by Peg Cochran
Lucille gave them one last parting shot and headed toward the door.
The sun hit her in the eyes and nearly blinded her after the dim light in the church. Why were churches always so dark, for chrissake? Was there some kind of hocus-pocus going on that the priests didn’t want you to see—like in them magic shows they had out in Vegas?
By the time Lucille got back to the office, Father Brennan had returned. He was halfway out the door, and he and Lucille nearly careened into each other.
“What is going on, Lucille?” He gestured toward the police cars in the parking lot and gave her a look like she must somehow be at fault.
“It’s Sal. Sal from Sal’s Pizzeria across the street,” Lucille added when Father Brennan continued to look blank.
“Is he in need of something?”
“Yeah, he wanted to be baptized, but you weren’t here and neither is Father Morales, so I did it myself on account of how I remembered how to do it from catechism class back when I was in school.”
Father Brennan looked at her sternly. “But, Lucille. A layperson can only administer the rite of baptism if the person is in imminent danger of dying.”
“He was. Sal was.”
“Sal was what, Lucille?”
“Dying. As a matter of fact, he’s dead. The police are about to take him away in one of them body bags.”
Lucille took a certain satisfaction in the startled look on Father Brennan’s face, but then realized that wasn’t very nice and sent up a prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary to ask for forgiveness for being unkind.
Chapter 4
When Lucille left the church, she noticed a police car pulling into the driveway next to Sal’s Pizzeria. Poor Tiffany. This was going to break her heart.
Lucille wasn’t sure how she got home. Downtown New Providence went by in a blur. She supposed it was what they called shock. She was so rattled she couldn’t even remember what she’d planned to make for dinner. It wasn’t until she pulled into her driveway that she remembered she’d bought some nice veal cutlets from the butcher on South Street. Frankie would like that. Veal parmigiana was one of his favorite dishes. Maybe it would make up for giving him that curry stuff the night before.
The house was quiet when Lucille walked in. Bernadette and the baby must be napping. Tony Jr. was probably still at work. He’d inherited half of Frank’s pest control business—You Got ’Em—We’ll Get ’Em was Jofra’s motto.
“Polly want a cracker. Polly want a cracker,” a voice called from the living room. Lucille jumped until she remembered the parrot they’d acquired. It was in the living room in a cage. She hadn’t wanted a bird but sometimes you didn’t get no choice in the matter. Bernadette and Tony had named it Archie and thought it was real funny to teach it that expression—Polly want a cracker. Frank was constantly threatening to strangle the bird, but Lucille kind of liked the company when Frankie was at work. Lord knows she didn’t get much conversation out of Bernadette or Tony even if they was around.
Lucille heard the garage door go up and then the back door opened.
“Hey, Lucille, I’m home,” Frankie called as he stopped to wipe his feet on the mat.
The baby began wailing, and Lucille heard Bernadette’s feet hit the floor as she jumped out of bed.
“Shit,” Frankie said, grinning sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to wake the baby. I just keep forgetting . . .”
“I know what you mean. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a baby around here.”
“You don’t look so good, Lu,” Frankie said as he sat in one of the kitchen chairs and began to pull off his shoes.
“It’s been a rough day.” She told him about Sal.
Frankie whistled. “You don’t say? Poor bastard. I wonder who killed him?” He got up and put an arm around Lucille.
She leaned her head against his chest and breathed in the smell that was Frankie. It always made her feel better. They’d had their ups and downs like everybody else, but when they’d said their marriage vows they’d meant them—for better or for worse—so they had stuck together through the hard times and enjoyed the good times.
Lucille gave Frankie a little shove. “Go on, get yourself a beer and go turn on the news. I’m going to start dinner.”
Lucille opened the refrigerator and took out the paper-wrapped package of veal cutlets she’d picked up earlier. She opened the wrapping and took them out—nice and pink, no fat, just the way she liked them. As she was getting the olive oil from the pantry, she noticed the calendar thumbtacked to the wall. September was the month of Our Lady of Sorrows, and a picture of the Blessed Virgin with arrows piercing her heart hung above the days of the month, with St. Rocco’s Church written at the bottom of the page.
Lucille squinted at it. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red. She went closer and fished her reading glasses out of her pocket. She perched them on the end of her nose and read the notation in the square for Tuesday, September 16. It was an appointment for a mammogram—her first.
Lucille stared at the words with a feeling of dread. Flo had told her there wasn’t nothing to it, but she was still worried. Not about the test. After having a baby, you didn’t worry about stuff like that no more unless maybe it was getting a root canal. She still couldn’t get used to those.
No, her biggest fear was that something would turn up—something bad.
• • •
Lucille woke up with the feeling in her stomach like you get when you eat too much at Sunday dinner—a little queasy and a little gassy. She figured it was on account of that test she had coming up. Fortunately it was first thing in the morning, so she could get it over with and be done with it. The doctor said it was to get some sort of baseline. Then apparently she’d have to go once a year till she died.
