Eleven
“Here.”
Alex was sitting in her usual spot on the opposite end of the couch. She was jotting down notes, like the one she left taped to the bathroom mirror this morning:
We travel beyond the city limits to the place we first met. The Ferris Wheel sits frozen; its steel garters, rusted. Youthful cries are suspended on air. The majestic carousel has ceased its endless ride to nowhere, but our love, it spins eternally.
NO. I see where you’re going, but it’s too depressing – Pip
I was beginning to enjoy this little game of hers. Samples of her writing were like appetizers, and through her words, I discovered truths about Alexandra Adams.
“Your little black book?”
“Take it,” I said, offering her a glimpse into my world.
Flipping through it, her smile grew. “It’s not a little black book. You write?”
“I try,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m nowhere near as talented as you are. It’s mostly just memories from my past.”
“Why are showing me this?” My handwriting borders on illegible. Reaching over, she picked up my reading glasses from the coffee table. It was the first time I’ve seen her wear them and she looked incredibly sexy.
“I want you to trust me.”
“But who you date is none of my business. If it was a little black book, I mean.”
Her words stung. I wanted it to be her business. Going against every unspoken rule in the Bachelor’s Guidebook, I admitted, “I’m not dating anyone.”
I was being tortured. Something I did at some point in my life came back to haunt me, but finally, she spoke, and the Masters were proven wrong. Sometimes, the greatest expressions need only a few words. Or one word.
“Good.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
No one knows who started The Secret Society of Married Boxers.
They communicate using cryptic messages.
Decoded, one of those messages involves hearing loss.
If a husband disagrees with his wife, or she is talking nonsense, the husband feigns hearing loss and blames it on previous blows to the head.
Apparently, many boxer’s marriages have been saved thanks to lies and ignorance.
Although there’s nothing wrong with my hearing, I struggled not to ask Alex to repeat herself, but I didn’t have time to say anything.
There was a knock on our front door that sounded vaguely familiar.
“I’ll get it,” Alex said.
“If it’s Jehovah's Witnesses, send them to Nick’s place.”
“Hi,” I heard Alex say.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where’s my son!?”
I never wanted to convert religions until now.
Jumping from the couch, I intercepted the onslaught.
My mother stood on the porch carrying two bags full of foil pans and Cool Whip containers.
What made the situation worse was that she was dressed in her Sunday best, right down to the fancy hat that she normally only wore to weddings.
“Ma...”
“Who is this, Filippo?”
“Um... this is Alex. Alex, this is my mother.”
Ma dropped the bags and made the sign of the cross. Right then, I knew we were in trouble. “Alex is a girl!? You are living in sin! You can’t live in sin. You’re Catholic!”
“Ma, come inside,” I said, picking up the bags.
I nodded at my neighbor who was washing her Toyota and pretending not to listen, but it’s hard not to eavesdrop since Italians speak as if they’re yelling.
Even when we’re talking leisurely, we yell.
I remember the day my grade-school teacher gave me detention for screaming at her.
When my mother found out, she took time off work to confront Mrs. Ashton: “My son respects his elders. It’s just how we talk.
But I told him not to answer any more of your questions.
” Then she shoved a chalk tablet in my hands and told my teacher that from then on, she should consider me mute.
Ma came in and deliberately left her hat and shoes on. She keeps a pair of her slippers at my house, so I knew it was a bad sign. “Was I bad mother? Am I a bad person? What did I do to deserve this!?”
“There you go being melodramatic again. Calm down. Do you want an espresso?”
“What I want,” she said, emptying the bags I left on the kitchen island, “is for you to tell me what’s going on here.
” There were a million questions in Alex’s eyes, but like Nick had done at the bar, I made the slashing motion across my neck to silence her.
We watched as my mother angrily produced tray after tray of food from her bags.
“You might want to freeze this one,” she mumbled. “It’s manicotti.”
“Um... can I help, Mrs. Conti?”
“Help with what? Why you call yourself Alex?”
“My friends call me Alex. My full name is Alexandra.”
“Alessandra is a beautiful name!”
“Thank you... “
“But I still don’t like you.”
“Ma...”
“You shut your mouth... melodramatic. I’ll give you melodramatic!
” And then my mother went on an Italian tirade, swearing, and asking God to forgive me.
“This one is leftover meatballs,” ma said, exposing what was inside the Cool Whip container.
“I’ll put this one in the fridge. They turned out a little hard, so if you don’t like them, throw them away. Does Nick know about this?”
“He helped us move Alex in, ma.”
“He helped you move!? I’m calling his mother.”
Ma is up there in age and has limited mobility. On bad days, she even uses a walker. Propelled by anger, she gathered superhuman strength and marched towards the telephone. “Stop,” I said, guiding her by the elbow back to the kitchen. “It’s not Nick’s fault.”
“Just wait until I see him again! Oh, I forgot to write instructions on this. Defrost it at room temperature and then bake uncovered for thirty minutes. It’s pre-cooked lasagna.”
Despite the rising tension, I smiled. The last time she cooked this much was for her friend Claudio’s retirement party.
“Mrs. Conti, may I say something?” Alex, I quickly realized, is braver than a lot of guys at the gym.
“What do you have to say? Hmm?”
“I owe a lot to Pip. He’s helped me a lot. My own parents don’t really speak to me, and...”
Alex hit ma’s soft spot, because there’s nothing more sacred to Italians than family.
“Your parents don’t speak to you!? Why? What did you do?”
“Um... nothing. They never wanted me, that’s all.”
“Oh, Madonna Mia. What kind of parents don’t speak to their own child? Stronzi, that’s what!”
Both me and Alex were fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot, like a couple of kids who’d been caught stealing from their father’s liquor cabinet.
