Hanging by a Thread (4 page)

“Did you eat?”

“When I get back, I promise.” I cross the thickly-piled Ori
ental—in mostly blues and dark reds, to match the overstuffed Ethan Allen furniture my grandmother bought the year before she died—bending down to give him a kiss on his scratchy cheek. Heat purrs soothingly through the registers; the house smells like brisket and freshly washed clothes (there's a basketful on the sofa, waiting for me to fold) and my grandfather's spicy aftershave, and all I want to do is crash in my bedroom with a slab of meat large enough to feed Cleveland and watch one of my Jimmy Stewart movies. But instead I'm dragging my hungry, exhausted carcass back out into the bitter cold, because my friend needs me. Because I know Tina would do the same for me.

And has, I think as I hike to the bar, braced against the wind.

I mean, there was that time a couple years ago when we all came down with the flu—I'm talking near-death experience here, not your run-of-the-mill chills and fever crap—when Tina, despite an aversion to illness bordering on the obsessive, basically moved in, force-feeding the lot of us Lipton's chicken noodle soup and ginger ale for two days and disposing of mountains of tissues like the Department of Sanitation clearing the streets after a blizzard.

Or going back even further, to when we were fourteen and had lied to our families about going to Angie Mason's for a sleepover. Instead we went to this party at Ryan O'Donnell's (remind me to
never
believe anything my teenage child tells me, ever), where I, being basically stupid and having zip tolerance for alcohol, got so drunk I wanted to die. And Tina, who even then could hold her booze like a three-hundred pound sailor, and who also knew if I went home in that condition, I
would
die, hauled me into the john and forced me to puke, made coffee in Ryan's kitchen, sat there with me while I drank it, and got me home, shaky but sober, by curfew.

She was also there, at her insistence, when I told Dad and Leo I was going to have a baby.

I push open the heavy wooden door to Pinky's; hops-saturated steam heat rushes out to greet me like long-lost relatives, defrosting my contacts. Like most neighborhood bars, the decor runs primarily to neon beer signs, dark wood and linoleum. At eight on a weeknight, the place is nearly empty—two or three guys at the bar, staring morosely at the rows of bottles lined up in front of the mirror; a couple talking softly at one of the small tables in the center of the floor. As Madonna yodels from the not exactly au courant jukebox, I take off my hat and gloves, shoving them in my coat pockets as I blink, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim, albeit smoke-free these days, light.

“Hey, Ellie, how's it goin'?”

My gaze sidles over to Jose, wiping down the bar. A year or so older than me, Jose's been the night bartender here for the past couple of years. He's got this whole pit bull thing going. Solid, you know? Not necessarily looking for a fight but up for one should the occasion present itself. In the summer, when he's wearing a T-shirt, the tattoos are nothing if not impressive. The man on the stool closest to me bestirs himself long enough to give me the once-over. I give him a withering look, then pop out the dimples for Jose.

“Pretty good,” I say, then ask about his wife and kids—they're doin' okay, thanks, he says—then I ask if he's seen Tina.

“Yeah, she came in a while ago. In the back. She looks like shit.”

Hey. If you're looking for diplomacy, steer clear of Pinky's.

I spot her in the booth farthest in the back, waving, so I grab a bowl of pretzels off the bar and head in her direction. Except the woman sitting at the table turns out to be Lisa Lamar, who sat next to me in half my classes all through high school and who will be forever after known as not only the first girl in our class to give a boy a blow job, but to pass on her newfound knowledge to a select few of us the following day. An act
which solidified my standing in the ranks of the “cool” girls, which means I owe Lisa my life.

So of course we have to do the thirty-second catch-up routine. Only thirty seconds stretches into a good two minutes while she introduces me to her date, some guy named Phil whose unibrow compensates for the receding hairline, then fills me in on Shelly Hurlburt's parents' divorce after thirty-six years, could I believe it? (actually, I could) and asks me if I know whatever happened to Melody McFadden's cousin Sukie, who was supposed to marry that baseball player, whats-his-name (I don't, but I tell her I'll ask around, one of the Scardinare daughters-in-law probably knows). Then after noisy hugs and both of us swearing we've got to get together, soon, I continue back to Tina.

