by J. J. Murray
“It’s a Mr. Biancardi,” Patrick called out.
“Who?” Lauren said.
“I can explain everything,” Mr. Biancardi said. “Please give me the chance.”
Lauren came and stood beside Patrick. “Hello.”
“Merry Christmas,” Mr. Biancardi said. “May I call you Lauren?”
“Yes,” Lauren said. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Mr. Biancardi smiled broadly. “I am Patrizio Alanzo Biancardi. I am Patrick’s papa.”
Lauren grabbed Patrick’s arm. “Really?”
“I’m not so sure,” Patrick said. “He says he is.”
“Well, let’s find out for sure.” Lauren smiled. “Please come in.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Biancardi moved past Patrick and into the apartment. “You are so much more beautiful in person, Lauren.”
Lauren pushed a few pieces of wrapping paper off the couch and sat. “Thank you. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Biancardi?”
Mr. Biancardi sat. “This is nice. So many plants. So much light. So much color.” He chuckled at the tree. “An interesting tree.”
Patrick shut the door, shoved his hands into his pockets, and moved slowly toward the couch.
“How did you find us?” Lauren asked.
“Oh, it was easy,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I look at you two on the television, and I recognize State Street. State Street hasn’t changed in fifty years. I only have to ask across the street at the store for which apartment, and here I am.”
“Forty years late,” Patrick said.
“Patrick, please,” Lauren said.
“It is okay, Lauren,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I have a lot of explaining to do. Believe me, Patrizio, I would have married your mama and been there to raise you as your papa, but there were some . . . complications. About the time you were born, I was indisposed at a facility of the state.”
My papa is a felon. Great. Just great. “You were in prison.”
“I prefer to think of it as an extended vacation away from the world, but yes, I was in prison,” Mr. Biancardi said. “But now I am new to the world again. I came here today to see my son and my new daughter-in-law in the hopes that I will one day be able to hold my nipoti, my grandchildren.”
Patrick turned and rested his back on the wall. “After forty years you just . . . show up. All this time, and today of all days you show up. No cards, no phone calls, nothing for forty years.”
“Patrizio, some things happened long ago that kept me away,” Mr. Biancardi said.
“My name is Patrick,” Patrick said.
“I told her not to name you after me, and she listened to me,” Mr. Biancardi said. “She did not always listen to me. She was very stubborn, his mama.”
“Patrick takes after her,” Lauren said. “Right now, as a matter of fact. Come sit down, Patrick.”
Patrick remained still. “Why are you here now?”
“I do not expect you to accept me as anything but a man who has inconvenienced you on Christmas,” Mr. Biancardi said. “But I am your papa. That is the truth. You have done very well without me. You seem happy, and that makes me happy. There is so much color and light in here, Lauren. It is beautiful.”
“You said things kept you away,” Patrick said. “What things?”
Mr. Biancardi looked at his hands. “I killed a man.”
Patrick closed his eyes. And not just any felon. A murderer. No wonder Mama never spoke of him.
“I admitted my guilt, so there was no trial,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I have spent most of my life away from the world.”
“A convicted murderer,” Patrick said. Some merry Christmas this is.
“Patrizio, I killed a man who was a threat to your mother and to you,” Mr. Biancardi said. “He was also a problem for some other people, whom I wish to remain nameless. For doing this thing, you and your mama were left alone and compensated.”
Patrick pushed off the wall. “How were we compensated?”
“Your mama never had to work, did she?” Mr. Biancardi asked.
“She received welfare checks,” Patrick said.
“And some other checks for your welfare,” Mr. Biancardi said. “She was taken care of.”
“In the Gowanus Houses,” Patrick said. “Oh, we were certainly taken care of, all right.”
“They were a safe place for you and her,” Mr. Biancardi said. “A place to disappear. The man I killed was well connected. The seventies were a difficult time in New York. ‘Don Carlo’ Gambino, ‘Big Paul’ Castellano, John Gotti,
‘Tony Ducks’ Corallo. You have heard of them? It was a time of transition.”
