by J. J. Murray
“What?” Patrick asked.
“Promise you won’t be mad,” Lauren said.
“I won’t be mad,” Patrick said.
“Well, I’m living here, but I still have an apartment in LA,” Lauren said. “My lease is up at the end of the month, and the end of the month is almost here. I need to get out of that lease now.” She hit a series of buttons on her phone and set it on one of the side tables.
“Kingdom West Property Management,” a man said.
“This is Ricardo Campagna. How may I help you?”
“This is Lauren Esposito, and I am vacating my lease at the end of this month,” Lauren said.
“Lauren . . . oh!” Ricardo shouted. “Lauren Short! You will not be back?”
“No,” Lauren said. “I’m sure you know that I live in Brooklyn now, so I’d like you to start showing my apartment.”
“I already have been,” Ricardo said.
He’s probably giving paid tours, Patrick thought.
“Oh, that’s good,” Lauren said. “You can keep anything in the apartment. I won’t need any of it.”
“You’re kidding,” Ricardo said.
“I’m not kidding,” Lauren said.
“Even the dresses?” Ricardo asked.
“Even the dresses,” Lauren said. “I don’t wear dresses like those anymore.”
Ricardo’s voice became a whisper. “May I have them?”
Lauren laughed. “Are you a size eight?”
“Almost,” Ricardo said.
Patrick stifled a laugh. I thought I had heard everything. Wow.
“You can have them, Ricardo,” Lauren said. “I only wore them once or twice.”
“I will cherish them forever,” Ricardo gushed. “Thank you so much.”
“Have you done anything with my car?” Lauren asked.
“I had to have it taken away,” Ricardo said. “The seagulls were not kind. It cleaned up very nicely, though.”
“You washed it,” Lauren said.
“Oh yes,” Ricardo said. “It looks brand new now.”
“But if you took it away . . .”
“Oh, I can see why you would be confused,” Ricardo said. “I found your keys and took it away to wash it. It is such a lovely shade of green. It matches my eyes.”
Lauren’s mouth widened. “Ricardo, have you been driving my car?”
“Only for a few weeks,” Ricardo said. “It gets terrible gas mileage, but I look very good in it.”
He’s been driving her car! Now, I have heard everything.
“Ricardo,” Lauren said, “do you want the car, too?”
“You would give me your dresses and your car?” Ricardo cooed. “Oh, that would be wonderful!”
Lauren rolled her eyes. “I think the title—”
“I am looking at the title now,” Ricardo interrupted.
“You have to sign it.”
Patrick laughed loudly, mouthing, “Wow!”
“Is there someone else there?” Ricardo asked. “Is that Patrick?”
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“Hello, Patrick,” Ricardo said.
“Hey,” Patrick said. I don’t want to talk to this guy!
“Ricardo,” Lauren said, “please send the title to me, and I’ll sign it over to you.” She gave him the address.
“This is like a dream come true,” Ricardo said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“And you can mail my damage deposit to me with the title,” Lauren said.
“Oh, I can’t do that,” Ricardo said.
“Why not?” Lauren asked.
“You left your air-conditioning unit on, and it leaked all over the carpet,” Ricardo said.
“There is no carpet under that air conditioner,” Lauren said. “I only had carpet in my bedroom.”
“It was a very bad leak,” Ricardo said. “And the cleaning cost of the car was substantial as well.”
“The damage deposit was five hundred bucks,” Lauren said. “It cost that much to clean my car and replace a carpet?”
“I think so,” Ricardo said.
“But I am giving you my dresses and my car,” Lauren said.
“And I shall cherish them forever,” Ricardo said. “I will mail the title to you today.”
Lauren looked at the ceiling. “Fine, Ricardo. I’ll look for it in the mail.”
“Good-bye, Lauren,” Ricardo said, and then he hung up.
Lauren clicked off her phone. “That was very strange.”
Patrick shook his head. “I now have a better definition of the word gall. Wow. I’ll bet there’s nothing wrong with the carpet.”
