Marie followed into the kitchen, where she was astonished by the abundance of the feast and daunted by the labor required for it: peppers were scorching on the stovetop and mushrooms were being stuffed, focaccia baked, sardines dragged through a plate of flour. Sausages crackled in a pan, and Ann peeked at a pork loin roasting in the oven, poking it for doneness. Mama kneaded semolina dough for the orecchiette, rolling out the pasta into tubes, cutting the tubes into nickel-sized slices, pressing the slices into little cups with a stubby, masterly thumb. Orecchiette meant “little ears.” Vera whacked away at a pile of greens. When Marie was young, weekday dinners were bird-food affairs of pasta e ceci, o lenticche, o fagioli, o piselli—pasta with chickpeas, lentils, beans, or peas—with maybe a cheap cut of neck meat for Sunday gravy. They’d been poor then, she thought, and then she thought again: No! Papa had two houses, his own business delivering coal and kerosene, but money was for saving, not spending. Funny what you believed as a kid, wasn’t it?
Dee ducked as Vera waved the knife and wailed, “Do we hafta do all this? We went on three dates! All this, and I never even kissed—”
Mama barked—“Basta!” She didn’t know much English, but she knew when the talk was about to turn dirty, at least as far as she was concerned. Mama looked like Papa, small and thick, with the same semipermanent Don’t-even-think-about-it! expression on her face. She muttered, “Che stupido.”
“Come on, honey, it’s all gonna work out in the end,” said Ann, as she often did, reaching for Vera’s wrist to take the knife. Marie shook her head and picked up an artichoke. Poor Ann had to believe that, didn’t she? She was so lovely, so soft and sad, with a wonderful job at the UN, and a husband who was a bum. No kids, and the doctor said not to count on any. Marie looked over to Dee, who rolled her eyes before asking, “Where’s Sal? Is he coming?”
“Some kinda big meeting he had. He’s gonna try to come later.”
Marie felt a wicked flicker of conspiracy with Dee, who’d just gotten out of the police academy. They were so alike in so many ways, though Dee had always been more confident and outspoken. Dee had two kids, Anthony and baby Genevieve, who was probably napping upstairs; Marie had only one, but Sandy was all she wanted. They’d taken the test together—it was Dee who pushed her to take it—but Marie had done better and had gone into the class ahead. And then Dee spoiled the alliance by asking, “How about Sid? He coming?”
Marie hated that Dee thought she was like Ann. Dee never liked Sid. Unlike Sal, Sid had a job, for one. He wasn’t perfect, but there were plenty worse. She wouldn’t let Dee get away with it. “You know he won’t miss Mama’s cooking. He’s probably getting himself all pretty to make his grand entrance.”
Mama smiled—she adored Sid—which prompted another eye roll from Dee. “Well, he’s not gonna be the star of the show today. It’s Vera’s—”
Vera had two handfuls of greens and was about to drop them into a bowl when she knocked it onto the floor. It was a wooden bowl, and it landed on the floor with a harmless Bonk! But as far as Vera was concerned, it might have been a Ming vase that shattered, with all her dreams of love inside. She screamed, “I’m gonna kill myself, and alla you after!”
Mama bellowed, and Ann took Vera out to the back, to sit down and settle herself at the feet of St. Anthony. Marie dropped her last chunk of artichoke into the lemon water, and Dee took the sausages off the fire. They smelled done.
AT THREE O’CLOCK, everyone milled around the table, eyeballing the platters of antipast’ on the table: hard scamorza cheese and soft muzzarel, salami, olives, fresh focaccia bread, crunchy fried artichokes and sardines, fried zucchini flowers stuffed with rigot, baked mushroom caps stuffed with sausage. It was only the beginning, and they couldn’t begin. Two bottles of heavy, sweet homemade wine were on the table, courtesy of Mama’s cousin Ugo. Papa reached for one. “Sedetevi. Sit.”
Vera pleaded, “Can’t we wait, Papa?”
“Three o’clock, you tell him?”
“Yeah, but maybe—”
“This Sunday, no? Not next week?”
“Yeah, but—”
“He got ten minutes.” Papa said. “Sedetevi. Don’t just stand around, like a buncha—I dunno.”
Ann touched his hand. “Maybe we should say grace?”
“Why? We can’t eat.”
“Come on, Papa, you might as well say it now as later.”
