SERIES: Always Something
There To Remind Me
UNIVERSE: Always...
AUTHOR: OldTimeFan
EMAIL:
PART: 1 of 1
RATING: PG (Adult thematic
material, language)
PAIRING(s): L/L; S/C; R/S;
F/E
DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far;
any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my
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CATEGORY: Romance, Drama
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SETTING IN TIMELINE:
SEQUEL TO: Ever After, Always
A Bridesmaid, Always Prepared, Always a Mess, Always Apologize First, Always a
Challenge, Always Too Much Lasagna, Always There For You, Always About You,
Always Looking In Higher Places, Always Something Else, Always Hide Your
Waterballoons, Always Safe, Always Calm Before a Storm, Always Say You Love Me,
Always Say You Love Me Honeymoon (1 & 2), and Always Remember Walking in
the Sand. Eighteenth in this continuity.
SPOILERS FOR: The entire universe, I Do, I Don't.
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: Laverne and Lenny want a drinkery instead of
an eatery; Rhonda is horrified by the similarities between Squiggy and her
father; and Carmine almost pushes Shirley too far.
“Well,” said Lenny. He
scratched the top of his head.
“Yeah,” Laverne agreed.
“Well.”
They stood in front of Dead Laslo’s
Place. It looked even worse than Laverne remembered, which was an
accomplishment in and of itself. The diner’s windows were boarded up, with the
boards decorated by such graffiti wisdom as, “Shotz Sux” and “Hector wus here.”
The chrome was dull and dimmed to nearly black by pollution. The sign that
should have been hanging over the door lay on the ground, covered by a layer of
leaves, mud, and old chewing gum.
Laverne sighed.
“It ain’t so bad,” said
Lenny. He cocked his head to the left, then the right, as if searching for the
right angle at which to see the not-so-bad. He failed to find it and shook his
head. “Okay, it’s that bad. But hey,” and he patted his pocket, “we’ve got what
we need to fix it up, thanks to Andrew Squigman.”
Laverne watched the cloud
pass over her husband’s face that accompanied any mention of Squiggy lately.
She took Lenny’s hand and managed a smile. “Yeah. Yeah! That’s right, Len, we
can straighten this on up. I mean, all it needs is a good polishing and a new
sign, and…” She reached for the door handle. A cockroach scampered past her
fingers and she hopped backward. “…a good exterminator,” she finished. Her
shoulders slumped. “Aw, who we kidding, Len? This place is a disaster!”
“It’s our disaster,” he offered.
Thanks to her father. She
thought back to Frank’s icy demeanor at the contract signing. “This ain’t a
gift, Len, it’s a curse. No, scratch that, it’s worse. It’s a test and one my
father set up just to watch me fail. Again. Some more.”
“Like you failed in your
choice of husbands?” He said it in a way that may have been meant as joking,
but didn’t come out that way. He lowered his blue eyes to the ground and
scraped one shoe against the other.
That only made Laverne
angrier – not at her sweet husband, but at her judgmental father. “No husband
would’ve been a success, Len,” she said. “Don’t you know? I can never succeed
when it comes to that man. I’m just one big disappointment, ever since I first
messed up and was born a girl. Well, you know what? Screw it, Len. I’m too old
to be fighting for Pop’s acceptance!” She gave the Dead Laslo’s Place sign a
kick. “There! That’s what I think of this latest set up of his!”
Lenny looked confused. “Um,
what does ‘kick’ mean, exactly?”
“It means…this place is ours
to do with whatever we want, right?’
“Kinda.” Now he looked
worried.
Laverne scrounged around in
her purse until she came up with an old book of matches from Cowboy Bill’s.
Fitting, that. She held the matchbook aloft. “Then let’s get rid of it! I’ll
show Pop. He thought I screwed up here before, well, that ain’t nothing next to
what I’ll do this round.” She yanked out a match and scratched it against the
flint strip on the book. It scratched and smoked, but no flame.
“Whoa, hang on there, my
little firefly!” Lenny lunged at her and snatched the matchbook from her hand.
She grunted and began blowing on the tip of the single match she still held,
hoping to coax it to life. She shielded it from Lenny when he grabbed for it,
too. Unable to get the match away from her, he started blowing and spitting at
her fingers.
“Yechhhh!” Laverne exclaimed.
She adored her husband, but that didn’t make being showered in his saliva any
more appealing. “Len, what are you, nuts? Cut that out!”
“Am I nuts?” He finally wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms
to her sides. She dropped the match and he stomped on it, until it lay crumpled
in the dirt underfoot. “You’re the one about to commit arsonry! What are you
tryin’ to do, show your Pop that you can get yourself sent to jail real good?
Yeah, that’ll teach him.”
Laverne let herself relax
into Lenny’s arms, her rage spent. He was right and she was an idiot. “I’m
sorry, Len. I just…don’t want this.” She nodded toward the forlorn diner.
“Fine.” He let her go and
shrugged. “So, don’t have it. We’ll sell this dump and do something…else.”
“Like what?” She sat down on
the crumbling cement steps that led up to the front door and rested her chin in
her hands. “We moved all the way back to
Lenny looked thoughtful.
After a few minutes, he said, “I got an idea.”
Laverne felt a surge of hope.
“What?”
“We should go get a coupla
cups of coffee.” He grinned in triumph.
Laverne dropped her forehead
into her palms for a moment and reminded herself that she didn’t marry Lenny
for his brains. What the hell were they going to do? The weight of their future
rested on her shoulders, or so it seemed. She was going to have to suck it up
and make this white elephant of a gift from Pop work. What other choice did she
have?
Finally, she looked up at Len
and managed a weary smile. “Coffee sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all
day.”
He reached for her and she
slipped her hand into his. He pulled her to her feet and the warmth and
strength in his grip was reassuring, despite it all. “Then you’re gonna love my
next idea.”
She leaned against him.
“Doughnuts to go with the coffee?”
