Just Another Sunday: A Novel

Introduction

By the time Lia Benedict was ten years old, her family had moved three times. She, being young and flexibly obedient, endured those times of re-location relatively well. The insulation of sibling companionship outweighed the need to venture too far outside family limits. But when she did make friends, letting go of newly formed relationships was a tad easier to bear when moving time came around again. This, however, was not to be the case in regards to the fourth and final move out of Brooklyn a number of years later.

Her father Frank, along with his brother Joe, earned a decent living from their respective jobs, but made excellent money from Jo-Fran Refreshments, a seasonal joint-ownership business venture they literally built from the ground up. What started as a work uniform clothing store morphed into a lucrative lemon ice, ice cream, hot dogs and sodas enterprise, which was housed in a small box-like building constructed on her great-grandparents fig tree-lined property on Remsen Avenue in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn New York. The business did so well; affording both families to take annual summer vacations together on beautiful Lake George in New York State. The property went up for sale when the surviving siblings of her then late great-grandparents’ liquidated their estate. They offered the land to her father and uncle, to keep Jo-Fran Refreshments going, but they declined. With desires of moving on to bigger and better things, they closed up shop for good. It was late 1960, her uncle and his family stayed in Brooklyn, and her family made their way out of Brooklyn to Pompton Lakes—a nice enough town in Passaic County, New Jersey; close enough to be considered a New York City suburb—where her dad was fulfilling one of two dreams—owning a full-time business.

They invested their profits from Jo-Fran Refreshments by purchasing the Klugetown Luncheonette, located in a strip mall shopping center of the same name. The arrangement was that her uncle work the weekends, while her father worked the luncheonette full-time. Uncle Joe invested only part of his proceeds, whereas her father poured his heart into this new venture, all the while paying union card dues to his Linotype Union, (just in case he needed that option in the future).

The family moved twice within the border limits of Pompton Lakes. The first house was a tiny ranch on Dawes Highway near The Wanaque River, and within walking distance over a small bridge to the best ice cream the Benedict family ever tasted, the legendary Old Barn Milk Bar. This house came with an option-to-buy clause that her father looked forward to taking advantage of, thereby making his second dream come true. It was while residing in this house his dreams hit a brick wall.

She was only eight years old at the time, but recalls one beautiful sunny afternoon when, out of the clear blue skies, a bird flew head-on into the side of their rented ranch house, putting a bird-head sized dent into the siding, dropping straight to the ground where it instantly died. They heard the loud thud and went investigating outside. The bird was rather large in size, but they didn’t know, and still do not know, what species it was.

Superstitions undoubtedly abounded in her Italian-American family heritage, and I imagine this was considered a biggie to the older folk. Avian suicides via closed windows, doors, or asbestos siding are universally considered bad luck by all accounts. Although these three scenarios supposedly aren’t as horrifying as having flying creatures actually enter a home, they were and still are unsettling occurrences you don’t or at least shouldn’t wish on mortal enemies. Frank and Marie Benedict never verbalized their opinion of such unwelcome feathered guests. Unlike the folklore practice of household bird banning, whether it be real breathing ones, stuffed decorative varieties, sculpted, framed art or wallpaper depicted versions, Lia and her older sister were allowed to keep live parakeets as pets—Lady Jane and Sir John were their names.

Her maternal grandmother Theresa was especially superstitious. However this mind set was not passed on to her mother, nor was it passed down to her. Lia personally was not raised to carry on superstitiously in her younger life, nor did she purposefully avoid walking under ladders, nor take care side-stepping cracked sidewalks, as she considered herself immune to those myths. She accidentally broke a few mirrors in her time thus far and black cats crossed her path on numerous occasions. She didn’t give those happenings a second thought, refusing to be chained to the ridiculous.

Grandma Theresa kept religious shrines on her dresser, fully equipped with rosaries, candles and photos of the dead. She’d chant and when needed give people she didn’t like the malocchio—the evil eye. Marie Benedict had no interest in such practices, so she wasn’t taught the workings of the malocchio nor its antidotes—the Mano Cornuto downward hand gesture and Italian horn or Corno as it’s called. She wasn’t admonished to avoid the number seventeen, nor many of the other numerous superstitions that mindfully crossed the Atlantic Ocean with her forefather immigrants from the boot-shaped motherland.

