The Queen of Steeplechase Park, page 12
“I came to see if you needed anything.”
One of the boys giggled.
“What’s for supper this evening?”
“Sicilian roast chicken with Tuscan dumplings, Reverend Monsignor.”
“You better get busy.”
A CUP OF JOE IN THE GLOAMING
“YOU DIDN’T SAY ANY such thing!” Mrs. Concannon cried as she folded chopped rosemary and plucked thyme into a dumpling batter.
“Yes, I did. And I think it almost killed him,” Bella said as she trussed a chicken.
“I wish I could have seen it! I think I would have peed in me bloomers!”
“I nearly did!”
The two ladies clutched each other in a fit of laughter until a persistent rapping on the kitchen window made Bella turn to see a familiar face hovering on the other side of the leaded glass.
“Joe!” she screamed.
Long Joe. Lean Joe. Eager Joe.
The Portuguese cowboy, hatless and smiling a chaw- toothed smile.
In the rectory yard, the two of them sat on a stone bench under a blazing maple tree sipping cups of coffee as the sun set behind the church steeple, making everything glow like it was dipped in eternity.
“Why aren’t you up in Massachusetts with Connie and your baby, Joe?”
“We moved back down to Jersey about a month ago. Connie wasn’t doing so good up there. And neither was I, to tell you the truth. We’re living at the factory now. With your family. Your papa got me a job on one of the assembly lines next to Tony. It really stinks, but it’s a steady living. As soon as the day guard leaves, I’m gonna jump over your papa into the gatehouse. Connie’s helping Lulu with the cooking.”
“How’s that going?”
“Everyone holds their nose when they eat.”
“How’s my mamma?”
“The same. She sleeps all the time and says nothing.”
“How’s Little Luigi?”
“The five-and-dime caught him stealing last week. Your papa took a belt to him real good. Poor kid hasn’t stolen anything since, I don’t think.”
The church bells clanged.
“Why are you here, Joe?”
“I figured you were gonna need someone to be there for you when the time came. And I figured it might as well be me.”
Long Joe. Lean Joe. Sweet Joe.
“I talked to that young priest,” he continued. “The one who looks to be about Luigi’s age.”
“Father Michael?”
“Yeah. What a wet sackcloth he is.”
“He’s really nice. He was the only friend I had here until I started cooking.”
“He made me talk to the old monsignor.”
“That man thinks I’m a witch.”
“He asked me if I was the papa of your bastard baby.”
“What did you say?”
The tips of Joe’s ears blushed red. “I said yes.”
“Why did you say that, Joe?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to protect you, I guess. That old pervert laid into me for a good hour. I never heard so many Bible verses in my entire life. Then he made me get on my knees in front of him and confess all my sins.” Joe was quiet for a few minutes. For the first time, Bella noticed his fingernails. It was clear that he bit them. They looked like they were gnawed down to the cuticles.
“Joe, are you okay?”
Joe placed his empty coffee cup on the bench between them. “Connie’s pregnant again.” He looked at Bella. His blue eyes were hard, the color of the sky just before a storm enters the atmosphere. “I don’t want to have another baby with your sister,” he confessed. One of his fingers was wedged between his teeth. He placed the other hand on hers, more for his own comfort. “I wish I was havin’ your baby with you. I really do.”
“I want you to leave.”
“What?”
Bella threw her empty coffee cup in the air. “Get the fuck out of here, Joe! Go back to your fucking wife and her fucking babies!”
“Bella, please …!”
“GETTHEFUCKOUTOFHEREGETTHEFUCKOUTOFHEREGETTHEFUCKOUTOFHERE!” she screamed until the baby in her belly did a backflip, until her brother-in-law jumped out of the rectory yard and his pickup truck peeled away.
THE FORTUNE TELLER’S PASTA
TWO WEEKS AFTER SHE was due, to try and forget about the fact that she was gonna have a fucking baby any day, Bella cooked like a demon.
“What do you call this?” Mrs. Concannon asked after they made boiled pieces of pizza dough in portobello gravy.
