Destined (9 page)

I came in at nine and had coffee at
the kitchen table with Mr. Paradis while we discussed business and esoterica. He
was teaching me how to recognize the ebb and flow of life, the seasonality of
it. The metaphor of the
I Ching
is based on farming and politics, both of which involve assets and liabilities
that rotate in a cyclical manner. He said that this model, though it was
conceived over three thousand years ago, remains viable today. I was trying to
be more aware of the weave of the universe, the patterns underlying reality. My
anxiety level was diminishing as I began to see that things do not really
happen at random.

Henry, as he urged me to call him,
said that “magic” is all about using the invisible grid behind reality to
strengthen the energy pathways toward various preferred results. He approached
the whole idea in a scientific or mathematical manner. It was rather a lot for
me to take in, but I was starting to get the point.

When I thought about my weird dreams,
which had always forecast the future using the language of symbols, I could see
that at any given point in my life it had certainly been possible to intuit the
trends. If I did
this
,
and then
this happened
,
ultimately
that
was likely to result. The logic had a distinctly algebraic feeling to it.
Therefore, making something happen “as if by magic” was a matter of putting
together the right formula of circumstances and actions to inevitably lead to a
certain goal.

“Very heady stuff!” Henry patted my
hand as I scrunched up my face in skeptical bewilderment. “Tomorrow let’s
discuss physics, my dear. You’ll get the connection. All the great magicians in
history were scientists, you know. Take the alchemists, for example. And what
is astrology, really?
 
Not a fairy
tale, as many believe, but an attempt to blend scientific observation of the
natural world with intuitive analyses of the patterns of life. You’ll see,
you’ll see…” He chuckled and flapped his hand at me as he shuffled out of the
kitchen to head up the back stairs to his lair.

The shop opened at ten and I puttered
around there by myself during the mornings. When Siri came in at about
twelve-thirty, I talked her ear off for half an hour or so before taking my
lunch break. Then I usually headed over to Sorrentino’s to get something to eat
and sometimes walked to the little park down the street to sit in the sun and
relax.

Other days I ended up spending my
lunch break socializing. The second time I went into Sorrentino’s, a tiny woman
with curly white hair stood behind the deli counter. Mr. Sorrentino introduced
me to his wife. As I returned day after day, she and I grew better acquainted
and I realized what a hub the place was for local information.

Josephina Sorrentino, or “Josie” as
her husband called her, was the secret power behind their business. Her
traditional southern Italian cooking was renowned, not just in the neighborhood
but across the state. Her “Mama Sorrentino’s” brand of packaged dinners and
tomato sauce was a raving success, sold out by noon on the weekends. On
holidays, her special sausages were so popular they had to be ordered in
advance. Many people stockpiled her food in their freezers.

Early every morning, Anthony
Sorrentino (who she called “T”) started a huge pot of onions, green peppers,
garlic, herbs, spices and canned Italian tomatoes. It sat simmering on the back
burner. He mashed up a few anchovies and stirred them in, for extra flavor. The
sauce cooked all day at a very low temperature, uncovered, until it had reduced
down to a thick, luscious consistency that clung to the pasta with no need for
added tomato paste. One day’s sauce went into the dishes Josie made for the next
day’s sale.

In the small kitchen at the back of
the store was a work-scarred wooden table where Josephina dispensed wisdom and
philosophy while she cooked. I knew I had reached a certain level of acceptance
in the neighborhood the day she beckoned to me and brought me back behind the
deli counter.

“Sit,” she commanded, clearing a spot
at the table. I obeyed, looking around curiously.

Her brown eyes sparkled behind thick
black-framed glasses. She was so small that the big white chef’s apron wrapped
all the way around her twice. A little step stool next to the stove raised her
up high enough to reach inside the tall stainless steel cooking pots.

Taking a small bowl from a cabinet,
she opened the oven and fished inside with a long-handled spoon. Amazing scents
wafted out of the oven. Scooping out a dripping spoonful of something covered
with melted cheese, she deposited it into the bowl. She set the bowl in front
of me on the table, and pointed to a glass jar of spoons and forks.

“Eat,” she commanded, crossing her
arms and waiting. I chose a fork, and dug in.

It was a green pepper stuffed with
spicy sausage and mushrooms, oozing with tomato sauce and covered with a thick
coating of melted mozzarella.

I chewed, swallowed and sighed
blissfully. Josie smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

“It’s good,” she agreed. I thanked her
and took another heavenly bite.

She poured two cups of coffee and put
them on the table, then settled herself into the chair opposite me. The sleeves
of her black cardigan sweater were pushed up above the elbows. She regarded me
steadily as I ate, accepting my praise for her cooking in a placid manner, as
one who has heard it many times before.

When I finished the stuffed pepper and
raised my coffee cup, the real conversation began. Over the next half hour, she
skillfully extracted my entire life story, from birthplace and family history
to my most recent romance, to the saga of my previous job and its ignominious
finale.

Being quizzed by Josie was like
floating on your back in the ocean on a breezy day. By the time you sit up and
take notice, you’re in very deep water.

But she gave as good as she got. In
answer to my questions about her family and how she had met her husband, she
dished up a tale full of evocative details, with humor as spicy as her meat
sauce.

