Edited to Death (33 page)

Michael didn’t stir. He was engrossed in
Sports Illustrated
.

“Michael?” I slipped my hand under his t-shirt and rubbed his stomach.

“Hmm?”

“What are you reading?”

“A story about basketball salaries.” He turned a page. “You didn’t marry the right
Michael,” he observed. “If you’d married one of these others—Jordan, say we wouldn’t
have to worry about putting the kids through college. We could just buy their way
in. Actually, if you’d married somebody named Shaquille, we’d simply buy them a college
outright.”

“Don’t you want to hear my cool idea about tomorrow morning?”

He let
Sports Illustrated
fall to his chest and regarded me with suspicion.

“Does it involve trowels or chicken manure in any way?”

“Not at all. I was thinking church.”

He regarded me with disbelief. “Church? What kind?”

“Mass,” I said briskly. “St. Peter’s and Paul’s, ten a.m. And then we can take the
kids to some funky Italian North Beach place for brunch. And we can hang out at City
Lights bookstore for a while. And then,” I concluded, warming to my topic, “when your
mother calls Sunday night you can tell her what we did with the little heathens. It
will make up for them telling her latkes are their favorite food.” Michael’s sainted
mother lived in terror the boys would turn into little Hasidic Jews while she wasn’t
looking. She kept asking me how Jesus fit into my worldview. I always told her I thought
anybody who could turn water into wine was my idea of the perfect house guest. Michael
turned out the light and pulled me to him.

“That’s a great idea, honey. I love that church, I love that neighborhood, and it
won’t kill any of us to spend Sunday morning that way.”

“We can pray for the resurrection of your career,” I said.

Michael looked at me. “Always a wisecrack, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel so miserable about this cloud hanging over you.”

He pulled me closer. “Someday the cops will figure out who killed your elderly, slimeball
lover, and I’ll be back to going to boring, contentious executive committee meetings.”

“Aside from the elderly and slimeball comments, this is more evidence that you’re
a generous guy,” I said.

“Remember,” he said, “even my generosity has its limits.” With that, he kissed my
nose, turned over, and fell asleep.

As I drowsed away, more pangs of guilt drifted into my consciousness. I was accumulating
vast numbers of spousal points for simply suggesting Mass, and of course, my motives
were far, far from pure. But then, I thought vaguely as I drifted off, doesn’t the
end justify the means, or the Mass, or some m-word.…

Sunday morning found the Fiori clan scrubbed and wholesome, scrambling up the steps
to St. Peter’s and Paul’s as the bells rang. It was a perfect, wintry San Francisco
morning. Blue skies, chilly air, the last of the scarlet and gold leaves clinging
to the trees in the square, and dozens of ancient Italian ladies, dressed in black
from their headscarves to their sensible shoes, making their way to choice seats in
the church. It was a Mass that hovered somewhere between New Age and Classic Vatican
II—a few references to social justice, a cherubic boys’ choir, a few pleas for help
in the weekly soup kitchen, and bingo announcements. I gave Michael a superior smile
and he leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Someone who comes from a culture that elevates
mah-jongg to a holy ritual has no cause to look so uppity about a few bingo cards.”

I was prepared to deliver my mah-jongg is an ancient Chinese game requiring great
skill and cunning, not to mention its prominence in
The Joy Luck Club
, not to mention the fact that my Great Aunt Floss, a player of brilliance and acumen,
also made
kugel
for which Michael was willing to perform unnatural acts, when Josh leaned over, waved
a remonstrative finger, and said, “Mommy, we zip our lips in church.”

Damn children. They absorb your lectures and feed them right back to you.

Later, as we were gathering coats and scarves to head out into the weak, wintry sunshine,
I caught sight of a familiar face. Several, in fact. “Michael, make sure the boys
don’t forget anything. I want to say hi to somebody.”

