Cosmo's Deli (21 page)

“Mr. Giggles just sent me a drink!” Lucy exclaims. “He's smiling at me from the end of the bar.”

Renny abandons her decaying corpse. “What about Georgie?”

“He's playing tongue hockey with her, okay. His tongue is so far down her fucking throat it's practically coming out her belly button. You're better off knowing. Just file him under fun while it lasted, and move on. That's what I'd do. Mr. Giggles is waiting for me. Ciao.” Lucy is gone.

“Damn him,” she says, dropping the phone. A tear falls from her right eye and she brushes it away. When another trickles from her left eye she knows it's no longer because of Georgie. “Damn you, Ma.”

Renny unmutes the music and splays out on her bed, as a puddle of tears, snot and drool forms on her comforter as if it were a big denim tissue.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Gaby and Annette enter the crowded Friday night bar scene of Dandel's, a new fusion restaurant where the wait for a table usually stretches into centuries. Pushing through ribbons of cigarette smoke like a beaded ‘70s doorway, Annette gives their name to Zanzi, the Maitre D'. Zanzi, short for Zanzibar, is Euro and in his early forties with slicked back ebony hair and a Hugo Boss suit. A Manhattan table warden at four hot city restaurants in the last six years, once the masses hear that a new place is opening with Zanzi at the door, they swarm. Gaby knew Zanzi well when her company was flying high. Back then, she was ushered to a table with air kisses easing her way. Waving hello to Zanzi tonight, he looks at her with barely a nod, as if she just emigrated from New Jersey.

They squeeze through the packed bodies and nab a bar table in the middle of the action. Gaby yawns. This is their fourth stop in what has turned into too long a night.

“Hey, don't poop out on me now,” Annette says, scanning the crowd.

A waitress appears at their table. She is tall and waif-thin, with dark hair smoothed off a flawless face into a neat ponytail. “What can I get you?”

Annette orders her third vodka and cranberry of the night, while Gaby orders her fourth French martini.

Actress wannabe, Gaby thinks, watching her walk away. And then with more contempt than one should have for a complete stranger, Gaby says to Annette, “Someone should tell that gal the waif thing is done and gone.”

Annette tosses her eyes toward the right. “He's hot.”

Gaby traces the imaginary line across the bar to where a group stands chatting. Just as if her eyes had tapped his shoulder, a dark head turns. Their eyes connect briefly. His are hazel and Gaby's are alive again. “Very appetizing,” she says, shedding some of her crankiness. Gaby had begun to think tonight was a bad idea, finding Annette's incessant babbling and guy scoping annoying as hell.

“Hey, hands off. I saw him first!”

“Annette honey, ever heard all's fair in love and war?”

“Yes, I have.” Annette pouts. “Well I guess we'll just see who he prefers. He's coming over.”

Gaby bristles. Does she think she's any challenge for me?

“What are y'all doing sitting here alone on a Friday night?” His drawl instantly takes Gaby home.

Gaby beams a smile at him and ratchets up her own lilt. “Dahling, I think we may be neighbors. Where y'all from?”

“South Carolina. Just outside a Charleston.”

“Low country. We're practically kin. I'm from North Carolina. When I was a child, my family used to summer at Kiawah.”

The freckles peppering his nose dance as he talks. “I been there many times myself. Practically weened on the golf course.”

Annette links an arm in his. “I'm from Chicago. That must at least make me a kissing cousin?” She tippy-toes up to his height and kisses his cheek.

Gaby's eyes narrow. Ho-ho-ho, she thinks, having nothing to do with Christmas.

He waves toward them, “Mind if I join you?”

Gaby and Annette shift aside and create a few empty inches of space between them.

“I'm Alex,” he says, stepping into the ring they've created.

***

An hour later, Alex and Annette are cozied together at one end of the table while Gaby, cast as third wheel, props her chin in her hand as she sips at her fifth French martini. Regret washes over her. Why did she ever make these plans to begin with?

She turns her gaze on Annette. She looks different than the last time she was in town. How had Gaby not noticed that before? A few months ago Annette was a short overweight brunette, funny in an acerbic way and as a friend, she was an acquired taste. Gaby was one of the few that liked her. Now she's dropped fifteen pounds on Atkins, highlighted her hair and dumbed down her personality so that the lowest common denominator finds her enchanting.

