Beyond Blonde (5 page)

More silence.

“I don’t even remember how to fake being Catholic!”

No one said anything at all for a very long time. Many silent seconds ticked by.

“Fine, I’ll go talk to the priest.”

Auntie Eva snatched me into a massive smother hug.

More God stuff.

“And say zat you are Luigi’s niece,” said Auntie Eva.

“You want me to lie? Outright? To a priest?”

“Pa da,”
said Auntie Radmila.

“But it’s the Catholic church!”

“Exactly,” sniffed Auntie Eva. “You know how zey are, unless you are a good Catolic, zey vill never cooperate. Ve are not related vit poor Luigi, and he vas such a big Catolic.” She paused here for a moment while we watched her eyes well up again. “You vant ve should bury him in a ditch?”

“Well no, geez,” I moaned. “Of course not. I guess.” Unbelievable, I was right back to lying my face off to Catholic clergy. “When?”

“Oooh!” Auntie Eva glanced at her watch and hustled over with my jacket. “You must go right avay fast to talk to za priest. Fazer Gregory in za church around za block is expecting you zis minute. Our Lady of Perpetual Sobbing.”

“Sorrow!” I said, even though she was grieving and everything.

“Zat is vat I said!” She blew her nose. “Mainly. Ven your
head is full of sobbing your heart is full of sorrow, and za Catolics know zis.”

We all nodded like that was a comprehensible sentence and everything.

I was hustled out of Auntie Eva’s and found myself in the vestibule of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow before I really knew what had happened. The church was empty, just me and all those statues and stained glass. It felt good. Lazy afternoon sunrays snuck through the clear bits in the windows, warming the carved oak and playing with decades of dust. Without thinking, I dipped my fingers into the font of holy water. I was eleven again. I made the sign of the cross, walked toward the altar, genuflected in front of the tabernacle, and slid into the first pew like I had just done it last Sunday. It was scary how it all came back. My breathing slowed. I remembered this part; it always made me feel pure and righteous. Maybe I could be a Catholic after all. I knew a fair bit from faking it all those years. I heard footsteps. A priest approached me from one of the confessional boxes.

“My child.” He smiled. “I am Father Gregory.”

“Hi Father, I believe you were expecting me. I’m Sophie Pescatore.” I snuck a peek back at the confessional box, remembering the clean feeling I’d get after confession. The nuns all assumed I’d had my first communion and I never corrected them. I loved confession and confessing. I was a first-class confessor. And, apparently, I was still a first-class liar, except now, I felt bad about it. Father Gregory held out his hand.

“Yeah, so, uh, I’m Luigi’s niece, here to discuss my dearly, uh, departed and beloved uncle’s funeral service.”

Maybe there was some other looser, more Sophie-suitable type of religion that understood about the necessity of fabrications and falsehoods. I decided to wait for a sign from God on that one.

“So, Father, thing is, my uncle loved white roses and gardenias …”

“Oh, Lord,”
I said to no one in particular as I clambered into the far end of the limo. “You’ve got to admit that this is weird, even for us.” We were off to Luigi’s funeral mass. I knocked on the window separating the driver from the passengers. It slid open. “Papa, do you even know how to drive this thing?”

“It’s a car.” He shrugged.

Mama, Auntie Eva, and Auntie Luba were in pride of place in the back seat, with Auntie Radmila and Uncle Dragan opposite them. The man hadn’t said a word in years, but he exuded an air of contentment that wafted off him in visible waves. Every time I saw him, I was reminded that there must be more to Auntie Radmila than meets the eye. Mike, and I could not bring myself to call him “uncle” since he was still my employer at the restaurant, Mike sat shotgun with Papa to keep him company and help him guess at what all the buttons were for. The dashboard
looked like Command and Control for North American Air Defense.

I tucked myself in beside Auntie Radmila so I could keep tabs on the driver. Uncle Dragan tapped a button on the black console and, presto, produced a stash of brandy stored in a beautiful cut-glass decanter. He also whipped out six gorgeous little crystal glasses and started pouring. Everybody but Papa had a glass. Even Mama.

