By Thursday morning, the rain had moved off and the sky was so cloudless and blue that the sun hurt your eyes. It was a perfect New England fall day. The air was fresh and clean, carrying a tang of the sea, and the weatherman had predicted an afternoon high of at least 75 and more of the same for the weekend.
I stood on the balcony – really not more than a slightly overgrown window ledge– in my third-floor North End apartment and craned my neck out and down to the right where, on a nice clear morning like this, I could see a tiny sliver of water in Boston harbor. The street below was quiet and empty at this hour, except for Enrico sweeping the sidewalk in front of his little bodega.
The North End is Boston’s Italian neighborhood and I was the only non-Italian I knew who lived there. As usual, there was a good story behind the explanation. It had been about four years ago, as I was working a late shift at the paper, when a call came in. It was a friend of a friend of the cousin of a nephew once removed of Carmine Spoleto, the capo of the North End mob. It was made known to me by the caller that a close relation of Carmine’s, a young man named Cappaletti, had met an unfortunate end that morning. Something involving a business disagreement in a grimy apartment in Everett. Anyway, the unfortunate stiff now lying in the city morgue had a young wife and daughter, and Carmine didn’t want them to read any scurrilous gossip in the man’s obituary the next day.
“Why me?” had been my question. It turned out that the dead Cappaletti was a distant cousin of Gino, once a famous placekicker for the old Boston Patriots, and it was felt someone in sports could put the proper spin on the young man’s obit. What the hell, I wasn’t busy and it sounded fun, so I called the morgue, talked to the city desk and ended up writing a ten-grapher. I made much of the fact that the dead Cappaletti had played football a couple years at Boston English High School, and made him sound like he coulda been a Heisman contender if only he’d gone on to play college ball. Which, of course, he couldn’t since he got busted for armed robbery in his senior year and got sent to Concord for three-to-five. I left that part out and waxed eloquently about how he was considered an up-and-comer as an executive in the family business.
It was a couple days later that I got another call from the friend-friend-cousin-nephew expressing Carmine’s heartfelt appreciation for my work. It’s always a plus to get good reviews from that quarter. I mentioned that I was looking for a new apartment, something in the $800 a month region, and within an hour an envelope arrived on my desk with a key and an address to the third-floor flat in the North End. I took it.
In one of the little ironies that make life so interesting, it turned out that my downstairs neighbor was the widow Cappaletti and her daughter Victoria, who was now six. I had never mentioned to her my role as her husband’s obit writer, and she had only mentioned him to me once, when she told me he was dead. Mary Jane had quickly become a dear friend, who watched over my apartment when I was out of town, which was a lot, and invited me over for coffee and canolli when I was home. Victoria was a doll who never failed to brighten my day.
I had dropped in on them the night before, along with a hopelessly fat and lazy cat named Mister Shit who had adopted me, for some strange reason. I had been planning to take him on a one-way drive out to Milton or some other fancy suburb, but hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet. Mary Jane said she and Victoria would love to cat-sit for the weekend.
“C’mon in, Hacker,” she had said. “I’m making us a cappuccino. ‘Toria! Mister Hacker is here with his kitty!”
Victoria’s little feet had pounded down the hall and she burst around the corner, all dark curly hair and ribbons. She immediately took control. She took Mister Shit in her arms and cradled him like a baby, cooing and clucking at him. Mister Shit looked resigned to his fate.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Mister Sh—.” I caught myself just in time.
“That’s a strange name for a kitty,” Victoria said seriously. “I’m going to call him Ducky. C’mon Ducky, let me show you my room.” She disappeared.
Mary Jane cocked an eyebrow at me and then grinned. She was in her early thirties, with a pretty face and fine black hair swept back in a ponytail tied with a red ribbon. She wore a man’s white oxford shirt knotted in front at the waist and tight blue jeans that showed off a trim, athletic body. We took our coffee into the living room and caught up on the neighborhood gossip.
Mary Jane and I had always kept our relationship on the “just friends” level, by mutual consent. She had often told me of the attempts of various men to get her to go out, and while we laughed together at their feeble attempts, I always heard an undercurrent that said “hands off – not interested.” And, I knew that she was connected, in whatever strange, labyrinthine way, to that other world that kept the streets of the North End safe from punks, but could in other circumstances be dangerous to one’s health. So I always kept it nice and light.
I told her about my plans for the weekend. And about Jack Connolly.
“Rich, huh?” she took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Think he’d want my number?”
“He’s the last playboy of the western world,” I said. “I’m not sure he’d appreciate what you have.”
“Oh, thanks a bunch,” she said, sticking her tongue out at me. “You mean, he wouldn’t like a stay-at-home mom with a six-year-old and no life.”
Just then, Victoria came around the corner pushing a baby carriage. Inside, Mister Shit, wearing a pink bonnet, was lying on his back and looking strangely content.
Mary Jane and I laughed aloud. A few minutes later, as I was leaving, I turned to her and said, “He wouldn’t appreciate the love that keeps this place together.”
She punched my arm, lightly. “Didn’t think you’d noticed,” she said. “But nice recovery, anyway.” She was smiling as she closed the door.