The Spia Family Presses On (5 page)

I checked my mom’s bedroom on the first floor, a romantic shabby-chic haven of pastels and excessive lace, but she wasn’t there. Her jewelry armoire caught my attention and I decided to leave the paperwork from the bank in the top drawer instead of out in the open on her small desk. I figured she wouldn’t want me to hand them to her in front of any of our more notorious guests.

As soon as I slid open the top drawer Torno Sorrento began to play, my mom’s favorite Italian song, especially when performed by Pavarotti. I shoved the stack inside on top of mom’s antique handgun, and closed the drawer tight, glad to be rid of the responsibility. Dickey’s ring was still tucked inside my pocket. With the amount of tension she had going on that morning, she probably would want to hand it over as soon as possible.

I left the room and ran up the polished wooden steps to the second floor, sliding my hand along the white railing as I went. I scoped out each room. All I found were various open suitcases and clothes scattered across the beds, but no Mom. One of the bedrooms had a small balcony, but the French doors were closed so I figured she wouldn’t be out there. A black suitcase lay open on the rumpled bed, and I couldn’t help noticing the brightly colored clothes inside. All neatly folded with the price tags still attached.

Giving up my house search, I thought it might be time to join my family out on the front lawn, but just as that damn cuckoo chirped its time, a shadow moved on the creamy walls in the hallway. The combination of the two sent a shock wave through my body and I grabbed onto the wooden railing to make a speedy retreat, but then thought better of it. I was teetering on the edge, and if I took even one step forward I would end up on the landing in a heap of splintered bones.

“You gotta be my little cousin Mia,” a deep male voice bellowed as the shadow turned into a rather short, slim, fifty-something man wearing a tailored brown suit, a dark gold shirt, and spit-shined brown shoes. He was hand combing his hair back from his face, wiped his face with a white hanky, shoved it into his pants pocket while straightening his suit coat as if he had just put it on, his shoulders adjusting to the confines of the jacket in typical male fashion. “I’d recognize you anywhere. Had your picture up on the wall. Of course, you was younger in the picture, but you still got them pretty almond eyes.” He stopped. “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I was out on the balcony admiring all them olive trees. This place is bigger than I remember, and them trees all got taller.”

He came in close to give me a kiss. I let him. He kissed both my cheeks and I instantly knew I was face to face with the man of the hour. He smelled clean, with the hint of red wine on his breath.

“Cousin Dickey,” I said, throwing him a smile. After all, I didn’t want to seem inhospitable. There was no telling what he would do if I was disrespectful. Respect was the linchpin in a family like this. If you crossed that line, things could get ugly real fast.

“In the flesh.” He gave me a toothy grin, and I could feel the tension building between my shoulders.

I’d never met someone who seemed so proud to be who they were. He oozed self-confidence, and even though he must have weighed less than my mom, was no more than five-foot-four inches tall, had a ravaged face, gray silky hair combed straight back with the help of some kind of oil
—
olive oil, no doubt
—
and sported a classic Roman nose. The man had an infectious smile, and piercing blue eyes.

I now realized that it was Pinot Noir that permeated the air. Releasing my death grip on the railing, I took a step toward him.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, wishing the time was even longer, like perhaps not in this lifetime.

“Eight years, two months, three days, and seven hours, but hey, who’s counting.”

Then he laughed, a great big deep laugh, and he tapped my arm like I was supposed to laugh with him.

I knew enough about my family to join in when one of these aging Made Men thought something was funny. “You’ve got me there,” I answered, chuckling, nodding my head, and so wishing I was out on the front lawn with the rest of my family, taking accordion lessons from Maryann. For the first time ever, while I stood a little too close to Dickey, accordion lessons didn’t seem like such a bad idea, and even though he seemed genuine enough, I couldn’t get murderer out of my head.

Had he gotten away with it, or was he truly innocent? I couldn’t decide.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I said, but it was an absolute lie and I hoped it came out as a genuine statement.

The moment was awkward as I waited for his response. I didn’t quite know what to say to someone who’d just been released from a state prison. Usually, when I’d meet up with one of my recovering uncles or cousins, they’d have been out for a while and somewhat acclimated to their freedom. But this guy was fresh from the pen and the scars weren’t quite healed. Small talk felt weird. I mean, asking him what he’d been up to or discussing the weather didn’t quite seem appropriate.

“Hey, ease up. I didn’t come back here to cause no trouble for your mom. I got a couple things to do and after that, I’m outta here. I got no time to be hanging around this place when there’s a cute little babe waiting for me in the city. I’m getting married, ya know.”

I clenched my teeth. Who in their right mind . . . but then I flashed on the Menendez brothers
—
Erik got married while he was serving his life sentence to a woman who, by California law, can’t even have sex with him. “Congratulations!” I said and shook his hand.

“Yeah, ain’t that something? But don’t tell nobody. There’s a few people around here that don’t want to see your cousin happy. One in particular who wanted to see me burn, but hey, I’m a free man. I ain’t carryin’ no grudge. Grudges don’t do nothin’ but give you a bad stomach.”

A few measures of Turno Sorrento drifted our way, then a thud and a door slammed. The cuckoo announced it was half-past something as our attention immediately focused on the stairway. “Mom? We’re up here.” I called out, but no one answered and Dickey’s whole demeanor changed. I didn’t like what I saw. He looked mean.

Angry.

Intense.

Was it our conversation on grudges? Or did he hate cuckoo birds as much as I did?

I coughed. “I have something for you,” I said hoping to squash his sudden nasty disposition. “My mom kept this for you.”

