CUTTING ROOM -THE- (19 page)

‘Good job, Daddy,' Daria said as she gave him a kiss on his head. ‘I know what you wished for. Me, too.'

‘Thank you,' he whispered.

‘Let's fatten you up, now. Nothing like Carvel to put meat on the bones.'

‘Coffee.'

‘Let me get you a cup.'

‘Hey, D,' Marco said to Daria as she started for the kitchen. ‘Any chance you can watch the boys Tuesday, at, like, six thirty? Our sitter's busy and CeCe has to work late and I'm meeting the Dean over at Nova for coffee.' Nova was Nova Southeastern University in Davie. ‘It won't be for long, I promise.'

‘The Dean of Nova? Why?' she asked.

‘I'm trying to get an adjunct position. It's only a night class. It's like my final interview — coffee with the Dean. I think that means I probably got the job.'

‘That's great, Marc, but I can't. Maybe Anthony can do it,' Daria said looking across the room at her other brother. ‘I have plans. I don't think I'll be back in town till real late.'

Marco laughed. ‘I wouldn't trust Anthony to watch the ferret, much less the boys.'

‘That's okay,' answered Anthony. ‘I decline the nomination. Watching the Corleone boys on their sugar rush right now is enough for me. And I'll only watch the rat if I can bring Ralphie. He hasn't eaten in two weeks. That'd be all natural entertainment for the kiddies, so even Granola would approve,' he finished, nodding at Marco's wife, CeCe. The family Bohemian.

‘Ferrets are in the
weasel
family,' corrected CeCe, sharply, as she struggled to put a sneaker back on one of the boys she'd intercepted on a run around the table. ‘Sit still, Sonny. And your boa constrictor is not welcome around the children. What guy your age has a seven-foot long snake for a pet? Compensating, Anthony?'

‘Wait a minute,' Marco said. ‘Back to Daria. Was that “back in town” I heard? Does that mean you're going out of town? And Monday's the Fourth, so you're going out of town for a long weekend? Ooh …'

Anthony sat up and slapped his thigh. ‘She's red. It's a guy! Going out of town for the weekend with a guy!' He folded his hands in prayer. ‘Thank God, Daria, 'cause we were all wondering. Not me, personally, but Granola sure was. She's dying to know if birthing rabbits runs in the family.'

‘You're so damn funny, Anthony,' CeCe answered testily as Sonny wriggled free and ran off,
sans
his Nike. She turned to Daria, red-faced. ‘I never thought you were a lesbian.'

Daria rolled her eyes. ‘What the hell, Anthony? Who said anything about a weekend? And it's like a thousand-freaking-degrees in here. I'm not embarrassed — I'm hot.' Their mom rarely used the air conditioner, and when she did, she set it on eighty. Lena believed in screens and breezes, which was all she'd had growing up in Brooklyn sixty years ago. If their roof wasn't barrel tiled and sloped, and there wasn't the worry their dad would roll off it, Lena would probably have held the party up there, handing out wet towels if the heat became too much. ‘Notice how I'm completely ignoring the lesbian comment, Anthony?'

‘Hot date then?' teased Marco.

‘Finally.' Her mother was back from the kitchen, jelly jars in hand and two stuffed under each armpit. ‘Finally,' she repeated with a smug smile as she set out the jars on the table and poured a shot of limoncello in each one. ‘It's been a long time, right? Right? How long since you even
had
a boyfriend? You're gonna be thirty. I was already married with not one but three babies when I was thirty.'

Anthony laughed.

Daria's jaw set. Just one of the many reasons she loathed family celebrations and dinners.

‘I'm only saying that you're not so young,' her mother added with a disappointed shrug. ‘It's time you took life seriously. Got a real job, started a family.'

‘You're kidding, right?' Daria glared at her brother. ‘Great, Anthony. See what you started? Why don't you pick on Anthony, Ma? He's thirty-six and not married.'

‘He's a man. There's a difference,' answered Lena quietly.

Daria pushed the drink away. ‘No, he's Anthony. That's the difference.'

‘No one has a hot date on a Tuesday night, Marco,' CeCe interjected, trying to calm the seas. ‘That would be defined as cold. Tepid at best. Excuse him, everyone. It's been a while since he's taken his wife on a date, much less a hot date.'

