Fair Play (35 page)

Nice weather seemed to trigger a primordial response in New Yorkers' brains to go outdoors. In adolescence, she'd feel guilty if she curled up inside with a book when the sun was shining, her mother acting as if she were committing seasonal treason. Now she watched as a man about twenty paces away twisted himself into a variety of yoga postures, his suppleness both awe-inspiring and disconcerting. Closer, a woman in a thong bikini lay basking, her head bobbing up and down in time to her Walkman.

Theresa could smell her tanning lotion.

The scent triggered memories of taking the train out to Long Beach for a day by the ocean with her family. She could still feel the pure joy of sitting on a blanket beside her mother, sipping Hawaiian Punch from a Dixie cup and munching on an Oreo. The sun baked wet sand onto her feet and a stiff breeze would cause a momentary chill, prompting her to draw her beach towel tighter around her drying shoulders. Those were good times. Innocent times. She missed them.

As if reading her thoughts, Reese stretched out on the blanket beside her. “It'll be beach weather soon.”

“You like the beach?”

“Love it. Love the beach, love the ocean, love to sail.”

“I've never been sailing,” Theresa admitted, feeling oddly embarrassed. Maybe it was the casual way Reese had said it, as if sailing automatically went hand in hand with the ocean.

“Really? You've never been sailing?” Reese was peering at her in surprise.

“I'm from
Bensonhurst,
Reese. We don't sail. We eat and fight, remember?”

“I'll have to take you, then.”

Theresa smiled. “That would be nice.”

Her cell phone rang. Excited, certain it was Janna or one of the Dante brothers responding to her ecstatic messages, she practically sang “He-lllloo-oh!”

But it wasn't.

It was her brother Phil, bawling as if his heart would break.

Their father was dead.

 

 

“Terry ? Are you
all right?”

The light, almost timid touch of her sister-in-law's hand forced Theresa back into her body. They were standing just inside the door of the room where her father was laid out, greeting visitors who had come to pay their respects.

Theresa nodded slowly. “I'm okay, Debbie,” she murmured.

A little over twenty-four hours ago, she'd been lying on a blanket in Central Park, fondly remembering past trips to the beach and imagining future sailing expeditions. Now she was trapped in the present, holding back an ever-threatening avalanche of tears at Ricci and Brothers Funeral Home. The intervening hours had been surreal: a frantic discharging of necessary tasks interspersed with jags of all-consuming grief. If she didn't need to be strong for her mother, Theresa wouldn't be here. She pictured herself tied to a bed and being given a shot to stop her screaming.

Following her brother's phone call, she and Reese had rushed to Bensonhurst. By the time they arrived, the ambulance had come and gone, removing her father's body. Phil, Debbie and the kids were there with Theresa's mother. Theresa took one look at her mother's grief-crumpled face and proceeded to break down. She and her mother sat together sobbing on the sofa until Aunt Toni, her mother's sister, arrived to take her place.

It was no comfort that her father had died at home in his sleep. He was dead. Never again would he tenderly call her
“Cara mia.”
Never again would she make a special trip to Balducci's for him to buy the Pernigotti nougat he loved. No more teasing about finding a husband, no more needling about being too big for her britches and abandoning her roots.

Her poppy was gone forever.

The world would never, ever be the same.

Reese's presence was more a hindrance than a help. He was as uncomfortable being there as her family was having him. Theresa cut him loose, promising to call him when she returned to the city later that night. Escorting him to the door, she tried to ignore the relief in his eyes where she had hoped to see sympathy.

There was so much to do. Phil appeared unable to cope with any of it. Given the luxury of time, Theresa would have been annoyed. But they didn't have that luxury. The only thing Phil could handle was calling Dante's to arrange for the post-funeral catering. Everything else was up to Theresa and Debbie.