Lia had heard that Italian word malocchio mentioned a few times, but especially during extended family gatherings, like annual Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations in her paternal grandparents’ basement when, after shooing the young kids off to bed, the partying got boisterously loud due to free flowing Chianti and Italian beer. She and her older sister, along with their cousins, would sneak out of bed, hover on the basement steps and peer out the rungs to watch in awe their respective parents having the time of their lives, including good-naturedly exchanging evil eye and mano cornuto alike. They were never caught. The elders were way too drunk.

Italian or not, people who believe in such folklore, feel their sort of unfortunate avian event wouldn’t bode well for the person or persons residing within. An omen they call it. Lia didn’t exactly know what that meant, but then again she was only eight. Bad luck was easy enough to comprehend, but omen seemingly took on a far more serious tone. Although unnerved at the sight of the poor lifeless winged creature, Lia was blissfully shielded by a blanket of security provided by her closely-knit family of six. Nevertheless, this event was permanently seared into her memory.

The family lived in Pompton Lakes for a total of two years—two different houses on opposite sides of town, two different elementary schools, and two different sets of friends. While she doesn’t recall in great detail the first ranch house or why it was they moved out, Lia was later told it was too small for a large growing family and had sewerage backup flooding issues in the rear yard which created a never-ending stench. I suspect it was that fact, and not the bird suicide, which spooked her parents into backing out. Lia came to love their second rental home, a tree-lined house with its charming wraparound porch and nifty second staircase off the kitchen which led to the second floor bedrooms. This house, which she fondly called home, was conveniently (or inconveniently) located on Lenox Avenue, on the corner of Wanaque Avenue (The Hamburg Turnpike), smack in between a gas station and the parking lot of St. Mary’s Catholic Church. The Police Station and Pompton Lakes High School were directly across the street, and on the Wanaque Avenue side of the house was the Firehouse which sounded their ungodly alarm at all hours of the night. Lenox Avenue Elementary was within walking distance. I suppose by its very name it was located on her street. And just a few blocks away would be Pompton Lake, her favorite neighborhood winter ice skating spot introduced by acquaintances from school. I gather this part of Pompton Lakes was rather enjoyable, and there Lia would have been content finishing her formative years.

By this time Uncle Joe wanted out, foreseeing a bleak return on his investment when nearby construction on a massive shopping mall complex was nearing completion. He figured it to become formidable competition for the lowly Klugetown Strip Mall. He sold off his portion to her dad, and went successfully solo in another direction. This new development forced Marie to work the luncheonette alongside her husband, leaving her little time to be a full-time mother of four while now pregnant with child number five. Frank and Marie employed a morbidly obese, turkey-necked older woman to be a nanny while they both tirelessly slaved night and day to keep the eatery alive and running. Mrs. Lillian Hughes had a penchant for obedience—a child should be seen and not heard mentality—and while Lia’s younger siblings maintained a love/hate relationship with her, she and her older sister steered clear whenever she was around. I suppose Mrs. Hughes did have a few redeeming qualities, as Marie often spoke of her years afterward. Mrs. Hughes introduced the children to mayonnaise on Wonder Bread sandwiches—nothing else—just mayo on two slices of white. I was told they were surprisingly yummy.

Uncle Joe’s instincts had been right. It sadly became very apparent to her parents that their Klugetown Luncheonette business had died a fairly quick death. All re-invested money from Jo-Fran Refreshments was now gone. They packed it up in early 1963 and moved back to Brooklyn to yet another rental on Linden Boulevard, in the East Flatbush section, where Lia entered puberty in her fourth elementary school, having to start over once more. It is there the family resided for five memorable years, until the spring of 1968.

This is where Just Another Sunday begins. By then Lia Benedict was almost sixteen, had forged meaningful friendships and was less inclined to pull up roots and go anywhere, especially far away out of Brooklyn to some godforsaken Jersey town. It would prove to be the final move they would ever make as an intact family of seven.

Bad luck? Omen? I now wonder ... .

