Читать книгу Ticket To Love - Jen Safrey - Страница 9

“A aahhh!”

A piercing, someone-is-being-ax-murdered scream shattered the early-evening peace in the apartment Acey shared with her younger sister.

“Yeow!”

A startled Acey accidentally pressed her scalding curling iron against her cheek. “Damn!” she said. She tried to untangle a lock of long thick black hair from the contraption. “Stephanie! Are you all right?” she called.

“Acey!” Steph screamed. “Get in here! Quick! Fast!”

Between Steph’s shrieks, the smell of scorching hair ends and the rising red blotch on her cheek, Acey was getting agitated. Steph was even-keeled, polite, quiet. Acey knew the one prone to the trademark Corelli excitement and hissy fits was herself. It was disconcerting, to say the absolute least, to hear Steph screaming like a banshee.

Acey finally dropped the hot iron onto the bathroom countertop and fled down the short hallway as Steph kept screaming. “Acey! Acey!”

Acey screeched to a halt in the small living room, where Steph was standing in front of the television, hands now covering her mouth in disbelief. “What? What is it?” Acey demanded.

Steph pointed at the TV, which was showing a picture of Bread and Milk, the convenience store two blocks away where the sisters constantly ran for food-and-drink emergencies. Acey shook her head, not understanding. Steph turned up the volume just as the reporter thrust a microphone into the face of Rosalia, the store’s owner. Acey panicked a moment at the sight of one of her favorite people on the news.

“Is she okay?” Acey asked, then realized she should just listen.

“Yes, we’re very excited,” Rosalia was saying in her Colombian accent, still thick despite her many years just outside New York City. “It’s a very good thing for our store.”

The camera cut away and Acey yelled, “What? What’s a good thing?” Then a series of numbers flashed against a blue background. “These are the numbers,” the anchorwoman trilled, “that are worth thirty-five million dollars. So if you are a Bread and Milk customer and haven’t taken a good look at that ticket you bought yesterday, now might be the time.” Then she turned to the meteorologist and asked him for the weekend forecast.

Steph was scratching the numbers into the notebook she always kept handy, then muted the television. The sisters stared at each other.

“Did I hear that right?” Acey asked quietly.

“They picked the thirty-five-million-dollar numbers in the New York lottery last night,” Steph said. “There was one winner. One winning ticket. And it was bought at our store.”

Neither woman moved. Acey could tell from her sister’s wide-eyed expression that they were thinking the same thing. They talked about it every week when they cashed their meager paychecks up the street. They talked about it every month when they had to decide which bill was going to have to be paid late.

It shimmered in the air there between them, dancing for them, teasing them that it could be real.

Both women bolted.

They flew down the hall and reached their bedroom doorway simultaneously, smashing into each other and crushing through together, each wanting to be the first to touch the ticket. They flung themselves at the dresser, and the mirror on top shimmied precariously. They both frantically searched the top of the dresser but came up empty.

“Where is it?” Steph shouted.

“I always put it here! Right here!” Acey cried in a panic. She picked up various porcelain trinket boxes, shaking the cheap gold-plated chains inside, finding nothing but a thin layer of dust under each one. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“We did buy one yesterday, right?”

“We have not forgotten one Thursday since you were legally old enough to go halves with me. And you were with me when I bought it yesterday, remember? They had no lemon Snapple and you had to get raspberry?”

“Check your purse!” Steph screamed. “Check your pockets! Check everything!”

Acey was distracted by her sister’s histrionics. For the first time, Steph seemed to be able to outfreak Acey herself. It was like long-awaited proof that she was a Corelli, too.

Acey leaped onto her bed and dumped the contents of her purse. She rifled through gum wrappers and uncapped pens and ATM receipts. Steph was flinging clothes out of the laundry hamper, searching, Acey guessed, for the jeans she’d worn yesterday. Acey flipped open her wallet and pulled out the only two dollars in there, then held the wallet upside down, willing something she couldn’t see to magically fall out of it.

When it didn’t, she began to wail. “It can’t be missing, it just can’t, it can’t…”

“Keep looking!” Steph barked, thrusting her hands into denim pockets. “Don’t stop. Just shut up until you find it!”

The next twenty minutes were a blur. Acey and Steph were driven to turning over sofa cushions and searching in unthinkable places like the freezer and the mailbox. Acey could hear her sister chanting softly, “Thirty-five million, thirty-five million,” and Acey’s own heart felt as if it might stop.

If only they didn’t do Quick Picks all the time. If she and Steph had played their own numbers, they’d have known right away if it was necessary to rip the apartment to shreds. But maybe they had hit, and it was gone, gone…

No. She couldn’t freak out. Steph would kill her. Of course, if they didn’t find the ticket, it was highly likely Steph would kill her anyway, but… Acey lifted the lumpy braided throw rug, and their cat, Sherlock, darted out from underneath it. He glared at Acey with affront, then raised his back leg and licked himself. “Sherlock,” Acey said, “the cat without a clue.”

Sherlock stopped licking and looked glad he couldn’t understand English because he suspected he was being insulted. “I wish we had a dog,” Acey said through gritted teeth, replacing the rug. “A bloodhound. So it could help us. But, no. All you do is nap and play with—” Paper!

Acey ran to her sister, who was emptying the silverware drawer. “Steph, you’re the mystery writer. Solve this case. It involves a cat who loves to play with little bits of paper.”

Steph dropped a handful of forks and streaked back into the bedroom, Acey on her heels, until she got to Sherlock’s cat bed, between the girls’ beds. And there, in the center, was the ticket. Acey and Steph moved toward it with a reverence reserved for the Holy Grail. And just as Acey was lowering her hand toward the hair-covered cushion, from out of nowhere Sherlock bounced off a bed and landed on the ticket.

“No!” Acey whispered.

Sherlock, apparently in revenge for Acey’s sarcasm two moments prior, clamped down on the ticket with his teeth.

Steph grabbed Sherlock’s feather toy, which was lying nearby. She shook it, and Sherlock was distracted, mesmerized by the motion and the little tinkly bell. He dropped the ticket. In slow motion, Acey crept her hand toward him, and had one finger on the ticket when she got scratched.

“Ow!” she said, pulling back her freshly bleeding hand. Sherlock circled once and sat on the ticket.

Steph, still on her hands and knees, crawled behind Sherlock and lifted him up. Acey reached again for the ticket, crooning, “Nice kitty, nice kitty,” and pulled her hand away before the next swipe could get her. Steph adjusted her hold on the cat so both his front legs were spread wide. He wriggled, but not quickly enough. Acey had it in her hand.

Jackpot.

Steph lowered Sherlock, and she and Acey stared down at the ticket, which was a bit wrinkled but miraculously had no punctures.

“Go get the numbers,” Acey finally said. “I’ll check the date and make sure it’s the right ticket.”

Steph scampered off. In Acey’s palm, the ticket felt heavier than a piece of paper, and her hand shook with exhaustion and anticipation. She found yesterday’s date—May 24—and took a deep breath. Steph stepped back into the room and Acey saw her steady herself.

“Ready?” Steph asked.

“Ready.” Acey squeezed her eyes shut.

“All right. Here I go. The first number is…four.”

Acey opened her eyes and looked at the first number on the ticket.

Eight.

“Argh!” She threw the ticket as hard as she could. Being paper, it just floated to the floor at her feet. Acey stomped on it. “I can’t believe it! After all that!”

Steph picked up the ticket and checked the numbers against her notebook. “Sheesh. We didn’t even get one number.”

Acey flopped onto her bed as dramatically as she knew how. “In twenty-seven whole years on this planet, why can’t anything good happen to me? Ever?”

“Join the club.”

