Being kept busy helped Gia work through her own feelings of grief and loss. She counted on her inner strength, on her faith, and on her life experience to carry her through the unimaginable sadness of losing a child. She worried more about Angelina than about herself, who was so withdrawn and silent. She was afraid that the Angelina who could sit and talk with her about practically anything over a bowl of minestra on a Sunday afternoon after mass was gone and might not be coming back.
The following evening, Angelina felt gaunt and frail as she sat, dressed and veiled in black, waiting for the car to take her and Gia to DiGregorio’s Funeral Home, as though there were less of her now than there was supposed to be.
Life comes at you, she thought. Life comes at you and it has earthquakes, floods, fire, and sudden death on its side. You can do whatever you like to try and hold it back, but it doesn’t matter. But if she’d known that her husband was going to go downstairs in the middle of the night and never come back up the steps to her again, she’d have gotten down on her knees and tried with all of her might and prayed until her heart burst for the earthquakes, floods, or fire instead.
Life had dealt her dirty blows before. Just after she had been accepted into cooking school, her mother had fallen ill, and Angelina had to change her plans and nurse her for three years until Emmaline had finally, peacefully, mercifully, passed away in her sleep. Within six months, her father, Ralph, had begun to suffer from a kind of heartbroken dementia, and a stroke took him two years later. She never regretted the time she gave to their care because she loved her parents and she cherished her memories of them—in good health and in bad. But by the time they were gone, she’d lost the thread of her ambition and desire. Then she met Frank and settled into their life together, and that had been more than enough.
At the wake, Gregory DiGregorio Sr., the director of the funeral home, drew near to Angelina deferentially, then sat down on a wooden chair beside her. He was closing in on his ninetieth birthday, but he approached it with a straight spine, a clear eye, and all of his own hair, neatly trimmed and combed back in the same parted style he had favored as a young man. His sons, Gregory Jr. and David, always unfailingly courteous and efficient, had seated Angelina in a small alcove with her mother-in-law and one of the younger parish priests. Mr. DiGregorio had a knack for holding the strands of the different stories of families who passed through the doors of his funeral home in his memory.
“Mrs. D’Angelo, may I sit with you for a minute?”
Angelina pulled the black shawl she was wearing a bit tighter around her shoulders when she turned to face him.
“Sure, Mr. DiGregorio. Thank you, by the way. Everything looks beautiful.”
“Thank you for saying so. I’m very sorry for your loss. Your husband was a fine man, and I knew his family well. He will be missed by everyone.”
Angelina noted, not for the first or last time, that nobody used Frank’s name when they spoke to her. It was as if they all knew instinctively how much it hurt her to hear it.
“I lost my wife, Florence, at a young age,” he said. “I have been on my own for forty years. I never remarried. When I’m missing her, I say a prayer and I feel better right away. I can’t say if she hears it, but I think she has a hand in that feeling somehow. Those we love never leave our hearts, but life goes on. Life goes on. If you need anything at all, Mrs. D’Angelo, will you please let me or one of my sons know?”
“Yes. I will. Thank you.”
Angelina felt grateful in that moment to Mr. DiGregorio. By telling her about his wife and his life after her loss, he had taken her out of herself for a moment, which had clearly been his intention.
Mr. DiGregorio nodded and walked back to his post near the door. She wanted to call to him then and tell him, yes, she did need something. Could he or one of his sons possibly arrange to send her back in time about a week? That way, she could maybe get Frank to the doctor for a checkup, maybe follow him downstairs and call an ambulance in time, change something.
She felt as if she were drifting outside herself, the way she’d heard people describe near-death experiences. She was still alive, but she thought that if Frank and she were truly married, if they had truly been joined as one, that maybe what she was feeling was what death felt like for him, felt like for him right now, this second. If so, then death was cold, dark, and lonely.
From where she sat, Angelina could see Mr. DiGregorio shaking hands with Frank’s brother, Joe, his wife, Maria, and their daughter, Tina. Tina was a pretty girl with long black hair and long lashes that framed dark brown eyes, which normally sparkled vivaciously and took everything in. Angelina and Tina had always been close, even when Tina was a little girl. Angelina hadn’t seen Tina at the house and got up and went into the front parlor to greet her and her parents. As soon as their eyes met, Tina rushed into Angelina’s arms.
“Oh, my God, Aunt Angelina …” Fresh tears spilled out of Tina’s already red-rimmed eyes.
“I know, sweetie.”
Maria was quiet and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Joe came up and put his arms around both Angelina and Tina. Angelina thought he looked pale and tired. She held Tina a little closer and then brushed the hair back out of her eyes.
“I just can’t believe he’s not here anymore.”
“I know, Tina, honey, I know. “
Joe stood back and put his hands in his pockets.
“How you holding up, Ange?”
“Okay.” Angelina looked away. She was afraid that if he started crying, she’d go, too. She concentrated on consoling Tina, who was already crying enough for both of them.
“She’s been like this since she heard,” said Joe.
Angelina hugged Tina a little closer. “She loved him,” said Angelina and kissed her hair.
“We all did. He was the best brother you could have.” Joe’s voice quivered slightly.