His eyes widened and he
smiled broadly. “Damn, woman, you read my mind!” He hugged her. “See? With my
great ideas and your psychical abilities, how can we fail at anything?”
He sounded so sincere that
she almost believed it.
***
Laurel Vista
Rhonda Lee brushed her short
hair, counting the strokes. 21, 22, 23.
Her mother always said that a hundred strokes of the brush every morning, noon,
and evening would make her hair grow long and strong. It still needed all the
help it could get after being poisoned right out of her head by the chemo. Now
that the horror of her breast cancer and treatment was behind her, all Rhonda
wanted to do was forget that it had ever happened. Once she had a full,
luxurious head of her own hair back, well, that would slam the final door
between her and her memory of that dark time.
Of course, there was one
other reminder. And he was sulking in her living room.
Rhonda wasn’t shallow. She
knew that other people typecast her as such, because of her incredible beauty,
but it wasn’t so. She was grateful to Andy and how he’d stood by her when she
really needed him. His devotion to her, the way he showered her with gifts and
attention, was all very sweet. She owed him so much and she wouldn’t, couldn’t,
toss him aside. That would only prove all her critics were right about her –
she’d have to be worse than shallow to do that to Andy. She’d have to be
callous.
But sometimes, I wish he’d just get bored and go…away.
Rhonda shook her head to
dislodge the unkind thought. She tapped her gold-plated brush against her chin,
searching for more positives to remind herself why she thought she might love
the man despite his plentiful negatives. Andy Squigman was just so -- what? He
was cute, if in an unconventional way, so it wasn’t about his looks. His
hygienic standards left something to be desired, but he was working on that, at
her request.
He was as surprisingly kind
and gentle in private as he was boisterous and abrasive around others. That was
a good thing. Plus, he did make a decent enough living in The Biz That Is Show,
which gave them common ground.
It was that very business
that had him in such a funk lately. She didn’t know the particulars, so perhaps
it was time she found them out. Maybe if she could help him feel better, they’d
be closer to even and then she could…could…what? Leave him? Love him? What was
it that she wanted and why was it so hard for her to decide?
Rhonda put down her brush and
picked up a pink, paisley turban to sit on her head. It gave the illusion that
her luxurious locks were merely tucked away, not gone. She blew herself a quick
kiss in the mirror – a regular ritual of hers, following the advice of an old
guru to love herself so she could love others – and strolled into her living
room.
Andy slumped on her couch,
mumbling to himself. When she came in the room, he jumped to his feet and
executed a deep bow. “Why, Miss Rhonda,” he said, “you are looking delicious
this morning.”
She batted her lashes at him.
“Thank you for noticing.”
“How could I not?” He
straightened and his eyes traveled up and down her body. Years of such regard
from men made her snap right into a pose that best showcased her assets. “Yum.
You almost can make a guy forget.”
“Andy Pandy,” Rhonda crossed
the room and cupped his little face in her hands. “What has you so down lately?
Is it that you miss Lenny?”
His eyes darkened and he
pulled away. “Who says I miss that big, dumb palooka?”
Rhonda could almost see the
waves of regret around Andy’s slight form. “Come on,” she said, her voice
dropping into its real register, the one she used for straight talk. “You’ve
been moping around since before Lenny and Laverne moved back to
“He ain’t my best friend no more.”
There was no animosity in Andy’s tone, only sadness. He turned away and
wouldn’t look at her.
Rhonda sighed and put her
hands on Andy’s shoulders. “You can tell me,” she said. “It’s more than work
that has you so stressed, isn’t it? It’s got something to do with Lenny.”
She felt his stiff shoulders
relax under her hands. She began massaging and he let out a groan of pleasure
and misery. “Oh, Rhonda, I screwed up so bad.” She waited for him to continue,
her fingers working the knots in his neck and upper back. “You know a little
about my father, right?”
“Helmut?” She wondered what
his long-lost father had to do with anything.
“Yeah. Helmut Squigman.” He
spoke his father’s name like it tasted bad. “Y’know, he wasn’t around much when
I was a kid, but when he was, he taught me some stuff.”
“That’s what fathers are
supposed to do,” said Rhonda. She thought of her own father, who was blessedly
off doing who-knew-what for the day. An old saying came to her mind from her
farm-town youth, “Visitors, like fish, start to smell after three days.” Her
father’s visit had extended long past its freshness date, to the point where
she wondered if he ever intended to leave.
Andy stared at her. She
hadn’t noticed that she’d stopped rubbing him, nor did she know how long she’d
been gazing at him without really seeing him. Long enough, apparently, for him
to take notice and face her again. “Sorry,” she said. “Go on.”
Andy lowered his eyes to her
feet, as if seeking comfort from his odd fascination with them. “Anywho, like I
was saying, he taught me some stuff, but none of it was too good. It was all
about the short con, the long con, what to do with the dough from cons in order
to make it last. He taught me that friends and family was all fine, but only
cash never let you down.”
Her heart ached for him. His
words were eerily similar to one of her father’s pithy sayings. “Family dies,
lovers cheat, and friends betray,” she recited, “but George, Benjamin, and
Andrew will always stay.”
Andy’s eyes widened. “Yeah.
Like that.”
She nodded. “What does this
have to do with how down you’ve been?” A horrible thought crossed her mind.
What if he’d screwed up and lost the business? She tried to see him as he was,
only without money, and her heart sank at the realization that the difference
mattered.
“I’m my father’s son,” he
said. He bit his lower lip. “I learned a little too well how to love my dollars
more than my buddy.” He looked up into her chest, then slowly dragged his eyes
up to meet hers. “I’ve been cheatin’ Len out of his share of Squignowski
profits. Like, a lot.”
Rhonda’s breath caught in her
chest. This was unexpected. There weren’t many people truly near and dear to
Andy’s scarred little heart, but she’s always known Lenny was one of them. If he could betray Lenny…? “How long has
this been going on, Andy?”
“Long. Since we started
actually making enough for it to be worth my while.” He read the condemnation
that she couldn’t keep out of her eyes and wilted back down onto her sofa.
