Unforgotten (7 page)
Joe said, “There was that one with the green eyes.”
“A crab?” Mario looked puzzled.
“Not a crab. A girl. That one Lance brought up from the city, the long legs.” He motioned down his own. “Ankles like sticks.”
“Oh yeah …” Mario nodded. “What ever happened to her, Lance?”
“Moving along now.” Lance took her elbow and walked her past the laughing pair.
“So long, Rese,” Joe called.
“Buona fortuna.”
“That means good luck.” Lance drew her around a man hosing down the sidewalk outside his doorway.
She glanced sideways. “Do I need it?”
“Doesn’t hurt.” A poorly muffled car passed in a cloud of dark exhaust. He drew in a slow breath through his nose. “Ah. Summer in the city.” He waved to a compact matron with a pushcart whose face broke into a sea of wrinkles as she called,
“Buona sera.”
No wonder Lance had gotten along with Evvy, Rese mused. Most of the people he knew were over sixty—except the girl from the city.
She cocked her head. “Green eyes, huh? Skinny ankles?”
He smiled, looking straight ahead.
“Blonde or redhead?”
He pondered a moment. “Kind of both.”
“Reddish blonde, or a blonde and a redhead?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to keep them straight.”
She jutted her chin. “So I guess my crush on Brad doesn’t matter.”
“That depends.” He stopped walking.
“On what?”
“If it’s over.”
“Hmm.”
She took a step, but he caught her by the elbow, eased her back against the window of the cheese store, then caged her with his arms.
“He kept things from you too, remember.”
Had he taken her seriously? Her crush had ended as soon as she and Brad vied for the second crew that she’d won three years ago. But for the first time she felt the delicious power of jerking his chain. “Brad promised Dad.” Promised not to tell that her mother was alive in a mental health facility, a small detail that had now rocked her life.
Lance’s gaze deepened. “Then I guess we have a vendetta.”
“Vendetta?”
“I’ll have to add him to the skeletons in my closet.”
She drew herself up. “That’s not funny. Especially after the last one.” Finding the bones of his great-great-grandfather in the dark tunnel under the carriage house had been one of the worst scares of her life.
“Then you have to swear a blood oath never to mention his name again.”
She snorted.
He caught her jaw and raised her face to make his claim, her mouth belonging to his, and it did, and she couldn’t help that, but he let go and started walking. “I’ll see the
padrone,
tell him—”
“Padrone?” She caught up to him.
“The boss. Tell him there’s a feud. My honor is at stake.”
Like anyone would feud over her. Even Lance said she was manly; bold and direct, unemotional—until she’d broken down and cried all over him. Again, not the stuff of duels.
What made it more hilarious was picturing Brad, fourteen years older and her dad’s friend and confidant. Though he’d hinted at a reciprocal crush, she didn’t believe it. He just wanted her woodwork and carvings for his renovations. He wanted her to make him look good.
Lance nudged her with his elbow. “No comment?”
“I think a blood feud works. Brad’s got some underhanded tricks of his own, believe me.”
His mouth tightened. “I’ll have Stella use the evil eye.
Mal occhio
.”
Rese laughed. “She could fly to Sonoma on her broom.”
“You think I’m joking. But this is serious. When the woman I love—” His voice caught, and she realized the joke had gone a direction he hadn’t intended. He walked on in silence.
They approached a tree-shaded park with a hexagonal stone restroom, two playgrounds filled with children, and some kind of playing courts. It was neither large nor elegant, but provided a nice respite from the hard streets and buildings. The ice cream truck sat still, playing its music-box ditty, the driver’s head cocked back against the seat as he snored an accompaniment.
She glanced sideways at Lance. “I was kidding.”
“I know.” But he didn’t say he was.
What is shadow but darkness longing for light;
What is fear but courage looking for hope?
P
apa’s face looks gray in the morning light. I wonder if he didn’t sleep well again. A finger of fear finds my spine. What is this premonition, this sense that all is not well with Papa? His job at the bank is secure, more so now with the personal work he does for Arthur Jackson. As much as I dislike the man, he is powerful, and he sees Papa’s ability, his diligence. Naturally that would be rewarded with greater responsibility and confidence.
“Do you feel all right, Papa?”