“Probably, but it doesn’t matter anymore,” Lauren said.
“I have everything I need right here.”
“Are you sure about all this?” Patrick asked. “Your car? Your dresses?”
“They’re only clothes,” Lauren said. “And I’ll save a mint on car insurance.”
“I’m just wondering what you’ll wear here,” Patrick said.
“What I’ve been wearing,” Lauren said. “Jeans and a hoodie.”
“But . . .” Patrick sighed. “I don’t know. I thought you’d want something nicer to wear when we go out.”
“We could do a little shopping,” Lauren said. “For you, too.” She smiled. “I think we need to play a little dress up.” She nodded. “You and I are going to make our own style.”
61
A week before Christmas, they shopped, and Lauren’s MasterCard sizzled up and down Atlantic Avenue and Smith Street.
They bought stylish yet understated outfits at the Brooklyn Circus, Steven Alan, Brooklyn Industries, Free People, Lucky Brand, Article&, Epaulet, and LF Stores. They also bought new boots at DSW.
Patrick wished he had several more pairs of arms for all the bags.
At the Melting Pot, the owner looked at the mounds of clothes on the checkout counter. “Can we use you two in our advertising?” the owner asked. “We can pay you, say, five hundred. Each.”
Lauren looked at Patrick. “What do you think?”
Patrick had lost track of the total bill four stores ago. “What do you think?”
“I’d rather have the clothes,” Lauren said.
The owner blinked. “You don’t want to be paid?”
“These clothes will pay me,” Lauren said. “And I promise to wear them often, when I’m not working, of course.”
“Um, sure,” the owner said. “I’ll draw up a contract.”
Lauren shook her head. “There’s no need for a contract. If you give me these wonderful clothes, I will wear them whether I’m in an advertisement or not.”
“I’ll get my camera, then,” the owner said, and she disappeared into the back of the store.
Lauren smiled at Patrick. “Do you have time for a photo shoot?”
“I guess,” Patrick said.
“I’m sensing resistance,” Lauren said.
“I’m no model,” Patrick said.
“Sure you are,” Lauren said.
“What do I do?” Patrick asked.
“Not much,” Lauren said. “The focus, I’m sure, will be on me, of course. You just stand near me, looking sexy.”
Patrick laughed. “I can try to do that.”
Within days, pictures of the two of them posing in various outfits out on Atlantic Avenue appeared in shop windows and on signs, walls, and telephone poles throughout Boerum Hill and beyond.
“I hope this mean we’re done shopping for Christmas,” Patrick said. “I was going to get you some clothes anyway.”
“You were?” Lauren asked. “Really?”
“No, not really,” Patrick said. “I was going to get you some gift certificates. You wouldn’t want me picking out your clothes. So, are we done shopping for Christmas?”
“I’m done shopping,” Lauren said. “They should be arriving any day now.”
“They?” Patrick asked.
“Your presents,” Lauren said. “While you’ve been
sleeping, I’ve been shopping on the Internet.”
Patrick blinked. “I’m way behind, then.”
“Yes, you are,” Lauren said.
“How many presents did you get me?” Patrick asked.
“Only three,” Lauren said.
Patrick smiled. “Then I will get you three.”
Because he had no credit card, Patrick couldn’t use the Internet to shop, and so he sneaked away to local shops and stores while Lauren napped. Hiding Lauren’s gifts, however, was next to impossible. There was simply no room anywhere in the apartment since the closet was filled to bursting with their new clothes and Lauren’s gifts to him filled most of the space under the bed.
He wrapped them as soon as he entered the apartment and stored them in the unused dishwasher.
I have finally found a use for the dishwasher.
On December 23, Patrick rearranged the main room so that it could accommodate a seven-foot spruce and wedged the tree into a corner vacated by one of the plants. He and Lauren decorated it with Styrofoam peanuts from the boxes containing her gifts to him.
The two of them squinted at the tree.
“Next year,” Lauren said, “we’ll use real ornaments.”
“Agreed,” Patrick said.