This getting old stuff was miserable—doctors and tests, your cholesterol and blood pressure going up higher than the stock market and your weight, too. And the last time she went for a physical and the nurse measured her, she’d lost half an inch.
Flo had offered to go with her for the mammogram, but Lucille couldn’t see letting Flo take one of her days off just to sit in a waiting room reading year-old magazines. But that was Flo for you—she’d been Lucille’s best friend since second grade and she never let her down.
She was still a little shaky on account of everything that had happened yesterday—Sal showing up at the church bleeding to death. It wasn’t something that happened every day.
Lucille had a quick breakfast, then went out to the garage to start the Olds. She didn’t want to turn over, and every time that happened, Lucille worried that she was on her last legs. Finally she got her going and backed out of the driveway.
The radiology clinic was in one of them anonymous-looking brick buildings that had sprung up everywhere to house everything from doctors’ offices to lawyers and financial advisors. Lucille pulled into the lot, parked the Olds, and with heavy feet walked to the front door. She pushed it open and headed toward the waiting room.
“Just a minute. You have to register.” A sharp-faced blond with long, blood-red fingernails chased after Lucille. She handed Lucille a clipboard with several sheets of paper attached and a ballpoint pen. “Please fill this out while you’re waiting.”
Lucille found a seat in the waiting room and began looking through the papers. The type was so tiny that even with her reading glasses she had trouble making out the words. And they didn’t hardly give you any room for your answers. She filled in her name, social security number and address.
They wanted to know if she had any current illnesses. Did heartburn and indigestion count? she wondered. She wasn’t sure, but she put them down anyway.
The form went on to ask a lot of personal questions, like how old was she when her first child was born, what did her grandparents die from, and were her parents still alive. Lucille was glad when she came to the end of the form and could pick up a two-month-old copy of the Star.
She turned the pages. They had a picture of
some actress Lucille didn’t recognize vacationing in Mexico and showing off her bikini body. Another actress who Lucille thought might be on one of the TV shows Bernadette liked to watch was sporting a baby bump. What happened to women just having a good figure or being pregnant? Lucille wondered as she turned the page.
If this here Paleo diet worked for her, she’d have a bikini body, too. Well, maybe not quite—she still had stretch marks from being pregnant with Bernadette, but she was going to look great in a swimsuit again. Frankie was going to be surprised.
Lucille was engrossed in an article on Angelina Jolie when a nurse stuck her head into the room and called her name. She was sorry she wasn’t going to get to finish the story and rather reluctantly returned the magazine to the stack on the end table.
She followed the woman down the hall and into a small room with a mirror, a chair and a locker.
“If you’ll just put this gown on.” She handed Lucille a cotton gown with small blue print on it. “You can put your clothes in here”—she tapped the locker door—“and when you’re ready, just come across the hall.”
Before Lucille could ask any questions, the nurse had disappeared.
Lucille’s hands were shaking a little as she slipped out of her clothes. She realized she shouldn’t have worn a dress as soon as she put on the gown, on account of the gown was on the short side, barely coming to the middle of her thighs. Lucille tugged on it, but it didn’t get any longer.
There was nothing she could do. She put her clothes in the locker, opened the door and peeked out. The nurse had said to go right across the hall. Unfortunately, there were two open doors across the hall. How was she supposed to know which one?
Wearing the gown was making Lucille self-conscious. And knowing she didn’t have much of anything on underneath made it worse. She stood in the hall, hesitating. Finally she chose one of the doors and walked in.
Five heads swiveled in her direction. It looked like some kind of break room—nurses were drinking coffee or eating snacks. Lucille backed out as quickly as she could and made for the other door. So far this experience had not been good, and she was afraid it was about to get worse.
The technician was a stern-faced, middle-aged woman. Lucille smiled at her—she figured it would be best to get on the woman’s good side—but there was no response.
“Open your gown,” the woman commanded. “And place your left breast here,” she said and patted a Plexiglas shelf.
Lucille tried, but she had to stand on tiptoe to reach it. The woman made a face, turned some dials, and lowered the shelf.
“Try again.”
Lucille did as she was told, and the woman came over and moved her breast around as casually as if it was a prime piece of meat in the butcher case at the A&P.
The technician went over to the dials again, and all of a sudden Lucille’s left breast was being sandwiched between two pieces of Plexiglas, flattening it out until it looked like one of the pancakes she made for breakfast on Saturdays.
She had a momentary panicky thought. What if the building caught fire and the fire alarm went off and the technician ran out before releasing Lucille’s breast? No way she’d be able to get out of this here thing. She’d be stuck while the fire raged around her. Imagine a couple of hunky firemen finding her like that. She shook her head and told herself not to be ridiculous. She’d never read of anything like that happening, not even in the National Enquirer.
The technician cleared her throat. “Stop breathing, please.”
Stop breathing? Lucille thought. For how long? Wouldn’t she die if she stopped breathing? Probably the woman meant for her to hold her breath, which she was already doing anyways on account of this whole thing hurt like the dickens.
Finally the woman released the two plates, and Lucille was free.
