Queen of Secrets, page 16
He stood in a tuxedo with his hair slicked back behind his ears, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. They weren’t even touching. The bridal party was all smiles, except for Ms. G.’s mother, who wore a straight face.
“Is this your wedding?”
She reached for her glasses attached to a chain around her neck and held the picture close to her face.
“Yeah. How in the hell did this get in here? Thought I threw all this crap out. My mother made this for my first Christmas with Frank here on the ranch.” She tossed it back in the box. “I haven’t put up a tree in a long time. Guess I missed this one. But I don’t want anything on this tree to take away its beauty.”
“Is that your mom’s gun in the garage?”
“Yes, it is. She always carried that gun with her,” she said as a tiny giggle escaped her lips.
“Why?” I asked as I unknotted strands of lights.
“On account of her first husband, who was shot dead right in front of her,” she said, unfazed at her admission.
“Shot right in front of her?”
“Yes, but then she married my father.”
“Why was her first husband shot?”
“He lied to the wrong people.”
“What do you mean ‘the wrong people’?”
“The same people I keep telling you about—the Mafia,” she divulged, then tried to rearrange one of the photos that was crooked on the wall. “Let me show you.”
I set aside the lights and walked over to her. She showed me a black-and-white photo of a woman holding a child in one arm and a huge rifle in the other.
“This is your mom?”
“Yes, Adelina Giordano and my baby brother, Vinny.” She grinned. “Vinny is Sofia’s grandfather.”
“She’s holding a gun so close to the baby? Wasn’t she afraid it would go off or that your brother might grab it?”
“No. No one touched that gun but her. Not even my father. Things were different back then. We didn’t have any mace or stuff like that. You had to protect yourself out here.”
“I didn’t know she was married before.”
“Carmela was her child from her first marriage.”
“So, your father adopted her?”
“Not formally. My father took her on as his once my mother and father got married in Tricarico, back in Italy.” She grinned proudly at all the pictures on the wall. “And look here.” She pointed to another picture. “Here’s my sister and three brothers. Here’s Carmela and Tony. Then me and my two little brothers, Paulie and Vincenzo, or Vinny as we call him. They came a little later. Paulie’s in prison now. He got popped for a murder. A life sentence about twenty years ago. That’s why I don’t have many pictures of him up here. He writes now and again, but I haven’t seen or talked to him in years. That’s what happens to the men in this life: they eventually die or go to prison.”
After a few hours of stringing lights and adding garland, Ms. G.’s living room looked beautiful. The tree gave the space a warm glow. Twinkling lights made her smile, and I was happy to help.
“It looks gorgeous.” She grinned from ear to ear.
“Yes, it does.” I sat on the couch. My tired muscles eased.
“Okay, turn on Judge Judy,” she commanded, then grabbed for her crochet needle.
While she crocheted, I emailed my weekly medical report to her niece. “I noticed you started a new blanket. The last one was blue, but this one’s pink.”
“This one’s gonna be a baby blanket,” she said proudly.
“Oh yeah? For who? Someone you know having a baby?”
“No.”
“Then what are you planning to do with it?”
“What is this—twenty questions?” she said and shook her head.
“Sorry.”
“I donate them to the church. They give them to the orphanages for the kids around here.”
“Oh? How nice of you,” I said in disbelief, struggling to acknowledge her soft spot.
“Been doing it for years. It’s a hobby, I suppose.”
I examined her handiwork. “Oh yeah, that’s good.”
“You wanna try?” she asked, staring over the top of her glasses.
“Um . . . sure.”
She handed me a ball of red yarn and a small crochet needle.
“Start a chain, like this,” she said, then moved her hands and fingers to show me.
I copied her movements.
“There you go. Now you’ve got it.” She nodded in approval. “So, where you from, hon?”
“Rockhill, South Carolina.”
“How’d you end up way out here in California?”
“After my parents’ divorce, we moved to California to live with one of my mother’s friends. But I loved it there, and most of my family lives out that way.”
“Why did your parents divorce?”
“They couldn’t deal with the external pressure of a biracial marriage. My dad was white.”
“Yeah, that could be hard. You got a big family out in South Carolina?”
“Oh yes. Lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins.”
“That’s nice. I have a big family. Have I ever told you about them?”
“Yes, dear, you have,” I said with a smile.
“I have?”
“Yes.” I reached for her hand to ease the confusion. “You know, one day I’m going to make you Southern food. You’ll love it.”
“No way. If it’s half as bad as how you make a sangwich, I’ll pass.”
“Sandwich?”
“Where I come from, we call it a sangwich with a G, damn it,” she fired back, then dug her needle into her work. “Keep working. When you get it as long as you want, I’ll tell you what to do next.”
“Okay,” I said and continued crocheting.
“I did pretty good, right?” I asked.
She inspected my woven knots with approval. “Not bad, kid.”
“I’d better get going. Seems like every day I stay later and later.”