“Živili!”
Mike lifted his glass, which was barely visible in his big meaty paw.

“To life!” I agreed and immediately wondered whether that was entirely appropriate given the circumstances.

We clinked glasses and downed our brandy in one gulp. The brandy went straight to my head, and I made a conscious decision to regard our outrageous little procession with a mellower eye. It didn’t help.

All of us wore black from head to toe. We were black on black and still we were too colourful. How was that even possible? I turned back to the driver. “Could we at least do something about the lights?” Somehow, either Papa or Mike had hit a bad button, so now, not only were we going to a funeral in a white super stretch with twinkle lights, but the stupid twinkle lights were flashing non-stop. I’d never been to a funeral mass before, but I just knew twinkling twinkle lights couldn’t be right. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else.

“I just don’t know what we did there, Princess.” Papa squinted at the dashboard. “It’s okay though. I think Luigi would be pleased.”

Jesus God, after six months of living in her basement apartment, Papa was thinking like Auntie Eva, a textbook case of Stockholm syndrome.

“Absolutely, Slavko darling!” Auntie Eva held up her glass for a refill.

Slavko
darling
?

Everyone had a refill. Including Mama and including— when Mama was busy comforting Auntie Eva—me. I inhaled that shot too. At this rate, we were going to pour ourselves half-loaded out of the car like a group of kids on their way to prom. In my defence, I argued for decorum every step of the way. It was me who said we should use two of Luigi’s lovely black limos. That was hotly voted down by Mama and Auntie Eva, who felt that we should all be together during this searingly tragic moment. Besides, they felt that the white limo with the twinkle lights was more festive.

You’d think I’d recognize defeat when it landed in my lap, but I pressed on to my next agenda item. “Papa?”

“Yes, Princess?”

“I know I’ve said it before, but shouldn’t you wait to drive this thing until you maybe got your licence or something?”

Everybody, including Papa, turned to me and smiled.

“What?”

“You say, Eva.”

“No, Slavko.” Auntie Eva smiled sweetly. “You go ahead.”

It was official. Their cold war had melted over Luigi’s dead body. They had hated each other for my entire life. Papa felt that Auntie Eva was a lying, scheming, manipulative busybody. Auntie Eva, on the other hand, kept playing the
prison/drunk card on Papa. And now here they were ready to go on tour together.

“What?” I repeated.

“Well, kid.” Mike cleared his throat. “I pulled a few strings …”

Mike’s strings were legendary. They went from behind his restaurant counter all the way to the premier’s office and got tied into knots throughout the city. It never ceased to shock me. The guy was like a combination short-order cook and Balkan warlord. Square-chested gentlemen, who rumbled when they talked, often turned up near the end of my shift on Saturdays and sat on the very last stool on the counter. They always wore suits, always ordered coffee, and always over-tipped. I loved them.

“And …” Mike turned around to make sure everyone was paying attention. “And your pops should have his licence by the end of next week.”

“And?” Auntie Eva patted my knee, beaming.

Mike lit a cigarette and offered them around. It took a few minutes for the cigarettes to be lit and then, of course, the glasses had to be refilled.

“And …” I said.

“And as soon as he’s got that under his belt and the lawyers have worked it out all legal like.” He paused to blow a few smoke rings. “Then your Papa will be the new president and chief executive officer of Pescatore’s White Night Limousine Service!”

The back of the limo erupted into squealing, clapping, and hollering. “Wait, but what about Auntie Eva?”

“Eva is the chairman, of course,” said Papa.

Of course.

We resumed squealing.

“Eva.” Mama’s eyes welled up. “Eva, how can I …” She put a hand to her throat. “I, how …”

“Phooey!” Auntie Eva downed her brandy. “I need somevone I could trust. Tycoons need peoples. Besides, it vould make Luigi happy.”

I hoped Luigi knew how happy he was.