Acey shook her head. “No. Everything I try goes to hell. At least you’re writing books.” In fact, that was why Steph had caught the lottery story. She religiously parked herself in front of the news every single night when she got back from her receptionist’s job at the local hair salon. She considered the news a treasure trove of ideas for the mystery novels she’d been writing since she was about fifteen. Acey was jealous of her smart, two-years-younger sister sometimes, knowing deep down that if one of them was going to be successful, it wouldn’t be Acey.

“I’m writing books, but I’m not selling books. I got another rejection letter two days ago.”

“So what? At least you’re doing something. I’m doomed to struggle every day at the pizza place for the rest of my life.”

“Acey, there are a million things you could do if you really wanted to. You always make all these plans and then you never follow through. Maybe you could—”

“If you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about my dim future. I’d rather dwell on the deep disappointment of not winning thirty-five million.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you would have had to give me half.”

Acey sighed loudly.

Steph went to sit down on her bed, but the contents of two dresser drawers were piled there, so she nudged Acey over and sat down next to her. Now that the craziness had passed, Acey noticed, Steph was back to her calm, rational self. “Listen,” Steph said, “it’s not as if we expect to win when we buy lottery tickets. Not really. It’s just a dream.”

“But I thought it was us just now, finally. Didn’t you think it was us?”

Steph lay down. “Yeah. I thought it was us.”

Acey stayed silent for a few minutes, her heartbeat slowing from thumping to unnoticeable. “If we’d won, we could have hired a maid to clean all this up. Now we’re stuck doing it.”

Steph chuckled. “Let’s just be glad Ma and Dad are in Florida now. The sight of this place now would kill her.”

Acey smiled. “‘Annamaria Christina Corelli!’” she mimicked. “‘This place is a disaster!’ But, Ma, it’s Steph’s fault. ‘Stephanie Cara Corelli!’” Acey giggled. “Like our full names are supposed to scare us into picking things up.”

“My name did scare me in kindergarten,” Steph said. “Too many letters to learn to write.”

“At least Dad made it easier for me,” Acey said. It was true. Daunted by his elder daughter’s mouthful of a name, and perhaps with a part of him longing for a son, he nicknamed her A.C. Many years of her parents’ shouting it up the stairs had morphed it into Acey.

Acey grinned, but remembered a moment later that this was a somber occasion. Stretching her arms over her head, she said, “Well, whoever won, it’s still pretty cool that it’s one of us. Someone who lives here in Valley Stream.”

“Could be anyone. Could be an out-of-towner.”

“No,” Acey said. A plane passed low over their building, and she listened until she couldn’t hear it anymore before adding, “I just have a feeling it’s a neighbor. Someone like us. Someone who works hard and who’s probably kind of nice.”

“That does make sense. Bread and Milk isn’t exactly a tourist attraction. It’s probably someone we see in there all the time.”

“But who?” Acey tried to conjure up memories of anyone she’d ever noticed in there. The idea that the future millionaire had walked among them left Acey flummoxed. “Wow, I’m dying to know who it is now.”

“Maybe you’ll have to wait,” Steph said. “It was just last night, after all.”

“True. No one with thirty-five million dollars is going to just want to keep living a boring old life around here.” Acey sighed. “No one.”

Harry unwrapped his Italian hero and regarded it with love as it sat in its white paper nest. Salami pieces and shreds of provolone had fallen out of the thick sandwich, and oil was forming a little puddle around it. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, and he’d just about seen it all.

Whenever a little corner of his heart began to yearn for his Texas life, whenever a section of his brain began to wonder if leaving behind everything he knew and coming to New York wasn’t a lunatic idea, Harry just went out and found himself a sandwich. New York tasted better than any place he’d ever been.

He hefted the huge hero to his face and his biceps actually strained. He inhaled the scent of the oil. Ah. He opened his mouth and took a tremendous bite of his new life. Oil dribbled down his chin. He grabbed one of the fifty-seven napkins the deli guy had tossed into his bag, wiped his face and picked up the remote. He flipped around before deciding on the local news.

