Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “You said you could handle your brother.”

  “Oh, I can. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to firearms.”

  They both laughed, and for a split second, it struck Theresa how ruggedly handsome he was. But as quickly as the thought came, she made it disappear. She had blonder fish to fry.

  Theresa hesitated. “There is one more thing.”

  Michael waited.

  “You need to update your wait staff.”

  Michael stared at her.

  “You need to get some younger waiters and waitresses to reflect the diversity of customers you’ll be pulling in.”

  “Theresa, all the guys who work here worked for my dad, they—”

  “I know that, Michael. They’re all old men.”

  “Why can’t that be part of the restaurant’s old-world charm?” Michael challenged. “If you want me to convince Anthony to put together picnic baskets and prepare baccala on Christmas Eve and Christ knows what else, we have to leave the wait staff alone.”

  “We’ll talk about it another time,” Theresa placated. She glanced down at the notes she’d typed up. That seemed to cover everything for now. “Any questions?”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Actually, there is. Since you’re the man about town, you need to start talking up the restaurant every chance you get. And if you know any Italian celebrities who might be willing to come to the reopening, that would be great as well.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Michael ran his hand through his hair, grimacing when it came away greasy, which made Theresa grin. “Did you enjoy the pastries I sent you last week?” he asked casually.

  Theresa decided to tease him, just a little. “Those were from you?”

  “Did you like them?”

  She couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Nervously, almost distractedly, Michael began playing with the toothpick lying on the table in front of him. “When would you like to go for coffee?”

  Groaning, Theresa cradled her head in her hands. “Michael.”

  “It’s not a difficult question, Theresa. All you have to do is say yes.”

  “Let me think about it, okay?”

  “What’s to think about?”

  Theresa bristled with annoyance. “Don’t push, Michael. I don’t like it.”

  “Fine, I won’t push. But I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  Of course you don’t. You weren’t sexually assaulted by a hockey player. You don’t wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat feeling smothered because he pushed himself on top of you . . . and you don’t recall the taste of blood in your mouth after he cracked you across the face . . . his saliva drying on your breast. . . .

  “Theresa?”

  She forced a smile. “Sorry. I was zoning out.”

  The disappointment shadowing Michael’s face almost made her feel sorry enough to have coffee with him. Almost. But he was pushy. If she agreed to coffee, the next thing you know he’d be on her about dinner, and then . . . she shuddered.

  “I have to go,” she said abruptly, gathering up her things. “I’ll be in touch again soon. In the meantime, if you need any help with Anthony, let me know.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Michael said glumly.

  Theresa hurried out the door and back into the brisk air, where she could clear her head and concentrate on more important things.

  Like what she was going to wear when she met Reese Banister.

  “Mikey! What a surprise!”

  Michael smiled as his cousin Gemma drew him into an embrace, crushing him against her as the overwhelming scent of her patchouli perfume, strong and musky, tickled his nostrils. Gemma ran the Golden Bough, a New Age shop in the Village. He’d come to see her because he was desperate for female advice.

  Gemma was the black sheep of the family. Not only was she thirty-one and happily single, but she’d committed the cardinal sin of moving into the big, bad city, far from Brooklyn and all that was pure in this world, or so his family thought. Worst of all, she was a stregh—a witch. She’d explained it to him once, all about paganism and white magick and Wicca. Michael had teased her about worshipping furniture, but his feeling was that if it made her happy, who was he to criticize?

  The rest of the family took a less charitable view. Gemma was rarely invited to family events for fear their sainted grandmother Nonna Maria might find out she’d “gone over to the dark side” and promptly keel on the spot. Anthony now made the sign of the cross whenever he saw her. None of it seemed to phase Gemma, who had always been Michael’s favorite cousin, even if she was a bit, well, spooky. When they were kids, Gemma was always freaking him out, accurately shouting out who was on the other end of the line when the phone rang, or predicting things before they happened. One time, Gemma airily announced to him, “You’re gonna fall and go to the hospital.” Five minutes later, he tripped and fell down the steps at Nonna’s and had to get five stitches to his chin. At the time, he was certain she’d somehow made him fall. Nowadays he was content to admit some things simply defied explanation and leave it at that. It wasn’t an area he cared to delve into too deeply.

