“Beta!” Cowboy called to me. “I’m sorry!”
I put my hand up, faked a grin his way, and called back, “Thanks for letting me hang.” Then I booked out of there, or tried. My knee made me slow.
I felt terrible. I even started to cry as I walked a wide, uncomfortable block around the school. Here I was killing time—time that I could have spent with Cowboy. Oh, so stupid. And over what? A Bampas factoid. Half the town. But Cowboy had said it so casually, as if everyone knew it. Well, not me, and how had I missed it? I flashed on the many times we had stopped at empty buildings while Bampas checked on this or that. Like the day at 66 Green Street, though apparently that was the least of all the places.
“My God, you are dense!” I told myself.
There were offices over the restaurant, and I think he had something going with the apartment buildings on either side of that. Oh, and there’d been buzz about the renovation of an old mill building. We were often interrupted when we dined at Loreena’s. There were men, vaguely familiar to me, who would slide a chair up next to Bampas and tell him about a building or a business he might be interested in. I always thought Bampas was being polite the way he’d say, “Oh, yes. I’d like to see it.” I thought it was his way of getting rid of them. Guess not. Guess he bought a lot of those buildings.
In my bedroom, I opened my backpack to look over my homework. The Steam & Bean project stared up at me. I stared back. I thought about how Cowboy had been admiring the pages and then the next thing I knew we were talking about my father.
I wanted Bampas to see what I’d done with 66 Green Street. This was some of my best work yet, and didn’t it scrape up against the sort of things that he did and thought about all day long? If he could see that I was serious, maybe we could talk about art school.
I took the pages to the dinner table with me that evening. “Bampas,” I said. (Bampas, who owns half this town . . . ) “May I show you something?”
He took the papers. He slipped them one behind the other as he looked. “Very nice,” he said. “Look at your sister’s artwork.” He waved the papers at Favian and Avel in a perfunctory sort of way.
“I got an A on the project, Bampas,” I told him. I saw Momma give me a nod.
“That’s good. Good girl. You should have A’s for art classes,” Bampas said.
“A is for art,” Avel quipped. He and Favian both craned to see the pages.
“Oh, it’s A-plus,” Favian noted. “That sign is for plus, it is really cool.”
We all laughed, even Bampas.
“It’ll be a good portfolio piece,” I said. I lost my nerve about mentioning art school but I thought of something else to say. “Did you see the address, Bampas? It’s 66 Green Street? You and I stopped there—”
“Near the high school,” he mumbled.
“One of your buildings,” I said. I thought he might look up and wonder how I knew that, but he didn’t. “Well, it’s just an assignment, but I had the idea that a coffee shop would do well there—something with a little more to offer than the usual. Do you think so?”
My father dished some of my mother’s fish and rice with grape leaves onto a plate and passed it down the table to her. “Yes,” he said.
I was right!
“Possibly. But not like this,” he said. He paused, serving spoon in hand, and browsed my menu page again briefly. He shook his head. “You cannot sell fine Greek pastries and expensive coffees to high school students, Bettina.” He continued serving our meal.
I remembered my baklava debacle, the cheese pastries that had finally gone home with Tony Colletti, who could appreciate them. Maybe Bampas was right.
“Well, then it needs tweaking. What about lattes? Ice-cream bars, gelato?” I said. “I think high school kids would go to a place based on my idea, Bampas. I’d go.”
“And you are not everyone, Bettina.” He pulled in his chin and shook his head.
“Well, maybe not, but—
“Att-att!” My father raised a finger at me. “Siopi,” he said. I looked at his fingertip, then his eyes, then down at my own plate. He reached toward my mother, then the bottle of red in his hand. “Some wine, Loreena? This is a good one. Very buttery.” He paused to look at the label on the bottle.
“Yes, Dinos, thank you,” Momma said. “It’s beautiful work, Bettina,” she added, and I suppose she was looking at me while I pushed at my fish with my fork.
“I’m adding this wine to the list at Loreena’s Downtown,” Bampas went on.
