Angelina's Bachelors

by Brian O'Reilly

  “I don’t know, I guess last year when I had the flu?”

  Dr. Vitale reached into his vest pocket, checked his watch, then tucked it back in place. “Were you planning on coming to see me anytime soon?”

  For a moment, Angelina nearly lost track of what they were talking about. Dr. Vitale always had a way of slowing things down for her and making her relax. It felt as though they were chatting about the weather and he was hinting around for lemonade and chocolate chip cookies.

  “No. I’ve just been tired, is all,” she said.

  He didn’t reply.

  Angelina suddenly grew suspicious, a little frightened, and more than a little worried.

  Dr. Vitale was unreadable.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Dr. Vitale leaned back in the chair and placed his hands on his knees. “I wouldn’t say wrong, really.”

  “What is it?” Angelina asked, steeling herself now against the news.

  He smiled. “Well, unless you usually have two heartbeats, you’re going to have a baby.”

  “What?”

  Dr. Vitale waited patiently and only spoke again when he could see that the idea was beginning to take hold. In a better world, he might have won the Nobel Prize in bedside manner.

  “Not only that,” he said, “you’ve got to be nearly five months along.”

  There was a rushing sound in her ears, then Angelina could hear the clinking of silverware in the other room. She was thankful that Dr. Vitale had sent everyone back into the dining room so that now it was just the two of them.

  She lay back and her hands moved hesitantly to her belly. Her mind raced back in a flash over the past few months and the dots connected and the stars aligned and she knew suddenly in her heart, he was right. Oh, my God.

  It wasn’t just the two of them, after all.

  “Oh, my God,” she said softly. “I’m having Frank’s baby.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Pie’s the Thing

  ANGELINA USED TO experience the oddest sensation when she was a little girl. Her father and mother would take her down the shore every summer for two weeks to a little bungalow near the ocean. The place belonged to an elderly maiden aunt of her father’s, who rented it out for a week at a time to beachgoers, but who also conscientiously reserved time for members of her family to vacation for free. For two weeks, they would sun and splash in the surf, eat crabs and fried bluefish and saltwater taffy, and Angelina would return home brown as a berry. That’s when she would hold her breath: the moment when her father turned the key in the door.

  After two weeks away, it always felt to her as though she were seeing her own house again for the first time. It was exhilarating. As her parents brought in the bags, she’d run from room to room noticing everything: the pictures on the wall she never paid attention to, the fresh smell of the carpet her mother had vacuumed twice before they’d left home, the enormous size of their reliable, old kitchen stove, until she’d finally run upstairs and rediscover her own room, bounce on the bed, and hug the old, threadbare stuffed lion she slept with. Nothing had really changed, but in those precious few moments her familiar, everyday world looked completely new and different.

  She’d stopped having that feeling after she was about thirteen, and soon after that, her great-aunt died and the house went out of the family’s hands, but she felt that same sensation now, so strongly that she could hardly speak. Everything was the same, and everything had changed.

  She asked for Gia, whose hands flew to her cheeks when she heard the news. She hugged Angelina so fast and hard that they both almost fell off the couch. They cried, just for a few seconds, and Gia said a quick prayer of thanks to God, while Angelina and Dr. Vitale blessed themselves and bowed their heads.

  “Who should I tell?” said Gia suddenly. “I have to let Tina know. And I have to tell Joey and Maria.”

  Angelina smiled gamely and nodded, but she still looked pale and weak. “Sure, Ma, please let everyone know, but I feel like I better go and lie down for a while.”

  Gia helped her up and draped the blanket around her shoulders. “Come on, honey, I’ll take you up. I’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry about anything.”

  Dr. Vitale rose to his feet.

  “Doctor Al, are you going to stay for some food?” asked Gia.

  “No, thank you, Gia. I have to get back home to my wife. You’ll bring Angelina to see me the day after tomorrow?”

  “We’ll be there,” said Gia.

