Forks, Knives, and Spoons

  “ARE YOU SURE IT’S okay that I don’t go? I’ve got this big meeting tomorrow that I really can’t miss.” Andrew tasted the spaghetti, leaning backward to avoid the steam.

  “It’s okay,” Amy said absently. “I still can’t believe Mrs. Saxon is gone. Matt said she just died in her sleep. They think it was a heart attack; his father tried to wake her up and she had already passed. It’s so sad.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “She was the most generous person. You know, she started the food pantry in Tuckahoe and ran a community dinner.” As Amy spoke, Andrew poked through the cabinets looking for the colander. “I went once when I was at Matt’s and she hosted it like it was a dinner party in her home. She made everyone feel welcome and special. I just can’t believe she’s gone.”

  When he had drained the pasta in the sink, he turned to comfort Amy, his face moist from the task.

  “I’m sorry, Aim. And please tell Matt I’m sorry, too.”

  She wiped her cheek where Andrew’s face met hers. “Can you stay here tonight?” she asked.

  “I can’t, I’ve got to get into the office ridiculously early. You’ll be fine, won’t you? Veronica will be home soon, right?”

  She set out two placemats on the small round table in the corner of the living room, then folded two paper napkins and laid out the silverware. As she went to place the knives, she realized this meal didn’t need a knife and she put them back into the drawer.

  THE LATE SEPTEMBER SKY was brilliant and clear as Amy boarded the Metro-North Harlem line to the Crestwood station, then got a cab to take her the half-mile to the Westchester Funeral Home. Through the scratched window, Amy spotted Matt, his tall build hunched and pacing the front lawn of the white clapboard colonial, hands tucked in his pockets. The slam of the cab door caught his attention. Realizing it was Amy, he jogged across the grass and pulled her into him with a force that surprised her. His dark hair tickled her cheek and she breathed in his scent, Old Spice and soap. He clung to her and Amy felt his back jerk in silent sobs.

  The strain in Amy’s shoulders told her they stood like that for a while, her petite frame supporting Matt’s height and the weight of his sorrow. He straightened himself and pulled a tissue from his jacket pocket. Amy noticed he wore the Syracuse tie she’d given him for graduation. Without words, she pressed her palm into his chest. Beneath her touch, she felt a pen in his shirt pocket and thought fondly that he was still her spoon.

  Matt finally spoke. “Why’d you take a cab? I would’ve come to get you.”

  “You’ve got enough to think about. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “You still don’t get that you could never bother me.” He took her hand and led her into the funeral home. She startled at his touch, his broad palm encircling hers. He had never held her hand like that before.

  Matt led her to the front of the room, letting go of her hand as they approached the row of chairs behind his family. Amy quietly hugged his sisters, Kim and Rachel, and his father, Wayne Saxon. Seeing the tears and loss in their eyes, Amy started to cry. Matt handed her a tissue from his supply and sat her next to a young woman she’d never met before.

  “Amy, this is Patty; Patty, this is Amy,” Matt introduced in a whisper, then sat in front of them next to his sisters.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Patty said.

  Amy dipped her face into the damp tissue, concealing a dim frown. Who is this girl? she thought. And if she knows who I am, why haven’t I heard about her?

  She balled the Kleenex into her palm and looked up at Patty. “How do you know Matt?”

  “Oh, he hasn’t mentioned me? Um, we’ve been going out for a few months.”

  Amy felt a blood pressure cuff squeeze her heart and the sourness of jealousy churn in her stomach. Maybe she’s why Matt’s postcards have slowed down. She was embarrassed by her response and grateful that she didn’t need to talk as the family’s pastor stood and led them in prayer. Amy couldn’t focus on his words; she bowed her head and thought about Matt. Of course, she should be happy for him to have a girlfriend and she shouldn’t be surprised. Why wouldn’t he find someone? Yet why hadn’t she considered it? Hearing the words of prayer, she blinked back tears for Matt and for his mother. And for herself.