  “Sit down,” Gemma urged, leading him to one of the tall stools behind the counter. A few customers were silently browsing the book section, which Michael noticed carried books on everything from astrology to Zoroastri anism. He didn’t mind the books. It was all the other stuff, the tarot cards and the crystals and the incense and the candles, that gave him the willies. Maybe it was a case of “You can take the boy out of Catholicism, but you can’t take the Catholicism out of the boy.” He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that just being there made him feel slightly uncomfortable, like he was doing something vaguely sinful. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help what he felt. Or smelled. The cloying sweetness of incense wafting through the small store was so strong he knew that by the time he left he’d have a whopping headache.

  He turned to his cousin, her forehead wrinkled as she concentrated hard on staring into his face, eyes narrowed.

  “What?” he asked, alarmed.

  She touched his wrist lightly. “You’re in pain?” she asked with concern. “Someone’s hurt you?”

  Jesus H, did she have to start in with the witch stuff right off the bat?

  “In a way,” Michael admitted. “There’s this girl—I mean woman . . .”

  He proceeded to tell her all about Theresa, pausing only when one of the customers came to the counter to pay for a book on Santeria. Michael jokingly asked if she’d read the sequels on the Nina and the Pinta, only to be punched in the shoulder by his cousin. The customer awarded him such a look of condescension that had he been a dog, he would have slunk away with his tail between his legs. When the shop was empty again, Gemma listened carefully as he finished his story, nodding thoughtfully.

  “Let me ask you a question,” she finally said.

  “Okay.”

  “Why do you think this girl has changed so much since you first met her? You said that when you were first introduced a few years back, she was easygoing and funny. But now she’s stiff and formal and looks like a schoolmarm.”

  “A HOT schoolmarm,” Michael felt compelled to point out.

  “Whatever. What do you think is going on?”

  Michael felt uncomfortable. “It could have something to do with what happened to her.” He checked Gemma’s expression to make sure she knew what he was referring to. “But why does she need to hide? When I fed her some of Anthony’s pastry, the real Theresa came out. But the minute she realized it, bam! It was back to cold fish Theresa.”

  “She’s obviously trying to protect herself.”

  “Ya think?” Michael retorted.

  “So, maybe you should leave her alone,” said Gemma, pointedly ignoring his sarcasm.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why? Why do you refuse to accept that she doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

  “Well . . .” Michael scratc
hed his left ear distractedly, trying to formulate an answer not only for Gemma, but for himself. “Because I just have this feeling I can’t shake, that if she would just give me a chance . . . trust me . . . let her guard down . . . she’d see we were right for each other somehow. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Gemma’s mouth gave way to a knowing smile. “It’s called intuition, Mikey. Everyone has it. But some are more willing to pay attention to it than others.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all airy fairy on me here. Just tell me what you think I should do.”

  Gemma sighed. “I’m not sure. Hold on a minute.” Reaching down, she pulled out a small, purple velvet bag from beneath the counter.

  “What’s that?” Michael asked suspiciously.

  “Tarot cards,” she informed him, removing a deck from the bag and placing it on the counter.

  Michael groaned. “Gemma, c’mon, you know how I feel about this stuff.”

  “Indulge me.” She handed the cards to him. “We’ll just ask one question at a time and see what they say. Think of a question, then shuffle the deck as many times as you want. When you’re done, put the deck down and turn over the top card.”

  “Okay.” He held the cards tight in the palm of his hand, thinking. “Is Theresa the one for me?” he asked quietly. He began shuffling the well-worn cards, surprised to find he was somewhat nervous. “I swear to God, if you tell anyone in the family I did this, I will hunt you down,” he threatened his cousin.

