Debbi looked through the railing at the palm trees on the beach. "Other people," she said, "they come ta Florida ta relax. You, ya come ta Florida, ya run around like a cockaroach."
Gino went inside to call room service.
Debbi kept talking to his back. "Can't we sit still five minutes? Can't we settle in a little bit?"
Gino ordered a bottle of bourbon, switched the TV on, and poked his head just for a second through the open sliding door to the balcony. Obedience could sometimes be a cramp, a pain, and so could the company of a complaining broad. "I'm drivin' up for a day or so. You wanna stay, stay. I don't give a fuck."
19
"Look," said Sandra Dugan, as she rummaged through the refrigerator for romaine, endive, hearts of palm, "it's always a gamble. When I started in with Joey, that was a gamble too."
Debbi Martini leaned against the counter and sipped a glass of water. She was happy to be standing in this kitchen, pleased with herself for having had the nerve to call Sandra that morning. When Sandra invited her to come by and have lunch, gratitude had closed her throat. Now she gave a little laugh and said, "Joey, a gamble? Joey's so nice, so regular."
Sandra's head was in the fridge, her voice was muffled by lettuces, muted by the pith of grapefruits. "When I met him," she said, "he didn't know it yet."
"Didn't know it?" Debbi said.
Sandra wheeled, handed the other woman some greens, kicked the fridge door shut. "We were living in Queens. He was still very close with his family, that whole group. You know what I'm saying. Joey was the kid brother. He thought he had a lot to prove."
Debbi considered, and realized all at once that she felt like a kid sister, standing there with Sandra. They were pretty much the same age, give or take a year or two, but Sandra had a husband, ran a business, was mistress of a real house with matching plates. Sandra hired and fired people, picked out furniture. She had a sense of the future—her stocked refrigerator told you that. Sandra, in short, was a grownup, had lucked or bluffed or willed her way to some mysterious graduation, while she, Debbi, seemed to keep repeating the same dreary classes in remedial life. From bad in school to frustrated at work. From Mr. Wrong to Mr. Trouble to Mr. Cokehead to Mr. Slob.
"You like sprouts?" Sandra asked.
"Hm?" said Debbi. "Yeah, love 'em. ... So with Joey—what made him change?"
Sandra took a sun-warmed tomato off the windowsill behind the sink. She cut into it and seeds spilled out. "Hard to say."
"Coming to Florida?" suggested Debbi.
"Nah, the change had to come before the move. Otherwise he never would've made it south of Staten Island." She pointed toward a high shelf with her nose. "Grab that salad bowl, would ya?"
Reaching up, Debbi said, "I guess people have to get pretty fed up before they change, pretty sick and tired of not being happier."
"And they have to believe they could be happier," said Sandra.
She finished cutting the tomato, then tested an avocado with her thumbs. Debbi shredded romaine and looked out the window. She saw trees, light, air; the clean spaciousness sucked the deflating truth right out of her. Absently, she said, "Gino—Gino's never gonna change."
The avocado wasn't ripe enough, Sandra put it back on the sill. She bit her lip, weighed how far to get involved. She was chewing back the words So dump him, girl, when the doorbell rang. Glad to escape, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and went to answer it.
It was Bert the Shirt. His lean form was framed by glaring sunshine and he seemed to be fresh out of the shower; his white hair with its bronze and pinkish glints was brushed back in neat damp bundles. He was wearing a canary yellow pullover of polished Egyptian cotton and carrying his drowsy dog. "Hullo, Sandra," he said. "Your father-in-law around?"
"He's in the garden," Sandra said. "Puttering as usual. Come in."
She led the visitor through the living room, into the kitchen. He saw the food on the counter. "Hey, if you're having lunch, I'll come back—"
"Vincente's not eating," Sandra said. "Doesn't want to break off pruning. But Bert, say hello to Debbi. She's down here with Gino."
"Charmed," said the old mafioso, and he extended his hand. Debbi took it and smiled at him, but almost instantly her attention shifted to the dog.
"And who's this little fur face?" she asked.
"This?" said Bert. He put on a dismissive scowl and held the chihuahua away, as if it were a smelly little parcel he was taking to the trash. "This is Don Giovanni, world's oldest, laziest, most worthless dog. This is a rug-wetting curse from my late wife. This is a brainless four-legged bundle a aggra—"