  AMY SCOOCHED INTO THE train seat by the window and waved to Matt until she could no longer see him standing on the platform waving to her. She immediately missed him. The sun had set hours ago while they sat on the back porch of Matt’s childhood home. Guests’ good-byes had been said at the restaurant after the service and cemetery, and she had joined the exhausted family—Matt, his dad, his sisters, a few close relatives, and Patty—as they told stories about Helen Saxon. Once, Amy found herself frowning when she saw Matt whisper something to Patty, realizing she was no longer the first girl to know his thoughts, no longer the main girl in his life. She watched Patty dote on Matt, noticed how she followed and clung to him, and Amy had to look away when Patty leaned her body into him or gave him a kiss.

  When Matt drove her to the train station, Amy talked to him hungrily for the few minutes she had him to herself. She thought to lightly jab him for not telling her about Patty, but she said nothing, not wanting to tarnish their sliver of time alone.

  Amy felt sleepy and worn as the train left the station and Matt behind. As the car rolled along the tracks, she rested her head against the burgundy plastic, slid her butt to the edge of the cushion, and wedged her knees against the seat in front of her. The stretch in her back made her sigh, a sigh of something releasing in her. She put her face in her hands and cried. All day, as tears hovered and dripped, she was reserved, but alone on the public train, she wept.

  At the Fordham stop, she felt her seat lift when someone sat heavily in the aisle seat.

  “Hey, honey, why are you crying?”

  Oh, dear God, I am not in the mood. Amy stayed still, trying to ignore the deep voice, and kept her face hidden though she yearned to peek at the stranger.

  “It’s okay, don’t cry. Do you want to tell me what you want?”

  What? Her restraint dissolved and she lifted her head, just a little, to see a large man dressed in khaki slacks and a cheerful red blazer. He had on thick-heeled black combat boots that didn’t match his age. There were no puffs of white fur and no pointy hat topped with a pom-pom, but his face looked just like Saint Nicholas’s. His hair was the whitest of whites, and his thick white beard was clean and trimmed neatly at his chest. When Santa smiled at Amy, his eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry. She sat up, glanced around, and noticed that they were alone in the train car; she was trapped in the window seat. While Santa didn’t seem threatening, Amy calculated her options and counted out four more stops before Grand Central. Her eyes were swollen and dry, her limbs felt jittery, unsure what to make of this familiar stranger.

  He shifted his bulk side to side in the seat as he reached into his pants pocket. Amy clutched her bag and considered sliding under the seat in front of her when, in the softest voice, Santa spoke: “Here, honey, no need to cry.” He held out his plump hand to her, something small and gray rested in his palm. Her arms were frozen against her, her eyes locked on his jolly cherubic face. With visions of Paul dancing in her head, she wished Father Christmas would dash away.

  “You’ll find your way. You’re going to have a decision to make and you need to believe in yourself. A big choice is coming, but you’ll know what to do if you believe.”

  When she made no move to accept his gift, Santa placed the object on the seat in between them. He rocked himself forward twice, gaining momentum, then stood.

  “You’ll know what to do if you trust your heart. Believe in yourself,” he repeated, and walked forward, squeezing himself through the doorway and into the next car.

  Amy felt her pulse electric in her chest. She looked at the seat beside her, the vinyl puckered into a gully. In the center lay a smooth, oval stone the size of a stretched quarter. She released her grip o
n her bag, and her hand trembled as she lifted the rock in her fingers. She rubbed the glossy surface, and her shoulders relaxed, her breath deepened. Feeling a ridge, she turned the stone over in her palm. Etched into the other side was the word BELIEVE.

  EACH DAY FOR THE next week, Amy called Matt. For the first days, she called him in Tuckahoe. On the fourth day of calls, when he had returned to Syracuse, she shared her encounter with the mysterious Santa on the train. Matt gasped as she talked.

  “I’m sorry, I knew I shouldn’t tell you about this—it’s too weird.”

  “No. No, it’s not that. You know my mother loved Santa. Remember her collection?”

  “Oh my gosh, yes!”

  “It’s kind of incredible to me that a Santa guy would sit with you on an empty train, give you that gift and message on the day we buried my mother. I’d like to think that it wasn’t random. Thanks for telling me about him.”

  “A connection to your mom didn’t cross my mind, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Train Santa.”

  “I think my mom would’ve liked him.”

