Forty-Eight

I climbed the small pulpit on the altar at St. Stephen’s Church in the North End and gazed out at the audience of mourners. The audience gazed back, faces empty, silent, waiting for me to say something about my mother’s life. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out the sheet of paper from last night, still blank. I traced my finger around the whiskey stain. My head pounded. I didn’t know what to say.

St. Stephen’s Church sits on Hanover Street in the North End. It’s down the street from Sal’s haunt at Cafe Vittoria, and across the street from the famous Paul Revere statue. If Paul Revere’s horse were to jump off his pedestal and gallop across the street, he’d run right through the St. Stephen’s doors.

Bulfinch designed the church in 1803 for a Congregationalist parish. It looks more like a town meeting auditorium than a Catholic Church. Jesus did not hang from an outsized cross over the altar. Instead, a little platform allowed the speaker to see to the back row. I stood on the platform facing two columns of long pews. An empty balcony ran around the church’s long rectangular space. The organ filled the balcony across from me. The woman sitting at the organ rested her hands in her lap and glanced down at her watch.

My mother’s casket lay before me, its contents positively identified by dental records. Auntie Rosa had picked the casket. She sat in the second row, Cousin Sal on one side of her and Cousin Adriana on the other. The women wore black dresses and long, somber expressions. The rest of the Rizzo/Testa/Goldman clan sprinkled itself through the church. Uncle Walt sat in the middle of a pew, his face upturned toward me. Jael and Bobby sat together in the back. Hugh Graxton sat behind Sal.

Sal crossed his arms and frowned at me, his index finger tapping his elbow. He was right. I needed to say something.

“My mother made gravy for me—” My throat dried. I coughed. Started over. “She made gravy for me the night she died. I have always thought of her gravy as her special gift. It was the best gravy in the world, and she was the only one who could make it. Auntie Rosa’s gravy is excellent, but it’s different. My gravy is okay, but it’s not as good.”

Where was I going with this? I looked out across the audience.

“The thing is … she had her problems. You know. Her housekeeping wasn’t the best.” A nervous chuckle skittered through the family. “She sometimes lost her temper. She sometimes took things personally. Even so, I always knew that she was doing her best. I always knew that she loved me the best way she could.”

Grief filled my throat and pulled my cheeks tight. “She was my only mother. There’s nobody else who will love … I’ll never taste her gravy again.”

I looked into audience. Bianca was sobbing into her husband’s shoulder. Auntie Rosa dabbed at her eyes. Sal’s mask had cracked and he reflected my grief. Their emotions flooded into me, overwhelming my defenses. Tears slid down my cheeks. Bobby handed Jael a handkerchief. Jael was crying. Seeing her break destroyed my last defense against the emotions that pulsed within me. I knew what to say.

I let the rage overwhelm me. “But we all know that she didn’t just die!”

My family settled in for the last lines of a good Catholic eulogy. They expected me to say how my mother didn’t just die, that she lives on in Jesus. That this woman who never went to church, didn’t make confession, and didn’t believe in Communion, was going to bypass all the church’s dogma and go straight to Heaven. That she was in a better place. That her suffering had ended. They expected me to spout the comforting cliches of a funeral service, but I didn’t.

“My mother didn’t just die,” I repeated. “She was murdered!” I pounded my fist on the lectern. “Someone burned down my mother’s house and murdered her!” I pointed at the casket. “She had many faults, but she didn’t deserve the life she got. She didn’t deserve her hoarding sickness. She didn’t deserve a cheating husband, and she didn’t deserve a son who visited her only twice a year. She deserved so much more than any of that. And she is going to get it.”

The crying in the audience had stopped. They stared at me, eyes wide.

“And I swear, with God as my witness, that I will find whoever murdered my mother and kill them.”

I folded the stained, blank paper, put it in my jacket pocket, and looked from person to person. Every one of them dropped their eyes as mine met theirs. Every one, that is, except Jael. When we made eye contact, she met my gaze and nodded her confirmation.

I leaned into the microphone. “May this be the will of God.”