“Tina just wanted to make sure she saw you, is all, but we should probably get back home,” Maria said with tears in her eyes. “We’ll see you in the morning at the mass?”
“Sure, let me walk you out.”
Angelina took Maria’s arm and walked them as far as the foyer. She took Tina’s face in both of her hands and kissed her on the cheek good-night. After seeing them off, Angelina turned back toward the main parlor. Off to her right, on the wall in a little nook, she noticed a portrait of old Mr. DiGregorio and his wife, Florence. She walked over and stood in front of it.
They looked so young in the picture, maybe around her age now, and happy. Mrs. DiGregorio had a big, beaming smile on her face, and Angelina imagined Mr. DiGregorio might have said something to make his wife laugh just before the picture was taken, something that he knew only she’d find funny, and Angelina thought, what a lovely moment to capture for all time.
She and Frank used to write each other little notes. One time, as they were getting ready to go out, she laid out a selection of sweaters in different colors for him to pick from and left a note on top that said, “Your choice.” He’d flipped over the note and written: “I think you’re choice, too!” She kept that note in her bedside table drawer. Now, she wished she’d kept them all. A warm tide of tears started at the back of her throat and welled up toward her eyes.
Just then, two younger women from the neighborhood, Anna and Natalie, drifted to a stop near the door, which obscured Angelina from their view. Something in their tone stopped her tears before they fell, and she couldn’t help but overhear.
“I am dying for a cigarette,” said Anna.
“We’re going in a minute,” said Natalie. “My Danny’s just talking to Mike DeNicholas, he’ll only be a minute or two. I told him to hurry it up.”
“I hate coming to these things. They make me too sad.”
“Yeah, but you got to show up,” said Natalie.
“So sad that a guy like him had to go so young. He was so handsome and she’s so pretty.”
“Pretty? I’d say she’s cute, not pretty. But he was a d
oll.” Natalie lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And lookit, what does she have now?”
“What do you mean?” asked Anna.
“Think about it. Five years married and no kids?”
“They just didn’t get lucky, maybe.”
“Yeah, well, maybe he was gettin’ lucky somewhere’s else … you know what I’m saying? He sure could have done better …” Natalie spoke softly, but not low enough that Angelina couldn’t still hear. “You know what? I know my Danny, he’s no saint. But one thing I got in my house, that’s the love of my kids.”
“You’re their mother.”
“Now that Frank’s gone,” said Natalie, “what’s Angelina got? Nothing.”
Anna glanced vacantly over Natalie’s shoulder and her jaw suddenly went slack. She grabbed Natalie’s arm to silence her, but it was too late.
“Saccente … donnaccia!”
Angelina wasn’t the only one eavesdropping. A strongly built, imposing older woman, Gia’s friend Mary, stood in the foyer glaring at Natalie and Anna like God’s own judgment, her stance wide and threatening, her hands clenched into stony fists on her redoubtable hips.
“Angelina,” said Mary as she held out her hand.
Angelina came out from behind the door. Anna’s cheeks blushed a fiery crimson and Natalie’s hand flew to her open mouth as she gasped in horror.
“Oh, my God,” said Natalie.
Angelina strode toward her, eyes blazing, just barely resisting the urge to slap Natalie hard across the face. The room went deathly quiet.
When Angelina finally spoke, her voice was level and cold, but hard as ice. “Why are you here?” she asked Natalie.
Natalie stood frozen. Even if she’d harbored thoughts of escape, she had no hope of making it past Mary.
Angelina moved a step closer. Her emotions were shoved back down in her throat now, but her voice never wavered. “Why would you even come here if you have it in you to talk about me and my husband that way? Who do you think you are?”
Natalie looked down and away.
“Answer me,” said Angelina.
“I dunno’ … I … I’m sorry,” Natalie said in a dull, small voice.
Mourners had begun to gather around them, and Natalie’s face had turned ashen. Word would circulate for days, maybe years, about what Natalie had said at the funeral. Angelina felt sure that Natalie’s “best friend” Anna would somehow see to that; for some girls, having a nasty story to tell trumps loyalty every time. Secure in that knowledge, Angelina let her anger begin to subside, but not before she’d had the final say.
“Look at me,” she said.
Natalie met her eyes as best she could.
“You think my husband and I didn’t want to have a baby?” Her mind involuntarily flickered to an image of Frank with a baby bundled in white, held safely in his strong arms. “More than life on this earth, but now he’s gone …” Angelina’s voice broke. She pushed through it, allowing herself a slow, calming breath. “But you know what we did have? Love for each other. That’s something you’ll never have, Natalie.”
Gia’s friends, the older women in black, had instinctively gathered at Angelina’s back and escorted her inside. Satisfied that Angelina’d had the last word, Mary shifted into action and herded Natalie toward the door.
“Sparisci,” Mary growled. “Move it.”
Once Natalie had slunk through the double doors, Mary turned her attention to Anna.
“What did I do?” asked Anna.
Mary pushed her right sleeve back from her balled fist, and Anna knew enough about Italian grandmothers straight off the boat from Palermo to make a break for the exit.
