A woman with a shaved head, but for a small crown of dreadlocks, directed the audience to a table where Frankie was to autograph copies of his book. People lined up, but first Frankie excused himself and approached Angel. They spoke briefly, Angel nodded, and Frankie returned to the book table.
He appeared comfortable greeting his would-be fans, engaging in small talk, and signing his autograph — as comfortable as he was reading. This was his turf, and Lenny thought Frankie looked older, more mature — not the anxious boy who last night had inquired about Angel. Certainly not the boy he drove to the airport six years ago.
Hannah and Angie stood in line to purchase books. Angie already had several copies, but she bought more to give to her university colleagues. Dan stood off by himself, jiggling keys in his pocket and glancing at the front door as if he were concerned about being spotted by the RNC.
Johnny Pickle helped Lena on with her coat while Lena told Lenny about the condominium her father was buying for them in Forest Hills. Johnny struggled to get her coat up over her shoulders. “I’ll do that,” she snapped. “Just go get the car.” Johnny gave Lenny a sheepish grin and left.
“I knew they were lovers,” Lena said.
Lenny looked at Lena without answering.
“My brother and Frankie. I knew they were lovers.” She fastened the top two buttons of her coat. Fastening the rest would have been impossible.
“I knew it before I read Frankie’s stories. In fact, I probably knew that they would become lovers before they knew it. Of course Gennaro never mentioned anything to me, but neither did Frankie.”
Lena slipped on her gloves and tucked her blond hair up into her hat as she continued talking. “Well not in so many words he didn’t, but I didn’t have to be a detective to read between what Frankie did tell me, and once his stories were published, well, you’d have to be an idiot not to figure things out.”
“Your parents?” Lenny asked.
“Who knows? My mother is the queen of denial. How else could she have stayed with my father? And my father? Well, he’s Big Vinny. He makes his own truth. I don’t know if either one of them have ever read Frankie’s stories. If they have, they’ve never mentioned it to me. But his stories are fiction, right? And you know how we DiCicos are good about not looking too closely.”
Lenny never went to see Big Vinny while he was in prison, but he kept his promise and was in frequent contact with Marie and looked after the DiCico grave, bringing flowers on holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. After Big Vinny was released from prison — early, as he had predicted — Lenny first saw him at Lena’s wedding and since then at the cemetery. Scungilli was rarely with him. In prison, his diabetes worsened, and he now required regular kidney dialysis. However, Big Vinny always brought an extra chair and sandwich, just in case Lenny showed up.
They talked about a lot of things during their cemetery tête-à-têtes, but Big Vinny never suggested that Gennaro and Frankie were anything but, like brothers. “Like our grandfathers and fathers,” Big Vinny said. “Only you and me weren’t like brothers. Poor Scungilli had to stand in for you.” Lenny just nodded when Big Vinny said this.
They didn’t fight anymore. Even when Big Vinny complained about Muslims and Mexicans or whomever and whatever he happened to be angry about, Lenny just remained quiet, and Big Vinny eventually changed the subject. Once Lenny brought Doug with him to the cemetery, and after that, at least for a while, Big Vinny brought a third chair and sandwich, just in case.
Lenny told Lena that he saw Big Vinny at the cemetery a few days before Christmas. She nodded and kissed Lenny’s cheek.
“I’m gonna wait by the door. I’ll tell my parents you were asking for them. Tell Frankie that I said he did a great job, and it’s time for him to get over Gennaro. Shit happens, and you have to move on. That guy over there ain’t half bad.” Lena nodded towards Angel who was sitting on a bench along the front window, reading Frankie’s stories. His tattooed forearms rested against his knees. Lena waddled towards the front door. “Ciao,” she said and wriggled her fingertips over her shoulder. The four-karat diamond in her engagement ring caught the light from the overhead florescent, and Lenny thought, Poor Johnny.
Hannah approached. She was wearing her coat and slipped Frankie’s book into her purse. “Well I guess I got what I came for,” she said.
“I already said goodbye to Angie and Dan. Please tell Vi that it was nice meeting her. Frankie’s sister is lovely. As pretty as their mother.”
“You’re leaving?” Lenny asked. He hadn’t introduced Vi as Frankie’s mother, but assumed that Angie must have mentioned it.
“Yes, I have an early meeting tomorrow. You know how to reach me.”
Lenny thought of Tootsie. Though Frankie kept in touch with her and Tyrone, Lenny hadn’t seen Tootsie since the night they spent together in the old house.
Hannah’s departure was abrupt, and Lenny wondered if he had said something wrong or if his behavior around Vi spoke of more than anything he might have said, but he regretted only that he might have been rude, not that Hannah left.
