Brooklyn Wars Page 21

  I almost overlooked the scraps of paper that were clinging to the last item and had also drifted into corners of the trunk. They were crumbling around the edges. They had been ripped into pieces and then taped together again. I could see the brown marks where tape had dried up and fallen off over the decades. And it was decades. A scrap showed me it was a letter with a date.

  Some of the bits must have crumbled all the way to dust but I was able to piece most of it together like a jigsaw puzzle. In some places I guessed at missing words.

  It began “Cara Philomena,” but the rest was in English. It was from her oldest brother, Vito, the one she didn’t like much.

  They tell me I will not recover and there is only a little time left for me before I go to God. I cannot face that with a bad conscience so this confession is for you, not a priest.] Telling you the truth will have to be my penance. I pray it heals [… ]

  Your Commie boyfriend did not desert you. Me and Victor and Frankie took him out one night and told him he had to get lost, leave you alone, disappear. He stood up to us—shouted about love—but we could back up [our words with deeds?]. And there was more of us.

  Honest to God, sis, I don’t know what happened. Yeah, we were knocking him around pretty good. He wouldn’t promise, stupid kid, and we got mad. It got all crazy. Then he like, […] collapsed and he wasn’t breathing. We never meant it. Hon[…]

  So we was scared and ran, but first we took off all his ID. And we put his body in the water in a place we […]. And we made a deal, a vow, never, ever to […]

  We didn’t meant it, Phillie. We only wanted to scare him. And then he had to go die on us. So sorry. We didn’t want you to ruin your life married to a guy like him. […] protect you. And we didn’t want him to hurt your family with his cra […]

  The ink was badly faded but I had enough to be sure that’s what it said. I read it again. And then again. I had trouble believing what I was seeing.

  When I did believe it at last, I started to weep. I imagined poor Philomena reading it and then ripping it to pieces in rage, then deciding she needed to keep it and taping it back together. Did she read it again and again, hoping the repetition would dilute the pain? Did she bury it at the bottom of her trunk so she would never have to see it again?

  That poor girl. I wanted to reach across the decades and hold her.

  And what now? Did I tell Phyllis and Chris? Or let the past bury this secret? Was Chris old enough to read about something so heart-breaking? And so deeply disturbing? Was Phyllis too old to be so disturbed? Just for now, I hid it away, as Philomena once did, under a pile of my own clothes. One day, when she was older, I would share it with Chris at least.

  I went down the stairs, still haunted, and stepped back into my present-day life.

  A quick look at the mail, mostly catalogues, fun to browse if I could resist buying, but here was a square, high-quality paper envelope—an invitation, certainly. It would be about the museum gala, which I could not afford to attend.

  In fact, it was an invitation to a memorial service for Michael Conti.

  No way would I go to that. Completely inappropriate and actually quite weird. And who in the world could have sent it?

  If Jennifer could interrupt my working day, I could interrupt her evening. She wasn’t exactly a widow in mourning. She didn’t need to be treated with extra kindness.

  “Why, yes,” she told me. “I put you on the list. I thought you might want to be there.”

  “You what? I don’t think so. I mean, is it just because I was there when it happened. Is that why?”

  “Don’t be silly. Because you are writing about him. Don’t you think it would be amusing to see some important men tell lies about how great he was? And it’s the service he planned himself, some time when he realized he would probably not live forever after all. The big boss to the very end.” She had a point. What might I learn if I went?

  I put the envelope away, carefully, so I could find it again.

  Phyllis and Chris returned from what was, apparently, another rollicking day at school. They were loaded with Chinese leftovers, and Phyllis pointed out it would be meals for the whole week. I knew she was needling me—a good mother cooks every day—but I let it go. I just didn’t have the energy.

  Phyllis had a lot to say about how nice Chris’ friends were. “I thought they might be snobs, these private school girls but they were lovely to me.”

  “Well, Grandma, some of the girls are definitely bitchy—whoops, I meant to say, mean and snobby—but we’re not all alike you know.”

  “How would I know? Public school was good enough for my children. And they all turned out fine.”

  “Wait! Didn’t most of your kids go to parochial school?”

  “That was fine, too, either way, but not all this poshness.”

  Phyllis soon told Chris, “Go off and do homework. Or talk to that fella. Whatever you do upstairs. Your mother and I want to talk grownup talk.”

  We did? First I heard about it. Would this be the time to tell her what I had learned? Was I ready?

  “Your father is taking me to the airport tomorrow,” she told me. “Such a good man. How come no woman has snatched him up?”

  “Someone tried. She wasn’t a good woman, though. I’m still mad at him for that.”

  She was silent and I began to get itchy. I had things to do. Just when I was about to get up and leave the room, she finally said, “Chrissie told me about a man in your life.”

  I felt like I had been punched. There was no way this could end well.

  “I think it’s about time.”

  What did she say? Had I heard her correctly?

