She pulled the bank receipt from her wallet. Here was proof: twenty grand in her account. As for the rest of Walter’s money, where’d it all gone? Impossible to guess what il baritono had had up his sleeve when he wrote his will. Bruno had no offspring, nor any need of money. Maybe Walter’d simply dumped his sacks of euros in the Po River.
Finito. All in the past.
The story Bruno had told was Walter’s, hence not a story but the truth—for Bruno. A brilliant musical artist with a drunken wife leaves his family for a fresh start, after his son ruins his chances as a composer. Because what else could a real artist do?
But one thing went unexplained in Bruno’s retelling. Walter must’ve felt some sort of physical desire for Nola, at least initially. And he’d funded a four-person family for over ten years. That was a fairly long time to play charades. Of course il baritono had sought to avoid the stigma of being gay, but even in the Fifties, that fact wasn’t likely to damage a career as major as his. So why’d he stuck around for as long as he did?
Habit, probably. He’d been performing constantly in those days, always on the road. The family was a predictable backdrop. The house in Morristown had been Walter’s green-room, the place where he could wipe off his stage makeup, cook a decent meal, shut the door of his studio, sing, compose, be alone. Not with his family but with himself. The family could always be pushed aside.
Then Walter met Bruno, and no longer wanted to be solely unto himself.
A strange word, ardor. And its opposite? Indifference, frigidity?
Fear, maybe.
Pushing the sugar jar to the side, she lay her head on her arms, awaiting the mercy of a nap.
2
Awakened by Girl-Cat leaping onto her lap, she reached for her cellphone.
What time was it? Eleven in the morning. She’d napped an hour. And it was Wednesday. There were calls to make. First Win, then Dale.
The call to the bro would be short. At this point he’d be totally unaware of Walter’s death. But Bruno had told her there’d soon be an obituary in the Times. Was that worrisome? Not very, since Win never read the obits; he barely glanced at the front-page headlines. Might somebody email him about Walter’s death? Doubtful. His former friends would be skittish about offering him condolences. Anyhow, he’d basically dumped everyone he used to know.
Dale might actually notice the obit. More likely, though, he was wondering what cliff she’d driven off. When was the last time they’d talked? Sometime before Cremona . . . yes, she’d called him to cancel their get-together. The first purposeful lie she’d ever told Dale. And she’d said nothing about Walter’s death.
For his part, Dale had sounded upbeat. Work was fine, things were good with Teresa—they were spending several nights a week together. He’d asked about the guy from the gym. There was stuff to report, she’d replied, but it’d have to wait. How about if they talked in a week or so, would that be okay?
Sure, he’d answered. Keep me posted.
His tone could’ve passed for distracted, but wasn’t. He’d known something was up. It wasn’t possible to get a fastball past Dale.
3
What are you doing here, El?
Closing the door, Win leaned against it. Tired, he looked. Tired and pasty-faced.
I’m giving you some money.
What?
Not much. Eighteen thousand. I need your bank account information.
He scowled.
Christ, Ellen, I already told you. I don’t want any of your money.
It’s not from the jackpot. I’ve done pretty well on some recent gigs, including one for an Italian marketing firm—
—forget it.
Walking to the piano bench, he picked up a near-empty glass and gave its ice a shake, then tilted it in her direction.
Something to drink?
No, thanks.
He went to the kitchen, returning with a refilled glass.
Cheers, he said, raising his drink. You wanna start giving away money? Find some real charities.
You’re not a charity.
Give it to Maria, then.
Mel’s sister?
Yeah. She’s moving back to New York for good, and she’s looking for a studio apartment to rent. I told her it’s cheaper out here, so she’s looking in Sunset Park. She’ll need cash for a deposit.
Does she have a job?
She teaches ESL, so she should be able to get work pretty soon. She says ESL teachers are in demand. She’ll stay with me til she finds an apartment.
But you don’t have a spare room.
She can sleep on the couch.
