Penny from Heaven

by Jennifer L. Holm

  Then something catches my eye. The sideboard. The wedding photograph of my mother and father is gone!

  “Why don’t you sit here,” Me-me is saying as she ushers Mr. Mulligan to the head of the table.

  My mother comes in carrying a perfect chicken, all golden brown. She’s nervous, and she keeps running back into the kitchen saying she forgot to put out the butter, the rolls, the salt.

  “It sure looks good,” Mr. Mulligan says.

  “You forgot the peas and onions,” Me-me points out.

  “Of course,” my mother says with a forced smile. She returns a moment later with a covered dish.

  “Would you carve, Pat?” Me-me asks Mr. Mulligan.

  “Of course I’ll carve,” Pop-pop says, and picks up the knife and fork.

  Mr. Mulligan looks around a little awkwardly, but nobody says anything.

  “You want white meat or dark meat?” Pop-pop asks Mr. Mulligan.

  “White meat, please,” he says.

  Pop-pop cuts off a huge chunk of dark meat and puts it on Mr. Mulligan’s plate. “Here ya go, dark as night,” he says.

  My mother puts her hand on her forehead.

  “So, Penny,” Mr. Mulligan asks, “how about those Dodgers? Think they have a chance?”

  “My uncle Dominic says they have a shot at the Series,” I say. “My uncle Dominic, that’s my father’s brother, he used to play baseball in the minor leagues. He even got invited to spring training with the Dodgers.”

  “Your uncle sounds like an interesting fella,” Mr. Mulligan says.

  “He is,” I tell him. “And my father was a newspaper writer.”

  “That’s very impressive.”

  “You got to be really smart to be a writer. You go to college?”

  Mr. Mulligan nods again, uncomfortable. “Uh—”

  “Pat,” my mother says in a bright voice, “can I serve you some mashed potatoes?”

  “Please,” Mr. Mulligan says. “You’re a wonderful cook.”

  “Thank you,” my mother says, blushing.

  “I thought you said we were having steak,” Pop-pop says, looking at his plate suspiciously. “This looks like chicken.”

  “It is chicken, Daddy,” my mother says in exasperation.

  “Wouldn’t have worn a necktie if I wasn’t going to get steak,” he mutters to himself.

  “Mr. Mulligan, would you care for some peas and onions?” I ask in a sweet voice. “Me-me’s famous for her peas and onions.”

  Mr. Mulligan holds out his plate with a broad smile. “Why, thank you, Penny. I’d love some.”

  Across the table my mother shoots me a warning look, and I shrug innocently.

  I give Mr. Mulligan a big helping and then watch as he takes his first bite. He blinks fast when the peas hit his tongue and then chews for a while, finally swallowing hard.

  “They’re delicious,” he says to Me-me.

  Me-me smiles happily.

  “Me-me does a lot of the cooking around here,” I inform Mr. Mulligan.

  “Really?” he says, looking a little worried.

  I wait until his plate is clean.

  “More peas?” I ask.

  “Uh,” he says, unsure, his eyes darting between my mother and Me-me. “I don’t want to eat them all.”

  “Please, don’t be shy, there’s more on the stove,” Me-me says.

  He holds out his plate reluctantly. “In that case, yes, please.”

  It takes all my willpower not to burst out laughing from the look on his face. He looks like he’s going to the executioner.

  “Penny,” my mother says, “can you come into the kitchen for a moment, please?”

  Before I can answer, Scarlett O’Hara trots over to Mr. Mulligan and calmly squats above his foot and tinkles on his shoe.

  “Scarlett O’Hara!” my mother says in a horrified voice.

  “Dog’s bladder’s going,” Pop-pop says.

  “Daddy!” my mother scolds.

  “What? Not like it’s a state secret,” Pop-pop says.

  “Oh, Pat, I’m so sorry,” my mother says. “Here, let me have your shoe and I’ll clean it up.”

  Mr. Mulligan hands his shoe to my mother, who hurries into the kitchen.

  Me-me stands up. “I have some rags in the basement.”

  Then it’s just me and Pop-pop and Mr. Mulligan.

  Mr. Mulligan smiles uncomfortably. He’s been trying not to look at my eye the whole meal, but I know he’s curious.

