Nine
My mother always took a long time to answer the phone.
It used to make me anxious, so I bought her an answering machine.
The next time I visited, I saw that she tore the thing from the wall because apparently, it was creepy to hear someone’s voice unless it was via the telephone, and the only invisible person she’d want to hear from was pop.
I asked her if it went against her religion to believe in ghosts.
“If I ever hear your father, who do you think made it happen? The Easter Bunny?”
After thirteen rings, she finally picked up. Whether she knew who was calling, or not, she always answered like she was angry. “Ha-lo.”
“Hi, ma.”
“Pippo! Who died?”
“No one died. Why do you always have to be so morbid?”
“Because since when do you call when I just saw you the other day?”
“I just wanted to call. What are you doing?”
“Watching General Hospital. What about you? What are you doing? Did you win?”
“The match is next week, ma.”
“Ah... that’s right. I always get confused when I forget to flip the page on the calendar.”
It became a habit for me to flip the page for her, but it was a recipe calendar, and she always flipped it back so that she could remember to make stuffed pizza from Catania. By the time she decides to make it, it will be a new year.
“That’s okay. How are you feeling?”
“Meh... the usual aches, and pains. No point in complaining about it. Growing old isn’t for weaklings.”
My mother has always been fiercely independent, and even at her age, she insists on living alone.
Still, I worry about her, despite her claims that she has bigger palle, or balls, than Mrs. Mancini.
One day, Maria Mancini received a letter from her son, Donny.
Ecstatic, she sat at her kitchenette with her espresso and opened the envelope.
Fingernail clippings littered the table.
The note attached read, “So you can bury what’s left of him, Mrs. Mancini.
Our condolences.” Every mafioso within a three-mile radius could hear her wails.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Sure, I’m sure! Come on. Don’t piss me off. Call me the morning of the fight so I can go to Church and pray for you. Shit’s about to hit the fan in Port Charles. I gotta go.”
“Wait! Um... there is something I wanted to tell you.”
“And finally, the truth comes out. Is this about that art project? Because I don’t need no more art.”
“No,” I said, feeling guilty as hell. “I have a new roommate.”
“A roommate! Why? You need money?” I didn’t need to see her to know that ma was talking with her hands.
“Who can’t use money? But it’s not that. I’m just helping a friend.”
“That’s my son. Bravo. I brought you up right, Filippo. What’s his name?”
Crossing my fingers, toes, and legs, I hoped it would be enough to save me from the depths of hell. “Alex.”
“An English boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you meet?”
“The gym,” I said, securing my seat next to Satan.
“Good. It’s good you already know him. There are axe murderers out there, you know.”
“I know. I’ll let you get back to your show.”
“Okay. Yeah. See you soon?”
“Of course.”
“Ti voglio bene. Ciao.”
“I love you too, mamma.”
Alex had been in her designated smoking area, a.k.a. the garage. I looked up from where I was sitting on the couch to see her standing with one hip against the wall. “Your mom?”
“My mistress.”
“You’re a funny guy. How’d she take it?”
“She thinks I’m a saint for helping a friend.”
Guys from the gym helped us move Alex’s meager belongings, and box up my things that I stored in the second bedroom so we could bring them to Nick’s bar.
Nick offered me the space, saying he had ample room in the basement if I didn’t mind that the occasional rat made its way down there in the winter.
If it meant helping Alex, I’d probably eat a rat.
“Saint Nick.”
“Nick?”
“Not your Nick. Saint Nicholas. Santa Claus. I nicknamed you that.”
“For helping you?” Jesus, she looked beautiful today.
“For saving me. Don’t get all mushy on me. It’s true.” Before I could say a word, she added, “I’m going out for a bit. Do we need anything from the store?”
“I don’t think so. I defrosted lamb chops for dinner. Do you like lamb?”
“Who the hell doesn’t like lamb?”
“A lot of people. They say it’s too gamey.”
“I eat rabbit, remember?”
Her laughter overpowered Elton John whose voice resounded over the radio. We turned our backs to one another, pretending we were strangers under the same roof, or guests at a hotel who meet groggily at the coffee machine every morning.
I heard the front door close. Seconds later, I heard it open. “Be safe while I’m gone.”
It smelled sanitized, like the stark white hospital room where a wife became a widow.
Stickers adorned one crypt – stars, and suns, and moons, meant to guide the deceased home.
Sentiments written in crayon on ripped pieces of paper adorned another.
Over the years, the woman witnessed a child’s scrawl morph into proper penmanship.
The artist’s signature revealed their age: Luv, Alyssa, 3.
Next to it, there was another greeting card, Love, Alyssa, 4, and then Alyssa turned 7, and 8, and 9, and then Alyssa stopped visiting.
Thursdays were always the quietest days of the week.
There was no rhyme or reason, because it was always silent in a place without warm blood.
Every day, except today. The woman’s sobs bounced off the walls, sullying resting places, disturbing the peace; wretched sobs that rotted her insides.
Her usual bench remained cold and empty, like she was cold, and empty.
Today, she preferred the ground. She kneeled on the hard marble, back straight, legs aching, screaming, and crying until the words died in her throat.
It was getting late. Dinner should be on the table soon, sustenance for a woman whose soul was malnourished.
Standing unsteadily, she stared at his crypt that wasn’t decorated with anything fancy.
There were no flowers, cards, or stuffed animals.
There were no religious relics to help light the way.
There was only the likeness of a man who would never hear her tell him she loved him.
She didn’t get a chance. He left. He didn’t mean to.
On a snowy day, in a stone gazebo and with God as their witness, he vowed to always stay, but “forever”, it was only a word.
“I have to go now, love. I heart you. I always will.”