  “Concentrate on the cards and the question, Michael,” Gemma urged. The cards and the question. The cards and the question. A number came into his head: thirty-three. His uniform number. Shuffling the cards thirty-three times, he put them down on the counter as instructed and turned over the top card. There was a picture of a couple dressed in medieval garb, holding hands in front of what looked like a preacher or a judge. “The Lovers” it said in flowery print beneath them. His eyes darted to Gemma’s, hopeful. “That’s good?”

  “Very good. The card symbolizes love, beauty, the beginning of a romantic relationship. Maybe even marriage, eventually.”

  Michael felt vindicated. “See? It’s in the cards. Literally.”

  “The cards you think are a bunch of bull,” Gemma pointed out.

  “Maybe not,” Michael admitted, encouraged. Maybe there was something to this mystical mumbo jumbo after all. “Can I ask another question?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He picked up the cards again, this time closing his eyes. “When will it happen?”

  He waited for another number to appear in his mind. Thirty-three. Okay, so maybe thirty-three would be the only number that ever came to his mind. That was fine with him. He shuffled the deck more slowly this time, turning over the top card when he was done. The card was upside down. “Nine of Wands,” he read aloud, checking out the illustration of a peasant in tights alongside a cart loaded with nine long pieces of wood. He looked at his cousin expectantly.

  “Well . . .” she began hesitantly.

  “What?” Michael was growing alarmed. “What is it?”

  “Reversed, the Nine of Wands indicates obstacles, adversity, delays. Lots of problems, lots of barriers to overcome.” She winced. “Sorry.”

  “I knew these cards were bullshit,” Michael muttered darkly.

  “It doesn’t mean you’re not going to get her,” Gemma assured him. “It’s just not going to be easy.”

  “Great.” Michael sulked.

  Gemma’s gaze was sympathetic. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I really do,” said Michael. “She’s smart and funny. A little bit cranky, too, but that’s okay, I can cope with cranky. And she’s gorgeous—Madonn’ . . .”

  “Well, then you’ve got to have faith it’s going to work out.” Gemma began putting the cards back in their velvet bag. “What does Anthony think of her?”

  Michael pulled a tortured face. “Don’t get me started on Anthony.”

  “What? Why?”

  He told Gemma all about Dante’s, including Theresa’s suggestions and his brother’s reluctance to change anything.

  “You have to go easy with Anthony, Michael. He’s very sensitive.”

  “Who isn’t?” Michael scoffed.

  “I mean about the restaurant in particular.”

  “Well, so am I.”

  “It’s different. Dante’s has been his whole life. He’s poured his guts into it. Now all of a sudden you step in and want to change things around? No wonder he’s upset.”

  “Are you saying I don’t have a right to improve things?” Michael demanded, feeling defensive.

  “Not at all. I’m just saying be sensitive to his feelings. You’ve seen and done things he never has, maybe never will. He’s jealous of you. All he’s ever had is Dante’s, and he’s afraid you’re somehow going to take it away from him. Be gentle with him, Mike.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I will,” Michael promised. He found the idea that Anthony might be jealous of him bizarre, but he supposed it could be true. All those times Anthony got on his ass about being a wussy college boy and a dumb jock . . . Michael always assumed it was Anthony’s way of putting him down. But now he saw there might be a different way to interpret it.

  The incense was starting to make his temples throb. Hopping down from his stool, he leaned in to kiss his cousin’s cheek. “I should run. I’ve got a million things to do today.”

  “Wait. Let me give you something.”

  Gemma hustled out from behind the counter and went to the front of the store, returning with two large, thick candles, one white, one red. “Burn them and think thoughts of Theresa. They’re to attract love.”

  “Don’t you have a spell I can recite or something?” Michael ribbed.

  “I do, but I know you won’t do it.”

  Squirming with embarrassment, Michael gently thrust the candles back at his cousin. “I can’t take these, Gemma.”

