“Coffee?” Marie said. Without waiting for Lenny’s reply, she told Lena to make a fresh pot of coffee and to get the pastries out of the refrigerator.
Lena buzzed about the kitchen. She had Big Vinny’s mannerisms and his personality, but she had her mother’s features, something Frankie once thought was also true about Gennaro, until he saw the cartoline.
“This will take a few minutes,” Lena said. “If you want to see my father, he’s upstairs.” Like Big Vinny, Lena’s suggestions sounded like orders. Marie’s hands stiffened on Lenny’s when Lena mentioned Big Vinny, and she pulled them away as if she were giving Lenny permission to leave.
“I’ll be right back,” Lenny said.
Marie shrugged her shoulders and frowned. Lena sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Stop it, Ma,” Lena said.
“Mind your own business,” Marie responded.
The bedroom door was ajar. Big Vinny’s bulk overwhelmed a chair next to a heavily laced bay of windows while he pressed a cellphone to his ear, and his black eyes flashed towards Lenny. It was a spacious bedroom, white with pink and gold accents and an alcove sitting area — much larger, brighter, and more airy than any of the rooms in Lenny’s house — and the furniture looked too dainty and fragile to contain Big Vinny. Lenny had been in this room once before, years ago, after Big Vinny had had the house renovated and invited the Lasantes over for dinner and the grand tour. Angie had whispered to Lenny that the house looked like a bordello, but Filomena overheard her and gave them both a sharp look.
Big Vinny was a comical contrast to the otherwise delicate scene. He motioned for Lenny to enter the room as if summoning an employee who was late for a meeting, and he continued to shout into his phone. “No need. I’ll call the wives. I’ll call you back later about the time.” He slipped his phone into his pants pocket and pointed towards an empty chair. “Sit. You won’t be comfortable, but it’s better than standing. You know women’s taste — all about show.”
Despite having been mostly housebound since he left prison, and then losing his son — the son that he made no bones about calling his favorite — Big Vinny acted unruffled. However, there were telltale changes in his appearance. He was thinner; there were patches of missed stubble under his chin; and his hair wasn’t slicked back.
“That was my lawyer. The judge finally came to his senses and granted that my boys be released on bail. I’ll have them home by tonight. No trial date yet, but they’ll be home where they belong. They’ll never hang that cabbie’s murder on them anyway, and everything else, even the stuff they’re trying to pin on me is a bunch of crap. Their evidence has more holes in it than the Swiss cheese you sell. We’ll see. We’ll just see. They claim that they got someone who heard my boys talk about getting that fucking cabdriver, but I don’t believe it. The cops have been questioning people, but if someone squealed I’d know about it. The cops are full of shit. They got nothing because there’s nothing to get.”
Lenny’s jaw went tense. He had no patience for Big Vinny’s bravado.
“I’m sorry about Gennaro,” he said, keeping his condolence brief despite or because of the many words that pressed against his tongue — words that would serve no other purpose than to punish Big Vinny. The cabdriver had paid dearly for disrupting Big Vinny’s block party, and in turn so had Gennaro and Frankie, but so did Big Vinny. Despite all his bullshit, he doesn’t need me to make things worse, Lenny thought, so he bit his tongue.
Sunlight shone through the lace curtains and betrayed Big Vinny’s stony, tough-guy charade — his tired eyes, untrimmed nails, misaligned buttons on his shirt — all minor details, but, if nothing else, Big Vinny was always about the details and appearance.
“Lena said Frankie is doing better,” he said.
“Yes, physically he is.”
They both nodded and, after a long awkward silence, they exchanged small talk about Lenny’s siblings. Lena called them down for coffee just as Big Vinny mentioned that he had heard about Vi’s visit.
Lenny welcomed Lena’s interruption.
The kitchen table was set for two — no sign of Marie or Lena. “Marie won’t join us,” Big Vinny said. “She blames me.”