Rhonda continued to stand and
stare at the space he’d just occupied. She looked through it into the past, saw
her father standing there arguing with her uncle, watched as she had from the
doorway of the kitchen when she was a little girl. “Earl, it’s just business,” he’d said.
“But I’m your brother!” he uncle had sputtered.
“That’s why you shoulda known better.”
“Oh, Andy,” she murmured.
“You’re disappointed,” he
said. “You expected better of me.”
“I suppose I did.” She shook
her head and refocused on the man sitting in front of her. “Andy, you have to
make things right.”
He snorted. “Don’t worry. Len
fixed it all by hisself.”
“How?”
“He took the truck. He took a
wad of cash I had stashed in my mattress. Believe me, Len got what he was owed,
or at least most of it, and he didn’t have to waste time shaking me out a
window to get it.” Andy chuckled, a hollow rattle. “Gotta give the guy credit;
when push comes to shove, he’s got stones. I’ve got to respect him for that.”
“At least you’re showing him
some respect!” She was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. “Just too
little, too late!”
Andy winced. “Look, I know I
did him wrong! That’s why I ain’t filed a police report or nothing for his
thieving.”
“Thieving?” Rhonda nearly choked.
“There’s only one thief I know and I’m looking at him. How could you? I thought
the one redeeming thing about you was your loyalty. I mean, I knew you had it
in you to be greedy, and selfish, and…but to hurt a man who has done nothing
but stand by you and defend you for so long? Is there anyone that you wouldn’t
stab in the back, Squiggy?” His nickname was a curse on her lips.
He looked up at her and
stammered, “I thought…of everyone…you’d understand. You’d know I was…it was a
mistake, I get that, but….”
“Get out,” she said. She felt
hot and cold, all at once. She jabbed her perfectly-manicured index finger at
the door. “I don’t need another crook in my life.”
Even as she said it, a part
of her begged her to stop. It doesn’t
change what he’s done for you, it cried.
He didn’t hurt you, he’s never betrayed you. Why are you acting like this?
Because he will, she told herself. Eventually, he
will. Her father, like Andy’s, had taught her all too well.
Andy stood up and walked to
the door of her apartment. “This is what I get for opening up,” he said,
softly. “I never learn.”
To his credit, he didn’t slam
the door. He took her punishment and left quietly. Good, at least he had enough
humility to realize he had it coming.
She stared at the closed door
until the tears blurred her vision. It was a good thing she hadn’t yet applied
her mascara.
***
New York
Carmine was right.
Shirley clutched her handbag
tightly against her stomach as she scurried toward the subway on 50th
and Broadway. It was late evening when she left the Claws ‘n’ Paw Veterinary
clinic and there were plenty of other people on the streets, yet she still knew
he was there.
She didn’t know who he was,
only that he’d been following her for five short blocks and one long so far.
Whenever she glanced back over her shoulder, he ducked into the shadows of a
building or an alley entrance. She considered whirling and shouting that she
knew he was there, that he’d better tell her what he wanted or else. It was that,
“or else,” that kept her from a confrontation. If she’d had a burly cop in her
sights, then maybe…but, no. She was alone in the thinning crowd.
Carmine will be furious at me, she thought. She’d picked up an extra couple of hours
of typing, even though she knew the overtime would necessitate her getting home
after dark. That was one of her husband’s no-no’s when it came to her working.
It had taken her long enough to convince him to let her work at all; she’d
finally had to give in to his conditions to make it happen at all.
Now I’ve broken my word and I’m probably going to wind
up getting mugged for it…or worse.
She shuddered and increased her speed to a swift trot.
Maybe I’m wrong, she tried to reason, maybe
Carmine’s paranoia about this city has just rubbed off on me. She slowed a
bit and cast a sidelong glance behind her. At first, all she saw were a couple
of sharply-dressed theatergoers walking hand in hand. She started to
relax…until they turned and ascended the steps of a French bistro, revealing the
figure of a man bundled up in a full-length trenchcoat with a hat pulled down
low over his eyes. Her heart jumped into her throat as the man, obviously
having not expected the couple to turn so abruptly, hesitated before he ducked
behind a couple of large trash cans.
Shirley considered her
options. She could scream like a lunatic and see if anyone in
The last thought got her
Irish up, despite her frightening situation. That would be the end of her
career. Carmine would never let her out of the apartment unescorted again. She
was already starting to feel like her old canary, Dwayne. To be cooped up round
the clock would be just too much. There was only so much knitting she could do.
Shirley’s grip on her handbag
tightened. Surely she had something with which she could defend herself. She
took a quick mental inventory of her belongings: she had her lucky Bible in her
purse, along with her wallet, compact, lipstick, and keys. The bag itself was a
lightweight almost-leather; not exactly a club.
As she hurried along, her
heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk and she nearly turned her ankle. She
cried out, then bit down on her tongue hard enough to draw blood. Don’t let him think you’re wounded, silly!
Or should she? She took
another step and confirmed her ankle was fine. The street was nearly deserted
at the moment, with everyone already at their shows or in restaurants. The time
for her to act was now.
“Owwww, my foot!” she said,
good and loud. She hopped over to a small tree and propped herself against it.
She casually raised her left foot and rubbed her ankle.
Footsteps coming closer. There
was no way that they were only her imagination now. She surreptitiously slid
her index finger between the heel of her foot and her spiked pump.
A light touch on her back.
She held her breath, yanked off her shoe, and swung it in an arc at her stalker
with a shriek of fear and defiance.
“Wait!” the man in the
trenchcoat exclaimed. He feinted to the left and caught the brunt of her attack
against his shoulder. He yowled and grabbed his upper arm.
It worked; she’d hurt him! It
wasn’t the spiked heel in his eye she’d been going for, but it was something.
Emboldened, Shirley raised her shoe high over her head again, prepared for a
second strike.
“No…Shirl, don’t!”
His voice pierced the fog
brought on by her surging adrenaline and stark terror. This time, she
recognized it. Her arm stuck up in the air, she said, “Carmine?”
