Trampled Underfoot: The Dirt on Vic and Lia

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are to be considered imaginary and may or may not be intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the Author, who has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

Trampled Underfoot:

The Dirt on Vic and Lia

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Good

eBook edition version 1.0

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Elizabeth Good

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Also by Elizabeth Good

Just Another Sunday: A Novel

Although written as the follow-up story to Just Another Sunday, Trampled Underfoot stands perfectly on its own to be fully enjoyed as is presented. But if you’d like to start from the beginning, below are some accolades for Just Another Sunday.

"… Good has a story to tell and she does so movingly and unflinchingly in this deceptively simple coming of age novel… ." Edl, Goodreads

… Just Another Sunday is a most enjoyable Sunday read and a wonderful walk down memory lane. DPB

"… insight the author has into their character is great, and the passages of introspection are often well-written." Judge, Writer’s Digest 21st Annual Self-Published Book Awards.

"… fast reading. Great insight to young high school students of the sixties. The story keeps you spellbound. Always wondering what will happen next. I truly enjoyed this book." Mary T. Mendoza

… Author Elizabeth Good has a story to tell of how coming of age is rarely easy and she writes that story very well. Just Another Sunday is for readers everywhere. - Alice DiNizo for READERS’ FAVORITE

… I enjoyed the writer’s style and attention to 60’s details. I can definitely recommend this book!! Grace Gartner

For my son, VJS

You’ve always been my heart

And my soul

And my every thing

For my eldest sister, Tina

I miss you and Dad

Every day

The effects of Fate come together like stew simmering with provisions from the universe. Which ingredients we’ve used make the end result easy to swallow or bitterly distasteful. So choose wisely for, when our lot in life is done, only those young enough or strong enough can toss their destiny aside and start over.

~ Elizabeth Good

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Notes and Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

Winds of Doubt, March 1976

The storm would not go quietly. An early morning squall whipped torrents of rain from Raritan Bay into Keyport Harbor, drenching clusters of homes and land along the sandy shore communities of Union Beach, Keyport, and further up into Cliffwood Beach, a small town dubbed the forgotten resort of upper Monmouth County, New Jersey—a fifteen minute car ride from the Benedict’s family home. By morning’s light, the strong gusty winds, along with alternating tranquil breezes, blew remnants of the nasty weather further aloft, whistling loudly through treetops, drafty windows and doors on its way out.

Sixteen years earlier, Hurricane Donna left the summer-fun destination of Cliffwood Beach as a suburb struggling to rebuild and survive. Blocks and blocks of well-kept, year-round homes stand in stark contrast to street after street of abandoned cottages in disrepair, further marring the once-pleasing landscape with sorely neglected lawns and shrubbery.

Overgrown scrub pines, planted too close to the bungalow rental Lia Benedict-Somers now called home, swayed violently with each burst of wind as it dissipated west. Straggly limbs of pine needles bristled angrily to and fro against east-facing windows of her tiny, rustic dwelling on the corner of Shore Concourse Road and Shady Nook Street. They were causing a racket, gnawing, scraping and scratching at the glass panes, but effectively buffered the sentient murmurs that were swirling in her mind and begging to be addressed, but they wouldn’t—not today. Not any day. Not any time soon.

Lia tiptoed around her darkened bedroom. An inch of daylight, filtering in from a tattered old shade, guided her way to the dresser. She rummaged the second drawer and found what she was looking for.

She stood at the foot of her bed and peeled off sweaty clothes, stripping to nearly naked while watching him sleep, amazed he could fall into deep slumber with all the noise going on outside. She was satisfied. He was so still, so peaceful. She hopped into a well-worn pair of straight-leg stretch denims and scooped up a plaid flannel work tunic that had fallen to the carpet, but never took her eyes off him. She pulled the tunic over her head while zeroing in on his chest. He is breathing, isn’t he? You’re being paranoid, said the only perceptive voice she’d allow to the fore.

She pushed both arms through her shirt, wriggling it past her waist, then leaned closer to the bed, squinting. Wait a second, his chest isn’t moving. Oh God. Rushing to his side of the bed, she placed a shaky finger under his nostrils.

This was crazy. She’d work herself into a tizzy whenever he’d sleep, and knew she’d go through this same process the rest of her life. Lia whispered, Sleep well, my love. Inching out of the room, she closed the creaky wooden door behind her.

