Angelina's Bachelors

by Brian O'Reilly

  “What, I should be over the death of my husband already?” said Angelina, tight-lipped. “We just buried him for God’s sake. And I’m not going shopping because I have all of this food in the house for the party, which obviously is not going to happen now, so I have enough food to feed an army.”

  Gia stirred her coffee.

  “I mean, tell me, Gia, am I being punished? What did I do? Was I too happy? Is it because nobody’s supposed to be that happy? Why did this happen?”

  Gia took a sip and slid her glasses back on.

  “Why?” said Angelina.

  “Hey, you don’t have to go shopping if you don’t want to.”

  Angelina quieted down. She knew that Gia had only been trying to do her some good. She wasn’t sure she would have had it in her to make the effort if their roles had been reversed.

  “I don’t care, Ma’” said Angelina wearily. “I don’t care if I never cook again.”

  “You have your breakfast?”

  “I’m having coffee.”

  “I’m going to cook for you.” Gia pushed up from the table and her chair scraped back noisily.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Gia went to the sideboard, found an apron, and tied it around her waist as she headed for the stove. “You’re hungry, you just don’t know it. Just some soup, a little brodo.”

  At the mention of soup, a perceptible growl escaped from Angelina’s tummy. “All right.”

  Gia turned on the burner and reached for a saucepan. She lightly crushed two cloves of garlic with the side of a knife, then minced and sautéed them in olive oil and a knob of butter. She whisked in a little flour, toasting it in the oil, added a pinch of salt, then raised the heat and whisked in a cup of homemade chicken broth from the fridge until the soup began to thicken. She beat two eggs together in a bowl with some grated Parmesan and added them gently to the soup, where they poached into gold and white strands of savory-soft egg and cheese.

  Gia selected a big earthenware bowl, ladled in her soup, ground in some fresh black pepper, and placed it in front of Angelina with a napkin and a spoon.

  “Stracciatella. For you.”

  Angelina leaned over the bowl with her eyes closed and let the delicious wisps of steam rise up to her face. She picked up the spoon and sulkily nicked off a piece of egg. Gia returned to her cup of coffee, with an experienced parent’s complete indifference as to whether the meal she’d prepared was eaten or not.

  Angelina stole a glance at her and dipped into the bowl, seduced by the aroma of toast laced with sweet and savory garlic, mingled with the soothing sustenance of good chicken broth. She sipped and felt warm comfort spread into her belly, across the bridge of her nose and the back of her neck.

  Gia added yet another sugar to her coffee. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I was married once before Frankie’s father.”

  Angelina’s eyes opened wide. “You were married before Jack?”

  Gia smiled as she settled into her story. “Yes, I was. I guess you could say I was a war bride. His name was Danny. He wasn’t as good-looking as my Giacomo. He kind of looked like Ernest Borgnine, to tell you the truth, but he was such a nice man. He had a big heart. And he was some kind of dancer, too. One thing I could never get Jack to do was take me dancing.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “He went to war and didn’t come back. He died at Anzio Beach. They buried him over there, so I never saw him again.”

  “How come you never said anything?”

  “That was the way it was at that time,” said Gia matter-of-factly. “So many of the boys didn’t come back. It was common. Girls handled it two ways, you either talked about it all the time or you never did.”

  “Gia, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. We had almost eight months before he shipped out, and that’s more than most. Then when I met Jack, I fell in love all over again. It was different, but I have to say, it was just as good. We had the boys, and he saw them grow up to be men. Then Maria came for Joey, Tina came along, you came for Frankie. It may not seem like it right now, but the good things aren’t over forever. My point is, I’ve been widowed twice, you see. So, if you want to talk to somebody who’s been there, you can talk to me.”

  “Thanks, Gia. I just can’t think about it right now.”

  “I get what you’re saying, honey. But that doesn’t mean you don’t get dressed.”

  There was something about Gia’s story that made Angelina feel that she might actually be able to face the day. Maybe her story meant that tomorrow, however dim a prospect, was a possibility after all.

  Angelina nodded as she sipped. “Okay, I’ll get dressed. I promise. But I’ll have my soup first.”

  Gia sat placidly and folded her hands on the table. One of her true pleasures in life was watching someone else eat. “Good?”

  “So good.”

  “I can’t come and do this every day,” said Gia. “You’re not gonna starve to death, are you?”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s just been a couple of days.”

  Angelina meticulously cupped the last of the rich broth onto her spoon. “I promise I’ll come with you next week, okay?”

  “Okay. I’m going home. You don’t need anything?”

  “I have everything. Thanks for coming over.” Angelina reached over and gave Gia’s hand a squeeze.

  Gia got up, cupped Angelina’s cheeks, and kissed them both. “Mi raccomando. Get dressed and get moving. Don’t lay around.”