‘What the hell was that floating vacation I just took you on?' Marco remarked as another one of his kids ran by screaming, this time with a butter knife in his hands.

‘You slept the whole time,' CeCe returned. ‘Every day. Then you gambled. Nothing hot about it.'

‘I was
exhausted
. I
am
exhausted. And forgive me, but every day of the week is the same to me now: Monday, Tuesday, Friday. It's all one big blur. Who knows? Give me that, Fredo,' he said, exasperated, as he plucked the knife from his son's little fingers. ‘Don't run with the goddamned, freaking knives!' he yelled.

‘Marco!' scolded CeCe.

‘Don't
play
with the goddamned, freaking knives is what Daddy meant to say,' Daria corrected. Another identical face crawled from under the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Followed by another. ‘And don't chase your brother, Sonny.' She knew for sure the last one was Sonny, because he was still missing his shoe.

‘Back once again to Daria,' a bemused Anthony started up again. ‘You going out of town with a guy? What's that about? Who is he? I want all the juicy details. Spare nothing.'

‘Don't get all big brother on me now, Anthony. Yes, it's a guy. No, it's not a date; he's a detective. We're going up to Starke to interview an inmate for the day. We're leaving early Tuesday, probably be back that night.'

Marco shook his head. ‘Why the hell you going up there, D? Don't you have enough of those fucking animals down here to play with?'

‘Hey, hey,' Daria's dad mouthed with a scratchy whisper. ‘Language.'

‘Sorry, Pop,' Anthony mouthed.

‘This guy's on death row and they won't transfer him just for an interview. Too high a security risk. I'm interviewing Cupid,' she blurted out excitedly.

The room went completely quiet. Except for her nephew, Sonny, who hobbled by with another butter knife in hand.

‘Cupid? The serial killer Cupid?' asked Anthony incredulously.

‘Yes. Bill Bantling. I have to talk to him about this homicide I'm working. The dumpster girl.' She grabbed the butter knife from Sonny's fingers. ‘Speaking of maniacal killers, Marc. There are early signs you should look for,' she teased, waving the knife at him.

‘That's pretty damn cool,' Marco added. ‘
You're
gonna be interviewing Cupid. Wow. Holy shit. Will he be behind glass like Hannibal Lecter? Or fitted with, like, a bite mask or something?'

Daria shook her head. ‘This isn't the movies, Marco.' But the truth was, she had no idea what to expect herself on Tuesday. She'd never gotten up close and personal with any of the murderers she'd prosecuted — interviews were a detective's province. By the time a case crossed her desk, a defense lawyer was involved and the talking had stopped.

‘You have the most interesting job, Daria,' added CeCe admiringly. ‘You should write a book. Like Michael Connelly, ya know? Or John Grisham. I always like his books, and they're about legal stuff.'

‘That's a plan. Become an international bestselling author when I get a chance. I like it.'

‘This case could make you famous,' Marco added. ‘Think Kim Kardashian, D.'

Anthony laughed and held his hands out in front of him as if he had tremendous breasts. ‘I know Daria doesn't have
that
in her. No offense, sister.'

Out of the corner of her eye, Daria spotted her mom slip into the kitchen. The last thing Lena wanted to listen to was how her daughter might one day be famous. Or successful.

Daria rolled her eyes. ‘I'd like her body, not her life, Marc. And thanks, Anthony.'

‘What does Cupid have to do with the dumpster case?'Anthony asked.

‘I can't talk about it yet.'

Her dad motioned her over again. The lopsided smile was gone. He was frowning.

‘And Kim Kardashian just happened to be the first famous person that came to your mind? Huh, honey?' CeCe fired at Marco. ‘What's with your obsession with her?'

Anthony smirked. ‘Someone's in trouble.'

‘You okay, Daddy?' Daria asked, bending over him and putting her face close to his while everyone else prattled on, ribbing her brother.

Her dad grasped her hand, harder than before. She knew that wasn't easy for him. ‘Daddy?' she asked again, alarmed.

‘Careful now,' he whispered harshly. ‘I don't have … a good feeling.'

