by Tara Oakes
“Very tired, Domenico?” Nonna’s delicate, frail, accented words ask me.
Her clothes drape over her fragile little frame, her narrowed, sharp shoulders angled harshly. She’s always been a small woman, but I take the sight of her in, guessing she’s lost weight that she can’t afford to lose from her delicate bones.
“Si, Nonna.” I agree. I feel my feet shuffle as I move them, closing the gap between us and kissing the paper thin, cool skin of her forehead.
I used to measure my growth while growing up against my Nonna. I would hug her and mentally mark where my head touched. Her waist at six, her shoulders at twelve. I had passed her, grown taller than my father’s mother by the time I was fourteen.
After that, I measured her age, her frailty by her own height against mine. She dwindled down, her meager body compacting in on itself as she grew elderly. I could rest my chin on the crown of her head ten years ago. Now, I can comfortable rest my arms on her shoulders.
“Ah… you remind me so much of your Poppa, Domenico. So many nights he would work late, crawling to bed,” she takes a deep breath, her words exhausting her. “Many times danger grew, but your Poppa, my boy, he stayed strong.”
I feel the aged woman grip tight to me, her attempt at holding me tight. “Such a good boy. Your Poppa would be so proud of you.” She strains to stand on her toes, and I leaning closer to ease her burden. She kisses me softly on my cheek. “Good grandson, good son, good husband. Maybe good father?”
I chuckle. The woman’s simple words are always comforting to me. “Buonanotte, Nonna,” I wish her a good night. It feels good to have her back home.
~*~
VINCENZA
The door closes gently although the room stays silent around us. I may have paused the stoke of the brush as we eye each other in the reflection of my vanity mirror, but I hold my tongue. What do I say? How relieved I am to have him home, safe and in one piece? How angry I am that has he still has not told me the truth, answered my building questions? Or how scared I am at what may be happening, what may be threatening my family?
I don’t know how to do this. How to keep up with the changes from minute to minute.
“I can sleep on the floor if I’m still not welcome in your bed,” he offers, with hidden hope laced between his words. I know what he’s really asking, the masked innuendo behind his question. He's asking if I’m still cross at him. It’s so much more than that, such a complex web of emotions that these last few days are drudging up.
He disappears into his closet while I contemplate my answer. Satisfied that I’ve thoroughly taken out my indecisiveness on my scalp, I set the wide paddled brush down and leave the beauty station. Walking closer to the bed, I deposit my satin robe on my bureau before pulling back the neatly made comforter.
“You won’t get a second’s worth of sleep on that floor, Dom.” I struggle to sound indifferent to the suggestion of his sharing out bed. We haven’t settled our issues from yesterday, and I’m not inclined to sweep them under the rug. But, I do realize that this may not be the time to continue our disagreement.
I manage to hide my eyes from his as I slip my feet under the smooth covers. I may not be looking at him, watching how he responds to my lack affection, but I feel his body deflate in disappointment.
One of the messages, the words of wisdom, scribbled into a pretty card received at our wedding reception offered this suggestion; “Never go to bed angry.” It’s not original, I know, since I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it everywhere from embroidered pillows to wall plaques to spoken cliché’s.
Here I am, lying next to my husband of barely a month, who’s nakedness tempts me to throw my worries aside and give in to those old words of wisdom. I bite my lip as I feel the mattress sink and settle from his form.
The bed is a large one, but how is it that I feel too close and too far to him at the same time? I hate that we’re in this place, his refusal to treat me as an equal, his withholding of truths that should be shared between husband and wife. But his isn’t for me to fix. Simple words will be all it should take for us to move past this, yet his stubbornness to give them to me keep me at bay.
And my stubbornness to accept that treatment keeps me at a distance.
“Good night, V,” he whispers into my shoulder.
