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She’s Puerto Rican. That much is a fact. Even though she was born in New York, her parents Artie and Ramona were childhood sweethearts in Rio Piedras, so Stefanie is one hundred percent Puerto Rican. That’s why I could never figure out her infatuation with the whole English literature thing. “Tu eres una Boricua. Why do you give a crap about all this Shakespeare shit?”
It didn’t end there. She loved all that Charles and Diana bochinche and she used to get weak between the knees over Michael Caine. “Mmm, his accent is sooo sexy,” she’d drool.
Michael Caine?
According to Ramona, her fascination began as a little girl when she saw a Popeye cartoon where he was a Medieval Knight defending Olive Oyl’s honor against the lecherous Bluto. It blossomed from there. Anything with knights, princesses, kings and queens, she just ate that shit up.
Whatever.
At least she got me through those required literature classes that I had no chance of staying awake in.
One year, when we were married, we even went on a vacation in England.
England!
I busted my ass collecting insurance premiums in the most dangerous projects in the South Bronx and Harlem to spend two weeks “relaxing” in the grey skies of London walking in and out of ancient castles with no air conditioning and no Piña Coladas.
“Ooh, isn’t this exciting?” squealed Stefanie.
“” Yeah, babe, this is great,” I lied, wondering where the fucking beach was.
After the kids were born, she began the annual tradition of dragging all of us—and I mean all of us; the kids, Dominic, Patti, the twins, Artie and Ramona—to the Renaissance Festival in Upstate New York. None of us wanted to go, but Stefanie insisted that the kids would love the costumes, the accents, and the jousting. “They’ll have a great time,” she’d say. “And it’ll be educational too.”
Of course when they were babies, the kids had no choice. But once they got older, they’d always try to find a way out of it. Davey suddenly had a “big game” he had to participate in and Jessie planned sleepovers at her friend’s house in White Plains, with hopes of being too out of the way and inconvenient to pick up. Nice try, Jessie. “Don’t worry,” said Stefanie. “We’ll pick you up bright and early, so be ready.” You didn’t think you were going to get off that easy, did you, Jessie?
On the morning of our Renaissance excursions, Dominic and I
would load up our station wagons while Artie and Ramona would board his car and the twins would go in mine so the cousins could all be together. When Davey, being the only boy cousin, found himself being the brunt of the girls’ constant teasing and giggling, he started riding with Uncle Dom.
That whole Renaissance Fair thing still goes on to this day. They hold it in Tuxedo, New York, which back then was a foreign country to me, like everything else outside of the Bronx and Manhattan. That’s why Dominic’s car led the way with me following close behind.
The first time we went, I remembered seeing signs that said “Sterling Forest”. Something about the name bounced around my head like the logo in a Windows screensaver and I repeated it to myself to see if I could jar something loose out of my memory.
Sterling Forest.
Sterling Forest.
Nothing came to mind, even as we arrived.
The kids were still babies so Dominic, Patti, Stefanie and I were all pushing strollers as we entered the park. Jessie was around three, Davey was a newborn. Dominic and Patti’s twins, Aida and Penny, were turning two.
Upon walking in it became quickly apparent that whatever Sterling Forest was before, it wasn’t anymore. And while the knights, wenches, Robin Hoods and Merry Men all did their best in welcoming us and creating a festive atmosphere, to me, something about the park was a little unsettling. Directional signs pointed towards attractions that were long gone and the park’s benches had weeds growing through the seats. Yet, in my mind, the park remained eerily familiar.
“What was this place?” I asked Dominic.
“It used to be some kind of like botanical gardens in the sixties,” he replied.
Stefanie observed as I studied the area, searching through my memories. “There’s something about this place,” I said.
To my right was a big pond, abandoned, just like everything else around us. It had a small wooden bridge going over it, but it probably wasn’t sturdy enough so a barrier blocked the entrance to prevent anyone from crossing. Below the bridge, weeds grew out of the water and brushed against the bottom. I paced a couple of steps, observing the park’s state of disrepair before stopping cold. Aha!
“What’s wrong?” asked Stefanie.
“I was here.”
“When?”
I stepped away from the stroller towards the pond, leaving Jessie with her grandparents. Davey, in the other stroller, started crying so Stefanie picked him up and followed me to the edge of the pond.
I sang under my breath, staring into the water. “Oh, Dani, oh Dani, ohhh...”
I was weirding Stefanie out. “Nicky?”
I nodded my head. “The paddle boats.”
“What paddle boats?”
“Oh, Dani, oh, Dani ohh...”
Those weren’t the real words that the Four Seasons sang. That was Papi’s version. He was sitting in the paddle boat with my three-year old sister on his lap, singing his own words along with Frankie Valli. “Oh Dani, oh Dani, ohh...” He was a beaming, proud Papi, un hombre bien orgulloso, smiling, holding his chin up high, nodding hello to everyone in the paddle boats that passed.
“How you doing there, Nicky?” he called out. I was a few yards away paddling in another boat with Mami.
“Mami’s letting me steer,” I answered.
Stefanie’s voice brought me back to the abandoned pond of the present. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I was here a long time ago with my family.” Another lifetime ago was more like it. Another life that almost seemed like it wasn’t mine. “It was so different then.”
Stefanie asked nothing further. Some topics are better left alone. Later we sat in a quiet, grassy area while Stefanie fed Davey. The adults, Dominic, Patti, Artie and Ramona all sat together as the girls played beside us. Dominic was blowing smoke to me and Artie about how Dave Kingman of the Mets was a better hitter than Mike Schmidt of the Phillies. The ladies were fussing over cute little Davey. Giggles from Jesse, Aida and Penny echoed in the cool September air.
Hearing enough of Dominic’s half-baked baseball analysis, I stepped away and sat beside Stefanie. Papi came to mind as I absorbed the harmonious sounds of our family. Un hombre bien orgulloso. Even the sound of Dominic grumbling, “Fuck Mike Schmidt!” was drowned out by the serenity of the voices surrounding me. All of us together, all of us happy. Even Dominic saying “Mike Schmidt can kiss my hairy ass” caressed my ears like the tune of a soft violin. Like Papi so many years before in the same place, I was enveloped in everything wonderful that life had to offer.
I leaned my head towards Stefanie, kissing her on the back of the neck, breathing in the fresh clean scent of her hair.
It smelled perfect.