by Mary Campisi
Harry tried to block out the chatter, but part of him wanted to know what she found to say to Charlie. Pop talked to a dead wife, Lily talked to a dead father; did the whole town talk to dead people? Well, he knew one person who didn’t. Harry Blacksworth.
“Do you know…?”
She went on as though Charlie were right beside her, as though he could hear her and answer. What the hell was that about? He wished Greta and Jackson would hurry up and get home from Miriam’s. Wasn’t it time to put Jackson to bed? And how long did it take to make a few pumpkin rolls? Not that he had any idea what went into making or baking a pumpkin roll other than pumpkin and cream cheese. But still, Greta and Miriam were expert bakers; they should have the routine down, shouldn’t they? He glanced toward the deck. Why wasn’t AJ outside? Had the kid decided to play computer games instead of enjoying a little fresh air and the opportunity to hear Lily talk to her dead father? Who would want to miss that?
Why was he so edgy? If Lily had a thing or two to say to Charlie, so what? Let her talk. He stared at the sky, blew out a breath, and forced his body to relax as her words covered him like new-fallen snow.
“We miss you, Daddy and we wish you were here. Uncle Harry could help you bring in the tree and we could all drink hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. Remember how I like those?” On and on she went, telling him about the ham Greta planned to cook and the special stockings Miriam knitted for Uncle Harry’s family, with loops to hang them from the fireplace. Her words blended with the night air, swirled over him, into him, pulling regret and tension from his body until all he could think of was Charlie.
I am so damn sorry, Charlie, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it right. Count on that. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Hell, I don’t deserve the air I’m breathing, but here I am. We both know I would have been missed far less than you, and yet, you’re the one who won’t be at the Christmas table. Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, does it? God, but I miss you.
He blinked hard, closed his eyes, and sucked in the night air. Maybe Lily was on to something; talking to those you loved and lost like they were still here made you feel like you could put closure on some unfinished business, and maybe have a chance to get it right this time. Not a bad thought, not bad at all.
His newfound calmness lasted all of four seconds until Lily said, “Bye, Daddy. Tell Aunt Gloria I said hello.”
***
Anthony parked on Main Street and stepped out of the car. He’d thought about buying a pair of snow boots, but decided against it. What was the point when he planned to fly out of here in a few days? He made his way onto the sidewalk, taking deliberate steps so he didn’t slip. The last time he’d been involved with snow, he’d been on skis and that wasn’t the same as dress loafers. He’d worn a ski jacket, too, not leather with minimal lining and gloves that were more about fashion than function. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed. This was going to be a very long few days and he hadn’t even seen his father yet.
The storefronts looked much the same as they had when he’d come for his mother’s funeral, though many had decorated their windows with colored twinkle lights and garlands, one even had a waving Santa Claus in the window. Terra cotta pots stuffed with small evergreens, strung with white twinkle lights, stood beside the doors of random shops. The feel was quaint and welcoming and would capture the perfect tone for a Christmas card. He’d have to mention this to his artist friend who designed gift cards for all occasions. If the man could draw it, Anthony could sell it, because he could sell anything: cards, sporting wear, ideas, attitudes, a philosophy. He’d been spinning words for so many years he didn’t even know what he believed any more.
Except that he did not want to be here and the sooner he left, the sooner he and Pop could get to California and see Lucy. The decision to take a detour and stop downtown had come as he waited for the rental car. Pop had always been able to read him better than anyone, and the second Anthony walked through the door, the old man would know his son hadn’t just decided to check in on his return trip from Virginia. If his father knew how many times Anthony had flown to the East Coast to do business over the years, he’d have a whole arsenal of questions and queries, starting and ending with the most powerful: Why couldn’t you visit your mother more? She never got over missing you. Fortunately, Pop didn’t know about the trips, and he was not going to find out, because if he did, Anthony might have to give him an answer for his absence. And what would he tell him? Certainly not the truth.