Tick Tock. That cat wall clock was too loud, for sure. But at least those awful bushes were no longer a nuisance. She was glad the winds were finally dying. He needed rest and she had curtains to finish. But ring ring went the phone, again.

The freckle-faced redhead smugly hung the black receiver in its cradle. She checked her watch and opened the heavy phone book to the white pages. With intense blue eyes and a red-painted index finger guiding the way, she went down the list of S surnames until she found a number matching the one scrawled in ink on the diner napkin in her other hand. She tapped her finger on the page. Bingo. This must be his house, she said, scribbling the address in pencil under the phone number already committed to memory. She closed the book, stuffed the napkin in her apron’s pocket and got back to cleaning remaining dirty tables from Burlew’s breakfast crowd.

Persistent winds of doubt had been brewing a shit storm, flooding her peace of mind, seeping in, flowing out, and eroding the hard-sought happiness she was desperate to keep. They would not be passing any time soon. But she went about her domestic business anyway, gathering tools for the task at hand.

She positioned a wobbly, wooden ladder against a kitchen window sill, kept the sick feelings at bay, and then cautiously climbed each step. The rod, balanced on her shoulder and already shirred with red/white gingham curtains, jerked forward as she reached the fifth rung. She’d heard the rip and stepped down to examine the damage she’d done to the last of four sets of panels with matching valances purchased the day before.

Why couldn’t anything come easy? Not that it was a big deal, really. She’d ask Ma to sew it. Or maybe Tina. No, on second thought she’d buy another, or maybe fix it herself. Ma was under too much pressure and, besides, Tina couldn’t be bothered with curtain repairs, especially hers. She rolled the damaged panel in a ball and tossed it in the kitchen garbage.

The combined sounds of clinking utensils and loud conversation shrill coming from the lively lunch crowd at Burlew’s Cliffwood Inn were finally dwindling to low-volume drone from the few patrons left lingering over coffee. But this time wasn’t safely quiet to use the pay phones near the restrooms. Roxanne LeBreux searched for dimes and dropped the rest of her tip money in her apron’s pocket. The attractive waitress unleashed her hair from its rubber band, letting the soft ringlets of her flame-red mane hang freely down her back.

Roxanne poked her head through the kitchen’s swinging metal doors and called out to her boss, Sammy, I’m taking my next break outdoors. I’ll be back in ten. Retrieving a single Winston cigarette from between her breasts, she then walked briskly through the restaurant’s entrance, straight to the private phone booth near her car.

Ring. Ring. Lia glared at the noisy phone, hoping it wouldn’t wake him. Tick Tock. Now she stared at that clock over the stove, its tail swinging as loudly as the ring of the phone. She hated that beady-eyed black cat. Skirting around the ladder, to get to the knotty pine wall by the front door, she reached the phone before it rang again. This better not be Tina. She should’ve been here by now.

Hello? … Hello? Who is this? … Why do you keep calling here? … And who are you? Stop harassing us … And don’t ever dial this house again. Creep.

Shivering, Lia hung the receiver back in its place and turned the volume lever to low. Who was doing this? And why? This was today’s fifth creepy phone call. Police know how to trace pesky crank callers. Yeah, good idea. She could ask Steve. She’d ask him the next time she saw him.

Lia brushed aside newly-hung kitchen curtains far enough from the window to peek outside. The early morning storm had given way to sunny skies despite the fierce winds. She used all her strength to lift the rickety bottom window, then swung a red-cushioned, 50s style, metal chair around and sat facing outward, her chin resting on crossed arms over the sill. She breathed in then exhaled, relishing the warm gentle breezes against her skin. She couldn’t help but notice her ring finger.

Facets in her engagement ring—a perfect, three carat, colorless diamond handed down by Nana Somers—sparkled magnificently in the sunlight. Obnoxious ring, and Vic loved it. She hated it. Too heavy for her bony hand, she wriggled it off.

But Fate had brought her this rock. If she hadn’t phoned Decker the week before that New Year’s Eve so long ago, she wouldn’t be Mrs. Vic Somers today. She held it between her fingers studying the high profile, marquis-cut diamond stone. Sadie, Sadie, married lady. It’s what she’d always wanted.

A cursory glance to the bedroom door, she then placed the heirloom diamond in a Baccarat crystal bowl, a wedding gift from her mother-in-law, Yvonne. Together, the two luminous items gleamed with the brilliance of the sun in an absurd contrast to the rust-pitted metal table on which they were held.