He nodded frantically. Her
arm fell back to her side and the shoe dropped out of her hand. She reached
over tentatively and took the hat off his head.
Yep. It was Carmine. Her
would-be mugger was her husband.
Carmine looked at her, eyes
glassy with pain. He still clutched his arm, the same one the bullet had
pierced months ago. Now it probably had a matching, spiked-heel sized hole in
it. Oddly, she couldn’t bring herself to feel badly about that.
“How…what...?” Shirley took a
deep breath, struggling to collect her thoughts. “What in the hell do you think
you’re doing?” she finally managed.
He had the good grace to look
embarrassed. “Following you.”
“No kidding!” She slipped her
left foot back into her shoe to avoid getting the city on her stocking-clad
foot. She stepped closer to her husband and slapped him upside the head --
years of watching Frank DeFazio in action. “Are you completely insane?” she
cried. “I thought you were a mugger, or a rapist, or a murderer, or worse! You
scared the jeebus out of me, Carmine!”
“Yeah, well, that was kind of
the point,” he muttered. He released his re-injured arm and rubbed the side of
his head instead. “You’re late, Shirl.”
She just stared at him. After
a moment, she said, “I left you a message with Mrs. DeGroot.” Did their
landlady forget to tell him? That might explain --.
“No, she told me all right.
Didn’t I warn you not to stay out here after dark?” Carmine took a step toward
her, his face reddening. “Didn’t I tell you the city ain’t safe at night? Not
that it’s exactly a nursery school during the day, but….”
She interrupted. “So, what
was this, then? You were teaching me a lesson? Like I’m some sort of, to steal
your phrase, nursery-schooler?” Her half-hour of fear was rapidly transforming
into fury, even as relief that she was safe made her limbs as weak as noodles.
“Yes!” he said. Then, he
lowered his voice. “No. I mean, that’s not how it started out.” Carmine sighed.
“Look, when I heard you were running late, I decided to go to the clinic and
meet you there. You know, to see you home, make sure you were safe. But then.”
She waited for him to
continue, but he just stared at the ground. “But then?” she prompted impatiently.
He pressed his lips together
tightly before continuing. “On the way over on the subway, I started to think
about everything that could happen to you. It got me mad, Shirl.”
She shook her head, unsure
whether he wasn’t making sense or if she was still addled by leftover terror.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Carmine
went on, “Mad. Cause you know how I feel about you and how much I worry, yet
you blew that all off and stayed late anyway. So, by the time I got to the
vet’s, I came up with this idea.”
“To teach me a lesson by
following me and make me fear for my safety, for my very life.”
It was then she finally
accepted just how bad things were with Carmine. This wasn’t the man she’d
married, the solicitous boyfriend who’d always looked out for her, who’d always
been protective. This man was possessed by the demons of a night she still knew
too little about. He was damaged beyond his physical injury. The realization
drained the last of her anger and fear away, leaving hollowness in their place.
Carmine swallowed. He twisted
his hat brim between his fingers. “Boy, saying that out loud.” He choked out a
laugh. “It sounds really screwed up.”
“It is,” she said. She
reached for her husband’s hand, stilled his anxious hat-mangling. “Carmine,”
she began.
He offered her a brief, tight
smile. “I know,” he said. His breathing was ragged. “I just don’t know what to
do about it.”
“You’ve got to figure
something out,” she said, “or I don’t know if….” She couldn’t continue. Tears
welled in her eyes.
“Right,” said Carmine. He
looked at her and his dark eyes were wide, lost. “I understand.”
“I’ll help you.” She cleared
her throat. “I will, whatever it takes. I love you, Carmine.”
“Angel Face.” His voice was
so quiet she could only just hear him. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what
to do anymore.”
She brushed his cheek with
her fingertips. “Tell me what happened, what really happened, that night with
Anthony. Then we’ll go on from there.”
He shook his head. “That’s
what I’m afraid of – one of the many, many things I’m afraid of nowadays,” he
said.
“What?”
“I’m afraid if I tell you
there won’t be anywhere you ever want to go with me again.”
She bit her lip and nodded. What if he’s right? What if it’s more than
you can handle? On the other hand, could anything be worse than what she
was imagining? Probably not. And, if so, well she’d deal with it. Because she
loved him and she loved their life together – just not the cloud that’d been
hanging over them since the incident. Whatever it was, whatever Carmine had
done, it was better to know than to wonder and to keep living with the fallout
of something she didn’t understand.
She took his hand, firmly.
“Escort me home, please,” she said. “I’ll make us some dinner and we’ll talk it
out. I swear to you, Carmine, here and now, that I can handle anything you say
more than I can handle watching you come apart at the seams.”
He gave her hand a gentle
squeeze but said nothing. He remained silent the rest of the way to the subway,
during the ride home, and until they’d returned to the security of their
apartment.
Only then did he tell her
everything.
***
Lenny looked down into his
cup, fascinated by the rainbow of color reflecting off the surface of his
coffee. It wasn’t until Laverne kicked him in the shin that he realized she’d
been talking to him. “Ow.”
“Len, have you heard a word
I’ve said?”
Uh,
oh. What was the right answer to that? He saw two paths – the truth and what
she wanted to hear. He chose the latter. “Of course, I heard every word.”
Laverne’s
green eyes narrowed. “Then you agree.”
This
one was easy. Always, always agree. Len nodded and took a sip of his coffee. Ugh, weak! He looked at the For Sale or
Lease sign in the window. Hopefully the
next owner will actually know how to make a decent cuppa.
Laverne
folded her arms, a tiny grin giving her lips a wicked curve. “Terrific. Five
kids it is.”
The
thinly-flavored beverage rolled down Lenny’s windpipe and he began to splutter
and gasp. When he could speak again, he squawked, “F…five?”
Laverne
reached over and slapped him on the back. The coffee bubbled back up out of his
lungs and coursed down his gullet instead, where it rightfully belonged.