He looks up from his coffee, a demitasse of strong espresso. “Sure, fine.”
“Crostata?”
He shakes his head. “Thank you, no. I need to get in to the bank.”
“Why does he work you so hard? Who does Arthur Jackson think he is? Having you out so late last night, and early again this morning.”
After talking with Marco for the third time in as many weeks, Papa had left and not come home until long after I’d gone to bed.
“Are you in charge of my affairs,
ragazza
?” he says with a smile, but there’s an edge.
Maybe not, but who else will say it? Why doesn’t Nonno speak up, ask his son where he was so late? But he only nods when Papa stands to begin his day, another long one doing who knows what for Arthur Tremaine Jackson. The man thinks he’s a king, thinks he controls Papa’s life. It’s not banking they do at all hours. What right—
“Are you coming?” Nonno reaches for his cane.
“Of course.” It’s Wednesday. When have we not visited the grave? As he goes to his room for his journal, I run upstairs for my own, then pack a lunch of bread and cheese, olives and peppers. I help Nonno into the car, then crawl into the back. Papa takes the wheel. No more is said about last night, about the things that worry me, the things that matter.
We stop at the bank and he gets out, pressing the seat forward for me to take over driving. “I’ll get myself home.” He kisses my cheek, cupping my chin a moment longer than usual to show he is sorry for my concern. “Don’t worry about me. Take care of Nonno.”
I nod, but he has it wrong. Though Nonno is feeble, his soul is right with God. Is Papa’s in peril? I watch him walk away with that certain gait, that purposeful stride that reminds me now of Marco’s. I sigh. If Papa is important enough to do business with some anonymous person with “plenty of jack,” maybe my fears are ungrounded, and I put them from my mind as I drive.
Nonno’s unsteady yet stately gait takes him in among the graves. Nonna’s stone stands elegantly in the fenced DiGratia family plot. To its left is Momma’s grave, but I don’t remember much about her. It was to Nonna’s knee I clung in the storms of life. Nonno eases himself onto the stone bench where he rests his cane and sighs. Maybe he worries, too, after all.
“Nonno …” I don’t want to voice my concerns, to give them substance. I don’t want to speak bad luck onto our heads.
Nonna Carina would have understood. She knew about bad luck, but her luck had changed when she found Nonno. I wish I could talk to her. She would not have kept silent when she saw her son going the wrong way. My throat tightens. Is Papa going the wrong way?
“Did I tell you about the day your papa was born?” Nonno’s voice is sonorous.
I settle down beside him. “Tell me.” In my mind I see Nonna Carina as he first knew her, rippling black hair and dark eyes, with the Northern cheekbones and striking features that made her a true beauty even into the older years that I recall.
“I knew something was wrong. Carina had fussed all morning. Unusual for such a sweet temper, a sweet tongue.”
I laugh. Nonna Carina had a fiery spirit that was most often directed at Nonno Quillan. I loved to watch them spar, loved it as much as Nonno, who provoked his wife with just the gentle prods to spark her temper.
“I knew before the pain started. I tried to tell her to rest, to stop scrubbing. But she was afraid. She was afraid because the first one died.”
I stare. “The first one?”
Nonno nods. “In Crystal, Colorado. I hadn’t known she was pregnant. I was away.” He says it with such grief in his voice, I can’t press for details. He has never told me there was a child before Papa. Nonna never told me, either, and that kindles a dread curiosity. I thought I knew everything Nonna had to tell.
“I was a freighter. I hauled goods and dynamite between the camps. Long trips away. Doing my job, but mostly running away. I was afraid to stay in one place. I was afraid to love my wife.” Waves of grief spill from him.
I take his hand.
“I didn’t know the trouble she had caused with the miners. I didn’t know another man, Alex Makepeace, my mining engineer, had allowed her to get involved. I didn’t know my child was inside her.” He closes his eyes. “They beat her, and the baby was lost.”
I scarcely breathe.
Nonno opens his eyes and stares at the grave. “I swore nothing would hurt her again. But when the pains started I was helpless. I would have chopped off my good leg to stop it. But she labored on and on. The doctor had said she might never bear children because of the injury. But neither of us had thought of that in the joy of making life again, watching it grow inside her.”
