Yellow Mama E zine

CUZ

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          “Cuz,” I said finally, “I gotta tell you something.”

           Tonight, not tomorrow. Too long I’d been putting it off. Already, my cheek stung from the smack Asunta would give me. And I’d deserve it.

           She gave me a side-look, then stuck a slice in the oven.

 

***

 

        That night . . . was my first time. Under our fancy tree, Tommy’s eyes brighter than the lights. Tinsel stuck to us, gifts crushed beneath us. Who cared if we ruined everyone’s Christmas?

        Or lives?

        His cock hurt, but I wouldn’t have stopped him. I wanted this too bad! With each thrust, his long hair brushed me. The whole time, he stared, like he loved looking at me as much as fucking me. That’s how into me he was.

       But right before he came, it hit me.

       Something real bad was coming.

       Cuz’’s ex, Louie. Who couldn’t tell us apart.

 

***

 

          Slow night, at Sucato’s, our family’s pizzeria. A few customers now, maybe more later. The best time to drop this bomb. As if there’d ever be a good time.

           I fucked Tommy. The night Louie shot him.  

           I’m having your dead boyfriend’s baby.

           It was so cold out. February '88 sucked. As warm as it got inside, the heat never reached me.

 Was the baby cold, too? Small as a cannellini bean, if that. Helpless, dependent on a mother who smelled cookies baking right before people died. Gingerbread with Daddy.

         Psychic, or psycho? Maybe both.

         I moved closer to the oven. “It’s important.”

        A blast of heat as she took out the slice. “Yeah, I know.”

        Know. Did she really? About Tommy and me? She’d been crazed with grief. Lost so much weight, her bras got big. If that slice was for her, she’d only eat the crust.

        Like a baby.

       “Exactly what you’re gonna say.” Like she’d seen it all: what happened under the tree. Louie outside, waiting for him. Tommy smiling at me in dreams, gorgeous rock star-looking, even with half his chest blown away. . .

       Tommy . . . Tommy . . .Tommy!

       My head in the oven, back home . . .

        She might’ve smelled gas, though I opened the windows after. The icy wind followed me everywhere I went.

        “That I’ve gotta get past this.” Without taking a bite, she dropped the slice. Wiped her greasy fingers.

         Her nails, I realized. They were shorter, the hot-pink polish chipped. How proud she’d been of those freaky talons.

        “He’s dead,” she said flatly. “He’ll never . . .”

        When the door opened, the bell rang. We both jumped and turned. I didn’t know we’d grabbed each other till I felt her nails in my arm.   

         “Hey.” Mr. Conte, the retired coach. Who used to order pies for the football team.

         That fast, Asunta was crying. Like she used to, when we were kids. My heart swelled.

         “I can come back.” Mr. Conte looked alarmed. “I just wanted a slice.”

         When I nodded, he hurried back out.

           What a bitch I was. A real slime. Holding Asunta’s hand, I cried with her. Backstabber, I thought, as she squeezed my hand, helplessly.

         If only I’d left Tommy alone . . .  

         But I couldn’t.

        “You know what he said?” She smiled a little. “After he came for Thanksgiving?”

         His eyes, I remembered. Big, and black, watching me all day. Like they were memorizing me. Saving me up.

         “He said, ‘What’s up with your cuz?’”

         I took back my hand, rested it on my belly. “Me?”

         “Who else?” she said. “He went on. ‘She’s not like anybody else.’ Like he liked how you were yourself. Not like Louie.” Another sob burst out.

         “Really?” I choked back my own sob. “He really said that?”

          She nodded. “And how you looked so much like me, both real cute, but that we’re both so . . .” She wiped her eyes. “. . . different, nobody could ever confuse us.”

          Except Louie.

          I sobbed out loud.

          “Cuz, I was so jealous.” That side-look was back. “How he sounded, the way he looked, when he talked about you.”

          Like he was memorizing me.

          “Then I said, ‘Yeah, well, who’s cuter?’”

          In the window, Mr. Conte peeked, still hot for a slice. Like we were the only pizza place in town.

          “But he wouldn’t say who! That fucker!” Asunta yelled. “He wouldn’t say.”

          I wiped my eyes, waved Mr. Conte in.

          “He should’ve said me.” She put her head down on the counter. “But he didn’t.”

          “How’s it going?” I asked Mr. Conte, as his slice heated up. He jerked his head toward Asunta, and I nodded.

          Everybody knew how hard she was grieving.   

          Business was still slow later when the snow started. Soft flakes came down gently. Chin in her hand, Asunta looked peaceful watching it.

          Like she forgot how Tommy lay dead in the snow that night.

          I couldn’t.

          But maybe I looked peaceful watching it, too.

 

 

THE END

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        Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.

 

       Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.