“That’s better. Thanks.”
“I
wasn’t trying to help.” Laverne glared at him. “You want to really listen to me
this time?”
Lenny
ducked his head. She’d caught him. Next time, he’d give Telling the Truth a
whirl. “Sorry. Go ahead, what were you saying?”
Laverne
pointed down at the newspaper spread out between them on the little round table
of their coffee shop. Well, if he could rightly think of a place they’d gone to
for a week as ‘theirs.’
They’d
been indulging in coffee and sticky buns at the Buttered Cocoon since they’d
decided to abandon Dead Laslo’s Place. Laverne knew it from Shirley’s brief and
bizarre foray into the beatnik lifestyle and it was convenient to the bus stop
from which they’d been traveling every day to search for – well, they weren’t
entirely sure. Another restaurant, jobs, something else with which to support
themselves. So far, nothing had jumped out at either one of them.
“This
place is called Rufus’s,” said Laverne, pointing to a red-circled Business for
Lenny
swirled coffee in his cup. “Sounds like code for “old” and “old people working
there.”
Laverne
sighed. “You’re probably right. It’s also in the slum…I can’t see us being too
welcome there. Okay, we’ll skip it.”
“What
about this place?” Lenny pointed to another ad. “Cozy eatery, loyal clientele,
liquor license recently restored….”
“Tiny
bar of troublemaking lushes,” Laverne translated.
“Ah.”
They
sat in silence for a time. Lenny pulled out his wallet and muttered a curse.
That wad of cash from his ex-best buddy was getting awfully thin after two
weeks in
Laverne
shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of…relaxing.”
Lenny
tilted his head to one side. “You think? But there’s people coming in and out
the door all the time and a bunch hanging around inside. How’s that relaxing?
“I’m
not sure how to explain it,” said Laverne, “It’s almost like…oh, this is
blasphemous…but it kinda reminds me of church.”
Lenny
searched his mind until he gave up. “How’s that?”
“Well,
the same people keep showing up.” Laverne nodded to the little booth across the
room. “There’s that fat lady-skinny guy combo we saw the first day we were
here. And over there,” she gestured to the stools along the coffee bar,
“there’s that Che Guevarra-looking guy and his gaggle of
girlfriends-slash-groupies. And here come Mr. Executive.”
Lenny
turned and looked at the front door. A dapper gentleman with steel-gray hair
and a perfectly fitted suit strode in. “A large black coffee, two sugars, just
a drop of cream,” Lenny recited, almost in unison with Mr. Executive’s order to
the coffee counter girl.
“Exactly,”
said Laverne. “It’s like a community, y’know? It’s warm and comfy and familiar,
plus there’s dessert and coffee.”
“It
is like church,” said Lenny. Once again, he marveled at his wife’s insight into
things. Beautiful and a genius. He was the luckiest guy on Earth.
“But
if it’s putting a drain on our resources, we don’t have to come in no more.”
Lenny
barely heard her. An idea was starting to swirl around in his mind. “We could
make it our church.”
Laverne
looked at him like he had grown an extra head. “Do what now?”
“Well,
not a church-church. I don’t think we’re Catholicly-okayed for that sort of
thing. I mean, we could by this place.” He nodded to the For Sale sign. “We can
take it over, make it better.”
Laverne
looked unconvinced. “You think? What do we know about coffee and doughnuts,
other than we like ‘em?”
Lenny
grinned. “What else do we need to know? Besides, I know that I can make better
coffee than this swill.” He pushed away his cup. “Rich, dark, flavorful coffee,
the stuff that can get a guy through a long beer haul or an extra shift on an
assembly line. Preferably with just a shot of Bosco for that cocoa boost.”
“You
do make a good pot of coffee.” Laverne sat up straighter in her chair. “And you
know, other stuff goes pretty good in coffee besides chocolate. My Aunt Lilly
used to spike hers with peppermint schnapps.”
“There
ya go! Look at the business this place is doing, and it’s basically serving
brown water. If we gave ‘em real coffee, Man Coffee, with their choices of
flavors….”
“And
I bet I could work out a deal with Cousin Freddie. You know, the one with that
bakery downtown? He makes great zeppoles.”
“Now
you’re talking!” Lenny bounced in his chair. “We could throw around some old
magazines for people to settle in and read over their morning beverages. And we
wouldn’t hustle ‘em on their way like a librarian the way these bozos do. We’d
tell ‘em they can stay all day, so long as they’re buying. Plus, they already
got a built-in evening crowd for those poetry slaps, or whatever they’re
called. We could add some decent bands to the bill, and….”
“Len!”
Laverne was smiling now, ear to ear.
“Laverne.”
He took her hand, pulled her half-way across the table, and planted one on her
full lips.
When
they eventually parted, Laverne dropped into her seat with a sigh. “So. What’re
we gonna call our new coffee spot, Len?”
He
mulled this over, gazing into his wife’s eyes. The light from the nearby window
reflected in them. “How’s about something with ‘star’ in it?”
“Star?
How does ‘star’ make people think coffee and doughnuts?” Laverne drummed her
fingertips on the table. “Doughnuts. Pastries. Warm and yummy. Melt in your
mouth…?”
“Like
butter,” said Lenny.
“Yeah,
butter. I like that. It sounds homey and tasty, plus we can reuse half of the
existing signs.” Laverne nodded her approval. Lenny sat up straighter in his
chair. Her approval making him feel all sorts of good. “Buttered what, though?
Buttered Coffee? Buttered Joe?”
“Cocoon.”
It popped out of his mouth before he really thought about it.
Laverne
arched one eyebrow at him. “It’s already called that.”
“Yeah,
but it ain’t a bad name, ‘specially if we give it our own meaning. Buttered
Cocoon. Cause, y’know, it’s something new we’re hatching up that’s gonna turn
out beautiful, like a butterfly.”
Laverne
stared at him for several seconds. “I love you, you know.”
