Angelina's Bachelors

by Brian O'Reilly

  “So what was it that made you pack up your steamer trunk and come to Dottie? Did something happen?” He shook his head. “You’ll laugh.”

  “No, I won’t. I promise.”

  “Well,” said Guy as they walked, “They keep you pretty busy in the seminary, studying Latin and doctrine and so forth. It’s pretty rigorous and I felt like I needed a break, so I took the train down to washington for the day. I just wanted to be on my own, take in the Air and Space Museum, walk around and clear my head.”

  “That’s at the Smithsonian, right?”

  “Right. So, it was a sunny day and I was walking near the National Mall, and a woman drove by in a blue Corvette convertible. I never really even got a good look at her face, but she was young and pretty and her long hair was blowing in the wind. It was over in a few seconds, she sped up and drove away, but that picture of her got kind of stuck in my head. I kept thinking about it; it intruded on my thoughts, even at prayers. Then I started questioning myself, wondering if I was really ready to make the kind of commitment you have to make when you take your vows. It was as if I was feeling the weight of the years ahead of me and I hadn’t even started yet.”

  “Guess what? You’re only human.”

  Guy gave her a thoughtful grin. “I think that the Church might be hoping for a little bit more. So, I guess you could say I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “If maybe there isn’t more to life than I’d be letting myself in for.”

  “Honestly?” said Angelina. “I’ve been wondering if there’s more to life, too.”

  They had slowed to a stop. Guy looked over her shoulder, then smiled like a man struck with a sudden inspiration.

  “Maybe we can find out.” He took a theatrical pause. “Look.”

  Up across the street, on the opposite corner in the front window of a row house, was a hand-painted sign with Christmas lights around it:

  Palms—Cards—Psychic Readings. Madame Sousatska.

  To somebody who wasn’t from the neighborhood, it would have been hard for Angelina to explain her hesitation. From South Street on down, the farther you went, the more handmade window signs you saw for fortune-tellers, often set up right in people’s houses. Most folks saw it as a harmless way for usually single older women to make a little extra cash, but when she’d been in her early twenties, a woman that her mother used to consult, a woman with snow-white hair named Leila, did a reading for Angelina and, when it was finished, handed her a note with just two words written on it: “Dream delayed.”

  The next year, Emmaline fell ill, and Angelina had to stay home to care for her, then for her father, and so the story went. Angelina wasn’t a believer exactly, but she didn’t take these things lightly. But Guy looked so eager and amused … so, in they went.

  The inside layout of Madame Sousatska’s house mirrored the familiar design of most of the houses in the neighborhood. The parlor might not have been dusted as often as most, and swatches of colorful fabrics, some tie-dyed, some that shimmered like silk dipped in glitter, were draped haphazardly across the sofa and chairs. An impressive collection of scented candles of various brands and sizes flickered on top of the radiator and on the side tables, and the combined effluvium of patchouli, Jasmine Rain, Balsam & Pine, and Pumpkin Pie lent the room an air that managed to be both mysterious and chintzy. In the middle of the room sat a large card table, the kind with the folding legs that stowed away quickly. A fringy shawl dotted with moons and stars was draped over it.

  The lady of the house bustled into the room carrying two mismatched mugs of hot tea. One had Garfield on it and the other a Far Side cartoon. She was well past middle age, compact, wearing a floral housecoat over blue jeans and fluffy bedroom slippers. Her hair was frizzy, the color of balsa wood, and caught the light in a funny way. She wore heavy green eye shadow but no other visible makeup and sported two large, dangly earrings that looked as if they had been filched from a dining room chandelier. A fat dog waddled in behind her and flopped down sloppily on a knotted rug.

  “Here you go, kids,” she said kindly in a deep, cigarette-raspy voice, “A nice cup of tea helps set the mood. What are your names?”

  “This is Angelina, and I’m Guy.”

  The woman took her seat with a flourish, as if summoning up her psychic forces before she sat.

  “You can call me Claire. Claire Voyent.”

