spitting out foulness, and holding on to garbage—the biggest sluts in Bensonhurst. Richie says he never looks at other girls when I'm not there, but I don' believe 'im anymore.” Janice lowered her head and paused. “Ya know, I thought you and Tone were forever and look what happened. How can I be sure about Richie?”

“I had no idea you were so upset with him.”

Janice grabbed her pocketbook and stood up. “Maybe I'm not, really,” she said. “I think I'm about to get my period and I'm just blowin' off some steam with ya. I mean, what are friends for? Right?”

I watched as my friend left the salon and headed off down the street. I felt bad for Janice, especially since my life was on course for the river. I felt like I was really coming into my own. My new job was going well and I was writing like crazy. After all, it was the only therapy I had. I sometimes felt it saved me. Grandma and Mr. Wainright were proud of me, and my zest for life was returning. Father Rinaldi had obviously kept his fingers on the grapevine and shared my animation with smiles on the less frequent occasions when I went well out of my way to visit his church. Mom had been right and had done the right thing, I thought. The move had been good for us.

“Write what you know,” Mr. Wainright always told the
class. I knew the boys of Bensonhurst better than anything—their vices, their abusive ways, their constant ego trips—so why not write about them? I knew all too well about rebellion and bad marriages and self-destructive behavior through my mother, and Jewish faith and Jewish cooking and Jewish men through Grandma. I knew quite a bit and had a lot to write about.

I finished my shift and when I left the salon, I was greeted by the fragrant air and waning sun of a perfect early spring evening. I decided to make the detour to Our Lady of Guadalupe for a fast prayer. I felt I had a lot to be thankful for. When I arrived at the church that never failed to comfort me, I knelt under the large crucifix outside its entrance. When I finished, I made the sign of the cross with my index finger and then continued on to Eighteenth Avenue to catch the bus to the subway that would take me home.

By the time I arrived home, I was tired and happy after a long day. Fridays and Saturdays were the busiest days in the salon, but they were also the days when the most money could be made. When I moved my key toward the door, I noticed that the mailbox door was wide-open and our mail was strewn across the front porch.

That's odd, I thought. I considered the possibility that the mailman had taken off running from a dog and I smiled when I pictured that in my mind. I gathered the scattered mail and checked my watch. It was seven thirty. Grandma went with Mom to a late-afternoon appointment at her doctor's office and they'll be getting back soon, I said to myself. Maybe I'll surprise them and make one of Mom's favorite dishes—tuna fish casserole with crumbled potato chips on top. My mouth watered in anticipation and I decided that that was what I'd do. I fit the key into the lock and opened the door.

I dropped my purse and the mail on the floor and stared into the living room with my eyes and mouth wide open. The
couch had been slashed, the matching lamps were broken, and the contents of my mother's storage trunk were strewn on the floor. My grandma's things that my grandfather had brought home from the war were all over the place. I ran to see if his cuff links were still in the box; they weren't, they were gone, too. Poor Grandma, those stained gold elephant cuff links were all she had left of his memory.

I rushed to my bedroom and found my dresser drawers open, my clothing dumped on the floor, and my journal pages torn out and scattered on the bed. I burst into tears and stood there, sobbing, for a few minutes. How had anyone gotten in when the doors and windows were locked? I wondered. And why would someone tear my journals? When I entered my mother's room, I had my answer. Shattered glass covered the carpet below her window and her clothes were similarly scattered.

For some reason, Grandma's room had been left undisturbed, but I checked the jewelry box that was on her dresser. One of the few things with any value in the house—Grandma's wedding ring with its diamond chips that were worth little but meant so much to her—was still there. I thanked God for that and, after I had finished a fast survey, for the fact that the only thing that seemed to be missing was a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. Was it a homeless person who was hungry? I wondered. If it was, why would he ransack some areas and leave others alone, and tear my journals apart? Why hadn't he taken Grandma's ring? I couldn't help but recall the nights I would look out of my bedroom window and see the local boys breaking into the storefronts or into cars. Petty crimes, but this was way too personal for me.

I called the police and then shuffled back to my room. I grabbed my stomach and sat on the floor, sickened by the idea of a stranger who might have read my most intimate thoughts before ripping the pages apart. What kind of person would do
such a thing, and why? I racked my mind. And then I panicked when I thought about my work in progress. I reached under the area rug where I hid a small brass key and bolted to the metal box that I kept stashed under the tall steam radiator. My book was my toll for Manhattan and I felt certain that when I finished, I would make it to the other side. My heart raced as I fumbled with the key. I exhaled when I looked inside—my manuscript was still there, as was the diamond heart bracelet that Tony had given me.

I waited for the police in the living room, sobbing again as I clutched my manuscript to my chest. What would I have done if it were missing? I fretted. I pushed the thought out of my mind but it was immediately replaced by another. What would the break-in do to my mother? Despite my doubts before the move, she had been doing better in our new place, but with her fragile mind, I thought the incident might send her on a drug and drinking binge and back to bed. I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath, pulling myself together to face the cops.