  “That’s gonna be some shiner,” he says.

  “Oh, this? It’s nothing,” I say, and lower my voice confidingly. “Mother slugged me for not making my bed. She likes things neat.”

  He looks at Pop-pop, as if he’ll tell him it’s not true. Instead, Pop-pop burps loudly.

  “So, you gonna marry my daughter or what?” Pop-pop says.

  Mr. Mulligan doesn’t stay long. He eats the key lime pie Me-me made in two bites. When my mother asks him if he wants a second cup of coffee, he says he really needs to get home.

  I wave as Mr. Mulligan’s car drives away. I figure there’s nothing to worry about after all.

  I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  No Poking

  It’s late, nearly midnight, but I can hear the soft staticky sound of the radio.

  I step into my slippers and walk down the hallway to the parlor.

  Pop-pop is sitting in his chair next to the radio, ear as close to it as possible, listening intently. Our radio’s big, a Philco. Pop-pop’s nodding like someone’s talking to him, except no one’s there. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching. He doesn’t notice me.

  “Talking to Mickey, Pop-pop?” I ask.

  He looks up, startled.

  “Are you talking to Mickey?” I ask again, more loudly.

  “What else would I be doing?” he barks back, and then rubs his bald head tiredly.

  My grandfather thinks that his nephew, Mickey, who was killed in Germany during World War II, sometimes talks to him through the radio static. Pop-pop was heartbroken when Mickey died; he always says that Mickey was like the son he never had. There’s a picture of Mickey in the upstairs hallway wearing his pilot’s uniform, looking all dashing.

  Pop-pop started hearing Mickey a few years ago, and at first he was real excited about it, until he told Me-me.

  “You keep talking like that and they’ll be sending you to the funny farm,” she told him.

  But sometimes he’ll sneak down late at night when everyone’s asleep. He maneuvers the dial back and forth, over static and music and announcers and preachers. The voices are kind of like ghosts, the way they come out of nowhere.

  There’s a hiss and Pop-pop’s eyes light up.

  “See?” he says excitedly. “There he is!”

  All I can hear is static.

  “What do you and Mickey talk about?” I ask.

  “The war, of course,” he says, and frowns at me. “If it weren’t for all of them hooligans, he’d be alive right now. He’d be sitting right here eating a piece of your grandmother’s apple pie.”

  Not if he was lucky, he wouldn’t. Me-me’s pie is mushy and the crust is hard as a rock.

  A warbling sound comes over the radio.

  “What’s that you say, Mickey?” Pop-pop asks loudly.

  I kiss him on the head and say, “I’m going back to bed.”

  Me-me is standing at the top of the stairs in her bathrobe.

  “He listening to that box again?” she asks.

  I nod.

  She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why he can’t get over that boy.”

  The next morning when I get to the store, there’s a big commotion.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Aunt Concetta died,” Frankie says with a grin.

  I groan. I’m not groaning because Aunt Concetta’s dead. Truth is, I didn’t even know her very well. She’s part of Nonny’s circle of friends, the
se old Italian women who all wear black and play cards. She’s not a real aunt, and I think she was over ninety, anyway. I groan because it means there’s going to be a funeral. And a wake. And a mass.

  Italians do death big. Big wakes. Big funerals. Big parties after, with lots of food. Personally, I’d rather have the party when I’m alive. What’s the point in someone making you a fancy meal after you’re dead? It’s not like you can eat it.

  But Frankie’s excited.

  “After this, I’ll have fourteen cards!” he says.

  What he’s talking about is the little prayer cards you get at the funeral home when someone dies. Frankie collects them just like baseball cards. He calls them Dead Trading Cards. They’re kind of like real trading cards. See, they a have a picture on one side, usually of the Virgin Mary or Jesus or one of the saints, and on the other side they have the statistics—the name of the person who died, birth and death dates, and a little prayer. Frankie’s been collecting them forever, and sometimes he even trades them with other kids. I don’t know about Frankie sometimes.

  The evening of the wake, Me-me helps me get dressed.

