7. Maria
Maria
Something’s happened between the three men whilst Papa and I have been resting. The atmosphere’s somehow… different. Still watchful, but more relaxed. More… settled. As if something’s been decided between them.
We take our indicated places at the table and pitch in.
Beef stew, with various veggies, and fresh bread and butter to fill up on.
Papa opens his mouth to ask for olive oil, but I catch his eye just in time and gently shake my head.
Thankfully he gets it. Tonight isn’t the night to start demanding traditional Italian accompaniments.
He even seems happy enough with the bottled beer the three men are drinking and kindly offer us.
I refuse, sticking to the excellent iced tea, but Papa takes to it like a duck to water.
Must be the longest in years he’s gone without a single Negroni to his name.
Well, they do say every cloud has a silver lining.
First topic of conversation’s the car.
“I took a look at it for you this afternoon,” says Grant, passing the bread basket. “Left it a good while first, to cool down. Then topped it up with the right water/coolant mix and started it up.”
“How did it go?”
“Absolutely fine, so far as I could tell,” he said. “I left it running for about forty minutes, then I took it for a drive for about another twenty minutes. No problems at all.”
“Great. So it was just that we asked it to do too much?”
“Yeah, reckon so. Some of these roads are pretty steep, and she’s an older vehicle. And… well… I’m guessing you hadn’t just topped up your coolant before you departed, if you left in a hurry.”
It was perfectly true. We’d just upped and left, without a thought for checking the car over first.
“Does this mean we’ve got our car back?”
“Yeah. The keys are on the hook over there.” He nods to where a panel of hooks is screwed into the wall by the door, and I see ours hanging about fifth along on the second row.
It’s easy to distinguish because of the cornicello rosso—a traditional Italian lucky red horn—dangling from the chain alongside the key fob itself.
“Thanks. How much do we owe you?”
“Not much. Call it fifty bucks.”
“Fifty? Including the tow? You sure?”
“Yeah, no worries.” He forks a cube of beef and chews it thoughtfully. “Actually, the three of us got talking this afternoon, whilst you and Mr. Smith… were resting up.”
I knew it. I knew they must have been talking about us. What on Earth had they decided to do? Turn us in? Who to, though?”
“Oh yes?” I try to sound casual, but I’m braced for whatever’s coming.
“Yeah,” Regan butts in. “And we all agree your story sucks.” I draw in my breath… here it comes. But he’s smiling, not scowling. In fact he even gives me a conspiratorial wink.
“If your name’s Louise Smith, then my name’s Taylor Swift, which it ain’t, on account of me not being a famous, billionaire pop star.
” He laughs. “No more than you’re Louise Smith, anyhow.
” He takes a long swig to drain his bottle, and gets up and goes to the fridge for another.
In fact he gets two, opening them both and passing one to Papa, who’s just finished his, retaining the other for himself.
He sits down again, and Grant continues the story.
“Yeah, we talked about it. We may live up in the back end of nowhere, but we’ve been around a bit, in our time. And we’ve seen a few things. Also, we know trouble when we see it.” He takes a long swig from his own beer, before setting it back down on the table and continuing.
“So, anyway, we can see you two are in trouble, and we can see it’s a little more than what you first told us.” He stares at me hard, and I stare right back. I want him to finish what he has to say before I comment. He shrugs at this and carries on.
“Here’s the thing. Maybe we can help you.
Maybe we can’t. Maybe we won’t even want to help once we know what the difficulty really is.
But one thing’s for sure, we can’t help if we don’t know what the trouble is.
Plus, it wouldn’t be fair on us, because we’d be operating blindfolded.
If trouble’s coming our way… well we’d quite like to know about it in advance if at all possible. ”
“But this isn’t your problem. We haven’t asked you to fight for us.”
“True. Completely true. But you’re here aren’t you?
Not somewhere else. Way I see it, if you’re trying to lie low, this is about as good a place as you’ll find anywhere.
