The Valentine's Day Curse -- A Short Story



  The Valentine’s Day Curse

  By Elena DeRosa

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the text contained herein for any reason is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Cover design by Marie Elena Aprile

  Copyright 2012 Elena DeRosa

  I almost hadn’t answered the phone, but something about the tone of the ring had urged me to stop picking remnants of red dried paint off the knife and answer it. Annoyed by the interruption, my hello was not a warm one.

  “Lisa?” a male voice asked.

  A faint flutter flitted in my stomach as my hand tightened its grip on the knife.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  It’s me? The audacity of him. After so many years not hearing his voice, had he expected me to immediately recognize it?

  “Joey,” I said.

  “You sound the same.”

  “Really? I don’t feel the same.”

  Good thing he called on the phone and not via Skype. He’d probably be shocked at my short grey hair and larger than he remembered belly. I might have sounded the same, but at forty five, I sure didn’t look the same as I did at twenty -- but he did.

  It wasn’t long ago that I had seen his picture on his cousin’s Facebook page. Surrounded by sharp suits and tuxedos, Joey’s wrinkled leopard shirt, black leather vest, and disheveled long black hair made him look like he belonged in the band, rather than as a wedding guest. I had searched for his profile so I could message him the eighties called and wanted him back, but he didn’t have an account.

  “Still got those long black curls?” Joey asked.

  I was tempted to say yes; instead “Platinum blonde,” slipped out.

  “I was surprised when I Googled you that I found your phone number so easily. I see you still got your last name. Never got married again, huh?”

  He probably thought after being married to him, he had ruined me for all other men.

  “Actually, I’m on my fourth. I found it’s easier to keep my maiden name.”

  “Four? Wow. No kids though, right?”

  “I have a daughter.”

  Most people would have asked how old she was, or what’s her name.

  Joey said, “Oh, so you could have kids. I thought you couldn’t.”

  Neither question. That’s good, Joey would’ve assumed I named my daughter Josephine after him.

  “Why would you think I couldn’t have kids?” I asked.

  “You know why.”

  Yeah, I knew why. His wedding gift to me. On our honeymoon, I had handed him a bride and groom Lladro statue, and in return, he had handed me a Valentine’s Day heart filled with cheap chocolates, and the remnants from his bachelor party -- a case of Chlamydia. It was such an extreme case the doctor had said there was the possibility I wouldn’t be able to have children. And what had been his apology? “Could have been worse, it could have been AIDS.” Yeah, I forgave him.

  “No, I don’t know why, tell me.”

  I figured I let him squirm a bit. See if he had the balls to bring it up.

  “You never got pregnant by me.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. Maybe you had the problem. Got any kids?”

  “Not that I know of,” he chuckled.

  It was a nervous laugh. It was the laugh Joey always used before he dropped something on me -- usually a lie or a request for something. After so many years, what could he possibly want from me?

  “I don’t recognize your area code. Where do you live now?” he asked.

  “North Carolina,” I answered.

  “I’m still in Manhattan.”

  No what city in North Carolina or what made you move there, like most people would ask.

  “Upper Westside,” he continued, “In a penthouse.”

  Oooh, a penthouse. Moved on up, did he? Had to be better than the last apartment I saw him in, the one he rented after nine months of marriage; the one he needed “to think things out.” I only saw the inside of that place once, when I dropped off bags of his dirty clothes a couple of weeks after he left. It was in the Lower East Side, a step above a squat, and too small for more than one inhabitant, so I believed him when he said there was no other woman.

  The next time I ventured to his bachelor pad to surprise him, I was the one surprised when I found Joey and a woman sitting on his stoop. As I squealed a U-turn, Joey spotted me and quickly removed his draped arm from her shoulders. Alerted, the lithe woman hopped on her bicycle and sped down Houston Street, her long red hair shooting flames behind her. My instincts, fueled by adrenaline and lies kicked in, and my car sought to catch her. I wondered what ran through the fleeing woman’s mind as the four door, powder blue Ford trailed her.

  Right before he had moved out, Joey’s van hadn’t been running. One day he borrowed my car and returned it empty of gas, but full of mysterious clues. In it, I had found strands of long red hair entwined around a hoop earring, imprints of sneaker soles on the inside of the front window, and the passenger side window handle broken off the door. When questioned, Joey’s nervous laugh heralded his upcoming denials, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. An earring? Guess it could be from one of the people I work with. A broken handle? What broken handle? I didn’t break any handle.”

  I never asked him about the footprints on the inside of the front windshield. I already figured out what they meant. I had a feeling the quick pedaling woman was all too familiar with my car. She just never saw it from that angle before. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I caught her. I wasn’t going to beat her, or anything like that. I just wanted to talk. I just wanted the truth, from somebody. Joey must have read something other than conversation in my eyes.

  As soon as I began my pursuit, he leapt in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes. With two hands placed on either side of the hood, his tattooed arms formed the sides of an A. He braced his legs as if he was strong enough to hold back the car. The deep brown eyes I had fallen in love with in high school, glared at me through the windshield. In a soft, firm voice, Joey said, “You’ll have to run me down first.” That’s when I knew our marriage was definitely done. Although I would have for him, I knew Joey would never have taken a fender for me. I finally got it. We were over. He had already lost his love for me, but as far as I was concerned, our love was lost that day on Houston Street.

  “You remember that first place I had on Houston Street, right?” Joey asked.

  “Houston Street? No, can’t say I do,” I replied.

  “Well, it’s nothing like that. This place is huge. My dream apartment.”

  Oh, don’t tell me he had finally made it big. Made it big? Made it at all! He never had a pot to piss in. He always scammed off of someone. Many years ago that someone was me. From high school, through college, our five Brooklyn apartments, and eventually our sham of a marriage, I had supported him. I had faith in him. I thought eventually he would “be somebody” and “do something.” And when he did, he would step up and become the “man of the house.”

  I imagined there’d come a time, before we settled down to raise a family, when Joey would surprise me by whisking me away on a vacation that he had planned in some exotic location. He would finally have his own money. He would use it to put gas in my car, buy me clothes and jewelry, take me to restaurants, movi
es, shows, anything I desired. He would pay me back for all the years I did those things for him, not because it was the right thing to do, but because he loved me, and wanted to.

  As soon as he began earning his own money, Joey finally did put on his big boy pants. One Friday, he cashed his paycheck, got what he could for his broken down van, and skipped out. I never saw one cent from his paychecks, or from the van I had bought him. I guess my faith in him, and us, turned out to be a bad investment. I might not have been so angry had he chosen to let me know he wanted out, before putting me in a financial bind.

  Tired of being evicted from apartments -- mainly because of Joey’s taste in loud music and blatant disregard to the landlords’ need of sleep -- we decided to buy a house. And when I say we, I mean me. Joey hadn’t contributed any money for the down payment, and same as he hadn’t with rent, never made one mortgage payment. It was twice what we, I mean I, had been paying in rent, but I thought it a wise