I pulled the ring out of my pocket and handed it to him. He stared at it for a moment and his demeanor changed back to the charming man.

“Your mom’s a good woman.” He slipped the ring on his pinky finger on his left hand. It seemed too tight and he had to work at getting it over his large knuckle. I figured arthritis must have changed his fingers since he wore it last. He held up his hand to admire the ring. “Mark my words, baby doll, this ring is gonna give somebody real heartburn.”

I couldn’t imagine why, unless he was talking about some jealousy thing that continually ran through the family. There were a lot of bright diamonds on the horseshoe. One thing this family never could get over was one-upmanship.

“Maybe we should join everyone in the yard,” I said not wanting to be alone with him any longer. I was feeling way too weird.

“Good idea,” he said as he stepped in front of me and headed down the stairs. “And I want to apologize for callin’ you flat face when you was a kid. I thought it was funny back then, but you was a pretty little thing, and you’re a beautiful woman now.”

“Thanks,” I said, thinking maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Maybe he hadn’t killed his mistress, Carla DeCarlo, and he was actually on the road to recovery like the rest of my family. I needed more empathy for my relatives.

More compassion.

More therapy.

“You know,” he said. “I woulda thought you’d hate me. I know everybody else around here does.”

I followed behind him, thinking my act had worked. It wasn’t that I hated him exactly; I didn’t know him well enough to feel that emotion. I’d heard plenty about him, so scared silly was more to the point.

As we descended the stairs I noticed his perfectly manicured long nails. He’d been out of the slammer for less than forty-eight hours and he’d already had time for a manicure.

I was jealous.

The steps creaked under his feet. For a little guy, he carried a lot of weight, muscle weight, I supposed. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“Not necessarily. I think it makes things easier.”

“You mean when someone holds a grudge?”

“I already told ya. I don’t hold no grudges,” he said as he stepped on the landing then headed for the front door, grabbed the glass knob and swung the white door open as far as it would go. Maryann’s music slowly faded. Conversation stopped. All I could hear was Bisnonno’s clock ticking.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Before he stepped out on the porch, he turned back to me, leaned in closer, smiled, revealing a dimple on his left check and whispered in a low, raspy voice, “I get even.”

Trying to get my mother alone during the party was like trying to isolate one snowflake in a blizzard.

She scampered around attracting family as if no one could breathe without first learning how from Mom. Even Uncle Benny couldn’t seem to get her alone. I know because I watched him follow her around for about an hour.

It didn’t help that Mom glued herself to Dickey’s side so tight that I was sure their hips had fused.

And never mind that the only time she spoke to me was to ask if I could bring out another plate of olive focaccia, panini with buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes and chicken or anis cookies or pasta drenched in our Limonato olive oil, browned garlic and fresh parsley, or grilled veggies brushed with our Estate olive oil. But the strangest request was to help open more bottles of wine for the guests
—
Leo’s wine. I couldn’t imagine who might have brought it since most of the people in my family didn’t like the Russos or their uppity wine.

But that was beside the point.

As if anyone in this group needed help with a wine cork!

Then she fussed over not having enough olives on the tables, but when I looked around, there were mounds of olives on every surface.

Federico had gathered all the varieties we cured and filled up several wooden bowls he’d commandeered from my mom’s kitchen. Believe me, we had enough olives. Plus he brought out his famous tapenade made with chopped black Kalamata olives and sweet wine. His was my mom’s all-time favorite.

I was thinking that making good tapenade took time, especially if you didn’t use a food processor like Federico who insisted on chopping everything by hand. It would be a great addition to my cookbook, especially since you had to refrigerate the mixture for about ten hours. All that chopping and marinating could work for a level two alcohol need, like right before a job interview or a date to meet the parents or having to wait to talk to your mom about a document that could potentially change your entire life.

If I didn’t clear this up soon, I would have no choice but to slip away from the festivities and whip up a couple dozen pizzas just to ease the tension.

Taking in a deep breath and looking around, I noticed I wasn’t the only tense one in the bunch. Federico appeared to be just as uneasy as I was. He usually enjoyed watching people eat his olives and delight in his tapenade, but not today. He seemed a bit uptight as he leaned against my mom’s porch railing, sucking on his pipe, staring at the crowd. Then again, he never was one for family gatherings. They made him uncomfortable.

Federico was not only our groundskeeper, and olive expert, he was also my dad’s younger brother. My mom and I never would have made it through my dad’s disappearance if it wasn’t for Federico’s help. He kept a roof over our heads when money was tight, and taught me all those things a dad taught his daughter.

Admittedly, in this family those lessons included how to lock and load a weapon, how to shoot to kill, and the ever popular, never trust anyone, no matter who they are. He must have told me that one a hundred times.

I wasn’t too keen on the weapons program, but I learned the trust mantle in spades. Every shrink I’ve ever been to said the same tired refrain: You have trust issues.

Ya think?

Uncle Federico also taught me the basics that my dad never had time for: how to ride a bike, how to tie my shoe, how to pitch a baseball and how to leave your lover.

I was very good at leaving a lover, it was the taking the lover back when I knew he was bad for me, that I sucked at.

The thought gave me a headache, so I popped a dozen spicy olives hoping they would take away the pain.

Truth be told, as the day wore on and dusk began to engulf our front yard, everyone seemed edgy. Perhaps they were all thinking what I was thinking: What was Dickey planning?

There seemed to be a rumor going around that Dickey was trying to convince everyone to plow under the olive trees and plant grapevines. Another rumor had it that he thought we should sell the land to developers for a resort. Still another rumor had him taking over the business. And from what I had read in those documents earlier that day, any one of those scenarios seemed possible.