Bye, Bye Love

by K. J. Larsen

  I knew Mama had plans for that bouquet. She intended to throw it directly at my face. She’d like to flower-punch me until I heard wedding bells. But if I knew Cleo, she was certain to run interference.

  Papa’s face melted into a blubbering display of tenderness and love. We were a soggy-eyed lot up there. Except, of course, for the twins. They wanted to escape. They were like kids at a grown-up event.

  Nonno Rispoli stood in the doorway with Mama. His thick, snow-white hair was stunning against the powder-blue tux. My grandfather had waited a long time to walk his little girl down the aisle.

  Nonno smiled into Mama’s eyes. “It would have been nice to do this before you had children.”

  Mama laughed softly. “It would have been nice to do this when Tony could still remember his vows.”

  She took her father’s arm and they made the long walk down the aisle together.

  ***

  Father Timothy gave the opening wedding prayer, occasionally dragging a hand down over his mouth. It appeared to be a thoughtful pose but I knew he was wiping a silly grin from his face. And it wasn’t just the sacramental wine.

  In a few short hours, the newlyweds would be off to a world far away where satellite reception was sketchy, at best. Father Timothy was thinking Mama would be weeks without cell service. The priest was practically giddy. I know I was.

  Joey Jr., my cousin Ginny and her fiance Roger, and Aunt Mimi’s twelve-year-old daughter performed a string quartet of Ave Maria. Ginny carried the slow, haunting melody on her violin and Mama said it gave her goose bumps. A cantankerous great uncle read scripture and a pimple-faced cousin recited a poem she wrote. Sophie’s oldest boy wore one white glove and slugged a few notes on the piano. He played, according to the wedding program, Michael Jackson’s “It’s The Falling In Love.” The performance sounded, I thought, Freddie Kruger-ish but my sister beamed as if her boy was a prodigy. Mama and Papa eyes got watery. It was the DeLuca Family Amateur Hour. It was perfect.

  “May we have the rings?” Father Timothy announced.

  The rear doors of the church swept open and an explosion of grandchildren burst into the sanctuary. Girls in leg warmers, boys in alligator shirts. There were umpteen of them, ages one through ten.

  “The children,” Nonna DeLuca wailed, “look at all the poor, bastard children.”

  Aunt Fran pinched her and when her mouth opened, Uncle Rudy was there with the flask.

  Rocco and Maria’s oldest daughter carried the sacred ring pillow in her outstretched hands. Her face pinched with concentration as she carefully balanced the rings on the pillow’s smooth surface. The other kids carried wedding baskets with rose petals. They were to follow the ring-bearer, scattering petals for the bride and groom’s grand exit. The youngest wandered aimlessly. Michael and Vinnie’s kids ate their flowers.

  Mama began planning her wedding day when she was twelve. She stitched a pillow for the ring-bearer, embroidering two interwoven gold bands with a heart and floral border. My grandmother stitched handmade Italian lace around the edge of the pillow. When she was finished, she made Mama promise she’d marry a doctor.

  Rocco’s daughter led the way down the aisle and the munchkins trotted behind her. For maybe ten seconds. And then one of Sophie’s devil children screamed, “Ninja warriors!”

  The ninjas ran wild. All hell broke loose.

  Rose petals flew everywhere. She brandished her basket like a sword, taking out a toddler and an old man’s cane resting against the pew. Strangers’ attempts to console the toddler were met with bloodcurdling screams.

  Rocco’s ring-bearing daughter was a superstar. The world crashed all around but her steadfast eyes pored over the rings on Mama’s embroidered pillow.

  I held my breath. Almost there, almost there.

  And then Ninja girl saw Grandma in her magical, white gown.

  “’Nonna!” she cried and tossed her basket on the floor. The grandchildren zoomed up the sanctuary steps to hover around Mama and Papa.

  The ring-bearer’s careful progress went all to hell when she tripped over Ninja girl’s basket. The crowd gave a collective gasp. Her arms flailed and she narrowly dodged kissing the carpet. The embroidered pillow took flight and the rings rocketed up the steps. Mama’s ring dropped at Father Timothy’s feet. Papa’s ring crash-landed deep inside a heating vent.

  Rocco’s daughter’s face crumbled like she wanted to cry. Rocco gave her a hug and set the embroidered ring pillow back in her hands. He placed Mama’s ring on the pillow with the ring from his finger. She smiled and took her place beside Papa and Uncle Joey.

  The grandchildren looked uncertain, as if wondering if they’d done something wrong. Papa and Mama’s eyes locked for a moment. Then they threw their heads back and laughed.

  And so Mama was married to Papa, thirty-five years after he asked her. When Father Timothy said, “You may kiss the bride”, umpteen grandkids leaned in too. Papa and Mama had more than enough kisses to go around.