Patrick blinked. “You killed a made man.”
Mr. Biancardi nodded. “And in doing so, I insured that you would be born.”
Patrick moved closer to the couch. “How was this guy a threat to my mama?”
“He thought she was pregnant with his child,” Mr. Biancardi said. “He was married. She was not from the right family. He was from Catania, and she was from Carini.” He shook his head. “It mattered then. Not so much now. The world has changed.”
“How do you know that the man you killed wasn’t my father?” Patrick asked.
“Your mama and I did the math.” Mr. Biancardi smiled. “She was very good at math. She had been with this man before she met me, but she became pregnant after she stopped seeing him and she met me. We even told this man he could not be the father, but he would not listen to us.”
“Who was this guy you killed?” Patrick asked.
“I would rather not say his name,” Mr. Biancardi said. “This man had been defying Mr. Gambino and Mr. Castellano by distributing narcotics in New York for many years. ‘Deal and die,’ Don Carlo used to say. This man selling drugs was bad for business. Hence, the man had to be removed. I was chosen to do this thing because of my faida, my feud with him over your mama, and in return for this service, you and your mama were allowed to live free and clear, provided I go away for a while and keep my peace. I have kept my peace, and now I am free.”
“The resemblance is unmistakable,” Lauren said.
“I know it is,” Mr. Biancardi said, looking at Patrick.
“You have my hands, my nose, and my receding hairline.”
“And your squint,” Lauren said.
“Yes,” Mr. Biancardi said. “You also have your mama’s smile, lips, and eyes.”
Patrick drifted to the Christmas tree. “And you chose to unload all this on me on Christmas.”
“I know the timing is bad,” Mr. Biancardi said, “but when is the timing good for this kind of thing? I have paid my debt to society. I was sentenced to forty years, and I served every second of forty years. That does not happen very often.”
“So why are you here?” Patrick asked. “Do you need money?”
Mr. Biancardi laughed. “He is so much like his mama! She was not a trusting woman, Lauren. It took a long time for her to trust me. Patrizio, Patrick, I have plenty of money at my disposal. You do not do a favor like this and not receive compensation. Even forty years later, they have not forgotten me. Whatever you may think of them, they are honorable men. They are men of their word, and they keep their word. And I have not forgotten you.”
“Right,” Patrick said. “It took you forty years to remember me.”
“Where are you staying, Mr. Biancardi?” Lauren asked.
“At a halfway house,” Mr. Biancardi said. “They let me come here today, even though I’m not supposed to leave the Bronx.”
“At least they have the Christmas spirit,” Lauren said.
“Is it a nice place?”
“It is better than prison,” Mr. Biancardi said. “It is a block from Arthur Avenue and the best restaurants in the city. I will be on parole for a time, of course, and I start my job tomorrow, cutting meat at Biancardi’s, the family business. I used to cut meat there many years ago. If you come to Biancardi’s, Lauren, I will, as they say, hook you up.”
“We will definite
ly visit,” Lauren said. “Won’t we, Patrick?”
“Um, yeah.” I can’t wait to visit my papa, the butcher who became a murderer.
“And any time you visit, you will get the family discount,” Mr. Biancardi said.
“I’m not part of your family,” Patrick said.
“But you are,” Mr. Biancardi said. “You are a Biancardi. Anyone who sees you there will say the same. You are shining and brave. That is what ‘Biancardi’ means.”
“I’m keeping my real last name,” Patrick said.
“As you should,” Mr. Biancardi said. “You know, I have kept up with you over the years, Patrick.”
“How?” Patrick asked.
“I talked to your mama on the phone at seven o’clock every night,” Mr. Biancardi said.
That’s . . . true. Mama always took the phone into the other room. “She spoke Italian.”
“She did this to protect you,” Mr. Biancardi said. “Did she teach you Italian?”
“Not much,” Patrick said.