On Christmas Eve a massive box arrived from Pamela. Inside was a pink tool bag, LJE stitched on the side, filled with an assortment of tools.
“My daddy’s tools,” Lauren said. “This is so cool.” She attempted to lift the bag out of the box, but she could barely budge it. “I hope I won’t need everything in here.”
Patrick picked through the tools and removed a circular saw, two orbital sanders, ten pounds of clamps, and a twenty-eight-piece socket and wrench set. “Now try.”
Lauren lifted the bag with ease. “Now we’re bookends.”
I have never seen a pink tool bag, Patrick thought. It won’t be pink for long.
On Christmas morning, while a ham and candied yams were cooking in the oven and a pot of green beans was simmering on the stove, Patrick presented Lauren with an antique Art Deco platinum necklace, bracelet, and earrings, all of which matched her ring somewhat.
“You’re kitting me out,” Lauren said. “These are great. Did you get these at Gem?”
Patrick nodded.
“Okay, it’s your turn,” Lauren said.
“I’m not done.” He handed her another present.
“But you just gave me three things,” Lauren said.
“I gave you jewelry,” Patrick said. “That’s one thing.”
Lauren smiled. “I like how you think.” She opened the second present and found purple, formfitting two-piece long johns.
“Why purple?” Lauren asked.
“You’re royalty,” Patrick said.
Lauren kissed him. “They’re kind of kinky. Do they glow in the dark?”
“We’ll have to find out.” Patrick handed her a small, thin present. “This one was the hardest to find.”
She opened the present and found a single wooden clothespin, a series of musical notes burned into the wood. She held it up. “I’ve never gotten a clothespin before.”
“It’s for when the smell gets too bad for you,” Patrick said. “And those notes are the first few notes of our wedding song.”
“It’s certainly one of a kind,” Lauren said. “Thank you. I can hum the song while I try not to breathe.”
Patrick sighed. “I was going to get you some steel-toed boots, but they’re not very romantic, and we already bought some new ones. I wish I could have gotten you more.”
“You picked out every present especially for me,” Lauren said. “These are more than enough.” She clipped the clothespin to her nose. “You know, this might actually work. I can’t smell the tree.” She clipped the clothespin to her shirt. “And now it’s your turn.”
He first opened a Blu-ray copy of I Got This.
“It just came out,” Lauren said.
“May I watch it now?” Patrick asked.
“Why watch it when you can see the real almost breast?” Lauren asked. “We’ll look at it later.”
A dozen pairs of boxer briefs in a rainbow of colors spilled out of the next wrapped box. “Why so many?” he asked.
“I plan to borrow them often,” Lauren said. “Open your last one.”
Patrick opened a small box and found a platinum cross on a chain. “What did this cost?”
“I will never tell you,” Lauren said. “But you’re worth every single penny. Put it on.”
He fastened the chain around his neck. “This is . . . this is really nice.”
“I expect it to be bouncing off my booty in a few minutes, man,” Lauren said.
Patrick’s phone rang. It never fails, he thought.
Lauren sighed. “I’ll get my tool bag ready.”
Patrick flipped open his phone. “This is Patrick.”
“Merry Christmas, Patrick,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Moczydlowska?” Patrick asked.
“I am fine,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said. “The apartment is fine. I just call to wish you and Lauren a Merry Christmas.”
Patrick waved his free hand at Lauren. “Well, Merry Christmas to you, too, Mrs. Moczydlowska. We’ll see you later this week, okay?”
“Okay,” she said. “Give my best to Lauren.”
“I will. Bye.” He snapped his phone closed. “No emergency. She just wanted to wish us a Merry Christmas.”
“That’s so nice,” Lauren said. She unclipped the clothespin from her shirt, lifted her shirt, and maneuvered it to her right breast. When she let the clothespin clamp down on her nipple, her eyes widened and her mouth opened. “Ow.” She brought the clothespin out from under her shirt. “This wasn’t made for nipples. I like your fingers better.”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Are we expecting someone?” Lauren asked.
