Joe and I were going out to a quiet neighborhood bar, glass of wine, a chance to talk. He surprised me with a small envelope. “Put it someplace safe.”
“Joe?”
“Theater tickets.“ He grinned. “I am taking you out for a real date night soon.”
“Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?” I was laughing, joking, but he didn’t exactly laugh with me.
Then he took the envelope back. “On second thought, I’ll keep them safe better than you will.” As we left, he said, “So how was your trip? It seems no one ended up in custody.”
I giggled. “No, no, we were all okay. But my dad? He went to church with Phyllis. Church! My dad! You have no idea what a shock that was. Just being friendly, he said. Just establishing better ties with Phyllis.”
“But did it work? Better ties, I mean.”
That was Joe, making me think things through again. I found myself saying, “Yes, it probably did.”
“And what else did everyone get up to?”
My stories about the personalities involved in the visit, and my reactions, took us until we got to the wine bar. Joe is a good listener and we all need someone, sometimes, who will let us prattle on.
We ordered and then he looked back at me. “So, what I get is, one, Chris got an excellent project going and, two, you may have something useful for your current responsibility and, three, your father and your daughter charmed a woman you’ve always called a dragon. Sounds like a good weekend’s work to me, worth the trip.”
“I hate to admit it, but you could be right.” I hadn’t even put that into words for myself. “She wasn’t quite such a dragon this time. Phyllis, I mean. But I’m glad to be home.”
He smiled and tilted his glass toward me. It felt good—no, it felt wonderful, to have someone in my life who would let me unload like that and at least pretend that he liked it. How long had it been that I had been going it alone? Certainly I had friends but I did not have a lot of time for socializing and never assumed they wanted to hear every little detail about my life. Joe wanted to.
It took me a while to notice he wasn’t saying much about his.
On our second glass, with a plate of mixed Greek appetizers, I asked, “Is something wrong?”
He looked wary.
“I’m prattling on and you are hardly saying a word about yourself. Is it me? Am I being too self-centered?”
“I wasn’t sure… ah, hell. I’ll tell you. My sister’s come back to town.”
“Which one? The high school principal? Or your other sister in Connecticut? Oh, wait. You don’t mean back, like, moving to Brooklyn?” I’d met the sisters. It seemed unlikely.
“Not those sisters.” He wouldn’t look at me as he said it.
I sat back. “Okay. What in hell are you talking about?”
He was silent for a very long time. I gulped down almost all my wine before he finally answered, “I have three sisters, not two. Jan in Merrick, nice house, principal, dentist husband, grown kids. Kate in Hartford, college kids, insurance exec, and so is her husband. Not them. I have another one. Alix, the baby.” He smiled, but only a little. “She’s about your age.”
“And she’s the baby? Seriously? I am no baby.”
“Kidding.” He put up placating hands. “I was kidding.” Long pause, then he went on. “You don’t know Alix, though. She is…was…ahh…not quite adult.” He stopped talking, took a bite and a drink.
“So my two big sisters, they were the good kids. Did well in school, had careers, families. The lives our folks planned for us.” He stopped. “I was the one who was off the blueprint. In and out of school, took a few tries to find a career. Married for about five minutes, no kids. Myself, I know my life has turned out fine but they worry about me.” He shook his head. “Not too much room for other ideas about life with my parents.
“But Alix? She came along late, when they were, I guess, tired of raising kids.” He rubbed his forehead, that classic gesture of weariness. But Joe was never weary. I kept my mouth shut for a change and waited.
“She was the family wild child. Bad boys and alcohol, mostly. Artsy ideas with no focus. First rock guitar, then painting T-shirts. I found her at fifteen, with a six-pack, weed, and a boy old enough to have his own car.”
“What did you do?” To a parent like me, it was a scary story. But he wasn’t her parent. “How old were you then?”
“Twenty-four, maybe. I dragged her out of the car, told the kid what would happen if he ever came around again. It turned out he was twenty, not a kid, and I marched her home.”
“She went, just like that?”
“Hell, no. She yelled and cried, but stopped when I pointed out she was lucky it was me and not our dad.”
“Joe? You didn’t!”
