[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t necessary?” Anger flushed her face, tightened her throat. “If she called, it was because she wanted to talk to me, I’m sure.”

  “Violet told me what she needed to say,” Gregorio said, pulling his chair next to hers and taking her hand. “Everything will be all right.”

  “What do you mean?” The very fact that he felt it necessary to say that meant that something was not all right. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Violet?”

  “No, nothing has happened to Violet,” Gregorio said.

  “Well then, what has happened?” Violet did not get up at seven AM to make an overseas phone call to Gregorio’s mother’s house, just to tell Gregorio to tell Iris that nothing was wrong. Even if she was fine, there were three other sisters, seven brothers, a father, a mother, an aunt, an uncle and a dozen nieces and nephews to worry about on the other side of the Atlantic.

  “It’s your father.” Gregorio cleared his throat. “Myocardial infarction.”

  “What?” Why couldn’t he just talk like a normal person for once?

  “Piccolina, your father has had a heart attack.”

  “A heart attack! Oh, my God! I have to go see him. Please, can I go, Gregorio?” Iris jumped to her feet, her eyes darting around the room. There must be an escape route, an emergency exit.

  “It’s too late, Iris,” Gregorio said. “They did what they could.”

  “What do you mean, it’s too late?”

  “Your father is deceased.”

  “But he was fine! He wasn’t sick a day in his life!”

  “I’m sorry, Piccolina.” Gregorio said. She hated that calm voice. She hated the way Isabella just stood there; she hated the way Franco just sat there, she hated the way Cinzia and the kids just stared at her. No one spoke, no one ran to her, no one threw their arms around her and hugged her tight. No one told her it was all right to cry, because no one wanted to see her cry, and no one knew her father well enough to want to cry with her.

  “It can’t be true!” Iris said, grabbing the edge of the table for support. There was too much life in him, too much emotion, too much anger, for him to be dead. A pain shot through her chest; she was sure she could feel her heart breaking, like her father’s had. Shock and grief took control of her body, making it tremble and convulse in strange ways. The merry-go-round of faces with immobile expressions spun around her as she slid to the floor. The shiny marble was cold against her cheek; arms tugged at her, encircled her, but could not rescue her from the grip of grief. It pulled her down toward the blackness, away from the spinning faces and receding voices. Downward she spiraled, down, down, until the blackness swallowed her.

  A scratchy woolen blanket smelled of Isabella. A hand with a wedding band and neat nails clasped her hand.

  “Daddy,” Iris whimpered.

  “You need to rest, Piccolina,” Gregorio said, pushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  “I want to go to Daddy.”

  “There’s nothing you can do for your father now.”

  “I want to go. Please, Gregorio.” She tried to get up, but could barely lift her head from the pillow. She had never felt so weak.

  “You just stay put, Piccolina. You’re in no condition to go anywhere now.”

  “But I have to see Daddy. And poor Auntie Rosa. And poor Violet and Lily and everyone. And poor Mom. I need to be there, with them.”

  “I’m taking care of it. I’ll look into available flights tomorrow when the agency opens.”

  “I want to go now!” Her chest heaved with emotion, tears stung her eyes.

  “What you want and what’s best for you are not always the same thing, Piccolina. You lost consciousness, and you need to recover from the shock before you we can even discuss the possibility of moving you from here. That’s why I’m going to give you a little injection now. You must rest.”

  “But I don’t want to rest. I want to go home.”

  “Shhh,” Gregorio said. “Everything will be all right.” The tone of his voice was calm and firm, the look in his blue eyes steady and reassuring. She hardly winced at the prick of the needle.

  “Daddy,” she moaned, as the blackness returned, enveloping her, releasing her.

  “Welcome back, dormigliona.” Iris blinked, as Gregorio smiled down at her. Why was she sleeping on Isabella’s sofa? Could she have dozed off? The last thing she remembered was the phone ringing, and then Gregorio’s voice speaking in English, and then …

  “Gregorio. Please tell me it was a bad dream.”

  Gregorio stroked his goatee, shook his head. Iris trembled.

  “I’m cold,” she said. Gregorio tucked the blanket closely around her, but the prickly wool made her shiver more. She tried to get up, but Gregorio anchored the blanket in place with his hands.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “First you have to recover, Piccolina.”

  “There’s no way I can recover. I just have to go. Please take me to the airport. I’ll find a flight.” Iris rubbed her eyes. They felt like they were filled with sand, or shards of glass. “What time is it?”

  “It’s Monday morning,” Gregorio said.

  “What do you mean, Monday morning?”

  “You were in a terrible state, Piccolina,” Gregorio said. “I had to keep you sedated all night.”

