Laurie Boris

One day I’ll tell you the story of where I’ve been since June, but for now I’d like to share an excerpt of the sequel to Boychik, as yet untitled (suggestions welcome!) because I’m so thrilled to discover that I’d actually written some thirty-odd pages of it before I broke both of my legs. More on that later.

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Brooklyn Heights, April 1933

For the first time in months, Harold Weissman woke up feeling almost happy, and when he looked in the gilded bathroom mirror, for the first time in months didn’t see a guy who was the biggest schmuck in the world. He smiled at his reflection as he prepared to shave, and allowed himself to think about a future that didn’t include a certain girl and the putz who came between them. He instead thought about the day before him. Nice weather, lunch with his boys, an easy job that promised a fine payday, and later that night, a date with an angel. He could already imagine the smell of her perfume, his hand sliding along her soft curves in the back seat of his Packard. He was still humming a little tune to himself when he practically danced downstairs for breakfast. His father, hunkered down in his usual place at the table, nursed a cup of coffee and glowered into the newspaper.

“I been thinking,” his mother said, as she set a plate of shiny scrambled eggs in front of her only son.

“Aw, Ma”—Harold grinned as he took a seat—“you know that’s bad for your health.”

“Hey. Treat your mother with some fucking respect.” His father then disappeared back into his paper.

She pursed her lips and, with her own coffee, insinuated herself into her chair. After a sip, she set the cup into a saucer. But he could still feel whatever those thoughts were radiating off her like heat lines on fresh asphalt.

“Okay,” Harold said, after he’d gobbled down a mouthful of egg. “I’m listening serious now.”

She leaned toward him. “I’m thinking it’s high time you ask for the ring back. This mishegas has gone on far too long already.”

“Come on, Ma.” And now he felt like that schmuck again. Getting that goddamn note two weeks before their wedding. “You know she flew the coop. Nobody’s got any idea where she went.” Pummeling that putz Abramowitz had given him no answers, and only only the briefest of satisfaction. “Or if they do, they’re not telling me.”

“Then I’m going to pay a call on Celia Rosenstein and ask her myself.”

The newspaper came down. “Lillian. Stay out of this.”

Lillian gave her husband a savage grin. “Well, then, Lou, you talk to him. You call her father and demand she return the ring, or else he should owe us the money for what it cost. This wasn’t some wholesale deal from your friends on Seventh Avenue, it was from Tiffany’s!”

“Ma. I don’t care about the ring.”

“Of course you don’t. Your father paid for it.”

Sure, remind me again that I’m nothing without him, Harold thought. “Please, I’m begging you. Let it go.”

“No, I will not. It’s just not right. It’s just not done!”

“Oh, for the love of… Ma. I’ll talk to him about it. Maybe we can work out a deal. Just. Please. Stop.”

“Fine.” She rose elegantly from the table, snatched up her coffee. “When we have recompense, I’ll stop.”

Harold looked over at his father for backup, but the newspaper rose between them.