“Please don’t go. Sometimes when you leave, things go dark again,” she said with somber eyes.
“What do you mean ‘dark’?”
“I’m used to your company,” she said, almost too proud to admit it.
Smiling, I said, “That makes me happy to hear. I guess I can stay a little while longer.”
After a few games of cards and warming her dinner, I knew I had to leave. I was already an hour late, and Marcus would expect his dinner before he went out or I’d surely suffer the consequences.
“I have to go now. It’s getting late, and my kids are expecting me.”
“I understand.” She looked away with sad, sullen eyes. “You go take care of those babies.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah, if I’m still breathin’,” she mumbled with the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Why don’t we cook tomorrow? You can teach me how to make ravioli. Sound good?”
“Sure,” she whispered with lifeless eyes.
“See you tomorrow, darlin’,” I said and grabbed my things. I hated to leave her like this, but I was worried about being late for Marcus. Out of need, I made my way down the hallway, locked the door, and sped down the hill, hoping to avoid another argument.
The next morning, I held the ice pack to my swollen lip and winced. Leticia came into my bedroom.
I hid from her stare.
“Mama, how can you let him do this to you? Look at you. Don’t you have any respect for yourself? The last time I had to lie to the other nurses and tell them you’re just clumsy. I hate seeing you like this. Next time I’m calling the cops.”
“Leticia, you don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? Daddy shouldn’t hurt you.”
“This is your father’s house. I can’t ask him to leave,” I said, fighting tears.
“Well then, we should leave,” she said indignantly.
“Leave and go where? I’m gonna be late. I don’t want to talk about this anymore today. I’ve got to get ready.”
“Fine, but one day it’ll go too far, and then it’ll be too late,” she said, then left my room.
Her words stung more than my face. She was right, and the look in her eyes meant she’d lost respect for me. If I had any other kind of job, I would’ve called in sick, nursed my wounds, and avoided the world. But I couldn’t leave Ms. G. alone. She needed me. I’d have to make sure I left on time today.
Marcus had given me a small shiner and a busted lip. I decided I’d put lots of petroleum jelly on my lip to try and hide it. If she asked, I’d say it was medicine for a fever blister. And for my eye, I’d wear my prescription sunglasses. Tell her I broke my eyeglasses.
I had to cover things up because I didn’t want to go back to the insults or teasing. We’d come so far yesterday with her admission of wanting me around, and I refused to go backward.
I grabbed my sunglasses and put them on my bruised face. It was painful to slide them over my nose, but I’d only have to endure it for a few hours. Then I’d be back home where I could bury my head under a pillow in shame. I grabbed my medical bag and headed for the door.
“Hello, Ms. G. How are you today?”
“Well, I didn’t die, so that’s a good thing.” She snickered. “Hey, why do you have your sunglasses on? We’re in the house.”
“I broke my other glasses, and these are prescription.” I placed my bag down.
“Prescription, huh?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “You ready to make ravioli?” I asked, trying to distract her from my appearance.
“You sure you’re up for it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t know about you, kid,” she eyed me suspiciously. “Go and wash your hands.”
I soaped up and rinsed at the kitchen sink. When I turned around, she handed me an apron.
“See that big stock pot right there? Go get it. I’ll start the gravy, and you can start the dough.”
“Let me turn on the gas for you.”
“I can do it.” She batted my hands away. “Watch me if you have to. I can’t do anything without being watched anymore. I feel like I’m wanted by the FBI again. Maronn,” she ranted on.
I lit the gas. She added olive oil and ground beef to the pan. We watched as it popped and sizzled.
“You married?” she asked while peeling garlic. “I don’t see no wedding ring.”
“No, not married, but with the same man for almost twenty-one years now.”
Whack! The thunderous sound of her hand came down on the tiny garlic, splitting off the skin. “Twenty-one years? And this guy doesn’t have the balls to ask for your hand? What a piece of . . .” She stopped herself mid-sentence and continued to dice the garlic.
“I got pregnant early, but we’ve been together ever since.”
“How old are your kids?” She stirred the garlic in with the meat.
“Leticia is twenty, and Darnell is seventeen.”
“So, this Marcus, he ever get rough with you or your kids?”
Her question was divisive and planned. She baited me, and all this time I thought I’d covered my tracks. But lie, I would. “No. Well . . . he gets angry from time to time, but don’t all men?”
“No. Not good men,” she said.
Her words hit me right in the gut. It was clear now. She knew. She was a victim like me. Our connection.
“Here, pinch the basil while I cut the other herbs.”
“Pinch?”
“Yeah, you never cut basil, you just pinch it, like this.” She pressed her fingers together. “See, that keeps the flavor.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Despite the Alzheimer’s, she knew her way around her kitchen. It was impressive to watch her in her element. Like most people with Alzheimer’s, she couldn’t always remember what happened yesterday, but she had a firm hold on the memories and events that took place in her youth. It was of no surprise that she remembered how to cook meals she’d made as a child.
She tended to the ravioli filling and sauce. Then she rolled out the dough on the table. Her arms worked tirelessly.
“You wanna try?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Okay, use the rolling pin and stretch it out like this,” she said as she pulled at the ends over a pile of sprinkled flour.
I followed her movements. My arms were sore from blocking Marcus’s blows. Once we had the dough spread into a thin layer, she layered the meat filling onto the dough, then covered it with another layer of thin dough.
“Okay, tuck in the sides and use this over it.” She handed me the ravioli roller. “Now go slow,” she instructed.
I grabbed the roller from her, started at the end, and slowly rolled it over the dough.
“There you go. Good girl, you did it. Now that you know how to do this, you can do it at home. I bet your kids are starving.”
“No. They aren’t starving for food. They’re starving for peace,” I replied with an edge in my voice.
“I’m sorry. I know what you’re going through. Sometimes I don’t think before I speak,” she said, then patted my hand.
Questions about my family prompted pictures of their sad faces in my mind. Defeated and exposed, I undid my apron and excused myself to the bathroom to weep quietly.
After two large helpings of her ravioli, I said, “I’m stuffed. I can’t eat another bite. This was so good. Thank you for showing me. I didn’t think it would take most of the day, but it did.”
“Take some home to your kids,” she said, then scooped the tiny dough pillows into a Tupperware container.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Well, since we’ve spent most of the day cooking, I forgot to give you an exam.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Roll up your sleeve.”
“Fine, but after this, I wanna watch TV. Oh, damn it. We missed Judge Judy.” She stomped her foot.
“How about a crossword instead? We have to exercise our brains too, ya know.”
“All right, but Judge Judy is more fun.”
I handed her the crossword puzzle, and she pulled her glasses up to her face.
“I have to get home on time tonight,” I said as she examined the crossword puzzle.
“Yeah, it looks like you better. We wouldn’t want him to hurt you again,” she said, then turned her face away. “You can fool other people, but you don’t fool me. I’ve seen the signs—bruises, broken fingernails, sunglasses to match your fat lip. Be careful, kid.”
“I’m fine. I broke my glasses, remember?”
“Yeah, sure you did,” she said, then stood in front of me. “Look, if you ever need anything, you let me know.”
“I will. I’m fine, Ms. G. Really, I am,” I said, then shut the door behind me.
I drove down her windy road, not sure whether to smile or cry.
Peace Offering
In the blink of a swollen eye, Christmas Eve arrived. I told Ms. G. I’d be coming over early because I wanted to get home to my kids. After what had happened last night, it was important for me to be home early.
I walked through her door with my Christmas dinner and my most famous sweet potato pie in hand.
“What the hell is all this?”
“This is my gift to you. You always cook for me, so it was time to cook for you. You’ll like it, promise. Let’s sit in the living room so we can eat and enjoy the tree.”
After her normal exam and a quick walk in the garden, we sat in front of our TV trays to enjoy an early lunch. At first, she eyed the food and moved it around her plate with her fork. When she got hungry enough, she took a few bites.
“Well, how is it?”
“Not bad,” she said with a half-eaten plate.
“You know, I didn’t turn my nose up at your ravioli,” I said firmly.
“That’s because ravioli is good.”
My jaw tightened. “Why are you so rude to me? Since I started here, you have been nasty and cruel at times. Is it because I’m black?”
“That’s ridiculous.” Her eyebrows pulled together. “Don’t be so sensitive. Sheesh . . .”
“Yeah, whatever. Let me clear our plates.” I grabbed the plates and walked them to the kitchen sink.
Still amped up from her blatant disregard for my effort, I marched back into the living room where she stood with a huge present in front of her.
“This is for you. Merry Christmas.” She pushed a box wrapped in newspaper with a big red bow toward me.
My jaw dropped. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Open it,” she said as she watched with wide eyes.
I ripped the sides of the paper and pulled out an old microwave box. It smelled of mold and age. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” I smirked. Inside was a huge, crocheted blue afghan made from the softest yarn I’d ever felt. On the front, she’d crocheted the state flag of South Carolina. On the bottom, she’d sewn on a square piece of red felt where she’d hand-painted a picture of a black girl holding a white girl’s hand.
At the far-right corner was a red heart with the letters Vi on it, as she’d done for Gaetano all those years ago.
My insides warmed, and a smile edged its way across my face. Stroking the soft yarn of her impeccable craftsmanship, I thought about the time it must have taken her to make this.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful,” I croaked as the walls of my throat caved in.
She came over to explain it to me.
“See here, this is the state flag of South Carolina where you said you grew up. I had to look it up in an encyclopedia I had lying around here, but I found it. You should never forget where you came from. I never have.”
“Is this us?”
“Well, yeah, I tried to get your clothes right, but the damn thing took me three tries. I was almost ready to shit-can the idea, but then by the third try, I got it.” She smiled with pride over her work.