Lia leaned on the sill thinking back. Decker just had to tell Vic she’d phoned. She’d begged him not to, but men gossip way more than women. Yes, that call to Decker sealed her future. Queasiness once again bubbled in her gut. She needed to vomit.

So many things went down that New Year’s Eve. She’d thought it could work with Jesse Carlisle but it was Vic all along. And that traffic stop by Steve was pure destiny. He’d told Vic she was at The Sweet Shoppe. And of course Vic showed up. Her eyes hitched a ride on fast-moving clouds and she drifted to the last day in 1972 …

‘This is very intriguing, Vic. But I have a party to go to and a life to live. And I would be damned to an eternal hell if my life included you. But I’ll sacrifice the next five minutes and chalk it up as a loss. So, tick tock—start talking.’

‘Georgette walked into the Bar H one night while I was throwing back tequila shots. Lia, you wouldn’t forgive me. I was lost without you. She sat next to me and listened to me spill my guts. I was drunk. She was horny. She suggested we roll the dice, and I figured what the hell. We hopped the redeye to Vegas. She got her rocks off at the craps table and we wound up in an Elvis chapel. She wasn’t you, Lia. She isn’t you. I’ll make things right between us.’

‘This is wrong on so many levels, more than I care to enumerate. You’ve made your bed, now lay in it. Bed — that’s where you do your best work. Have a nice life. I know I will.’

‘Please don’t walk away, Lia. I’ll read that Truth book!’

‘Read it with your wife. There’s an enlightening chapter on marriage.

‘She emptied my bank accounts and split, Lia. Quit punishing me, would ya? I know you still love me or you wouldn’t have called Decker. I’m getting a divorce with or without you.’

‘It’ll be without me. You can count on it.’

‘I’ve changed, Lia. Let me prove it.’

‘A leopard can’t change his spots.’

‘I’ll study that Truth book with your Mother, if that’s what it takes. Stop the car. I don’t want any other woman!’

‘That’s your problem, Vic, not mine. Get off my door. Let me leave or I’ll run you over.’

‘You still love me, Lia! I saw it in your face!’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I had carbonated egg creams on an empty stomach. Now let go of my car.’

‘Then go! But we’ll be married someday, Lia, I swear!’

‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

Her feelings for Vic were never truly dead. She’d simply buried them alive. By the time she’d reached that dead end on Middle Road her love for him was resurrected. He was getting a divorce anyway, yes, but adultery was the only valid grounds in her opinion. And a guilty conscience would never do.

She’d had time to think, to make it all fit, if only … She’d given him the Truth That Leads to Eternal Life book to read. It was the only way. He gobbled it up as if spiritually starved, miraculously transforming himself into a Christian man with values. What could be more perfect? She’d been blessed. Now here she was—Sadie, Sadie, a happily married lady.

Lia reached for her ring, placing it against her plain gold wedding band and then rose to close the window. Darn thing was stuck again. It took all her might to bang it shut. She couldn’t wait to move out of this decrepit old house.

Roxanne inched her orange 1974 Plymouth Duster slowly down Shore Concourse Road, just a two minute drive from her job at Burlew’s Cliffwood Inn. Her eyes darted from house to house until she found number 703, the corner bungalow with forest green cedar shakes. She was just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of that bitch wife shutting the window. Dying for a better look she passed by the house, made a k-turn and then stopped in front of it, idling by the curb across the street. Eyes narrowing for another chance to see signs of that bitch, but a blue Gran Torino pulled up along the rusty chain link fence on the side of Shady Nook. Roxanne lit a Winston and, through dark sunglasses, watched as the woman with long brown hair struggled with grocery bags from the trunk of her Torino.

Lia went to the sink and ran the water cold, staring at the liquid pouring through her fingers. She took a glass from the dish drain, thinking, the road to my destiny was unbendable. Vic and I were introduced by Fate and joined together before God. They work hand in hand toward a common goal, and we’re living proof. Tick Tock. My belief in the concept of Fate doesn’t contradict my faith in God, though the elders would disagree. They claim worldly views are dangerous for true Christians. I don’t care, some interpretations just don’t sit right with me.

Ding Dong. She shut the faucet to get the door. There was Tina, on the porch, struggling with four Pathmark grocery bags. You’re late. And what are you doing with all this food?

