“Hakeem Olajuwon,” Pop repeated, perhaps thinking she hadn’t heard him correctly. “Two-time NBA champion, 1994 MVP, and all-time leader in blocked shots.”
Rosa snatched the ball from Bubba’s hands and placed it next to the other one on the counter. “In my kitchen we eat. We don’t talk sports.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bubba hung his head, duly chastised.
He looked around for a place to sit, and I watched with fear creeping over me as he landed in the chair next to Jenna. My friend, usually talkative and bubbly, seemed nervous and quiet. I didn’t know what to make of her bug-eyed silence.
Thankfully, Mama shattered the awkwardness with her usual premeal admonition to my father. “Take your pill, Cosmo.”
“Oh yeah.” Pop rose from his seat and went to the cupboard, where he pulled out a familiar bottle. After swallowing down a lactose-intolerance tablet, he sat at the table, eyes wide as he took in the cheesy meal. As always, he bowed his head to pray, and the rest of us followed suit. The prayer—filled with heartfelt praises for all the Lord had done—brought a sense of stability to the proceedings.
After his emotional amen, the real chaos began. After a little provoking from Uncle Laz about the proper way to barbecue a brisket for the upcoming wedding, a near-argument ensued. I tried to listen in but found myself staring at D.J. out of the corner of my eye instead. What great fortune! I’d shared a pizza with him yesterday and dinner with him the night before. Now, here he sat at my table, eating ravioli. The handsome Splendora cowboy had boot-scooted into my life—hopefully to stay.
At my feet, Precious let out a whimper. I slipped her a tiny piece of ravioli on the sly. D.J. caught my eye and gave me a wink. Thankfully, he didn’t give me away. Just one more thing we had in common. He tolerated my dog. Perhaps one day he’d even learn to love her. I hoped.
Jenna, who hadn’t uttered a word, finally managed some small talk. “Where are Sophia and the boys?” She directed the words at me, but her gaze never shifted from Bubba.
“They’re at the Museum of Natural Science in Houston,” I explained. “Field trip. She tries to keep the boys busy as much as possible.”
“Wow. She’s brave.” Jenna’s eyes widened.
“Tell me about it.” I could only imagine the stories Sophia would have to tell when she arrived home. Then again, I might have a few stories of my own, the way things were going. I begged my heart to stop fluttering and turned my attention to the food once again.
“Could you pass the tomato sauce?” D.J. nodded toward the huge bowl in the center of the table. When everyone grew silent, he looked my way. “Did I say something wrong?”
“It’s gravy, son,” Laz informed him. “When you’re at Parma John’s, you can call it what you like. We use the word
sauce
on our menu to appease the customers. But inside the walls of the Rossi home, it’s called gravy. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Gravy?” I could practically hear the wheels clicking in D.J.’s head. “But I thought gravy was brown. Or white. You 109 put it on potatoes or rice. Or some of my mama’s homemade biscuits.”
“Not in this family,” Rosa informed him. She lifted the bowl of thick red gravy and passed it his way. “This is the best gravy you’ll ever eat.”
“Humph.” Laz grunted and took another bite. I hoped he’d keep his opinions about Rosa’s cooking to himself today.
After settling his dispute with Laz, D.J. took several more bites of food, then proclaimed it the best food he’d ever eaten, adding, “If I ate like this every day, I’d put on some serious weight.”
I had to smile. “My aunt likes to joke that people leave her table ten pounds heavier than when they arrived. And that’s especially true when she makes meatballs.”
The conversation shifted to talking about Rosa’s amazing cooking skills, and I noticed Laz’s silence. When would these two ever stop their squabbling over who cooked a better meal? Why not just combine efforts and keep the peace?
Rosa served up double portions and wouldn’t let us rest until we’d all eaten ourselves silly. We shoveled down the food, bit by tasty bit. The ravioli was great, but Rosa’s homemade bread really made the meal, as always. I hoped to one day learn her secret. In the meantime, I redirected the conversation to talking about food for the wedding.
After lunch, Pop rubbed his extended belly and turned to D.J. and Bubba. “Want to shoot a few more hoops before you go?”
“Well, sure.” D.J. looked more than a little pleased at that idea.
Laz decided to spend a few minutes in his garden before heading back to work. He disappeared with a basket in hand, hoping to find a few ripe tomatoes.
