Free Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland by Lara Reznik Page A

a psycho. This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed his bipolar behavior.”
    Katie pulls out a cigarette from her purse, tosses it back. “I’ll distract big brother.”
    “How will you do that?”
    “I haven’t lost my touch.” She bats her eyelashes for emphasis. I remember what a guy magnet she was back in the day. “Tell Mrs. Manelo it’s a matter of life and death.”
    My temples ache. I pull out the bottle of Advil, pop another two. “And when she asks why?”

    “Improvise, for chrissakes. Tell her you know something about Denise’s past. A problem with drugs, anything that might interest her.”
    I’m beginning to despise this grownup Katie B. She hits every damn pothole in the road as if on purpose. The car bounces, lurches, and clunks as the rain splatters the windshield. A burning sensation in my ear radiates to the back of my neck. Doctor Lee calls it a cluster headache. I get them whenever I stress out.
    Then my iPhone rings. 512 area code from Austin. One of these days I’ll learn how to enter my contacts. “This is Laila.”
    “It’s Darlene. I need you back at work ASAP . Things are changing really fast.”
    I explain I’m still in New York at a funeral but should be back at work tomorrow. “What’s going on?”
    “Gotta go,” she whispers, and hangs up the phone without telling me any news.
    I pray I still have a job when I return.
    Despite my protests, Katie and I arrive at the Manelo’s brownstone house twenty minutes later, then drive around the block three or four times before landing a parking space.
    Katie knocks on the door and a tall man in a suit invites us inside. A blast of fresh garlic, tomatoes, and oregano stimulates my nostrils as I follow Katie. The living room is filled with people sitting on overstuffed furniture, speaking in English and Italian. Everyone glares at us again. The two Jewish girls from Mars have not taken the hint.
    Mrs. Manelo greets me with a hug. “Thank you for coming, Laila. I apologize for my son. He was always so protective of his sister.” She nods at Katie, who steps in front of me.
    “I’m Katie Birnbaum. I knew Denise at Bridgeport, too.”
    Mrs. Manelo gives Katie a cursory smile, then grips my hand. “Would you like to see Denise’s room? I remember when you came many years ago and we went to the Costellos for dinner.”
    I nod and follow her through the living room.
    Katie gives me a thumbs-up.
    This is going easier than planned with no sign of big brother. I trail behind Mrs. Manelo up the creaky wood stairs to a dark hallway. We enter Denise’s room, a shrine to the sixties. There’s a single bed, a small antique desk, an oak dresser, and walls of posters. I envision a teenage Denise looking up from her bed (in an altered state, of course) at the posters of Jimmy Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane, Jim Morrison, and the Grateful Dead. A candle and incense sit on the desk. A tattered Indian spread covers the small bed. It’s weird. All these years and Denise’s mother never changed the decor.
    Mrs. Manelo slumps onto the bed and pats the spot next to her.
    I park myself at her side.
    Her hand, speckled with age spots, trembles nonstop. “Denise used to make fun of me for not redecorating her bedroom. Part of me always thought my little girl was coming home to live with her mama. But in reality she never did want to live here with me again.”
    I rub my temples, still throbbing from the cluster headache. In the next room floorboards are creaking and I fear Danny is in there waiting to pounce. I’ve witnessed his temper more than once.
    The room smells like mothballs and dirty socks with a touch of cinnamon incense. I want to ask Mrs. Manelo about the suicide note, knowing I may never get this opportunity again. But when I look at her proud Italian face so weathered and hopeless, I take the conversation in a different direction. “What was Denise like these last years?”
    She pulls out a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabs