D.K. Sanz/Kyrian Lyndon's Blog, page 13

THE WORLD NEEDS TO BE FULL OF LOVE 🥰

 
“The rationale seems to be that we keep people as victims by validating them, empathizing with them, and fighting alongside them for equality and the dignity they deserve. I don’t think people are kept down by that. I believe what keeps people down is the constant dismissal of their pain, the degradation, the humiliation, the fear of injustice, and the continuous crushing of their will, their faith, and their hope. This type of oppression kills the self-esteem people need to empower themselves.” ― Kyrian Lyndon

“The world is getting too small for both an Us and a Them. Us and Them have become codependent, intertwined, fixed to one another. We have no separate fates, but are bound together in one. And our fear of one another is the only thing capable of our undoing.” ― Sam Killermann

First image by danielaceronmarin10 from Pixabay

Second image by Anderlane Andie from Pixabay

Third image by John Hain from Pixabay

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 19

Chapter Nineteen 

T 

he holiday season after I turned seven, Zuza and her coworkers had strung clear-colored mini-lights around the dress shop windows, as they did every holiday season. A decorated tree blinked with miniature lights from its pedestal in the reception area. The back table had an abundant variety of cookies and cakes. Zuza and my grandmother had shared their homemade cookies. Customers brought more sweets. Fellow storeowners from the neighborhood brought bottles of wine, whiskey, and scotch. Zuza invited customers to have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and help themselves to the treats. It was a happy time. All of us kids dashed over to the table as many times as we could, especially since Zuza had decorated it with a candy cane holiday cloth and pine garland mixed with pinecones. 

Zuza had been talking in Italian with my grandmother as they stood near the little desk in the back of the shop. The tone of their conversation was hectic and tense. 

When my mother arrived, Zuza greeted her politely and yielded to appropriate discourse about the weather. Then, with a subtle shift, Zuza changed gears. 

“Grace, you don’t have to pick up the kids or watch them if it’s trouble for you,” she said. “I’ll take care of them. You do whatever you have to do.” 

I saw the rise of my mother’s brows as her smile faded. “Maybe you are the one having trouble,” she replied. 

“It’s no trouble for me,” Zuza said. “I love them as if they were my own.” 

“I don’t?” My mother was incensed, I could tell. “I drop everything to pick up the kids whenever you ask me to.” 

“And I did the same.” 

“Well, I’ll keep my boys and my little girl, and you just worry about selling your dresses.” She grabbed hold of my arm and shot a glance at Robbie who was several feet away, looking on. “Robbie, get your brother. Let’s go.” 

“I love you, Grace,” my godmother said. In her voice, stern resolution mingled torturously with a sympathetic softness. “I love Luca, my brother. I love all the kids.” 

My mother pushed all three of us in the direction of the door. We looked back several times, bewildered by our mother’s anger and Zuza’s sorrowful countenance. 

Grandma brought up Zuza at dinner that night. “God bless her,” she lamented. “They worka very hard all day, and with two kids. Then she takes care of Joey, Robbie, Danielle, everybody.” She was shaking her head. “Too much.” 

“We took turns,” my mother shot back. “We helped each other.” 

“Maybe it is a lot for her,” my father said. “She does work hard.” 

“So do I. If you wanna know, I am the one who picks them up more—more than her, because I know she’s working and needs help.” 

“It’s not the same,” my grandmother said. “They work, no just disappear.” 

“And I just disappear?” Those dark eyes widened to unprecedented enormity. “I don’t work? I have three kids here, and you think I don’t work? I disappear? Can you believe this?” 

“Hold it, hold it,” my father interjected. “Mama, did Zuza say something to you?” 

Grandma shrugged. “It’s not my business.” 

He clenched his teeth. “You brought it up, and now you say it’s not your business. Mama, did she tell you it’s too much for her?” 

All of our curious eyes fell upon her. 

“I no wanna get in trouble. They no say anything. I shut up.” 

My parents looked at each other. 

“Why didn’t she come and tell me?” my mother asked. “I don’t like that. If it’s too much for you, then say it’s too much for you. Don’t say it’s too much for me. Don’t go behind my back.” 

My grandmother defended her daughter. “They wanna do! She can’t, Grace! The shop is too busy. They feed everybody.” 

“You gotta be kidding!” my father shouted. “When they are here, we feed everybody, too. We give them everything, whatever they want, and it’s no problem. All right!” he bellowed. “Grace, from now on, you pick up the kids yourself. I don’t want Zuza picking up any of the kids from school. However we have to do it, we’ll do it.” 

“Daddy!” Robbie yelled. “Grandma said Zuza didn’t say nothing!” 

“Anything,” my mother corrected. “She didn’t say anything. You live in America. Speak proper English.” 

“That’s right,” my father snapped. “Besides, don’t you have homework?” 

“A little.” 

“Then go do it. Take your sister with you.” 

“How am I supposed to do homework if I take her with me?” 

“Then go play.” 

My mother glared at my grandmother. “I don’t disappear! What proof do you have to make an accusation like that—that I just disappear?” 

Joey hustled us out of the room, but their discussion raged on with added intensity. 

“And where do you go all the time?” my grandmother pressed. 

“It’s none of your business where I go!” 

“Grace, you don’t bring the kids there no more!” my father shrieked. “You hear me? And you stay here, where you belong. From now on, I don’t want any of the kids to go over there to their house, or to the dress shop, for anything.” He waved his hand in disgust. “They are all dead to me.” 

“Sfatcheem!” my grandmother yelled. “Stubborn like the mule.” She reminded him that Zuza was his sister, that it was between her and Grace, and that Dominic and the kids had nothing to do with it. 

“I never saw that side of Zuza,” I heard my mother say. “This really hurts me.” 

I didn’t know what side she meant. Zuza was nice to me all the time. I never got the impression she thought taking care of us was too much, not even for a minute. 

It was awkward running into her now with Angie and Dom Jr. My mother would look away from them. Angie sat farther away from me in school, but Dom Jr. would wave to me in secret with his hand down low. Zuza tried talking to my mom. The sadness in her eyes matched the sadness in my heart. I could feel her love, as it continued to envelop me like the fluffiest blanket. My father said Uncle Dom had tried talking to him a couple of times, but he waved him off and kept walking. We would hear their cherished, familiar voices in the yard when they visited my grandmother. We had to go on eating Sunday dinner as if they weren’t there. My grandmother would come in several times and plead with my father to join them or invite them inside. I could hear all the weariness and frustration in her squally voice, but he wouldn’t budge. 

My brothers and I would walk over to the Vaccaros’ house. We stood directly across from it, on the other side of the street, and watched the multicolored lights blinking festively on the windows. They had the same gleaming white Venetian blinds as we had, and had strung lights all around the house. I figured they had placed their usual “Happy Holidays” welcome mat at the front door, but, I thought sadly, it wouldn’t welcome us that Christmas. 

I missed them terribly and clung to the monkey Uncle Dom had given me once.  

“Throw that thing away,” my mother demanded when I brought it to the kitchen. “It’s filthy, and it’s all ripped.” 

“No! No, please!” I cried. “If I let you give him a bath, can I keep him? Please don’t take him. Please, please, you could wash him and sew him. Mommy, please?” I cried so hard. 

“It’s not worth it, Danielle. It’s falling apart.” She looked sorry for me, as she tried to pry the monkey from my grip, but I clung to it. 

Exasperated, she promised to buy me something at the store. That didn’t soothe me, but I handed him over, tears streaming. 

I saw Zuza after the holidays. She headed toward the school as I waited there for my mother. My heart pounded, for I could see my mother as well, at a greater distance. 

Zuza came close to greet me. “Hello, Danielle.” 

With a yearning in my heart, I lowered my eyes. 

She lifted my chin with her delicate touch. “I want you to know I love you with all of my heart. I don’t want you to ever forget.” 

“I love you, too,” I whimpered. 

“I was very happy to take care of you and your brothers,” she said. “I love you all, your mother, and your father, too, and I’m not gonna give up. I promise.” 

My eyes shifted, as my mother was no more than two yards away. 

Zuza didn’t scurry off or quicken her pace. She simply moved along. 

My mother glanced in her direction before fixing her gaze upon me. “What did she say?” 

“She said she loves me, Mommy, and she loves all of us. She loves you, too.” 

“What did you tell her?” 

“That I love her back. I miss Zuza, Mommy.” 

“I know,” she replied. “There’s nothing I can do about that.” 

I saw Zuza outside the school again on a blustery February afternoon. The ties of my pom-pom hat were dangling. 

She stopped in an instant and stood before me. “You have to cover your ears,” she said, tying my hat. “I don’t want you to get sick.” 

She was gone before my mother arrived, and my mother assumed I had tied it myself. The next time she saw me waiting outside with the ties dangling, she asked why I hadn’t tied them. 

“I didn’t tie it ever, Mommy,” I confessed. “I don’t know how.” 

“I told your teacher not to tie it for you. You have to learn.” 

“She didn’t, Ma. Zuza did.” 

“I told you to stay away from her, Danielle, and I told you to practice tying your hat. Either you tell Zuza not to do that, or I’m going to tell her.” 

“Please don’t,” I begged. “Don’t be mean to her. I promise I will tell her.” 

I did. 

“Your mother is right,” Zuza said. “I shouldn’t interfere. She’s trying to help you, believe me. I have the easy job with you, just to love you. I know you don’t understand. It takes a lot of love to be tough. There is nothing like a mother’s love, Danielle.” 

I felt determined and tied the hat in her presence, then witnessed her glowing pride before she departed. 

I hung onto hope throughout the winter months. It was like a solitary candle that burned boldly with its singular fury. On Easter Sunday, however, I watched that flame extinguish with the gust of a raging typhoon. 

The bell rang. I peeked out the upstairs window and was happy to see Zuza at the front door. She was carrying something in her arms. 

My happy delight would soon become agony, as my mother held the door open below. “What do you want?” I heard her say. 

“Hello, Grace,” Zuza greeted her. “I brought an Easter bunny for Danielle—chocolate—and a little something for Robbie and Joe. May I come in?” 

“Get out of here,” my mother snarled. “Take your bunny and whatever else you brought, and get the hell out of here.” 

“Danielle is my godchild,” she protested. “We all miss each other. Grace, please, let me give this to the children—at least, to my godchild. Or you give it to them, if you want.” 

“My kids don’t need anything from you. Whatever they do need, they’ll get it from me and their father.” She closed the door. 

I had but a second to glimpse the pain on my godmother’s face, then cried on and off for hours, knowing how much courage it must have taken for Zuza to do that, and how my mother had turned her away like a piece of dirt. Dear Zuza! It was more difficult to accept the pain inflicted on her than the pain I was feeling. I would never forget her face, nor her amazing humility, dignity, and grace under the circumstances. It truly broke my heart. More disturbingly, I barely recognized the woman who had sent her away, though I’d seen glimpses of her before. 

After dinner that night, my mother presented us with chocolate Easter bunnies, saving one for herself and one for my father. She nibbled at her bunny as we nibbled at ours, giggling with us. She put out the jellybeans we loved, remembering how much I loved the black and red ones. Before I went to bed that night, I saw she was alone in the dining room, doing her manicure and pedicure as if all was right with the world. 

Come fall, there were no Vaccaros at my birthday party. The holiday season was upon us once more. We were having dessert in the dining room—the whole family enjoying lemon meringue pie—and my grandmother had a meltdown. 

“Oh, Dio, oh, Dio,” she began, shaking her head. Tears were streaming down her face. 

“What’s happened?” my father asked. 

She shook her head and then began what seemed an exhaustive, emotional discourse in Italian. “I make a mistake.” She kept shaking her head. 

My mother shot a glance at my father. 

“It’sa no true,” my grandmother said. 

My mother’s eyes fell upon her. “What’s not true?” 

“Zuza no say anything. I say. I feela sorry. She worka hard.” My grandmother was bawling like a small child, and she continued to apologize. 

My father clenched his teeth. “Then you thought it was too much for Zuza, and you put words in her mouth. But, Mama, why don’t you mind your own goddamn business? Do you see the trouble you caused? Unbelievable! And you probably said the same thing to Zuza, I bet—that it was too much—and she thought it was Grace complaining. Why do you do that? Goddamn it!” 

My mother pressed for clarification. “You’re saying Zuza never said anything about it being too much for her to take care of the kids and about me disappearing?” 

Grandma was shaking her head. It was then she told us that there was something wrong with Dominic Jr., that he had a heart condition. 

My dad turned to my mother. “Grace, call her, please. Call Zuza.” He went on chastising my grandmother, and she continued to cry. 

Zuza would confirm that my grandmother was the one who insisted it was too much for her daughter. She’d also given Zuza the impression that Grace had complained. 

“Can we go see them?” I begged. 

“We’ll stop by the dress shop tomorrow,” my mother said. 

Zuza was dressing a mannequin in the window when we arrived. I ran to hug her, and she laughed merrily, her arms full of me. She kissed my head and cheek several times, then hugged Joey and Robbie. 

“I’m sorry,” my mother conceded, her arms outstretched. 

Zuza reached back, smiling. “I’m sorry, too, Grace.” 

They laughed, cried, and hugged for nearly five minutes. 

“I couldn’t believe it when she told me this,” my mother said. “I was shocked.” 

Zuza’s eyes matched her beaming smile. All I could see was admiration. “That’s Mama,” she said. “Mama is Mama, and she’s always gonna be. She wants everybody to be happy, but she doesn’t know when to keep quiet. God bless her.” 

They talked about Dom Jr., and Zuza seemed optimistic, unless she was putting on a brave face. I couldn’t tell. The next thing I knew, that sweet boy was hooked up to monitors at Hartford Hospital and turned mostly on his side, in too precarious a state for frequent visits or visits by anyone other than his parents. 

We had all believed that, somehow, he’d pull through. My mother began working at the dress shop and taking care of Angie, so that Zuza could visit him often. When my father said Dom Jr. had passed away, I couldn’t sleep nights trying to comprehend that. It had me obsessing about whether there was an endless nothing or this fabled “Heaven” where God waited to welcome us. I tried to imagine myself being no more, and the fear overwhelmed me. 

The first time I saw Zuza after that, she was folding clothes in her bedroom, and I told her I was sorry that she had lost her baby. 

She set the clothes down and turned to me. Scooting down to meet my gaze, she placed her hands on my shoulders. “Yes, I lost my son, one of my babies,” she said, “but God will take care of him. I know your father gets mad and says a lot of things, but never stop believing, Danielle. You have to believe in and trust God.” 

I wondered how it was fair that Dom Jr.’s precious face would be no more, and yet there would be the fierce eyes of Tommy Catalano, still watching, lurking, and waiting in the wings. 

“Will the angels fly with him to heaven?” I asked. 

“They better!” She smiled. “I don’t think he knows how to get there by himself.” 

“Will he get wings?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Will he still look like him?” 

“I imagine so!” 

“What’s it like up there?” 

“Beautiful,” she said. “He will be very happy.” 

“Could we ever visit him, and stay with him for a little while?” 

“One day, honey. One day, we will all be together again.” 

“But would he remember me?” I began to cry so hard that she scrambled to grab me. 

“How could he ever forget you?” She hugged me tight and rocked me gently back and forth. “You are such a beautiful, wonderful girl. I will always miss him, too, but I’m gonna take care of the rest of my babies, my children, including you. I am very lucky to have you, Danielle. Thank you.” 

God, I loved her! In that moment, she was the most wonderful woman in the world to me. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 18

Chapter Eighteen 

It was about four when I arrived at the dress shop. The Versailles curtains in the display windows changed with the seasons. In winter, they were heavyweight opaque in a platinum shade. Zuza would herald the arrival of spring with bead-trimmed, crushed fabric in sage, which remained throughout the summer. Chenille in taupe was the fall look. By Thanksgiving, she had replaced it with plush velvet draping in gold. 

The familiar bells jingled as I passed through the door. Zuza was at the register, chatting on the phone. I hung my coat on the rack. My mind conjured memories from a decade ago—all of us children prancing around the reception room. Since our early kindergarten days, Zuza and my mom had taken turns transporting us to and from school. When Zuza picked us up, we waited here for my mother.

I’d be thrilled to arrive and see the latest dresses displayed on the mannequins, one in each window, and two in the reception area against a backdrop of pale blue walls. We often slumped on the floral sofa beside the floor lamp that had a fringe shade of broadcloth. The center table surrounding the sofa offered past and present editions of Harper’s Bazaar, until Angie and I convinced Zuza to add Cosmo and Seventeen. 

Display counters that once exhibited handcrafted fabric dolls and plush, hand-stitched bears made by employees, including my grandmother, now displayed brooches, pendants, chains, and hand-dyed silk scarves. None of the women had time to make dolls anymore. I missed the dolls. I thought immediately of Sweet Cookie, a store-bought doll Zuza had given to me on my fifth birthday. 

How I missed that innocent time! All of us kids would stampede to the workroom in back like a herd of cattle. Depending on when you visited, it could be a quiet place with people working or abuzz with the chatter of visitors. Zuza kept coffee brewing on a table against the wall. People brought cookies she would set out there. Beyond the table, as far in the back as you could go, there was a tiny desk where Uncle Dom would sit to do the books. I always looked to see if he was there, though he usually wasn’t on a weekday. He owned a popular barbershop back then where my dad liked to go. It was a hangout for some of the locals. 

Zuza hung up the phone now and smiled. “Here’s my beautiful godchild!” Her eyes radiated warmth, caring, kindness, and much love. 

We went to the back, where my mother sat cutting and trimming at the long table—the same table where we’d sat coloring during childhood, with the cushioned armchairs and chintz-covered stools and many braided baskets filled with patterns and supplies. My grandmother was at one of the sewing machines, doing alterations, while another worker stood a few feet away, hand-pressing a gown. 

Oh, the wonderful memories I had of this place! 

Uncle Dom had been so kind when we’d visited on the Saturday after my eye surgery all those years ago. 

“I only have to keep the patch for a little while,” I recall telling him. 

“Don’t worry,” he had said, “when they take it off, you’re gonna find a princess under that patch.” 

“Me?” 

“That’s right. And, one day, I’m gonna take you to Pozzilli with me. They have beautiful castles there. You’re gonna see.” 

“Real castles?” 

“Oh, yeah, they are huge! I’m telling you, the way they are now is the way they were hundreds of years ago. You’re gonna be the Princess of Pozzilli there, and you’re not gonna believe it.” 

I couldn’t help giggling. 

“It’s funny?” he asked. “Why do you find it funny?” 

“Princess of Pozzilli is a funny name.” 

“What, you would rather be Queen of Pozzilli?” 

I nodded and then tugged on his sleeve. “Did you bring the dummy?” 

I was referring to a wooden doll he sometimes brought with him for his ventriloquist routine. He made everyone laugh, though no one laughed harder than Grandma. 

“Next time,” he promised with a wink. 

No matter where Uncle Dom was, he appeared more than willing to deliver the impromptu magic tricks, particularly with bills, coins, and cigarettes he would pull from his pockets. Seeing him laugh after he made us laugh was part of the treat. I felt blessed that my parents had chosen him and Zuza for my godparents. 

Zuza took my measurements that day, just as she had years ago before creating the costume for my first grade play. For that—my acting debut—she transformed brown moiré fabric into a tunic, seaming the sides, traced a white clock face, cut it out, and drew Roman numerals with a black marker. She glued toy mice to the tunic and headpiece, and, in the final phases, added gold cords and cut out the hands. I had no more to do than tilt my head from left to right, chiming, “Tick-tock. Tick-tock,” but everyone marveled. 

I had looked forward to that, but this modeling gig, not so much. 

“When you come Saturday to model, bring two pairs of shoes,” she said, “one with maybe a three-inch heel, another with four. I know you must have them, and if you have a strapless bra, bring it. It’s better if it’s beige, that way you can’t see through—and if you have the seamless panties, that would be perfect.” 

When Saturday arrived, I gathered all of those things and stuffed them in a backpack. Then I put the backpack aside and took some time to study my books on writing. I looked over Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style—my bible long before The Chicago Manual of Style. Then, hoping it would seal the information in my brain and make a quick, easy guide, I typed a booklet of notes, including notes from the literary agent’s critique. 

As I slipped the booklet into a binder I had pulled from my bookcase, a somewhat tattered page fell out. It was an article I had cut out of a magazine: “What to Do With Your First Million.” It might have been from Writer’s Digest or Money Magazine. I subscribed to both. Now, in my mind, seeing this article at precisely that moment seemed like a sign from God. Still, it amused me. Yes, Danielle, God wants you on the French Riviera, wearing a string bikini, shades, and a floppy hat, sipping margaritas and snapping your fingers at cabana boys. Nonetheless, it reinforced my determination. 

Along with the college courses I would take to further my literary pursuits, I vowed to sign up for acting classes and voice lessons. Perhaps a desire to prove my worth was one motivating factor, but my interests were genuine. 

By one o’clock, I was at the dress shop. 

“You’re just going to put on a sample and see how it looks and feels when you move around, when you go to sit down, and when you walk,” Zuza explained. “That way, we can take a look and see how better to fix it. After that, it can be made any size.” 

I followed her to the back where Angie was walking around filling a scrap bag with discarded materials. My mother and grandmother usually took Saturdays off, but they were there now working. After the usual greetings and casual conversation, I passed through the louver doors of the fitting room with Zuza’s dress in hand. There was no escaping my reflection in the well-lit room. There were large mirrors with unique etching and pink swags at the top. I didn’t like what I saw in those mirrors. Zuza poked her head in to ask whether I was having a hard time getting the dress on and if the zipper was okay. I said it was all good. I used the bench to put the first pair of heels on and walked out to model. 

My grandmother and another worker showered me with praise in Italian. 

“Yes, she’s like her mother,” Zuza acknowledged. “Grace always looks beautiful.” 

My mother smiled, thanking her. She told me I looked great. 

My grandmother remained silent about Zuza’s compliment to my mother, as she always did. 

Angie’s grin was one of approval, but something was off with her, I could tell. Even before her dog got sick, she would sometimes be like her old self, and then, other times, she seemed almost too guarded or lost. 

In our junior year of high school, we had laughed so much in class that a teacher had asked us if we were on some type of drug. We weren’t, so that made us laugh more. Angie seemed to love how funny I was at school. She was coming out of her shell, like I had, but I could see only a fragment of that girl now. Ordinarily, I could comfort her about her dog, a fight with her parents or anything. All she did now was pull away. 

These were my thoughts as Zuza pinned my dress, did her marking, and scribbled notes in a small pad. The prodding felt a bit intrusive, but I knew she was accustomed to working with a dress form. Countless times, I had watched her bone a bodice on that form. She was the ultimate pro. 

“How does it feel?” she asked. “If it’s uncomfortable anywhere, let me know.” 

She had me walk around the shop and then pretend to be dancing. 

We all had a good laugh over that—including Angie. 

An hour into this, Angie demanded to leave, lamenting that she’d been at the shop all day, and her dog was alone. The other worker had finished for the day. She offered Angie a ride, and they left. 

I was there a couple more hours, trying on other garments and combinations. 

Zuza offered to pay me, but I refused. I felt guilty enough having to tell her I could do it only a few more times, or every now and then. The truth was, I didn’t mind taking off here and there on a beautiful day, going for a walk or a trip to the mall, but I reserved much of the weekend for writing. 

She seemed to understand, and she shared something with me. “Did you know I almost named this place Vaccaro’s?” 

I didn’t. 

“Yes, I figured I was Mrs. Dominic Vaccaro. It made sense. But it didn’t really make sense. You know why?” 

I shook my head. 

“Because that was my dream for so long—to have a dress shop. It was not Dominic’s dream. We decided to use my name, and since Zuza wouldn’t have sounded so good, we used my given name—Lucrezia. That’s how we came up with Romance Designs by Lucrezia. You love to write, Danielle. That’s your dream, and I don’t blame you. You keep writing.” 

As tightly as I hugged her, it was not sufficient in expressing how dear she was to me. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

REVIEW: IN THE GRIP by Myer Kutz

Description:

Everyone is in the grip of someone or something – besotted with or controlled by another person or captive of passions, ambitions, torments, or demons. . . . Mordecai Bornstein enjoys a successful scientific editing and writing career. He has a comfortable existence. He’s found passion with the woman he worships – Patricia Murphy, an alluring and ambitious museum director. But nothing good lasts forever, and Mordecai stumbles into a way to inject torment into his life. Years later, after that life has been turned upside-down, Mordecai is drawn into the orbit of divorce attorney and artist patron Sanford Glickauer, who loves talking about women and playing mind games, some of them designed to alter people’s lives. A bond develops between the two men, until Mordecai slowly comes to the realization that he and Patricia may have been the focus of Sanford’s ultimate game. In the Grip is a psychological mystery involving love, loss, sex, murder, and the worlds of scientific publishing and fine art. The action moves from Upstate New York to Manhattan to Frankfurt, Paris, Kiawah Island, SC, Washington, DC and its suburbs, and Providence, RI. 

My Review:

Well-drawn characters come to life with superb dialogue and compelling description, transporting the reader into the time and place of this narrative.

Myer Kutz has a writing style that is lively and entertaining. A slow-paced beginning sets the stage for skillful plot development with many clever twists and turns.

Mordecai Bornstein is the story’s endearing protagonist. He is someone to admire, root for and respect despite his weaknesses. He tells the tale of a charming love story, his profound devotion to the lovely Patricia who is not simply a stunner but a brilliant, successful woman making her own strides.

Be patient with the author’s masterful storytelling; the pace picks up and continues to accelerate until you can’t put it down. The end reward is delivered in spades. You will want to go back and read it again for anything you may have missed.

The epilogue was beautiful. I loved it. I think it would make a wonderful movie. 

by Myer Kutz  (Author)

Purchase on Amazon

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 17

Chapter Seventeen 

I 

t had to be a dream, but I could have sworn I wasn’t alone. Something or someone was behind me. Not a mortal being, I decided. It was clear he had not entered and would not exit through that bedroom door. 

How did I know it was a he? Yet, I did. No other possibilities seemed worth considering—not even the equivocal it. 

Swarms of glittering lights flashed on and off inside of me whenever he departed or returned as if warning me of his presence. From head to toe, I could feel the fire, as if my insides were ablaze. 

Lying on my stomach, my cheek against the pillow, I felt his hard, scaly skin caressing my neck and shoulders. He entered me, and all I could do was shudder—my chest tingling, my heart racing. 

At one point, there was the sound of footsteps outside the door—my mother passing. I didn’t dare turn around, but he seemed to know who was there and what would ensue. 

“She will see me,” he said. 

“Can she?” I seemed to think he could dematerialize. 

“She can see me,” he stated with certainty. 

Either I managed to hide him, or he hid himself. I tried calling to my mother for help, but I merely struggled, gasping for breath. No words came until she was gone. 

“How can she see you?” I asked in a haze. 

“She can see me,” he said. 

I supposed that, like me, she would see no more than a shadow in the darkness. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

He didn’t reply. 

Once I was surely awake, I sprang from the bed. Struggling to steady my quivering limbs, I scrambled for the light. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, my head bowed and resting in my trembling hands. The alarm clock buzzed, startling me. Angrily, I slammed it quiet and glanced at the towering mirror atop my chest of drawers. Sweat trickled from my brow. It had seemed so real, and, for the moment, silence prevailed. No one was in the room except me. Nothing had changed. There remained only the conception of innocence with my frilly pink bedding, my Victorian rose table lamp, the sweet teddy bears, and my cherished doll. The old nativity plaque of the Blessed Virgin with Joseph and baby Jesus seemed frozen in time. 

Proceeding to the bathroom, and, subsequently, downstairs to the kitchen, I switched on any light switch I passed. In a weird hypnotic state, I grabbed what I needed from the refrigerator and prepared a breakfast of coffee and toast. Before returning to the upstairs bathroom, I checked the locks on the front doors. I checked the stove. It occurred to me, I had developed some odd new habits to ensure my safety, and the safety of those around me. I knew no one had come in or gone out the door in the middle of the night, just as I knew I hadn’t used the stove, that no one else had overnight, and that my mother had made sure all was well, tidy, and clean before she went to bed. 

Undressing now, I stepped from the brown and gold floor tiles to the Moroccan brown scatter rug and into the bath. Every now and then, I interrupted my shower to slide open the glass doors just enough to peek out, and my heart pounded.  

Hours later, I took my road test. 

The license examiner must have felt sorry for me, since I’d been too nervous to make a proper U-turn. He passed me anyway. I had taken the day off from school and work—to get plates and take care of other car business—all before a visit to Zuza’s dress shop, so that she could take my measurements. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 16

Chapter Sixteen

Loud music reverberated from the stereo: sentimental Fifties crooners, Italian favorites. My parents never seemed to tire of “Che La Luna Mezzo Mare.” The “legal” adults were at various stages of drunk by now. The scene amusingly reminded me of The Godfather movie, prompting me to recall that disturbing conversation between Phil and Sergio. 

Before I knew it, I had blurted out a question. “Daddy, if somebody says he has connections and is planning a hit on someone, would you think he’s lying? Because I don’t think somebody in the mob would want you to know that, right?” 

“Who’s that?” Joey asked. 

Uncle Dom raised an eyebrow. “He was telling this to who? You? He said he’s in the mob?” He looked at my father. “Cafone!” 

My father laughed. 

Uncle Dom waved his hand in disgust. “If he was in the mob, he wouldn’t be telling you that. Stay away from him. He’s trouble.” 

“It was a conversation I heard between two guys I barely know,” I explained. “One guy was saying he was going to take somebody out—that he was going to ice someone.” 

My father said, “If he was in the mob, he would never discuss that in front of someone who’s not involved.” 

“Even with the people involved, they are very careful about what they say,” Uncle Dom pointed out. “Believe me, if this guy’s in the mob, he’s not gonna be for long. If he’s talking like that, they will kill him.” 

We all laughed heartily at that. 

“Don’t get involved,” Uncle Dom said. “Tell him to take a hike. Believe me, there’s something wrong with a guy talking like that in front of a girl. Tell him, adios, arrivederci, so long. Better yet, when you see him coming, go the other way.” 

Everyone continued to laugh, but I couldn’t help thinking, I wish I had. By the time Phil and Sergio had revealed their true natures, it was too late. For the most part, I believed they were no longer a danger to me, and now I could rest assured that they weren’t likely to be mobsters who’d send someone gunning for me, ludicrous as it seemed. 

I could tell that everyone remained oblivious to my true concerns. They drank their demitasse with lemon, sugar, anisette, and amaretto. We ate dessert. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me. 

My grandmother was staring at Angie with a nostalgic look in her eyes. She remarked that Angie and Dom Jr. had looked so much alike. Angie never talked about Dom Jr., her identical twin, but she often visited his grave with her parents. Zuza got misty-eyed when talking about him, and Uncle Dom got quiet. He’d look down only slightly, but I could see the forlorn gaze. 

Angie smiled now in response to the noted resemblance. It was hard to read what she thought about it, or about anything. I wished she would talk to me, and I vowed that I would continue trying to reach her. 

The party moved to the family room. Everyone had expressed an interest in seeing old family movies. My father had every tape labeled—his and my mother’s vacation to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire, another tape of when my mom took us to Bear Mountain, and childhood birthdays or holidays. 

There was a scene in the home movies where my Uncle Dom stood behind my chair as I tackled a strawberry tart. I climbed on the chair in an effort to reach him. Then, turning to face him, I gave him the tightest hug I could give. He instantly reciprocated the hug with a kindly smile. Watching it moved me to tears. 

Once past the age of three, my mother had instructed me not to allow any man to pick me up off the ground. If someone tried, I was to demand that he put me down and to tell him I could walk. I didn’t have to worry about Uncle Dom. He didn’t do that, and yet he responded genuinely and appropriately to a hug from me. It worked out with my father, too, since I was probably two the last time he carried me. When I was a little girl, I would jump on him as he lay on the couch watching television, and I would tickle him, laughing. I wanted to shower him with kisses. 

“Get off of him,” my mother would say. “Cut that out.” 

At the time, I took it to mean he needed the time to relax, and I was pestering him. As I grew older, it felt more and more that he was off-limits to me in that way. Even now, if I hugged him, it was customary to let go of him sooner than I wanted to, wishing I could stay in his arms. 

I thought of Uncle Dom as someone who could observe boundaries and still make a girl feel loved and adored. 

The movies revealed, too, that from the moment I could walk, I followed Robbie everywhere he went. I sucked my thumb, and he kept slapping my hand. When I stopped, he would get up and walk away. 

We played children’s games at the birthday parties. Everyone, young and old, clapped heartily, smiles radiant. If it was my birthday, my mother dressed me like a princess. When it was time to blow out the candles, the birthday boy or girl stood up on a chair, wearing a crown or tiara, towering above all the seated guests. It was our moment. 

My father held shot glasses out to the children. Each of us reacted the same way after taking a sip—disgusted scowls. The adults seemed to find this response hilarious. 

It was apparent I had become the paradigmatic little girl—a girly girl, all ribbons and lace. I wore everything from sash-belted sailor dresses to peter pan-collared designer tunics with white anklet socks and my favorite red leather shoes. I had a purple suede coat I loved with furry cuffs and a furry hood. I endured the daily hair-brushing torture that resulted in meticulous hairstyles. The painstaking effort seemed to take centuries. My mom ripped out every minuscule knot like a mad hair-follicle scientist. 

They had movies of my brothers and me standing side by side, posture perfect, holding hands and singing Christmas carols for the relatives. My mom had taught us a couple of the carols in Spanish. 

That was the highlight reel. 

I happened upon an unlabeled tape while fumbling through the box and handed it to my father. He played it. The first scene was a typical party. My father, presumably, took the camera from the dining room to the living room, filming. The last scene showed a baby lying on its back in a playpen they had kept in the family room. 

“That’s you,” my mother said to me. 

“How come we never saw this one?” Joey asked. 

She shrugged. 

A boy of about two neared the playpen. 

“That’s Robbie!” my father shouted. 

In the clip, Robbie began yanking at my arms. 

“Oh, Dio!” my grandmother cried. Her hand went to her chin. 

My mother appeared on film, grabbing hold of Robbie. She slapped his face and led him away. “You were told to leave her alone!” she shrieked at him. 

Robbie was wailing, and the film fizzled out. 

“You said that never happened,” I blurted out. 

Joey was blunt. “Were you hiding this one?” 

“I was not hiding it!” My mother appeared defensive. “You found it in the box, didn’t you?” She scowled at him, clenching her teeth. 

My father laughed, along with Dom, Zuza, and Angie. My grandmother was still shaking her head. 

“Oh, my goodness!” Angie exclaimed. “You were right about that, too!” 

“Don’t worry. Robbie loves you,” Zuza said. “Kids do stupid things. What are you gonna do?” 

“Ah, kids, adults—we all do stupid things,” Uncle Dom concluded with a shrug. 

I knew that much was true. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 15

Chapter Fifteen 

The Meadowside Inn was close to the beach and had a back entrance. Walking in, the first thing I saw was Valentin behind the bar. One patron sat on a stool a few feet away from him. 

Valentin’s magnificent head of rock-god tresses looked divine against the red button-down shirt he had tucked into belted pants. Despite having pleasurable shivers, a sudden warmth coursed through me, and I couldn’t contain the beating of my heart. 

He and Joey exchanged the customary fist bump. 

I avoided his eyes. “So you’re a bartender?” 

“Today I am,” he replied. “A friend of mine had an emergency. What can I get for you?” 

“How about a margarita?” I said. 

“Yeah, how about a soda? Your brother just turned twenty-one, but you haven’t.” 

“Fine, fine … Pepsi, then.” 

Joey seated himself on a stool and asked for a beer. 

I removed my coat and laid it on an unoccupied stool then hoisted myself onto the stool beside Joey. I placed my handbag on the bar and glanced around. The jukebox was a few feet from the door, between the door and the window. There were four wooden booths with a partition behind the fourth booth. I could see a pool table in the back, with more tables and chairs. 

Valentin placed the soda before me, asking, “So what happened with this car you went to see?” 

“The mechanic says it has oil seepage from the engine bay to the cabin,” I explained. “He said it wouldn’t be a big problem, but …” 

Valentin was shaking his head. “It’ll be a problem. Did you sign a bill of sale yet?” 

“No, but the mechanic got me a thousand dollars off the price.” 

“He should have told you not to buy it. A friend of mine has a 300ZX for sale—nice paint and interior, leather seats, no rips, no tears. He had it completely redone. It’s in excellent condition, runs exceptionally well—chrome spoke wheels, new radial tires, good working AC, everything. It’s red, though, not blue, but that can be painted.” He moved down the bar to tend to the other patron. “The guy who’s selling it will be here within the hour,” he continued, his voice trailing. “I’ll make sure you get a good price.” 

“I appreciate your help,” I said when he returned. 

“Not a problem. We don’t want to see you driving some heap of junk choking as it throttles up the road. Ever read the story Tootle when you were a kid?” 

I laughed. “No …” 

“I read it to my daughter—the train that wanted to drive off the track. That would have been your car, deciding it wants to try driving on the sidewalk or bumbling through houses.” 

I laughed again. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“Well, surely you’ve read The Three Little Pigs. One built a house of straw. The other built a house of sticks. The patient one built his house very carefully out of bricks—” 

“Stop!” I kept laughing. 

The phone behind the bar rang. He excused himself then turned and walked a few paces to grab the phone, where he held a brief conversation. Returning to us, he told Joey, “That was a guy from the club. He was broken down and stranded at 3:00 a.m. last night.” 

“Is everything all right?” Joey asked. 

“Yes. I had Tommy with me, so we went down there with his truck. This is a guy who always gets me in these conversations about regrinding valves and torquing head bolts. It’s all he wants to talk about. I had to cut him off.” 

Joey said, “I may have to take you with me to help someone pick out his first ride.” 

“I could get him a good chopper bike or sell him the Norton I’ve been working on. It’s a good bike, just harder to work on, hard to get parts. I did the murals on this myself.” Valentin looked at me and smiled. “I’m sorry. How are you?” 

“I’m good,” I told him. “How are you?” 

“Not bad,” he replied. “Your brother mentioned that you wrote a book.” 

“Oh, yeah!” I perked up in an instant and babbled on about the agent, my revisions, and my plans. 

“That’s very ambitious,” he said. “What’s it about?” 

“Kind of a bizarre love story with a few twists … turns into a mystery.” 

He raised his eyebrows as though it impressed him. “I want an autographed copy,” he said. “I’d be happy to buy it.” 

His vote of confidence and his kindness managed to pique my curiosity. “It must have been an incredible experience going to school in Spain,” I gushed. “What were your favorite places there?” 

He appeared to give it some thought. “I loved Barcelona, loved Santiago de Compostela. Seville, too. I liked Segovia and Formentera. Spain is beautiful. You have to go see it.” 

“I hope to one day.” I smiled. “So, have you been to Transylvania?” 

He laughed. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Such a common question, and, yes, once when I was fourteen. We went to Russia, then Craiova, then the relatives took us to Brasov.” 

“Is it nice?” 

“It’s unbelievable.” 

That weird déjà vu thing happened. I said, “I have to tell you—I don’t know if it’s because your voice is familiar, or your presence is familiar, but the feeling gets stronger every time I talk to you. I feel like I know you, or I knew you before.” 

He seemed intrigued by that. “You believe in past lives?” 

“I don’t know. Part of me thinks we may get to come back again and again until we get it right. I would like to think that.” 

“Oh, doll, I would sure like to get it right.” I seemed to have touched a tender place inside of him. I could tell by the sudden glint of light in his dark eyes. “If only that were true. I need to do some soul searching, seek deliverance.” 

Joey laughed.  

I had to wonder if Valentin was joking, but there was something about his eyes and expression. “You’re serious.” 

“He is serious,” Joey assured me. 

“Yes!” Valentin said. “I want to do the right thing for my daughter. I just don’t know where to begin.” 

Despite the absurdity of it all, he was precious in his vulnerability. 

“Fine. Shall I call for a priest to hear your confession or go for broke and host a full-scale exorcism?” 

He laughed to no end about that—merry, hearty laughter—and his playfulness kindled a new fire in me. 

I shook my head. “You’re messing with me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Then why do you say that?” 

“I’m not sure I will ever be forgiven for the things I’ve done.” 

“Well, you don’t believe in God, right?” 

“A ruling God who condemns people to hell? No, I don’t.” 

“Then who are you looking to for forgiveness?” 

“Not believing in the Abrahamic concept of God isn’t a license to do unforgivable things, and not believing doesn’t make it any easier to live with what I’ve done.” 

“Because you can’t forgive yourself.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Okay, so what have you done?” 

“I’ve hurt people, caused irreparable damage in some instances. Isn’t that enough?” 

“But we’ve all done that.” 

“Ah, she is precious,” he said to Joey. He leaned in on the counter and clasped my hand. “You truly are an angel.” 

“I do feel as if there was never a time we didn’t know each other.” 

“That’s a good feeling.” He let go of my hand and stood. 

That was when Katharine walked in. 

She approached and stood there in silence for a moment or two. “I need to talk to you,” she finally said to Valentin. She threw her purse down on the bar. 

“I can’t leave, love,” he told her. “I’m working.” 

“You can’t leave the bar for two seconds to talk to me? Or is it her you can’t leave for two seconds?” 

My eyes widened. “What, me? Oh great, now she’s blaming me. I’m here to check out a car he said was for sale.” 

She kept her eyes focused on Valentin. “I don’t see how it would take that long for you to respond.” 

“To your ultimatum?” 

“What difference does it make? It’s a yes or a no.” 

“You don’t want to do this here.” 

Joey sighed. “Time to check out that pool table.” He got up with his beer and went to the back. 

Katharine flashed those baby blues on me. “How would you feel if the man you loved wanted to move out and still have a relationship with your child, but not you?” 

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” I said. “Why would you put me in the middle of this? I barely know either of you.” 

“I have talked to you,” Valentin said to her. “I told you I’ll take care of you, and I’ll always take care of my children, no matter what.” He looked at me like a helpless little boy. “Talk to her.” 

“Are you serious?” The predicament had me flustered.“Why would she listen to me? Honestly, if I wanted to talk to my husband, and he asked some other woman in a bar to talk to me, I would be even madder.” 

“I’m sorry,” Katharine said, appearing to calm down. “It’s not that I’d really want to deny him custody.” 

“Well, if he’s a good father—” 

“He’s a good father.” 

“Settled!” I yelled. “My work is done here.” 

Valentin laughed again, and I wished he hadn’t. It made me want to hug him. He said, “You see? You’re a good person and a kind person, and that’s why I knew she’d listen.” 

“Please think about it,” Katharine said to him. “I have to go.” She turned to me. “Good luck with the car.” 

Valentin walked her to the door, and then stopped at the jukebox. He played “Always” by Atlantic Starr—such a tenderhearted song. When he turned around, the other patron, who was now leaving, stopped before him. They spoke, and in the brief moment before they parted, he caught me staring at him. It was obvious that he did, and I feared his discerning gaze. I thought he was undressing me with his eyes. He was first to look away. 

When he got back to the bar, slipping artfully behind it, we talked about music—as if that little scene had been purely my fantasy. I learned that he shared my eclectic tastes and appreciation for many styles of music. Like me, he was a big Motown fan. He seemed to know anyone I mentioned. I couldn’t deny that his energy was captivating. I loved how animated he was, the passion in his voice, and his warmth. His smile was as infectious as his enthusiasm, and, yes, he was beautiful in a way that was difficult to ignore. 

He said, “There are things I’d love to share with you one day.” 

I laughed. “Oh, go on, I can’t wait … tell me your secrets.” 

He seemed surprised by this request but quickly regained his composure. “You will hate me.” 

“Uh, I think it’s safe to say, based on whatever the hell just happened here tonight, we are friends. I would never hate you. There is nothing you can say to me that would make me hate you. And nothing shocks me, by the way.” 

“Nothing? How sad for you at such a tender age!” 

“I would try to be helpful and not judge.” 

“You will turn away.” 

“Oh, man, you are so dramatic. What could be so terrible? I’d never turn away from you.” 

“You say that now.” 

“Does this have something to do with me?” 

“No, my dear.” 

“Then what?” 

“I am struggling with my dark side.” 

“What dark side? Are you a vampire or something?” 

He laughed. “Metaphorically speaking, I am, indeed.” 

“Seriously,” I teased. “It’s okay if you are a vampire … really. I’d still be your friend.” 

He laughed more. 

“No shock if that’s the secret.” 

“But you’ve seen me in daytime!” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’ve seen me laugh and smile … no fangs.” 

“That’s true.” 

As maddening and exasperating as he was, I had to wonder if this drama was part of his repertoire—another stunning performance pulled from his bag of tricks. Perhaps I was dealing with the “Lord Hades” that Billy despised, and, of course, I would resist him at any cost. It was a promise I made to myself. 

As far as reinforcing the strength of my mind’s resolve, my body was a useless entity. In his presence, it betrayed me like dangerous waters beckoning to me in their mystifying beauty, the thrill of their tantalizing fluidity caressing my body as I resisted taking the plunge. Yes, my body betrayed me. It ignored me like a preoccupied stranger. With a will of its own, it intoxicated me. As I had cruelly learned, I could control what happened to it only if people were merciful. Watching Valentin, and listening to him, was not merciful. It was a torturous joy. 

“I want you to know something,” he said. 

“Although you’re not going to tell me—” 

“I’m talking about something else.” His tormented eyes focused on me, seeming to yield no mercy. 

“You do know you have Scorpio eyes, right?” I said it, not knowing why, or how I dared. 

He responded to my question with a beguiling smile that made me want to surrender to him in all ways. “Yes, the Scorpio eyes,” he said. “I’ve heard that. I suppose it would be true of you, as well, but it’s possible we both coincidentally match that description.” His voice was more tantalizing than I wanted it to be. 

I remembered he had commented on my eyes before. Now I had begun to use eye shadow and mascara, which enhanced the effect. 

“What do you think?” I asked him. 

“I really don’t know. I have no way of knowing.” 

“But you think I match the description.” 

He leaned over the bar now, resting his arms on the edge. “I want you to know that my respect for you knows no bounds, that you never have to fear me, because I’d never betray your trust. As for your eyes, I’ll put it this way. I’m looking into these almond-shaped gems, big and booming, a brilliant witch hazel with specks of amber, gold, brown, and green, different colors in different lights. Even at a distance, they are full of mysterious lights. They have the hypnotic intensity to entrance. Up close, they shine with a never-ending curiosity, all the while guarded. Above all, you have the eyes of an angel, a bit mischievous, perhaps, but always sparkling with your love, caring, and concern.” 

My skin tingled, and I doubt my expression concealed my surprise. “Wow, you’re good,” I said. “Are you a poet, too?” 

“Oh, hell no.” He stood and backed away a few paces. “But I am an artist. I notice details.” 

Joey returned then, and the car owner arrived with a friend. It was too soon—way too soon. Valentin introduced everyone, and, after the exchange of pleasantries, I headed out with Joey and the others. 

“Goodbye, Danielle,” Valentin said before we left. “Good luck.” 

I smiled, thanking him. 

As a favor to Valentin, I got a sweet deal on the car and agreed to buy it. 

On the way to the parking lot, I teased Joey. “Thanks for leaving me alone with them.” 

He laughed. “Were you scared?” 

“Billy said Valentin and Gianni are Hells Angels.” 

“No,” he said, “one of the clubs Gianni belongs to is affiliated with the Hells Angels. That’s the only link between us and them.” 

“He also said Valentin was a member of the Pagans.” 

“That would make no sense if he thought V was HA. HA and the Pagans are rival gangs. Valentin doesn’t belong to either one.” 

“The Warlocks, maybe?” 

“No, he belongs to a local club. Tommy and Gianni belong to veterans’ clubs. Nico and I have no affiliations. We ride independent, but there’s nothing wrong with the clubs. They do charity toy runs for donations to children. The Lynx are good people, and we’re not derelicts, like Billy might have people believe. We all have jobs.” 

We reached his bike and stopped. 

I said, “What’s interesting is, I have no idea what any of them do. I know Valentin is some kind of artist.” 

“Yeah, a graphic artist. He works for an ad agency in Manhattan. They just promoted him to assistant art director. Nico wants to do the same thing.” 

I was delightfully surprised again. “Well, you still left me alone with him. I know Katharine was there but not for long.” 

“I trust Valentin.” 

“What, that he wouldn’t hit on me? That he would jump to my defense if some other guy came in and started harassing me?” 

“Yes and yes.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“I know him.” 

“For how long? Because up until a couple of months ago, I’d never heard of him.” 

“Over a year.” 

“So, after knowing him a year, you’re sure he would never do that, never be tempted.” 

“I can’t say whether or not he’d be tempted. You’re a beautiful girl.” 

“Aw, well, thanks. Anyway, Katharine was doing a number on him.” 

“Yeah, she always gets him to give in. That’s the whole problem. He has a soft spot when it comes to her. That’s what’s really going on, not that he wants to use or hurt her. He married her because he wanted to step up, be the gentleman, but he’s not ready for that.” 

“Yet they have two children.” 

“They have one.” 

“Billy said two.” 

“They’re from different mothers.” 

“Oh, God … so he doesn’t learn his lessons, does he? Who’s the other one?” 

“The mother of his son lives in New York. I never see her. But I do think he learned his lesson. I’m pretty sure about that.” 

“Would you vouch for Nico, too, that he wouldn’t pursue me?” 

“Maybe to a lesser extent, but yeah.” 

“Gianni?” 

“Not Gianni.” 

I had to laugh. “You do know he has a thing for me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Really?” 

“Nico told me. More people are watching out for you than you think. Don’t get me wrong, I trust Gianni, but I’m glad you turned him down.” 

“You know I turned him down, too?” 

“He told Valentin. Hey, don’t worry about it. Just put that freaking helmet on, so we can get out of here. Doesn’t sound to me like you were too scared about Valentin.” He helped me strap the helmet on before getting on the bike sans his own helmet. I got behind him and braced myself for the chilly ride home. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

SHE SAID NO, BUT YOU DIDN’T CARE

SHE SAID NO

Dying embers set alight—

What had those vile creatures unleashed in me?

What beast had they awakened? 

I think I vowed to kill the beast

With a single flame’s fury and resilience,

Bury it so deep in the abyss

That it would never again rear its ugly head.

Part of me did make this promise.

The other part embraced

An unfolding of life’s inextinguishable flames

And the mind’s unspoken bondage.

Because the crushing of one’s will

Didn’t cease with the conquest.

Poison oozed from the wound

Like some fairy tale curse

That corrupted your spirit,

Making it so vile,

You couldn’t know or understand your desires. 

Kyrian Lyndon – Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths

Image by Eleatell from Pixabay 

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 14

Chapter Fourteen 

At this hopeful hour, the cawing of crows seemed ordinary. All of nature’s creatures sounded calm and eager for the new day. Licorice, our black, green-eyed Manx, had decided to curl up near my pillow. He purred now as I began petting him, and I smiled. There wouldn’t be much time to write this day, but if all went well, I’d be getting a new car. 

I sprang out of bed and showered then went to the kitchen. My dad was there in his robe and slippers, making coffee. 

“Good morning, Daddy!” I said. 

“Good morning!” He smiled before taking notice of my bare feet on the linoleum floor. “It’s cold,” he said. “Put something on your feet. You want coffee?”He was taking cups and plates out of the cabinets, setting them down on the countertops. 

“I’m going to look at a car with Joey today,” I said. 

He opened the refrigerator and grabbed milk, butter, jelly, and a couple of grapefruits. “Zuza’s coming to eat with us today. What’s the rush?” 

“We’ll be back by then,” I assured him. 

He went about making toast and setting the table. My mother joined us, and we had breakfast. Moments later, I did my routine check from the dining room window. Phil and Sergio seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. They had conquered as much as they would conquer of me, and it was on to the next mark, the next will to disregard, the next spirit to break. 

Farran called. She wanted to know what Gianni said to me the night before, when he walked me to my door. I filled her in. 

“I think he’s trying to tell you this is something very different with you and him,” she said. “It’s like a fairy tale prince finding his princess. You’re helping him realize he’s with the wrong girl, but I think he already suspected that. I think he doesn’t want to talk bad about Liz, but from what he said, he’s not sure about her.” 

“Nice of you to write this script for him,” I replied, “but he never once said, ‘I will leave Liz.’ Not that it matters. I wouldn’t want him to, but he never said that. I wouldn’t hurt Liz, friend or not, but you keep ignoring the fact that these guys have been around the block a bunch of times, and we haven’t turned a corner. He’s almost seven years older than me!” 

“Listen to you!” I could hear her teeth clenching. “You know, you’re good with all the prissy, proper talk, but if you’d stop revolting against everything and everyone for one minute, you’d see a break in the clouds. The heart does not care about numbers! He’s attracted to you in spite of your age not because of it. He’s taking his cues from you, Dani. Give him a break. He has unexpectedly fallen in love with you, and you didn’t give him a shred of hope or encouragement. You could’ve had him. You could’ve had Gianni Bonafacio! Liz would have been history. I guarantee it. I don’t see him flirting and falling for others. He’s serious about you, and I believe he’d take good care of you and protect you with all of his heart. He loves you!” 

“He doesn’t know me well enough to love me.” 

“You’re crazy, man! You should go for it.” 

“Well, I guess I could say the same about you and Tommy.” 

“Tommy is a friend.” 

“Couldn’t tell by the way you were kissing him.” 

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to do that. We were talking about you and Gianni.” She laughed. 

I told her I had to go and went back downstairs. 

My mother called from the dining room. “I have something for you,” she said as I entered. She was in a sleeveless top and shorts, holding a dust cloth. She told me to wait. Then she put the rag down and vanished. She returned with one of those Captain Zoom records that would say your name about eight times in a personalized happy birthday song. She played it for me, smiling. Seeing me laugh, she laughed, too, and her little shoulders shook. There were many different sides to this woman, and this side was the one I loved best—the child within who loved silly things. She could laugh to the point of tears at something like this. 

“I was going to give it to you Tuesday,” she said, “but since we’re celebrating your birthday today, I couldn’t wait.” 

We hugged. 

Before long, she was in the kitchen making lasagna, stirring her simmering sauce, and shifting meats that were stewing in the saucepot. 

Joey arrived at noon, and we took off on his bike. 

The car owner lived on Shady Hill Lane, right off Manchester—a little over a mile from me, except we had gone the wrong way. By the time we arrived, the guy was sitting on his porch with the mechanic I had hired to meet us there. They were having beers. 

“Oh, great,” Joey said. “They’re best buds now.” 

We both laughed. 

“I wish you would have told me about the mechanic,” he said. “I could have had Valentin meet us.” 

“Valentin!” My heart raced. “Why? Is he a mechanic?” 

“No, but he’s good with cars and bikes. I was at his house yesterday with Nico. I watched Village of the Damned with him. If I knew, I could have asked.” 

The car we saw looked great—a light blue ‘83 Nissan Sentra—but I was disappointed with the mechanic’s assessment. Joey told the owner we’d get back to him. The moment we got home, he called Valentin. 

“There’s a 300ZX you can look at,” he said after hanging up. “His friend’s selling it, but we have to leave after we eat. The guy’s gonna meet us at the Meadowside Inn in Milford. I got the address.” 

My mother had changed into a pretty dress by now. Everyone arrived before two. Zuza brought a batch of Italian cookies wrapped in cellophane, sealed with a red ribbon and bow. Angie gave me a sweetly wrapped gift of purple legwarmers. She blushed and smiled when I gave her an extra tight squeeze. My grandmother fretted that Angie’s hands were cold and said she looked thinner. 

“Buon compleanno!” Uncle Dom shouted. He turned to my father. “Ay, goomba!” He held a brown paper bag, which he handed to him—fresh Italian bread he had picked up at the deli. Most Sunday mornings, they went to the Italian deli together to shop for homemade pasta and sliced Italian meats, or they went to the bakery and brought back cannoli with other Italian pastries. Uncle Dom was my father’s paesano. They went fishing, especially during Lent, along the Quinnipiac or Farmington River, or to Crescent Lake in Southington. They also hunted in Enders State Forest with a group of guys they played cards with. 

I asked Angie if she’d gotten any sleep, and she shrugged. 

“This one doesn’t sleep and eat enough, and my husband doesn’t stop smoking,” Zuza complained. “He had bronchitis again.” 

As children, my brothers and I used to say Zuza was beautiful—the pronounced Italian accent, her dark eyes, and the dark hair she wore in a loose wave of curls caressing her shoulders. She was not as tiny as my mother was, but she was small. She was not as stylish or as glamorous, but she was praiseworthy in every regard. These days, she was a rounder version of her younger self with a short, stylish haircut but still lovely. I was beginning to see a resemblance between her and Angie, though Angie looked more like her dad. 

I asked Uncle Dom how he was feeling. 

“Better than ever,” he assured me with a broad smile. “Thank you for asking.” 

My father tried to give him money for the bread, but Uncle Dom cursed him in Italian. My father cursed back. My grandmother said they had fought all the time, even as kids. 

When it was time to settle at the table, my father poured the wine and toasted me. Once he said, “Salute,” we all banged glasses, no matter what we were drinking, no matter how awkward our positions were. Everyone wished me a happy birthday again. There was chatter throughout the meal. I encouraged my father to tell us about him and Uncle Dom fighting back in Italy. 

“Oh, yeah, he was a big troublemaker,” my father said. “My mother didn’t want him talking to Zuza. He would do magic tricks, and some of the old people in the town believed magic comes from the devil, you know. My mother, she didn’t trust him. As time went on, she was seeing, more and more, he was good. Then, one day, he asked Papa if he could marry Zuza, and both Mama and Papa agreed. They got to love him like a son.” 

I’m certain my eyes were as wide as my smile. “What was it like to live in Pozzilli?” I asked. 

“It’s beautiful there,” Uncle Dom mused. “On the hills, you see vineyards, olive trees, lakes, the river in the valley, Triverno Stream. You go through the woods, and it’s like a fairy tale. And the mountains after it snowed? You wouldn’t believe it.” 

“Mama and Zuza would bake bread all the time,” my father said, “and the whole house filled with the aroma. I tell ya, it was heaven.” 

Uncle Dom shifted the focus to me. “How’s the writing?” 

This topic appeared to capture Zuza’s interest as well, and both of them seemed pleased to hear I was still hard at work on the novel. Then Zuza asked if I wanted to be a petite model for her dresses. She designed and created formal wear for the dress shop she owned. 

My first thought was that it would likely be Saturdays, and my Saturdays were devoted to writing. It would be a disruption not only to my routine but also to the pursuit of my passion. 

“Ay, you’re not going to be rich,” she said, “but you’re not going to do it for free, either. I’ll pay you by the hour.” 

I knew Angie had modeled for her mother in the past, and it wasn’t a big deal. Still, I hesitated. 

“Listen, you can try,” Zuza told me. “If you don’t like to do it, then you tell me.” 

I agreed, because it was Zuza. 

“Good,” she said. “Stop by after school tomorrow if you can, and I’ll take your measurements.” 

Robbie interrupted that conversation when he called to wish me a happy birthday and to say hello to the rest of the family. 

My dad protested about Joey and me leaving to go see the car, but Uncle Dom and Aunt Zuza assured us that we could all have dessert later. Angie said she was going home to check on her dog anyway and would be back in time for dessert. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

WE HEAL FOR THE GREATER GOOD

Every day, something reminds me of how vital it is for us to heal and recover from all trauma and harm and the consequences of subsequent obsessions.

I read something yesterday that said we should treat everyone like they are sacred until they begin to believe they are. That would be the ideal way to live, wouldn’t it? It would certainly solve a lot of problems in our world, individually and collectively. I’d love to commit myself to that. I’m certainly going to try, and, of course, I’ll need to remind myself always. It’s so easy to be impatient with people, but we all could use a little patience from others. We’re trying. We’re doing our best. Breaking the cycle of continuous damage to ourselves is a divine process.

I’m sending love to everyone and wishing you the very best, an abundance of all good things! Stay safe and well.