Big Vinny poured the espresso into demitasse cups, offered Lenny a pastry, added a few drops of anisette to his coffee, and stirred it. “She put up a good front at the wake and funeral to save face, but otherwise she hasn’t spoken to me. Mothers have to blame someone.” Big Vinny blew across the top of his coffee and took a sip. “Like when my brother was killed in Nam. My room was right next to my parents’ room, and I could hear them arguing. My mother acted like it was my old man’s fault that my brother was killed, like a father can protect his children from everything.”
Bullshit, Lenny thought. There was no comparison to be made between Big Vinny’s brother’s death and Gennaro’s. Marie had every right to blame Big Vinny. That she could live in the same house with him after Gennaro’s murder amazed Lenny. He had already given his condolences, now all he wanted was to leave. Unfortunately, his coffee was too hot to down.
“I don’t blame Marie, a father should protect his family,” Big Vinny said. “Don’t worry, Lenny, that little bastard won’t get away with this.”
At first Lenny was confused by Big Vinny’s comment, but then he realized that Big Vinny was talking about the cabdriver’s son. That kid was as good as dead.
“Not just for Gennaro, but for Frankie,” Big Vinny said. “Even if we had lost Frankie instead of Gennaro, I’d still make sure that that little fuck would pay. You know that, but you didn’t hear me say this. Eat a pastry.” Big Vinny pushed the plate towards Lenny.
“Enough talking about that little prick!” Big Vinny announced as if someone else had been forcing him to speak. He downed his espresso. “By the way, have you heard about old man Tucci?”
Lenny was relieved to change the subject, but before he had the chance to answer, Big Vinny added: “He’s in a nursing home. Alzheimer’s, his sister said.”
“Tucci’s sister called to tell you this?” Lenny was surprised that she had contacted him.
Big Vinny poured himself another cup of espresso and added a few drops of anisette. “More?” he said.
Lenny raised his hand and shook his head. The sound of a television came from another room.
“I guess she mostly called about the house,” Big Vinny said. “No need to get into the details, but awhile ago Tucci had some money problems. You remember. Unpaid taxes and some other things. You know he liked his liquor, not to talk bad about the old man. We all got our weaknesses. Anyway, as his sister said, she’s moved him to a nursing home. He’s in pretty bad shape. It’s to the point that he forgets a lot of shit. Anyway, now that he can’t live there anymore, there’s no sense in keeping it.”
“Keeping what?” Lenny said.
“The house. The property. What else would I be talking about?
“You mean you own it?” Lenny placed the demitasse in its saucer.
“You knew that,” Big Vinny said, which was more bullshit. This was a typical Big Vinny DiCico move. Act as if someone should know something when he knew damn well that he had never mentioned anything about whatever the subject might be, in this case Tucci’s house.
He shrugged his shoulders, blew across the top of his espresso and took a sip. He looked as comical pinching the handle of the demitasse cup between his large thumb and pointer finger as he had sitting on the little chair in the bedroom.
“The Lasantes were not the only family to help the old man. What else could I do? As I said, he had money problems. This was years ago. You probably forgot. We got a lot of history there. And our kids liked the place, especially Genna ...” Big Vinny sucked in a deep breath and cleared his throat. “You know how Frankie and him loved going there. Maybe ...”
He finished his espresso, put down the demitasse, and waved his hand as if shooing away thoughts. “No matter. That’s water under the bridge. As I said, there’s no need to keep
it now. Maybe you and Frankie want to go up one more time before I sell it. No rush. Gotta have work done on it anyway. Tucci wasn’t exactly a Mister Fixit.”
There were pieces of this story that Lenny didn’t understand, but he was used to that with Big Vinny. He searched for a response. “Maybe we can all go,” spilled out before he realized that with Gennaro gone “all” was the wrong word.
Big Vinny frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry, Vinny. I meant ...”
“Forget it, Lenny. I know what you meant. I haven’t been there in a long time. I don’t like the country.”
