19. Lydia
LYDIA
Going to Elena's was my idea.
I didn’t want to just send flowers and an envelope. I wanted to look Elena in the eye and tell her myself how sorry I am for her loss. To my surprise, Nico agreed. I had half expected him to tell me that it’s not for a Don’s wife to pay her personal respects like this.
But I think he also remembers that of all the women in that cold church yesterday, it was Elena who offered me a shred of warmth.
I owe her this at a minimum.
Elena’s house is at the end of a street where the trees grow close enough to touch overhead. The porch light is already on even though it's barely past noon. There are other cars lining the curb, a dozen of them.
Nico parks the car himself. Anastasio offered to drive us but Nico told him no.
You drive your own car to a dead man's door when paying respects. You don't make a soldier do it for you.
I smooth the dark fabric of my dress over my knees and look up at the house. Through the front window I can see the shapes of people moving behind lace curtains. I look back at Nico one more time, and then step out, waiting for him to join me. Hand in hand, we walk towards the door together.
The front room is full and quiet at the same time. Men in dark suits line the walls with their hands folded, and women sit in the chairs and on the arms of the couch, holding cups of coffee they aren't drinking. The air smells like flowers and baked bread that nobody will eat.
Every head turns when we walk in.
The conversations sink down to a murmur and then fade to nothing. The weight of all those eyes presses on me from all directions.
A heavyset man peels off the wall and comes to Nico with his head bowed. "Don Nico. Thank you for coming."
"Your nephew was a good man, Tommaso." Nico clasps his hand. "His loss is a tragedy for us all. But I promise you, he will be remembered."
"Yes," the man agrees, and his eyes are wet. "He will."
It goes like that, one after another. They come to Nico and they bow and they speak low, and I stand at his side with my hand light on his arm, and I learn what it means to be a Don’s wife without anybody teaching it to me.
A nod here. A word of thanks accepted there.
A hand laid for a moment over another grieving hand.
The women watch me, and the hardness that I saw at church slowly begins to leave their faces. Grief requires its own language, and respect as well. And I find that in this moment, I can speak both well enough to make them see me as more than an outsider playing pretend.
But it’s not their faces that I care about. It’s the one staring blankly near the kitchen doorway.
Elena looks smaller than I remember. At the church she stood straight and gave me her scarf and told me to be brave. But now she sits in a hard chair by the kitchen window, with a cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders even in the summer heat.
Her daughter is asleep against her side, little face slack and damp. One small fist is curled in the wool of her mother's sweater.
I cross the room to her.
"Mrs. D'Ambrosio." Elena starts to rise, and I put a hand on her shoulder before she can.
"Please sit." I lower myself into the chair beside her instead. "You shouldn't be standing for anyone today. Least of all me."
She settles back down, eyes going over my face. "I wasn’t expecting your presence.”
"Why wouldn’t I come?"
Her daughter stirs, and Elena's hand moves to her back, soothing the child in slow circles until the child goes still again. I watch her do it and feel the old ache open up under my ribs.
Mom did the same thing to me at Dad’s funeral, after I cried so hard that I hardly had enough strength to remain standing anymore. And when I jerked awake later at night, she held me again while I cried myself to sleep.
"How is she?" I ask quietly, nodding at the girl.
"She cried herself out an hour ago." Elena's voice thins on the edge of breaking. "I still don’t know how to explain death to her. How do you tell a four-year-old that her father isn't coming back?"
I know that feeling all too well. I’m sure Mom felt the same when Dad died. I reach over and lay my hand over hers, and keep it there.
“You don’t,” I tell her. “Not right away. Just hold her when she wakes up, and she’ll wake up over and over again tonight. Make sure that when she reaches out in the dark, you’re already there for her.”
“That’s very particular advice,” Elena says softly.
“My father died when I was eleven,” I say. “I knew what death was, but I hadn’t fully grasped the finality of it. My mom didn’t try to explain death to me either. She just made sure I never woke up alone.”
I look down at the ring on my finger and twist it as I talk.
“The explaining can come later. What matters now is that she knows you’re still here.”
“What was he like? Your father?”
“I wish I could remember.” That part is true and the admission hurts in its own way. “I mean, I remember these bits and pieces of my childhood with him, but to me, he’ll always be more of a feeling than any memories of him ever could be.”
“And what was that feeling?” she asks with some hope in her voice.
“Safety.” I wipe at my eyes. “I remember being held by him on Saturday mornings and thinking that as long as he can hold me, then I’ll be alright.”
“Sal was like that for me, and for Francesca.” Elena's eyes fill with tears, but she's smiling. "He was steady. Twelve years of marriage, and he never once raised his voice in this house. That’s rare in this life. It takes more to stay gentle than it ever takes to be cruel."