Papa made the Sign of the Cross, and heads bowed: “Benedici, Signore, noi e questi tuoi doni, che stiamo per ricevere dalla tua generosità. Per Cristo nostro Signore.” An awkward silence followed the Amen. Papa checked his watch and shook his head. When he extended his fork toward the mushrooms, Vera shot him a pleading look. The hand was withdrawn.
“So . . . we got two policewomen here,” Ann began haltingly, like a comedian dying on stage. “Marie, Dee, anything interesting happen at work?”
“It’s matron duty,” Dee sniffed. “Babysitting for bad girls. Anything interesting isn’t fit conversation for the dinner table.”
“You got that right,” Marie said, despite thinking, How long has Dee worked now, two weeks? Still, she wasn’t about to tell about last night’s toilet fiasco. “But matron duty isn’t all we do. Inspector Melchionne, she’s got her best girls doing all kind of crazy assignments. You got pickpockets—”
“And perverts,” Dee interrupted. Again. “Some girls work on nothing but. They call it the Degenerate Squad.”
Mama covered her ears. “Bah!”
Marie pushed on. “A while back, detectives brought a guy in. He said he didn’t speak English, he was from Salerno, and I was the one who talked to him. They said they caught him trying to break into a store—”
Papa barked, “Madonn’! A million crooks in New York! Every color, they got crooks. Why the first guy you lock up, he gotta be italiano?”
Ann, Marie, and Dee shook their heads, exchanging looks: You can’t win. Time dragged on until there was a knock at the door. Vera leapt up to answer it, and she couldn’t conceal her disappointment when her beau wasn’t on the other side. “Shit!”
Sid walked in, shaved and smiling, altogether transformed from the slovenly grump Marie had last seen. With his Ban-Lon shirt in robin’s egg blue, he could have just walked off the golf course with Sinatra and the boys. Ring a ding ding! One arm was full of flowers, the other bottles of wine, and he didn’t miss a beat at the greeting. “Hey! Nice to see you, too, Vera.”
“I’m sorry, Sid, it’s just—” Vera broke off, stifling a sob.
“What? Loverboy ain’t here? Don’t worry, maybe there was a subway strike. Hey, Mama!”
“Serafino!” Mama cried out. That was Sid’s real name, but no one called him that but her. “Così bello, come sempre—fiori? Come, la domenica?”
Sid handed Mama a bouquet of tulips and baby’s breath. “I got flowers on a Sunday, Mama, cause there’s a florist on my beat, and I chased a guy who tried to stick him up. A Greek, but a decent guy. Lives upstairs, so it’s no trouble for him to open up for me. I got some for you, Mama—of course!—and for Vera, and I couldn’t forget my wife. Baby, you look gorgeous.”
As Sid lowered a bouquet to Marie, she kissed him with fervor, wishing he were always like this. Boy oh boy, did he know how to make an entrance! Dee accepted a single lily with an indifferent hand. “It was a florist you went to, not a funeral parlor, right?”
“You’re a pistol, you!” Sid laughed, before turning quickly to Papa. “I got you a little vino.”
Papa took the bottles from the paper bag and nodded approvingly. “Mmm, from a store. Sid, apri la bottiglia. Ma ora mangiamo.”
There would be no more waiting to eat. Everyone was too hungry to feel too sorry for Vera, but conversation was forced and spare. Mama pressed delicacies on Sid—“Prova le alici, e i carciofi, e il formaggio”—and Ann mixed compliments to the chef with inadvertent confessions of aching regret. “I try and I try, but I still can’t cook like you, Mama. Sal would love this.”
&
nbsp; Luigi tried next. “A movie star came into the store the other day, Pop. Victor Mature. From Samson and Delilah. The Robe? Very religious pictures, very famous guy. He’s Italian, his real name is Maturi—”
Vera wouldn’t let him go on, captive as she was to other visions of martyrdom. “I just hope nothing terrible happened. But it had to be something terrible, right? He just wouldn’t not show up. It’d be terrible if it wasn’t terrible.”
Marie was almost relieved to hear Sandy intervene. “Know what you should do, Aunt Vera?”
“What?”
That was Marie’s question, too. Sandy stood up from her chair and began to spin. “Tony, Tony, turn around! Something’s lost that can’t be found!”