They reminisced about Tucci, and for a while Lenny forgot how much he had wanted to leave. Finally, it was Big Vinny who cut short their conversation by mentioning that he had to call his daughters-inlaw and give them the good news about Michael and Jimmy. “I have to tell Marie and Lena too, or at least Lena and she’ll tell Marie. Life is too short for this nonsense. As if Marie’s the only one who misses Gennaro.” Big Vinny shook his head and pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, reminding Lenny of the knot of tissue in Marie’s sleeve.
“Thank you for stopping by, Lenny. And there’s no rush for you and Frankie to go to Tucci’s. Whenever. Just let me know after you’ve said goodbye to the old place.”
Lenny nodded, and they shook hands. “Frankie will be okay,” Big Vinny said. “He’s young ... he’s smart, like you ... he’ll be okay ... you’ll see. We survive, Lenny. That’s what our grandfathers and fathers did. And that’s what we do. What other choice is there? Life ain’t no fucking fiesta. We both know that.”
Lenny’s eyes swelled with tears. Big Vinny released his hand. “Say goodbye to Marie before you leave. It’s good for her to talk. This is a lousy thing. My mother went through it. Now Marie. I guess my grandmother also went through it. Bad enough that these women married DiCico men, but they also lost DiCico sons. Too much, but I can’t do a fucking thing about it.”
Marie sat knitting and half watching a soap opera. She held up the almost finished baby blanket. “For my grandson,” she said. “Although, he needs another baby blanket like he needs another head. But I have to keep busy.” Her voice cracked. They talked about Gennaro until the hint of light that found its way through the heavily draped windows had all but faded.
Outside was cold, and Lenny pulled his jacket collar up around his neck, shoved his hands into his pockets, and thought of Rocco Tucci. Had Big Vinny helped Tucci out of kindness, or did he steal an old, vulnerable man’s house and land out from under him? Who knows and who cares? Lenny told himself, except he did care, but he wasn’t sure if it was about Tucci or Big Vinny or if it was just one more loss to grieve.
Along 104th Street, lit windows looked out from what were once open porches but had long been renovated into an extra bedroom or TV room or office. Lenny could list the names of every family who lived in every house and how long they had lived there and, in many cases, who had lived there before them. Like Marie’s black dress, this was oddly comforting. And focusing on who lived where distracted Lenny from dwelling on the question that Frankie had asked him in the hospital — Are you still in love with Vi? — which had nagged at him ever since like a leaky faucet that refused to be shut. While reading or watching television or talking to a customer, it was drip by drip: Are you ... still in love ... with Vi?
Lenny knew that he once loved her, and he missed loving her. That was the closest he could come to an answer, but the question persisted as if unsatisfied with such a measured response.
Walking next to the low brick wall that separated the sidewalk from the Lasantes’ yard, Lenny saw the shadows and heard the murmurs of summer ghosts. From under the arbor came the smell of cigar smoke, where Leonardo, Vincenzo, and Giacomo sat playing cards and talking about baseball, and from an open kitchen window came the smell of sauce and the sound of Lucia, Filomena, and Rosa’s laughter. Tony sat on a blanket near the hydrangeas while Amelia and Irish tried to coax him to eat his baby food. Angie wore long thick braids and sat on the stoop outside the kitchen door with her nose in a book while Big Vinny called up to Lenny’s bedroom window. “Aren’t you done with your homework yet? My brother Sal is gonna take us for lemon ice.”
“In a minute. I’ll be right down.” Lenny’s young voice, filled with hope and anticipation, burst through the screen of the second story window.
As Lenny neared the warehouse, he heard Vi’s giggle and the sound of keys. He paused and looked back over the yard at other memories, including baptisms, first communions, confirmations, graduations, and of course the day Vi and he married. She looked beautiful. Nothing could change that. And on the day of Frankie’s baptism, it was Filomena, Angie, and Marie who took turns holding Frankie, while Big Vinny, Michael, Jimmy, and Tony set up the tables and chairs for the party. Gennaro hobbled around the yard. “Vinny, watch out for Gennaro,” Marie said, and Big Vinny lifted Gennaro and blew raspberries into his exposed belly. Gennaro shrieked with joy.
