Fair Play (29 page)

If he caught the touch of defensiveness in her voice, he didn't let on. “She said I should let you tell me when you were ready, or needed, to be touched.”

“And—?” Theresa prompted. There was more. There had to be.

Reese sighed. “And that it might be months, maybe even years, before you were whole again.”

She was struck by the words he chose.
He understands a part of who I am was stolen. He sees I need to heal, to be restored. Reese cares so much he actually spoke to a professional about me.
In other circumstances, such a discussion might have infuriated her. But given how Reese claimed to feel, it was clearly a gesture of love. She stared at her lap, warding off tears. “I don't know what to say.”

“Say that even if you don't feel the same right now, you'll keep the door open.”

“I will,” Theresa promised. She lifted her head and reached out to touch his cheek, surprised when he flinched slightly. “What?” she asked, concerned.

“I don't want you thinking you
have
to touch me.”

“I
want
to. Honestly.”

He gave silent assent as she repeated the gesture, his cheek a natural fit in the cup of her hand. This time he seemed to relax into it. This was what she wanted, had wanted, all along. Everything happens for a reason, her mother often claimed. Well, this was the reason she and Michael Dante didn't work out.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she lowered her hand.

“Are you all right with all this?” he asked, reaching for his coffee cup.

“It's a bit overwhelming,” Theresa admitted. “But I can handle it.”

“Good.” He scanned her face, seeming to look for doubts. “So now what?”

Theresa broke into a slow smile. “Now you meet my family.”

 

 

As she sat
at her parents' dining room table two weeks later, trying to ignore the quiet disapproval emanating from her mother, it occurred to Theresa that she should have lied to Reese about what time he was expected.

She'd told him three.

What she should have done was fib and tell him two-thirty.

That way he'd have made it on time. Better yet, she should have arrived
with
him, thus insuring punctuality. But no; she'd been so excited about showing him off that when her mother insisted they come to dinner, and Reese said he was so nervous he could only handle coffee, she didn't think twice about going out to Brooklyn before him. The way she saw it, it would give her a chance to talk him up before he actually arrived.

Now he was fifteen minutes late.

And with every minute that passed her family liked him less.

“So,” her mother began, the word clipped as she pulled the ciambella she'd made for the occasion towards her. “Doesn't Mr. Wonderful own a wristwatch?” Without asking, she began slicing up the cake.

Theresa clenched her teeth. “He'll be here, Ma.”
He'd better be,
she added to herself.

“What does he do again?” her brother Phil asked, reaching right in front of her to grab the first piece of cake.

“He's a lawyer,” Theresa repeated patiently. “And a photographer.”

“What does he take pictures of?” Phil crowed. “All the clients he bleeds dry?”

“Jesus, Phil.” Theresa's sister-in-law turned to her apologetically. “He's such a retard.”

“Speak for yourself,” Phil retorted, digging into the cake without waiting for anyone else to be served. “A lawyer and a photographer,” he garbled with a full mouth. “What, a professional athlete isn't good enough for you?”

Theresa caught the look of warning that flashed across her mother's face.

So. She and Michael had been discussed, probably often. Well,
good.
It was good they all realized it wasn't going to happen, no matter how many novenas they prayed, or Sunday afternoon ambushes they planned.

“Does he make a lot of money?” Debbie asked, indicating with her fingers that she wanted Theresa's mother to cut her a bigger slice of cake.

“I don't know,” Theresa said, because she really didn't, though she suspected the answer was “Yes.”

“Of course he makes a lot of money,” her brother the expert told his wife. “He's a lawyer. That's what they do: They take other people's money.”

“Why is it in this family,” Theresa asked as she accepted a piece of cake from her mother, “success is something to mock rather than admire?”

“What?” Phil asked plaintively, looking back and forth between his wife and mother imploringly. “What mock?”

“Never mind.” Theresa stood up, certain she'd lose her temper if she didn't get away from the table. “I'm going to peek in on Poppy and see how he's doing.” Excusing herself, she padded up the thickly carpeted stairs to her parents' bedroom. She knew Phil: He would keep making snide comments until she either exploded or their mother yelled at him to stop. Better to absent herself.

Her father spent most of his days in bed now, too weak to make it up or down the stairs. Entering the room, Theresa's spirits sank. The air was stale with the smell of sickness, her father's shrunken form propped up against a small mountain of pillows. His bedside table was littered with plastic pill bottles. Phil had set up a small TV for him to watch on a snack table. Ironically, it was tuned to a hockey game.

“Hi, Poppy,” Theresa said, sitting down beside him.

With what appeared to be great effort, her father turned his head in the direction of her voice. Seeing who it was, he smiled, slowly moving a hand out from beneath the thick layers of covers to clutch hers. “Just can't tear yourself away from your sick old Papa, huh?”

His voice was weak. The voice that once sang at the drop of a hat, yelled when homework wasn't done, barked orders at construction crews—now thin and reedy, fading. Theresa's eyes began to well.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, gently stroking the fine silver hair which, up until recently, he had maintained religiously with a weekly trip to Ruggiero the Barber. It dawned on her that she'd never done this before. She'd been alive for thirty-three years and never, in all that time, had she touched her father's head. Regret bubbled up, thick and lung clogging. She'd been so rigid, sticking to her once-a-month schedule of seeing the family, even as her father grew sicker. Now she could see she'd squandered the chance to spend more time with him.

Her father shook his head, refusing her offer of dessert.

“You sure?” Theresa continued. “Mommy's cutting the ciambella. I could bring you a little piece with some espresso if you wanted.”

“No, sweetheart, I'm fine. I have no appetite anymore, anyway.” A bitter laugh gurgled its way up his throat. “Bet you thought you'd never see that day, eh?”

