The Accidental Pallbearer (21 page)

In the parking lot of Saint Elizabeth’s, in the car, Conte checks his BlackBerry. Message: CCruz.

He responds:

His excited anticipation of her arrival now crashed – how does he divert himself from his father’s revelations? Drives home and goes directly to bed at 10:30
A.M.
Awakes at noon, more fatigued than before, and calls Antonio Robinson. Leaves message:

Imagines a call to Laguna Beach: “Let’s finally have shared custody, Nancy. Send me half the ashes.”

At 1:00, Antonio enters without knocking, with a box of cookies, a loaf of bread, and two six packs of Excaliber. Eliot in the kitchen chopping the parsley and working on the garlic with a razor. Transparent slivers. Robinson says, “I’m here, brother.” Conte nods, “I’m glad you’re here. More than you know.”

“Silvio tell you a story? Why beat around the bush?”

“He did, he really did.”

“He said he would.”

“Told me everything. Can’t say I’m clear on every point.”

“You want to be? Because I could –”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about any of it?”

“No.”

“Any word from Laguna Beach?”

“Nothing. Would you mind opening a bottle of that crap I drink now?”

“My favorite thing now too. We’re joining forces, El.”

They toast each other.

Eliot says, “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. Don’t ever tell yourself otherwise.”

“That an example of your sick humor? How can we believe that?”

“I’m glad you’re here, Robby.”

“Cain and Abel. We’re not those guys.”

“Never heard of them, Robby. Utica boys?”

“They were lousy brothers.”

“Because they weren’t Utica boys, Mr. Robinson.”

“Unlike us, Mr. Conte. But what about Tom and Ricky Castellano? They’re Utica boys
and
lousy brothers.”

Eliot at the stove: “The meal won’t feature what I promised you. When? Last Saturday?”

“No
Ossobuco
and so forth?”

“Spaghetti in that tuna sauce you like so much. You want to put the antipasto together? The salami and provolone are waiting for you in the refrigerator. Artichoke hearts in there too in olive oil, and those olives you go for.”

“I brought the bread from Napoli’s.”

“Hungry?”

“I could eat a – I don’t know what.”

“Me too.”

“A week ago today we were in Troy for the
Carmen
I didn’t stay for. If I had only stayed …”

“Not a week ago, El. And forget ‘if,’ as Silvio always says.”

“Sure it was.”

“Technically, eight days. Saturday to Saturday. Right? Eight days.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But a week sounds better, don’t you think? You want to start listening now or after?”

“How about we play the two duets with the antipasto?”

“ ‘O soave fanciulla’ and ‘Addio senza rancor?’ ” (Oh, sweet girl and Goodbye, without hard feelings.)

“Yeah, El, but let’s reverse the order.”

“How come?”

“Finish with romantic expectation and the happiness that lies just ahead.”

“When they sing that I get goose bumps, though I’ve heard it a hundred times.”

“That fucker Puccini, El. I get the chills. Makes the hair on my arms stand up. Every time.”

“How about you do the antipasto while I make the sauce. Okay?”

“I brought the cookies from Ricky. Unlike you last Saturday, I didn’t forget.”

“I knew I could count on you, Robby.”

“You can.”

“Every time.”

“Every time.”

They eat and drink slowly, in silence. The antipasto is good. The aroma of the simmering sauce is good. The only sounds the clinking of utensils.

“We’ll plan it together, Robby.”

“What’s that?”

“Our father’s wake and funeral.”

“Thanks, El.”

“For what?”

“For saying it that way.”

Eliot looks at him quizzically.

“You said our father. You never said it before.”

“Let’s try to figure this out, Robby. He’s my father and you’re my brother, are you not? Therefore, he’s?”

“Our father.”

Antonio Robinson clears the antipasto plates and sets the table for the main course, while Eliot Conte drains the steaming pasta – as the surge of the preferred duet fills the house. Conte at the stove is now spooning the tuna sauce into the steaming pot of drained pasta. Robinson from behind him is reaching into his pocket. Conte is now mixing the sauce thoroughly through the strands of drained pasta. Robinson, hand still in pocket, is hesitating. He’s glancing at the back of Conte’s head. Conte is still at the stove, back to his brother, when Robinson quickly withdraws it and places it silently alongside Conte’s plate. The missing BlackBerry.

THANKS TO

Christopher Celenza, Director, and his splendid staff at the American Academy in Rome, where I finished the manuscript during two magically productive weeks.

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