“I did. Of course I wouldn’t handle it that way now.”
“I was…I wasn’t…”
“Yes, you were. You were wondering if I had lost my mind, right? Well, I was not much more than a kid myself then, but enough older to see she was getting herself into deep trouble.”
“How’d that work out?”
“I honestly thought I had scared her into behaving, but she only got smarter about covering it up.” He stopped there, ate a bite, sipped the wine. “At seventeen she ran away to Florida with a different boyfriend. To live on a citrus farm! She had a baby that she gave up for adoption, all before she was old enough to vote. Not that she probably ever did vote. Or go back to school or hold a regular job or any of those usual things.”
“But, wait. I don’t understand. Did you hear from her over the years? You? Or anyone?”
“Me. I did. I was the other confused one, at least for a while, so she thought I understood. She did show up at our grandmother’s funeral, surprising all of us. Stood at the back, cried, and disappeared before anyone could talk to her. She sent me a postcard, after, saying only ‘Sorry. I couldn’t stand to have them all lecture me.’ And now I get the occasional phone message about how she will be on the street if I don’t send her money right away. Always to be paid back when the next big idea works out.”
“Do you? Send the money?” He turned red. “Of course you do. ’Cause you are still her big brother.” I jumped up and hugged him, right there in public. He looked pleased and embarrassed in equal parts.
I sat back down, adjusted my clothes and my expression. “Does she? Ever? Pay it back?”
“Never. The plans always hit a bump, never her fault, and then she disappears again for a while.” He stopped for a long time, pursued the last of his spinach pie across his plate with a fork, and poured another glass. “She creates chaos whenever she shows up. She’s my baby sister and there have been whole years I did not know where she was living.”
“And now?”
“She is back. Single. Living at the Y.”
“Good grief.”
“She left me a message. She’s in town, will be here awhile, when can we get together? She sounded…she sounded normal.” His voice sounded strangely far away. “No slurred speech or incoherent statements this time. Here.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll play it for you.”
He was right. She sounded like an ordinary person trying to make a date with her brother. Except for the last sentence in a shaky voice. “I have a goal. It’s to clean up the past.”
I didn’t know what to say. At least I didn’t know what to say that would be safe. Joe usually has that quiet assurance that goes with being such a physically capable guy. I had never seen him thrown until tonight.
“So did you? Call her? “
“Tomorrow.”
“This call was not…”
“I know. She sounds like a normal person. No way for me to tell you how unlikely that is.”
“Is this all on you? I mean, your parents? Your other siblings?”
“Well, I’m not telling anyone, at least until I know what she is up to. My folks don’t need the aggravation at this time in their lives.” He took a deep breath. “Actually they got that ‘tough love’ counseling at some point and told her not to show her face until she got her life in order.” He saw the uncensored reaction on my face. “Uh, yes, possibly they could have managed that better.”
His parents lived in a Florida retirement community and I knew were slipping from active retirees to failing health.
“Truth is, she broke their hearts again and again.”
What could I say to that? If it were Chris off the deep end, destroying her life, I didn’t know how I would bear it. Or handle it. At that moment, with Chris safe not more than a few blocks away, I was having trouble breathing, merely thinking about it.
Joe finally smiled at me. Almost smiled. “So all that drama between you and Chris?” He waved his hand. “And you and your dad? It’s nothing, so much fluff.”
“Not fluff. It’s completely different. He’s the one…” If he wanted to distract me, he was succeeding.
“I know, I know. Just saying, there are problems. And then there are real problems.”
“I get it.” I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I got his point.
It was time to go, drinks done and snacks serving as a meal. He held me tight as we walked home, but he wasn’t exactly there, not dependably present, as he always seemed to be with me. His mind was somewhere else. Maybe back in the past with his sister.
Good night was a hug and quick peck.
“I’ve got to get home and just think out my approach for that call in the morning. I might call in the middle of the night for an edit. Think you can deal with that?”
“Any time.” I owed him a few middle of the night calls.
I went in thinking about this surprise, this new look into Joe’s life. And I thought I knew all about him.
I almost knocked on Chris’ door for a girl-to-girl chat. Then I came to my senses and settled for calling good night.