Tina rushed past her, dumping the bags on the table. I finished errands and went shopping for you, she said with a grin. Whenever I’m here, your refrigerator’s empty except for a pizza box from Burlew’s.

You’re only here on Saturdays. I do food-shopping on Sundays. And Vic gets take-out pizza on Fridays on his way home from work. She grinned. It’s our new Friday night tradition.

Well I figured you could use a little help.

Not necessary, Tina, but I do appreciate the generosity. And don’t worry, he ate plenty.

Lia, you never accept any money. It’s the least I can do. Where is he? Is he napping?

I put him down on my bed. He’s in a deep sleep. Not even the winds we had earlier could rouse him. Poor little guy, I think playing hide and seek tuckered him out.

Do you know how difficult it is to settle a five-year-old for a nap? Kudos for doing what I can’t. Tina laughed. Guess I should dust off my Dr. Spock manuals.

Don’t sell yourself short, Tina. But I’d like to read those when you’re done if you don’t mind lending them out. She went to the free-standing stove and lifted a glass percolator by the handle. Tick Tock. Coffee’s still hot, want some?

No, I had decaf at Dunkin’ Donuts, Tina said and began emptying a bag of cold food into the refrigerator.

Ding Dong went the doorbell.

With her eyes fixed on the house, Roxanne squashed her smoke in the ashtray. It lay smoldering as she instinctively lit another while focused on the latest visitor who’d just rung the bell. She put the shifter in park, intrigued by the officer who was impatiently pacing the porch with papers in his hand.

She watched him lean on tiptoes over the railing to peer inside a window. He does the same on the other side railing. He huffs and puffs, slaps the papers to his thigh, then goes down the steps while staring directly at her car. Oh boy. Feeling his inquisitive eyes, Roxanne pretended to fumble for something in her purse. The officer goes back up to the door, rings the bell again, but keeps turning in her direction. Roxanne looked up and then down until their eyes finally locked. She tossed her purse on the floor and sped off.

Tina moved on to the cabinets underneath the sink top. I may not be finished with those books until Johnny gets his master’s degree. She muttered loud enough to hear, No wonder she has no food, these cabinets are ridiculously small. She raised her voice. And why do you need those books anyway?

Lia leaned against the stove. Tick Tock. Tina’s dig was wounding but less harsh than other days. She’d let it ride. They’ll give me pointers for babysitting.

Your new curtains are nicer than those shabby things when this house was vacant. They cozy up the place, I suppose. Tick Tock. "How can you stand that horrible clock? Tina forced Lia to move. Excuse me this cat’s got to go. She pulled the plug. Much better," she said, and continued to stock the cabinets. Ding Dong. "Tell me again, why did you pick this place to live?"

Lia sighed on her way to the door refusing to be goaded into another argument. You ask me this every time you visit and my answers are always the same. It’s a cheap rental and we’re saving for a house. The bell rang again. Through the gingham curtain Lia caught sight of a sedan’s official insignia.

Did you miscount? You missed a window.

I stepped on the last panel. It’s ripped and in the trash, Lia said with fingers drumming the doorknob, eager to ask Steve Garuda how phone-tapping works. But how could she? Tina was there and it was none of her business.

Give me the damaged curtain. I’ll sew it, Tina said but was already rummaging the garbage.

Really? You’d do that for me?

Of course. You’re my sister. I would do anything for you. Now answer the door before they decide this love shack is empty and steal the place blind.

This isn’t Brooklyn, Tina. It’s a safe neighborhood. I swear she’s more hormonal than I am. She opened the door to greet Vic’s friend, the newly promoted to Detective, Steve Garuda. But there, standing on the front stoop, was an unfamiliar officer. Surprised, Lia said, May I help you?

The man glanced at his shrieval papers then faced the petite brunette with serious eyes. Monmouth County Sheriff’s Officer, ma’am. I’m here to serve Mr. Victor Joseph Somers.

He isn’t home, she said with increasing concern. He’s at work. I’m his wife, Lia Somers.

Then he’s as good as served, ma’am. Please sign here, he said, handing her his pen.

Lia scribbled, pulse quickening. What’s this about?

Tina scrambled to her side. Is her husband in trouble?

Ma’am, I’m just the lowly messenger. And you are?

Her sister.