Less than a month of marriage and we’ve already reached our first obstacle as man and wife. I’m not sure if we can get past this. I pray we can.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There are no greater mysteries than a dream. Their mixture of fantasy and reality. Memories and unfulfilled desires mixing into one. I know there are those that spend a lifetime studying and searching for reason, for explanation for the most ancient of things… dreams, nightmares.
They used to afflict me night after night, again and again, through the darkest days of my childhood. Yet tonight, they return.
The sterile, bleach-like chemical fumes. The harsh, artificial brightness of the industrial strength lights. The hard, shiny, uniformed floors, with my head hung low, staring at them. Counting the flecks in the linoleum, trying to find some bit of order to something. The voices around me swirl, not making any sense, spoken in some unknown language yet I seem to fully understand their meaning.
The generic wall clock ticks with its long red second moving slow and fast at the same time. I try to study it, but the numbers begin to swirl and race forward.
Next, impressive notes of the piped organ play loud enough to shake through me. Once again I stare down, this time to avoid the sympathizing eyes and mournful words given by person after person.
I stare at my black patent leather shoes, the tiny stitching along the seams. The nickel buckle shining as the pole staffed candles are marched by. The wooden pews are hard as we stand, sit, stand, and sit throughout the ceremonial observances.
Faces surround, all filled with pity toward me, the small child in the front row. I can smell the burning candles. I can hear the blessed words trying to offer comfort. The sunlight streaming in through the colored glass panel painting a bold mosaic on the marble floors.
The hushed mumbling of those nearby suddenly starts to fade, when I search them out, the familiar yet strange people disappear. The room is empty. The shiny wooden beams of the cathedral ceiling begin to fade. Bright blue sunlight now blankets over me. The walls dissolve, followed by the pewed seating. The cultured stone underfoot is no more. Soft fluffy grass now sways in the passing breeze.
The music is gone. The melody long forgotten. I am drawn to the casket, the rich wood shining in the sunshine. My feet are now bare, my toes landing softly on the cushioned earth as I step forward.
My dad, in his perpetual sleep -ike state, rests, robbed from us. His weathered hands overlapping one another across his torso. I study them, plain from any adornment other than the thick yellow gold of his wedding band. The symbol of the promises he once vowed that he would no longer be able to keep on this earth, but would instead wait in the afterlife to be honored once more.
My eyes drift, over his best suit, his favorite tie, his smooth, hairless face. This dream is different, unlike any other.
It’s not dad I mourn this time.
It’s Dom.
I gasp aloud, panting wildly and bolt upright.
~*~
“V! V-baby it’s OK. It’s alright. Shh… it’s all right, now,” Dom holds me close as I cling to him.
Tears flow freely, bathing my cheeks in sorrow. I can’t speak, the images too raw for me to digest them and verbalize myself to him. My chest rises and falls, hitching with every breath. Words don’t come easy. Sounds are getting jumbled, putting themselves together incoherently.
A cool chill took over before I even woke, my body still shivering now. The warmth from his skin in blazing hot, scorching the ice that’s taken hold of my body. His arms are strong, holding tight but I hold tighter.
He’s here, he’s warm, he’s alive. Thank God.
His lips press against my cheek, my forehead,
my hair. It doesn’t matter that I was a bitch to him before we fell asleep. It doesn’t matter that we’ve argued. He’s here for me.
“You-you were dead,” I reveal. I keep feeling, touching, proving it over and over that he’s real.
His scalding lips confirm that fact without a doubt. They command me to believe, to accept him being here. His tongue declares his intentions to mine, convincing me that his body, his soul is still here, are still mine.
“I’m here, baby. I’ll always be here.” His words soothe me, but it’s the unspoken emotion, the fact that he says this with a bold certainty that assures me completely.
His large hands drape over me, caressing me and holding firmly so his lips can melt his kiss into me. I need him, need to live in this moment, to let our bodies make a plea to the universe and the Gods to keep that dream away.
I push myself against him, molding myself to him. I feel his body react to my eagerness, a long sigh escaping him.