I began weaving through the crowd, trying not to knock any elderly worshipers to the
ground, and came out to the front steps. Standing at the bottom of the steps were
John Orlando (a.k.a. Jack Rowland), Glen, Father Timothy from Skunkworks, and another
young man, very pale, dressed in khakis, a collarless shirt, and a leather jacket.
None of them looked particularly happy, or sanctified, for that matter, but they were
so engrossed in their conversation, they didn’t see me ’til I arrived, somewhat breathless,
at Glen’s side, and slipped my arm through his.

“Glen, what a nice surprise,” I said.

Glen looked like the surprise was anything but nice. His arm stiffened, then relaxed.
“Maggie. The surprise is mine. Didn’t know you went in for Mass on a Sunday morning.”

I smiled at the entire circle, “Oh, you know, trying to give our boys an ecumenical
upbringing. Michael’s Catholic, you know.”

“I know,” said Glen, “and there’s that lovely St. Luke’s just two blocks from your
house.”

“Lousy cookies and coffee,” I said. “I hear they serve biscotti here. And besides,”
I added, “there’s that lovely Mission Dolores two blocks from your house.”

“I take your point,” said Glen. He gestured to his companions. “You all know each
other, I believe.”

Father Timothy nodded, “Mrs. Fiori, so pleasant to see you again.”

The other young man smiled at me and gave a little wave. He looked very familiar,
so I assumed I’d seen him around
Small Town’s
offices.

John Orlando looked anything but friendly. He fidgeted and glanced at his watch. “You
turn up everywhere, Mrs. Fiori, fancy that. But we’ve got to be running along, chaps,
don’t we?”

“Group outing?” I asked sweetly.

The circle fell silent. “Espresso,” Glen said. “We meet a group of fellows afterwards.
Corinne gives me Sunday morning off, away from the little ones.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” I said. “We’re taking our little ones out for brunch and
over to City Lights.” I relinquished Glen’s arm. He reached over and pecked me on
the cheek. His lips were cold, and when he moved away, he seemed to give a little
shiver.

“Bundle up, Glen,” I called as they headed across the square of urban park in front
of the church. “It’s windy out; you’ll catch cold.”

“Ever the mother,” said Michael, coming up with Josh and Zach in tow, just as the
group disappeared from view.

“Hey, was that Glen? Who are those guys with him?”

“Bunch of people I know from work.”

He hugged me to him. “It’s chilly out here. Let’s go find some hot coffee and lots
of pancakes!” Josh and Zach began chanting, “We want pancakes, we want pancakes,”
and we set out across the park into the heart of North Beach, while I wondered what
it meant that exactly what I’d expected to find turned up at St. Peter’s and Paul’s.

We had a great morning rambling around North Beach, steering the boys away from the
barkers on Broadway, those luring the tourists into the topless, bottomless, and otherwise
clothes-unencumbered, shows, and buying coffee, salami, a chunk of reggiano, and pastries
to take home. Michael chatted in Italian with the ladies behind the bakery counter,
and charmed, they tucked extra
cannoli
into the bag. “
Per gli ragazzi
,” they said, beaming at the boys. “
Mille grazie
,” they replied in chorus, thereby unleashing more sighs of admiration from the adoring
ladies. I beamed at all three of my charming Mediterranean boys and made a note to
let Michael’s mother know that not only had Josh and Zach set foot inside a bona fide
Catholic church, but that the Italian lessons she was conducting long distance were
serving them very well, indeed.

We ended up browsing used books at City Lights, that holy mecca of the Literary Beat
movement. Josh and Zach installed themselves in the kids section, Zach sitting on
the dusty floor leafing through picture books while Josh cruised the shelves for virtually
anything that featured armies, navies, and guns. We had no idea how a little military
nut could come out of our peace-loving family, but a book is a book, as far as I was
concerned. I touched Josh on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on Zach, honey,” I said. “Dad
and I are going downstairs for a few minutes.”

Michael headed for the history shelves. I began picking my way through vintage cookbooks,
separating them into gotta-haves and nice-to-haves. I explained my cataloging system
to Michael. He sighed. “You and books, Maggie. How come there aren’t any out-and-out
rejects?”

