Concrete Angel Read Free

its oddly placed dial, still lay overturned on the living room floor. If the incident had happened in the bedroom, the easier-to-use baby blue princess phone might have saved Jerry’s life.
    “If it’s not too late, I could use your help, Cy.” Her words were overly precise—like she was reading a script. “No, no, you’ll have to come over here, I’m afraid. Yes, yes, as soon as possible.” She laughed a little, pretending it wasn’t too awful, that nothing was greatly amiss. “I know it’s late but I’d rather not explain over the phone.”
    Who could blame her? Although I would’ve liked to have had some warning of what story she’d tell Cy.
    It was past midnight and if Cy refused to come, whom could we call next? We’d run out of saviors. One thing was certain from the look on her face when I suggested it, there’d be no calling Daddy. Nor my grandmother. She’d be too full of “I told you so’s,” for Mother to tolerate. She’d be horrified, maybe having a heart attack, adding to our body count. Our list of possibilities was short, so Cy would have to come.
    In the recent past, my father would have handled the situation, found a way to wipe things clean, made the problem evaporate even if Mother disappeared with it. But now there was only the two of us to clear things up. And Cy. Only a month or two into our newly divorced state and we were already in a fix as Daddy had predicted.

“Y ou have no idea what the world’s like,” Daddy flung at Mother in the judge’s quarters some weeks before Jerry Santini reached for the Ericafone. “I’ve taken care of you far too well all these years, ushering you straight from your father’s bed to mine. You’re a child still, Eve. An infant.” Daddy knew this was one charge my mother despised.
    “I was about to tell him off right there, but Cy grabbed my hand, nearly crushing it,” Mother said, dabbing her eyes on the night following their divorce. “And this is the worst part.” She blew her nose noisily. “Are you ready for this?” I nodded. “Your father shouted how he could see how things were—suggesting my bed was already waiting for the next guy.” She reached for my hand. “Embarrassing me in front of both the judge and Cy,” she continued shakily. “Have you ever heard of anything so mean? Deserting us without a thought and then blaming me for hiring a decent lawyer to see us through it. Mocking me for accepting help from my own attorney. He’d prefer to see us on the streets begging pennies from strangers.”
    I nodded sympathetically.
    Mother drew herself up. “Cy’s a married man after all.” She smoothed the wrinkle in her skirt, adding somewhat sadly, “And he’s not my type—not by a long shot.”
    Cy was a heavy-set man, the kind of guy who was always hiking up his pants, tucking in his shirt, sweating even in winter. He was also balding and wore thick dark glasses completely obscuring his face. No, he wasn’t Mother’s type. She’d require certain things from Cy, but not others.
    I was silent, trying hard to get the childishly mistaken picture of Mother in bed with my grandfather out of my head. The words from your father’s bed to mine were difficult to excise from my twelve-year old brain.
    It’d already occurred to me that Cy’s addition to our household, if he married my mother, might take some of the pressure off me. I’d had a good taste of what life alone with her was like over the course of my parents’ many separations, and it was wearying. There was always a problem to solve, a slight to be dealt with, Mother’s schemes to be derailed, a place to be found for her newest junk. Junk. We haven’t gotten into her junk yet.
    But now I’d found out Cy was married and unlikely to move in and care for us. And he was not Mother’s type. His shoes weren’t shined. He was fat. He’d fade from our lives quickly once she no longer needed him.
    “I kind of like Cy,” I said faintly. “Maybe he’ll get