I never belonged in Magdalena, Pop, not from the second I realized there was more to living than eating pasta fagioli and listening to stories about how my ancestors came over on the boat from the old country and settled in this town. What was the point of retelling those stories? Why let everyone know you were born poor when you could emerge in a city and become anyone you wanted to be? Anyone! I belonged in the city, surrounded by people with big ideas and lots of opportunity, where there was no limit to the amount of money you could make. Who wouldn’t want that? And once you had it, why would you return to a place that made you feel small, that threw your accomplishments back at you and couldn’t understand its own insignificance?
How could he tell his father that without causing irreparable damage to their relationship? It was better to lie and protect him than to tell him the truth. And then there was the other reason—her.
He couldn’t tell his father any of it. Absolutely not. He pushed the truths from his brain and scanned the street. It was too cold and there was too damn much snow. Why would a person actually enjoy the stuff unless he were skiing in it or watching it on a big screen? Anything other than that was a no-thank-you. But these people didn’t seem to mind. A couple emerged from Lina’s Café, the Hollywood-handsome man laughing as the dark-haired pregnant woman smiled up at him. They didn’t seem to notice the cold or the snow as they walked hand in hand down the street. Anthony kept his eyes on them until they disappeared into Victor’s Pharmacy. Old man Winston used to run the place, and he used to yell at them for “loitering” outside, said they scared away his customers. What scared them away was his wife Zelda’s mustache.
A fifty-something-year-old man in a cashmere coat and plaid scarf headed toward him, whistling as though he didn’t mind the snow or the temperature. He carried two shopping bags stuffed with what looked like Christmas gifts, the wrapping and ribbons foiled and bright. He nodded at Anthony as he passed, then continued on to his car, a Jaguar. Who was the man and where was he going? And why was he in Magdalena when he had the brand of city life on him?
Did Pop know these people? Did he walk down Main Street and have conversations with the waitress and the barber, asking about their children, their grandchildren, their health conditions? What about Hollywood-handsome and his pregnant lady? And the man in the cashmere coat? Did Pop know them, too? Anthony pictured it all, foreign and yet as familiar as Victor’s Pharmacy storefront. Some things never changed and that was exactly why he’d avoided this town for so many years. Part of him wanted to head into Lina’s Café for a cup of coffee and a little more time to delay the inevitable confrontation. He’d never been good at tackling an issue head on; had preferred dancing around it, avoiding it, even ignoring it in hopes the situation would solve itself or simply disappear. Those tactics hadn’t worked, but it hadn’t stopped him from trying.
Well, today would be different. He was going to get back in his rented BMW, drive to the house where he’d grown up and where Pop would be waiting with a tray of pizzelles and ten reasons why Anthony was not dressed for Magdalena weather, and he would say what he’d come to say. Period.
Chapter 3
When Pop heard the car outside, he straightened his string tie and rolled a lint brush over the legs of his trousers. The last time he wore this suit was when he laid his beloved Lucy to rest. He’d had no need for it in all the months since, but for today’s mission to be a success, a suit and tie were required. Pop tossed the lint brush in a drawer an
d moved to the front door to watch his son.
Tony had never been a big boy, probably didn’t stand 5’ 9”, but when he opened that mouth and started talking, he could make you think he was eight feet tall. He was a looker with those dark eyes and that black hair, curling in waves his mother had said were wasted on a man. That boy had a smile that followed you around the room, made you want to pull up a chair and get to know him. That’s why he’d been so good at his job; the boy could sell rotten cabbage and make you think it was the sweetest perfume on this green earth.
And now he was here to do the big sell on Pop.
Tony stepped out of the car, one of those foreign jobs with the fancy headlights, grabbed a small suitcase, and made his way to the sidewalk. Nate Desantro had stopped by early this morning and shoveled for Pop, but his efforts were long gone as fresh snow covered the areas. When Tony started up the steps, Pop opened the door and called out, “Tony! Welcome home.”
His son glanced up, threw him a quick smile that looked more nervous than happy, and said, “Hi, Pop. Good to see you.”