While I picked at my food, a green pea came rolling across the tablecloth and bumped into my plate. I looked up at Favian, the shooter. Avel, the audience, let out a giggle. I gave them both a smirk. I imagined gathering them up after supper for a conference.
Hey, your bampas owns half the town. Did you know?
They probably didn’t know, not yet. But Bampas would be different with the boys than he’d been with me, I guessed.
Another pea rolled past my place at the table and fell to the floor. Favian and Avel cracked up. I put a finger to my lips and opened my eyes wide at them. They were about to get in trouble.
Sitting there, under fire of green peas, a thought came out of the air: You can get an A-plus and still fail.
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Twenty-six
I WAS AFRAID OF WHAT COWBOY WOULD THINK OF ME, leaving the way I had. So, the next morning before school, I went to Unit 37 again, two coffees in my hands.
“Ah, Beta. Bless you!” Cowboy dropped the hood on the ’57 Chevy. He smiled and I felt my heart swell so much I was sure he’d see it at my throat. He’d been working on that same car yesterday—quietly cussing to himself underneath it. I thought it must be a lost cause. But Cowboy didn’t give up easily on old cars, especially not the silver Chevy. That one belonged to him, he had told me.
I set the coffees on the workbench and sat down on the edge of a couple of stacked-up tires close to where he was working. “I guess I confess,” I said. “I didn’t really know about my father before you told me.”
Cowboy wiped his hands on his shop towel, pushed his dolly over with one foot, and sat down in front of me. “I’m sorry,” he said. I half expected him to take my chin in his hands. But the great thing—one of the great things—about Cowboy was that he didn’t condescend.
“Or if I did know . . . well, you completed the picture for me.” I swallowed hard and focused on a grease spot on the floor. “I know that his restaurant does well. I’ve even seen him deal.” I shrugged. “We always have what we need. I know he helps other people. . . . He’s like a human ATM, although—ha!—he’d never use one. He wants to go inside the bank and see a person to make his transactions.”
“Yeah . . .” Cowboy seemed to get that. “He wanted to meet me in person before he’d rent this space to me. Most of the other places I looked at, the owner sent an agent.”
“Well, Bampas will always choose the old way of doing things. Anyway, I don’t even know why it bothered me,” I said. “But can I ask you, how did you know?”
“Newspapers. I don’t read everything but I read the land records pretty often. His name is always there—buying this and selling that. He’s got apartments and renovation projects—all of it. Vasilis Inc. is one of the city’s largest taxpayers.”
“So why didn’t I know?” I mused.
“You’re a kid,” he said, and he must have seen me wilt. “I don’t mean it like that, Beta. It’s just—you’re not supposed to care about this stuff. Look, he’s a good guy. He sent work my way when I opened up here. It’s not like you just found out that he’s a drunk or a drug dealer.” Cowboy was always a little deadpan. He shook my shoulder gently, and I tried to nod my head.
“He’s been stopping at these empty buildings all my life. A while ago I was with him, and I asked him about a place—actually, it was that potbelly building
that I based my fake coffee shop on—and he just said, ‘Never mind, Bettina.’” I mocked my father’s voice, his accent. Cowboy laughed a little. “He doesn’t include me,” I said.
Cowboy shrugged. “Because you’re his daughter. He probably thinks about other things when he’s around you,” Cowboy said. I looked at him, puzzled. “Does he know about your boyfriend?” he asked.
“He thinks he does,” I said. Then I realized how true it was, and I wished I hadn’t said it.
“If he really knew him, he’d have the kid on a spit by now.”
My core went rubbery. I didn’t like hearing Cowboy talk about Brady.
“By the way, how’s your knee?” Cowboy asked.
“Improving,” I said, but I didn’t look him in the eye. I stood up and checked the clock. “Oh, no! Is that right? I’m going be late. And I have a load of tardies already. I think I’m due for a detention.” I shouldered my backpack.