Papa, Sid, and Luigi laughed, and Marie covered her mouth, so she wouldn’t. Vera began to bawl, knocking her chair over as she staggered to her feet. She started to run toward the front door when the telephone rang in the kitchen. She about-faced and ran back, still bawling, to answer it. The other sisters didn’t have time to react when Mama stage-whispered, “Ho fatto un sogno che è morto.”
Marie was horrified. “Mama! Stop!”
Sandy was frightened and looked pleadingly at Marie. “What did Nonna say?”
“Never you mind.”
Mama leaned across the table and spoke in painfully clear English. “I have a dream. The boy Vera like, he die.”
“Mama, please!”
Sandy began to cry, and then little Anthony followed, howling, and Dee and Luigi got up to hold him. Why can’t we have a regular goddamn dinner like regular goddamn people? Sid was laughing too hard to help, and Marie was furious at him for a second—mostly at Mama—but before she could get around the table, she heard a scream from the kitchen: “NOOOOOO!”
The older sisters ran to the youngest, galloping in like cavalry. Dee grabbed the phone as Marie and Ann sat Vera down on a chair. She spoke as if in a trance. “A car accident, there was a car accident . . .”
Ann fanned Vera with a napkin while Marie got her a glass of water. On the phone, Dee was crisp and commanding. “This is Policewoman Dee, Vera’s sister, with whom am I speaking? I see. Is there any—No, that’s fine. Thank you for calling.”
Marie admired Dee then almost completely. She’d done everything so splendidly—announcing her title in a Radio Free Europe voice, sticking to her first name so the probably-Irish nurse or probably-Jewish doctor wouldn’t be put off by too many operatic vowels by another operatic Italian. The lines were perfectly delivered, and Marie should have been the one to deliver them. Instead, she just stood there.
Vera charged back into the living room. “I have to go to the hospital, I have to see him!”
Marie and Ann corralled her as Papa looked on dispassionately. “È morto?”
“No, he isn’t dead!” Dee exclaimed. “The worst possible thing doesn’t have to happen, every single time! He’s in the hospital with a broken collarbone. He was driving here, got hit by a bus—”
“Dio salve il povero ragazzo!” Mama cried, not altogether convincingly. Marie wasn’t sure if Mama wanted the poor boy to be saved, since he wanted to take her last daughter away from her.
“I have to go to the hospital!”
Papa wouldn’t stand for any more hysterics. “What are you, a doctor? Sit down, eat your food. Big deal! He can come next week.”
Vera froze, then obeyed with a sniffle. The women watched her with apprehension as she dabbed at her tears with a napkin; they exhaled with relief when she picked up a fork. Once the shock had worn off, the mood became suddenly festive—it wasn’t such terrible news, after all. It was a stay of execution twice over: the boy wasn’t hurt too badly in the accident, and Mama and Papa’s judgment of him would be delayed for a week, and doubtless softened by what he’d endured in pursuit of their favor. Marie couldn’t help thinking of it as a good sign, if not a good thing. When Mama brought out the orecchiette with sausage and greens, the talk was lively, and by the time the pork had been eaten, little more needed to be said. The women began to clear the plates, readying the table for coffee and dessert.
“Dov’è la grappa?” Papa asked.
“Hai avuto abbastanza,” Mama replied, surveying the empty wine bottles.
“Go get it,” Papa ordered. Mama shook her head, but she brought out a Coca-Cola bottle of clear liquor—also the handiwork of Cousin Ugo—and three little glasses for the men. Luigi waved a hand, demurring, but Papa glowered at him, filling his own cup, Luigi’s, and Sid’s. He raised his glass. “It’s okay, Vera. If he love you, I love him. Amore e famiglia.”
“To love and family—” Vera wept and hugged him.
Sid raised his glass as well, emotion rising in his voice. “Hey, Pop, that’s the sweetest thing I ever heard. You know, I was an orphan—my father left, my mother died, and my brothers were all adopted, except me. Before I met this family—”
Mama swooned, “Serafino . . .”
Marie surreptitiously surveyed the table: Papa, Vera, Ann, and Luigi were moved, visibly; Dee might have heard Sid reciting last week’s minor league baseball scores for all the emotion she showed. Sandy was getting sleepy. She asked, “Nonno, was Sunday dinner like this when you were little?”
Papa grunted. “No. We didn’t have food.”
“What did you eat?”
“He means they didn’t have a lot of food. Maybe just the pasta, maybe without the sausage,” Marie explained. She turned to Ann, suddenly pensive. “I always wanted to go to Italy. Remember when I won that essay contest for the free trip, from the travel agency?”