“May God have a rest on his soul.” Auntie Luba made the sign of the cross. They all made the sign of the cross. For people who hadn’t set foot in a church since my baptism, they sure were getting their Catholic on. I couldn’t blame them; it was all enough to make you believe in God whether you wanted to or not. Papa had more or less been out of work since he got out of prison last year. He’d gone from jobless to president in a week
and
he was sober! At this rate he’d be back home by the weekend.

We all filed into the church, trying to look sombre. Auntie Eva got into the moment as soon as she saw the coffin, laden with gardenias and a few stray white carnations. She turned around and whispered, “Ver did za carnations come from? I said roses and gardenias!” Then she promptly threw herself on said carnations and gardenias. “
Yoy!
Luigi, my love, my everyting!” She pounded on the apparently suitable cherry veneer coffin. “How could you leave your little dumpling?” Sob, sob. “Lord, take me instead!” Auntie Luba waited for a beat then took the prostrate Auntie Eva to the front pew, where she draped herself onto me, inconsolable.

Nobody orchestrates like the Aunties; it’s a DNA thing. Everyone, friend, foe, or family, must know that Luigi would be missed, Luigi would be mourned.

I looked around as soon as my head was free.

“How many?” she whispered.

“More than thirty, less than fifty.”

“Not bad. I asked za ladies from za Hungarian Hall to come and cry.”

“I see them in the middle of the church, on our side.”

“Vat are zey doing?”

“Crying.”

“You call zat crying? Zat is not crying! Zat is sniffling! I asked for crying!”

The Blondes were there, in the third row, along with Madison’s grandfather, the Judge. He probably drove them over. Madison got a brand-new car for her sixteenth birthday, but she had just flunked her driver’s licence test for the third time last week. She may have to get fixed up by Mike, too. There were various odds and sods of people and then a man and a woman who looked eerily alike in the “family” pew opposite us.

I nudged Auntie Radmila in the ribs and mouthed, “Who are they?”

“Za removable cousins,” Auntie Radmila whispered so loud that the entire church turned to look at the distantly removed cousins. Mario and Maria sat all by themselves, swallowed up by the dark oak pew. The Aunties had much remarked upon the singularity of Luigi’s Italian ancestry. Neither he nor Mario nor Maria had ever been married or had children.

“It’s not natural for an Italian,” Auntie Luba complained.

People kept coming. A very old couple were followed by a few people who may have been Luigi’s regular clients, who were followed by, Jesus God, Mr. Wymeran, five girls from our second string, and … David! I whipped around and stared at the coffin. Luckily, the funeral procession started and Auntie Eva had sprung for a soloist, so I got distracted. Still,
he
was back there. What was he doing here?
Concentrate.
I was up soon with the First Reading. I settled into the comforting ritual of it all. I’d forgotten how much I had enjoyed Catholic ceremonies, the hymns, the incense, the readings … it was just like an AA meeting, except that it was me going up to the podium and all eyes would be on me. I liked that too. The reading was from Corinthians 13:1–13, the bit about love. It might make Luigi happy.

“If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels …”

It was a nice turnout after all. I looked out at everyone. Auntie Eva needn’t have fretted so much. I felt David’s eyes on me. Why was he here? I looked back at my text.

“Love is always patient and kind; love is never jealous …”

As I read, the hairs on the front of my arms burned and bristled.

“Love never ends …” I went through the rest of that beautiful reading and finally looked up and all the way to the back of the church. A solitary figure stood in silhouette at the entrance. My heart lurched. I glanced back at the fourth row. No. David was still sitting there.

Luke.

I swear it was Luke. How did he know? Why was he here?
I stepped down and turned to go into the aisle and then looked back again. Gone. But it
was
him. It was! The air had been charged with electricity and now it wasn’t. It was always like that with Luke. I turned back one more time. No. Second Reading, Gospel Acclamation, Gospel Reading, Homily, Hymns, Communion and, through it all, I could feel that Luke
was
there and now he wasn’t. His absence was a physical thing.