Tips for Living(20)

“What?” I asked, uncomfortable.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

I worried he was going to ask details about the Hugh and Helene affair in some inappropriate fashion.

“Um, how would I know until you ask it?”

“Did you still love him?”

“Ah,” I sighed.

I wasn’t expecting that one. But I’d asked myself the same question after Hugh moved to Pequod. How could I not still love him a little? We shared so much history—I’d spent almost a third of my life with him. There were so many bittersweet memories. And yet, whenever I thought about the way we ended, I felt a cold, black stone in my heart.

“I’m not sure.”

“Because if it were me, I think I’d be grateful someone offed him,” he hissed. “Her, too.” He was practically spitting the words. “I’d want anyone who screwed me over like that to be fucking dead.”

“Good to know,” I said, startled by his vehemence.

Stokes stepped out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride.”

He slammed the door so hard that I jumped. I felt like I could finally breathe again as I watched him stride off and disappear into the alley.

I was about to drive off when a giant yawn overtook me. I sat there, bleary-eyed and groggy, as the Van Winkle sign woke up. Blood red letters flickered against the pale gray sky. I stared at them and thought back to those worrying days of my childhood when I’d first known this level of exhaustion. Troubled, frightening days that began as I understood the darker side of my father’s world—a place of angry, violent men.

How many times had I held my father’s hand as we strolled past neon bowling alley signs in the early morning hours? He’d be nattily dressed in a suit and tie, Clark Gable-handsome with slick black hair. So many Saturday mornings, while my mother primped at a beauty salon or took tennis lessons at her club, I would go with Nathan Glasser to visit a bowling alley in our suburban township or a neighboring one. Bellport Lanes. Bayshore Lanes. Pro-Bowl at Hempstead. Nathan with his black book of numbers. His 1984 Mercury Grand Marquis wagon full of cigarette cartons and racing forms.

All the alleys seemed the same to me: cavernous concrete buildings, dark inside except for a dimly lit concession stand or small bar. Quiet except for the hum and buzz of soda machines, refrigerators and a whirring floor buffer if the night janitor was still there. On occasion, Nathan would get a lane switched on and hand me a sparkly blue or pink child-size bowling ball, so I could roll it at the pins while he and the owner spoke in hushed tones.

“I have dozens of men working for me all over New York,” he liked to brag. He told everyone he was president of Nat-o-Matic, a statewide vending machine distributor. In truth, he worked for the Mob, stocking their alley and bar machines with contraband cigarettes. He also booked sports bets for them on his route and skimmed some of the profit off the top for himself. It was a cash business. He didn’t think his bosses would find out. If they did, he’d pay them back with interest from his winnings at the racetrack. The problem was, his horses lost. He hid this from my mother and me. By the time his lies came to light, they’d ruined us all.

Both my parents had secret lives back then. Sally the Country Club Wasp née Sasha, the Russian Jew from East New York. Nathan, the bookie, gambler and money launderer.

So did I. Another life I lived only at night. A potentially dangerous one.





Chapter Five

Dark. I’m standing in the dark in my pajamas. My whole body tingling like a sleeping foot. Confused. Scared. Dad? Mom? Where am I? Start to rub my arms and legs to stop the tingling, but there’s something in my right hand. A metal stick. Thin and long. Squeezing it tight. What is going on? Eyes adjusting. I recognize this place. The downstairs hallway by the front door. But this makes no sense. How did I get here? No one carried me. I must have walked out of my bedroom, across the hall, all the way down the stairs and down another hall. I don’t remember any of it.

You woke and had to go to the bathroom. You were sleepy; you got confused in the dark.

But the bathroom was only a dozen steps from my bed. No. I hadn’t been sleepy. Or confused about where the bathroom was. I must’ve actually been asleep. Sleepwalking. And the stick in my hand? A golf club. My mother’s golf bag was leaning against the hall closet. I was standing at the front door clutching a golf club. But why?



I was almost twelve the day my symptoms started. My mother had already left for her beauty salon appointment that Saturday morning when my father tapped on my bedroom door.

“No bowling alleys today, kiddo. We’re going to the movies. They’ve rereleased The Pink Panther Strikes Again. You’ll love this one.”

We were movie nuts, my father and I. His “work hours” were flexible, so he would treat me to matinees after school or on weekends—whenever the mood hit him. We’d seen Top Gun the week before, and I fell in love with Tom Cruise. We also shared a love of big band music. He introduced me to Benny Goodman and taught me to swing dance by the time I was seven. My father was fun and spontaneous. Unlike my mother, who was beautiful but rarely relaxed enough to smile.

Halfway to the movie theater, I noticed my father was driving fast and glancing in his rearview mirror every few seconds.

“What are you looking for, Dad?”