“She listened to me again!” Mr. Biancardi clapped his hands. “Twice in one lifetime. But she told you your papa was Irish. I have nothing against the Irish. They were friendly to me in prison. But I will have to talk to Caterina about that when I get to heaven.”
“Heaven?” Patrick said. “Really?”
“I am a changed man,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I never missed mass in prison. I prayed for you and your mama all the time, and it seems my prayers have been answered. You have a good wife and a good life.”
“It hasn’t always been good,” Patrick said. “I grew up in the Gowanus Houses, remember?”
“Living there with your mama made you tougher,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I was not there to toughen you up, yes? Now not even a New York reporter can shake you. And I also paid for your schooling, so to speak.”
“That’s a lie,” Patrick said. “Mama paid for my schooling.”
“No,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I made sure there was extra in the checks when you were going to school. I also made arrangements for your mama’s cancer treatments and her funeral and burial. I am sorry the treatments did not save her.”
I thought Medicaid paid for that! “How could you afford all that?”
“I did a favor for important men,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I kept my silence for forty years, even after those important men died or went to prison. Their successors have looked out for me, and I have looked out for you and your mama. She did not tell you about me even on her deathbed, did she? Such a stubborn woman.”
“I wish she had told me all this,” Patrick said.
“And what if she had?” Mr. Biancardi asked. “What would you have done? Would you have lived a different life?”
“I might have,” Patrick said.
“Patrizio, I loved your mama very much,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I did not want to go to prison and be away from her. That was so hard for me. But the hardest part was not being able to help raise you. I did what I could to take care of her and you, and one way was to keep all this quiet. You are the son of a murderer, but you grew up without this knowledge. Your friends did not know. Your teachers did not know. Your employers did not know. That made your life easier. You did not have the stigma.”
“I will now,” Patrick said. “The media will find out.”
“So they find out,” Mr. Biancardi said. “But understand this thing. You would not be here now if I had not killed a man. If that makes me only a murderer to you, so be it. You are here because I am a murderer. I would do it again. I would do anything to protect my family. I believe that you would also do anything to protect your family.”
“Does Patrizio have other family?” Lauren asked.
Don’t call me that name, Lauren.
“Oh yes,” Mr. Biancardi said. “And they are all waiting to meet him. Call Biancardi’s anytime, Patrizio, and you will speak to a cousin or an uncle or an aunt. I have six brothers and sisters. You have no half brothers or sisters. You are my only child. And this reminds me.” He pulled out a thick white envelope from his jacket. “I do not know you well enough to buy a specific gift for you. I hope this will suffice.” He turned and held out the envelope to Patrick.
And now he wants me to accept some blood money. “I don’t want it.”
“I earned this money, Patrizio, as a plumber in prison,” Mr. Biancardi said. “You would think they would put me in the kitchen, but they made me into a plumber. Forty cents an hour, six hours a day, five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, for forty years. I earned every cent of this money.”
“I still don’t want it,” Patrick said.
“It is almost twenty-five thousand dollars, and I want you to have it.” Mr. Biancardi stretched out his arm.
“I don’t need it,” Patrick said.
Mr. Biancardi’s eyes softened as he returned the envelope to his jacket. “I can see that you are proud. Your mama is once again to blame.” He smiled. “You told that reporter, ‘I work for a living.’ I was so proud of you. I am proud of you. Most men would have taken this money without a question. You did not even ask how much it was. But tell me, Patrick, will you stop me from spoiling my grandchildren?”
“No, he won’t,” Lauren said.
“Good,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I will start a college fund for them with this money.”
“Thank you,” Lauren said. “That is so generous. Isn’t that generous, Patrick?”
Patrick nodded slightly.
Mr. Biancardi stood. “I am sorry I interrupted your first Christmas together.” He moved toward the door, offering his hand to Patrick.
Patrick stared at the hand.
Mr. Biancardi nodded and dropped his hand to his side. “I am sorry this did not go as well as I had hoped.”
Patrick looked at Lauren.