  Stracciatella (Roman Egg Drop Soup)

  * * *

  Serves 2

  INGREDIENTS

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 tablespoon butter

  2 large garlic cloves, lightly crushed and minced

  2 tablespoons flour

  1 pint chicken broth

  2 eggs

  ¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

  METHOD

  In a heavy-bottomed saucepot, heat the olive oil over medium heat until it begins to slightly shimmer. Melt the butter in the oil, add the garlic cloves, and cook them for 2 minutes, stirring frequently. Gradually whisk in the flour to make a roux and cook—stirring frequently—until the flour begins to toast. Whisk in the chicken broth a little at a time and bring to a boil. Beat the eggs and Parmesan in a small bowl and gradually add this mixture to the boiling soup where the liquid is breaking the surface so as to encourage the egg mixture to disperse in strands.

  Remove from heat and season to taste with salt and pepper.

  * * *

  Angelina showered and dressed, though it took her a while. She chose a pleated navy linen skirt and crisp pin-tucked white blouse, too nice, really, for bumming around on a Saturday. It was the kind of outfit she would put on for work, if someone serious was coming into the office. Clothes make the woman, she thought. She didn’t want to risk being accused of hedging if and when Gia came back.

  When she passed the phone on the little table at the bottom of the steps, she noticed that the message light was on. She was surprised to hear Vince’s voice when she played back the message. He and Amy had been out of touch on one of their innumerable getaways and had missed the funeral completely. Maybe he was calling to apologize.

  “Angelina, I know it’s Saturday, but can you come over to the office as soon as you get this?” said the raspy voice on the speaker. “I need to see you right away. And I’ve got some money for you, so please come right over. Thanks.”

  Well, that’s as strange as it gets, she thought.

  She hadn’t given a thought to work since Frank’s death. Father DiTucci had called Vince’s secretary, Susan, to explain Angelina’s absence; Susan was holding down the fort while Vince and Amy were in St. Bart’s. They weren’t due back until late last night, so calling in again hadn’t even occurred to her.

  Angelina caught the bus over to the office on Oregon Avenue, found a window seat, and leaned her throbbin
g head against the cool glass as they drove. Storm clouds were moving in.

  Philadelphia is a city of neighborhoods. Some of them have names, like Jewelers’ Row, Fishtown, Brewerytown, and Old City, that explain themselves. For others, such as Devil’s Pocket and Kingsessing, who knows? South Philadelphia has places like Bella Vista, Marconi Plaza, and Italian Market where you don’t really need a word of English to do your grocery shopping. In South Philly, the organizing principles were family, church, and neighborhood, in that order. It was a good place to be from, Angelina had always thought.

  The bus wandered its circuitous, bumpy way down Passyunk Avenue toward the stadiums. If you were from South Philly, as Angelina had often explained to people who weren’t, you said “Pashunk” Avenue, not “Passyunk,” to describe that sprawling, winding insult to proper road planning that seemed determined to cut and swerve at least once across every street in every neighborhood. As she passed Geno’s and Pat’s Steaks, site of the longest-standing turf war in the history of fast food, it crossed Angelina’s mind that people around here took cheesesteaks as seriously as some people took the West Bank. Everybody who lived here had to have an opinion about everything and know yours. Her mother came from the French countryside and never quite got used to it, even after all those years.

  “Petite,” she used to say to Angelina, “in South Philly, you have to know who you are, or somebody will be only too happy to tell you.”

  She got off the bus and into the building, made her way up the ancient elevator, and through the old-fashioned glass door, inscribed CUNIO CONSTRUCTION, LTD. It always reminded her of Sam Spade’s office door in the movies.

  The room was a mess. The four desks and the big work-table were buried in boxes, files, and paperwork. A stack of manila folders had fallen to the floor and had spilled all over the place. She heard the toilet flush, and the bathroom door over in the corner opened. Vince walked out, drying his hands on a paper towel.

  One thing stood out above everything else: he looked like hell.

  “Sorry to have to call you in like this, Angelina. I’ve been up all night. I couldn’t find the receivables, which is why I called, but I found them. I tried Frank’s pager but he didn’t answer. I’ve been up all night and I guess I’m not thinking straight. We’re going out of business.”

  Angelina found it impossible to move. “What?” she said quietly.

  “I got in late last night. Twenty messages from my lawyer waiting. So much for getting away from it all.”

  Angelina took a tentative step into the room. “What happened?”

  “I’ve been hung out to dry. I’m not getting paid for the last half of the biggest job we ever did. And, according to my genius attorney, there’s pretty much nothing I can do about it.”

  “I don’t understand. Why aren’t they paying?”

  “That bastard’s leveraging all his cash into a new project in Atlantic City. I can spend the next fifty years suing him, and there’s still no guarantee we’ll ever get paid.”

  He picked up a white envelope and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Severance. I’m sorry, it’s all I can give you. Frank’s a union guy, he’ll land on his feet. You two’ll be fine.”

  She took the envelope automatically and looked Vince quietly in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Vince, Frank’s dead.”

  Vince had his defenses up. His shoulders were hunched and he had been fully prepared for her to yell at him or accuse him or to get upset, so what she said didn’t register at first.

  “Huh? He’s what?”

  Angelina felt alone and exposed in the middle of the floor. “He died. He had a heart attack in the middle of the night. We buried him yesterday. Nobody got in touch with you?”

  Vince sat down heavily in his squeaky swivel chair.