He dived into his sandwich again and looked over it to numbers blinking at him from the TV screen. “These are the numbers,” the anchorwoman was saying, “that are worth thirty-five million dollars. So if you are a Bread and Milk customer and haven’t taken a good look at that ticket you bought yesterday, now might be the time.”

Harry ceased chewing, and the food just floated around his mouth as he sat, frozen. He felt something greasy run down his hand into his sleeve, but still he didn’t move.

Something about the newswoman’s voice. So happy. Delighted to be reporting what everyone must consider good news. Someone who wasn’t a millionaire yesterday is a millionaire today.

He looked at her smiling plastic face, now listening to the weatherman saying something about a warming trend. She doesn’t think at all that she just delivered the worst news of the day, Harry thought. The newscast before this story was undoubtedly filled with fires and famine, wars and woes. Clearly, they’d saved the “happy” story until the end.

Harry dropped the sandwich back onto the paper on the coffee table in front of him and sat back. He knew, knew for a sad fact, that the person with the winning ticket was the unluckiest person who ever lived. He, or she, didn’t know it now, and they wouldn’t know it when they were cut a nice big check, and they wouldn’t know it when they bought their new enormous mansion in Beverly Hills or the Hamptons or in the south of France. But slowly, over time, the money, the privilege, would turn them into something else, something not even human, something that was a danger to others.

Harry’s left leg twinged, and he glanced down at it. Encased in jeans, ending in a sharply pointed cowboy boot, it looked like any other leg. If he took off the denim, and peeled off skin, he knew he’d see an abnormality—a steel pin, the best money could buy, which was ironic since money was what sent him to the operating room in the first place.

He hated when he remembered. He tried not to remember, ever, but the littlest thing could set it off—a person at the bus stop on crutches, or a horse-race recap show on cable. Then his mind swirled him away from his living room or the street or wherever he was, and threw him back under his horse, the animal writhing and crying out in ceaseless pain, crushing Harry’s bones as it struggled and failed to get up.

Money, the bottomless money that was his birthright, the money he had tossed around full-time on ski slopes and cliff edges, had eventually ended the life of a beautiful animal. Lying in a hospital bed, reading a magazine account of those awful moments, Harry had wished it had ended his own, too.

Harry bolted up from the sofa and lurched into the kitchen, weighted down by his own memories. He stood in front of the refrigerator and there, under a magnet among photos of his sisters, was yesterday’s lottery ticket. He’d never bought a lottery ticket in his life. He’d even laughed a little bit at the irony while standing in line at Bread and Milk. But he’d wanted to pick one up for Joe, his downstairs neighbor, who was in Boston this week visiting his daughter. Joe had spent the better part of last weekend helping Harry fix his air conditioner. He’d refused payment so Harry, knowing Joe religiously played the lottery, figured the least he could do was offer to pick him up a ticket. “I’d appreciate it, man,” Joe had said with a grin. “I’ll throw you a couple mil if I hit.” Harry had winced at the irony—he could’ve thrown Joe a couple mil any day of the week. But he bought the ticket.

He looked at it now. The first number was eleven. He remembered a four on the television. So that was that.

The eleven seemed to stare back at him. One-one. Like two people, two identical people, standing side by side. Like Harry and the new millionaire. One person nearly destroyed, and one person about to be. Harry slid the ticket out from under the magnet and went to toss it in the trash, but for some reason, he couldn’t let it drop out of his hand. Instead, he just folded it over so he didn’t have to see the eleven, or any of the other numbers, and tacked it back up to the fridge. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of root beer and carried it back to the living room.

His sandwich was there, at least as appetizing as before. His life here was okay. He could handle an occasional reminder, as long as he didn’t dwell on it, he told himself. He grabbed the remote and changed the channel, and found talk of the lottery on the competing news station.

“I can’t wait to see who it is,” this woman was bubbling to her coanchor.

“I can,” Harry told her, picking up his hero again. “That poor, unlucky slob.”