  “Thanks, Doctor, for coming over,” said Angelina, still rattled and unsteady on her feet.

  Dr. Vitale put on his hat and coat and picked up his bag. “Don’t worry, Angelina, everything seems to be fine. Get some rest. Good night.”

  He tipped his hat and let himself out, and Gia gingerly escorted Angelina up the steps.

  Angelina was asleep on her bed, still in her clothes, under a heavy down comforter. It was dark, but there was light in the room from the moon outside. Her eyes opened when she heard loud laughter from downstairs, followed by a smattering of applause. Sounded like a big celebration was going on. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sleeping. She took the knitted blanket draped over the back of her vanity chair, wrapped herself up in it, and, barefoot, headed downstairs.

  As she reached the bottom step, another peal of laughter came from the dining room; Jerry must have said something funny, with his usual perfect timing and delivery.

  As Angelina rounded the corner, she saw someone with his back to her sitting at the head of the table. That had never happened before. As she approached, he turned and smiled.

  It was Frank, dressed in a shirt and tie with a large slice of chocolate cake in front of him. No one else at the table looked at her when she walked in, they just continued chattering amiably among themselves.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Frank laughed and cocked his head to one side, the way he did when he was about to tease her. She could always see it coming.

  “How could you not know you were having a baby?” Frank’s tone was gently mocking, but his face was full of love—not to mention concern. For Angelina, it was like chatting with a trusted part of herself.

  “You didn’t notice all the changes in your … you know,” said Frank.

  “My what? You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been working my backside off, I wasn’t eating regular meals, and besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been sleeping alone lately. So, you know, I put it down to a lack of …”

  “Lack of what?”

  She liked that glint in his eye, in spite of herself. She looked up to the ceiling, then narrowed her eyes at him and said, “I’ve … been … busy.”

  Frank knew when to get off a subject. “You’ve been so busy cooking for everybody else, but now you have to remember to eat. You’re eating for two, you know.” Frank got up and headed for the kitchen. She followed him and waited as he pulled his chair out, gesturing for her to have a seat. “Sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat. You’ve got to eat.”

  Back in bed, Angelina’s eyes flickered open.

  “Hi.” Jerry had pulled a chair up beside the bed and had turned on a small lamp across the room. “You’ve got to eat,” he said again.

  “What did you say?” Angelina shifted under the comforter, then sat up against the pillows.

  “I brought you something to eat.”

  Jerry got up and came back across the room with a bed tray. On it was a bowl of soup, a dish with some saltines, and a glass of ginger ale. One of the pillows slipped off the bed to the floor. Jerry set the tray down on the night table.

  “I got it. Try some of that.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing fancy. Some chicken broth, a little pepper and acini de pepe. I used to make this for my little brother whenever he had to stay home from school.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother,” said Angelina, settling in beneath the tray.

&
nbsp; “Sure, I did. He had MS when he was a kid. He died when he was thirteen.”

  “Oh, my God. I never knew that. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks. He was a great kid. You should have seen him hit a baseball before he got sick. Man, he was great.” Jerry sat back down in the chair beside the bed.

  “What was his name?” Angelina blew on the broth in her spoon.

  “Kevin. How’s the soup?”

  “Hot. Perfect,” she said gratefully.

  “I should have put a little ice cube in it to cool it off. So, everybody except Gia went home, but they all send their congratulations. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay. Surprised.”

  “You got that right. Welcome to the club. We’re getting shirts made.”

  Angelina felt comfortable and warm as the piping hot liquid traveled down into her chest, penetrating deeply as it went. She felt herself drifting into a mood that seemed warm and familiar at first, like snuggling into a comfy, old sweater, but then unsettling somehow. It was a strange and intimate feeling when she realized that there was a man in her bedroom.

  She sat up a little straighter in bed. “Thank you for this, Jerry.”