  “I … we’ve been having trouble, Amy and me. I wanted us to get away from everything, just the two of us. The place we were staying at didn’t even have a phone. He’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  There was nothing else to say.

  Vince sat stiffly and stared at the floor, so Angelina opened the envelope. A hundred dollars was inside, in well-worn tens and twenties, which must have come straight out of Vince’s pants pockets.

  “A hundred dollars? Vince, after four years, what am I supposed to think when you hand me a hundred dollars in cash?”

  Amy had entered unnoticed through the open office door, and all she had heard was the last question Angelina had asked.

  “That’s not good enough for you?” said Amy.

  Angelina turned and looked at her. She was wearing a powder-blue, sleeveless top and sporting a deep, Hawaiian Tropic tan, which was peeling off her cheeks and freckled shoulders.

  Vince looked up tiredly. “Knock it off, Amy.”

  Amy went on as if she hadn’t heard him say a thing. “My life is ruined. Our business is over, my marriage is over, and you’re worried about a hundred dollars? You can get another job, Angelina—”

  Vince heaved up to his feet. “Amy, I said knock it off!”

  He went to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and steered her across the room. He looked back at Angelina, then spoke to his wife in an urgent whisper. When he let go, yellow-and-white finger marks dotted her chestnut-brown upper arms.

  Amy looked at Angelina, choked once loudly, and ran out of the room, the heels of her expensive strappy sandals clacking and echoing as she diminished down the hallway.

  Vince stood immobile, head down, the very picture of defeat.

  Angelina wanted nothing more at that moment than to be anywhere else. She tucked the envelope in her purse, touched Vince gently on the arm as she passed, then left without a backward glance.

  By the time she returned home, Angelina was totally drained. Dark clouds drifted overhead, but the coming storm was still holding off. It left the neighborhood feeling airless and tensed in anticipation. The sour aftertaste of what had just happened still lay in the back of her mouth. She dropped her purse on the couch with a heavy sigh and headed straight up the stairs. She felt disoriented, as if she had come into someone else’s house by mistake.

  If she had been worried about money last week, there was no question that her situation this week was much, much worse. She vaguely remembered something about a small insurance policy and a union benefits package and had decided on the ride back that she had no choice but to force herself to go through their papers, the sooner the better. She stood at the door to Frank’s closet for a moment with her hand on the knob, took a deep breath, opened it, and turned on the light.

  All of their records and personal papers were stashed in shoe boxes, some in her closet, some in his. She rummaged in the back on her hands and knees and found five boxes. The smell of leather, the feel and smell of the cloth of his jackets and pants on her skin as they brushed against her in her search, were all a warning to her heart not to spend too much time in there.

  The first box held nothing of real interest, except that they were things that had belonged to Frank: old ticket stubs to ball games, coins neatly loaded into paper wrappers, a Swiss army knife, the collar that the dog he’d owned as a kid used to wear. She found a receipt in the corner of the box from Fratto’s Jewelers for her engagement ring. It was handwritten and the ring was listed as “1 carat eng. ring.”

  After they were married, Frank had told her the story of once overhearing two secretaries talking about their rings in an office. One girl had said that hers was “three-quarters of a carat,” and he explained how that had struck him as being the wrong way to go about it, how it sounded like cutting corners. He thought there shouldn’t be any fractions involved in the one thing his wife was going to wear her whole life.

  The second box offered up a cache of the papers she was looking for—the mortgage papers, their marriage certificate, a small life insurance policy connected with the union that looked to be worth about $8,000. She sorted out every paper that looked legal,
official, or otherwise potentially important and made a stack that she would go through more methodically later.

  Is this what it all comes down to? Five shoe boxes and a stack of papers?

  Angelina peeked into the last box and found a pile of photographs. She leaned back against the bedstead and began leafing through them. She started from the bottom and turned each one over from the blank side, as if she wanted a moment’s rest between each one. There were family photos, pictures of birthdays and Christmases long past. There was a picture of Frank’s first car. On the back he had written, “My first car,” which made her smile. He stood beside it proudly in jeans and a white T-shirt, and she thought he looked lean and cool, but nice, and she could spot the beginnings of the man he became. When she got to the middle of the pile, she found another photo with his handwritten caption on the back: “The girl I’m going to marry!”

  She turned it over. There they were, Frank and Angelina, more than half a dozen years ago, in bathing suits on the beach in Avalon. She remembered that day because it was the first time they had gone away together on a day trip, back when they first started seriously dating. They had corralled a couple of teenage girls to take the picture, so they could both be in it. They ate clams and spaghetti and drank Beaujolais later that night at some seafood shack whose name she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t take her eyes off him then and she couldn’t now. In the picture, their heads were together and he had his arm around her shoulders and she could practically feel the warmth of the sun on their skin where they were leaning together and touching. He had written the date on the back, too, which he always did to mark a certain day in his memory.

  She only breathed again when she realized the front doorbell was ringing. With a huff of exasperation, she got up and charged down the steps to answer the door. When she flung it open, she was surprised to see Dottie from down the street standing there, smiling sweetly, holding a small pot in her hands with two homemade pot holders.

  “Hi, Angie. I brought you something to eat, hon. Are you busy?”