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

Seeds of Promise, April 1968

Leftover March winds swept with it heavy April rains as Frank Benedict tossed his wet keys on the counter. They slid across the Formica and crashed somewhere on the floor below. Oh, per l’amore di Pete! Frank whispered in Italian. Those damn keys make so much noise, he thought in English and held his breath, listening intently with his eyes toward the ceiling. He heard nothing but the relentless rain. Hmm, no signs of life yet? It’s awfully quiet up there. Frank glanced at his Timex. It’s almost six-thirty. She must be gone by now, he decided with a shrug, and then removed his water-beaded raincoat. Frank draped it over a counter stool, his eyes keenly focused on the nearby steps. First things first, he whispered. Those keys can wait. I’ve got to check the water level down there. That rented pump better work, he thought, and anxiously descended his basement steps.

***

Frank sighed as he sat against the dampened coat with his elbows to knees and head bent toward the floor. So far so good, he thought, and rubbed his forehead. It’s not like that last rain. Not yet anyway. What a mess that was, he lamented. I can’t keep renting cheap ones. I need my own sump pump just in case it happens again. Maybe that flood was a freak thing—a fluke. Maybe this house just needs to settle, and then we’ll be home free. Yeah, that must be it. We’ll be fine, he thought, running fingers through his thick dark hair. Frank looked up, focusing past gale force rain rattling the kitchen slider, and settled his eyes on the backyard fence. Terrific, those saplings are going to break in this wind. I just planted those trees. Damn it! He expelled a deep sigh. Ah, for Christ’s sake, I can’t think about this anymore, he thought and wiped the concern from his eyes. He peeled galoshes off his shoes. Frank retrieved the keys from under the sink cabinet, and then brewed himself a percolator full of Maxwell House coffee.

***

As he poured the first cup, his teenage daughter bounded the stairs from her second floor bedroom. With arms full of gear and her head in the clouds, she called out to the air in a huff, Terrific. I’m gonna be late for the bus, she said with exasperation as she reached the bottom step and emptied her arms toward the floor.

You’re still here? You were so quiet up there. I figured you left by now, Frank said, checking his watch.

Yep. I’m still here, Lia Benedict said while stepping over gear to check the morning’s weather. After a quick circular palm wipe she peered out the living room window. My hair took forever, she said to the rain-soaked glass. Of all days, why does it have to be raining cats and dogs?

It’s nasty, sweetheart. Wait for me. I’ll drive you, Frank offered from the kitchen.

She rolled her eyes. Geez, Daddy. A ride from my father on my first day? How lame would that be? Besides, I think it’s stopping, she said while intently waiting for slowdown in pools of mud on what would eventually be a lush green lawn. Frank Benedict would have it no other way. I can’t wait any longer, Daddy. I can’t miss that bus. She hustled to the landing, picked her black rain slicker off the floor and slipped it on. Thank God, it stopped, she said, peering out the front entrance. I gotta go, Daddy. Love ya.

Love you too, sweetheart. Have a good day.

She secured every button, retrieved the umbrella, tote bag and purse from where they landed, and flew out the door.

Frank shook his head and chuckled. She’s always behind the eight ball, that one. She hates getting wet, he thought upon hearing a new wave of wind-driven rain pounding yet again. He checked his watch for the third time. She’ll be back, begging for a ride, he whispered confidently, as he carried his coffee cup to the foyer, placing on the banister post. That crazy kid’s always in a rush, he said aloud, then secured shut the solid oak entry door to his new home. The next thing I buy for this house is a storm door. He looked toward his shoes and the wet hardwood floor. God damn rain. It must be a Nor’easter.

***

Terrific! My very first day and it’s just ducky out here. The sarcasm in her voice was clear. She walked as fast as she could in the blinding rain, struggling to keep her umbrella straight with one hand, and her purse and tote bag dry with the other hand tucked against her chest. The slicker did its job, but the wind did a number on her head. Great! Now my hair’s wrecked. It was perfect. I torture my sleep with those gigantic soup cans just to get it straight, and now it’s all wavy, she thought, picturing her dark brown, Vidal Sassoon imitation five-point bob frizzing out in all directions.