Again, the tone and the expression didn’t match up. If Pop weren’t on the hunt for these discrepancies, he might not notice them, and that would give his son the advantage. Lucky the truth of his son’s plan had spilled out of Miriam Desantro’s lips the second she realized Pop Benito had a valid reason for suspecting a thief was stealing his pizzelles—because it was the truth. Not only that, the thief was his granddaughter, and she was pregnant. Now if that didn’t beat all, not much did.
Tony stepped inside the house where he’d been raised, looking dapper and citified and like he’d rather be eating a bowl of pasta fagioli—the boy had always hated it—than standing here right now. Pop ignored the pang in his chest and gut and opened his arms wide to hug his only son. Wrong might be wrong, and while Pop didn’t agree with the boy’s plan to hijack him back to California, they had bigger problems right now. Once Pop set Tony in his place, they’d talk about those issues, namely, a pregnant Lucy and a divorce his son “forgot” to mention.
“Have a seat. How about a cup of hot tea or coffee? Maybe a pizzelle or two? Come to think of it—”
“Pop. I’m fine.” Tony sank into a chair in the living room, not four feet from his mother’s picture that hung over the mantel, a fitting place for a son to make his confession. Pop sat in his usual chair and faced his son. “Come to take me back, haven’t you?”
“What?”
Tony had never been a good liar, not when he stole cherry tomatoes from Dolly Finnegan’s, and not when he told them his future bride wanted to exchange vows at some destination place, like she was sailing off on an adventure, which just so happened to be out of “travel” range for Pop and Lucy. Well, Tony had sailed off the deep end and gotten hitched to a high-society girl who didn’t want to be reminded of her husband’s upbringing. “Something tells me this isn’t a holiday visit, and you didn’t come here because you want to sit down and chit-chat with neighbors and have a piece of nut bread. You came for your mother’s funeral—” he scratched his jaw and nodded “—and the time before that…huh. When was that? Seems I can’t recall, but then my memory might not be as good as it was.” Hah, let Tony touch that one with a garden rake because Pop was waiting, ready to show him just how much his brain still synapsed.
Tony shrugged and looked away like he used to when he was a boy and his mother asked if he’d finished the homework he hadn’t started. It was always a story with Tony, and Pop had a feeling this tale would be no different, stuffed with fabrication and exaggeration. Could the boy not tell the plain truth one time? Did he always have to dress it up and dab some fancy aftershave on it in order to make it more agreeable? Rotten cabbage was rotten cabbage. No matter how many times you called it perfume, the dang stuff still stunk.
“Tony?”
His son cleared his throat and dragged his gaze to Pop’s. “I did come to see you,” he paused, darted a glance at the picture of his mother, then back to Pop. “I thought we could have our own Christmas in San Diego, just me, you, and Lucy.”
“Huh.” Now they were getting somewhere. “What about Rosalyn? She too busy gallivanting all over the world pushing coats and belts to spend Christmas with her family?”
Now came the blush, creeping from his tanned neck to his cheeks. “It’s women’s outerwear and accessories, and it’s a very important position.”
“Sounds like it.” Pop nodded his head and studied his son. At fifty-three, the boy still had a lot of growing up to do, or maybe it was “facing up” to things like reality, choices. The truth. Denial was an ugly creature, especially when it lived in your gut and ate at your soul like a tapeworm.
Tony threw him a look and said, “You never liked her.”
“Never disliked her either.” That was the truth. “Your mother and I never got to know her, what with her flitting to Tokyo and London and wherever else she went instead of staying on the same continent with her family.”
“Rosalyn is a global vice president, Dad. She’s a busy woman.”
Tony only called him “Dad” when he meant business, the kind that made him uncomfortable. “Vice president, huh? Of the United States? Because anything less than that and maybe not even that is no excuse for ignoring your family.”
“Oh, for the love of…” Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not here to talk about Rosalyn.”
“Maybe you should be.” Maybe you should be owning up to the divorce.
“What does that mean?”