Off the road, in a cabin in the mountains, with no one knowing about you but the three of us…
oh and Martha, but she’s not the type to talk.
See… if you want to go someplace else, well, of course you go, and welcome.
But I don’t think you have any place to go, do you? ”
I open my mouth to say something… then close it again. I shake my head “No.”.
“So you got lucky. Fate took a hand and you’ve ended up here. Like I say, we talked about it, and we agreed. You can stay here with us, for a while at least. In the cabin. That’s if you want to, of course.” I open my mouth again to speak, but he holds his hand up.
“But there has to be rules. Like I said, we want to know what type of trouble might be coming our way. So yes, you can stay, and maybe we can help you find a job in town and in the meantime you’re welcome to the cabin.
But in return… well, you gotta tell us the truth—the whole truth, mind.
So’s we know. So’s we can prepare, if need be. Deal?”
Not sure what to say, not even certain if I can manage to say anything without bursting into tears, I nod.
The accumulated pressure of all the stress and worrying about where we could go and what we should do are suddenly gone, like a huge weight off my shoulder, and all I can do is sigh deeply, and try to stop my eyes from watering.
“Th… thank you,” I manage to whisper.
And then it hits me. Not only do I need to stay—not only do I need their help and protection—but I want it. I hardly know them, and yet…
I don’t want to leave.
It’s not home, of course. Not yet.
But maybe… maybe it could be the start of one.
“What was that?”
I’m startled out of my reverie by the voice of the one called Abe. The big one. Well of course they’re all big, so in fact ‘the biggest one’ would be a better description. And ‘big’ really doesn’t do the guy justice, either.
Oh sure, I’d seen bodybuilders on TV, along with WWE fight nights, which Papa used to watch a little, if nothing better was on.
Of course, I’d seen movies too—Rocky, and Robocop, and Terminator and so on.
A girlfriend and I had even giggled through The Incredible Hulk back in 2008 when I’d been no more than what…
? nine or perhaps ten years old? It had been a PG, but we’d snuck in because my friend’s older cousin worked at the cinema.
Even at that age I remember feeling a certain fascination for a guy that size.
I mean… a girl could really feel protected in those arms. And if the rest of his body was proportionate—well, let’s just say that’s why we couldn’t stop giggling, Angela and I.
Whenever his clothes started ripping and he started to grow, we’d be in hysterics, trying to shush each other, whilst avoiding each other’s eyes.
I smile at those early girlhood memories now, but I also can’t help thinking about what Abel might look like without clothes on.
For fuck’s sake, Maria. Pull yourself together. Now is not the time!
I make the effort to pull myself together and dial back in to the conversation.
“Your car has a New York registration plate,” he was saying.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I hadn’t really thought about that.”
“Plus, your father’s accent is pure Brooklyn. Nothing like Chicago.”
Papa blushes a little and smiles an acknowledgement.
“Yeah, son. Guilty as charged.”
“Anyway, he called you ‘Maria’ a couple of times by accident?—”
“I never did!”
“You absolutely did, sir. But in any case, Louise—or Maria—left a receipt for gasoline and sandwiches on the top of the dashboard in your vehicle. From a place called Fast Fill Auto Station and Convenience Store in Brooklyn. It’s dated yesterday.
Seems to me that if you’re on the run you’re gonna need to get a whole lot better at covering your tracks. ”
I let out yet another sigh—seems like it’s just one sigh after another tonight.
“Yes, you’re right,” I finally say. “Look, we’re not used to it. We’re just two ordinary people. It’s not like we were expecting to go on the run or anything. I’ve never had to make up stories like this before, and neither has Papa. Is it any wonder we’re bad at it?”
“Nope, no wonder at all,” Regan interjects, softly, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“Relax. We ain’t gonna cause any trouble. In fact, seems to us you’ve already got all the trouble you can handle, and we want to help, if we can.” He gives me an encouraging smile.