She continued the uphill battle. While attempting to switch the purse and tote to her other hand to keep leverage on the umbrella, she lost it. A wind gust whipped her around. The umbrella turned inside out. She dropped the tote in a puddle but caught her purse in the nick of time. Nice move, Grace Slick. I don’t have time for this, she said, sweeping up the drippy bag, and kept moving. Rainwater from the tote poured on her feet. Oh for cryin’ out loud. My feet are soaked. Terrific! And now the stupid umbrella’s broken, too. She tossed it and ran.

***

Frank peeked out the front door. "Where is that girl?" he said. Through wet eyeglasses he caught sight of her running up Hilltop Lane. He shut it quickly, and wiped the frames on his buttoned down shirt. That crazy kid has no umbrella? She won’t be a happy camper. And if this rain keeps up, neither will I, he thought seriously. I’ll never get to sleep, and I’ll be checking that basement every half hour at this rate.

***

With towels from the kitchen Frank blotted the rainwater, and echoed softly through his sparsely furnished new home. Are you kids awake? It’s time to get up. Let’s not be rushing around like your big sister. Frank listened but heard nothing. Come on kids. Let’s go! he said louder. Daddy has to make you breakfast, drive you to school, then come back to sleep for a few hours. Frank walked down the hallway, knocked on a bedroom door and walked in. In a commanding tone, he announced, Frankie Boy, don’t make me tell you twice. He poked the lump under the covers. Let’s go.

Frank tiptoed to his bedroom, and peeked in. In a tender voice he spoke to the bed, Hon, are you awake? You want breakfast? He heard a groan from underneath the comforter. Frank took it as a no, and then made his way back to the kitchen. My poor Marie, he thought. She needs her sleep with that flu. Normally there’d be a breakfast buffet waiting for me after my shift. Good thing I got an earlier bus.

Frank heard running feet and running water. He went for his second cup.

***

I’ll get the umbrella later, she decided, as rain pelted from all directions, fogging her eyeglasses. She ripped the black plastic frames from her nose while she ran, squinting as she sprinted the three blocks. It seemed like eternity. But there it was, at the corner of Morningside Blvd and Turtle Back Road. Oh thank God. It’s still here, she thought. This is my first day and now look at me, I’m a mess. Great first impression I’ll be making. I’ll be the last one. I won’t know anyone. And I’ll be known as the drowned rat that just moved in. Lia bit her lip, shoved her glasses in a side pocket and boarded the bus. She didn’t need corrective lenses for what was coming next. She excused and sorry-ed her way with 20/300 vision to the only empty seat in the back, feeling thirty-one sets of eyes following her every step. She squinted, expelled a silent sigh and then sat.

While trying hard to ignore the blurry yet obvious stares, she assessed the damage done by patting her head. Drips of water fell from the ends of her hair. She rubbed underneath her eyes, checking for blackened fingers. Ugh, bad enough my hair is disgusting, but now my makeup’s a mess. My shoes and socks are soaked. Oh God! I’m sure they’re looking at me like I have the cooties or something. Oh screw them! What do they know? Wet and chilled to the bone, she waited with mounting tension, forcing herself not to cry.

She felt prying eyes upon her, and found herself sitting next to a lanky girl with long shiny black hair parted in the middle—-a natural, fresh-faced beauty with Liz Taylor violet eyes and no make-up. Lia turned her head and made eye contact. The girl flashed a faint smile, and then turned toward the window. Humph, she’s bone dry, Lia thought. How’s that even possible? Not that it would matter. She’s so pretty. She doesn’t need all the war paint that I now have to fix. And I’m sure her poker straight hair has never seen a wave or ripple.

I feel bad that you’re so wet, said the friendly voice next to her. Take these tissues, if that even helps. I’m really sorry, but it’s all I have.

Oh. Um, thanks, Lia said with mild surprise as she gladly took the offer.

Don’t sweat it, the girl said. It’s just tissue. I’m Darla Reed. You’re new, aren’t you?

Soggy, yet oddly comfortable, Lia let down her guard but kept her sarcasm close just in case. That’s not just a little obvious, is it? she said as she wriggled off the black vinyl slicker, folding it at her feet. The tote bag sat neatly on top.