“Yeah
I do,” said Lenny. He folded his arms across his chest and squared his
shoulder. “The Buttered Cocoon, owned by Laverne and Lenny Kosnowski.”
“It’s
got a ring to it,” said Laverne. She stood up and took his hand. “Come on.”
“Okay.
Where we going?”
“To
a realtor, to help us sell Dead Laslo’s and buy this place.” said Laverne. As
he stood, she wrapped her arms around his right arm and squeezed. “After we go
back to the hotel and celebrate your brilliance, that is.”
Lenny
chuckled and ducked his head. This was turning out to be a very, very good day.
***
Laurel
Vista
First comes the flowers. Then the
chocolates. Followed, Squiggy supposed, by
the late-night serenade.
He
sat back and chewed on the eraser of his pencil while going over his ‘to do’
list. He was just debating the merits of hiring a singer versus his attempting
to warble a love song when a big hand landed like a tossed ham on his right shoulder.
Squiggy
looked up into the dark and scarifying eyes of Frank DeFazio. “Are you gonna
beat me, sir?”
Frank
sighed. It made his walrusy moustache wiggle like seaweed under water.
“Depends. You gonna order something, or just sit and doodle at my best table
the rest of the day?”
“I
am not doodling, Mr. DeFazio,” said Squiggy, indignantly. “I am preparing.”
“For
what?” Frank squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait, why am I asking? Never mind.”
“Yeah,
well, it’s too late for that, old man,” said Squiggy. “For that, and maybe for
me.”
Frank
groaned and grabbed the back of the chair next to Squiggy’s. Squiggy flinched,
wondering if the old guy had the strength to wallop him with that chair, but
all Frank did was pull it back and sink into the seat. Regarding him with a
weary expression, Frank said, “You wanna explain what the hell that means?”
“Why,
I’m glad you asked,” said Squiggy. He shoved his list over to Frank for
examination.
Frank
read, “’Andrew Squigman’s Fix Relationship With Miss Rhonda Lee List.’ Property
of Andrew Squigman.” He looked up. “You and Rhonda broke up? What, she go to
the eye doctor or something?” He snorted at his own little joke.
“Or
something.” Squiggy chomped on his pencil.
Frank
tugged the writing implement out from between Squiggy’s teeth and set it down
on the table. He grimaced, wiped his fingertips briskly on his apron, and said,
“You’re gonna give yourself lead poisoning.”
“Yeah,
and?” Squiggy dropped his chin into his hands. “What’s it matter? My best buddy
hates me – rightly so – and now my best girl’s sickened by my presence – also,
rightly so.”
Tapping
his thick fingertips on the table, Frank seemed to make a decision of some
sort. He settled into his chair and took a deep breath. “Why don’t you start
from the beginning, if you got something to share? Otherwise, I ain’t got a
clue what you’re on about.”
Squiggy
looked into the old guy’s face. Laverne’s father was being kind of nice to him.
He wasn’t used to it. It had been awhile since anyone was feeling nice in his
direction, so he decided, what the hell?
He told Frank everything, starting from Lenny and Squignowski and ending with
Rhonda Lee throwing him out on his derriere.
Frank
didn’t interrupt him. He listened until Squiggy’s mouth was dry and his eyes
were moist. It wasn’t until he stopped talking that Frank cuffed him behind the
ear and said, “Stupido!”
Squiggy
couldn’t argue with that logic. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Frank
crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “At least you realize it. That’s
gotta count for something. Not much,” he added, quickly, “but something.”
“Yeah,
well, I’m gonna fix it.” Squiggy held up his list. “I’m gonna woo and wine and
dine Rhonda until she can’t stand the sight of me. That oughta convince her to
give me a second chance, right?”
Frank’s
smiled broadly and nodded. “Nope,” he said.
Confused,
Squiggy waited for an explanation. When none came, he asked, “Um, what?”
“It’s
a nice list, but no, it ain’t gonna work. At all.”
“And
why not?” Squiggy glared at him.
“Cause.
You didn’t do nothing to Rhonda.” Frank plucked the list out of Squiggy’s
fingers, crumpled it up, and tossed it over his shoulder. “She ain’t the one
you should be making lists for.”
“But…but…she’s
the one I want back!” Squiggy half-rose to retrieve his list when Frank’s
meaning struck him. He sank back into his seat. “I didn’t do her wrong,
though.”
“Nope.”
“I
did Len wrong.”
Frank
touched the tip of his nose with his forefinger. “Bingo.”
“If
I made it up to him, then Rhonda’s see that, and she’ll come running back to me
with open legs!”
Now
Frank looked vaguely ill. “Something like that.” He added a few words in
Italian and spat on the floor. And people
think I’m gross, Squiggy thought.
“But
what else can I do?” Squiggy asked. “I let Len take the truck and a chunk o’
money. Ain’t that enough to even us out?”
Frank
leaned across the table, until his nose was nearly touching Squiggy’s. He could
almost feel the fire in from the old guy’s dark eyes and trembled. “No,” said
Frank. “It ain’t.”
Squiggy
swallowed hard. He thought back to a time when he’d had to make it up to
another person, after his Ma had locked him in his closet for three days
straight. He’d thrown a baseball straight through their neighbor’s front
window, not entirely by accident, after said neighbor had yelled out the window
that Helmut was a, “Gonif!” He still
wasn’t sure what ‘gonif’ meant, but the tone had made it clear that it wasn’t a
good sort of thing. Anyway, he’d had to make it up by going over and
apologizing, in German, which their neighbors kind of understood, and then he’d
had to go there every Saturday and do stuff around their house from morning to
sundown.
He
refocused on the present and said, “I gotta say I’m sorry to Lenny. At least I
can do it in English this time.”
Frank
nodded, slowly. “And?”
“And
– I don’t know. He’s in
Now
it was Frank’s turn to look befuddled. “Eh?”
Squiggy
waved his hand. “Never mind, never mind.” He stood up. “I’ll figure it out, Mr.