Prickly, prickly. Wait until he heard about Lucy; he’d be shooting quills faster than a porcupine under attack. “Where is your bride? Is she changing the sheets in the spare bedroom, hoping I’ll be on the plane with you when you leave?” Pop had called Lucy his bride until the day she closed her eyes for the last time. Their life hadn’t always been a grand party, but they’d stuck together, no matter how deep the manure, and when he looked at her, his Lucy was as beautiful as she’d been on their wedding day.
“Rosalyn’s in Tokyo.” Tony sprang out of the chair and started pacing. Not like he could get too far what with the coziness of the room and all the furniture, but the boy acted like he needed to be in motion, no different from when he was nine and had a bad case of mosquito bites. He must have jumped from room to room while his mother chased him with lotions and remedies to quiet the itching.
“Hmm. Tokyo.” Pop adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Tokyo,” he repeated.
Tony swung around to face Pop, his mouth pulled into a flat line, his dark eyes a jumble of frustration. “And she’s not my wife anymore. We’re divorced.”
“Hmm.” Pop nodded, once, twice. “That’s going around.”
“That’s all you have to say? I just told you I’m divorced from Lucy’s mother, the woman I was married to for twenty-seven years, and you can’t formulate a sentence longer than two words?”
Oh, but there was some serious agitation and anger in that voice. “I figure if I pounce on you with questions and comments, you’ll close up tighter than a cherrystone clam. But if I wait and let things settle, then you might be more willing to tell me the what, the why, maybe even the how.”
His son’s brows pinched together like he was trying to figure out if Pop meant what he said or if he meant something else altogether. That was the problem with people like Tony; they were so busy putting a spin on every word that came out of their mouth, they got confused between what they said to get the sale and what they actually believed. And that was dang sad. Something like that could tear a person apart from the inside out, faster than two jalapeño peppers eaten straight up, seeds and all. Pop shook his head and eyeballed his son. “I’m not giving you double talk and fancy phrases you can’t cut through with a ten-inch knife. Sit down and talk, or don’t. Either way, I need a pizzelle.” He stood, adjusted his tie, and said, “You want one?”
“No. Thanks.” And then, “Why are you all dressed up?”
Pop smiled. “I like to b
e on my game when I’m going against my opponent.”
“Me? I’m your opponent?”
“You’re not much of a challenge. I could read through you like plastic wrap.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I can teach you a thing or two about not showing your hand.” Pop made his way to the kitchen, lifted the box filled with pizzelles from the refrigerator, and carried them into the living room. “Sure you don’t want one?”
His son stared at the stacks of golden pizzelles, all lined up and ready. “Okay, I’ll have one.”
“’Course you will. Nobody can refuse my pizzelles.” Tony still fought his upbringing and his Italian heritage, but maybe one day, he’d stop being embarrassed by it. Pop handed him one and took two for himself. “Take as many as you like. Bet they don’t make them like this in California.”
The truth behind Tony’s divorce spilled out between bites of pizzelles and the saddest eyes Pop had seen in a long time. There hadn’t been an affair, a raised hand, or a blowout. Tony and Rosalyn simply lived different lives that rarely crossed. She poured her time and energy into the company she loved and for years, as he advanced in the advertising agency, he’d been fine with that. Who didn’t want more money, a fatter retirement portfolio, and enough frequent flyer miles to jaunt to Chicago and New York City for the weekend? And what about fancy cars, designer clothing, memberships to private clubs, and collections—of everything. Who wouldn’t want that?
Two years ago, with Lucy leaving home and heading to college, Tony realized he wanted more than a wife who lived in another part of the world, who slept in a different bed, and who didn’t seem to mind that she did. Rosalyn had made a half-hearted attempt at the holidays the year Pop ventured out there, probably because Lucy was coming home from college.
But the damage had been done long ago with the silence and the separate lives. Tony shared his story with Pop, his shoulders sagging with the telling, his voice dipping lower with each memory. “Come back with me, Pop. Lucy will be home in a few days and we can do Christmas right: a tree, tinsel, ornaments.” His voice rose as he spoke of decorating the tree. “Even a blinking angel on top.”