What’s your name?

Lia Benedict.

When did you move here?

"We moved in two weeks ago during Easter break, and in the rain I might add."

What street?

Robin Drive.

Oh yeah, in that new section. What’s the empty bag you have there?

A messenger bag. For my books.

Darla looked at her own books that were bound together by a red rubber book strap. Who uses something like that? she innocently asked.

I do, Lia said defensively.

Oh, Darla said cautiously, and then steered in another direction. Hey, that’s an interesting outfit you’re wearing. Where did you get it? she asked, eying Lia up and down, clearly curious about this new girl.

Here we go, Lia thought, tensing and crossing her arms for the second time. Now it’s coming. I just knew it. Oh who cares, I don’t dress like them. And who would want to? This is the sticks, and they dress like hicks. Manhattan, she curtly answered.

It’s groovy. Really, it is. You look fab! Really, you do. I wish I could dress like that, Darla said with all the convincing she could muster. Where did you move from?

New York.

I figured. I can tell from your accent.

Is it that obvious?

Uh ... yeah.

Born and bred a city girl, Lia imitated the British Invasion look from her Beatle maniac days in Brooklyn with her sister Tina. She loved the Carnaby Street fashions from across the pond; whether it was Mod or Rocker she had no idea. But she knew she liked Mary Quant, and made the best of the little funds her family had to divi out.

She bought what she could afford with any allowance and baby-sitting money she could save. She chose for her first day a black miniskirt, a shimmery geometric print buttoned down blouse with a white vinyl collar and matching cuffs at the wrists. The now wet, laced-up, black granny shoes with the chunky heels and the just as soggy, ribbed, black knee high socks completed the now too-edgy-for-suburban-New Jersey look.

Lia answered Darla while rummaging through her purse. You could dress like this. You just have to know where to shop for bargains. Hmm ... my compact was in here yesterday. Where could it be? You wouldn’t happen to have a—?

A mirror? Darla interrupted. "I sure do, and take the last of my tissues. You’re gonna need them. Trust me. Your makeup ran. And I mean—ran—as in down your face."

Thanks. You’re a lifesaver, she said. Perfectly applied at six a.m. was black liquid eyeliner with a matching white line above. Dark brown shadow on the crease line made her big brown eyes even larger. Heavy mascara finished off the Twiggy eye paint that now dripped down her face in jagged black and white lines. Behind the heavy outer layer of pan cake foundation, Lia’s looks were average but not bad. She made the best of the good God gave her, and the most out of the worst. Her olive complexion and facial features gave away her Italian heritage.

Who do you live with on Robin Drive? Darla asked, ready to move onto the next obvious subject.

She wiped the excess black from her lower lid, and spoke in the mirror. Well, let’s see ... my parents, of course. My brother Frankie—he’s twelve. Then there’s Lana, nine and Joanna who’s four. Then there’s Bettina, who we call Tina. She’s almost twenty, but she doesn’t live with us now.

Who do you take after?

No one really. My Dad, if I had to choose. I have his high forehead and his Roman nose. But mine’s the cruel mutant version. I used to think I was adopted. She retrieved her eyeglasses from the slicker and wiped them with her skirt. And I’m blind as a bat, just like he is. So I guess I’m not adopted. Lia stiffened. I sound like a nut job, don’t I?

But your eyes are gorgeous, Darla said. They’re so big. You don’t need all that makeup you wear. And you have the cutest little shape. I wish I was petite, instead of a bean pole with boobs, she said, boldly cupping her breasts with both hands.

Lia half smiled. Thanks. I needed an ego boost, especially being soggy on my first bus ride to a new school. She put on her glasses. Tell you what, she said, glancing at Darla’s chest, I’d trade you my big nose for your big boobs any day.

Darla laughed. I like you already.

Yeah well, they say I’m sarcastic most of the time.

Well I think you’re funny.

What about you? Where do you live?