DeFazio. I’ll make it right and when I do, Rhonda’ll see I ain’t like my old man,
or hers, and she’ll forgive me.” He felt a rush of hope for the first time all
day.
Frank
nodded in an approving sort of way. “Now you got it.”
Squiggy
paused before scurrying for the door. “Wait…where are Len and Laverne in
Frank
reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He withdrew a folded
piece of paper and handed it to Squiggy. “Here’s the address to Dead Laslo’s
Place. They should be there, working good and hard to fix it up, most every
day.” His face clouded. “At least I hope they are.”
Squiggy
snatched the piece of paper away and turned to leave. He hesitated again,
turned, and grinned at Frank. “A gezundt
on deine goyishe kopf.” It was what the neighbor’s old granny used to say
to him before he left every Saturday night. Then she’d pat him on the top of
the head and send him home.
He
reached out, gave Frank a quick pat on his gray pate, and all but skipped out
the door. Fortunately, he was moving fast enough that the wooden napkin holder
Frank hurled at his back missed him by at least three inches.
***
Carmine
sat in the wings, watching the rehearsal without seeing the actual players. He
was preoccupied by wondering whether or not he was going to see his wife again.
After
he’d poured his heart out to Shirley earlier that week, she’d had nothing to
say. The look of shock and disbelief remained on her face until they’d gone,
silently, to bed. It was the first night they’d turned off the lights and gone
straight to sleep since they’d wed. It was the beginning of a week of such
nights.
This
morning, he’d awakened alone. No Shirley, no note. Just him and his thoughts,
condemning himself for confessing, damning her for not understanding.
Now
he was here, waiting for an opportunity that probably wasn’t ever going to
come, and the one thing he’d had, the person who’d given him a reason to keep
plugging away at this ridiculous dream ever day, was gone.
Really,
he couldn’t blame Shirley at all. How could he expect any sane woman to stay
with a headcase like he’d become? It was strange, too – he knew he was behaving
oddly, but it was like he was watching some other guy saying and doing all
those wacky things and couldn’t control him at all. He still saw Anthony
bleeding in every alleyway he walked by, still heard distant gunshots from the
moment he stepped out of the apartment until he rushed back home.
Wrapped
up in his thoughts, Carmine slowly became aware that someone was calling his
name. He looked up and said, “Huh?”
“You
Carmine?” A director, not the regular guy, was standing in front of him. The
guy was scribbling away on a piece of paper on his clipboard and didn’t even
look up when he spoke.
“Yeah,
I am. What’s up?”
“You’re
on.”
Carmine
took a beat or two to process what the director meant. “You mean…?”
“His
Nibs apparently took a swim in
Oh my God, oh my God. This was it, his chance, his first real big shot. Of
course it was happening when his head was so far out of the game it might as
well have been attached to someone else’s neck.
The
director raised one eye from his clipboard and fixed it on Carmine. “You ain’t
gonna flake on me too, are you?” he asked.
Carmine
leapt to his feet, nearly knocking the guy over. “No, no!” he said. “I’m ready,
I’m beyond ready. And I don’t drink at all,” he added, “Not a drop, hell, I
don’t even look at liquor!” Which was bull, but hey, he was far from a lush,
and if it helped his chances --.
“Yeah,
well, maybe a little wouldn’t hurt you, kid,” said the director. He nodded
toward the stage. “Take the center mark for the third act. Look for the little
blue stars – subtle, huh? – and hit them every damned time, or I’ll bust your
ass out of here so fast….”
“No
problem, none at all.” He’d spent weeks watching Lancelot go from mark to mark,
had practiced hitting them himself during breaks. He knew just where he had to
be, knew every word of ever song. He was beyond ready.
I have to tell Shirl, popped into his head. Then he felt as if someone had
dumped ice water over his head. Oh,
right, guess I don’t now. What if she didn’t come back? What if, right now,
she was back at their place, packing up all her stuff, on the phone crying to
Laverne, or worse, to her mother? What if she was already on the bus to
wherever, trying to get as far away from the murderer she’d married as she
could?
“Okay,
from the top,” the producer was saying. Carmine blinked and found himself
center stage, the little blue star under his right toe, without remembering how
he’d gotten there. He gave his head a brisk shake.
“You
ready,
Carmine
squinted down, straining to see through the bright spotlight to the producer’s
face. As much as he could make out, the guy’s expression was weary and
impatient. Carmine took a deep breath and it caught in his throat.
He
had a choice. He could put the real world out of his head and focus solely on
his performance. He knew he could do it; it was one of the things he loved most
about performing. When his mind was wholly occupied by stage direction,
characterization, the mechanics of singing and dancing, he achieved a Zen sort
of calm that was cleansing, freeing.
But
this was his wife, his marriage, that he was expected to put out of his mind.
Time could be of the essence here. If he was rehearsing the rest of the day and
onstage tonight, that would give Shirley way too much time to make decisions
and, potentially, travel plans. What was most important right now – career or
home? This could be the make-or-break moment for both, but he only had the
ability to pursue one lifelong goal. Shirley or the stage?
Really,
there was no choice.
Carmine
shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ve got a family emergency I
need to take care of.”
“Now?”
The producer sounded incredulous. “Unless you’ve got a kid on fire somewhere,
Carmine
felt his heart sink. Despite his decision, he knew he was about to shoot down
his one and only chance at stardom. No other producer would even let him
understudy again if he, to use the stage director’s terminology, ‘flaked’ right
before an opportunity like this. Still and all, his decision was made. “It’s
close to that, sir, believe me. I’m so grateful you gave me this shot, I really
am, but my wife needs me right now. Well, I need her, actually, and if I don’t
go right now, I’m afraid….”
“Shut
up and sing!”
Carmine
blinked. It wasn’t the producer who’d shouted. He shielded his eyes with his
right hand and peered into the nearly-empty theater. Who was yelling?
A
small figure stood in the center aisle. It moved closer to the front and
started to clap. “Come on,
She
grinned up at him from just behind the producer, who spun round to look at her.