After deciding which funeral home to use, Theresa took her mother down to make the arrangements. She didn't believe in out-of-body experiences, but she was certain she'd had one in the sitting room of Ricci Brothers. From a vantage point high near the ceiling she watched herself sitting stiff-backed with her mother, while Fabio Ricci, who looked like an aging Frankie Avalon, talked to them about embalming and music and mass cards and viewing hours and rosary beads and flower arrangements. She saw herself trying not to gasp when Ricci quoted casket prices to them and watched her own eyes wince when her mother said she wanted fat, mean Father Clementine to perform the funeral Mass at St. Fin-bar's.

They decided on a two-day wake, with both afternoon and evening viewing hours. Her mother chose a solid oak casket with natural finish and a tan crepe interior for $3,500.00.
Whatever Ma wants,
Theresa kept repeating to herself, trying not to imagine what the markup on the coffin had to be.
Whatever Ma wants.

Back home, there were calls to make, directions to give, obituary information to feed to the paper. Theresa was profoundly grateful Debbie was there. As useless as Phil was, that's how helpful Debbie was. It was Debbie who called relatives and friends and arranged for a double plot while Theresa helped her mother pick out what her father would wear.

Opening the door to his closet, Theresa's knees weakened as the familiar, lingering scent of her father, still clinging to his clothing, filled her nostrils. She clenched her jaw hard, determined not to break down. “The blue suit?” she suggested, her voice little more than a croak. Her mother simply nodded then sat down, dazed, on the bed, her hand lovingly smoothing the indentation in the pillow where just hours before her husband's head had rested.

That night, by the time she got back to the city, all Theresa wanted to do was sleep—for days, months, years. But she couldn't. Overtired and knotted up with grief, she called Reese as she had told him she would. He said he couldn't make the wake, but would be there for the funeral. Theresa was too tired to protest or ask why. She knew why. He would be off on business, happily destroying small start-ups like her own.

She spent the rest of the night trying to get her mind to stop racing. Sometime around 4 A.M., her body surrendered and she plunged into sleep. Yet when she awoke four hours later, it was as if she'd had no sleep at all. She showered, dressed and drove straight back to her mother's house. When the time came for all of them to go over to Ricci's for the first viewing, her mother broke down, saying she just couldn't bear it. Phil and the kids stayed behind with her while Theresa and Debbie went to the funeral home.

And now here she was, lying to her sister-in-law about her mental state and thinking she might suffocate from the overpowering scent of the floral arrangements ringing the room. Faces swarmed in and out of focus, their mouths expressing grief, sorrow, sympathy and regrets. So many different words, all inadequate. Theresa heard herself thanking them but it was someone else talking, someone who was calm and composed. Feeling almost drugged, she let Debbie lead her to a nearby couch.

“I'm going to get you a glass of water, okay?” Debbie whispered. “You look awful.”

Theresa nodded listlessly while Debbie slipped away. That was when Michael Dante appeared.

“Hey, Theresa.” Voice gentle, he sat down beside her on the couch, taking her hand. The warmth of it shocked Theresa. Up until that moment, she hadn't realized how cold she was. “I'm so sorry about your dad,” he murmured sincerely.

Theresa squeezed his hand. “Thanks.” She lifted her eyes to his. The compassion that had been missing in Reese's shone in Michael's, his green-blue eyes moist with genuine sorrow.

“Phil called about the catering. Anthony and I want you to know it's on the house.”

“Michael—”

“No Michaels. Your father was a loyal customer of Dante's for years. This is something we want to do out of respect for him. Don't worry about picking the stuff up, either. We'll swing by the house while you're all at the funeral and set up.”

Theresa nodded gratefully. “Okay,” she whispered.

Debbie reappeared, bearing a glass of water in a plastic cup. “Here, Theresa, drink this. It'll do you good.”

Theresa took the cup unquestioningly and drank. Debbie was right. The water made her dry throat feel better. “Thanks,” she murmured, handing the cup back.

“No problem. Hey, Michael.” Debbie leaned over and kissed Michael's cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem.”

Debbie regarded Theresa. “I just heard from Phil. He, Ma and the kids are on their way over.” With that she left to greet a new arrival.