With my parents, and him, Darla said, pointing and winking at her brother Billy, who was three rows up. We’re all the way up Morningside, the last house on the other end, right before the end of town. There’s a closer bus stop, but I like yours better. So I walk here. This is the last one before it heads to school. If I’m late I can still make it. She continued with some pointers for the new girl as Lia handed back the mirror. The driver is supposed to wait at the last stop in the neighborhood to make sure there are no latecomers. Darla laughed and checked for a reaction in Lia’s face. There wasn’t any. He waited extra long today because of the rain. We all saw you racing up the block.

Lia took it lightly and smiled back. Just then the bus hit a huge bump, sending books flying off laps and most everyone momentarily off their seats, inducing a mini riot. Girls naturally screamed. Boys collectively reacted. This is worse than a transit bus, Lia thought, but kept quiet. Between ‘watch where you’re going!’ and ‘take it easy!’ a few profanities were thrown in, causing the driver to use his authority, threatening them all with detention. Terrific, she mumbled with rolled eyes, and then rode in silence all the way to Middle Road.

Darla picked her books off the floor and stared at the outside rain. She looks older than me. I have to know her age. I have to ask her before we get there. She broke the silence with anticipation. Are you a senior or a junior?

Neither. I’ll be sixteen in August. I’m in tenth.

Far out! Me too! Darla said, bouncing up and down with delight. It’s too bad we can’t be in the same home room, but maybe we have the same classes. Wouldn’t that be cool? She didn’t wait for an answer. The high school was the next left. After school we can take the bus to my stop and walk to my house. We can hang out and play records. My parents both work in Manhattan. They’re not home until late, so they won’t bug us. That’s the best part. We can have the volume up as loud as we want. She winks at Billy again. And my brother has some cute friends too.

Billy Reed knows what’s up, and winks back. He can’t wait to check out the new girl.

***

The rains blew out and made way for sunshine by the time school let out. Buses stacked up like rectangular yellow boxes along the school’s long driveway. Without pelting rain and the morning rush Lia was able to take in what she didn’t see before. As she walked to her bus she thought, there’s sure a lot of campus to spread out. It’s not like Wingate High, that’s for sure. That school is shaped like a banjo with floors. I loved running up and down in circles to get to class. This one is so ordinary. And here, everywhere I look there’s only grass. Where’s all the concrete? We had no convenient yellow buses either. I had to catch three city transits each way. Talk about running late. I was always in detention for that. Lia sighed as she reached the first step. God I miss New York, she said quietly under her breath, and boarded the bus back to her new home.

She was the first one on and had her choice of seats. Lia chose a window seat in back. She felt familiar stares as others made their way toward her. Now I’m really gonna bug out, she thought. This place is like that Harper Valley P.T.A. song. Today was just awful ... all that whispering when I walked in each class. This school is like a Peyton Place. I know I’m different, and Brooklyn is different. Growing up in the city was wonderful. Daddy was wrong; I knew I’d hate it. She crossed her arms and stared out the bus window.

I’m not going to fit in here, am I? ... Lia shook her head slowly as she pondered the answer. Ooh, that stuck-up girl in geometry class! What was her name? Marlene? Nah, maybe it was Marilyn. Yeah, that’s it, Marilyn with the squeaky mouse voice. She tapped my shoulder and asked that stupid question, ‘so what are you, a greaser or a collegiate?’ Lia shivered from the memory of Marilyn’s shrill. What the heck is a greaser anyway? A collegiate is a college kid, right? I told her I was Catholic. The look on her face was priceless. What do I know about living in the sticks? Then she asked if I wanted to go drinking. Drink what? Water? Soda? Egg creams? Lia rolled her eyes. Oh dear God I miss my friends. I hate making new ones. Just when I start to really fit in, we move again. This is my sophomore year, for cryin’ out loud. I miss my old art class. And music in this new school is so juvenile. Oh sure, they have a band, but where’s the orchestra? What good were all those violin lessons without an orchestra? Heck, I even miss my academics. It’s so backwards here, like living in the boondocks. No way am I going to fit in, she finally concluded, and watched the dozens of kids swarm their assigned buses.

Lia sighed and leaned her head against the window. But Daddy loves it here. And Lana and Joanna can finally have a backyard. Frankie can play ball in the street without Ma freaking out, she thought as she watched her peers continue to fill in the seats, two or three at a time, talking and laughing as they boarded.

