Wiseguys In Love (21 page)

He'd missed his grandfather's funeral, last year.

He took a step back.

“Well fuck you, too, George,” he bellowed. He unzipped his fly and peed all over the electric gate.

An hour later, he'd made it into town. He was grimy and sweating and the sizing from the new shirt and suit was making him itch. He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but they stuck halfway in the matted, snarled mess.

He stood on Main Street, watching the bakery open up.

The smell of fresh bread made him nauseous.

It was too early to buy clothes. He walked down the corner to a pay phone and dialed the only person he knew would still be up at this hour: his coke dealer in East Hampton.

*   *   *

Tony drove up to the main entrance of the Plaza. He leaned on the horn and watched Mikey and Michigan walk down the carpeted front steps. She was wearing jeans and a shirt. That meant that she must have gotten undressed. His eyebrows nearly met in the middle as he frowned.

He didn't like this one bit.

Michael opened the door for her and she got in the back. And then Tony watched Michael walk around the car to the front seat and get in next to him.

Tony felt his face relax. Naw, he was being stupid, he decided. Mikey was like a fuckin' Boy Scout. He would never …

Tony pulled away from the curb.

“Your mother's?” he asked.

Michael nodded to him.

“Can we stop for some coffee?” Michigan asked, leaning forward. Tony grunted and pulled away. They stopped short at the light and Michael sniffed for a moment. He looked over at Tony and discreetly sniffed again.

The nutmeggy odor of Old Spice filled his nostrils. He leaned back over as Tony shot him a glare.

*   *   *

“Ma?” Michael yelled out as he opened the front door.

He heard the sound of her footsteps running out of the kitchen.

“Michael? Where have you been?” Her voice was frantic.

“I'm fine, Ma. Don't worry,” he said, walking down the hall toward his bedroom.

“Whatta you mean, you're fine? You stay out all night; you don't tell me where you've been.…”

He stood in front of his dresser and took his tie off.

“And who is that girl in the car with Tony?” she continued as he threw his tie on the bed.

He watched her reflection in the mirror as she immediately picked it up.

“I been up since five—” she continued, opening the door to the closet and placing the tie on the rack.

“You always get up at five,” he countered, taking his shirt off.

She turned and remained rigidly still for a moment.

“I go to church. Confess my sins,” she said with an edge in her voice, which stopped Michael. “Who is that in the car?”

“Lisa's nobody—”

“Lisa? You got a girl?” His mother's eyes were round.

“No, Ma, it's not—”

“You got a girl? How come you never told me you got a girl?”

“She's not my girl. She's—”

“You gonna marry this girl? Is she Italian?” His mother was rattling away as she took the shirt off the chair. He watched her walk around him to the hamper, looking down at her white hair as she moved about.

“No it's—”

“She's not Italian?” she interrupted.

He took her by the shoulders and grabbed them, turning her around to look at him.

“Ma, she's not my girl. I don't have a girl,
capisce?
She's just—” He cut himself off, realizing that there was no good way of putting it. “She's just nobody. She's from outta town.” He nodded down to her and let go of her small shoulders.

“Whatta you mean? Why you got some girl from outta town in your car?”

He opened his mouth, but she continued. “Where were you last night? How come you didn't come home? I want to talk to you, Michael Antonio. You come inside to the kitchen.”

“I don't have time. I have to—”

“You don't gotta do nothing but talk to me,” she said in the same quiet, icy tone she'd used a moment before. “Inside,” she added, and left the room.

It was too early for him to keep up with her. He changed into a fresh suit and walked into the kitchen. She was busy filling a kettle of water on the stove. He sat down and looked at her as she turned on the fire under it.

“I want to know what you been doing with Tony. I want to know now.”

“Ma, I can't—”

“I know what you been doing,” she interrupted, and he looked up at her, startled.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

“I know what you been doing for Solly,” she said, opening the refrigerator.

He leaned back and stared at her for a moment.

“You don't know.”

She glared at him, took down a creamer, and filled it.

“Since when do you doubt your mother's word?” she snapped at him, then put the milk back in the refrigerator.

“I been keeping up with everything you do. What, you think I don't care? Or I don't see what you're turning into?” She opened the cabinet. “Black coffee or brown?” She was angry.

“Whatever you want,” he said carefully.

She pulled out a can of espresso and put it on the counter.

“I'm making black coffee. You look tired,” she added, and turned off the water on the stove. She went over to the espresso machine with the coffee, and he waited. He waited until he couldn't stand it anymore.

“Okay, Ma, what do you think you know?”

“I know you been riding with your cousin Tony, acting like some big-time wiseguy for that jedrool, Solly. I know he wants you on the inside now, and you gonna start making you bones.…” She measured the coffee into the small strainer, tamped it down with a teaspoon, and screwed it back into the machine.

“I'm right?”

Michael felt his breath stop. He tried to organize his thoughts, but he was working on too little sleep. He cleared his throat.

“And how do you think you know this?” he asked, trying to blow it off.

Another icy glare from her eyes caught him off guard.

“You think I don't know? You think nobody talks to nobody else in this neighborhood? What, you think 'cause I'm an old woman and you're some big-time wiseguy I don't know what I'm talking about? You think I don't know Solly's mother for all these years? And you know what I felt when she comes over to me yesterday before mass and congratulates me on you making your bones?”

Michael felt a chill up his spine.

“This I hear from a stranger? This my own son won't tell me? How did you get so stupid? Eh?”

“Ma, I didn't—”

He barely saw her move across the floor, she did it so quickly. He barely saw the back of her hand as she swung it into the side of his face, giving him a stinging smack. He held his jaw and stared up at her, stunned.

“Ma-a-a-a,” he heard himself whine in a voice he hadn't used since the last time she'd slapped him, when he was ten.