Before she knew it, she was dressed again and in the parking lot on her way to the Olds. And she had a whole year before she had to go through that experience again.
Of course now she had to wait for the results, but she figured they’d be fine. She’d never felt any lumps like the doctor talked about. Besides, this here was just a baseline—the doctor didn’t actually figure anything was wrong.
Chapter 5
By the time Lucille got home she was starved. She rummaged around in the refrigerator and found the last few slices of capicola and some provolone. She figured that must be on her diet. If the cavemen didn’t eat meat and cheese, after all, what on earth did they eat?
She made herself a sandwich but didn’t put any mustard on it, figuring that that was probably not allowed on this Paleo diet. So far this had been the easiest diet she’d ever been on.
She finished her lunch and changed into a pair of slacks. She had promised to pick up her mother and Mrs. DeStefano after their afternoon at the Senior Center. Her mother’s car was in the shop getting the brakes checked. Mrs. DeStefano’s daughter had dropped them off earlier, but she had an appointment this afternoon and couldn’t go back to get them. They hadn’t wanted to miss today’s program. Paul Ippolito—young Paul, not his father—was coming to give a talk on funeral options and planning for the future.
Personally, Lucille thought it was a little morbid, but then again, it never hurt to be prepared. If she left the choices up to Bernadette, who knows what she would do. Lucille had a vision of rock music played during the church service and a taco bar at the funeral luncheon. Maybe her mother had the right idea.
She was a little early, and when she got there the presentation was still going on. Paul had brought samples, and the ladies and one man were all clustered around a burnished wood coffin with white satin lining. It looked expensive. Lucille couldn’t see paying so much for something that was just going in the ground, after all.
There was a small waiting area outside the community room where the talk was being held. Lucille plopped into one of the chairs and picked up the copy of the Star-Ledger someone had left on the end table. Sal’s death was a big story. The headline read: No Suspects in the Stabbing of Local Pizza Parlor Owner. Lucille began to read the story. She felt a rush of excitement when she saw her name printed there in black and white for everyone to see. Someone must have told the reporter about her, because by the time the press arrived, she had already gone home.
Would they call her up for an interview? Maybe for TV? She knew Rita at the Clip and Curl would fit her in even if she didn’t have an appointment. Boy, was Flo going to be jealous when she saw all the attention Lucille was getting.
Lucille was folding up the paper when the door opened and people began filing out of the room. It wasn’t a fast process on account of half of them had walkers or canes. Finally Lucille’s mother came out, arm in arm with Mrs. DeStefano.
“We had a real interesting talk,” she said as soon as she saw Lucille.
Mrs. DeStefano nodded her head. “Very interesting.”
They chatted as they made their slow and laborious way to Lucille’s car. Her mother sat in back with Mrs. DeStefano, as if the two of them was taking a taxicab. Lucille was pulling out of the parking lot when her mother tapped her on the shoulder.
“Yeah, Ma?” Lucille looked in her rearview mirror.
“I saw the story in the paper about Sal Zambino. How come you didn’t tell me you were there?”
“I didn’t want to upset you on account of you and old Mrs. Zambino are good friends.”
“You gotta do something, Lucille. The police have no idea who did it, and it’s killing Mary Zambino.”
“Me? What do you want me to do?”
“Maybe you and Flo could investigate like. You done it before.”
The thought had never occurred to Lucille. “Yeah, but remember last time? Flo and I nearly got killed. I don’t know, Ma.”
“Aw, come on, Lucille. The police aren’t getting nowhere on the case.”
“It’s barely been twenty-four hours, Ma.”
“So? In that show on TV, what’s it called?”
Lucille looked
in the rearview mirror and could see her mother turn to Mrs. DeStefano.
“What show, Theresa? You mean one of them cop shows?”
“Yeah. It takes place in the City.”
“Oh, you mean Law and Order?”
“Yeah, that show. They get the crime solved in an hour. Less if you don’t count the commercials.”
“But that’s not real life, Ma.”
“So?”
Lucille decided it was easier not to argue. Besides, she was awful curious about this whole thing. What if the police never did find the killer?
Maybe she ought to give them a hand.
• • •
Lucille was sitting in the living room flipping through the latest copy of the Star she’d picked up at the A&P when she ran in to get some milk and bread. The only time she ever read the Star was in waiting rooms, and the issue was usually a couple of months old. But she’d picked this one up at the checkout counter to read while she waited in line, and she hadn’t gotten to the good part yet when it was her turn.
They had a story on actors and actresses at the beach—who looked good in a bathing suit and who didn’t. There was a picture on the front page of a woman in a bikini, her thighs dimpled with cellulite, her stomach soft and drooping. Her head was turned so you couldn’t see her face. The headline read Whose Body Is This? Lucille was dying to know, but she forced herself to turn each page and not read ahead.
She heard the garage door go up and the back door open.
“Lucille, I’m home.”
Lucille tossed the paper aside and jumped up.
“I’m in the living room.”
Frankie walked into the room, and Lucille felt that twinge of attraction she always felt when she saw her husband. He walked over to her and put his arms around her.