“What’s stronzi mean?” Alex whispered.
“She’s saying they’re assholes. Sorry. Ma shouldn’t say that,” I whispered back.
“Why not? It’s true.”
“They’re not Italian, are they?” Ma asked.
“No, our bloodline is Scottish.”
“Aspetta. Wait. Is this the girl you were telling me about, Pippo?”
There was no point in lying. “Yes.”
Ma stopped what she was doing, walked over to Alex, and held both her hands. “Give me something, Alessandra. Anything. Do you have an Italian aunt? Uncle?”
Alex thought for a moment. “I like Tony Bennet!”
“Meh... it’s a start. What else?”
“I thought The Godfather was a great film.”
It was probably my mother’s least favorite movie. She said it perpetuated the notion that all Italians are in the mob. To prove her disdain for the film, she pretended to spit on the floor. “I spit on The Godfather!”
“Um... Pizza! I love pizza.”
“Not with pineapple, I hope. If you want a sweet and savory pizza, you use figs and prosciutto. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And none of this Shake ‘n Bake garbage. I tried it once and my grandmother cried from heaven.”
I remembered that night as one of my favorites. Ma let me shake the bag. I prayed she wouldn’t open the cupboard and see the canned ravioli.
“No, ma’am. I would never.”
My mother was scrutinizing Alex like a judge would for the Miss Universe pageant.
Later, she’ll be on the phone with all our friends and relatives to tell them what a lousy son I am.
They, in turn, will remind my mother of all my wonderful qualities until eventually, the noise will die down, and we could yet again avert World War III.
“What’s this?” Ma held up one of Alex’s hands. “Why is your nail white? Are you sick? Are you bringing diseases into my son’s home!?”
“It’s Liquid Paper,” I said.
“What’s Liquid Paper?”
“Like nail polish,” I said, not bothering to explain.
“Oh. Well, don’t worry about your parents, child,” ma said, focusing on Alex. “When you have kids, they will want to know them. All parents can’t wait to be grandparents.”
“I don’t want kids.”
“Shhhh!” Ma pressed her fingers on Alex’s lips. “God will hear you, and punish you, and not give you babies!”
“But I don’t want any.”
I only wanted to run away once. I was thirteen years old when my mother caught me ogling breasts in Playboy with a kid I used to play road hockey with; a juvenile delinquent from the wrong side of the tracks.
I was mortified, but it was the disappointment on my mother’s face that made me think I wasn’t worthy of being her son.
I even went so far as to write her a good-bye letter.
The following day, she took me to confession.
Father Salvatore laughed, and said, “Boys will be boys, Mrs. Conti.” That same afternoon, I found a stack of Wonder Woman comic books on my bed with a note attached that read: “At least she has clothes on. Stop being stupid. Ti Amo.” I thought Alex would run, but instead, she stood her ground, which apparently impressed my mother.
“That’s okay,” ma said. “You can always adopt. You love my son?”
“Ma, it’s not like that,” I said, secretly wishing it was like that.
“I’m... I’m a widow.”
“A window? What do you mean you’re a window?” Ma’s hands flailed left and right. I was afraid she’d hit Alex in the nose.
“A widow. My husband died. I lost our baby from the trauma. That’s why I don’t want kids.”
“Sweetie...” I said, approaching her.
“No. It’s okay. I never talk about it. You couldn’t have known.
Simon didn’t even know. I... didn’t get a chance to tell him.
” Alex pulled her crucifix from her blouse and kissed it.
I had never in my life wanted to stop time more than I did then, because in that moment, my mother – my wonderful, hard-headed mother – picked up the crucifix and kissed it the same way Alex did.
“I’m a widow too.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“Pippo, go get my purse.”
I picked up ma’s purse from where she left it in the foyer and brought it to her. We waited while she found her wallet. “This is him,” Ma said, showing Alex an ancient picture of pop.
“He looks like a movie star.”
“I wasn’t so bad myself.” Ma’s laugh was raspy. “But I’m too old now. I don’t care about things like that. You know what I learned, child?”
“What?” Alex asked, sniffling. She accepted an embroidered handkerchief from my mother.
“God took them for a reason. Don’t get me wrong.
I was furious at God, but in time, I came to realize that my husband isn’t gone.
He’s my guardian angel, and I have to trust His plan.
It makes no sense why some people are allowed to grow old together.
But for me, my husband left me Pippo, and I see his father in him every day. ”
I couldn’t speak. I had no words, but even if I did, I couldn’t produce a sound.
“I think for me, God wanted me to write.”
“You write, Alessandra?”
“Yes. Thanks to Pip.”
“What did you do?” It was ma’s favorite question. It could be posed in anger, or laced with joy, but she always wanted to know what, exactly, someone did to warrant their current situation.
“Nothing,” I told them both. “I guess it was just God’s plan.”
“Can I find your books at Bruno’s, Alessandra?”
“It’s a bookstore,” I explained.
“No. I’m not published.”
“Yet,” I said, winking at my new roommate.
The unthinkable happened. My mother took us both into her arms. They say a hug is healing, but it was more than that. It was acceptance. Pulling away, she kissed us both on our cheeks. “I go home now. I’m tired.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay? We can have dinner together.”
“Thank you, child, but I barely eat these days.”
“I’ll drive you,” I said.
“No. I like the bus. I like to make fun of what people are wearing. Don’t judge me. It’s a pastime.”
Alex softly laughed. “Thank you for the food, Mrs. Conti. It looks amazing.”
“You’re welcome, Alessandra.”
“Yeah. Thank you, ma.”
My mother simply waved her hand, dismissing me. Opening the front door, she expressed her love for me by using the same words I’ve heard a hundred times before. “Don’t forget to bring back my Tupperware.”