  “When Jeff died, all our hearts broke but good. Life just stopped. Hearts stopped beating. But your life isn’t gonna stop. You have a long time to go, if God wants it that way. Why should you be alone? Chris tells me…”

  “Chris should not tell you so much. She should not tell you anything. And she doesn’t know as much as she thinks, either.”

  “Then you tell me. Is he a good man, this man?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s stopping you? You loved my darling son, but he’s not coming back. Honestly, I would be glad to see you happy now. We all would, but Chrissie especially. She worries about you. Believe me, I get it, being alone.”

  In the nick of time, an opportunity to change the subject. Thank you, I said, to Whoever. “You never looked for anyone after Jeff’s dad.”

  “Who says?” She smiled smugly at my shocked expression. “I got a friend up in Buffalo. We go dancing at the church community center.” She smiled. “One time we went to a casino in Niagara Falls.” She nudged me. “I won more than a few bucks, too. We’re talking about going on a cruise in the spring. I’ve never been on a cruise. See? There’s a lesson here. I know how to keep going. I told your father to do the same. He appreciated my advice, too.”

  My father? Appreciating advice? Anyone’s advice? The floor seemed to be crumbling under my feet. And she was still talking.

  “Besides? If he’s a good man? I don’t like Chrissie growing up without a man in the house. It seems like she needs a father.”

  “I’ve been doing fine so far,” I sputtered. “And she’s been fine. No one else can take the place of her own father.”

  She gave me a long, silent look, and finally said, “Not even you, honey. Give it some thought.” She got up and announced she was going to finish packing, leaving me barely breathing. And feeling ambushed.

  Before bed, I glanced at the funeral information again, and saw that the actual funeral service and interment would be private, but the memorial would be more public. It was going to take place in a few weeks at the Navy Yard, in the catering space at the movie studio. They did weddings there, I knew, and celebrations of other kinds, but a memorial service? But the invitation read, “In tribute
to his career at New York Harbor.”

  Of course I was going. Change my schedule at work if necessary. Put off my advisor, as needed. I’d tell her it was research, which, come to think of it, it was. More or less.

  In the morning, all was forgotten in the rush of breakfast and getting everyone out the door on time. Dad helped Phyllis with her suitcase and her bag full of only-in-Brooklyn groceries and Chris cadged a ride to school. Then they were gone and I had some time alone with my thoughts, company I did not want.

  I needed to figure out what to do with the letter I had found. I needed to think about Phyllis’ advice. I needed to throw myself into chapter writing. That lasted about half an hour, as my unwanted thoughts kept intruding.

  What I needed was an old-fashioned mental health day. Play hooky. Do something that was not a walk or even a museum, where I would continue to think. Not playing with a friend, because if she asked how I was, I might actually tell her. Plus, my friends were all at their jobs. Not shopping, because I had no money to spend.

  A movie. I hadn’t been to see one in a theater for, I don’t know, a long time. Something exciting, where I could live in someone else’s mind for a few hours.

  It worked. A neighborhood theater. Discount matinee. Over-buttered, over-salted, overpriced popcorn, and a lot of it, made a great lunch. A long movie that involved spaceships in a world nothing like my own. I came out to late afternoon cold, with long shadows on the streets, but with a clear head. I had a lot to discuss with Chris. What had she said about Joe to Phyllis? How had they become so close?

  I came home to find my dishwasher full of dirty water, and my sink full of more dirty water that had somehow backed up. There were dirty dishes stacked up on the counters and my daughter trying hard to pull out the racks.

  “What the…?”

  “I have no idea.” She sounded frantic. “It just stopped working. And now there is all the nasty water to get out, and I spilled some on the floor. Ooh, watch out!” she shouted as I slipped and grabbed the counter just in time.

  “I can see that.”

  “And I didn’t know what to do, so I called Joe. Don’t look at me like that!”

  I was certainly giving her a look.

  “It’s a mess and I knew he could fix it! And where were you, anyway? While water was overflowing onto the floor and I was all alone here.”

  She was on the verge of tears. Or a nervous breakdown. Poor Chris. She really isn’t old enough to deal with these household crises.

  “Uh, okay, okay. Let’s not touch anything for now.” But Joe? I wasn’t, I don’t know. Ready. “Is he coming?”

  “Soon as he gets done somewhere else. That was a while ago, so, soon.”

  “Okay. You and me retreat, very carefully, to the living room. Are your shoes all wet?”

  She stepped out of them and then it was her feet that were immediately all wet.

  “Don’t move.” I stepped into the hall bath and snatched up all the little hand towels there. “Here. Dry your feet and walk out of the kitchen.”

  She put her feet on the towels, slid cautiously out of the kitchen without spreading much of the water and left the towels in a pile by the door.

  “Mom? It’ll be all right. You know Joe is a genius at these things.”

  “It’s not an old dishwasher. I can’t believe it’s broken already and we for sure don’t have enough spare money to get a new one. Or even fix this one.”

  “Come on. You don’t think Joe will charge you? Do you?” She looked hard at me. “You do! It must have been some big fight.”