But it was Dee who replied, “You said you wanted to go, since you never had a honeymoon.”
Sid didn’t react, and Marie tensed. Ann rushed to change the subject. “I remember! They gave you passage on the ship, a hotel in Rome for a week—for one person! Some honeymoon!”
“I’d’a been scared to go by myself,” Marie said. She felt a little afraid, even saying it.
“That’s my wife, the big tough cop,” Sid snorted.
Everyone laughed, and Marie was relieved that he wasn’t angry. Sandy began to doze, tilting in her chair, and Sid stood and picked her up. He looked at his watch. “Jeez, almost six already. I’ll take this one home. I’m a little tired myself, and I got work tomorrow. You stay, relax, help Mama. I’ll put her to bed.”
“Thanks, honey. You’re the best,” Marie said.
Sid kissed her, then Mama, before making his exit. The benevolent mood resumed as the last of the almond cookies were eaten. Marie felt entirely stuffed, entirely satisfied, and she topped off her coffee so she wouldn’t be tempted to put her head down on the table for a nap. Papa sipped his cordial, and a look of longing filled his eyes. “Why God no give me a son?”
That was the sign for the women to get up and begin to clear the table. His melancholy after meals wasn’t as regular as saying grace before them, but it was a frequent accompaniment to a second grappa.
“I could help in the kitchen,” Luigi offered, sliding back in his chair.
“You sit.”
MARIE WALKED DOWN the steps and back up, light-headed and lighthearted. She’d survived the night and the day, and now she could sleep and sleep. In the entry of her house, she heard something and stopped, half-whispering, “Hello? Anybody awake?” She looked upstairs and then across the living room, laggiù. Ronald Reagan was on TV: “General Electric, where progress is our most important product—” She turned it off and went upstairs. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and she heard water running in the sink.
Marie cracked the door of the baby’s room to peek inside. Not that Sandy was a baby anymore. Still, when she crept in and leaned over to kiss her forehead, she heard the soft music of baby breath, smelled the bakery smell that rose from baby skin. She was not without guilt for missing so many bedtimes. A family with one child could make do on a patrolman’s salary, though a house in Yonkers would have to wait. She didn’t know whether she dared admit it or dared deny it, but she wan
ted to work, she needed to, for her own sake. She would have died at home. Before this job, the story of her life hadn’t been much of a story at all. Better for Sandy to miss her sometimes than to pity her always.
Marie went to the bathroom and waited at the threshold. “Hey, honey, that was something, wasn’t it?”
And then she noticed that Sid was dressed to go out, in a blue shark-skin suit. She was confused. “You going someplace? Now? Where?”
Marie should have known better than to ask. There was no note of rebuke in her voice. He was free to come and go as he pleased, of course. But he wasn’t dressed for his bowling league, was he?
In the reflection, she watched him tie a silver necktie into a Windsor knot over a baby blue crepe de chine shirt. Sid refused to turn, or even to catch her eye when he replied, coldly controlled. “You wanna know if I’m going out? You wanna know where? I swear to God, Marie . . .”
“Sorry, honey, it’s just that—”
That was a mistake, too. This was not a conversation, or even an argument. He poured a splash of bay rum into a cupped palm, clapped his hands, and slapped his cheeks. “You’re right next door! You’re not in Italy! Not like you wanted—you never had a honeymoon! Like you’re all alone. After all I done for you? I swear to God, Marie, I swear to God.”
There was less coldness in his voice, less control, when he turned to her. What had she done? What had she asked that was so terrible? She had to try to find out something. She didn’t throw out any backtalk. Nothing like, “You live in my family’s house without paying rent!” God forbid. I swear to God, Marie! Always he said that, and she never, ever knew what he meant, whether he was keeping a promise or breaking one. She had so many questions, but the only one that came out was “Why is it you gotta impress everybody except me?”
She saw the white of his teeth and wished it meant that he was smiling. No, no more a smile than the raised hand would caress her cheek. He feigned a slap, just to make her flinch, then landed a real one when she ducked down. He grabbed her to make her face him before flinging her against the wall. She crashed into a framed picture of St. Anthony and heard the glass break when it hit the floor. She fell down beside it. She knew the prayer she was supposed to say, but she stayed still and kept quiet. Sid crouched down and put his mouth against her ear. “You’re nothing without me.”
The Policewomen's Bureau Page 3