Good Lord, Gaby thinks, Annette is like Maryann in the Gilligan amnesia episode.

She gasps, and I'm Ginger!

Gaby yanks Alex's arm hard, almost knocking him off his feet. “So Alex, y'all miss home?”

He straightens up. “Huh, ah, I don't know. Some things I guess. What about you?”

Her eyes clutch his, desperate to ignite his interest with the current of her own. “I miss having good barbecue. You just can't find it in the city.”

“Barbecued what? Chicken?” Annette asks.

Alex and Gaby share a smile. “Bless your heart.” She touches Alex's arm, “Where we come from barbecue isn't an adjective, it's a noun.”

“That's right,” he nods.

Annette waves her hands excitedly. “Okay, okay. What's your favorite bagel place?”

He turns back to Annette. “Ahh, H&H I guess.”

Gaby restrains her desire to twist his face back, aware that she may dislodge his head from his shoulders if she did.

Annette touches his arm, “No silly. You've obviously never been to Ess a Bagel?”

“What a a bagel?” He asks.

Gaby blurts out, “You know, I used to own a ladies underwear company.”

“Cool,” he comments before swiftly focusing back on Annette. “Run that name buy me again.”

“Ess a Bagel,” Annette giggles. “It's on Third in the forties. They are huge! Almost as big as your head.”

“You'll have to take me there some time.” He plays with her fingers.

Annette giggles, tossing her hair for the umpteenth time and surreptitiously flashing Gaby with the victory in her eyes.

Ginger is dead, so Gaby heads off to find the bathroom, well aware that they won't even notice she's gone.

Squeezing through the small space between the door and the toilets, Gaby hunts for a clean stall, as a crush of women vie for mirror time. They grab the Paul Mitchell from the counter gratis basket and shellac already stiff hair, while relining their lips in case the men at the bar forget their facial location. The mingling smells of hairspray, perfume, cigarettes and bodies make Gaby woozy. Secured in a stall, Gaby relieves herself and wonders, what's happened to me? Six months ago she would have loved this scene. Reeling off balance she grabs onto the toilet paper holder to steady her marinated equilibrium.

CLINK! Gaby follows the noise to the floor, where a ring has bounced into the stall and landed next to her foot.

A woman calls from outside the stall, “Is my ring in there?”

“Yeah, I'll be right out,” she calls back. Picking it up Gaby sees it's a diamond engagement ring.

She knocks into the woman as she swings the door open. “You better hang on to this,” Gaby warns, giving the ring over. “This is what they're all after. They'll claw you to death for it.”

The woman, a redhead, big chested and apparently younger than Gaby, seems oblivious to the sarcasm. Instead, she bubbles over with the juice of her life. “Thank you. We just got engaged yesterday. I guess I'm not used to it yet.”

Gaby shoves her way to the sink to wash her hands. “Congratulations.” Great, she thinks, I had to stumble onto a chatty one.

“Thanks. My boyfriend, oops,” Chatty giggles, “I mean my fiancé. He picked it out all on his own. He did pretty good, huh?”

“Mmmm.” Gaby fights through the crowd, slipping on the damp floor.

Chatty catches her by the arm and rights her, without missing a beat of conversation. “We've only been together a month, but I guess you know when it's right. You know?” Chatty lets out a heavy sigh. “He's so great, I can't believe we're engaged!”

“Mmm,” she mumbles, whipping the door open to escape.

“Honey!” Chatty yells from behind Gaby.

Reflexively, Gaby looks up to check out ‘Honey.'

They see each other at the same time and he immediately looks at the floor.

It's Stan! Gaby puts one hand on the wall to steady herself, while the other moves across her throat as if for protection.

“How are you?” he asks, stepping forward.

“Good,” Gaby answers, suddenly sober. “How are you? That's stupid isn't it? I just heard how you are. You're engaged.”

Chatty comes up. “Do you two know each other? That's so funny, we just met in the bathroom.

“It's hysterical,” Gaby snaps, making no attempt to hide her lack of civility.