  “It wasn’t a fight, it was…” Nope. I was not discussing this with a teenager. I didn’t want the advice she was sure to give, either. “You’ve talked to him?” I fought down the desire to ask for details.

  “Of course. We are friends, whatever you have become.” She shook her head in disapproval, then looked at me with something I was sure was curiosity. “Did you know his sister stayed with him for a week? That kind of messy-looking girl he’s been hanging around with?”

  I nodded, waiting.

  “And he bought her all new clothes? And took her to the dentist?”

  I shook my head at that.

  “She had some serious, like, issues? I think maybe she is mentally…something?”

  I nodded.

  “And she’s going to a…a therapy home.”

  “Rehab?”

  “And he is taking her there himself to get her settled.”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, you would know all about it, if you were still friends.”

  It was impossible to argue with that.

  “And how do you know all this?” Did I want him laying his grown-up problems on my tenth grade child?

  She smiled mysteriously. “He listens to my problems, so turnabout.”

  I didn’t have long enough to mull that over before Joe was there, ringing the doorbell. He has a key. It hurt that he was being so formal

  “Hello, ladies.” He nodded, avoiding locking eyes with me. “What’s the problem? Oh, wait, I can see it from here. Okay.”

  He stepped into the kitchen, opened the dishwasher carefully, tried a few buttons. I tiptoed over to the kitchen entrance to see what was happening, compelled by fear of the financial damage and something else that was more than curiosity.

  “Chris! Come tell me exactly what happened.”

  She did, with a great a deal of drama, while he and I listened. I caught a second of a smile from him, as she told her tale, and less than a second of looking at me to see if I shared his amusement.

  “Okay. Got it. Let me try a few things.”

  He sent us away and got to work, humming. When he called us in, the sink water was gone, the dishwasher water was gone, and he was mopping the floor.

  “You had a clogged pipe and a valve all messed up. I got the water out, but there’s a small piece missing.”

  “Ooh, I found something on the floor, when I was trying to stop the flood and I…I put it somewhere…oh, I remember.” Chris went to a drawer and pulled out rubber thingy. “Is it this?”

  He looked surprised but examined it carefully. “Sure is.” He turned, did a little more contractor magic and pushed a few buttons. And there it was, the reassuring sound of water swishing around just as it was supposed to.

  While he dried his hands, he gave Chris a peculiar look, but she stopped that with hug.

  “You are the hero! You saved the day.”

  He and I did share a smile then.

  “Yes, Miss Drama Queen, I did. As any slightly experienced workman could have.”

  “But you are the best. You came when I called. Thank you a million times.” Another hug. “I hear my phone. Must run.”

  She disappeared instantly and Joe and I were left to look at each other awkwardly, say thanks awkwardly, respond “It was nothing” awkwardly. Then he was packing up his tools and walking out the door. I was paralyzed, not knowing what to say or do. Before I could go out and stand on my steps to say, loudly, “Please come back,” he was opening the door and walking back inside.

  No greeting. No preamble.

  “Has it occurred to you we were just played?”

  “What?”

  “There is no way that part she had could have ended up on the floor by itself.”

  I was beginning to see the light.

  “Chris? Set this up?” I sat down with a thump, too stunned to know what to say next.

  He finally crossed the living room and sat down across from me.

  “I don’t see any other explanation. Would you put it past her?”

  “No. No, I can’t. Except for the part about messing with an appliance and messing up her manicure. And the knowledge that I will kill her. Or at least ground her for life.”

  He finally smiled.

&nb
sp; “She’s pretty smart, your kid.”

  I started to laugh. I may have sounded slightly hysterical. It had been a very long and crowded day.

  “What now?” He was not looking at me. “Do we try to talk? Or say good night and good-bye and have all her work wasted?”

  “No good-byes and no talking.” I was having a rare moment of something like wisdom. “Can I make you some supper, in my kitchen you saved?”

  “I’ll cook. You have eggs?” I nodded. “Any cheese?”

  In no time, we were having a light meal, eggs and toast. It was cozy, sitting across from each other at my table again. It felt right. I searched my mind for safe conversation. I told him funny stories about Phyllis’ visit. We mused about Chris’ deviousness.

  “Did it work out with your sister?” Perhaps not a safe topic, but safer than the others that came to mind.

  “She’s still with me, and she swears she is ready now to clean up her act. I found a treatment center in Connecticut and I’m taking her next weekend.” He shook his head. “It’s been tough, but there’s a little hope out there now.”

  “You are doing it all for her.”

  “No. No, she’s doing the hard part. I admire her.”

  I looked as his exhausted face. “She’s not the only one to be admired.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Well, she’s my kid sister, you know? I have to protect her if I can.” Where had I heard that before? Recently? I didn’t remember until the next day.

  “Erica, I was stretched so thin there for awhile. I said things…”

  “Shhh. They were justified. I was…” I got up and put my arms around him, and he stood and held me tight, and then tighter. “I wasn’t fair to you. Or kind. I was being scared.”

  “Shhh yourself.”

  I thought I heard footsteps on the stairs. They stopped and then went back up. We ignored them.