  Amy breathed with relief and comfort as she saw her Santa meeting in a new way, and she smiled, remembering Mrs. Saxon and her kind and giving nature.

  “I’M A LITTLE NERVOUS,” Veronica said from the passenger seat of Joey’s black 1986 Cadillac Eldorado. He’d spent the morning in the building’s garage washing, waxing, and polishing his favorite toy.

  “Aw, don’t be nervous, they’re gonna love you.” Joey reached his hand out across the red leather seat to soothe her.

  “Yeah, but your whole family is going to be there. That’s a lot of pressure for a first meeting.” Peering in the mirror of the red visor, Veronica reapplied her lipstick and ran a finger under her eyes to wipe away invisible smudges.

  “I can’t believe it’s been three months since we started going out and you haven’t been here yet. And sorry, but there’s no way to meet just my parents, everyone has to be there for everything. We’re here.” Joey parallel parked the long Caddy easily into a tiny opening. “You’ll be great! Just be you.”

  They mounted the steps of the Hoboken brownstone. The leaves of the few trees along the sidewalk had begun to turn shades of fall. Joey rang the bell, and a moment later the door buzzed and released for them to enter. He led her past a staircase that hugged the wall straight ahead to his parents’ home and he opened the door. The roomful of bodies rushed toward them. Veronica was mobbed and brought into bear hugs and hearty kisses. Her cheeks were dotted with peaches, pinks, mauves, and reds, a sampling of Revlon’s past-season shades.

  “Joey, she’s a skinny one,” said Aunt Erma.

  “You finally bring your girl around, s’about time,” shouted Uncle Sal, grabbing Veronica into a squeeze.

  From the mob of women, each of whose hair was coiffed and sprayed to stone, bellowed a loud voice: “Will you all step aside so I can get a look at my son’s girl?” Filomena DiNatali stepped forward, wiped her hands on her apron, and welcomed Veronica with the most earnest hug of all. Then Mrs. DiNatali grasped Veronica’s shoulders and held her in front of her. “Very pretty,” she pronounced. Her lips were coated in hot pink, and her hair was dyed brown, curled under at her chin, and moved with her head.

  “Nick, where are you?” Filomena yelled for her husband.

  “Right here,” he responded from a foot away. He held Veronica’s face between his well-fed fingers and kissed her cheeks.

  Despite the volume in the apartment and the jostling among strangers, Veronica felt more at home than in her own formal Newport house. She could not envision her parents within this family, and trying was like picturing a farmer on the Wall Street trading floor or a grown woman in a baby stroller. She couldn’t make the images fit together.

  The multifamily home housed Joey’s parents on the main level, his cousins in the upstairs apartment, and his widowed grandmother, Concetta, in the basement apartment with her sister, Marie, who never married. The living room was bursting with people and vibrating with shouted conversations. On the walls hung pastel-hued prints of flowers, hand-colored portraits of Joey and his brothers, Little Nicky and Dominic, and vividly painted images of Jesus and the Virgin Mary.

  Stretching to the edges of the coffee table was an antipasto platter layered with capocollo, prosciutto, soppressata, and mortadella heaped beside provolone, mozzarella, and chunks of Parmigiano-Reggiano. There were mountains of olives marinated with herbs and green stuffed olives. Dark purple kalamata olives rolled into roasted red peppers, and artichoke hearts piled against anchovies. The dining table on the far end of the room was lined with silver foil chaffing dishes, Sternos already burning. Whenever someone laid down an empty appetizer plate, a young girl or older woman swooped in to clean it up.

  “Marie, what was that fella’s name? The man at the deli? You know, the man at the deli?” Concetta hollered at her sister sitting beside her.

  “Quiet, Ma, we can’t hear the game,” Uncle Cosmo yelled above the women.

  For the first time, Veronica noticed the TV was on, the volume lowered. It was perched on an ornate wooden console next to a paint-by-numbers scene of The Last Supper. Joey was nearby being scooped up by his family.

  “Ai, Uncle Nunzio, how’d you live wit dose two growing up?” Cousin Mario called out.