Anthony Sorrentino had come over from
Italy when just a boy of twelve, sent by his parents to live with an aunt and
uncle to take advantage of the economic opportunities he could access here. He
had lived in an apartment building right around the corner, one block up Market
Street. Josie was younger than he, and was literally the girl next door. Their
families were friends.

“Much younger,” she stressed. “When he
was a man of twenty, I was just fourteen, a young girl. He used to go around
with my older brothers.”

“All the girls were in love with him,”
she added, rolling her eyes dramatically. “They used to follow him down the
street.”

“But he liked you, eh?” I smiled.

“Oh no,” she protested, “I was just
the pesty little sister.”

“I didn’t think nothin’ of him,” Josie
said, snapping her fingers. “But I liked to have fun with my brothers, go to
shows, go hear some music, like that. They let me hang around with them,
sometimes. My mother would make them take me along.”

“So, you started to grow up and things
changed?” I asked.

“Not me,” she said scornfully, “I
didn’t change. I’m still paying no attention to him. But all the sudden he
starts looking at me, and then he wants to go on a date!”

She grinned and nodded her head,
affirming the unbelievable.

“I’m the only one, of all the girls,
who doesn’t care—and guess who is the one he wants to chase!”

She chuckled, crinkling up her eyes.

“So, you went out with him then?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head, “I
thought he was an old man! Way too old for me! By then he was, oh, at least
twenty-two. I pretended he was joking.”

That really cracked me up, as I
pictured her pretending not to know he was really asking her out. What a hot
ticket she was, as my Dad used to say. I wished I could have known her back then,
in the old days. I resolved to call my mother that evening and repeat the whole
story to her.

Josie told me Anthony had pursued her
for two more years before she took his suit seriously and agreed to a real
date. Six months later, they were married. A year after that, their first son
was born. Joseph was a lawyer now and lived across town. Their second son,
Robert, was a high school teacher. He lived upstairs with his wife and two
children. Josie explained that over their business, the house had been divided
into two separate apartments.

The third Sorrentino son, Rocco, ran
the pizzeria next door. He had bought the building, and lived in an apartment
over his restaurant. He had been married and divorced, and with no children.

“Rocco is single now,” she said,
looking over at me and obviously considering my likewise status. “He works so
hard, he never has time to get out. That’s why he didn’t come to meet you at
the opening night.” She seemed anxious for me to not be offended at his
absence.

“Well, if he learned from you he must
be a great cook,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she replied seriously. “All
my boys have been cooking since they were very young. It’s in the blood.”

She showed me some newspaper clippings
that proclaimed Sorrentino’s Pizza the BEST in the Valley, several years
running, and an article about Rocco’s efforts to obtain block grant money for
improving the neighborhood’s historic properties. A photo showed him standing
in front of his restaurant, leaning against the lamppost. He was a burly, good-looking
man in his late thirties, with dark thick hair and his shirt sleeves worn
rolled up like his mama’s.

Once I had been admitted to Josie’s
kitchen, I tried to stop in and say hello whenever I passed. I picked up all
kinds of information there about people in the neighborhood, heard wonderful
stories and met several new acquaintances while seated at her table.

Not to mention, the stuffed peppers.
The
lasagne
. The
spaghetti
bolognese.
The
osso bucco
, a stewed veal shank dish that Siri’s
husband referred to as “Awesome Bucco.” It was served on
orzo
pasta with steamed broccoli raab,
which Josie called “bitter greens.” She showed me how to make it and I wrote
down the recipe, but somehow mine never tasted quite as good.

When I would enter the grocery and Mr.
Sorrentino spotted me, he would smile and wave me towards the back, saying, “You
go see her now. She wants to talk to you.” He always seemed very certain of
this.

The only thing that Josie and I did
not seem to agree on was religion. Born and raised a staunch Catholic, she
fretted about her son Rocco’s divorce, and still referred to his ex-wife as his
“wife.” She told me when she was a girl, nobody would ever have considered
getting divorced, even if your husband abused you.

“Oh yes,” she said, shaking her head
sadly, “There were women who would have a black eye sometimes, “ she gestured, “Or
a mark on the neck, the arms. We didn’t say nothing about it, though.”

“Not that I’m saying it’s OK, that
kind of thing,” she added. She sniffed disapprovingly. “But still, I just don’t
like all the divorce.”

“It just doesn’t seem right,” Josie
said. “I know you kids think it’s OK. And sometimes even the Pope says it’s OK.
It just seems like, once you make the promise in front of God and everybody,
you should stick to it.”

“Sometimes things can get better, if
you stick to it,” she said wisely.

Apparently Rocco’s wife had not felt
the same way. She was living in Seattle now, with her new husband and baby.

One day I felt like having pizza for
dinner, so I stopped in across the street on my way home. I’ll admit I was
curious about Rocco Sorrentino. His mother talked about him quite a bit. It
obviously worried her that he wasn’t settled and happy like her other boys.

The pizzeria was full of people. It
was noisy and crowded. There were a dozen or so tables and booths in the back,
all occupied, and customers were lined up waiting for their take-out. I
inspected the menu options and prices that were posted on a large sign behind
the counter. Not bad. Some good choices. They had eggplant and mushrooms, my
favorite. I got into line to place an order.