  She took in the disbelieving looks on their faces and cracked up.

  “I’m kidding!” she cackled. “Just like to lighten the mood. If we’re all in a good mood, I can focus in on the beam a little better. I’m Sandra. Oh, you’re so pretty, the two of you.”

  Angelina sniffed suspiciously at her cup. “What is this?”

  “Herbal tea, hon. It’s motherwort and chamomile. It’ll help you feel better.”

  “About what?” Angelina asked apprehensively.

  “You just lost someone, didn’t you?” said Sandra serenely. “I can see that you have a little cloud”—she tapped her own chest lightly—“Right here, over your heart.”

  Angelina felt a chilly wave of goose bumps race up her arms. That was the spot where she felt it most.

  “So,” Sandra continued, “The reading is five dollars each, or eight for the two of you as a couple.”

  Angelina recovered and piped up quickly, “Oh, we’re not a couple.”

  Sandra fixed her with an icy-cold and all-knowing stare. “I’ll be the judge of that, honey.” She slapped a deck of tarots down in front of Guy, hard.

  “Cut the cards.”

  More than an hour later, empty teacups and half-finished Cokes sat ignored in front of Guy and Angelina, who both now sat looking nervously at their hostess.

  Sandra turned over the Queen of Wands and looked at Angelina. “You a cook, honey? Or a gardener?”

  Angelina, who was still more than a little spooked, just nodded.

  Sandra sighed, shook her head. “You might want to think about loosening up some. Maybe you shouldn’t spend all your time doing just the one thing. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl!”

  She laughed loudly. Neither Guy nor Angelina joined in.

  Cards covered the table, laid out in star patterns, in columns, in crosses, Kings and Queens on horseback, Knights with golden cups, a dark-cloaked Mr. Death, and one poor guy eternally stuck hanging upside down, who kept coming up again and again.

  Sandra flipped over The Fool and looked squarely at Guy. “You’re at a crossroads, aren’t you, handsome?”

  She hadn’t said anything in a while so Guy was startled. “I guess you could say that.”

  “You’re trying to make up your mind?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Well, don’t. You’re not ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Soon, Sandra’s legal pad, which was covered with scribbled notes and what appeared to be a long series of intricate numerological notations, had a visible coating of eraser bits, pencil shavings, and cigarette ash. “This is something,” said Sandra, muttering to herself. “There is definitely something going on here.”

  She erased some more and tore a little hole in the paper. She licked her finger and stuck the tiny flap back into place.

  “What is it?” said Angelina, whose nerves were starting to fray around the edges.

  Sandra scratched her head, and Guy was sure he noticed a few flecks of glitter flutter down from her hair. Sandra suddenly turned to a fresh page and wrote at frantic speed, like a student trying to finish under the wire at the SATs.

  “I’d tell you that you were going to meet a handsome stranger,” she said as she scribbled, “But you’ve obviously done that already.”

  She glanced up and gave Guy a wink and a toothy smile. She finished writing and ripped the page from the pad so hard that it made Angelina jump.

  “Here’s how I’m going to work this,” said Sandra, shoulders hunched, brows knitted, eyes narrowed to unreadable slits. “Usua
lly, I would write out a page of notes each about your life, which I would urge you to take seriously. That’s why I can charge money, get it? Because I am not kidding around. Don’t fool with Sister Sandra. You understand?”

  Guy swallowed hard.

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Good. Good boy,” said Sandra.“This is what I got for the both of you. Take this, sweetie.” She folded the sheet of paper in half, in half again, and once again, then handed it to Angelina. “Do me a favor, read it together just before you get home.”

  The absolutely last thing Angelina wanted out of this experience was to be handed a little note.

  “Can’t you just tell me—?”

  “No. Please, indulge an old lady. Be brave. That’ll be eight bucks.”

  The entire rest of the walk home, that folded piece of paper burned a hole in Angelina’s pocket. It was much worse than carrying a note home from the principal the time she’d cut school to get her book signed by Julia Child at the library. At least that had been totally worth it.