Pop snatched one of the balls from the counter and made his way back outside with D.J. and Bubba on his heels. Jenna and I followed closely behind. My father, who appeared to have caught his second wind, moved amazingly fast. Still, D.J. managed to outscore him, though he was somewhat apologetic about it. Minutes later, my father—looking weary and a bit flustered—took a flying leap upward and tossed the ball toward the basket. It hit the rim, shot to the ground, and landed hard on the driveway, then shot upward again. After several bounces, it began rolling toward the street.
At that same moment, Mama appeared, holding the other basketball in her hand. “Cosmo, what are you doing playing with that signed basketball? Shouldn’t you be using this one?”
A shock wave rippled through us. The ball rolling toward the street was my pop’s pride and joy.
Bubba went running after it, shouting all the way, and D.J. followed closely behind. They bounded into the northbound lane, where a woman in an SUV missed D.J. by only a few inches. I let out a cry, and Rosa, who’d only just joined us, made the sign of the cross and called out to St. Joseph, patron saint of protection.
I somehow managed to make it from the driveway to the curb in seconds, but I found myself trapped by a slew of oncoming vehicles. Standing behind Bubba’s wrecker, I readied myself to make my move. I watched in horror as an older-model sedan caught the ball with the edge of its rear right tire. It shot straight up in the air—the ball, not the car—then traveled across the grassy median and landed on the southbound side of Broadway, where it continued rolling, faster than ever.
I cried out, “Be careful!” then squeezed my eyes shut.
“I’ve got it!” Bubba raced across the second lane of traffic, landing in the yard across the street. Just as he reached for the ball, which had rolled to a stop near the sidewalk, a familiar-looking kid in shorts and a T-shirt snatched it.
Yikes. The Burton boy. He gave the ball a solid once-over, smiling as he realized what he held in his hand. “Cool! Hakeem the Dream!”
As I drew near, Bubba held out his hands and, true Southern gentleman that he was, flashed a smile at the kid, oblivious. “Thanks for your help.”
“Help?” The boy gave him a quizzical look, clutching the ball. “You’re kidding, right? Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” He rolled the prize around in his hands. “My dad’s gonna love this. He’s a collector, you know.”
“’Scuse me?” D.J. narrowed his eyes.
The Burton boy scowled before repeating himself. “I said, ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law.’ And you’re trespassing on our property, by the way.”
“Technically I’m standing on the sidewalk,” D.J. informed him, the level of his voice now intensifying. “And so are you.”
The kid scooted back onto the grass and gave him a “what are you going to do about it?” glare. He held on to the ball like a dog with a bone.
“Give it up, kid.” Bubba reached out to take the ball, but the Burton boy took another giant step backward.
“Who’s gonna make me?”
“I’m gonna.” Bubba took one step onto the grass.
I shook my head. “Don’t do it,” I warned under my breath. “It’s not worth it.”
“But that ball’s worth—” Bubba clamped his mouth shut, apparently not wanting to give the kid any more fodder.
“Worth a lot of money, huh?” The Burton boy gave it a once-over. “Enough to buy a new Plan B?”
“Plan B?” I’d like to give him a Plan B.
“What are you talking about?” D.J. asked.
The kid’s jaw tightened. “Plan B. My skateboard of choice. To replace the one that crazy old lady stole from me.”
My jaw tightened at the words
crazy old lady
, but I managed not to respond. How dare he say such a thing! I crossed my arms at my chest and stared the kid down. Two could play at this game.
“First of all, she’s not a crazy old lady. If you’d give her half a chance, you’d know that. Besides, you provoked her. Second, she didn’t steal your skateboard. You were on our property. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, remember?”
The kid’s demeanor changed right away. “Hmm. Well, when you put it like that . . . Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.” His eyes narrowed as he said, “I’ll trade.”
“Trade?” My aunt hadn’t agreed to give up the skateboard, but surely, considering the circumstances, she’d come to her senses and work out a deal. Right?
“One basketball for one skateboard,” the Burton kid said with a nod. “We’ll just call it even. And I’ll talk my dad into dropping that lawsuit he’s planning to file.”
Please. You’re not fooling me.
Just then, Rosa came sprinting across Broadway, broom in hand, Italian threats streaming from her mouth. Her wind-whipped hair, gray on black, made her look a bit like Cruella de Vil . . . from the neck up, anyway. The apron-covered day dress, sagging support hose, and black orthopedic shoes created a completely different image. Still, as she ranted and raved, I gave up on my plan to prove her sanity.