Stan awkwardly says, “Honey, this is Gaby.”

“Oh,” Chatty says taking a step away like she's just met a baglady. She whispers to Stan, “The crazy one, right?”

“And you must be the stupid one.” Gaby shoots Stan a death glare before shoving people out of her way like a human plow.

Annette and Alex are making out as she comes up to the table. “Sweet Jesus!”

Annette's pulls away, her lipstick-smeared mouth curling in carnivorous glee like a lion that's in the midst of devouring its prey.

Gaby wants to smack her. “I'm leaving.”

“You don't have to go,” Alex says. “Stay, have another drink. I'm buyin' the next round.”

“Annette, next time you're in from Chicago, don't fucking call me.” Pushing the front door open, Gaby is swallowed by the momentary woosh of inside air meeting outside air.

A hand grabs her arm. “Whoa, what's your hurry?”

Gaby pulls away, but then realizes she knows the man grabbing her arm. But from where?

“Gaby, right? Griffin Maxx, from Phosphorous. You wrote a story about us a few months ago.”

His brother Todd said he was in LA. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Wow, you look great.”

Bless his heart, he's gone blind. “Thanks.”

“So beautiful, where are you off to in such a hurry?” He flashes very straight, very white teeth.

Gaby stares at him and decides fake flattery is better then none. “To meet you.” She smiles back.

“All right then.” Griffin calls out to a group standing nearby. “You guys go in without me. I'll catch up with you tomorrow.”

At the curb, Griffin hails a cab and holds the door open. “Your chariot, my princess.”

Gaby hesitates, wondering what she is doing. She quickly heave-hoes her reservations and climbs into the cab, snuggling next to him.

***

“I'm so glad I ran into you tonight.” Griffin's arm lies across Gaby's bare chest.

“Mmm,” she says, lying in his bed with her head turned away.

“I took the red-eye in from LA this morning. We're thinking of opening another boutique out there.”

His spunk, sticky between her legs, makes her feel like the popcorn crumbs left scattered and forgotten on a cinema floor.

His finger plays with her ear. “These look familiar.”

“Huh.” The earrings. Todd. Shit, I fucked the wrong brother, she thinks. “I stopped into the store the other day.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't there for you.”

I wasn't there for you either, her mind retorts.

“Did you meet my brother?” he asks.

“I don't know. I guess. A guy helped me pick these out.”

“If it was my brother, he would've hit on you. He's had a crush on you forever, lingerie queen.” His hand grazes her stomach and rests on the faint scar where her U-shaped mole had once been. “I knew that mole was fake. What'd you do, airbrush it in for the ad?”

She faces him. “It wasn't fake! My dermatologist said it had to come off.”

“Wow, that sucks.” His face looks as though he opened a jar of caviar to find tuna fish. “You know you could have it tattooed back on.”

She sits up. “Why would I do that?”

“I don't know, it's just an idea.”

“Here's an idea. I could have left it there and dropped dead from melanoma.”

“Hey, I was just suggesting—”

“Fuck you!” Gaby pops out of bed.

“What? What's wrong?”

She whips her clothes on. “You didn't want to be with me. You wanted to sleep with my mole. You're so typical. Arrogant garmento freak!”

“I heard you went psycho after your company crapped out. You're a whack job.”

“I'm gone!” She storms out of his apartment.

Sh-Click, Sh-click, Sh-click.

The locks on his door shut in a good riddance aural assault that makes her flinch on the other side.

***

Gaby trips over Mt. Shopping Bags as she heads to her bedroom. Stripping out of her clothes, she retrieves a dirty pair of pajama pants and tee from the crumpled clothes pile on the floor. Throwing them on, she falls on the bed, a few of the scattered Valium pills sticking to her bare feet. She doesn't have the energy to brush them off, so she curls up with them. Images from the night drip in her mind like Chinese water torture—Annette, Alex, Stan, Griffin, Annette, Alex, Stan, Griffin.

Mama.

Gaby grabs the bottle of pills from the nightstand and taps what's left into her hand. She swallows the whole lot down and lays her head back. For the first time since childhood, Gaby prays aloud before sleep, “Dear Lord, please help me forget.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

It is early Saturday morning as trees and guardrails fly past Sara's car window in a blur. Every so often, she turns a curve and the city skyline peeks out from the distance.

