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Authors: Olivia Goldsmith
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this company.
Were they talking about Morty’s operation, the debacle with the computerized cash registers? They couldn’t know the real story.
She shrugged.
Why be surprised? she asked herself. She always suspected that this big business crap was a gigantic jerk-off.
But now she was the jerk. Maybe Morty was only a bullshitter, but he bullshitted the Wall Street Journal and Federated Funds Douglas Witter.
And he bullshitted me. Morty must have known his company was going public at the time of the divorce settlement, Brenda now realized. No wonder he was in such a rush to get it finalized. And she had thought he was just accommodating her.
The balls.
You make a very pretty picture she thought. She looked down and saw her big stomach and, for the first time, the ink that grayed her hands.
Tears sprang to her eyes. I’m a mess. I’m forty-one, fat, and stupid.
And my hands are filthy.
Brenda stood as tears ran down her cheeks. He made a fool of me, she thought.
Christ, what a moron I am. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried.
After a while she stopped, and she wiped her face with her hands, unaware that she smeared ink around her eyes as she did so. Okay, so now what? She thought of calling the New York Times and that stupid Asa Ewell at the Journal, but she knew better. What she’d like to do was call one of her father’s old friends and have Morty’s knees broken.
She found the thought of Morty in a hospital bed with his legs in traction very satisfying. But no. That wouldn’t help her pay her apartment maintenance. She could just forget about it and try to get a job as a bookkeeper again. Yeah, she told herself, and make four twenty-five an hour. Christ, everything now was computerized anyway.
She probably couldn’t get arrested. And anyway, then Morty would get off scot-free. Shit.
It was unbearable. Brenda, on her father’s side, came from a long line of Sicilians who had made vendetta a way of life. But her mother had been middle-class Jewish. Ashamed of the gangster side of the family.
And Brenda’s family had so much to hide, even now after the death of her capo father, that she could never go through the courts.
She lifted the phone and dialed her brother Neil in L.A. but got a busy signal. She tried Annie, but there was no answer. So she tried Duarto, but his service picked up. Giving up, Brenda walked into the kitchen, took out the box of eclairs, and ate each and every one.
Greenwich Time The next morning, Elise had that awful, needlelike pain at her left temple, right behind her eye. She wasn’t certain how she’d gotten through the night.
Actually, she wasn’t sure of much—how long it had taken her to fall asleep, how long she’d slept, or even what time it was now. Something had gone wrong, her sense of time perhaps. Sometimes when she woke up, she could remember her dreams, but not where she had been the night before. Sometimes she awoke and thought her dreams had really happened. Or occasionally, she woke up with the horrifying feeling of not knowing where she was. Those times she would lie very still, terrified, not daring to move or make a sound, hardly daring to breathe, until the windows defined themselves and the room became familiar. In the city it wasn’t so bad, but here it was tricky. Here it was Greenwich time, with a capriciousness that frightened her.
Yes, today she knew where she was. She just wasn’t sure how she’d gotten there. Or where she’d been. Last thing, last thing, last thing. Yes, the funeral. Oh, of course. Cynthia Griffin. Oh, God.
The stabbing needle felt sharper than ever, making her eyes water. A tear dripped slowly, slowly down her cheek toward her ear. She longed to wipe it away, but knew the price she’d pay if she so much as trembled.
The needle was merciless. She breathed carefully, shallowly, afraid to alter her precarious position. Soon enough Chessie would sail in and help her begin her day.
Then it came back all at
Were they talking about Morty’s operation, the debacle with the computerized cash registers? They couldn’t know the real story.
She shrugged.
Why be surprised? she asked herself. She always suspected that this big business crap was a gigantic jerk-off.
But now she was the jerk. Maybe Morty was only a bullshitter, but he bullshitted the Wall Street Journal and Federated Funds Douglas Witter.
And he bullshitted me. Morty must have known his company was going public at the time of the divorce settlement, Brenda now realized. No wonder he was in such a rush to get it finalized. And she had thought he was just accommodating her.
The balls.
You make a very pretty picture she thought. She looked down and saw her big stomach and, for the first time, the ink that grayed her hands.
Tears sprang to her eyes. I’m a mess. I’m forty-one, fat, and stupid.
And my hands are filthy.
Brenda stood as tears ran down her cheeks. He made a fool of me, she thought.
Christ, what a moron I am. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried.
After a while she stopped, and she wiped her face with her hands, unaware that she smeared ink around her eyes as she did so. Okay, so now what? She thought of calling the New York Times and that stupid Asa Ewell at the Journal, but she knew better. What she’d like to do was call one of her father’s old friends and have Morty’s knees broken.
She found the thought of Morty in a hospital bed with his legs in traction very satisfying. But no. That wouldn’t help her pay her apartment maintenance. She could just forget about it and try to get a job as a bookkeeper again. Yeah, she told herself, and make four twenty-five an hour. Christ, everything now was computerized anyway.
She probably couldn’t get arrested. And anyway, then Morty would get off scot-free. Shit.
It was unbearable. Brenda, on her father’s side, came from a long line of Sicilians who had made vendetta a way of life. But her mother had been middle-class Jewish. Ashamed of the gangster side of the family.
And Brenda’s family had so much to hide, even now after the death of her capo father, that she could never go through the courts.
She lifted the phone and dialed her brother Neil in L.A. but got a busy signal. She tried Annie, but there was no answer. So she tried Duarto, but his service picked up. Giving up, Brenda walked into the kitchen, took out the box of eclairs, and ate each and every one.
Greenwich Time The next morning, Elise had that awful, needlelike pain at her left temple, right behind her eye. She wasn’t certain how she’d gotten through the night.
Actually, she wasn’t sure of much—how long it had taken her to fall asleep, how long she’d slept, or even what time it was now. Something had gone wrong, her sense of time perhaps. Sometimes when she woke up, she could remember her dreams, but not where she had been the night before. Sometimes she awoke and thought her dreams had really happened. Or occasionally, she woke up with the horrifying feeling of not knowing where she was. Those times she would lie very still, terrified, not daring to move or make a sound, hardly daring to breathe, until the windows defined themselves and the room became familiar. In the city it wasn’t so bad, but here it was tricky. Here it was Greenwich time, with a capriciousness that frightened her.
Yes, today she knew where she was. She just wasn’t sure how she’d gotten there. Or where she’d been. Last thing, last thing, last thing. Yes, the funeral. Oh, of course. Cynthia Griffin. Oh, God.
The stabbing needle felt sharper than ever, making her eyes water. A tear dripped slowly, slowly down her cheek toward her ear. She longed to wipe it away, but knew the price she’d pay if she so much as trembled.
The needle was merciless. She breathed carefully, shallowly, afraid to alter her precarious position. Soon enough Chessie would sail in and help her begin her day.
Then it came back all at
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