  “Are they expecting a lot of people?” Me-me asks as she irons what I call my funeral dress. It’s black cotton with a white Peter Pan collar. It’s my summer funeral dress. I have a winter funeral dress too, which I got from Uncle Nunzio. Black wool with white piping.

  “Probably,” I say. Usually everybody who ever met the dead person once shows up at the funerals for my Italian relatives.

  “There,” she says. “That should do nicely.”

  I pull the dress over my head and tug it down. It feels a little tight in the chest.

  “Me-me,” I say, “look.”

  “You’re growing up,” Me-me says. “Take it off and I’ll let out a few stitches.”

  A few snips and another ironing and she hands it back to me. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. It doesn’t look quite right.

  “Last season for this dress,” Me-me says with a critical eye.

  The doorbell rings. I’m expecting Uncle Angelo, but when I open the door I see Cousin Benny standing there, tugging at his tie. I look over his shoulder and see Frankie sitting in the backseat of the car.

  “What’s going on? Why are you driving?”

  “The baby’s sick, so Aunt Teresa can’t come.”

  “What about Uncle Angelo?”

  “He’s sick too,” Benny says, but his mouth twitches, which means that Uncle Angelo is probably drunk again. Uncle Angelo gets “sick” a lot.

  “Okay,” I say, and turn to look at Me-me, who’s watching me from the hall. “See you later, Me-me.”

  “Here,” she says, handing me a white handkerchief. “A young lady should always carry one.”

  I sit in the front seat and look back. Frankie’s wearing a suit, too tight, one of Benny’s hand-me-downs from the looks of it. He’s got a contented smile on his face.

  “You shouldn’t look so happy,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re going to a wake,” I tell him.

  Sometimes I wonder about my father’s funeral. Did a lot of people show up? Did he look real handsome in the casket? Did they play all those sad hymns at the church? I would’ve liked to have heard Bing Crosby singing “Only Forever.”

  “Did you go to my father’s funeral?” I ask Benny.

  Benny looks over at me. He’s real cute. Kind of a cuter version of Frankie, and less of a troublemaker.

  “Yeah. But I was just a kid,” he says.

  “What was it like?” I ask.

  He grimaces. “It was terrible. Worst funeral I ever been to. Nonny tried to throw herself in the casket, and your mother, your mother . . .” His voice trails off. “Everyone was real torn up. I remember thinking, ‘I never knew grown-ups could cry so much.’ It was just terrible.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “Didn’t he have cancer?” Benny asks.

  “I heard he had pneumonia,” I said.

  “I heard an anvil fell on him,” Frankie says.

  “Shut up, Frankie,” Benny and I both say.

  The Riggio Funeral Home is where all the wakes for the family are held. It’s on the same street that Ann Marie Giaquinto lives, and Benny slows the car as we pass her house.

  The funeral director, Mr. Riggio, is standing at the door greeting people.

  “Hi, Mr. Riggio,” I say. This is the third time we’ve had a funeral this year. The other two were in the spring. A lot of old people die in the spring, at least in my family. I don’t think I’ll ever like Easter.

  “Penny,” he says warmly. “You’re looking lovely, sweetheart.”

  “Hiya, Mr. Riggio,” Frankie says.

  “Frankie,” he says shortly, and frowns. “Everyone’s in the first room, if you want to go pay your respects.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say.

  People are lined up out into the hallway. There are rows of chairs and an aisle leading to the front of the room, where an open casket is displayed. There are big fancy bouquets of flowers all around it. Funeral flowers are the worst, especially lilies. They always give me a headache. I don’t know why they have to use the sweetest-smelling flowers to put around a dead person. Frankie says it’s because dead people don’t smell too good, and it helps cover up the scent.

  We go inside, and Frankie grabs a bunch of the Aunt Concetta Dead Trading Cards and pockets them like they’re gold. When we finally get up to the coffin, I make myself take a peek, even though I hate looking at dead bodies.

  “Not bad,” Frankie says.

  He means it as a compliment. Aunt Concetta looks better than she did when she was alive. In fact, she looks like she’s going to sit up and start talking. They’ve put some rouge on her and a bright-red lipstick. She was a big lady, and her cheeks are smooth because of all the fat; there’s hardly a wrinkle. There’s a rosary in her hands.