“Reject a book outright? I’m worried I’d hurt its feelings.”

When we wandered back upstairs, both of us were carrying a few treasures. Zach was
exactly where we left him. No sign of Josh. “Where’s your brother?” I asked.

Zach looked up and looked around. “I don’t know.”

I glanced around the store. No sign of Josh.

Michael frowned. “It’s not like Josh to wander off. He didn’t say anything?” he asked
Zach.

Zach looked puzzled, then brightened. “I think he had a tummy ache.”

“That’s it,” I said, relieved, though not happy Josh left Zach on his own. “Michael,
check the restroom,” I called. Michael disappeared and was back in a minute. “Nobody
there,” he said grimly.

I felt my heart begin to pound. How could we have left the boys alone even for a minute?
What was I thinking? Michael touched my shoulder. “Okay, we’re not panicking, Maggie.
You stay here with Zach.” Within a few minutes, Michael had the entire bookstore mobilized,
from the grizzled guys behind the counter to every customer in sight. No one had seen
anything. Many remembered seeing the boys at the bookshelves, but no one had seen
Josh walk out the door.

“Mommy,” Zach pulled at my sleeve. “I remembered something.”

I knelt down in the dust next to him, breathing in his warm, little boy essence. “What?
What did you remember, honey?”

“When Josh said his stomach hurt, a man said he’d take him to the bathroom.”

I took a deep breath. “And what did he look like?”

“I don’t know. I was looking at a book, but he was a grown-up.”

“Michael,” I called.

“I’m going up the street to check out some of the other stores,” he said.

“No. Come here a minute. Zach remembered something.”

And just at that moment, just as the nightmares about child molesters and kidnapping
and every other terror in the world were about to overwhelm me, Josh walked in the
door. He waved, caught sight of his father’s face, and turned pale. “Dad, I’m sorry
I left Zach, but I had to, had to, had to go to the bathroom.”

Michael’s face, with relief and rage fighting for dominance, darkened. I held my arms
out for Josh. “Come here, honey. It’s fine. Just tell us what happened.”

And he did. He’d been seized with one of his upset stomachs and was clutching his
middle, looking around for the bathroom, when a man—kinda young, he wasn’t sure—stepped
up and called him by name.

“By name?” I asked. “Did you know him?”

He shook his head. “No, but he acted like he knew me. He knew my name. And I thought
he might have been somebody Dad worked with or you or something and I’d just forgotten
him or something. And he told me that the bathroom was out of order here, and he’d
take me to his place, that he had a bathroom there.”

Michael and I exchanged glances. “And you don’t know his name?”

Josh shrugged. “No, I was embarrassed to ask. I thought he knew me, and all I cared
about was finding a bathroom.” He looked up at me. “I’m really sorry I left Zach,
but I thought I’d just be gone a minute.”

“Where did he take you?” asked Michael. “Can you find the place again?”

Josh said he’d try, and we spent the next half hour wandering up and down the streets.
Unfortunately, the North Beach-Chinatown intersection is a maze of narrow streets,
alleyways, and tiny plazas. We stopped when it was clear Josh was simply confused,
tired, and upset. Michael, trying hard not to interrogate him, kept probing.

“And what did he say when he sent you back to the store, this guy?” asked Michael.

“He said goodbye.”

“Nothing else?” pressed Michael, as we headed for the parking lot.

“Oh, yeah,” said Josh, “I almost forgot. He told me to give Mom a message.”

“Mom! you’re crushing my hand,” objected Zach, shaking me loose.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, distracted. “What message?”

“He told me he hoped you remembered the seventh.”

Michael stopped, dead in his tracks. Our eyes met.

“The seventh?”

I looked at Michael and mouthed, “Commandment.”

Michael gave me an icy look and put his hand around Josh’s shoulder. “Well, don’t
worry about it, pal. I’m sure whoever this guy was, he was just kidding around. Maybe
he was talking about baseball.”