  By the time Guy and Angelina had covered the few remaining blocks to their shared street without saying a word, she could hardly stand the suspense. They arrived from the top of the street, so they came to the front of Angelina’s house first. She marched them to a full stop.

  “Okay. We’re home. Should we read it or not?”

  “We have to,” said Guy. “Or we’re out eight dollars.”

  “Okay, but we have to read it together. All right? This is serious.”

  “Deal. Fire when ready.”

  Angelina took the note out of her pocket.

  “I’m shaking,” said Angelina, who was trembling partly from the cold, but partly from the unexpected import of the moment.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” said Guy.

  She unfolded it, and held it at arm’s length for dramatic effect. “Here goes,” she said breathlessly. Guy moved in closer to her under the streetlight and they read the note together. The single line was written in Sandra’s flowery and distinctive scrawl:

  You may hold a new life in your hands.

  They both realized at the same time that, as they were reading, they were holding hands. They looked at each other, then let go, quickly putting about four feet of distance between them. The nuns at school would have been proud.

  “Well, that was a really fun night,” said Guy.

  “Me, too. I mean, it was. Fun.”

  “So, see you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to do a roast,” she said.

  Angelina put her hand on the railing and her foot on the first step.

  Guy half-turned back toward Dottie’s. “Well, good night.”

  “Night.”

  When he got to his front door, Guy looked back. Angelina was waiting at the top of her stoop and waved. The night breeze brushed a wisp of hair across her cheek. He felt as though he were still standing right next to her.

  She thought she saw him lean in her direction, as if he were about to come down the steps and back across the street. She waited an extra breath or two.

  Guy waved and in they both went.

  Don’t fool with Sister Sandra.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Seven Fishes to Remember

  ANGELINA WALKED THROUGH the door of Napolito’s Seafood, which was bustling with ladies, young and old, ordering and gossiping and jostling for position. Outside, Napolito’s looked like any one of a hundred other little shops in the neighborhood. Inside, it was plainer than plain, and no thought was given to advertising or amenities of any kind. It had no tables, no chairs, no take-out counter, no menus, no pictures on the walls, no fishing nets hanging overhead adorned with fake starfish and seashells; just whitewashed walls, cement floors, and glass cases filled with nothing but ice and the freshest fish imaginable.

  It was December and Angelina had worn her warm, lined boots with the flat soles for the trip because she had been getting footsore and experiencing some lower-back pain lately, caused by all of the standing in the kitchen during the week, she had decided. She attacked the problem with flats and the occasional footbath with Epsom salts before bedtime. The most practical solutions were always the best, Emmaline always said.

  Angelina stopped just inside the door and inhaled deeply, as she did every time; that was her pleasure and part of the experience. Napolito’s stock-in-trade was fish, but she had never, ever caught a trace of a fishy smell of any kind. She never smelled disinfectants or detergents, either; the place just smelled clean, with maybe a hint of sea spray in the air.

  Guy had offered to accompany her and help with all of the packages, but she had her pull cart and decided she’d go it alone. There hadn’t been much of fallout to speak of after the encounter with Sandra the fortune-teller. She and Guy treated the whole thing with good humor, and it was easier to make light of it in the cold light of day. It preyed on Angelina’s mind, though. She kept that slip of paper in her bedside table and found herself pulling it out and looking at it every few nights.

  She shook her head. Thank God she was able to keep busy.

  It was closing in on Christmas Eve, and she had the Feast of the Seven Fishes to plan.

  The Seven Fishes had been a tradition in her house growing up. Angelina’s father had been blessed in his life in many ways, one being that his wife and his mother enjoyed each other’s company. They both loved to cook, and rather than compete in the kitchen, they complemented and learned from one another. So, Angelina had the benefit not only of their twinned knowledge and skills, since they were both natural teachers, but of their good examples. Nonna introduced the practice of celebrating Christmas Eve with a meal that consisted entirely of classical Italian seafood dishes, a custom she’d inherited from her mother, who had grown up in the south of Italy. Abstinence from meat on Fridays and on Catholic holidays had been the rule back then, and given seven sacraments, seven fish dishes had long ago been chosen as the proper number.

