Chapter 3 #2
“That’s where Nonna and I would go to church some Sundays.
We’d grab beignets and café au lait after and take our goodies to the river to eat them while ships and barges constantly passed.
” I looked down at my jumpsuit. “Only tourists would eat beignets in this. All black is a big no no—” my pointer finger made a windshield wiper motion “—during beignet time.”
He narrowed his eyes, turning to look at Café Du Monde and then at my all-black attire, except for the off-the-shoulder sweater. It was gold.
I laughed, then shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. You only live once.”
We turned back, and Rocco bought us two orders. As we started eating them, the powdered sugar flying everywhere, he laughed. He’d made a paw print on my thigh with his white, sugar-coated palm and fingers.
“This pleases me,” he said. “My prints on you for the world to see.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t get any ideas, like making handprints all over my jumpsuit.”
Something about the thought satisfied him. I could tell by the dark and dreamy look suddenly in his eyes.
He lifted my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles. “Tell me more about your life, Amora. Show me.”
“Do we have time?”
“Per sempre,” he whispered.
“Okay…”
We walked the French Quarter in bright daylight, an entirely different city from our previous encounter.
Families strolled, tourists were out learning about the history, and lovers held hands as they window-shopped.
Rocco was especially interested in Pirate’s Alley, where men used to go to duel.
Of course he was. That kind of romantic and ruthless history captured his attention and his heart.
Then I took him to the only house I’d ever known before I took off for Italy and my future.
An old shotgun double that needed a lot of work.
Before we got there, though, I stopped in my tracks. My ancient Toyota 4Runner was still parked where I’d left it, but the wheels had boots on them.
“Oh man,” the complaint flew from my mouth as I lifted my sunglasses to the top of my head. “Poor Apple Blossom—”
Rocco’s eyes snapped to mine.
“My car.” I nodded toward her. “I call her Apple Blossom. Her paint job.” The girl who sold me the car was in a sorority and loved pink.
I had thought about buying something brand new, but I wasn’t sure how the book was going to sell and how much Nonna’s care was going to cost. I didn’t want to have to leave her alone during the day to get a job outside of the house to pay for it if the booked tanked.
“I know she doesn’t look like much, but…
she got us around, and her air conditioner seemed like it was built in Antarctica, which is important here… as you can tell why.”
“This is why the boy from the bar calls you this.” The words came out smooth enough, but underneath was a deathly cold chill that almost made me shiver.
And out of all the nostalgic thoughts and word vomit, it was Remy’s stupid nickname for me that he took from it? Remy also called me apple bottom, but I didn’t want to make the situation worse.
“Yeah.” I sighed, giving Apple Blossom, the real Apple Blossom, a pat on the hood.
“Sorry, old girl,” I whispered. “Sorry it’s ending this way for you.
” I’d wanted to take her someplace nice and park her for a while, but my funds had almost disappeared by the time I’d left.
I used to swear to Nonna that my bank account had a hungry monster living in it.
It needed green meat and my tears and worry to survive on. She’d laugh and shake her head at me.
Almost in a daze, like my life here was a distant dream, I stopped in front of the shotgun house.
The lace curtains were still the same, and if I closed my eyes, I could still smell Nonna’s red (tomato) gravy from the front porch, her anise cookies an underlying scent.
I could hear the music that she used to play to serenade her meatballs.
Usually something from the opera. It needed to hit that high note at just the right time—right when the sauce was rolling and becoming a deep red color to signal it was getting sooo close to being done.
During dessert, though, she would listen to Dino (Dean Martin) or even Louis Prima. She also loved Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino, Ella Fitzgerald, and Harry Connick Jr. Her sing-songy laughter seemed to linger outside of the door.
Our next-door neighbors, an older couple around Nonna’s age, would be coming down their steps, waving, then going back inside to grab fresh vegetables and fruit their daughter in Ponchatoula had sent for us.
She had a garden and grew everything herself.
The neighbors passed right before Nonna, only two months apart.
Our new neighbors were from somewhere up north. A couple who had been in what they called a traveling band together. Nice enough people, but they thought arugula belonged on po’boys and not a side salad to an Italian dish.