***
The next morning, Mrs. Pastore and I walked over to an old coffee shop, a New York tradition with an enormous menu, friendly waitresses, and low prices. The food was mediocre but with so many choices, it was easy to avoid the leathery eggs and order a safe corn muffin. A pot of coffee was there in front of us before we even asked. It was followed almost immediately by a tiny, white-haired smiling woman in big puffy coat.
When she was done unwrapping scarf, gloves, coat, and hat, Mrs. Pastore did her job. “Annabelle, this is Erica, my neighbor. Erica, say hello to Annabelle Conti.”
Mrs. Conti smiled warmly. “Did I know you from Bishop Loughlin? I used to see so many coming in and out, sometimes I miss a few names. No, wait. Your kids would be too young to be there before I retired, and you…are you from the parish?”
“Annabelle, the whole world does not think in parishes. Erica is not from around here and is not even Catholic.”
She smiled cheerfully. “This neighborhood is so full of newcomers, and why not?”
This warm woman was not the bitter ex-wife I had expected. I did not know how to raise the touchy subject of her ex-husband’s murder in this ever-so-homey setting, where she was ordering pancakes with a side of sausage.
Mrs. Pastore had no such scruples.
“Annabelle, so listen…have you been watching the news?”
“You mean about Mike? Poor man.”
“Don’t tell me you still have warm place for him!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. But he was the father of my child.”
I tried to say how sorry I was and she looked at me with a faint smile.
“Any feelings I once had died a long time ago, dear, but still, it was, and it is, a shocking event.”
“Young Erica was there when it happened.”
Annabelle turned a strange expression on me, curiosity and steel combined.
“I’d like to know what happened.”
When I was done, she nodded. “Sounds like his life caught up with him somehow.” She looked first at me and then at Mrs. Pastore. “Oh, don’t look so shocked.” She pointed at me. “You told about that meeting. Well, that was the way he behaved to everyone. Hasn’t spoken to his brother in decades, and they were in business together once. And our own daughter? That’s a whole story in itself.”
Her face and voice were as placid as a pond in June. “To tell the truth, I always figured if anything like that happened to him, Jennifer would be involved.” She winked at Mrs. Pastore. Winked, talking about a murder. Had I strayed into Through the Looking Glass?
“I knew it.” That was Mrs. Pastore, very excited. “I can see it all. She wasn’t that cute cupcake anymore and he got restless and they must have had a pre-nup, so she…”
Not a Wonderland story. A soap opera.
Mrs. Conti said it. “Honey, you watch too many soap operas. I wasn’t talking about Jennifer for real. Good grief.” She turned to me. “I meant it like ‘I could kill my husband, he forgot we had dinner plans.’ Like, it’s an expression. And I know she’s said it. She’s said it to me.”
Mrs. Pastore put her coffee cup down with clattering emphasis. “Now that, I could never get. Not the part about killing him, the other. The two of you talking.”
The waitress brought Mrs. Conti’s plate, my corn muffin, and Mrs. Pastore’s toasted bagel with double butter.
Then Mrs. Conti went on, “I grew better acquainted with Jennifer over the years. You could almost say we have become friends.”
Mrs. Pastore shook a disapproving head.
“Because Mike and I split up so long ago! I admit, I was deeply shocked at the time and then I was angry. I mean, to me, marriage is marriage, a Blessed Sacrament and lasts forever. Being happy?” She made a dismissive gesture. “I knew lots of unhappy marriages. So what? God joined them.”
“Well, then…?”
I couldn’t wait to hear the rest.
“So when he came to me and announced ‘I want more, before I’m too old,’ his bags were already packed! It took some time to sink in that I didn’t miss him. Not even a little. I like living alone. Who knew? I redecorated my house to my own taste, and played the music I liked, and I lost the complaints, the bossiness, the tantrums.”
“She isn’t making it up.” Mrs. Pastore’s face had turned grim. “I saw the tantrums a few times. Everyone at Loughlin did.”
“In public? He threw tantrums in public?”