  We kneel in front of the coffin and pretend to pray.

  “You gotta kiss her,” he whispers.

  “I’m not kissing her,” I whisper back. “You kiss her.”

  “What if she moves?”

  “She’s dead, Frankie.”

  “How do you know for sure? What if she’s just sleeping?”

  See, this is Frankie’s big theory. They fix up the corpses so good that he swears they’re really alive, not dead at all. He’s always wanting to touch the bodies to see if they’re really dead.

  “We’re holding up the line,” I whisper, glancing back at a grumpy-looking old man who’s glaring at us.

  Frankie stands and leans over the coffin.

  “Frankie, don’t,” I say. “Remember last time?”

  But he just goes ahead and pokes Aunt Concetta in the arm.

  “Frankie—”

  He gasps. “Look, she moved!”

  Behind us, the old man clears his throat loudly.

  Frankie pokes Aunt Concetta again, harder this time, and the rosary beads shake a little.

  Suddenly a strong arm reaches in and grabs Frankie by the scruff of the neck and me by the arm and drags us away. It’s Mr. Riggio, and he’s steaming mad. He hauls us out to the hallway. We’re in for some trouble now!

  “What did I tell you last time, Frankie Picarelli?” Mr. Riggio demands. “No poking!”

  Frankie squirms in his grasp. “She moved! Honest!”

  “You go near another dead body and I’m gonna bury you myself, you got me, sonny boy?” Mr. Riggio says in a hiss.

  “Okay! Okay!” Frankie says, pulling away and rubbing his shoulder. “I heard you the first time.”

  Mr. Riggio gives Frankie a disgusted look, and me one too, and then stomps off.

  “I told you not to,” I say.

  “Aw, simmer down. She looked alive!”

  I shake my head.

  “Listen, you get hit by a car and die, right? Wouldn’t you want me to make sure you were really dead before they buried you?”

  “
I guess,” I say, looking around. “Where’s Benny?”

  “I dunno,” he says.

  We wait on chairs for a while, and then the crowd starts to thin out.

  Uncle Dominic catches sight of us. “You kids coming back to the house to eat?”

  “Benny’s supposed to be driving us,” I say. “I don’t know where he went.”

  He nods and says, “I’ll take you. Come on.”

  As we drive down the street, Frankie points out the window. “Hey, there’s Benny! And he’s in a brawl!”

  Sure enough, Benny is standing outside Ann Marie Giaquinto’s house, and he’s fighting with her husband. Benny’s taken off his suit coat, and his white shirt has blood on it. From his nose, I’m guessing. Looks like Ann Marie’s husband has a pretty good right hook.

  “Of all the times,” Uncle Dominic mutters, and pulls over.

  Frankie’s leaning out the window and shouting like we’re at a prizefight. “Get ’im, Benny!”

  Uncle Dominic’s not a big fella, but he goes right up to the two of them and says in a low voice, “That’s enough of that.”

  Ann Marie’s husband rears back, a fist raised like he’s gonna pound Uncle Dominic, but Uncle Dominic just holds his ground. He stares at the fella until he lowers his hand with a curse. Ann Marie is standing at the front door, her face white as she stares at Benny.

  “Why’s he breaking it up?” Frankie moans in disbelief. “It was just getting good.”

  Uncle Dominic pushes Benny back to our car. The doors open and shut and Uncle Dominic starts the engine. I fish the hankie Me-me gave me out of my handbag and hand it to Benny, who takes it without a word. Guess she’s right about always carrying one after all. Although I don’t think she meant it to be for bloody noses.

  “Where’s your car?” Uncle Dominic asks.

  “Back at Riggio’s,” Benny spits out.

  Everyone’s real quiet for a minute, and then Frankie says, “Hey, Benny, we can come back later with some other fellas and clobber him!”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Uncle Dominic asks Frankie.

  “He’s no good to her,” Benny says. “He’s no good at all.”

  “Nothing you can do about it now,” Uncle Dominic tells him. “What’s done is done.”

  “But—” Benny says.

  Uncle Dominic shakes his head grimly. “Benny, there’s just some things you can’t change, no matter how much you want to.”