“Change,” Nonna had said. “What you gonna do about it, ah? Nothin’. Even powerful bodies of water change directions with the tides.”
I had nodded and repeated, “Change. What you gonna do about it?”
And that, as they say, was that.
Rocco studied the place I was practically born in with so much interest, he didn’t even seem to blink.
It was like he was imagining my life here, too, and when I started to describe all the things I’d seen, done, smelled, he nodded his head, like that was what he was seeing, doing, smelling too.
I went to turn my back, suggest we get going, and fast, when Mr. Louie, our landlord, came out of our side of the shotgun, but Rocco stopped me.
“Aria Bella,” Mr. Louie said. “Where’s my money?”
Nice guy, Mr. Louie, but as Nonna always said, he’d chop a finger off for a penny owed.
Rocco visibly stiffened.
I turned to my husband, putting my hands up.
“It’s true,” I blurted. “I skirted out on the rent because I didn’t have enough to get to Italy and to pay the last month’s rent.
And—” I took a deep breath “—I didn’t want to have to face the end of…
losing my grandmother and my comfortable life here.
This place was all I’d ever known, until I knew you. ”
Rocco’s stance melted, his finger running down my face.
Mr. Louie whistled, and even though he did, the only reason we turned toward him was because we were ready to. Of course, his eyes were wide on my left hand. The rock on it was blinding him.
“What you went and did, girl?” he asked, shaking his head. “Now I’m really insulted. You can get a ring like that, unless it’s a Fugazi, but you can’t pay me for the last month’s rent?”
I went to open my mouth to respond, but Rocco stepped up, as if he were in a custom-made suit, and looked Mr. Louie over before he made him an offer the old man couldn’t refuse.
To sum it up, by the time we left, Mr. Louie was going to retire in style—he was a millionaire. Rocco had bought our old place, agreeing to allow the new tenants to stay until their lease was up. After that, we’d revisit.
In a daze, Rocco helped me into the armored SUV Guido had driven to pick us up, but after another SUV pulled behind us, and Guido got into the passenger seat, I realized Rocco was driving us. I stared out the window, not really paying attention, my thoughts consumed.
What would my grandmother think of this man? How he had valiantly stepped forward and erased all my debt, and going a step further, bought the house we had loved so much. I had so many warm memories there. But Nonna never raised me to become attached to worldly treasures.
I reached for the heart pendant around my neck, then turned toward my husband, who, I realized, was driving through New Orleans like he had a map of it in his head. We were headed in the right direction of the storage place, even though I’d never mentioned the name.
“Rocco,” I whispered.
He glanced at me.
“I would have married you without these rings.” I lifted my left hand.
Then my right. “Any of these rings. That’s not why I said.
..well, not why we’re married.” He didn’t ask for my hand.
Not truly. He knew I’d always say yes to him.
Actions spoke louder than words. “You could have won me a ring out the bubblegum machine and I’d wear it.
I married you because…my heart can’t stand not being connected to you. ”
He brought my hand to his mouth, his breath almost trembling out. “You break my heart and heal it all in the same beat, Amora.” A few minutes later, he cleared his throat. “Tell me, what is this bubblegum machine you speak of.”
Laughter exploded from my mouth, and as we pulled into the parking lot of the storage place, I told him I’d show him inside.
The office had a machine full of gum balls.
Before the manager came out to speak to us, since I’d be closing the unit, I turned the knob of the machine and got him two pieces.
It seemed like he didn’t know what to do with the taste at first. It was gum but nowhere close to what he was used to chewing.
It was a bit stale and chalky, and one of those humongous things that take one or two bites to crack—but the taste, for me, was like crack.
My mouth watered whenever I thought about having one.
The room was completely empty, except for him and I, and he looked to the left and to the right, then went back to the machine and turned the knob himself, like he couldn’t help it.
He had to touch it. It was so…innocent in his dangerous hands, and his eyes were so guileless, tears slipped down my cheeks while my heart was internally grinning.
As if he smelled the salt, he came over to me, like someone had hurt me. I laid my hand over his wrist when he went to dry them. I knew I had to talk to him in a way he would understand this, without me setting him back.