“Talk to him,” she mouthed. “He’s your father.”
Patrick nodded. “You were a plumber, huh?”
“Yes,” Mr. Biancardi said. “In forty years I replaced around five hundred toilets and unclogged several thousand pipes. The prison was not modern. Much like this neighborhood.”
Patrick stared at Mr. Biancardi’s hands. His knuckles were gnarled and his palms rough and calloused. “But this neighborhood is not a prison.”
“That is true,” Mr. Biancardi said. “Very true. Thank you for letting me into your home. I was afraid you would throw me out into the street. I was as fierce as you are many years ago, but now I have grown soft.” He turned to Lauren. “You have married a fine man. I wish I had helped to raise him.” He looked briefly into Patrick’s eyes. “I truly wish that.”
Patrick opened the door.
Mr. Biancardi walked out.
Patrick closed the door.
“He seems like a very nice man, Patrick,” Lauren said. “Why were you so cold to him?”
“I don’t know. I just . . .” He sighed. “He killed someone, Lauren.”
“I’m glad he did,” Lauren said. “You wouldn’t be here for me to love if he didn’t.”
“We don’t know that,” Patrick said.
“He did a heroic thing,” Lauren said. “Your mama was in danger.”
“We don’t know that for sure, either,” Patrick said. “My mama never acted as if she was in danger in her life.”
“He protected her well then,” Lauren said. She slid off the couch and embraced Patrick. “Just like you’re protecting me.”
“But why him?” Patrick asked. “Why’d they have to pick my father to kill that guy?”
“You did miss him growing up,” Lauren said.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I did.”
“You have him now,” Lauren said. “And we have plenty of food. He could stay for Christmas dinner.” She led him to the window in the bedroom. “He’s about to cross the street. Invite him to dinner.” She opened the window. “Mr. Biancardi!”
“I’ll do it,” Patrick said.
“Well, go on,” Lauren said.
What do I call him?
“Patrizio!”
Mr. Biancardi turned. “Yes?”
“Would you like to eat Christmas dinner with us?” Patrick asked.
Mr. Biancardi smiled. “I would like that very much.”
“Come on up,” Patrick said. He closed the window.
“Our first houseguest,” Lauren said. She hugged him. “Patrizio. That is so sexy. Patrizio Alanzo Esposito. That’s a whole lot of ‘oh,’ and that’s what you’ll get from me later tonight.”
Mr. Biancardi knocked on the door.
Patrick went to the door and opened it. “You don’t have to knock.”
“But this is not my house,” Mr. Biancardi said.
“In ways even I may never understand,” Patrick said, “you helped build this house.” He felt tears forming in his eyes. “You’re my papa.” A man of honor, a man who is shining and brave, a man who sacrificed forty years of his life for my mama and me. “I will never understand the courage it took to take another man’s life, but you will always be welcome here.”
Mr. Biancardi wiped away his own tears. “Thank you.”
Patrick held out his hand, and Mr. Biancardi took it. “Thank you for having big hands.”
“Thank you for having your mama’s heart,” Mr. Biancardi said.
Patrick motioned him inside. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m sure we’ve made too much.”
Mr. Biancardi stopped and turned. “Can she cook?” he whispered.
“I heard that,” Lauren said from the kitchen.
Patrick smiled. “Yes, she can cook.”
“You have pasta in the house?” Mr. Biancardi asked.
“There’s some linguine in the pantry,” Lauren said.
“She has excellent hearing,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I feel I must add to the meal, Lauren. But will you allow me to cook in your kitchen? Patrizio’s mama would not allow it.”
“Of course I will let you cook,” Lauren said.
Patrick helped him out of his coat.
“I will be a good nonno to your children,” Mr. Biancardi said. “I promise.”
“And I will try to be a good son,” Patrick said.
“You already are,” Mr. Biancardi told him.
Lauren put a box of linguine on the counter. “What else will you need, Papa? I can call you Papa, right? Even if your son won’t say it.”