  ***

  People poured from the church showering rice on the bride and groom. It was an assault of big hair, parachute pants, off-shoulder shirts and glitter make-up. Papa’s Buick was parked on the curb. Tin cans trailed from the bumper and the twins had smeared Just Married in shaving cream on the windows.

  The wedding reception would be at the Old Neighborhood Italian American Club on 30th and Shields. There would be dancing and dinner and a seven-tier Italian wedding cake. Happily for guests, there was an open bar, compliments of cousin Ginny and her computer nerd soul mate, Roger.

  I have bragging rights for bringing Ginny and Roger together. Roger is a big, generous, teddy bear of a guy and he’s BFF with Bill Gates. Roger elevates the DeLuca social status a lot. Before Roger was one of us, we DeLucas didn’t know many famous people.

  My great grandfather had some questionable history with Al Capone. I know Frankie met Scotty Pippen once while working security for a Bulls event. Before the evening was over, Scotty told Frankie to quit stalking him. And Uncle Joey had drinks with Rod Blagojevich a few times before he went to the slammer.

  Mama’s friends lined up outside the church to take selfies with the bride. Uncle Joey and Papa hung out by the car, each with a hand gingerly placed over a battle wound. It was an inspirational photo op. A shoulder and bum pic. Many guests captured the image on their cell phones.

  You get a lot of notoriety in Bridgeport when you’re shot. There’s an aura of mystery and immortality that surrounds a person who takes a bullet and lives to brag about it. I’m not saying the good people of Bridgeport want to be shot. I’m just saying they’re glad for someone else when it happens to them.

  If you’re a Chicago cop and you get shot, there’s an added bonus. You get medals and a plushy ride in the Bridgeport parades. Local businesses give you free ice-cream and donuts for life. And neighbors will bring you dinners and homemade pies for months. I expect my Uncle Joey will think he’s died and gone to heaven.

  Papa opened the car door and tried to prod Mama inside.

  “To the Italian Club!” he shouted. “Let the party begin.”

  “Not yet.” She gave his hand a playful slap. “Caterina has to catch the bouquet.”

  “God, yes,” Papa breathed.

  There was a sympathetic murmur of agreement among the guests.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Cat needs all the help she can get,” my switched at birth sister sang.

  She was nursing Chiara; a pink receiving blanket covered the baby’s head. Sophie’s devil children clung to her skirt.

  Mama called the single women together. “Let’s see which lucky lady gets married next.”

  A whole bunch of giggling women crammed the church steps. Uncle Joey’s partner, Booker, pushed his daughters into the mix. He was worried about paying for their college education. Maybe his strategy was to marry the
m off first and let someone else save the Oregon frog.

  I tromped up to the very top of the church steps, hoping Mama couldn’t throw that far.

  On the ground below me, some smart ass guy sang a few lyrics from an old Sonny and Cher tune.

  “I’ve got you, Babe. I’ve got you, Babe.”

  I’d heard a rash of Cher’s greatest hits since the stylist did my hair.

  I hung my head over the rail and Max grinned up at me. He wore tight stonewashed jeans, a black and neon shirt, and a leather jacket. His hair had an eighties’ feathered, blow dry thing going. He was all hunky-gorgeous.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Caterina!” Mama shouted. “Are you ready?”

  I took my place again. Mama was warming up her arm. I smiled to myself. She was radiant. And she hadn’t grabbed her chest all day.

  “Stop the bouquet!” Cleo screeched. “Wait for me!

  Cyndi Lauper and Indiana Jones rounded the corner at a gallop. Cleo mounted the church steps, clawing her way through a swarm of women. She knew where Mama was aiming the bouquet and she jostled in next to me at the top.

  Her eyes had a dark, frenzied shine. “Back off, girlfriend. I’ve got this bouquet.”

  I stared. She was serious. “You understand this is for fun, don’t you? Catching a bunch of flowers doesn’t mean you’re getting married.”

  “Shut up.”

  I shrugged. I knew it didn’t matter who caught the bouquet. The next wedding will be Roger and Ginny’s.

  Cleo waved her arms in the air and bellowed. “Send ’em here, Mama!”

  Mama crossed herself and looked hard at me. She wound up her arm and pitched the bouquet into the air.

  “Catch it, Caterina!” Mama called.

  “Grab it, Cleo!” Indiana Jones yelled.

  The flowers, hurled high in the air, whirling and soaring straight for my face. I’m taller than Cleo and I reached out my arms and the blossoms brushed my fingertips. Papa cheered. Mama gave a sob of joy. And Cleo made a diving tackle for the bouquet.