Despite herself, Theresa smiled. That was just like her father, making jokes while he lay dying. Up until now, she'd successfully warded off the reality of his situation, telling herself that he would improve, that he would beat it. But when her mother quietly mentioned hospice care while they set the table together, Theresa was forced to admit her fantasies of her father getting better were just that—fantasies.
Everything happens for a reason,
she thought angrily.
Everything but this.

Her father's once bright eyes, now dulled to a lackluster brown, were studying her. “Something is bothering you. Tell me.”

“It's nothing,” Theresa lied, staring at the ornate silver crucifix hanging above her parents' bed that had been there for as long as she could remember. She turned back to her father. “I'm just worried about you.”

Her father made a pooh-poohing motion with his hand. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm tough as an old mountain goat.”

“And twice as nasty,” Theresa teased lovingly.

From downstairs, she could hear the doorbell ring.
Reese. Thank God.
She squeezed her father's hand excitedly. “My new boyfriend is here. Are you up to meeting him?”

“No, no,” her father wheezed. “I don't want him seeing me like this.”

“Dad, he knows—”

“No,
cara mia.
Let a man have his dignity. Please.”

“Okay,” Theresa promised, backing off. It disappointed her, but she understood. If there was a just God, Reese would meet her father another time. She kissed her father's hand. “I guess I should go downstairs.”
And head Phil off at the pass.

“Go,” he urged.

“All right.” Leaning over she tenderly kissed his forehead. “I'll come back up before I leave.”

Eyelids drooping, her father nodded. Theresa was halfway across the bedroom when she heard him weakly call her name. She turned.

“Yes, Poppy?”

“He's late,” her father rasped. “I don't like that. It means he doesn't respect you enough.”

“I'll tell him that,” Theresa returned quietly, making her way back down the stairs. She hated that he was dying, and that he might be right.

 

 

Madonn', could it
get any colder? Turning up the collar of his bomber jacket against the slicing February winds, Michael hurried along Eighty-sixth Street on his way to the Falconettis. The Sunday before, when he was again stuck taking Nonna Maria to the early bird Mass because Casanova had spent the night with Police Woman, he'd run into Phil, who told him the old man wasn't doing too well. He decided then and there that he would surprise the family with another box of Anthony's fresh cannolis. There was no possibility of running into Theresa, since she visited her folks the first Sunday of every month, which was still a week away. A week in which Dante's would close its doors for a month of renovation.

Seeing her at the “Mangia” shoot had been tougher than he thought. Until then, he was pretty sure he had a handle on his feelings. But after the shoot, there was a big black, Theresa-sized hole inside him that he didn't know how to fill. It bugged him that she barely gave him the time of day. Maybe she was pissed he hadn't apologized for ripping into her at Met Gar? Well, she could stay pissed until hell became the fifty-first state. Her excuse for ditching him was bullshit and he'd meant what he'd said.

So how come he missed her so badly his guts actually hurt?

He bounded up the front stoop and rang the doorbell, hoping he wasn't interrupting their Sunday meal. There was a slight delay before the door swung open and Phil appeared.

“Hey, Phil.” Michael held up the box of cannolis. “I thought I'd surprise your mom, see how your dad is doing.”

“Uh . . .” Phil glanced behind him uncomfortably. “This isn't really a good time, Mike.”

“Philly? Who's at the door?”

Mrs. Falconetti was heard before she was seen, elbowing her way past her son to see who he was talking to. “Michael! How wonderful to see you! Come in, come in. It's been too long.”

Stepping inside, Michael hugged Theresa's mother before handing her the box. “These are for you, some cannolis from the restaurant.”

“You're so considerate, Michael,” Mrs. Falconetti beamed. “Such a good boy. Take off your coat.”

Michael obeyed, wondering what the hell was wrong with Phil. He hadn't moved from his place at the door and was gesticulating wildly while mouthing things behind his mother's back. “What?” Michael hissed when Mrs. Falconetti momentarily stepped away to hang up his coat.

“Theresa's in there,” Phil hissed back. “And she's got some putz with her, a real
esoso.
”

“
Merda.
” Before Michael had a chance to escape, he was being dragged by the wrist into the dining room, barely given a chance to say hello to Phil's kids who were sprawled on the sectional couch in the living room watching a video. There at the table, looking as uncomfortable as Michael was feeling, sat Debbie, Phil's wife, juggling the baby whose name he could never remember on her lap; Theresa, who looked like she'd just been whacked in the head with a shovel; and some sun-kissed blond preppie whom Michael disliked immediately. He was like an older version of Paul van Dorn.

“Look who decided to stop by,” Mrs. Falconetti cooed, pulling out a chair for Michael.

“I don't believe you,” Theresa said to her mother. She turned to Michael. “I don't believe
you,
either.”

“I didn't know you were here, Theresa.” Michael noticed the blond guy's face was handsome, but cold. He appeared to be detached, an observer holding himself above the fray, politely watching the theatrics. Wanting to get it the hell over with, as well as find out who he was, he extended his hand to the stranger.

“Michael Dante.”

“Reese Banister.” He narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “Your name sounds very familiar to me.”

“I play for the New York Blades.”

“Soccer?”

“Hockey,” Michael corrected, trying not to sound annoyed.

Reese shrugged, absently twirling a coffee spoon. “I'm not a sports fan.”

“That's too bad,” replied Michael.

“I've never felt as if I were missing out on anything.”

“Well, you are.”

Reese lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry, what's your connection to this family?”

“Michael is a friend of Phil's,” Theresa interjected pointedly, her eyes burning a message into Michael's. “Aren't you, Mike?”

“Michael and Theresa used to go out,” Mrs. Falconetti revealed before Michael could answer.

“Really.” Reese turned to Theresa questioningly. “When was this? Back in high school?”