His gaunt throat works, the skin jerking up and dropping. “Hearing her screams, I wished I had never touched her. I wanted to undo it, but there was no going back.” His breath escapes on a low sigh. “You know her father was a surgeon, that he saved my leg and my life.”
I nod.
“When Carina had no strength left, he took the baby out with a knife. He took his daughter’s womb as well. It had hemorrhaged and would not bear another pregnancy. The miracle was that she lived, and my son with her.”
So that’s why Papa has no siblings. I’ve wondered, when my grandparents’ love was as thick and sweet as honey in a comb.
Nonno stays a long time in that memory, then says, “Knowing he was all we would ever have made him too precious. If I was stern with him, Carina soothed. If she got exasperated, I slipped him a butterscotch. He never knew the sting of my hand, though he deserved it. I could only think that we might have lost him. I might have lost it all.” Nonno shakes his head. “It’s not good to raise children in fear. He sensed the weakness and fought the bit.”
Is that why he won’t question Papa? Is he still afraid to lose him?
“We should not have chosen Flavio for his godfather. He filled his head with discontent.”
“I thought that was Momma.” The beautiful woman Papa married, hair like spun gold, eyes as green-blue as the changing sea, and as unpredictable.
He nods. “Yes, her too. But like finds like. There was a hole inside him, as though he knew there should have been another child to share the weight of our love.”
“How can a child be loved too much, Nonno?”
He smiles dimly. “Someday you’ll know.” His eyes tear as he stares at the stone bearing Carina’s name. “Some loves attach to your very soul.”
————
The aroma from the kitchen was actually satisfying, and when Lance stole a peek, he saw why; his sister Lucy had come to Momma’s aid. Her eight-year-old twins, Lisa and Lara, were twisting dough into sticks while her toddler, Nina, stuffed pinches into her mouth. His cousins Rita, Marianna, and Gigi chopped fennel and mushrooms, and Momma looked like a movie star in her black sleeveless sweater and a string of pearls. Lance ducked out before they saw him. No sense starting the panic too soon.
Monica’s husband, Bobby, stood by the window letting his cigarette smoke out in the draft while he argued with Lucy’s husband, Lou. Neither had seen Rese yet, but it was only a matter of time. A half dozen kids sat around a Monopoly board because Momma didn’t allow video games, and he could hear his cousins Frank and Franky in the courtyard playing handball.
He brushed Rese’s arm with his fingers to direct her into the room, and Zia Anna zoomed in with her matchmaking sonar, and soon all four aunts had descended. He named them to Rese, “My aunts Anna, Dina, Mimi, and Celestina. This is Rese Barrett.” He didn’t try the business partner line. It would never fly.
Rese’s cheeks rosied with their lipstick kisses, and he strategically placed himself between her and their exuberance, placing his own kisses on their powdered faces. Rese must be ready to deck him.
“Is this the one?” Anna asked with festival eyes. “To make you finally stand still?”
“He’s hopeless, Anna. I know.” Celestina touched her temple to remind them that her spinster status gave her the second sight in these matters.
Dina shrugged. “Why should he marry when the cow doesn’t come with the milk no more?”
“Dina!” Mimi slapped her hands to her cheeks. “She didn’t mean that about you, cara.”
“Meglio un uovo oggi che una gallina domani.”
Dina smiled knowingly.
Lance ushered Rese away from their laughter. She was tamped as tight as a stick of dynamite. He’d seen her explode once, bore the bruises on his sides for days. Not from blows, just the grip of her fingers as she’d sobbed.
“I didn’t know your family spoke a foreign language.”
“Only when they’re trying to be clever.” Lance considered the possibility of conversation without embarrassment and decided they’d have to leave, and they’d never get away now.
“So what did she say?”
“An old Italian proverb. Better an egg today than a chicken tomorrow.” He could guess what she was thinking. “It’s all in fun. Meant to humiliate me, mainly. And see what kind of rise they can get out of you.” A challenge, considering Rese’s temperament.
The door opened, and his pop came in with Gina and the kids. Momma must have told him to pick them up after work. Lance kissed Gina and punched his three nephews. “How you all doin’?” But he knew. The weariness in Gina’s eyes told him. Raising three boys alone wasn’t easy even with the victims’ assistance they’d received. The money kept them in their Manhattan apartment, but her sons had no father.
