A Way to Get By Page 9

  The war. Jesus. All anyone could ever seem to talk about in those days was the war. Every newspaper, every story on TV, every conversation at the bars focused on the body count. It was so sad and infuriating, feeling so helpless about a situation we had no control over. I wondered a lot about what would have happened to my brother if he’d been forced to go to Vietnam. I still couldn’t quite believe it had been a year since I’d seen him. But as far as I knew, he was still alive and well and enjoying life as a Canadian.

  My parents rarely called because they were paranoid of Big Brother finding out where they were and shipping my brother off to war right out from under their noses. I didn’t know enough about government surveillance to convince them any differently. Aside from the occasional letter with the even less-occasional check enclosed, I wasn’t in touch with them at all.

  I finally made it around the melee and took some back streets to get into Norman Hills. I gave my name at the gatehouse and was granted access to one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in New Jersey.

  I first started babysitting for the Tanners back in high school. Mrs. Tanner had put up a flyer on the bulletin board looking for a part-time nanny, and I promptly jumped at the chance to earn some extra money. They had four boys under the age of eight; the youngest was just a toddler at the time. I didn’t have much experience taking care of children but I found I really enjoyed it. The kids were adorable, the Tanners paid well, and I got to spend time in their beautiful house.

  It had been over a whole year since my parents left and an entire eleven months since I graduated high school. After all that time working my tail off, I still didn’t have enough money socked away to pay for college. Aside from paying for my own food, Aunt Judy always seemed to be in need of something. Because I was living under her roof, I felt obligated to help her out when she did. She had a part-time gig at the library but it didn’t pay much. I don’t know. Maybe if she didn’t spend half her relief check on booze, she’d have had enough left over to pay the rent. It seemed she was never sober long enough to take care of herself, much less me, so I could forget about her ever pulling it together to even get me to a college interview, much less help to pay for it.

  My aunt was hardly a nurturing parental figure, but at the age of nineteen, I shouldn’t have really expected her to be. I had my own jobs and my own life. Aside from the fact that we shared a roof and some bloodlines, there was nothing to bind us together. I was essentially on my own.

  Once her health ultimately took its turn for the worse, however, I was actually on my own. Last month, she had to be moved to a state-funded assisted-living facility.

  If I thought getting by was difficult before, it was nearly impossible now. I was barely scraping by as it was, and suddenly, I found myself responsible for everything. Every rent check, every grocery bill, every PSE&G payment. Everything! On top of which, I had to find time between my two jobs to squeeze in some semblance of a social life and to visit Aunt Judy on a regular basis.

  It felt as though I was always taking care of other people. My aunt, my customers, the Tanner boys... Why couldn’t someone take care of me? I knew Eddie was doing all he could to save money, working at Mrs. Leone’s grocery store, hauling boxes and breaking his back every day. I knew we’d never have tons of money and most of the time, I was okay with it. It wouldn’t be like this forever.

  As long as we had each other, I knew we’d be just fine.

  CHAPTER 18

  Last of the Bigtime Spenders

  BRENDA

  Friday, August 7

  1981

  Beau’s new yacht sluiced across the water as the summer sun beat down upon my skin. He’d insisted that the sun was stronger out on the ocean, so I made sure to slather on some Coppertone 4 for protection against its rays. I was only wearing a bikini, and the silk sarong around my waist wasn’t exactly an effective coverup. The breeze whipped through my hair as the salt spray kicked up its mist and beaded along my oiled arms.

  Beau was beaming at the helm, his wide grin displayed proudly as he asked, “What do you say we really open her up?”

  I nodded my head in agreement, unwilling to try and yell over the noise. As far as yachts go, Beau’s was on the smaller side—according to his mother, anyway—but it could have been a rowboat and I would have been impressed. He’d christened it First Love, which was even more impressive, even if it was a bit unsettling.

  It was a beautiful day at the Jersey shore; sunny, warm, no humidity. It would have been perfect if only for Beau’s insistence I call him “Captain” while we were on board. And did he really have to wear that stupid hat?

  We’d been moving at a pretty good clip and I was enjoying the faster pace. I had just settled into a comfortable position in the passenger seat when Beau decided to ask, “Hey, honey. Why don’t you crack open that bottle I brought? It’s in the cooler.”

  “Which cooler? The one on the left or the right?”

  “Port, darling.”

  I bypassed the eyeroll and teetered across the deck, trying not to topple overboard in my quest to reach the cooler box at the stern. I grabbed the bottle of Dom Perignon from the ice with one hand and held fast to the railing with the other as I stood at the bottom of the stairs. I raised it up triumphantly and declared, “It’s not port… It’s champagne!”

  Beau laughed his head off at that.

  Because he was busy steering his boat, I took the honors and popped the cork. Mercifully, Beau slowed to a leisurely trawl while I retrieved some flutes from the cabin and poured us a couple glasses. I stepped up into the cockpit and handed him one.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, promptly taking a sip. “Ah. The ’75 was a good call. Very tasty. Very expensive. I’m glad I picked it.”