The director hopped off the stage and hurried to her, blocking her forward
motion. She brushed him aside with a few choice words that Carmine couldn’t
hear and a firm shove. He backed away, shaking his head, and mumbled something
to the producer, who shrugged.
Carmine
smiled, and the expression seemed to rise from deep in his gut to overtake his
features. His lungs filled with air and he realized he hadn’t taken a real,
deep breath since his confession the other night. Sweet oxygen rushed into his
limbs, his head, leaving him exhilarated and weak all at once.
“I’m
ready,” he told the producer, with the confidence of Fonzie. His eyes locked on
his wife’s beautiful face, he sang as if God and all his angels were in
attendance, his every word a prayer of thanks that his world wasn’t ending,
after all.
When
he finished the first song, he was greeted by silence. Heart thudding in his
ears, Carmine wondered if he’d missed any big notes or screwed up the words. He
didn’t think so, but then why…?
“Jesus,”
said the producer suddenly. Carmine strained his eyes and saw him turn to the
director, who was standing there with his mouth hanging open. The producer
jabbed the director in the ribs with his pen. “Why in the hell did we waste
weeks with His Nibs when you had this guy sitting around with his thumb up his
ass?”
“I…I
didn’t realize…I mean, casting said he was good, but I….”
“Was
that okay?” asked Carmine. His nerves were jangling.
“Okay,
he says,” said the leading lady, Catherine De La Croix. She’d been standing off
to the side with the rest of the cast that was on call that afternoon. She
walked out and chuckled. “Are you really that clueless, or just a glutton for
adulation?”
Carmine
looked at her, his heart in his throat. He knew Catherine by name, by
reputation, but she’d never spared him more than a passing glance before. He’d
been okay with that, considering he was nobody, a speck on the shoe of someone
like her. Yet now she was looking at him like, well, an equal.
“Um,”
he said. He sought for something more scintillating to add, but he had nothing.
She
smiled at him, and he was damned near blinded by her perfection. So, this is what they mean by star quality,
he thought. She had all the beauty of a celestial being come to Earth, with a
heavenly body’s magnetic ability to pull mere humans into her orbit. “Well
done, Mr –
“Likewise,
I’m sure,” he managed.
Someone
began to clap loudly from the audience. Carmine turned and saw Shirley jumping
up and down in place, applauding giddily. He let go of Catherine’s hand and
hurried to the edge of the stage, even as Shirley all but vaulted over the
seats to the front row. Carmine sat down and reached for Shirley, who jumped up
into his arms. She nearly pulled them both down in a heap, but he managed to
haul her up to sit beside him, still locked in his embrace.
“Oh,
Carmine,” she whispered in his ear. “You were magnificent!”
“Angel
Face, I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered back. Tears he’d held back all day
suddenly stung his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Shirley, for everything. I understand
if you don’t want to be with me, knowing what you know now, but it’ll kill me
if you walk away.”
“Shhhhh.”
She pressed a fingertip against his lips. “Carmine, I was a bit…startled…when
you told me what happened. I’ve thought a lot about it this week, though, and I
realize you did what you had to do to survive. It was a mistake, a horrible
mistake….” He nodded vigorously. How could he not agree? “But I know it’s also
over, done, and in the past. We’ve got to move forward, you and I. Besides, you
put your trust in me when you told me the truth, risked your whole heart and
soul. How could I possibly betray that kind of faith by walking away?”
Carmine
hugged her fiercely to his chest again. “When you weren’t there this morning, I
thought….”
“That
I left.” Her head shook against his shoulder. “I just need a little alone time,
you know, to finish processing everything. But I realized that you probably
thought that I couldn’t handle it, even after I swore I would, so I ran right
over here to tell you that it was okay, that we were fine.” She pushed back a
bit to look into his eyes. “When I saw you up here – you were about to throw
everything away to find me, weren’t you?”
“You
are everything,” Carmine said.
She
smiled. “I love you, Mr. Ragusa.”
“And
I love you, Mrs. Ragusa.”
“You
really were incredible.” She nodded to indicate the stage around them. “You
really are meant for all this, you know.”
“As
long as I’ve got you by my side, there’s nothing I can’t do.”
She
stroked his cheek. “Then you’re going straight to the top, my man.”
“Yeah
we are.” He kissed her.
A
voice made a loud, harrumphing sound. Carmine broke from his kiss, reluctantly,
and found himself looking into the eyes of the producer. “You mind not making
out on my stage, Lancelot?”
“Sorry,
sir, sorry,” said Carmine. Shirley jumped back down from the stage as he
scrambled to his feet. “I’m ready. Where are we again? Still Act 3, right?”
The
producer rolled his eyes. The director appeared beside him and, shockingly,
smiled at Carmine. “Let’s take it from the top of Act 1 and go straight
through. So long as the missus doesn’t distract you.”
“Oh,
no,” said Shirley. She waved her hands as if erasing the very notion.
“She’s
inspiration, not distraction,” said Carmine. He stood up and winked at his
wife.
“Then
your Muse can sit right here,” said the director, indicating a seat up front.
“Just do me a favor and remember you’re supposed to be making out with
Guinevere while you’re onstage, m’kay?”
Carmine
glanced over at his – his – leading
lady and grinned sheepishly. “I, uh, think I can remember that, yeah.”
Catherine batted her lashes at him, then tossed her head and laughed.
Carmine
heard a strange sound from Shirley, but when he looked back at his wife, her
expression was unreadable.
The
producer clapped his hands together. “Places, children, places! We’ve got an
audience to dazzle tonight! Let’s see if our new second leading man can keep
that spark he just showed us going for a whole show, shall we?”
No
worries there. Carmine stepped back into the wings to wait for his first act
appearance. So long as he had his Angel Face shining up at him from the front
row, he felt like he could perform the whole damned show himself without
breaking a sweat.
Finally,
after all these years, he had it all within his grasp – his woman, stardom –
everything. So, this is what success
feels like, he thought. Not bad, not
bad at all.
--END--
END