How much did she ask for?
Two thousand. She’ll pay me—you—back. Maybe not for a couple of months, but she will.
Two thousand’s not a small amount.
He knocked back his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
That’s pretty vulgar of you.
Vulgar?
You’re acting like a loan officer.
Oh, come on. I don’t know if she’s trustworthy.
You already sound like a cheap millionaire.
You know what, Win? That stuff you’re drinking’s not water.
No kidding.
Where did he go when he drank like this? Into what dark?
Look, I’ll send a check to Maria at your address. She’s got the same last name as Mel, right?
Yep.
Will I be able to meet her sometime?
Do you want to?
Of course. And I want to lend her the money.
Practice.
What do you mean?
You gotta practice giving away your money. Why don’t you hand her the check in person, instead of mailing it? How about Friday?
Does she have a bank account here?
She’s gonna open one. I’ll let her know.
Friday, then. Six o’clock?
Wait, isn’t Friday the day . . . ?
The deadline’s Monday. Not this coming Monday, though—the next. You haven’t mentioned the ticket to anyone, have you?
Moving to the window, he stood with his back to her.
No, he said. But I’d have told Mel.
I know. Please don’t tell Maria, though.
I won’t.
You’re looking kind of pale. You feel okay?
My tinnitus is noisier than usual. The highest registers are tough. There’s a constant needling that makes it hard for me to sleep.
I’m sorry.
He shrugged.
I’m using it, he said. I’m making new work based on the tinnitus. Drawing lots of squiggly lines.
Picking up her bag, she went to the door.
You’ll let me know if you need anything, right? Promise?
See you Friday.
His cheek as she kissed it was stubbly; he hadn’t shaved in days.
Take care of yourself, bro.
Stop hiding, El. Get your show on the road. Take the ticket in.
5
Back in her kitchen, she picked up the sugar jar and gave it a shake.
Half an edge of the ticket poked out of its cinnamon-sugar sand.
She tossed some dry food into the cats’ bowls, then made a salad and ate it while skimming the newspaper. More awful news from Iraq. Christ, how many civilians were dead now, and how many Americans totally clueless . . . Letting themselves be gulled by a president who lied through his teeth. Young American soldiers killing and getting killed for a ridiculous falsehood. What was that thing she’d seen, riding the subway—a phrase painted across the overpass to the tunnel at Fourth Avenue? Suckers, you’re being taken for a ride. Now wasn’t that the truth.
She shook the jar again; the ticket vanished beneath its white-and-brown sand. The line in that poem by Cesare Pavese, how did it go? She’d bought a bilingual edition of Pavese’s poems at the airport in Milan—had she left it in the cab? No, there it was, in the laundry basket with her dirty clothes.
She riffled the pages. Yes, ther
e: The only joy in the world was to begin.
Written by a poet who ended up killing himself.
Still, one way or another, a person had to begin.
The check could be picked up—so the rules stated—at the Lottery Commission’s offices, a few days after the ticket was surrendered.
It’d be a fake check, of course. An oversized souvenir mounted on posterboard. Something for the winner to frame and hang on a wall. The money would be direct-deposited; there’d be no paper check to hand to a bank teller.
How much would a hundred million bucks amount to, after taxes? Roughly forty million. It could be taken all at once or in installments—a million a month for forty months. All of it taxable, of course. If taken as a lump sum, the funds would have to be deposited in multiple accounts. Winners weren’t allowed to stuff that much money in one mattress.
Stop hiding, Win had said. He’d meant herself, not the ticket. Take the ticket in: that sounded like bringing in a fugitive.
What he hadn’t said was that Mel would be appalled by her dithering. C’mon, she’d order, get a frickin’ move on!
Robin Hood
1
You’re here . . .
Roy’s smile was quick and warm. A thumb and forefinger on her earlobe, like that first time when they’d stood by the entrance to the R train.
Did you have a decent work trip, dove?