“Yeah, probably because you bring me coffees. Here, let’s try this.” Cowboy dragged out an invoice pad. He wrote so slowly. I waited. He held the slip out to me. “It just says that you’re late because you had trouble peeling a tattoo.”
“Very funny,” I said. I felt slightly self-conscious of the skeletal bird on the inside of my wrist. “Beta, I’m kidding. Here, take it. It’s worth a try,” he said.
I looked at the invoice, which had the same logo as his shop sign printed at the top. He’d actually written:
Bettina Vasilis stopped at my place of business Unit 37 Hammer Hill Industrial Park to give me a key from Dinos Vasilis owner of the property.
What a joke. My father would never give me a key to anything. Yet there it was, stated in triplicate on Cowboy’s invoice pad. (I couldn’t help noticing that it was a wicked run-on sentence.) He had signed it with three initials: SWS.
On my way across the playing fields, I took one more look at the would-be excuse and jammed it into my pocket. I wasn’t going to try to use it. If the school checked it out with my parents, it’d screw up everything.
I sat in detention that afternoon, glad to be free of the Not-So-Cheerleaders. I rested my knee, and considered what to do about the squad now that I’d overheard them trashing me. But that draining discussion with Brady was still fresh in my mind. I had little doubt that he was still stressed over basketball. But he was trying hard with us; he’d been sweet and solicitous. If I quit the squad now it would seem like I’d just set out to piss him off. Also, without cheerleading, Momma and Bampas would have me riding home on the bus again after school every day. Miserable as it was, staying on the squad preserved my freedom.
The detention clock ticked. I pulled the invoice out of my pocket again. I held it to my nose and sniffed, wanting the scent of the shop to fill me. Cowboy hadn’t signed his name. Just SWS. Maybe because it was a bit of a game between us. I didn’t know his real name, and he’d only recently learned all of mine. But the letters must be his initials. What could SWS stand for?
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Twenty-seven
REGINA COLLETTI WAS UP AND COOKING. TONY AND I both knew it the minute we reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped and sniffed. I did the same.
“Pasta fagioli,” we both said it at once.
“She must be having a really good day,” Tony added.
In her kitchen, Regina sat on a stool next to the stove. She pushed a wooden spoon around the inside of a saucepan.
“Ah, good,” she said when she saw us. “Tony, carry that pasta to the sink and pour off the water. Bettina, take that knife. Mince that basil.” She pointed to a cutting board on the table. “Grate us a nice little mound of that Parmesan, too.”
“Nonna, what meal is this?” Tony asked. He glanced at the clock.
“What does it matter?” Regina asked.
I was just glad Tony would be staying, at least for a while. It was a walk back in time for me to sit in my old neighborhood with the scent of basil filling my head and the flavors of garlic and soft cannellini beans sliding over my tongue. Of course, Regina kept bossing both Tony and me.
“Put more basil on yours,” she said. She pinched up the herbs in her fingers and reached across the table to sprinkle them in my bowl. She gave herself a nod of approval. This was the sort of Regina-thing that made Tony laugh in an acquiescent way that I found contagious.
Sitting in the kitchen with Regina and Tony, I forgot my real-world self a little more with every mouthful. But as soon as soon as Tony and I had washed and dried the bowls, Regina told him to leave us.
“Go practice that horn,” she said. As soon as he was gone, she leaned toward me. “Did you know,” she began, “when I was a girl, I had a forbidden boyfriend?”
Nice opener.
“I think of it every time you come,” she said. She reached forward and patted my hands. “You bring it all back, you make me remember.”
Oh, great. Go me!
“I see you, and you are a young, gorgeous girl and it was the same time in my own life. Well, I was younger—fourteen. I was just in high school, and Ricky was just out,” she said. “So, a boy, an older boy at that.” She shook her finger. “Not allowed in my papa’s house. Ricky had a job sweeping up and cleaning the johnnies at Saint Barnabas Roman Catholic Church and that’s where I met him. We took a shine to each other, first glance. Sometimes it’s just that way. That church was not a nice place to work. Ricky told me all he got was a scolding for every job he ever did there. He always wondered why they kept him, but they did. He was the oldest boy in his family and he was earning money to help out at home. Sad, because he was as smart as any of the boys who got to go to college.”