  Angelina and Frank had always spent Christmas Eve at Mamma Gia’s with his brother, Joe; Joe’s wife, Maria; and Tina. Gia had been the architect of the feast, and Angelina and Maria willingly pitched in, but there was never any question who was the boss in Gia’s kitchen.

  Frank and Angelina would always arrive first. She and Gia would ensconce themselves in the kitchen, and Frank would get ready for his session with his brother, Joe. It was the only time of year that they would set up a chessboard. Frank could never just sit and watch TV, so while they were playing and plotting their next moves, he and Joe would trade off spinning records on the old hi-fi. They’d program a nice selection of Christmas records, of course, Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, and Gia’s favorite, Perry Como; but they’d also slip in some Everly Brothers, Otis Redding, even a little Elton John, which set Maria and Tina to dancing in the kitchen.

  Angelina and Frank would always save Nat King Cole for Christmas Day together. Once the games wound down, Frank would magically appear at her side while she was cooking, to “supervise,” kiss her on the neck and swipe some olives from the antipasto tray. She could practically feel the tickle of his beard and the soft smell of good wine on his breath. The anticipation of his sudden arrival next to her in the kitchen might be the thing she’d miss most of all on Christmas Eve.

  This year, Angelina had proposed that everybody come to her house for the festive supper: her family, “the bachelors’ club,” Dottie, Mrs. Cappuccio. She wanted as full a house and as busy a day as possible, since she had no idea how she was going to handle waking up in her bed alone on Christmas morning.

  She let Mrs. Scarduzzo go ahead of her in line. Angelina always timed it to make sure that she’d be waited on by Angelo, the dwarvish and ancient fishmonger who had been an institution at Napolito’s since before Angelina was high enough to see over the counter.

  One time, a few years back, she had called ahead for a whole side of salmon. A new kid at the shop had it wrapped and ready to go when she arrived, but when she opened it at home, shocki
ngly, it had a noticeable, day-old fish odor; not rank, but not as fresh as she was used to from Napolito’s, for sure. As she stood in her kitchen contemplating what she should do next, there was a rap at the door. It was Angelo—holding a new side of salmon, which he pressed into her hands with a gentlemanly, old-world bow, along with a full refund and his most sincere apologies that a piece of fish that he had intended for no more than cat food had made its way, through the carelessness of an ignorant boy, into the hands of any of his customers, let alone one he knew to be such a fine and careful cook. She thanked him profusely and tried to press the money on him, but he simply raised his hand, bowed again, and was off. From that day to this and forever, there was no other man for her when it came to seafood than Angelo.

  She let one more customer go ahead of her, then saw that he was free.

  “Hey, Angelo, merry Christmas!” she said brightly, dropping her paper number in the basket on the counter.

  He looked up, and his weathered, deeply lined face split in a big grin. “Buon Natale, Angelina, buon Natale.”

  She had called her order in ahead of time to him, so he had it pulled and cut and all ready, but his custom was to wait and wrap each item as his customers watched. Angelo liked to have one last chance to inspect every piece of fish he sold before it walked out the door.

  “You have my baccalà?” asked Angelina.

  “Baccalà, that’s the salt fish, ’cause God’s Word gives a flavor to the world.”

  Each of the fishes traditionally had a special religious reason for being served at the feast, and Angelina ran through the checklist with Angelo as if reciting a liturgical call and response at mass.

  “Clams and oysters?” asked Angelina.

  “’Cause God is your armor from trouble,” said Angelo.

  “Calamari?”

  “’Cause God can reach out his arms and find you everywhere you go.”

  “Got my eels?”

  “’Cause God’s Word goes so quick like a flash to your ears.” Big, white paper packets of wrapped fish landed on the counter with each benediction.