  “Afraid you might get what you want?” she asked, refusing to take them back from him.

  “No, afraid people might think I’m a total whackjob.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Gemma sniffed, looking mildly offended. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, Michael told her he’d take the candles and waited while she rolled them in protective tissue paper and put them in a bag.

  “One more thing,” she said.

  Michael shifted his weight impatiently. “If you’re gonna tell me to dance beneath the moon naked and howl like a wolf, you’ve got the wrong guy, okay?”

  “You’re a big, fat idiot, you know that?” Gemma shook her head affectionately. She pressed a stone into his hand. Smooth, milky white, it was the size of a jawbreaker. “That’s moonstone. Also known to attract love.”

  “And what the hell am I supposed to do with it?” Michael lamented. “Use it as a doorstop?”

  “Just carry it in your pocket. It’s not kryptonite, it won’t kill you.”

  “What do I owe you for all this?”

  “You can give my love to Nonna. Tell her I miss her,” Gemma said sadly.

  “Hey, you know you’re always welcome by me and Anthony.”

  “I know that,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “Now get out there and get Theresa. Just remember: It’s not gonna be easy.”

  After visiting his cousin, Michael took advantage of having the day off. He shot back to Brooklyn, stopping first at his own place in Park Slope to drop off the candles and moonstone. Then he headed to Bensonhurst, letting himself into Anthony’s house, which was once his parents’ house. He and Anthony had a standing rule that either could walk into the other’s place at any time. Not that Anthony ever did. Anthony hadn’t been to Michael’s apartment since helping him move in three years before. Walking through to the kitchen, Michael poured himself a cup of coffee from the ever-present Mr. Coffee on the counter.

  Glancing around, he felt nostalgia envelop him like a well-worn blanket. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear his mothe
r humming while she stood at the stove, her happiness an invisible but omnipresent ingredient in every dish she prepared. He’d never known anyone as easygoing or as happy to be cooking. Nothing daunted her. He could remember nights his father would be about to burst a blood vessel when something had gone wrong at the restaurant, a vegetable delivery that was late or some dish that hadn’t turned out the way he wanted. It was always his mother who was able to calm him down and make him see that in the grand scheme of things, one burnt eggplant didn’t merit that much agita. Growing up, he always thought his father was the strong one. Now he knew it was his mother.

  Coffee prepared, he wandered back out into the living room to wait for his brother. It wasn’t only the kitchen that remained unchanged. Everything in the house was the same as when his parents were alive. The couch with its faded green slipcover was still under the picture window. The TV still sat atop a lace runner on a table that had once been Nonna Maria’s. Jesus, there was even hard candy in the glass dish on the sideboard. That candy was probably older than he was. He wondered when, or if, Anthony would ever get around to redecorating. There had to be a part of him that wanted to make the house his own.

  Sighing, Michael took a sip of coffee. Anthony would never redecorate. It wasn’t who Anthony was. He could already hear him protesting: “But why would I want to get rid of the couch? It’s perfectly good.” Anthony had lived his whole life in this house, and would probably die in his bed upstairs. Michael never understood why Anthony had never gotten around to getting a place of his own. How did he stand being a grown man, living with his parents? It had embarrassed Michael, but obviously Anthony didn’t feel the same way, and neither did their parents. Every time Anthony made overtures about leaving, their mother would talk him out of it. It was a little game they played. But once their father died six years ago, the game was over. There was no question Anthony would stay on. Michael had always felt guilty over his relief that Anthony was shouldering most of the burden of taking care of their mother—not that she needed it. Right up until the day she died, she worked in the kitchen at Dante’s, teaching Anthony everything she knew, then crowing with pride to whomever would listen when he surpassed her. It struck Michael that Anthony had to be feeling pretty lonely these days without Ma, both at home and in the restaurant. Keeping Gemma’s advice in mind, he resolved to be patient with his brother, even if Anthony wound up threatening him with a carving knife, or worse.