Jose's assessment was, unfortunately, not an exaggeration. Even in the murky light, she looks like holy hell.

While neither of us is, or was, a raving beauty—at least not without a lot of help—Tina's always had a knack for making the most of what she has. No taller than I am, and in no danger of being mistaken for an anorexic, either (we were known in high school as the Boobsey Twins), her eyes might be set too far apart and her nose could use a little work, but with enough lip gloss and a Wonderbra, who cares? And she's the only woman I know who can actually get away with that cut-with-a-weedwhacker-hairstyle—it hides a narrow scar over her right ear from where her mother threw a bottle at her when she was six—albeit with dark brown hair instead of blond. But tonight we're talking Liza Minelli, The Dissipated Years.

“I know, I know, I look like crap,” she mutters as I slide into the booth. As usual, she's wearing black, a heavy knit turtleneck that hugs her breasts. If I know her—and I do—the ass-cupping black jeans and hooker boots are right there, too. And in the corner, I see a hint of fake leopard. Mind you, none of this stuff is cheap. It's just that Tina never really caught on to
the concept of
subtle.
“I'm two screwdrivers ahead of you, so catch up.”

At least the girl's getting her Vitamin C. However, since I haven't eaten, and since that experience at Ryan O'Donnell's left me bitter and disillusioned, I opt for a Coke. She makes a face and slugs back half her drink. I don't like this. See, there are two Tinas, Okay Tina and Total Mess Tina. For most of our childhood, she was Total Mess Tina, mainly characterized by the absolute conviction that she somehow provoked and/or deserved her mother's relentless physical and mental abuse. The girl had the self-confidence of a blind flea. Okay Tina only came out from time to time, like when I was puking up my intestines. It took Luke and me—with the help of various family members—years to send Total Mess Tina into remission. After all our work, relapse is not an option.

But I keep these thoughts to myself. For now.

“So I take it Luke doesn't know you're here?”

She laughs, but it's not a pretty sound. “What, do I look like somebody with a death wish?” She finishes off her drink and gestures toward Jose for another. “Jesus, it's cold tonight. You sure you don't want something with a little more zing to it?”

My mother alarm goes off. “Tell me you didn't drive over here.”

“What are you, the DUI police?”

I decide to leave it for now. But if she's not walking steadily when we leave, no way is she getting behind the wheel. “So what'd you tell Luke?”

“He thinks I'm grocery shopping.”

I stuff about fifty little pretzels into my mouth at once, then say around them, “You don't think he'll get suspicious when you get home with no groceries?” Not to mention the fact that she's gonna smell like, well, somebody who's been hanging out in a bar.

“Like I'm not gonna pick up some things before I go home,
geez, Ellie. Besides—” she picks up a little white box off the seat beside her “—I made a swing by Oxford's and picked up a couple of those Napoleons he likes so much.” At my crestfallen look, she smiles and produces a second box, which she shoves across the table. “And éclairs for you.”

I clutch the box to my bosom, inhaling its bakery smell. “I owe you.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna hold you to that.”

Jose brings us her drink and my Coke; she picks it up, her wedding rings a flashing blur. Her first engagement ring was so small you had to take it on faith there was a diamond in it. But Luke does pretty well now, I gather. So for their fifth anniversary last year, they upgraded to two carats. Looks real good with the long maroon nails.

I set the box on the seat beside me so I won't be tempted to rip into it before I get home, then get down to business. “So. What's going on?”

That gets another long look, then Tina hauls a purse the size of Staten Island onto her lap; before I know it, she's lit up a cigarette. Which is now a huge no-no in New York bars.

“What the hell are you doing?” I growl across the table. Tina spews out a stream of smoke and holds the cigarette under the table, giving me a look like a she-wolf whose pups have been threatened.

“There's like nobody here, okay? God, quit being such a priss.” Then, after another quick, surreptitious pull, she says, with no emotion whatsoever, “I'm pregnant.”