“Thank God, baby. I missed you so much.” He accepts my physical need for him, my husband.
The weight of his body gently guides mine down into the softness below, the mounds of bedding cushioning my fall. His hips immediately sink into mine, pressing themselves and the urgency behind them in to my body, my soul.
His fingers speak to me, trailing down my thigh, inch by inch before pressing to hitch my leg, hinging it out wider as he climbs to cover me completely. He dwarfs my frame, blanketing me in adoration. It’s overwhelming, testament to the strength of our vows, how we overcome tensions and set them aside to praise the core of our love.
It’s him and me, always, no matter what. The second my mind muddled in its dream state, thinking he was gone, taken from me, the deepest sorrow, a slow death set it. I cannot be without him. I cannot feel that grimness again. I need his touch to make me forget it.
I press my fingers, indenting the muscular curves of his shoulders. My tongue sweeps his, soft yet eager. Our hot breath leaves a sweaty vapor covering each other, lending its sticky muskiness to the steam growing around us.
The short, silky, nighty I wear snakes between our flesh. His fingers assist so it can hike high, exposing the hottest part of me. Once it’s no longer a hindrance I feel him breath in quick, realizing we are mere seconds from creating the rapture that casts a spell on us both.
Impatiently, I trust my hands blindly to push the cotton of his boxers down. Once the barrier is far from us, I grab hard to one cheek then the other, urging him to enter, to meet me where I wait.
His body moves fast, powerfully, thrusting in one motion as I feebly attempt to help by pulling his backside up with his movement. We call out simultaneously, the momentum greater than either of us has been prepared for.
My breathing is heavy, gulping in air at every opportunity. Our mouths are ferocious on each other’s, feverishly feeding on each other. His upper body is strong, his momentum boundless. His fingers are precise, slipping down the delicate braided strap, the satin cupped triangle falling to free my breast.
He wastes no time, as his lips lower, latching to the tender pleasure heightened skin. I’m thankful for the deep massaging his mouth gives as he worships the round, fleshy, most feminine part of me.
I strain my neck, arching it back to take any bit of opportunity to regain some of the control I’m losing. I cry out, coiling like a boomerang with every bit of his pounding. I feel my nails digging, fastening themselves into his body. Each movement he makes is precise, controlled.
I want to return the intensity, I silently beg him to relent the control to me, urging him to roll over, to let me take the lead.
But he won’t.
He’s in his zone, the sweet spot where he masterfully plays me, every inch of his masculinity pouring out to take what’s his. We’re equal, a team, a pair, but in this moment… his inner caveman is unleashed.
I tighten around him, my body clenching like a vice. He feels it.
“Not yet, baby. Hold it. I want you coming with me,” he demands.
I do my best, try with every fiber of my being to obey. I don’t know if I have it in me. My skin breaks out in a moist sweat, my efforts proving futile. I’m hanging on by a thread, the fibers dangerously close to snapping.
“Shit, V.” His voice is full of urgency. He knows his time is limited, the window small. But, he knows just what to do to catch up.
His hips swirl, his hands dive under me, lifting my hips to enter at the angle that is his undoing. With no time left, he joins me at the brink.
And we lose it, coming undone together, around one another, our love spilling out into each other.
~*~
DOM
This is the way it should be. Her in my arms, sleeping, knowing she’s safe. I can chase the dreams away as long as she’s in my arms.
I remember when she stayed with us when she was just a kid, after her dad passed. Aunt Marie tried her best to be there for her kids, but she was a wreck for a long time. Staying with us was the best thing for them at the time.
V bunked with Theresa, whose childhood bedroom was just down the hall from mine. I remember V’s screams and cries waking us all up night after night. No one blamed her. She was the youngest after all, and she was the closest to her dad, the apple of his eye. She was too young to understand.
Therapy helped. Time helped more. The nightmares lingered, spacing themselves out more over the years. By the time V was in high school, long settled back into their own home, I had heard that the nightmares had all but gone away completely, beside the rare one or two.
