IT WAS EMBARRASSING for both of us. I mean, extremely. I went straight into an ugly, snot-streaming cry, and neither of us had a handkerchief or a tissue. I just slobbered on his shoulder, babbling incoherently about the Noronic and my dad and bloated bodies. When I had nothing left but hiccups, I stepped back and tried to apologize.
“Your shirt’s a mess.” Sniffle, sniffle. “Sorry.”
Ethan shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. That bad, eh?”
I shrugged back at him.
“Home?”
“Sure.” We walked to the streetcar stop in silence, rode it in silence and then walked all the way to 75 Hazelton in silence. I was grateful to him for that. I tried to tell him that he didn’t have to walk me home—it was daylight, after all, and he was already late.
“Nah, it’s okay.”
It was pity. I was an exceptionally superior judge of pitying facial expressions, and I could tell that Ethan was wearing one.
I hated pity. We, all of the Seven, hated pity. Never pity an orphan.
“So, uh, thanks,” I said when we got to Grady’s. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”
Yup, I was pretty sure it was pity.
I was dragging myself up the stairs to spend the rest of the night in my room and have a proper, private pity party when Grady stepped out into the hall.
“Toni? Would you like to join me for dinner?”
I came down a couple of steps. Was she feeling sorry for me too? I wanted to feel sorry for myself all by myself.
“It won’t be a regular occurrence, so don’t get all excited or count on it, you know. It’s just that I baked a whole chicken and it looks like Eddy went straight to the bars after his classes, and I know you usually grab something at the club so…How about it, just you and me, kid? You don’t have to talk about…well, you know. I mean, you’ll have to tell me at some point, but not now.”
“That’d be real nice, thank you.” I followed her through the parlor door and into the kitchen. Grady was a little less done up than usual. She wore a peach-colored sheath; it looked like she had raided Jackie Kennedy’s closet.
“Not here, dear. We’re going to eat in the dining room. Go sit; it’s all ready.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’d never been in the dining room before, just glimpsed it through the glass-panel doors. There was a massive mahogany breakfront that held the fine china and elaborate figurines. The table, which could seat at least twelve, was covered with an ornately embroidered tablecloth. There were two settings, one at the head of the table, nearest the kitchen, and a setting to its immediate right. It was set formally, with wineglasses, water goblets and an array of forks, spoons and knives, linen napkins, a crystal water jug and silver salt and pepper shakers. We’d been taught at the orphanage how to set table for all manner of occasions. Miss Webster had drilled it into us hard. I guess the thinking was that we’d likely end up becoming maids, waitresses or well-trained housewives. Grady kept swanning in with trays—chicken, potatoes, vegetables and a salad.
“Sit, dear, sit. I’ve just got one more thing.”
“You’ve set a beautiful table, Grady,” I called out after her.
She waltzed back in with a large glass of wine in one hand, and her cigarettes, lighter and an ashtray in the other. “That’s thanks to my third husband. He’d beat the crap out of me if I had the fish fork out of place.” She took a sip of her wine and grimaced as she sat down.
“I’ve never seen you drink wine before.” I poured water for both of us.
She took another sip and shuddered. “I don’t. Can’t stand the stuff, but I’m turning over a new leaf, and wine’s supposed to be good for you. The French drink it nonstop. It doesn’t even count as booze.” She glared at the glass.
“Did you buy a bad bottle?”
“Shouldn’t be.” She took another sip and shrugged. “It was the most expensive bottle they had, but what do I know? Want some?”
“No, thank you, ma’am, I don’t drink.”
“’Course ya don’t. Well, let’s not stand on ceremony. Dig in!”
It was delicious. She had stuffed the chicken with lemons, of all things. Grady really and truly could cook. She and Joe would have a lot to talk about. And so did we. In between mouthfuls of food, I told her that Scarlet Sue said hi and then, before I knew it, I told her everything. She only got up once to replenish her glass, at which she was grimacing less with every sip. I told her about my mom and me and the fire and my dad and searching for him and…finding him.
“Doesn’t get much grimmer.” She shook her head. “So what now, kid?” she asked at the end.
“I don’t know, Grady. I honestly don’t. Scarlet Sue said she’d write. They only gave us a few minutes to talk. I don’t know what happened after my dad died. Thing is, I don’t know that I want to know.”
“But you’ve come so far. I’ll grant you it’s a heart-hurting story. But it’s your story. You gotta find and face it head-on, or…or you’ll end up making a mess of things.”