  “What’s the special occasion?” I asked.

  “Just being with you.” I gave a shy smile at his words. He always made a point to remind me how precious I was to him. He lowered his glass to the cupholder on the dashboard and raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Want to steer?”

  “Yes!” I answered automatically. I’d never driven a boat before and I was thrilled at the prospect of doing so now. I stepped in front of my boyfriend, grabbed the wheel, and took a deep breath, enjoying the salt air and the power at my fingertips. What a rush!

  Beau stood behind me, wrapping his arms around my midsection and pulling my back along the length of his front. He bent his head down to say in my ear, “I’m so happy. Aren’t you happy, darling?”

  I leaned against him, the hairs of his chest tickling against my bare back. I looked out across the endless ocean, reveling at the sight before my eyes. Running my hand over one of his at my waist, I allowed a sigh to escape from my mouth along with my answer. “I am.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Shameless

  EDDIE

  Friday, January 1

  1982

  Christmas was always hell without her.

  Just like I’d done last year, I spent it drunk on Tony and Ginny’s couch. My mom and dad moved to Miami seven years ago and I’d been celebrating the holidays with my best friends and their families ever since. Being away from my parents on such occasions wasn’t ideal, even though the Leones always went out of their way to make me feel very welcome.

  Plus, I had Brenda by my side to help me through it.

  Had.

  Mrs. Leone always cooked way too much food, but then again, there were always plenty of people around to eat it. Ginny was the oldest of six kids, and more often than not, a few of her siblings would pop in for a quick drink and a small plate before taking off to be with their own in-laws. Her parents would spend the entire day, however.

  It was rough for me to see what a real family was supposed to look like. A family that chose to live within reasonable proximity to one another, a family that chose to be close.

  Brenda had pretty much lost all touch with her parents and brother long ago; I only spoke to my parents sporadically. Because of that, it had been the
two of us against the world for the bulk of our relationship. We could have spent the holidays sulking about it but instead we chose to celebrate in our own unique way. We invented completely nonsensical traditions for our holiday meals, like the requisite pizza on Easter or crab fondue on Thanksgiving, anything to separate ourselves from the conventions of our youth.

  And yet last week, there I was, sitting down at a family table to indulge in a customary Christmas ham.

  It was all so very, very nice.

  My day-to-day life had been a similar never-ending cycle of tedium and repetition: Wake up hungover; get my ass to work. Prep and cook then come home and drink. When the walls closed in, I’d hit the local bars. When I had too much, the bartenders would send me home.

  Like they did tonight.

  I stumbled in the door to my room, drunk off my ass. I caught my reflection in the entryway mirror, and the jumping image forced my hand to the wall in order to steady myself. Why didn’t mirrors have a little knob on them to adjust the picture like on the TV? If I could’ve steadied the vertical, life would’ve been so much easier right then.

  Happy New Year, asshole.

  I staggered over to grab the phone off the nightstand and curled up with it in my unmade bed.

  And then, like I’d done so many times before, I picked up the receiver to call her.

  I didn’t ever want to do it. It’s just that I got too lonely. Besides, it had been a few months and I just wanted to check in. That was okay, right? Hell, I’d practically be a complete asshole if I didn’t check in every now and again, right?

  Funny how I never felt the need to check in while I was sober.

  Even still, she’d indulge my random calls while attempting to keep things light. Civil. Surface pleasantries were all she ever allowed. More often than not, however, our conversations devolved into therapy sessions. Well, for me at least. I knew it was a bad idea to call her when I was like this, but I just needed to hear her voice.

  It took me three tries before I was able to turn the rotary properly, and I had no idea if the number I’d just dialed was correct. I propped a pillow under my head as I listened to the phone ring once, twice…

  Despite the late hour, she answered with a cheery hello, and I felt myself fall apart.

  “I can’t take it, Bren.”

  She must have heard the desperation in my voice, because she answered with a wary, “Eddie…”

  But there was no stopping me. Not now. Not after the months of heartache and the overindulgence of booze. I couldn’t fake it any longer. My words came out in a sincere yet barely-coherent slur. “I miss you so much, baby.”

  Silence. Just the faint sounds of her breathing on the other end of the line; my heart beating against my ribcage.

  Finally, she spoke. “You need to stop doing this to yourself. To me.”

  “I can’t. I need you. I don’t work without you.”

  “No one said this was going to be easy. But you need to move on. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you don’t. Trust me, I know.”

  My head was spinning. I had to get on my feet. I paced around the room, bouncing off the random wall or piece of furniture as I shot back, “So just like that, I’m supposed to move on? Maybe find myself some rich bitch who’ll spoil me the way that Brummel does for you? Good luck moving up, Bren. What happens when he gets bored with you? When he finds some new toy to acquire?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “How can you possibly know that? He’s a spoiled, weasly, entitled piece of sh—”

  “He asked me to marry him, Eddie.”

  My stomach wrenched at the news. I thought I was going to throw up.

  “Eddie?”

  I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I scrubbed a hand down my face and shook my head straight in an attempt to keep the bile at bay. “And you said yes?”