“Stunadze! Ah-fah-nab! An-baffa-fongoule!”
she screamed in a deep Neapolitan accent, imitating her dead husband and brushing the underside of her chin quickly with the back of her hand, then cutting the inside of her elbow—essentially, giving him the finger in Neapolitan as she continued telling him to go to Naples, go to hell, telling him what a fuck he was.

He sat holding his jaw, staring frozenly at her. He'd never seen her explode like this. Her accent became softer, Piedmontese, as she began her own scolding. She was playing both parts. She was all over him, waving at him, and he felt himself press into the back of the chair. As he tried to glance away from her, he caught sight of Lisa standing at the doorway of the kitchen, silently staring at them.

His mother yanked his chin back, so he faced her, and began asking him questions.

“English? Ma?”

“Why? Now you some big-time hoodlum, you gotta learn your Italian, no?” She raised her hand above her head and was just about to whack him again when she froze, looking at the doorway.

“Um…” He heard Lisa clear her throat.

His mother stepped back, embarrassed, and looked at the floor. She grabbed her apron.

“I … gotta…” she said, rushing past Lisa.

Michael stood up from his chair, looking at his mother's figure disappear down the hallway.

“What's going on?” she asked, looking at him.

“Excuse me,” he said, darting around her.

He made it up the stairs in almost no time. He walked down the hallway and tapped on his mother's door. There was no answer. He tapped again.

“Ma?”

“Partire!”
Her voice came back to him as stinging as the smack from her hand, and he could hear her crying.

He opened the door and walked in. She was sitting in her rocking chair, rocking back and forth with intense force. It creaked on the floor, and Sophia began breathing in time to it, fast and angry.

“Ma, please … I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he kept saying over and over.

She finally focused on him.

“You're spitting on your father's grave. You're spitting in both our faces.”

“No. I didn't mean—”

“The only thing your father ever wanted, ever worked for was you being a good man. An honest man. And you wait until he dies to show this disrespect to him? A good man like him?”

“My father was a hoodlum, Ma. My father was one of them. He wasn't a goddamned bookkeeper!” he blurted out, and he watched her stop, stunned. And Michael knew he'd just broken a big rule.

Sophia stopped rocking. It was over. The whole lie was over. She stared at the tiny lines in Michael's face, around his eyes. It was like looking into Vincent's face. In fact, she thought, Vincent was probably Michael's age the first time they'd fought about him being a wiseguy.

She stared deeply into Michael's eyes, suspiciously, and he looked away. She looked down at the floor. Was that the answer? She was going to have to go through the rest of her life now having this same fight with her own son? If he'd figured out that Vincent couldn't have been a bookkeeper, then what must he have been doing in the last twenty-four hours to come to that truth? She stared back up at him. She slowly stood up and crossed her arms over her chest. She was not going to go through this again.

“Yes. Your father was not a bookkeeper, and we fought about it for thirty years. I hated what he did.” She stared him straight in the eyes.

“Then why didn't you leave him?” Michael asked, staring straight back at her, testing.

“Because I loved him and I couldn't,” she answered angrily. “But why I did or didn't leave your father is none of your business. What is your business is what he—what we—wanted for you, and that was not to have to do what he did. And he worked hard to make sure you had that choice. Your father didn't have that luxury. He wasn't sent to good schools. Your father could barely read English,” she confessed, then stopped herself, realizing that she was using Vincent's own words about what he did for a living to defend him to his son.

“Why are you doing this, Michael? You're not stupid. You got brains … you got a college education,” she said, coming at him, holding her hands out.

“I blew it. Don't you understand? I can't get into another law school with my record,” he said, and began to feel the lump in his throat grow big and painful.

“So you do something else. You could be … you could be an accountant—”

“No-o-o.”

“There's no shame in being an accountant.”

“But you wanted better—”

“No, we wanted honest. There is no shame in working—even if you never make much money, there's no shame in it as long as it's honest work. That was the one thing he wanted so badly for you. To get away from the Sollys of the world. Don't you understand?”

He sat down on her bed, staring at her.

“I know I been all wrapped up in grief over your father these past two years, and I ain't been keeping an eye on you … but you gotta stop this, Michael. Before you get in any deeper.”

“I want it over, too, Ma, believe me.” He stared at her and slowly nodded.

She felt herself exhale and take in a more relaxed breath. Then she frowned at him.

“Then stop playing around. Take the nice girl from outta town and get the hell away from that big stupid cousin of yours,” she said. Then she walked over to the window, waiting for him to leave.

He nodded to himself and quietly left the room. Well, everything was out in the open for the first time in his life. She was right. It was a choice, and he'd been given the tools to make it. He suddenly felt strong inside, a feeling he hadn't had in several years. He had the choice. He still had a choice.

But just run off? No.

As Michael walked downstairs slowly, he dangled one leg off of each stair for a moment before putting his weight on it. Lisa was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching when he came down.

“Are you all right?” she asked after a moment.

He nodded and kept staring at her.

“Why aren't you in the car?” he asked, finally focusing in on her.

A confused frown swept over her face. “Tony's … acting weird.”

“Uh-huh,” he said quietly.

Michael stood there, turning over everything in his mind. He didn't know exactly what he was going to do. Tony was a big problem. He was not going to stop stalking Lisa's boss just because Michael wanted to turn over a new leaf.

Solly wasn't going to throw his hands up and go along with the new-leaf theory, either.

Geddone—well, he didn't know what to do about that, either. He was in on it. Sooner or later, the body would turn up. Probably sometime Monday morning. Maybe that would appease Solly.

He doubted it.

“Let's get in the car,” he said, taking Lisa by the arm.

She stopped and began to pull back.