The boy took one look at her and took off running. She 113 started off after him, the shoes giving her an added advantage.
“Rosa, you don’t want to end up in jail!” I called out as she crossed over onto his property line. That stopped her cold. She planted both feet on the sidewalk and shouted in lyrical Italian as the kid headed into his house, Pop’s basketball in hand. So much for thinking they might be willing to strike a deal.
Bubba pulled off his cap and scratched his head. “I ain’t never seen a kid talk to adults like that before. That boy needs a serious comeuppance.”
“No kidding,” D.J. agreed. “But I somehow doubt he’ll ever get it. Something tells me he runs the show over there.”
“No doubt,” I said quietly.
We stood there in silence for a few minutes, hoping the little thief would return. No such luck. We eventually made our way back through the early afternoon traffic to our front yard. The conversation vacillated between contacting the kid’s parents and letting him keep the basketball. Both options left me feeling nauseous—especially when I saw the look in Pop’s eye as he shuffled up the drive and into the house.
As soon as we reached the veranda, D.J. glanced at his watch, and his eyes widened. “It’s ten after one. I have to get back to work.”
“Me too,” Jenna said. “We’ve been gone way too long.”
As D.J. turned to leave, something caught my attention. A black limousine pulled into our driveway and came to an abrupt halt just a few yards away from us.
“Are you expecting company?” I asked Mama.
“No. I don’t know who that is. But what a car!”
A tall and stately driver, dressed in a black tuxedo, white dress shirt, and black bow tie, climbed out of the driver’s seat. His dark moustache and neatly edged goatee complemented his formal attire. He tipped his cap to us, then opened the back door of the limo and reached inside, coming out with something rather large covered in a colorful cloth. My mind reeled at the possibilities.
The well-dressed stranger approached our sweaty crew with the contraption in hand and posed his opening question. “Is there a Mr. Lazarro Rossi here?”
My uncle hobbled his way forward, cane in hand. “I am Lazarro Rossi.”
“Ah. Very good.” The fellow smiled and introduced himself as Joe Barbini. “We meet at last. Mr. Lucci speaks of you often.”
“Salvadore Lucci?”
A gasp went up from everyone in the family as Uncle Laz’s old friend was mentioned. I watched as my uncle’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Barbini nodded. “I’m sorry to tell you Mr. Lucci has suffered a stroke and will be in rehab for several months.”
“Oh no! Poor Sal!” Uncle Laz shuffled about with his cane in hand, moaning in passionate Italian about how he had failed his friend on a thousand levels. How a better man would have won Sal to the Lord by now.
Mr. Barbini listened intently and nodded politely until Laz reached the end of his speech. “Mr. Lucci has asked that Guido stay here with you. Until he recovers, that is.”
“Guido?” Uncle Laz’s brow wrinkled.
Mr. Barbini pulled the cloth away to reveal an ornate cage with the most exquisite green and red parrot inside. As soon as the bird came into view, a string of curse words escaped his beak, followed by an ear-piercing, “Go to the mattresses!”
“What in the world?” I took a step toward the cage but stopped in my tracks as Guido lifted his leg and made a noise that sounded just like a machine gun going off.
Aunt Rosa let out a bloodcurdling scream and looked as if she might faint, which sent D.J. rushing to her side. God bless that cowboy from Splendora.
The noise finally stopped. For a moment, no one moved. Mr. Barbini, looking more than a little embarrassed at the bird’s behavior, finally broke the silence. “My apologies. Guido’s had a long drive from Atlantic City. Carsick, you see. Now, I’m not making excuses for his behavior, but I’m sure he’s exhausted. And he doesn’t do well with change. Never has.”
“Am I to understand you drove all the way from Atlantic City in a stretch limo . . . to bring us . . . a bird?” My mother turned to him with a look of horror on her face.
“Yes, that’s right.” Mr. Barbini nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
“But, I’m confused.” Uncle Laz gave the parrot a careful once-over. “Why did you bring him here, of all places?”
The limo driver set the birdcage on the veranda and cleared his throat. “Mr. Lucci explained that you’ve always been like a brother to him. You’re the only one he trusts.”
We all turned to face Laz. His eyes welled up with tears once again.