We stare at each for a heartbeat or two. But the instant her cigarette bobs to the surface, I lunge across the table and grab it, dumping it into her drink.

“Bitch,” she mutters, calmly lighting up again. Tina's got these pale blue eyes, like ice. And right now, the look she's giving me is fast-freezing my blood. Which doesn't prevent me from going for the second cigarette, but her hand ducks under
the table before I can get it. “Chill, for God's sake. It's not like I'm keeping it.”

My gaze jerks to hers. “You're not serious.”

“You bet your ass I'm serious.”

This is too many shocks on an empty stomach. “But Luke…” I lean over, whispering. “You know how much he's always wanted a kid—”

“And you know how much I don't. And swear to God, if you tell him, I'll never speak to you again.”

My eyes burn, and only partly from the smoke. I hate this. Hate secrets. Especially ones that put me in the position of having to lie to somebody. “So why are you telling me this?” I sound whiny and I don't care. “Why are you making me an accessory?”

“Because I need you to go with me when I…you know.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you, who else? What, I'm gonna ask my
mother?
Luke's mother? One of my sisters? Who else can I trust, huh?”

I feel sick. Who knew being trustworthy could be such a liability?

Tina puffs some more, then says, “God knows how this happened. We always use protection.
Always.
” I look at her with what I expect is a chagrined expression; I was on the Pill when Starr happened, too, which she knows. Tina sighs. “Sorry. I forgot.”

And because I am doomed to be the sympathetic one, I realize just how much this is tearing her apart. Criminy, she's shaking like somebody coming off a three-day bender.

“Yo, Tina,” Jose shouts from the bar. “Put out the cigarette, babe, you wanna get my butt in a sling here?”

She blows out a breath and dumps the second butt in her drink, then goes for my pretzels.

“How far along are you?”

Her shoulders hitch. “Three weeks. More or less.”

“Then maybe you should give yourself a few days to think about this. I mean, right now you're just in shock.”

“No shit. But the last thing I want to do is
think
about it.”

I know what she means. Oh, boy, do I know what she means. Because thinking about it opens the door to making it real. Makes it harder to not start thinking in terms of “baby.”

“And they say it's easier the earlier you have it done,” she goes on. “I'm not waiting.”

Arguing with her right now would be pointless. But if she won't go without me, maybe I can put her off for a couple days, buy some time for her to think this through. Yes, it's all about choices, but my guess is panic's short-circuiting her synapses right now. And when you're freaked is not the time to make a decision that's going to impact the rest of your life. Especially when there's somebody else involved, I think with a sharp stab of pain.

“Tina, honey…you didn't always feel this way. About not wanting kids.”

“Yes, I did,” she says flatly. “I just thought—hoped—I'd get over it, you know? For Luke's sake? But I see all my sisters with their kids…and I can't do it, Ellie. I'll fuck the kid up, I know I will, just like my mother fucked us up.”

Her assessment of her mother's relationship with her three daughters is, unfortunately, not an exaggeration. Renee Bertucci was a real piece of work. I have no idea why she put her girls down all the time, why she seemed to think it a sign of weakness to show them any affection. But I do know Tina didn't spend so much time at my house, or Luke's, just because of us, but because our mothers spoiled rotten everyone who set foot across their thresholds.

Which apparently Tina, in her near-hysteria, is forgetting.

I know I have to tread carefully through the minefield of Tina's fragile psyche. One wrong step and she's gonna blow.
So I point out that she'd had plenty of examples of good mothering, then add, “And maybe you should give yourself some credit for learning from your mother's mistakes.”

Her eyes flood. “Then I'll probably make other ones, ones I won't even know I'm making until it's too late. And what if what they say is true, that our mothering instinct's in our genes?”

“But sweetie—your sisters are doing okay, right?”

“They're older. They got out before Mom got really bad.” She looks down at her shaking hands, then back up at me. “I'm not like you, the way you are with Starr.”

My laugh clearly startles her, even as my stomach does another flip. “You don't actually think I know what I'm doing? Believe me, I've lost plenty of sleep wondering if I'm going to screw
her
up. But honey…this isn't all about you. You know that—”