“Ricetta pizzicotti ai funghi.”
“Why, it’s nothin’ but globs of dough sittin’ in a pile of mushrooms!” the old woman sniffed. Then she took a bite. “Good Lord up in Heaven!”
When they made casoncelli, little pasta caskets, the old woman told Bella they were her favorite. “I love things stuffed with any kind of meat, especially beef.”
“Me too,” Bella agreed.
After they made scorze di mandorle, pasta seashells coated with tomatoes and peas, Bella told Mrs. Concannon about her childhood trips to the Jersey sea. She told her about her papa tossing her in the air above the waves, her mamma laughing and happy.
“This one I’m not gonna miss after you leave,” Mrs. Concannon admitted when they made cavatelli, fork-rolled little cylinders, tossed with broccoli, garlic, chili flakes, and grated cheese. “But I’m sure going to miss you.” The old woman reached out and put a quivering hand on Bella’s. “I’m gonna miss you and your delicious cookin’, me little darlin’.”
Not since Big Betty had anyone called Bella little darling.
After the two of them made testaroli, Mrs. Concannon taught Bella how to cheat at poker. They drank wine Bella swiped from the sacristy and giggled through several hands.
When Bella taught the Irish woman how to make lasagna bastarde, the old lady became quite sullen. “You know,” she admitted quietly. “I had a bastard baby meself.”
Bella stopped layering. “You did?”
“Oh, now let me see. It was years and years ago,” Mrs. Concannon confessed, barely above a whisper. “I was only about thirteen. Me, a thirteen-year-old girl, if you can believe such a thing. The da’s name was James. He went by Jamie. He was only a year or so older than me. He was me first taste of mortal sin. And it was glorious, believe me!”
Bella was afraid to breathe.
“I was a wild thing, just like you. Until me da beat it out of me.”
Bella tongued the gap between her teeth.
“As soon as me baby was quick,” Mrs. Concannon continued, “I was shipped away just like you. That’s how I came to be in America. I’ll never forget the long boat ride. The sailing was so many lonely days. After I arrived, me days were even lonelier. Especially after I had me baby and they took him away. I named him William.”
“Like William Powell?”
“Yes. But I called him Billy.”
“Like the Kid.”
“I held him only once. Then I never saw him again. I’ll never forget his wee face. It was the most beautiful face I had ever seen.” Mrs. Concannon stared into her pudgy hands. “I often wonder where he is.” The old woman was lost in her palms for a bit. Then she grabbed Bella’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry I called you stupid when I first met you,” she said. “You’re not stupid at all. You’re a wonderful, smart lass. You’re a gift from God and don’t ever let anyone tell you anything less.”
Bella hugged Mrs. Concannon hard and the two of them cried over the lasagna.
“Maybe you can still work here after your baby comes,” the old woman whispered in Bella’s ear.
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
That night, when Angelo appeared among the trees, Bella flew down to him again.
“Mangiami! Bevimi! Divorami!”
Eat me! Drink me! Devour me until I disappear again! Please!
The final dish Bella and Mrs. Concannon made together before Bella’s own little bastard arrived was uova da raviolo.
“In English, if you please.”
“It’s called the fortune teller’s pasta.”
“Fortune-telling is the devil’s doing!”
“It’s something an angel once taught me,” Bella said, remembering the day Big Betty LoMonico showed her how to make the magic pasta. “And now I’m gonna teach you because you’ve been such an angel to me.”
After mixing a big ball of dough, the best friends rolled out two large pasta sheets. They cut sixteen perfect rounds with large canning jars. On eight of them they walloped a healthy dollop of fresh ricotta cheese. Then they nested a bright yellow egg yolk in each, covered them with the remaining pasta pieces, and pinched them closed. After boiling one of them for three minutes, Bella gently ladled it onto a plate and dressed it with melted butter.
“How does it work?” Mrs. Concannon asked.
“Cross yourself and ask the raviolo a question, and when you break it open the answer will be found in the yolk.”