Yes, fine. Mission accomplished.
You look well.
I’m a bit tuckered out. But basically fine—glad to be back.
Good! Listen, can we go somewhere to talk? I’d rather not have a conversation here.
She nodded.
Am I being pushy if I suggest we go to your place, since getting to mine means taking the subway?
Say yes. It was high time he saw where she lived. Her nest, soon to be very nicely feathered.
Sure. My apartment’s not far, and you can meet my housemates.
Housemates?
Girl-Cat and Boy-Cat.
Ah, the felines! Finally I’ll have something to tell Kay and Nine. They’ve been asking me why you have such a nice undoggy smell.
2
First the cats, who took to him right away, rubbing their cheeks on his knuckles.
Then her books. Then the music stand in the corner of the living room. Then the bedroom and its large, east-facing window. The family photos in the hall. Then back to the cats.
His attention restless, absorbing all the details.
Have a seat, she said, pointing at the sofa as they reentered the living room. Tour’s over, you’ve seen the whole castle . . .
I like it here, he said.
There’s not much in the way of visual art. No paintings, like in some people’s apartments.
Yeah, but plenty of books. Man, you read a ton of poetry! Did that music stand over there belong to your father?
Yep. The cats like to jump on it and knock it over.
Dropping onto the sofa, he pulled her down next to him.
Talk to me, he said quietly, keeping her hand in his. Tell me what’s up. Because something is.
I’m not sure where to start.
Doesn’t really matter, does it?
Right. So, okay . . . I can’t seem to shake two feelings. The first is that you’re totally trustworthy. And the second is that you’re hiding something, but I don’t know what it is.
Funny, I have those same two feelings about you.
Should we . . . show our hands, then? You know, show or fold—isn’t that what card players say?
He spread his palms open.
I don’t want to fold, he said. I think we should show.
3
Extending his legs in front of him, he summoned the cats by patting his knees.
C’mon, guys. I’m gonna talk to Ellen, and I want you to listen, too.
Boy-Cat scooted up Roy’s shins and thighs, settling on his stomach. After a moment Girl-Cat followed, nestling at his side.
Okay, he said, stroking the cats’ heads. So here’s what I haven’t told you: I’m Ennio’s guardian.
Guardian? In what sense?
I’m his steward—that’s the old-fashioned word for it. He has no idea about any of this, by the way. To him, I’m just Roy, his uncle. And that’s the way I want it, at least til he’s eighteen. Legally, though, I’m his father.
Father?
Yeah. I adopted him after Renzo died. Hadn’t planned on it, but then Gina asked me to do it. At first I didn’t see any reason for it; I’d already told her I’d help out however I could, for as long as she needed. I didn’t see the point of adoption, didn’t want to try being Ennio’s father. Ennio already had a father. I mean, Renzo was dead, but he was—is—still the kid’s dad.
Back up a bit, Roy. Gina herself wanted Ennio, right? I mean, her pregnancy wasn’t an accident?
No. She was ambivalent about Renzo, not about having a child. But after Renzo died and Ennio started having big-time behavioral problems, Gina got pretty stressed. One boy in kindergarten broke a wrist when Ennio pushed him down the stairs; another kid, a girl, got bitten by him . . . there were other incidents. Ennio just couldn’t make sense of what’d happened to Renzo. It’s still an issue for him, like I’ve said. In fact, he had a little blow-up at day camp the other day. Sometimes his confusion turns into anger.
Toward his classmates?
Not only. One morning he and Gina and I were in Gina’s kitchen, and he hurled a jar at Gina.
A jar?
Yeah, the kind with a metal pouring spout. About this big, sort of squat. Like what you’d use for sugar, you know?
He traced its shape in the air.
Sugar and spice and now a hot flash, whoosh . . .
Yeah, I know that type of jar. What made Ennio throw it at his mother?