  “Yes.”

  One word. That one word tore my entire world apart. My legs gave out as I slumped into a seated position on the bed, a fistful of hair clenched in my palm. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” I said flatly.

  “Eddie, please don’t do this.”

  One year. “The guy works fast, I’ll grant him that. You too, it would seem.”

  “I didn’t think things would move this quickly. Truly, Eddie. But it almost feels like… well like ripping off a Band-Aid. Does that make any sense?”

  “No. Nothing does.” There was a dead pause as I attempted to let the information sink in. “I can’t believe you’re really going to go through with this.”

  Her shaky breath traveled right across the line and wrapped itself around my heart like a boa constrictor. The squeeze was agonizing. “Well, believe it, because I am. You will, too. You have to. It’s what we both need to do.”

  “I only need you.”

  The broken cadence of her tone was unbearable as she returned, “You don’t. You’ll move on without me. You just have to allow yourself to do so.”

  She was trying to sound resolute but her shaking voice gave her away. She was hurting, but so what. She was the one that did this. She doesn’t get to be hurt over it.

  I don’t even remember hanging up. I don’t remember if I even bothered to say goodbye or if I simply slammed down the phone.

  I did know that I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with the news. I grabbed my keys and went back out into the cold, the flurries of snow not even registering against my skin as I made my way back to the car. Cacciatore’s place on Sullivan was the closest bar to my hotel but I hadn’t been there in a while. I figured they’d let me drink in peace.

  No one batted an eye when I staggered in and bellied up to the bar. Then again, there weren’t too many people left over from the New Year’s celebration. Either the crowd lit out right after midnight or the party wasn’t too hopping to begin with. The place was a bit higher class than my usual haunts, yet the decorations were just as chintzy regardless of the locale. Christmas lights and plastic greens were draped around the room; New Year’s noisemakers were scattered along the bar.

  The bartender snuffed out his cigarette and made his way down to take my order. I slapped some cash on the spot in front of me and ordered a beer. The guy looked slightly familiar but I was too plowed to place the face properly.

  Plus, I didn’t really give a shit.

  It didn’t stop me from moaning to him about my divorce, however. He’d barely served my beer before I launched in on a scathing tirade of women in general.

  “Maybe I have a little something for you to take that edge off,” my bartender finally proposed, probably sick of hearing me whine.

  I was surprised by his blatant offer until I realized I recognized his face. Sergeant Jack Fuckin’ O’Leary, supercop. Obviously, the guy still had his above-the-law attitude firmly in place, because he spilled his whole tale without any prompting from me. Apparently, he’d moved up to Captain but quit the force when he realized there was more money to be made selling drugs during his bartending gig. Bragged about trading in his Chevy police cruiser for a brand-new Cadillac. Asked if I’d like to “help him out with the payments,” wink wink.

  I distractedly declined his offer, still reeling from the conversation when a woman’s voice piped in from a few stools away. “I’m divorced, too. Found the bastard on top of our interior decorator.”

  That got my attention. I turned toward her, pleasantly surprised at the sight that greeted me. I was hoping she’d be here. I’d seen her here a few times before but neither one of us ever bothered to spark a conversation. The woman was attractive as all hell, even if a little older than your stereotypical foxy lady. Black hair that was undoubtedly a more natural shade of brown in her prime; a killer pair of pantyhose-clad legs that were crossed demurely at the ankles.

  “Most men need to stick their dicks into as many women as possible,” I shot back in an attempt to shock her. I figured a high-class broad like this had led a pretty sheltered life. “It’s a caveman thing. We can be complete
assholes when it comes to sticking our dicks in other women.”

  She gave a slight smile and directed her next comment to her drink. “Our interior decorator was a man.”

  “Oh.”

  Looked like I was taking third place in the shocking commentary department tonight.

  She went back to sipping her drink after that, allowing me the chance to really check her out. She had this great look about her, like Mary Tyler Moore. Damn, Mary in those cigarette pants was a sight to behold. This chick could’ve given her a run for her money.

  I took notice of the rings on her fingers, the diamond pendant at her neck. Poor little rich girl. “Hey, Mary Tyler Moore. Let me buy you a drink.”

  “I don’t drink with married men. Sorry.”

  “What are you talking about? You just heard me say I was divorced.”

  She nodded her head in the direction of my hands. “On paper, maybe. But your finger would say otherwise.”

  Yeah. I was that sad sap who was still wearing his wedding ring even though the marriage was long over. Hell, my wife had just gotten engaged to another guy. I couldn’t find a way to say that out loud, however. My brain hadn’t even registered it yet; my mouth would never be able to find the words.

  “Let’s just say I’m a fan of jewelry and leave it at that.”

  This woman knew I was lying. Even still, she smiled as I slipped the ring off my finger and put it in my pocket. Obviously, she possessed the same gray standard for truth-telling as my ex-wife.

  Bren was right. I knew I needed to do this. It was time to get the next chapter of my life started.

  I shot Mary a wicked grin as I asked, “What do you say we get out of here?”

  * * *