“You okay?” Michael asked, concerned, his thumb unconsciously rubbing hers.

“No,” Theresa admitted, not wanting to look at him. She was afraid that if she did, she would burst into tears. That was the last thing she wanted to happen, especially with her mother on the way. She needed to be strong.

Michael tightened his grasp of her hand. “What can I do?”

“You're doing it,” she told him. “Just by being here.”

Michael glanced toward the front of the room. “Will you be okay if I go and pay my respects for a minute?”

Theresa nodded, forcing herself to watch him go. Since arriving, she had assiduously avoided the open casket. To her, the body on display at the front of the room wasn't her father. It was a husk, a wax replica. That wasn't how she wanted to remember him. And yet, she felt somehow disloyal avoiding him.

Michael kneeled on the small, velvet prie-dieux before the casket and made the sign of the cross. Theresa was about to turn away, but then something caught her eye. She squinted; there was a hot orange price tag stuck to the bottom of Michael's left shoe. Biting her lip to stifle a smile, she waited for him to rejoin her on the couch.

“You forgot to take the price sticker off your shoe,” she whispered.

“What?” Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Michael lifted his left foot and peeled off the offending item, rolling it into a tiny ball and shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. “Thanks,” he said, looking mortified.

They settled into silence, Theresa rising to greet two distant relatives who arrived.

“Helluva lot of people here,” Michael eventually observed.

Theresa's eyes began to well up.

“Your father was loved.” Without asking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hanky. “Here.”

Taking it, Theresa pressed it to her eyes. She did not want to lose control in front of Michael. She did not want to lose control in front of anyone. Yet what Michael had said was true. Her father
was
loved. The room was packed, and the number of flower arrangements bordered on the obscene. She could have done without the giant crosses made of rosebuds and the stopped clocks, but it was the sentiment that counted, not the tastefulness of the arrangement.

A commotion out in the hallway caught her attention. Children's voices, her brother's voice admonishing. Phil was here with the kids and her mother. Theresa stiffened.
Be strong.

Rising, she excused herself and went to her mother. Seeing Theresa, her mother collapsed wailing in her arms.

“It's okay, Mama,” she whispered, struggling to hold her up. She shot an imploring glance at Phil for help, but he himself was sobbing in his wife's arms. As best as she could, Theresa maneuvered her mother into the sitting room. Michael Dante jumped to his feet to help her.

“It's okay, Mrs. F,” Michael soothed. “Whatever you need.”

Together, Theresa and Michael tried to lead her toward one of the couches along the wall, but she shook her head vehemently. “No. I need to talk to my Dominic.”

Theresa felt her chest constrict as they helped her mother toward the front of the room. She tried to block out the looks of sympathy and pain and the sound of snuffling tears.
Thank God for Michael,
she thought.

As gently as they could, Michael and Theresa helped her mother into a kneeling position in front of the casket. Theresa could no longer avoid looking at her father. He was inches away, his face peaceful, his large, calloused workman's hands folded serenely on his chest with a string of rosary beads entwined in his fingers. Her breath hitched, and she went to move away. But her mother had other plans.

“Bambina,
please kneel with me.”

Trapped, Theresa knelt beside her suffering mother while Michael faded away.

“Look how peaceful he looks,” her mother noted tenderly.

“Yes,” Theresa managed.

Groaning with anguish, her mother reached out to touch the cold cheek before her.
“Ti amo,”
she whispered passionately, caressing her husband's still face.
“Il mondo e vuoto senza di te.”

Choking back a sob, Theresa translated in her head.
My love. The world is empty without you.

“He loved you,” her mother told her. “He was so proud of you.”

Theresa stared at her mother through watery eyes. “W-what?”

“I know he gave you a hard time about leaving the neighborhood and teased you about getting above yourself. But he'd tell anyone who'd listen: ‘My daughter graduated NYU. She runs her own business. We did a good job with that one, Nat,' he'd say to me. Your poppy loved you,
cara mia.
”