“Like readin’ gypsy tea leaves?”
“Exactly.”
Mrs. Concannon gasped and crossed herself.
“What do you want to know?” Bella asked, handing the old woman a fork.
Mrs. Concannon raised the utensil. She squeezed her eyes closed and crossed herself. “Tell me, oh raviolo,” she paused. “Will I ever see me son again?”
When she cut open the pasta, there was only cheese. The yolk was missing!
“I understand,” was all Mrs. Concannon said, lips trembling.
Bella said nothing.
“Might we do another one?”
“Yes.”
With her fork poised again, Mrs. Concannon crossed herself and closed her eyes. “Tell me, oh raviolo, will Bella be bringin’ a baby boy or a baby girl into the good Lord’s sin-filled world?” When she cut the pasta open the bright yellow yolk ran in the form of a perfect B. “Merciful heavens! You’re going to have a boy! Just like me!”
Just then the baby kicked in Bella’s belly. Her face crumpled and she started sobbing.
“You’re goin’ to have a son, me darlin’! Doesn’t that make you happy?”
“No! What’s gonna happen when he comes out of me?”
Mrs. Concannon grabbed Bella and rocked her. “There, there,” she soothed. “It’s all goin’ to be okay.”
“How can it be?”
To comfort them both, the old Irish cook made them the one thing she made best.
“What is it?” Bella asked when Mrs. Concannon handed her a plate.
“A grilled cheese sandwich. I made two. One for me and one for you.”
That night cries of “Fuck it out of me! Kill it! I don’t want to have this goddamned baby!” brought the old candle-carrying monsignor into the chancel of the church. When he saw Bella and the gardener fucking like demons under the giant portrait of the Francis Christ, he wailed, “Bella!” Then he grabbed his chest and dropped to the floor. This time he stopped breathing.
Outside, a lightning bolt hit the church’s bell tower.
Inside, Bella and Angelo jumped to their feet.
Outside, a blast of thunder cracked the sky open.
Inside, Bella’s water broke and gushed out of her belly.
Outside, another violent spoke of lightning illuminated everything.
Inside, Bella stood in front of the crucified Francis Christ and spread her arms wide. “HOLY SHIT! THIS IS IT! THE LITTLE BASTARD IS COMING!”
Uova da Raviolo
When Big Betty LoMonico taught
Belladonna Marie Donato this complicated recipe,
she advised her to use its potent power sparingly.
For the basic pasta dough:
3 to 4 cups flour
4 eggs
¼ cup Montebologna Olive Oil (the Olive Oil of Italian Kings!)
1–2 tablespoons water (more if needed)
For the raviolo filling:
½ cup grated Pecorino Romano
½ cup fresh ricotta
a pinch of nutmeg
salt and pepper, to taste
7 fresh eggs (six and one for luck)
For the raviolo sauce:
4 tablespoons salted butter
6 fresh sage leaves
1.Make a basic pasta dough by mounding 3½ cups flour in the center of a large wood cutting board. Make a well in the middle of the mound and add the eggs and olive oil. Using a fork, beat together the eggs and oil and begin to incorporate them into the flour. Once the eggs are incorporated, knead the dough until it is firm but springs back when pinched. Place the ball of dough in a bowl lightly coated with olive oil, cover the bowl with a towel, and let rest in a cool place for 30 minutes. Think about what you want to ask the raviolo. Pick your question carefully.
2.In a bowl, combine the ricotta and grated cheese. Season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg and mix well. Think about your chosen question as you mix. Set aside.
3.Lightly flour the board and knead rested pasta dough for 5 more minutes. Roll the dough into large, thin sheets and cut twelve large circles using a bowl (about six inches wide). Set six aside on a floured surface.
4.In the center of each of the remaining six, place a healthy dollop of the ricotta mixture. With the back of a spoon, hollow out a well in each of the ricotta mounds. Crack six eggs in a large bowl. One at a time, place a yolk in each well. As you do so, silently repeat the question you want to ask over and over again like a prayer. The yolks must remain unbroken. You can coat the edges of the pasta with a tiny bit of water to make sure they remain sealed. Cover each filled circle of pasta with remaining circles of dough and press the edges together.