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The first thought that popped into her head was the creepy, cryptic message that Manny had delivered to her in the courthouse that morning. She'd been trying not to think about it all day — to not let Talbot Lunders get inside her head, like Manny had warned — but every time she glanced at the clock she thought about returning to her empty apartment. To the dead garden outside her kitchen window. ‘Okay, Pop,' she whispered in his ear. ‘I'll be careful.'

‘The man's an animal. Don't want you … involved. Bad things gonna happen, you'll see.'

‘No worries, Daddy,' she said quickly standing up, and patting his hand.

‘… I'd be scared to death to face a serial killer, even if he was behind bars. Just thinking about what he did to those women makes me want to throw up,' CeCe said with a shiver. ‘Aren't you nervous, Daria?'

No one else had heard her exchange with her dad, although from her sister-in-law's last question Daria would've thought she'd read her mind. She shook her head. ‘Let me get Daddy his coffee.'

‘You'll never get that past mom,' Anthony called out. ‘I tried to slip him a cappuccino last week and she almost bit me.'

Daria ignored him and walked into the kitchen.

‘Hi there. Did you make coffee? Daddy wants some,' she said as she headed to the coffee pot.

‘He's not allowed to have any.'

‘Says who?'

‘Says Matt Valitudo.'

‘The dry cleaner?'

‘He told me coffee makes the cancer worse.'

‘The dry cleaner told you that? He doesn't have cancer, Ma. He has Parkinson's.'

‘It's cancer, is what it is.'

There was no point in arguing. There never was. ‘Fine. I'll make decaf,' she said, reaching for the vile container of Taster's Choice instant.

‘He can't have coffee. And that's that,' her mother said sharply.

‘It would be the caffeine he can't have, Ma, if anything.'

‘He can't have coffee,' Lena repeated.

Daria put her hands up and sighed. ‘You win. You need help?' Her mother had made a
panettone
in addition to the Carvel cake Daria had brought because her mother was the only person on the planet who actually hated ice-cream. She was also not gonna be outdone by her daughter, who'd brought the birthday cake. Not in her house.

Lena shook her head as she arranged the last slice of
panettone
on a silver platter. ‘Lord, where did you get those shoes? They're so high.'

‘You like 'em?' Daria asked. ‘They're Donald Pliner's. And they're comfy, too.'

Her mom shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘No. Uh-uh. Your style is a little … eclectic for me. I like something more classic. Something nice. You know that. As long as you can walk in them, I suppose,' she called over her shoulder as she stepped back into the dining room. ‘Come on,
andiamo
! I'm putting out the cake.'

Daria stood in the kitchen for a long while, willing away angry tears. As Lena had pointed out, she'd be thirty years old soon. And for most of those thirty years she'd sought her mother's approval, even when she'd insisted that she was through with that. Now here she was yet again, standing in her fancy heels, licking her wounds.

One of these days she was going to have to face the fact that, no matter what she said, did, wore, married, how successful a career she had or how much money she made, she was never gonna get it. Her mother would still go on dangling that elusive approval over Daria's sad-eyed, eager little head.
What was Einstein's definition of insanity again? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?
She and her brother Marco were like Pavlov's dogs — always showing up at the bowl with their tongues hanging out, hoping Lena might toss them a crumb of acknowledgement or at least a kind word. Marco did whatever was necessary for peace — he'd gotten married and made triplets and had a normal job. Daria had rebelled — a wild adolescence, no husband, and a job her mother detested. And Anthony, well, he had smartly opted out of the game years ago. He didn't give a shit if he was successful, if anyone else was happy, or if the world ended tomorrow. He smoked inordinate amounts of weed on the weekend, hang-glided, slept with lots of women, and drove without a seat belt all the time. He'd declared that he had no intention of getting married or having kids. And yet he was the only one in the family who their mother was not perpetually disappointed with. Anthony could do no wrong.

Why didn't she simply walk away? Make other plans? Send a birthday gift and a card instead of continually setting herself up for failure?
Daria had asked herself that question a thousand times — usually after coming home from visiting her parents. Friends of hers had cut off relations with their relatives over a lot less. But she couldn't and that was that. Her mother was, after all, her mother. And her mother now stood directly in the path of her father.