“Woman trouble, Lenny?”
Lenny sat next to Angel. “I thought you were reading.”
“So that’s where Frankie gets his green eyes.” Angel looked at Vi, who was at the reception table filling a ceramic mug with chai. “Not bad. I didn’t know there was a missus.”
“There isn’t,” Lenny said. “We divorced years ago. She lives in California.”
“And you still have a thing for her.”
“Who said I still have the thing for her?”
“The lady who just walked out of here with her panties in a knot.”
There was no smell of alcohol on Angel’s breath. He’s a good guy, Lenny thought.
Angel often helped other guests at the Kitchen. Little things like carrying someone’s tray if they were in rough shape or calming someone who started running off at the mouth. Lenny tried not to make too much of Frankie’s interest in Angel, or wonder if it was reciprocated. He told himself he was done with worrying. Bottom line is, Frankie is 24.
“What do you think of Frankie’s writing?” Lenny asked.
“Good. I think it’s good, but what do I know?”
“You know that I still have a thing for his mother.” Angel cleared his throat and gave his head a little nod. Lenny turned to find Vi standing next to him holding a mug of chai with the words Actively Offensive To Patriarchy stenciled across the mug.
Angel whispered to Lenny: “I’m gonna find the crapper.” And Lenny smiled up at Vi. No sense worrying about whether or not she overheard him. What difference did it make anyway.
“Did you choose that mug?” he asked.
Vi read it and laughed. “No, I didn’t notice, but now I might buy one. Mind if I join you?”
She sat where Angel had and crossed her legs. Her skirt rose above her knees, and she smelled of something light, like a spring shower. “So what’s with gypsy eyes?” she asked.
Lenny thought of the Jimi Hendrix song they once made love to in the warehouse. They played a lot of Hendrix and Janice Joplin though both performers were long gone by the time he met Vi.
“Who?” Lenny said.
“The guy you were talking to.”
“That’s Angel. He’s one of the guys who comes to the Kitchen.”
“He doesn’t look like a homeless man,” Vi said.
Lenny was irked by Vi’s comment and felt somewhat defensive. “Angel’s okay. Still healing from Iraq. That’s all. He has a one-room flat, not too far from the Kitchen. Mostly vets live in his building.”
“It seems as if Frankie is taken with him.”
“Seems that way.”
Vi sipped her tea and glanced at Ina, who was taller and thinner than Vi had been when she was a girl, but Ina clearly resembled her mom. She talked with the staple boy. “Maybe both of our kids have found love,” Vi said.
Over the years, Lenny had grown very fond of Ina. They spent a lot o
f time together when Frankie was depressed and Lenny stayed with him in Los Angeles, and during her frequent visits to New York. But he was surprised to hear Vi say our kids. Now I’m the one reading into things, he thought.
“Ina’s a bit young for him,” Lenny said, but then he thought of the age difference between Vi and him and quickly qualified his comment. “What I mean is she’s only 14.”
“I know what you mean, Lenny.”
Vi looked at Lenny and laughed, and he saw a glimpse of the girl he had met years ago.
They talked about the kids, about Vi’s mother’s failing health, about Vi’s work, and Lenny’s job at the Kitchen.
“Manhattan life certainly agrees with you,” Vi said. “Ina’s already talking about Columbia, maybe NYU. I’m sure Frankie will move back East after he completes his masters. That will give Ina more reason to come here for college. She and Frankie have become very close. I’ll miss her. I’ll miss both of them.”
Lenny recalled his being accepted at Columbia years ago, but quickly dismissed those thoughts. “Maybe Angie could find you a job teaching in New Your City,” he said, surprising himself.
“Maybe,” Vi said, but Lenny assumed she was joking.
There were little more than a dozen folks remaining in Bluestockings, and Lenny noticed Dan holding several books as Angie put on her coat. Dan followed her to where Vi and Lenny sat. Over the years Angie and Vi had become friendly. Ina had often stayed with Angie, and given that Angie and Vi were professors, conversation between them came easily.
“How about dinner this week?” Angie asked. “I didn’t get to talk much with Ina. Unless you’re returning soon to L.A.”
“No, we’re here for another week.” Vi glanced at Lenny. “Yes, dinner would be fun.”
“Good. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ll cook. Ina likes my lasagna.”