Was she talking about me or her?
She didn’t know how badly the story ended. How could she? “No, you don’t understand. Look.” I pulled the scoop neck of my T-shirt down far enough that the scars would be visible.
“Oh honey, what the…?”
“I’ve always had ’em. They’re nothing now compared to how they used to be when I was little.”
Grady quietly took another sip.
“I get these nightmares,” I continued, “but I don’t know if they’re nightmares or if I’m actually remembering stuff. A fire, glass shattering and my mom, my mother, hurting me bad.”
“Eddy mentioned the nightmares. I am so sorry, but you still—”
“See, I’ve hated her all my life for doing this to me and then deserting me, but I guess I maybe understand how she could have turned crazy or whatever. Truth is, Grady, I don’t know how much more of my story I can stomach.”
Grady put down her glass, got up and hugged me. “You can take a lot. You got to, and so do I.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll be right back. I need a proper refreshment for this.” Grady returned with her more familiar highball glass in hand and kicked off her high-heeled sandals. “Remember how I told you how the hole changed my first husband, pretty much left him in shreds? He even divorced me!”
I nodded. I knew that part already from Big Bob. Where was she going with this?
“Well, that’s on me, kid. It’s all on me.” Before I could open my mouth to challenge her, she put up her hand. “See, Mario did kill a guy his papa wanted hit, and there were probably others, but it was me who got him put away. Nobody knows to this day except me, Bobby and now you. I tipped off the cops on the sly, just enough to lead them to the truth, just enough to nail him.”
“Grady, I don’t—”
“Shut up and let me tell it.”
I shut up.
“We were the big love match, right? Ask anyone. We all ran together as kids, Mario, Bobby and me. But Mario was faster and smoother with his moves, so like a turnip I fell for him, and we got hitched. I honest to God didn’t know how deep he was into…well, his father’s business.” She took a swig and then leaned back and looked at the chandelier, as if for guidance. “I’m not saying that there wasn’t love, and lots of it, but the boy had a temper. As it turns out, most of ’em had tempers.” She snorted. “I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it. I was mouthy, but you know, at the end of the day, I didn’t deserve it. No woman does. And Bobby, well, Big Bob was always there for me, and that made things worse with Mario. The cops were sniffing around about the Carmine hit, and I got wind that Mario was going to go after Bobby next. Mario was crazy jealous. His best friend…my Bobby.” She hugged herself. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
“I did it,” she said. “I put my own husband away. So that’s my story, kid. Time I faced up to it.” She downed her glass. “And you know what? I’d do it again.” She seemed to be talking to herself more than me. “Yup, that’s the sticky truth of it.”
I wished more than anything else in the world that I was older and could say smart, solid words that would comfort her. But I wasn’t, so I didn’t.
“I’m sorry, Grady.”
“Yeah, well…” She examined her glass. “My point is, you make choices…just own up to them. Even when it seems that life is making all the decisions for you, you’re still making choices, kid. But, for all that”—she sighed—“the fifties were my era, my time. You should have seen me then, Toni. I was something back then.” She drained her glass.
How could she not see herself? “No, Grady! You’re something now! You’re gorgeous and good through and through. You didn’t have to open the door to me way back in June. A girl right off the bus from nowhere. You’re the only one who did, Grady!” My voice trembled. “The only one! Where would I be without you?”
She waved her hand dismissively.
“If you could only see yourself through my eyes or Big Bob’s eyes or, well, just about anyone in Yorkville, you’d never have a single doubt about being something again.”
“Yeah?” She turned her head away, but I caught a raised eyebrow before she did so.
“Yeah!”
“Okay, okay. Look, all I’m saying is, don’t wait until you’re forty to face up to your story. Now go away.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I started clearing the plates. It seemed to me that life was definitely making all the choices when it came to me, and lousy ones at that. I washed everything in short order and did a quick cleanup of the kitchen. Grady did not move or speak. When I got back to her, I suggested that she’d be more comfortable in her armchair in the living room.
“You still here, kid?”
“Yes, ma’am. Let’s go to your chair.”
I got her settled, got her cigarettes and then covered up her stocking feet.
“You’re a good kid, Toni.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grabbed my arm just as I was turning to go.
“I mean it, Toni. Find out the rest of your story. You’re strong enough for whatever it is. Find it and face it. You’re young. Don’t hide; don’t dodge. It catches up. The shadows cripple you.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Promise!”
I nodded as I reached for the door.
“And Toni?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Quit ma’aming me, damn it!”