  Jerry sat up a little straighter in the chair. “Enjoy it. I’m going back downstairs. Gia will be up, she’s going to sleep over. I’m going to stick around for a while, help clean up. Call down if you want something.”

  He got up and went to the door.

  “Thanks again,” said Angelina.

  “No problem. Merry Christmas, Angelina.”

  Guy was sitting alone in the dining room when Jerry got back downstairs. Gia had set out three coffee cups, three small crystal glasses, and a bottle of anisette.

  “I thought you left,” said Jerry, taking his usual seat at the table.

  “Gia invited me to stay for a drink,” said Guy as he poured a clear dram of the viscous licorice aperitif for each of them. “Cheers.”

  They clinked glasses and sipped.

  “Salute,” said Jerry.

  “How is she?” asked Guy.

  “She’s good,” said Jerry with a smile.

  “I mean, how is she feeling? Did you ask her?”

  “Yeah, of course I did. She’s fine.”

  “I’ll stop by in the morning,” said Guy, almost to himself. “I’m sure she’s going to want somebody to talk to.”

  Jerry’s jaw set in a way that was hard to read. “Pretty sure the kitchen’s closed tomorrow.”

  Guy met Jerry’s gaze evenly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just saying, she seems fine, is all. I don’t think she needs any early-morning visits.”

  “Hey, all I want is what’s best for Angelina,” said Guy.

  “So do I.”

  “Coffee’s ready,” said Gia. She stood framed by the light in the doorway with a fresh pot in hand and eyed them both intently before she came slowly to the table and started filling their cups.

  Gia settled into a chair opposite the two of them. Guy passed her a glass of anisette and Jerry added sugar to his coffee, which gave them both a moment to be occupied with something besides each other. Gia blew gently on her coffee and waited until she had their complete attention.

  “I grew up around two brothers and all of their friends,” she said, “So let me tell you, I know it when I see the signs, okay?”

  The two men sat still—a little guiltily, both slightly sulky—and listened.

  “I know Angelina,” said Gia. “And if anybody can get through this kind of a thing, she can. But it’s a shock to the body, in more ways than one. My job, and your job, is to make sure she knows she’s not gonna have to do it by herself. But she needs friends right now, not boyfriends. Capisci?”

  “We just want to help,” said Guy.

  “We all do. Nothing to worry about, Gia,” said Jerry.

  “I’m not worried,” she said. “But I am going up to bed.”

  They cleared the cups and glasses away and Gia saw them to the door. She hugged them both, said the last Buon Natale, and locked up for the night. As she drew the front curtains, she saw Guy and Jerry talking for a minute, then shaking hands under the streetlight before heading off in opposite directions.

  They were young enough to be her sons, but Gia knew she was dealing with two grown men, both with experiences in their lives that she knew nothing about. She had no way of knowing whether their handshake had been a truce or a signal, “May the best man win.” She felt that she knew them well enough, though, to tell that they were gentlemen and hoped, most of all, deep down, that that they had agreed to treat the situation and Angelina with the one thing that counted above everything else—respect.

  Weeks passed by as Angelina acclimated to the new shape of her world. Breakfasts and dinners continued right on schedule, although they became simpler, less adventurous, and more wholesome—and she got lots more help in the kitchen. Her gentleman diners, always deferential and polite, had all become positively solicitous overnight. The meals were mostly served family-style now, and she had a fight on her hands if she ever tried to clear and do the dishes.

  Tina and Gia stopped by much more regularly, ostensibly to make sure that Angelina had all of the help she needed, but Angelina could see subtle undertones. Gia was practically bursting at the seams with pride and anticipation—between Angelina’s pregnancy and Tina’s pending nuptials, Gia was in her element, ready to dispense advice and lend a hand at the drop of a hat. Tina, who clearly had it in mind to dazzle her new husband in the kitchen, wanted desperately to learn the secrets of Angelina’s red gravy.