Annabelle nodded slowly. “My daughter used to say, ‘Mom, why do you let him?’” She shrugged. “I was brought up to be a good wife. The suits to the cleaner, taken by me, and the cotton underwear, ironed by me. The cooking, oh my God. The porchetta or the sausage and peppers on the table at six on the dot, whether he made it home or not. Every. Single. Night.” She shook her head. “It took me a while to learn I could have scrambled eggs for dinner.”
“What did you say to her then, to your daughter?” I had to ask.
“Then? I said, you show respect for your father, like I was brought up to do! So she did, except for a few screaming fights of their own over the years. But she married the opposite type of man, someone who thinks she’s the cat’s meow. She wears the pants in that house and he is fine with it.”
She laughed and after a surprised moment, so did we.
“Were they…did they…your ex and your daughter…”
She flung a dismissive hand in the air. “After a while—and a few heated discussions, I admit—her and me, we agreed not to talk about him.”
“And now?”
Mrs. Conti shrugged. “She had kids. He is the grandfather.” She paused. “Was the grandfather. He wore her down and she let him see them. But she had lots of limits, lots of rules. She didn’t like him much and didn’t trust him at all but he knew better than to bully her. ’Cause then, you know…” She made a scissors gesture. “She would cut him off the kids. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Tough broad, my little girl. And Jennifer helps with that, too.”
Mrs. Pastore gave her a shocked stare. I might have too.
“That hussy? Now come on. I remember how you cried and cried when Michael left. She made a fool of you, stealing him like that.”
She shrugged, then smiled. “That was then. Now we have a lot in common, it turned out. Because…” She paused dramatically. “Because, she found out her big-shot lover was not such a bargain as a husband. Ha.” She shook her head. “And who understood that better than me? Silly girl that she was, she thought he’d always want her, because she was the ‘not Annabelle.’ Ya know? Not old, not skinny, not Italian, not Brooklyn. Not a housewife. But down the road, the wrinkles outran the Botox.” She shook her head. “She was young and, oh, ambitious! I did hate her then. Today? Life is too short.
“Strange, isn’t it? And now he’s gone. I can’t say I even feel anything. Jennifer doesn’t either.” She caught Mrs. Pastore’s sharp look. “Yeah, yeah. I talked to her last night.” She threw her hands up. “Ah, enough about that old s.o.b. And you can be sure, I never would have used that phrase in the old days, either, any more than the big D word, divorce.”
She summoned the waitress, ordered more coffee and an assortment of Danish pastry for the table. Then she turned to me and asked a barrage of questions about my time in the neighborhood and what brought me here, and where Chris went to school. I explained about the financial aid that kept her in private school and how I had needed the after-school care when she was little.
A change of subject had been processed.
It wasn’t until we were leaving, collecting scarves and gloves, that she murmured, “The old bastard had it coming. I’m surprised no one did it sooner.”
Before we separated, Annabelle gave me a warm hug, “Call me if you need to know more about his career.” She shrugged. “I don’t have to watch what I say anymore. And after all those years at Loughlin? It became a habit, helping young people.” She patted my arm. “Now you can be one of my youngsters too.”
I was a long way from being a youngster, or a Catholic high school student, but I took the offer for what it was, kindly meant.
As soon as she was out of hearing, Mrs. Pastore exploded to me.
“I can never decide if she is a saint or an idiot!”
“What?”
“She could be both. I would find her crying in the staff bathroom sometimes. He had the nerve to show up at his daughter’s graduation with that floozy. And they weren’t even divorced then. Annabelle had to sit there and smile in front of everyone. They all knew her, of course, because she worked there.” She shook her head, then added, “She wore a little tiny skirt and high, high heels.”
I gave her an astonished look.
“Not Annabelle! Don’t be ridiculous. The second Mrs. Conti. Future second at that time.”
His private life made for an interesting story in itself but it would not help my work. I continued to think about it as I walked home, though. The first Mrs. Conti was very different from what I had expected. I wondered what the second Ms. Conti might be like, but that was idle speculation. I had no reason to ever meet her or even to follow up this area of his life. I was writing—trying to write—a scholarly dissertation, not a soap opera, I reminded myself sternly. I might even have ordered myself to get a grip.