It’s all explained in this Complaint, the officer said as he handed Lia the summons. I’m truly sorry for your troubles, Mrs. Somers. He turned and walked the steps toward his vehicle.

Lia stood staring at the court document. I don’t want to read this, Tina. You do it.

Let’s sit down. I’m sure it’s nothing, Tina said, and shut the door. It’s probably a disgruntled customer suing Vic for automotive repairs-gone-bad. She took it from Lia’s hand. This could be the perfect ingredient for a volatile situation and she couldn’t let that happen again. Leaning on the table next to Lia’s seat, You want me to read it to myself first?

No. Read it aloud. And don’t leave anything out.

Tina started with the date.

I’ve changed my mind, Lia said, extracting it from Tina’s hand. I’m wearing my big girl panties. Composed, she gave the document a cursory once-over. She flipped it back over to Tina.

Tina digested every paragraph. "Holy moly, this is a paternity suit, she said with a veiled attempt at shock. They want a blood test. What are you going to do?"

Lia shrugged, Nothing. This is a mistake. That child isn’t Vic’s. She pointed, According to this Complaint, he was born July of 1974. It’s now March of ‘76. Why didn’t she come forward when he was born? If it’s for money, she’s in for a surprise.

For many months there’d been stormy seas behind Lia’s still-waters expression and, today, her tranquil demeanor had irritated the hell out of Tina. But Tina chose to tip-toe around this volatile subject, avoiding a powder keg. Do you know the Plaintiff, Lorraine Dvorak?

Lia thought back to Vic’s single years. I suppose he’d slept with dozens of chicks when he lived at Somers Point Inn, but that was a lifetime ago. I only know of that one slut, Penny Layne, and my dear ex-best friend, Darla Reed, she said. And then, of course, there’s Vic’s wife of just one week, but she split to Las Vegas, never to be heard from again. So I don’t know who Lorraine Dvorak is and I don’t really care.

I’m surprised you’re being so passive about this, Tina said, thinking someone needs to light a fire under her sister’s sorry ass, but it can’t be her.

Wait a minute. I need to re-read the names. She took the Complaint out of Tina’s hand and scanned. The child is Charles Ryan. So then it’s Lorraine—Lorraine Ryan. That’s who she is. Slamming the Complaint face-down on the table, son of a bitch!

Tina flinched hoping that spark would do the trick. She wanted more, more of the spit-fire Lia once was. How well do you know this Lorraine Ryan Dvorak?

The swirling winds of doubt now formed dark, ominous clouds. Crashing waves broke through Lia’s protective wall, flooding her consciousness with dread. She anxiously twirled her wedding rings, now aware her fairytale world could drown in reality. She wished she could vomit. Lorraine’s the daughter of my father-in-law’s longtime pal, Duke Ryan. Duke’s real name is Charles. There’s bad blood between Duke and T-Bone. They’re no longer friends and we don’t know why.

How well do you know her? Tina repeated.

Lorraine and Vic were childhood friends. He knows her very well, but she and I spoke only briefly during holiday parties at my in-law’s house in Holmdel.

Tina filled with hope. You’re celebrating holidays again? Since when?

No, and don’t go there, Tina. I’m not in the mood.

Fine, she simply said, backing off with palms-up. Who accompanied her to those parties?

Her husband, Jon. His full name’s Jonathan Dvorak. Lia sighed. It’s coming back to me, the baby was also there. They call him Charley. He was a few months old at the time.

Did he resemble Vic in any way?

I never actually saw Charley up close. He was in a port-a-crib somewhere upstairs, I think. We usually left early because I disliked going there—always have. Still don’t.

Tina couldn’t resist. Was Vic always by your side? Or did he disappear upstairs with Lorraine?

Lia shot her a look to kill. What are you insinuating?

I was wondering if Vic was upstairs with Lorraine and this baby. They’re perfectly legitimate questions. Her inflammatory inquiries could rekindle emotions, if not for Lia, then for her.

There’s no reason to discuss it any longer, Lia said, shoring up the flood of pessimism with defensive sandbags.

If Charley Ryan’s his child, you’d naturally assume he’d have a vested interest in his care, wouldn’t you?

Glaring, "Tina, he’s not Vic’s child."

Tina fanned the flames, maybe Lia would catch the back draft for God’s sake. Wake up, sister. Your husband’s a snake.

That’s not fair, Lia said like