Having her brothers, her mother, all here under the same roof as back then may have been enough to cause the setback. I know that’s not it. She knows something’s wrong, something’s off. She been begging for me to come clean and tell her. I know I’m doing what I think is best, hiding as much of it as I can from her.
That might just be backfiring on me. It might be doing more harm than good. Her mind’s getting all muddled, instinct telling her subconscious that things aren’t safe. Her dreams are where those feelings are manifesting themselves.
I can’t do this to her any longer. It’s time to tell her everything.
She’s sleeping soundly, her body content, satisfied. The dreams are gone for now. I need to make sure they don’t come back.
I kiss her lightly on the forehead, gently retrieving my arm from around her. She shifts with her body, adjusting and resettling into the pillows. I clench my eyes tight, holding my breath as my feet search for the floor, anticipating a creaking of floorboard. I snap my eyes back to her, making sure I haven’t woken her.
Stealth like, I find my boxers on the nightstand, slipping them back on. I quickly find my flannel drawstring pants, neatly laundered and folded in my top drawer and climb into them, all the while gauging my noise levels by her stirring.
I leave the side door ajar, not risking waking her fully as I take the back stairs down to my office. Enough time has passed, Nick had better have some answers if he knows what’s good for him. He’s been trying my patience lately.
I power my laptop, the harsh neon light is irritating as my eyes are still adjusting to the light level. My emails load themselves, ready to be reviewed. I enter the ten digits at lightning speed, bring my cell up to ear level to wait.
“Boss? You were next on my list, I swear.” I’m always next on his list.
“Whatcha got, Nick?” I bypass his excuse.
I hear him breathe in, “You sitting down, Boss?”
“Don’t drag it out, Nick.”
“OK. Like I thought, the deposits into the bank account number you gave me were camouflaged. They were wired from a Wal-Mart in upstate New York. The name given was bogus of course, but, I was able to hack into the security feed from the cameras in that store and playback to when the transaction was time stamped. I have a clear printout of a straight-on profile of the person who was at the customer service desk at the time the transaction was entered. I’ll email it to you now, but, I dug a l
ittle deeper. That person not only sent an all-cash transaction, but followed it up by another separate purchase. Well… he must have used-up all his cash on the wire transfer, because he used a debit card for the next one where he bought a pack of smokes.”
I listen to Nick’s explanation as I multi-task and search my inbox for his incoming email.
“The debit card was issued to a Paul Marshall, the same name given for the cash wire transfer. I have his debit card number and ran it through my program. It’s from an account with Citibank. The social security number belongs to a dead guy, but, it shows a ten thousand dollar withdrawal taken out earlier that morning, no doubt to pay the wire transfer. I’m more interested in the ten thousand dollar deposit that was put into the account two days earlier from an off shore Caribbean bank account. That account is owned by a shell company in Sacramento. I’m still digging into that one.”
I refresh my screen over and over until a new email shows. I take a deep breath and open it. The image is grainy, not quite black and white, but the colors are muted. It’s poor quality, but it’s all I need.
The dark hair is combed back in its usual fashion. The sharp angle of the dark suit the man wears reveals it’s a custom one. But most of all, the picture shows my instincts are just as sharp as always.
It’s E.J. Rizzo.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Once a snake, always a snake.
That son-of-a-bitch is a dead man.
This is all the proof I need. He wants to pass himself off as an innocent bystander to that old fool Moretti, but I know better. I have everything I need to move forward against Rizzo with the commission’s blessing. The picture on my computer screen is the smoking gun.
He paid the photographer to trail V.
I end the phone call with Nick, assured that he’ll check into the shell company in Sacramento that supplied EJ with the cash to transfer to the photographer. I’m not sure there’s anything there. Hell, it’s probably just a front for EJ’s own stash of cash. But, I’d rather know for sure before I appear before the commissioners to ask for the clearance to take EJ out for good.