Darla was the last one on—-alone. She stopped to talk to Billy and briefly glanced over in Lia’s direction, making eye contact and then turned away.

She won’t talk to me again, Lia decided. She was just being polite. Besides, there’s no open seat back here. Oh it doesn’t matter. I don’t need new friends. I’ll go back to Brooklyn every weekend.

Darla waved as she made her way toward the back. I hope she remembers, she thought to herself, and told a freshman to move out of the seat next to Lia. The freshman obediently obliged. Darla wasted no time as she plopped on the seat. You still want to hang out at my house, right? We’ll get off at my stop, okay?

Lia hadn’t forgotten, having already brewed ideas of her own. Why don’t we get off at my stop instead of yours? You can meet my family, and then we’ll walk to your house together.

Far out! Darla exclaimed. I like that even better. I’d love to meet them.

***

The trek from Lia’s house to Darla’s seemed forever at first, but Parkway Pines Development was an intimate cluster of middle class homes. At most, depending on your speed, it was a fifteen minute walk east to west, and a ten minute walk north to south. The first spec models were built two years ago around the new Parkway Pines Elementary School on Morningside Blvd, the longest road in the newer community. New homes spread out from there in all directions. Robin Drive was the newest addition to the sought-after, all white, predominantly Italian and Jewish community.

Her thoughts were buried just underneath the surface as they strolled up Robin, still in school clothes. Darla was in a rush and convinced Lia not to change. They ran out of small talk. The silence was excruciating. So Lia had a conversation with herself. She looked down at the now dry granny shoes and watched each step she was taking. This is not going to work, she thought, glancing at Darla, who was a step or two ahead. I hate this part of moving. It’s a drag. Why am I even doing this? We have nothing in common. Why did we have to move away from my friends? she asked herself. Yeah, yeah, I know ... Daddy couldn’t wait to get out of there, especially since Martin Luther King was killed. That was three weeks ago. Why he was so nervous? That didn’t happen in New York. That was down South.

She counted squares in the sidewalk with her every step. One, two, three ... okay, let’s see, she thought, and what else did they flip out about? Eight, nine ... oh yeah, the Big Blackout three years ago, that’s what it was. What was the big deal? It was fun walking home in pitch black. I wasn’t allowed anywhere until the lights came back. Fourteen, fifteen ... Daddy always worries about us being safe. What’s so unsafe about Brooklyn? I got along with everybody at Wingate, she thought, thinking once more about so-called racial tensions. There’s nothing bad about living in Brooklyn ... twenty-one, twenty-two ... yeah, yeah, Daddy’s always talking about needing solid roots. She looked up to see where she was going. Humph! My feet were firmly planted in Brooklyn—but not anymore. Now I’m stuck here in Nowheresland. She looked straight ahead, emptied her thoughts and kept walking in silence.

Frank Benedict worked hard to afford his own home for his wife and five children after years of renting in Brooklyn. At age forty-four Frank decided on a location to build on, in what Lia dubbed would be ‘some cutsie little house on some bird-brained dead end street, far away from civilization in some obscure place that may as well not exist, smack in the middle of Nowheresland, New Jersey.’ But her father was proud of his final choice, and hoped Lia would eventually see things differently. ‘Parkway Pines Development is fertile ground for a growing family,’ he would say again and again.

She dreaded the thought of moving so much so that she had dreams about it. One was so vivid and filled with nonsense that she spelled it out on paper, and showed her parents what she wrote. The entire family, including Lia, had a good laugh at her expense. She then got a half-serious lecture on the evils of LSD. She crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash.

Seeds of promise were sown all around. The stark differences between Brooklyn and her new surroundings were hard to miss, but Lia’s mind was closed to the possibilities of flourishing in the suburbs. It’s way different here, she thought. Everything is new and clean. The houses are big and there’s so much land. Sure it’s a nice place, there’s no denying it, she admitted to herself. But my life changed on a dime when we moved. I would rather thrive in the grime of New York than be plucked from my roots and transplanted in Nowheresland, just to wither away and die. I