“Yes, it does.” I think about Mom and about all those times in the years between Dad’s death and her remarriage to Frank.
“How did your mom manage?”
I manage something close to a smile. "After he was gone, she changed our name back from Dad’s to her maiden name. Palomino. Told me that it was clean, and that we can start fresh with it."
“What did she mean by that? Clean?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “I’ve never thought about it. He was an accountant, and I suppose after enough years of accounting, you end up with some clients whose money might be just a little bit dirty.”
We sit there in silence for a moment while the room murmurs on around us.
"What was your last name before?" Elena asks.
"Mitchell," I say, and it sounds strange in my mouth after thirteen long years. "But I haven't been Lydia Mitchell in a long time."
Elena squeezes my hand. "Your mother sounds like a strong woman."
“She is.” I nod. “She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“And where is she now?”
The sting comes up in my throat so fast that I almost can't speak. My hand around Elena’s tightens slightly, and I offer her a sad smile instead of saying anything.
Elena looks at me for a moment, and then gives me a slight nod. She knows that there are some things that are better left unsaid.
She draws a breath to gather herself, and looks back at the room of mourners.
"Everyone has been so kind," she says. "More than I expected.”
I nod and do my best to blink back the tears. People usually are. It’s the days after that are the hardest.
“Even the police.” She shakes her head a little, almost wondering at it.
“The police?” I turn to look at her.
“Yes,” she says. “An officer who came last night. I thought it would be terrible, you know, questions and questions when I can barely stand. But he didn’t do any of that. He just sat with me and said that if I needed anything, to just call him."
She dabs at her eyes again. "Even left his name and personal phone number."
"That was good of him," I hear myself say. My voice comes out level. "To be gentle."
“I didn’t tell him anything, of course. I know how this world works. But I didn’t think police could be like that anymore." Elena's brow creases, trying to call it up. "But Captain Carpenter was kind."
Carpenter?
My eyes widen at the name, and cold dread drops into my stomach.
“Did you say Captain Carpenter?” I ask slowly.
“Yes.” Elena nods. “Frank Carpenter.”
Oh fuck!
People have called Frank kind before. Hell, the neighbors said the same thing about him when he started coming around.
Oh, such a good man, taking care of a widow and her girl.
They saw the roof he put over our heads but never once saw the welts, or heard what the house sounded like after the light went out.
"I'm glad he was good to you." I take Elena's hand in both of mine and squeeze it. "If you need anything else, call me first, and I’ll make sure my husband gets you everything you and Francesca need."
“I will.” She squeezes back. “Thank you, Mrs. D’Ambrosio.”
“Please,” I say. “Call me Lydia. You don’t have to be formal with me.”
We stay like that for a few more hours. I let her tell me about Sal, about how they met, how they fell in love, and how he proposed. I hold her hand and I listen and I keep my face soft.
After, I sit with her and listen as Nico comes to pay her his condolences and offer his promise that he’ll create a trust fund for little Francesca so that she’ll not lack for anything in the world.
When Nico and I are finally in the car and on the way back home, I take his hand in mine and tell him. “Frank was at Elena’s. He came last night.”
The car's engine drops to a low growl as Nico eases off the gas, and I can see him turning it over. "He had no business in that house."
"No. He didn't. But I think you and I both know why he’s there.”
"A damn opportunist.” Nico shakes his head in disgust. “A church full of bodies and a widow too deep in grief to question why a man from the OCCB might take an interest in her.”
He glances at me.
"Did she tell him anything?"
"Nothing."
"Elena’s a smart woman." Nico nods. “But I don’t like it. If Frank is sniffing around…”
"Then the OCCB is going to be getting involved sooner or later," I finish for him. “He’s going to use this church shooting and open up an investigation into you."
“Let him,” Nico says. “Not the first time I’ve had the cops dig on me.”
“But this cop is persistent, Nico,” I remind him. “And he has a personal reason to put you behind bars.”
The road unspools in front of us and somewhere in the distance is the mansion that feels less and less like a cage and more and more like a fortress to keep me safe from Frank.
But if Frank is going to use this as an opportunity to take down Nico, then how safe can those walls really be?
"He's not going to stop," I say quietly. "Not until he’s taken me away from you."
Nico reaches across the seat and laces his fingers through mine, and brings my knuckles up to his mouth in a soft yet possessive kiss.
"No he won’t, piccola," he says. "I don’t care if he’s OCCB. I’ll take his hands before I ever let him come near you again. I swear it."
I nod. But somewhere in a far-off part of me, the seventeen-year-old girl with her hand around the strap of her duffel bag is telling me that I should be afraid.
Very afraid.