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| There's finally tomorrow...
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Almost two months ago, a dear family friend named Marcie Buczynski was brutally murdered by her fiendish husband, who, feeling that he finally made his point, committed suicide by jumping off the southbound span of the Delaware Memorial Bridge. I've discussed this event in January's entries. His body was finally found. You see, in winter, these things take time: the water in the Delaware River is so cold, that the gases that would ordinarily expand inside a corpse do so very slowly. Took a while for him to wash up.
Trenton has to be the last city of its size to have two major daily newspapers. The Times, a broadsheet, has been in business for well over a century and a half. The Trentonian, a silly, mindless tabloid read by people whose lips move while they peruse, stated in an article the weekend after the murder that Walter Buczynski, the husband, might not actually be dead, because, while he was witnessed by more than one individual parking his car on the bridge, and jumping off, no body turned up. It seemed quite obvious to me, that said analyst who penned the article might, in fact, not be much more intelligent than this newspaper's readership. This individual is relegated to an outlet that contributes stultifying, right-wing drivel, as well as full page color spreads of scantily clad post-teenage hotties. I'm sure he's proud.
"Well," says Brenda, pouring ketchup on her steak fries, "I guess there's gonna be closure for somebody out there."
"Maybe not."
"I feel very bad for her kids. They gotta be having a hard time of it."
I clear my throat, and put pepper in my bowl of gumbo, the soup de jour. "A couple of Sundays ago, when Carolyn was away, I put in one of our wedding videos. Two were shot."
"Two? How did you rate two?
"Because we're blessed, I suppose. Anyway, it was fun to watch, to see how the kids in the family have grown. I'm enjoying this. And then, all of a sudden, my friend with the camera pans the table where Marcie and Walter are sitting with my parents. There's a couple of good seconds where Marcie's staring at the camera, looking straight at me, with her big wide eyes and her big grin, and it's like..."
"Oh yeah. I know."
"It's like, I'm not enjoying this anymore. I took the tape out, rewound it, and put it away. Enough for me."
"You said this was your sister's best friend."
"Yes. Her best friend."
"Well, you know I've been there. Sometimes I think I've never left there."
I inhale. The smell of Brenda's Reubenburger and fries is a sublime thing. "How's it going with Mindy?"
"It's good. Pretty soon, I'd like you two to meet."
"I'd like that very much."
"She's interested in meeting you, too."
That's nice. To be honest, it gives me the fuzzies. I love being held in high regard. Sure beats being Eliot Spitzer, who, right now, isn't even being held in high regard by his hamster.
Cookie speeds down to check up on us. "How's your soup, boyo?"
"Boyo. You got that in a movie?"
"Sure."
"Soup's good. I'd love to learn how to make it myself."
"I love it," Cookie says, a glow coming off her bright red hair from the flourescent lights. "I put a bit of tobasco in it, makes my eyebrows stand on end."
"Oh, that'll do it," Brenda comments.
"So," Cookie says, "I hear you're Brenda M."
Brenda looks up. "Hmm?"
"I'm Siobhan O."
Brenda sighs, and smiles. "How long?"
"Going on eight years. It's a miracle."
"I'm three and a half now. Every day's a miracle for me. Every day. In so many ways, too." Hmm. I'm thinking that what's going on right now might be kind of like invasion of the body snatchers, that Brenda's radiating an inner peace that is really quite new to me. Strange. The body snatchers can keep the old Brenda, the pre-AA/pre-Mindy Brenda. "Good for you, Cookie."
Cookie takes Brenda's left hand with both of hers. "God bless."
"Thank you."
"You both fine here?"
"Yeah, we're good," I say. Cookie speeds away.
"You know," Brenda says, "it's like, there's finally tomorrow."
"Yes, you actually have something to live for. Isn't that nice?"
Brenda smiles. She really has a very nice smile. "Yes."
I look in her eyes. Brenda Morabito stands five nine, two twenty perhaps. Quite a bit of sinew. She's stocky, and quite butch. Her hair nowadays is cut short, in a spiky style, and has gone very gray. Her face is slightly dark complected, very Mediterranean, with roundish features. Her eyes are dark brown, and twinkle when her countenance is sunny. Which it is tonight. "Well, keep on' livin'."
"You don't have to worry about me."
"No, I don't," I say, putting the lemon sidecar on my Diet Coke into the drink. "For a change. That's good."
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Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-03-12 20:45:59 | Rating: | Views: 89
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awesome story. One of these days, I'm going to send you a pic of the lady that reminds me of Brenda. Every time I read Brenda, I think of her...
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Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-03-12 22:05:20
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Thanks, as always.
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Posted by Knoxxie03
on 2008-03-13 09:27:14
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