  “Come on, honey, come with us.” Cousin Ottavia and Aunt Tessie each took an elbow and led Veronica into the kitchen beyond the living room. The small, foyer-sized kitchen was bustling with women unwrapping cellophane from tinfoil pans, stirring sauces, tossing salad, and plunging cooking tools into soapy water. Ottavia wordlessly placed a bouquet of serving utensils into Veronica’s hands, patting her knuckles before she turned to another task. Veronica scanned the platters of food, trying to decide which were best suited to spoons and which needed forks or knives. She took care with her assignment, mindfully matching each serving piece with a dish. Without directions, the women shuttled food from the kitchen to the table, like a choreographed performance. Veronica marveled at the chaotic efficiency and felt included within the commotion.

  “Okay, boys! Dinner’s on!” shouted Filomena, and the room quieted for only a second in response before the men heaved themselves from the couches and meandered to the buffet table, commenting on the food.

  “Did Fil make her manicotti?”

  “Gotta have some of that eggplant with extra gravy.”

  “Would you look at dose meatballs?”

  Plates, heaped with food, balanced on laps and small folding tables. Some of the older ladies pulled chairs up to the edge of the serving table and ate as people filled their white plates.

  “Ma! Real forks?” Dominic yelled.

  Uncle Nunzio cut into his chicken marsala. “Real forks and real plates today, huh, Filomena?” he shouted with his mouth full.

  “We’ve got a special guest to welcome to the family,” Joey’s mom called back.

  “That’s a lot of washing,” Tessie muttered. “I still would’ve used the plastic.”

  Joey joined Veronica. “So, this is my family! You doing okay?” He kissed her. “They all love you, but not as much as I love you. Come on, let’s get some food.”

  Veronica froze. Did he just tell her he loved her? The intimate moment felt somehow both natural and stunning in the midst of the family clamor.

  “You coming?”

  “Did you just—”

  “Say ‘I love you’? Yes, Veronica, I did. I love you.” Joey grinned broadly and led her to the food, handing her a plate.

  They sat in two folding chairs side by side. Veronica placed a bite of lasagna neatly into her mouth.

  “Joey! You gonna keep her all to yourself over there?”

  “Sorry, Uncle Sal,” Joey said, “but for now, yes.”

  “How did you get to be so quiet?”

  “Third child, twelfth cousin—I just flew under the radar.” He laughed with a shrug.

  “I like your family,” Veronica said, unable
to say those three magic words back to him.

  THE METRO-NORTH TRAIN CONDUCTOR approached, the sound of his hole punch clicking its way through the car. Andrew gave him their tickets, then returned his hand into Amy’s. She leaned her head against his shoulder and thought about her train ride home from Tuckahoe. Santa and his words wiggled into her mind at random moments in the months since the funeral. Amy kept the BELIEVE stone on her nightstand, and when she rubbed its glossy surface, it washed her with a sense of serenity and sparked her confidence. The cars emptied, the Friday rush hour travelers trickling off as the train crept farther from the city.

  “Bethel, next stop,” the conductor called through the cars. “Only the three head cars will open at Bethel.”

  Amy gathered the two smaller bags at their feet, and Andrew hefted his duffel and Amy’s hobo-style weekend bag from the shelf above. Out the window, Amy spotted her dad and Aunt Joanie waiting beside the tracks. With Andrew behind her, she moved to exit the train. Amy gave her dad the carefree, boundless hug of a little girl and squeezed her aunt. Tom York clapped Andrew on the shoulder as the two shook hands.

  “Thanks for bringing my car, Dad.”

  “It’s not so common these days to see people getting married right after college. Who’s the couple?” Aunt Joanie asked.

  “Owen and Holly—he’s a friend of ours from Syracuse,” said Amy. “We’ve only met her a few times, but they seem completely in love.”

  “Will Matt be there?” her dad asked.

  Andrew turned to Amy at the question.

  “Yeah, they’re fraternity brothers.”

  “Tell him hello.” Her dad closed the trunk. “I made sure you have a full tank of gas.”

  “Thanks, Dad. We’ll meet you back here Sunday. I’m sorry we’re missing your visit, Aunt Joanie, thanks for helping. Kiss Uncle Arthur for me.”