  So they picked a Sunday afternoon soon after New Year’s and Angelina hauled out her mother’s old sausage grinder and stuffer. Gia had volunteered to make the trip to the butcher’s shop and brought back good hog casings, a few pounds of beautifully marbled pork butt and shoulder glistening with clean, white fat, and a four-pound beef chuck roast. It wasn’t every day that the grinder came out for fresh homemade sausages and meatballs, but it wasn’t every day that Gia and Angelina teamed up to pass on the Mother Recipe to the next generation.

  Gia patiently instructed Tina on the proper technique for flushing and preparing the casings, then set them aside while Angelina showed her how to build the sauce: start with white onion, and a fine mince of celery, fresh flat-leaf parsley, and deep red, extra-sweet frying peppers; add copious amounts of garlic (chopped not so finely); season with sea salt, crushed red pepper, and freshly ground black pepper; simmer and sweat on a medium flame in good olive oil; generously sprinkle with dried herbs from the garden (palmfuls of oregano, rosemary, and basil); follow with a big dollop of thick, rich tomato paste; cook down some more until all of the ingredients were completely combined; pour in big cans of fresh-packed crushed tomatoes and a cup of red wine (preferably a Sangiovese or a Barolo); reseason, finish with fresh herbs; bring to a high simmer, then down to a low flame; walk away.

  “That’s it?” said Tina in a hushed tone when it was finished.

  “That’s it. Do it just like that for maybe … ten years or so,” said Gia.

  “Later, once you have it down, you can switch it up and make it your own,” said Angelina.

  Gia and Tina ground the pork for the sausages, then Angelina instructed Tina on the order and proportions for her spice mix. The cold weather was settled into Gia’s two arthritic knuckles, so Angelina and Tina started in on stuffing the sausages and pinching them into uniform links. They were about halfway through the second casing when Angelina unexpectedly turned a shade of pale green reminiscent of the color of half-ripened bananas.

  “Uh-oh,” said Angelina, and rushed out of the room with a towel clamped over her lips.

  Tina and Gia heard the powder-room door slam, then the bellowing sounds of her reversal of lunch. Minutes later, looking pale, wrung-out, and worn, Angelina returned tentatively to the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

  She was crying. “I can’t do this.”

  Gia took
her by the shoulders as Tina hurriedly washed her hands clean in the sink behind them.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” said Gia soothingly. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Angelina turned to face her and her eyes were teary and despairing. “What if I can’t do this, Gia? The baby. How am I going to do it without Frank?” She choked a little when she said his name.

  Angelina sobbed a loud, heartbroken sob and collapsed into a chair. Tina handed her a wad of tissues and hugged her from behind. They stayed there together while Gia ran some cool tap water into a glass, added a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon juice, then took it to the table and had Angelina sip it slowly.

  Gia waited patiently until Angelina had composed herself and looked as though she felt a little better. Then Gia leaned in and said quietly, “You can do it. We’re all here to help you with anything you need. All of us. You know that, way down deep in your bones, right?”

  “Yeah, I know it.” Angelina put her hand over her heart.

  Gia smiled and patted Angelina on the shoulder. Gia’s voice took on an extra gravity when she said, “And there’s just one more thing you can never forget.”

  “What’s that?” said Angelina, and blew her nose.

  “Those poor men. Not one of them with a woman. You stop cooking for them, they all starve to death and die.”

  Angelina laughed then; so did Tina.

  Gia smiled in unspoken satisfaction. She had a few surprises left up her sleeve. Nobody knew it, but she could be pretty damn funny, when she wanted to be.

  Once or twice a week, Basil began making it his habit to stop by Angelina’s mid-afternoon with a treat for them to share. They would sit and talk for a while, usually about some record he had listened to or painting he had seen or the latest book he had been reading. Angelina began to think of it as the Cupertino Culture Hour and looked forward to his company even more than she did the sweet treats he brought along. He appeared at the door on a nippy Tuesday in his topcoat and tweed cap, cradling a brown bag. He tipped his hat and she ushered him into the kitchen.