As soon as Lenny stepped into the yard, the summer ghosts vanished and, through the kitchen window, he saw Frankie sitting at the table. No longer an infant, or a boy, but a young man who had survived a nightmare. Frankie looked up when Lenny entered the kitchen. He held an open book and next to the book were several cartoline.
“Interesting book?” Lenny said. He removed his jacket.
“Kind of. It’s about Wilhelm von Gloeden. I ordered it online. Great-Grandpa is famous.” Frankie held out the open book to a page with a photograph identical to the cartolina postale they assumed to be of Leonardo. Under the photograph were the words Sicilian Youth.
Lenny’s cellphone vibrated. It was a text from Vi, and he showed it to Frankie: “Since our last conversation, I explained everything to Ina. She’s very excited about meeting Frankie. Time? Remember our return flight is Tuesday morning.”
“So what do you think?” Lenny said. “Tomorrow night? Dinner?”
Frankie shrugged his shoulders and placed the open book back on the table in front of him. He turned to the next page. “Tomorrow night is fine.”
“Any other pictures like the ones we have?” Lenny asked.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe you’ll show me later.”
Frankie didn’t answer, and Lenny left him at the table, reading and probably angry for interrupting his comments about the cartoline postale with Vi’s text. I should have waited and listened to what he had to say, Lenny thought.
He paused on his way up the stairs and considered telling Frankie about Rocco Tucci, but decided not to, at least not now.
The next day, early afternoon, Frankie managed the store alone while Lenny prepared sauce for dinner. First Lenny mixed chop meat, milk, eggs, breadcrumbs, raisins, and seasoning for the meatballs. He rolled each meatball and placed it on a platter while his thoughts drifted to earlier that morning, when he had hurt Tootsie’s feelings. He flattened slices of beef and pork with a mallet, topped each slice with a paste made from parsley, chopped garlic, pignoli, and raisins moistened with olive oil, then rolled the braciole, tied each one with white thread, added them to the platter with meatballs, and berated himself for having been so careless with Tootsie’s feelings. He browned the meatballs, braciole, and a few sausages in a large cast-iron frying pan, and pictured Mrs. Greco, so bent over that she arched her neck like a turtle to look up at him, when Tootsie breezed into the store. The way Tootsie held his gaze made Lenny think of the first time that he met Vi, and the way he stared back may have given her the wrong impression. Lenny turned the browning gravy meat with a fork. He certainly couldn’t have told Tootsie that he was thinking about Vi. Mrs. Greco rapped on the counter with her gnarled fingers, and Lenny stopped staring at Tootsie and handed the old woman the bag containing a half-pound of fresh ricotta wrapped in wax paper. She eyed Tootsie.
“I used to buy my ricotta at Pentaro’s,” she said, “but I can’t cross the avenue so fast no more. My daughter, she buys me
that lousy ricotta in the plastic containers. Beh! It tastes like wallpaper paste no matter how much sugar you put on it.”
Tootsie gave Mrs. Greco a puckered smile and a nod as if she were forcing empathy through a sphincter.
“Hey, ain’t you that girl who used to work in Panisi’s? But you used to be fatter.”
At this Tootsie laughed, but Lenny was embarrassed and suggested to Mrs. Greco that she go home to refrigerate the ricotta before it spoiled.
Tootsie in fact had lost weight and she wore less makeup. She had also begun classes in cosmetology. Maybe she was practicing on herself, Lenny thought.
She held the door opened for Mrs. Greco, who paused again and for the second time stared at her. “I see you at Mass. You held the door open for me there, too.”
Mrs. Greco turned to Lenny. “Nice girl. You could do worse.”
Finally the old woman left.
“Smarter than she looks,” Tootsie said and chuckled.
Lenny cleared his throat and asked about Tyrone. Tootsie often brought him with her to visit Frankie, and Lenny had grown fond of the boy.
“I dropped him off early at school,” Tootsie said. “They got one of those before school programs. I just came from Mass and thought maybe Frankie might be in the store.”
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