  She leaped into the air and heaved her body to the side, pushing me away with one hand and grappling for the flowers with the other. I was knocked off kilter. I tried to correct myself but time seemed to suspend and for a moment, I hung in the air with the flowers. The only movement I saw was Cleo’s body at full throttle. I felt myself plunge over the railing and a sick sensation of gravity grabbing me. Everything slowed to a crawl and I thought curiously of Corey and his long descent from his condo window to the street below. This fall was far less dramatic and couldn’t seriously hurt me. But it could mess up my ankle.

  “Max!” I screamed.

  On my way down Cyndi Lauper caught the flowers. I heard her screech. “I got it!” And then, “Cat? Cat? What the—”

  Powerful arms reached for me and pulled me into him. I buried my face in his chest and he smelled smokin’ hot.

  I felt his breath on my neck and something quivered inside me.

  “Whew!” I said awkwardly. “Thanks, Max.”

  I lifted my head and looked into Magnum’s curiously cobalt blue eyes.

  I blinked. Yes. It was Magnum P.I.

  In spite of myself, I smiled.

  He nudged Max aside. “I’ll take it from here,” Savino said.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I remember the Canadian geese were flying over the lake when I told Bernie that Cleo and I followed Provenza to Candy Andy’s grave. I said Nick brought flowers and tootsie rolls. And that he got all choked up when he thought somebody whacked Bernie in the park.

  Bernie was quiet a long time after that. I guess he figured his boss wasn’t trying to kill him after all.

  Maybe that’s why he went to see Nick when he returned to Chi-Town.

  Or maybe he was just pissed because Provenza’s guys trashed his house, looking for the ledger.

  When Bernie walked into Tapas, Nick passed out cold and bonked his head on a table. After the paramedics revived him and assured him Bernie wasn’t a ghost, Provenza grabbed his bookkeeper and kissed him on each cheek. That’s what Italian men do. And it’s just another reason why Bernie Love prefers birds to people.

  That night, Nick brought Bernie home to dinner. When Provenza’s cook, Gabby, saw him, she hit her head on the floor.

  In the end, Cleo was spot on about Provenza being one of the good guys. I felt like a putz.

  I’m not privy to the details. What I know is this. Bernie agreed to oversee Provenza’s books for a few more years. On a limited basis from Costa Rica. Provenza will hire a bookkeeper for the daily grunt work of running the business. Bernie will manage the overseas accounts, a little friendly money-laundering, and investments. He says that’s the fun stuff anyway.

  That was Bernie’s end of the bargain. Provenza promised to smile when Joey tears up Bridgeport in a Ferrari that cost him almost half a million dollars.

  ***

  Bernie met with Captain Bob in his office. Bernie said his wallet had been stolen before he left town for a week. He didn’t appreciate the cops raiding his house and wrapping it in crime scene tape. He told Bob he wants his hard drive back. And that someone said Cousin Frankie ate his pizza.

  These days Charles Dalton and his black and white spats, are the buzz of Bridgeport. The disappearance of a quiet man known only by a few neighbors would have passed quietly if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s “psychic” neighbor, Ted. Ted believes Charlie is alive and well in California. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his friend lost his face a few blocks from home.

  Last month Ted wrote a blurb for the Bridgeport Blog called: “It’s Never Too Late to Shoot for the Stars.”

  The piece recounts the story of a fifty-something man who walks out of his old Bridgeport life and into the bright lights of Hollywood. In Ted’s delusional world, Charlie is the paparazzis’ hottest new photo-op.

  Since Ted’s article appeared, a baffling number of residents say they were besties with Bridgeport’ s dazzling new star. They say they had breakfast with him at Connie’s Restaurant or ribs and beer at Schaller’s Pump. Some claim they watched a Godfather marathon with Charlie. That’s nine whole hours with the Corleones and a huge tub of popcorn.

  I’ve got my own dysfunctional Italian family. Now that’s what I call a marathon. Give me a freaking medal.

  Charlie has become something of an urban legend around here.

  Jackalope Coffee serves a Charlie Chicken Pita with star shaped veggies. And residents report seeing Charlie in movies and on cable TV.

  He’s rumored to be dating Christie Brinkley on the down-low.

  A blizzard is brewing north of Chicago but we’re hoping to escape the city before it buries us. This Christmas I’m dreaming of the white sandy beaches of Costa Rica. Bernie bought tickets for Uncle Joey’s family, Cleo and Frankie, and Chance and me to spend the holidays with him. I’m packing light. A few gifts, a couple bikinis, some cool summer dresses, and a light White Sox jacket for evenings. Oh, and the teddy I picked up when I was stalking Cookie Allen at the love store. Chance hasn’t seen it yet. But the twirly, silver tassel pasties gave Max major eye-poppage.

  I might just wrap myself in mistletoe.

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