I’m not sure. Ennio kept asking Gina why the train engineer wasn’t able to stop the train before it derailed. The kid had been asking stuff like this for weeks; he wouldn’t let up. When Gina finally said she didn’t want to talk about it any more, he picked up the jar and tossed it at her. It hit her in the middle of her head at the back, and blood went everywhere . . . It was a superficial wound, not serious, but we had to take her to the emergency room, and the kid was terrified. I’m sure he thought he’d killed her. Gina was pretty freaked out, too.
Roy stopped, closing his eyes for a moment.
That’s when I realized that adopting Ennio might stabilize the situation for Gina. Plus, if anything were to happen to her—
—you mean, if Ennio were to really—
—no, I mean in case Gina had a car accident or something. Or got very sick. She was really worried about not having anyone else to count on. So I went ahead and did it.
But what if Gina were to meet someone and get involved with him?
We talked about that. She said she didn’t think it was a good idea to assume there’d be another guy in her life, someone who’d be willing to act as Ennio’s legal guardian. And if somebody were to show up eventually, he’d just have to accept the situation, see it as a legal formality. So I said okay. The thing is, to Ennio I’m what I’ve always been: his uncle.
When he turns eighteen, what then?
Gina and I will tell him what the legal situation is. We won’t conceal it from him forever, but until he’s older and needs to know, there’s no reason to confuse him.
How come you didn’t tell me all this before now?
At first, because I was worried you might say something to Ennio by mistake. But that’s an excuse, I realize. You wouldn’t have done that. Mainly I was worried . . . about what if you started getting closer to me. And me to you.
I to you. Wrong pronoun.
Right. I to you. In which case, I was worried you’d . . . shy away, once you found out I had a kid. Take a step back.
But I already knew you had one. It’s obvious, your attachment to him.
You’re right. I could tell you understood right away what Ennio means to me. That’s why
I’m sharing the whole thing now—because I figured you’d have already backed away, if the fact that I’ve got a kid to take care of were a problem for you. But I don’t know if my being Ennio’s legal guardian will make a difference to you. A negative difference, I mean.
He nudged Boy-Cat gently off his stomach.
Hey dove, any reactions? You’ve gone quiet on me.
I’m just sort of . . . letting the facts settle.
That’s fine, I’m not pushing you to react right this instant. Just hoping you’ll talk to me. Don’t clam up, okay?
It’s all very . . . startling. I don’t know any other uncle-father helping his half-sister raise her kid.
It’s not a choice I ever thought I’d face, that’s for sure.
And here we are.
4
Boy-Cat hopped back onto Roy’s stomach.
Uh-uh, said Roy. I evicted you, guy. Off you go! Your turn, Girl-Cat. Actually, it’s your owner’s turn.
Hah. I don’t own either of these cats, they own me. Wait, you haven’t finished. Tell me what went on the other day, at Ennio’s day-camp.
Ah, that. Well, Ennio hit another boy, Robbie, in the forehead.
With his fist?
No, with a wooden hammer.
Wow.
Yeah. It’s been a while since something like that happened. Gina and I both thought the worst was behind us. Ennio’s teachers called Gina; I met up with her, and we took the subway out to Bay Ridge. We both needed to be there.
What made Ennio hit the kid?
Something Robbie said about how trains were better than cars. Apparently Robbie didn’t believe Ennio when he said his father was in a train wreck. Whatever Robbie said, it pushed Ennio over the edge.
Have you tried a therapist?
Not yet. I’m a part-timer at each place where I work, so I don’t get healthcare benefits. I have really crappy, minimal health insurance. I set aside some of what I earn each month, but it’s not enough to pay for therapy for Ennio, and Gina’s health plan covers only short-term therapy. We spoke with two doctors on her insurance company’s list, but they weren’t trained for something like this. Basically, we’ve been hoping time will be on the kid’s side. This is the kind of thing that makes me think I’m not a very good father, by the way. At my age, I ought to have real health insurance.
Buy Me Love Page 16