Patrick shook his head. This is by far the busiest Christmas I have ever had.
“It might be a reporter,” Lauren said.
“I’ll get rid of whoever it is,” Patrick said.
“I’ll be waiting in the bedroom,” Lauren said. “With the clothespin attached somewhere.”
Patrick went to the door and looked through the peephole at a tall, broad-shouldered man with silvery hair, brown eyes, and some major five o’clock shadow on his face. He wore a long black coat, charcoal dress pants, and shiny black wing tips. He doesn’t look like a reporter, and he doesn’t look like a door-to-door salesman either.
Patrick left the chain on the door and opened it a few inches. “What can I do for you?”
The man smiled. “Merry Christmas.”
And the man is definitely Italian. “Merry Christmas,” Patrick said.
“You are Patrick Alan Esposito, yes?” the man asked.
And he’s definitely from Brooklyn. “Yes.”
The man patted his chest. “I am Patrizio Alanzo Biancardi.”
“From Biancardi’s meats?” Patrick asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Biancardi said. “How did you know?”
Geez, he is a salesman. “Lucky guess.”
The man moved closer to the door. “You do not recognize me.”
“No, I don’t,” Patrick said. “Should I?”
“It is like looking into a mirror, Patrizio.” He stepped back from the door. “Can you see me better now?”
Patrick’s hands lost feeling. Is this . . . “My name is Patrick.”
“I blame Caterina for that,” Mr. Biancardi said. “You were supposed to be Patrizio, but Patrick is just as good. May I come in?”
And he knows my mama’s real name. She went through life as Cathy to everyone but me. “Who are you again?”
“I am Patrizio Alanzo Biancardi,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I came today because I cannot think of a better time to visit with my son than on Christmas. You are taller in person, by the way. The television makes you look shorter.”
Patrick closed t
he door, undid the chain, and fully opened the door. “What’s going on?”
Mr. Biancardi sighed. “You were named after me. I am Patrizio Alanzo. You are Patrick Alan.”
“I was named after my Irish father,” Patrick said.
Mr. Biancardi laughed. “Caterina told you that? You are no more Irish than I will ever be. You are full-blooded Sicilian. My family is from Palermo. Your mama’s family is from Carini. She told you this, yes?”
She did. “Yes. I mean, about Carini. She didn’t mention Palermo—or you.”
“You still do not believe me.” He nodded. “It is quite a story. I would have trouble believing it, too. But I can prove it all to you.”
“How?” Patrick asked.
“Your mama’s name was Caterina Donatella Esposito,” Mr. Biancardi said. “She was five-foot-two, with long black hair and the darkest brown eyes. They were almost black they were so brown. One of her eyebrows was bushier than the other one. It always made her look evil, but she wasn’t evil at all.”
It did. “All this proves is that you knew her.”
“I knew her very well,” Mr. Biancardi said. “Caterina thought Frankie Valli was a better singer than Sinatra was. I did my best to change her mind, but she would not change her mind. ‘My Eyes Adored You’ was her favorite song. Caterina smoked Winston Lights and drank Gordon’s gin exclusively. If there was no Gordon’s, she only drank water. Her penne all’arrabbiata was spicy enough to cure colds in anyone within ten blocks. She used too many red chili peppers and too much garlic.”
That’s . . . that’s all true.
“I met your mama at Farrell’s, near Prospect Park, in nineteen seventy-three,” Mr. Biancardi said.
“My mama never went to Farrell’s,” Patrick said.
“She did before you were born,” Mr. Biancardi said.
“Not many women did back then. It was not the nicest bar for women, but your mama was tough. That is what I loved about her. The men would throw out the lines, and your mama would throw them right back. Most men stopped throwing lines. I took one look at her in all those mirrors they have at Farrell’s, and I said to myself, ‘She is the one for me.’ ”
“Patrick,” Lauren called from the bedroom, “who is it?”
Mr. Biancardi smiled. “Ah, your new wife. She is cooking ham and . . . yams, I think. It smells so good.”