“So why don’t you tell us the whole story, eh?”
I do. Or rather we do. Papa and I taking it in turns to explain the whole thing, from his childhood friendship with Sal Moretti, to my Momma dying giving birth and him raising me alone, finding it tough and borrowing from his old friend, now the family don.
And then on… to Sal’s son Tony and his crush on me, and the wedding offer, in exchange for cancelling Papa’s debt.
We even explained Mamma’s family roots and the Morettis’ seeming obsession with her Venetian nobility ancestral past. Finally, we explained the text Tony had sent me by mistake instead of his girlfriend, the not-so-implied threat of violence it had contained, and our decision to run.
It takes some time to tell the whole tale, and it’s dark outside by the time we’re done.
“It’s getting late.” Regan gets up from his chair and pulls another four beers from the fridge. He looks at me, but I shake my head. I’ve never liked the taste, so I’ll stick to the iced tea.
The four men all pop their beers, and there’s a moment or two’s silence as the men take a drink, and we all contemplate the situation.
“Okay,” Grant finally opens his mouth to speak.
He’s obviously the ultimate decision maker of the three of them, though he equally obviously always consults his two partners first. They have a strong mutual trust between them, that much is clear.
Maybe one day I’ll learn their back story.
Because there is a back story, of that I am certain.
“First off, as we said earlier, you’re welcome to stay here. The cabin’s yours, for as long as you need it.”
“Thank you so much—” I start, but Papa cuts in with his own thanks.
“Like my girl says, we’re very grateful, but…” he looks down at the ground. “We can’t just take charity.”
“Well… what do you suggest?”
“My background is piano tuning and restoration—” he holds his hand up, when Regan opens his mouth to say something.
“Yeah, yeah, sure thing, son. I get it. Not much call for pianos up here in the mountains. But you see, a piano is partly a musical instrument, but mostly a huge piece of furniture. Now I’ve been looking around this afternoon since I woke up from my little nap.
I can’t help seeing there’s a lot of work still to be done on this place.
Work I could help you with. Fixing up cabinets, hanging doors straight, building storage cupboards and shelves, even restoring older pieces of furniture if you have ‘em.”
The three men shift in their seats, looking moderately interested.
“But it doesn’t stop there. The other side of piano restoration is the delicate side.
The tuning. Perfect pitch. For this you have to listen to the piano, and diagnose what’s wrong by ear.
Pitch, resonance, vibration, tonal balance—is it a loose component, or is something too tight?
Does a felt need replacing, or is a hammer not striking quite right?
I reckon you could soon teach me about engines, and I reckon with these ears I could soon be telling you what’s wrong from the engine noise alone. ”
Now the men just stare at him.
“No, surely not,” says Regan, a smile hovering on his lips.
“Want to try me, son?” My father smiles a wide smile back at him.
“Anyhow, my point is this. Between one thing and another, I’m pretty damned certain I can make myself useful around here.” He scratches his nose, takes a swig from his bottle.
“Well… yes,” says Grant. “Seems like you could be useful indeed, Mr. Contarini, sir.”
“Thanks, son, but if we’re all going to be living together… well best just call me Alessandro. Or just ‘Sandro’ will be fine. That’s what my old friends used to call me.
The three men nod.
“Now that just leaves Maria, and she’s a talented girl and a hard worker.
She never went to university because I couldn’t afford to send her, much as I wanted to.
But she’s been working as an administrator in a local health clinic for the last four years and they think the world of her.
And she knows waitressing. So maybe she can do some admin and household duties here, like meals and such, and maybe she could look for a part-time role in town—someone’s bound to need an administrator or a waitress—and then she’ll have a little money of her own, and she won’t be entirely dependent on the three of you, which I know she’d hate to be, even though she’d never say it to you.
As for me, I don’t need much. Three meals a day and a bed to sleep on is all I need at my age.
So… what do you say, boys?”