They exchanged hugs, and Angie and Dan left the bookstore. Lenny thought about Vi coming to dinner, but then noticed Frankie and Angel sitting alone at the table where only a few books remained. Lenny’s nascent but persistent memory returned. This time it was more than just the feeling of watching something that he shouldn’t, but images were unclear, distant and dark, so remote that he was unsure if he was remembering or imagining. He was very young, and with one hand he pushed aside a lace curtain and looked through a small pane of glass. With his other hand he felt the cool of the glass doorknob. It was the French door between the dining room and office. Leonardo sat in the swivel desk chair and he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin pressed into his chest as if he were asleep. Slowly young Lenny turned the doorknob and opened the door just enough to poke his head into the office and inhale its musty smell. He wondered if he should wake his Nonno, but Leonardo wasn’t asleep, and he removed his glasses and turned. Lenny saw the small puckered indentations on the sides of Leonardo’s nose. They glistened pink and moist and he wondered if they hurt as his Nonno Leonardo extended one hand. Young Lenny climbed onto his lap. With his other hand, Leonardo tossed photographs on the desk. Lenny couldn’t make out their images, but the photographs were thick, like cardboard. Leonardo smiled at Lenny, but a tear that pooled where a nose pad once pressed ran down the creases in the old man’s face.
Vi’s voice and the touch of her hand on his startled Lenny. “Are you okay?”
He looked at her hand and then into her eyes. “I was just remembering something. At least I think it was a memory. Yes, yes, I’m okay.”
“Ina and I have to leave. Why don’t I first drop you off?” Vi asked.
“I’m okay, really. I’ll wait for Frankie.”
“Are you sure?” Vi seemed unconvinced, but Lenny assured her that he was fine. By now, Ina, Frankie, Angel, and staple boy were clearing the folding chairs. Vi brought Ina her coat. “We’ll see you at Angie’s,” Vi said to Lenny and Frankie. “I’m looking forward to it.”
But Lenny, still lost in his memories, barely responded to Vi’s comment.
After Vi and Ina left, Lenny helped push the stacks back into place. Staple boy, whose name turned out to be Tristan, was very appreciative. Frankie and Angel invited Lenny to join them for something to eat. “We’re going to Chinatown,” Frankie said.
“Thanks, but I have an early morning. By the way, I like your Taormina button,” he said to Angel.
Frankie walked Lenny to the door while Angel helped Tristan push the last stack into place.
The cold roused Lenny from his fog. “Excellent job tonight. You’re very talented.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Vi and Ina are coming to Aunt Angie’s for dinner this week. When we know the day, maybe you’d like to invite Angel.”
Frankie paused. His green eyes searched for an answer. “Yes. I would like that,” he said. “In fact, I’d like that a lot.”
Lenny gave Frankie a hug.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, son,” Lenny said.
Riding the subway home, Lenny recalled his memory of Leonardo looking at what Lenny assumed were the cartoline postale. The lights flashed on and off as the train rocked through the tunnel, and Lenny wondered why he hadn’t remembered sooner. Had seeing Frankie and Angel together jarred his memory? Frankie would make much of that, Lenny thought, and the subway snaked from one stop to the next while he thought about Vi and Ina coming to dinner, and maybe Angel, and that Vi said she looked forward to it. Finally the train arrived at his station.
Acknowledgments
Thank you Guernica Editions, especially Michael Mirolla, Editor-In-Chief, and David Moratto, book designer. It’s been a pleasure and an honor to work with you. And thank you to all those who encouraged me along the way: friend and poet Amy Zamkoff — you were there when I first turned the ideas for my manuscript into words on paper; Hawley Green Writers (Robin Butler, Jeffrey Gorney, Mary Ellen Marusa) — you welcomed me into your group despite my critique parameters; initial draft readers — Kathy Effler and Susan Lansing. When I took an extended break from working on my manuscript, friend and author Ari Lev encouraged and supported my efforts writing creative nonfiction, and Francine Ringold, Senior Advisory Editor, and Elis O’Neal, Editor-in-chief, of Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry were the first to publish one of my short stories. Paul Willis and Amie Evans of Saints and Sinners Literary Festival also supported and encouraged my work, and, when I finally revisited and revised Most Precious Blood, Amie Evans’ insight and advice was invaluable. Len Fonte checked my Italian, as my Rosetta Stone remains in its box, unopened. Sue Weiss and Anne Marie Voutsinas read for edits and typos before I sent Most Precious Blood out in search of a publisher. Finally, thank you to my family for making the kitchen, dining room, and most any table an altar where story was revered: my parents Millie and Tony Sgambati who taught me that love means you show up despite differences or disagreements; my son Jesse Sgambati who teaches me through example that art is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent hard work; Jack Stevens, you were my greatest cheerleader and always my betterhalf — more precious than blood.
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