Regina paused, looking out the small window over my shoulder. I saw the curved, square reflection of light shining in her cocoa-brown eyes. “He always saved out a little money from his pay to get me a handful of bubble gums or a Sky Bar. You know, I didn’t need fancy presents from him to know that boy loved me. Those little treats were fine enough. He showed up at the high school every afternoon. Well, not right at the front door. Whoa! No! We had to keep ourselves a secret. So Ricky waited across the street, in his blue jeans and a clean, white T-shirt. That’s all I ever saw him in besides the overshirt he wore to do chores at Saint Barnabas.
“Anyway, your friends helped you out back then. Because of course they knew. They’d be your lookouts, making sure none of the parents or their parents’ friends were around. They’d help you on a Friday night so you could get to the burger place to be with your boy, or go canoodling in the park. Best kind of lying there is,” Regina said, and she arched her eyebrows at me.
“I ran with Ricky all those months, always afraid someone would tell my papa. Oh, we were Goddamn careful. Then one Friday afternoon, I looked across the street to the place where Ricky always waited and there he was . . . but also, my papa. And they weren’t speaking to each other. Just standing some ten feet apart, both with an eye on yours truly. Mother of God, I nearly wet my polka-dotties. Right away, I knew that Ricky didn’t know he’s standing next to my papa. Because his eyes were twinkling and he was looking right at me. Love isn’t blind; it just wears blinders. Well, my friend Cherise—oh, that girl was something—she saved the day, or tried to. She came out of nowhere hollering, ‘Hi, Mr. Paladina! How are you this afternoon, Mr. Paladina?’”
It was all I could do not to stop her there and say, Wait, wait! You were Regina Paladina? But the story was too scary to interrupt.
“So Ricky heard that name Paladina and of course he figured out that it’s my papa was right there sharing the pavement with him. And real smart, Ricky straightened up from where he was leaning and he walked off.”
“Well, why was your father there?” I asked.
“Good question,” Regina said. “I didn’t know either. I wondered if he knew something or just thought he did. But I figured I had to go t
o him, and when I did he told me to start walking home. He followed me, just a few steps behind me. Nothing warm about it, no father-daughter chat. And when we reached the park he told me to step off the sidewalk. He walked me another thirty feet into the wooded part. He knocked me flat to the ground on my belly and beat me on my back with a rock.”
“Oh! Jesus!”
“Yep. That’s who I cried for. But not out loud. No. I didn’t make a sound, except maybe the breath he pounded out of me.”
“But why? And didn’t he say anything?” I could hardly bear to ask.
“Oh, yes. When he finished, he told me to dust myself off and he’d see me at home. He told me to see the boy and to show him my bare back—the price I’d paid for him dating me while I’m so young.”
“Did you?”
“I was too scared not to. I did it that Monday. And I have wondered for years if my papa planned that. Beat me on Friday so the bruises would rise for Monday. I met Ricky same as usual and he wanted to know right away, was everything all right. I shook my head no and asked him to walk with me. I took him to the same place in the park where Papa had beaten me. Hidden away there, Ricky tried to put his arms around me but all I could do was squeak, ‘No, no! Don’t hug me! Don’t hug me, Ricky, ’cause it hurts, it hurts bad!’ Then I told him to look at my back. He stood behind me, I felt his fingers on my dress buttons—so careful. I still remember it—him gasping while he peeled my top off my shoulders, all the way down to my waist until he could see it all. I crossed my arms over my little breasts before I turned around because he’d never seen any of that. He was so good.” Regina smiled gently. “I had offered him my virginity months before but he wouldn’t take it. He had said not until he made something more of himself. Anyway, Ricky got down on his knees and hugged me around my hips where it didn’t hurt me, you know, put his ear to my belly.” Regina placed her hand over her stomach. “That’s how we said goodbye.”
The Things You Kiss Goodbye Page 12
