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

her eyes. “Denise didn’t live a very happy life. She worked as an IRS auditor for many years and hated her job.”
    I stroke her hand. “She never married?”
    “She didn’t even date after she came home from Tucson.”
    “When was she in Arizona?”
    She sighs. “In the early seventies. When she got back to Queens, I tried to fix her up with boys but she refused. Such a pretty girl…” Her voice trails off.
    Another old woman materializes in the doorway. She’s tiny with yellowed features and cheeks crosshatched with razor-fine creases. “She never got over my Joey.”
    I stand and gulp, “Mrs. Costello?”
    She inspects me like I’m merchandise at a flea market. “A day still doesn’t go by that I don’t cry for him.” Pain distorts her sunken face.
    “I can only imagine.”
    “You a nice girl. I remember you come to my house for dinner.” She turns to Mrs. Manelo. “ Potrebbe capire forse? ”
    Mrs. Manelo interprets. “Can you understand?”
    I tell her I have two boys. “There could be nothing worse than losing a child.”
    “What’s worse is never knowing what happened. My husband Joseph died of cancer a few years ago. Un uomo rotto . A broken man.”
    “Maybe the tragedy of Denise’s death will finally bring answers,” Mrs. Manelo says.
    My heart races. Here’s my shot. “Perhaps I-I can help. Did Denise leave any kind of note?” Fat chance she’ll just hand the thing to me.
    Their eyes lock in a grimace of grief. Mrs. Costello gets down on her knees and cries, “You say you’re a mama. Do you know what happened to my Joey?”
    The desperate whine in her voice pierces my ears and my heart. I remember Joey giving her a bear hug when we arrived for dinner back in1970. How she clung to him when we were leaving.
    My legs are so wobbly I nearly collapse on the floor next to her. “What did Denise say?”
    Mrs. Manelo starts weeping, too.
    I feel like I’m crossing the boundaries of sanity.
    She opens a drawer in the desk, takes out an envelope and hands it to me. “Perhaps Laila has answers.”
    The envelope is unsealed. I read the words, To My Beloved Mother scribbled in Denise’s handwriting. My hand trembles as I unfold the note inside written on beautiful cream-colored linen stationary.

    Mama, I can’t live with this anymore. Tell Mrs. Costello that Chris Reynolds knows where she can find Joey. Tell her it was no accident.

    No sooner had I read it, Katie appears in the room and seizes my hand. “Let’s get a move on.”
    The two old ladies’ mouths hang open and they clutch their chests like they’re having dual heart attacks. Katie pushes me toward the doorway.
    I should jerk loose from her, stay and comfort the two frenzied old women who have lost their children. At the least, I should give them back Denise’s note, clearly the right thing to do.
    I yank free from Katie and hand the letter back to Mrs. Manelo. “I’m sorry.”
    Katie’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
    “Trust me.” I race down the stairs with Katie tagging behind me.
    Heavy footsteps thunder above us. I turn back briefly to see fat Danny. His face is red as rhubarb. “I called the police. They’re on their way, bitch.”
    I bite my tongue and taste blood in my mouth. “Oh Jesus, we’re in trouble now.”
    Katie and I reach the front door with Danny loping behind us huffing, then THUD . I rotate around and see him spread out on the floor.
    Outside the rain is now a mere drizzle. There’s a powder-blue VW bus with green-and-white Arizona plates, double-parked across the street. The window rolls down and Ben sticks his head out. “Get in.”
    Katie and I jump inside the van. She sits shotgun, and I crawl in the back onto a bench seat with torn cloth interior. I feel like I’m in a seventies time warp. The bus put-put-puts down the street leaving a thick cloud of smoke behind.
    “What about the rental car?” I say.
    “I’ll take care of it later,” Ben says. He turns the corner and