As Angelina walked away, she knew that by stating the simple truth about her life with Frank, though she’d never understand, she had given her something even Natalie would have to think about for a long time.
Her husband would have approved. Angelina was dying to tell him about it.
But he was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
Stracciatella and Storm Clouds
THE FUNERAL WENT by as if it were happening to someone else. Joe and Tina did the readings, and Father DiTucci gave a beautiful homily, about which Angelina could remember little or nothing. A military honor guard was at the cemetery, since Frank had been honorably discharged as a corporal in the Army. At the end of the graveside ceremony, Angelina started to shake when one of the young soldiers handed her the flag from the coffin, which he and his fellow guard had folded with such intense reverence, precision, and discipline. When the youngest soldier, hardly more than a boy, played taps so mournfully on his bugle, Angelina was afraid, for the first time since she found Frank in the kitchen, that she’d lose it completely. Fortunately, and at Mamma Gia’s direction, the family doctor, Dr. Vitale, gave Angelina a mild muscle relaxer as they walked back to the car, which, combined with the stress and her profound fatigue, made the rest of the day drift by in a cottony fog.
Lunch was served afterward at Gia’s, but Angelina hardly ate. She lay down and slept for most of the afternoon and into the evening. When she awoke, she picked at some cold pasta salad, nursed a glass of ginger ale, and watched old movies on television without interest. Joe waited until she was ready and took her back to her house well after midnight. He and Tina waited to make sure she got securely into bed, then locked up and left her to slip into a tranquilized, blank, and impenetrable sleep.
In the morning, Angelina sat alone in her nightgown, robe, and slippers, staring blankly into a steaming cup of coffee. It was a bright, sunny day but she couldn’t seem to get warm. It was eleven o’clock and it had taken a lot out of her to get even this far into the day and down to the kitchen. She had managed the coffee by habit, but sat down heavily and became lost in thought when she realized she had automatically made enough for two.
Frank had been a heavy coffee drinker. His habit had always been two strong cups in the morning before he went out the door with his big thermos in hand, which Angelina knew that he finished off at lunch; then he’d get a big takeout cup in the afternoon at whatever job site he was on. If he was working around the house on a Saturday, he’d make a big pot after lunch and work his way through it before the sun went down. When she got to Sunday, Angelina stopped herself. She couldn’t take thinking about him in the past tense, about the way he used to be.
After a soft knock at the back door, a key turned in the lock and Mamma Gia came in with two canvas shopping bags folded neatly under her arm. Gia never came to the front door—the front door was reserved for guests and visiting clergy; not family, and the back door put her right where she usually wanted to be, in the kitchen, where the action is. Without a word, Gia went to the windows and raised the shades, letting some sunshine into the room. She was a pleasantly stout woman, with dark hair shot through with advancing gray, and gold-rimmed glasses that pinched her nose. She waddled a bit when she walked, since her hips had started bothering her a couple of years ago. Her sons had encouraged her to consider getting a hip replacement, but the thought of it seemed outlandish and completely impractical to her, when all she had to do to get around was to walk a little differently than she was used to.
Whoever heard of getting old without having to make a few adjustments? She had a little bit of pain when it was wet or cold, and even she thought that maybe she had slowed down a step or two, but she proudly wielded the strength and determination of a woman half her age.
“Come on, honey,” said Gia. “How come you’re not dressed?”
She and Angelina had made a practice of shopping together on Saturday mornings, in good weather and in bad, practically every Saturday for the last four years.
“I don’t know, Ma. I’m tired, I guess. You want some coffee?” Angelina spoke softly. Speaking out loud seemed to be taking a lot out of her.
“Don’t get up.” Gia poured herself a cup of coffee, took a seat, and administered her customary three teaspoons of sugar. “So, you coming shopping, or what?”
Angelina picked at the handle of her cup with her thumb. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Why not?”
Angelina let go of her cup and sat up straight in her chair. The rush of irritation she felt at the question … no, at the question’s being repeated… cleared the fog. She was suddenly feeling a little picked on.
Gia knew what she was starting, but she was determined. Angelina clenched and unclenched her teeth before she spoke.
“Why not? I don’t know, maybe because my husband just died. Maybe that’s why.”
“For you a husband, for me a son.”
Angelina sank down in her chair again. Had she told Gia she was sorry that her son, her beautiful eldest son, had died? She wasn’t sure that she had.
“I know, Ma. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be mad.”
Gia took off her glasses and placed them on the table. She rubbed at the red indentations they left behind.
“Frankie’s father, he died young. And my father, his grandfather, he died too young, too. You cry, you pray a little, and you keep them in your heart, and you move on with your life.”
Angelina could hardly believe what she was hearing from Gia, in those calm, measured, and world-weary tones. Was this what she had to look forward to, tired resignation at life’s calamities, just “say a prayer” and move on? Move on to what? Was she supposed to accept it all with a quiet nod, accept her loss graciously, get up and dust the house? Where was she supposed to keep him in her heart if it was broken? Her hand to God, she couldn’t even tell whether she was going to make it through today or not, let alone move on to next week or next year, or whenever. Angelina had felt sorry for Gia. Now she felt sorrier for herself.
Angelina's Bachelors Page 3