5.Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Salt the water. Then, one at a time, with a spatula, gently place each raviolo in the water. Boil for 2 minutes. Repeat the question like an incantation, whispering it into the steam.
6.Normally, a raviolo is served in a browned butter sauce. Melt four tablespoons of salted butter with six sage leaves in a large pan or skillet over medium heat. Gently stir until butter becomes golden without burning. Lower heat to keep warm. When each raviolo is removed from water, place it in the pan and gently spoon butter onto it until lightly coated (2 minutes).
7.Once plated, humbly address the raviolo and clearly state your question. Cross yourself and blow a kiss to Heaven. Then respectfully cut it open and see what it has to say.
8.The raviolo always speaks the truth.
9.Thank the raviolo and enjoy your meal.
10.Buon appetito! Mangiare bene! Stare bene! Delizioso!
WHAT CHILD IS THIS?
A VIOLENT RAIN PUMMELED down as the parish car shot away from the church. The spinning tires were skating on steam. They were screaming.
“Where are you taking me?” Bella cried from the back seat. The pain in her abdomen was excruciating. “Where are we going?” She made a play for the grab strap hanging from the car ceiling but missed as Father Michael swerved around a blind curve, two wheels up, two wheels down. “To the hospital!” he hollered as the wheels of the car bounced on the slick ground. He handled it like an amateur rodeo clown.
“To the hospital?!”
“Someone from your family is meeting us there!”
“My papa?”
Not my papa, please.
“Hail, Mary full of grace!” the young priest prayed.
The car fishtailed and Bella’s insides clenched. “Son of a bitch! I think I’m dying!”
“You’re not dying! You’re just having a baby!”
Another blind curve. Up went the right side of the car, up went Father Michael, up went Bella, up went the baby, but like a banana bird hunkered in its hurricane nest, the little thing hung on. It wanted to tell its mamma not to worry. It wanted to let her know how much it was looking forward to meeting her. It wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay.
“I’ll get you there!” Father Michael yelled. “Pray I get you there!”
A blast of thunder boomed and every cell in everyone’s body, including the baby’s, seized. The little thing took a nosedive. The spine-twisting pain kicked Bella’s legs apart.
“I think it’s coming out of me!”
“No! Please! Close your legs and squeeze!”
“I can’t! It hurts too much! I swear it’s killing me!”
The car suddenly careened from one side of the road to the other, brakes screeching, rubber tires shrieking, baby diving, Bella wailing.
“Hold on!” Father Michael yelled. “Hold on and pray!”
He grabbed the magnetized plastic Christ attached to the dash in front of him and tossed it back to Bella. She caught it and hurled it at his head.
The car swerved and the baby dove again.
“Son of a fucking bitch!”
Father Michael flattened the accelerator to the floorboard and the car sped into the eye of the storm, into a pocket of absolute silence as dark and as deep as eternity.
Father Michael’s and Bella’s spirits left their bodies. Temporarily. They spun together in a tongue-tied pocket of mute, hair-raising hysteria.
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!
When the car popped out the other side of the storm’s core, it skidded up to the entrance of Saint Joseph’s Hospital, to the figure of a tall man standing under an umbrella, spitting tobacco juice into the pouring rain.
Long Joe, lean Joe, fearless Joe tossed the umbrella and jumped back like a jackrabbit. “Hey, fella!” He pounded on the hood of the car with his fist. “Hey, you crazy fuck!” He ran over to Bella’s door, yanked it open, and stuck his head in. “Honey, are you okay?”
“No! I’m dying, Joe!”
“You’re not dying. You’re having a baby.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying!”
He leaned in and scooped her out of the car, and she mooed like a stuck cow.
“Easy does it, sweetheart!”
“Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”
“Into the hospital to have your goddamned baby!”
“Okay!”
He carried her like Errol Flynn carried Olivia de Havilland in Captain Blood.