“You did quite a number,” the contractor told her yesterday. “The ceiling and sheet rock have to be replaced, along with all the insulation.” He took a pen and marked along the wall. “Behind here is your electrical. It's damaged. And all the hardwoods downstairs are warped. They'll have to come up.” After thrusting a six-figure repair estimate under her nose, he slammed her with the worst news. “You'll have to move out during some of the work.”

Sara's knees buckled. “Move out? I'm about to have a baby. Where are we supposed to go?”

“Most folks go to a hotel.” His shrug conveyed that the logistics were her problem, not his.

“For how long?” Sara asked.

“It could be a stretch.”

“How long?”

“About two months.”

She gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, knowing that in construction time two months means four, if not six. Pressing the issue earned her another shrug.

“Uh-oh!” Sara quickly changes lanes and heads toward the Triboro Bridge, narrowly missing being hit by a flying BMW. The morning traffic is so thin that twenty-five minutes after leaving her parent's Westchester house her SUV is already bearing down on the city. Last night she decided she couldn't handle it anymore. Not all this. Not alone. Bart would have to help her. And now that she knows Bart is in the city, she knows where to find him.

Every Saturday morning for the last three years, Bart and Peter have played racquetball at the Eastside Health and Racquet Club. They have a standing court reservation from nine until ten. Sara knows Bart would never miss his game. Last night's quick call to the club reservation desk confirmed that.

Sara races toward the city hating herself for harboring hope. Hope that everything could go back to the way it was even if the way it was wasn't really all that great.

***

Ten o'clock and Sara stands outside the club, periodically shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her stomach aches and she feels like she has to go to the bathroom. Panic rises through her like steam off a hot surface. What if Bart decides to take a shower after playing? That could take an extra half-hour and she's already uncomfortable.

The club door swings open and Peter walks out, followed immediately by Bart.

This is it, Sara thinks. He's going to have to talk to me. She watches the easy way he waves good-bye to Peter and air catches in her throat. He looks the same.

He'd come back to their apartment every Saturday morning looking just like this. Garbed in the same nylon exercise pants and sweatshirt, a gym bag slung over one shoulder and his hair slicked back from sweat. Tears spring into her eyes, but she forces them away. She expected him to look different, like a stranger. Wouldn't he have to be a stranger to hurt her so badly, so intentionally?

Bart doesn't notice her standing just a few feet away. He cuts across the street, heading up 68th toward Central Park.

Sara springs after him, but has a hard time keeping up as pain fills her lower abdomen. She walks it off, refusing to stop.

A DON'T WALK sign at Fifth stops him. Sara quickens her pace.

Fifteen feet.

Six feet. The light is about to change.

WALK. Bart steps off the curb with the crowd.

“Bart!” Sara shrills.

He turns and for a fleeting moment he looks happy to see her, but that disintegrates into the familiar dissappointed face she'd seen on him over the last months. She watches him turn away and wonders when that expression joined their marriage and how she hadn't noticed it.

“Bart, wait!”

He keeps walking across the street and breaks into a run as he hits the sidewalk near the park.

She follows. “Bart, please!”

As he glances back over his shoulder, a food deliveryman on a bike speeds toward him.

Bart doesn't see him.

She opens her mouth to yell.

CRASH.

A crowd instantly gathers around the tangle of bodies, metal and splattered food. Sara pushes her way through just as a bystander pulls the bike off the top of the pile.

“No!” Sara screams.

Bart is on the ground unconscious, blood pouring from his head.

Rushing toward him, Sara's body feels like it is wading against a tide, surrounded with silence except for the shrill of her own voice. “Call 911! Someone, call 911! My husband is bleeding! Oh my god! Help him, call 911! Call 911!” She crumbles to the ground and takes his hand, her body rocking, her words mumbled. “Oh my god, don't die. Oh my god, don't die. Please don't die.”

She feels the baby shift abruptly in her womb and warm liquid rushes down her legs. The sound of an ambulance grows closer as her amniotic fluid and his blood flow like tributaries onto the sidewalk.