  “But I didn’t want to sleep! I want to go home.”

  “And you will go home, very soon. You have reservations for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? But I need to go now!”

  “Look at you, you must realize you are in no condition to travel. There was no way you could make it on a flight this morning. If you feel up to it in a while, I’ll take you home and we’ll pack your bag. Then you can rest. Rest is what you need. And tomorrow I’ll put you on that plane. I’ve already told Violet when to expect you.”

  “I wanted to talk to Violet. Why didn’t you let me?” Waves of blackness washed over her, weighing her down, like a gull mired in an oil slick. A series of images pierced the numbness of her mind: images of a man smoking Parliaments and drinking coffee and handing out nickels on allowance day and mowing lawns and shoveling snow and fixing bicycles and slaughtering rabbits and medicating wounds and laughing and yelling and denying you what you wanted, but never leaving you alone. She tasted sweet tea sliding down her throat, watched a suitcase being packed with an old lady’s sad suits and sweaters before the blackness came for her again.

  Iris sat speechless and motionless, strapped into her seat next to Gregorio as he drove her to the airport, the pelts of dead animals lying across her lap. Puffs of yellow dangled from mimosa branches, a sharp winter wind rustled the fronds of barren date palms. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sun shining in a cloudless sky. She couldn’t say where her father was now, but he must wait for her. She couldn’t let him go until she saw him one last time, until she told him she understood.

  6. Lily

  Despite all the predictions of failure that had been made regarding Joe’s sales career, he had led the La Casa Bella sales chart his first month, and for several consecutive months after, and earned the award for top salesman by the end of his first year. Joe had a sense for people; he had radar for their vulnerabilities and the skill to exploit their weaknesses. He oozed opiate Italian charm topped with old-fashioned courtesy. He was a natural. He sold furnishings and appliances with the same ease and determination with which he’d won Lily over and persuaded her to marry him.

  By the time they celebrated their third anniversary, Lily and Joe had managed to purchase a starter home - a bungalow in the section known as Dutchtown, which they’d managed to buy with a government-funded mortgage whose greatest feature was that it didn’t require any money down. On moving day, they lugged furniture and unpacked boxes until they both collapsed from exhaustion.

  Just before midnight, the clamor of the phone startled Lily from a freshly
fallen sleep. She sprinted across the carpet, stubbing her toe on the box marked “living room”, which sat in the middle of the floor. She had to get to the phone before it rang again and woke Joe.

  “Shit!” she called, finishing the trip to the phone hopping on one foot. “Hello?”

  “Hello... Lily?”

  “Yes,” she whispered groggily. Lily didn’t recognize the voice, although it conjured a familiar sense of dread. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Dr. Bob.”

  Doctor Bob. The Capotosti family friend with a prescription pad. He must have been a real doctor, although as far as Lily knew, no one had ever gone to see him in an office. Dr. Bob would willingly write you a script for painkillers or sleeping pills, no questions asked - just remember him at the holidays. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a convenient pharmacist, someone would have noticed that Dolores was in trouble when there was still time to save her. But easy supplies of Vicodin and Valium have a way of blurring priorities. In addition to helping Dolores recover from her divorce from Julius “the creep” Corvo, Dr. Bob oversaw Lily’s father’s pharmaceutically managed state - which toggled from rage to stupor - during the very messy separation and long awaited divorce between Lily’s parents. There were only a couple of reasons why Dr. Bob would call Lily, and only one reason to do so at eleven forty-seven on a Saturday night.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” said Dr. Bob.

  “What is it?” Lily’s knees grew weak and her heart thumped.

  “It’s your Dad,” said Dr. Bob. “He’s had a massive coronary. He’s passed.”

  He’s passed. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Lily did not attempt to mask her anger. “You mean he’s dead?” she shouted.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Bob. “I’m afraid so.” After a long pause, he added, “Are you there? Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “The only local family members I haven’t been able to get a hold of are Louis and your mother, Lily. Do you think you could pass the word on to them?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Pass the word. The circus is coming to town. Star Market is having a special on ham. Dad died.

  Joe emerged from the bedroom. “What the hell is going on?”

  “My father died.” Lily let the receiver drop into its cradle. “My mother and Louis are not answering their phones. I have to go knock on their doors and tell them. Then I suppose I’ll need to go over to Chestnut Crest.” So many things to do. And then I’ll probably start feeling sad. Lily wandered to the back door and pulled on her boots.

  “Now? It’s the middle of the night,” said Joe.

  “I don’t know, Joe - my father just died. I’ve never done this before.” Lily fished her car keys out of her purse. “Can I just call you later?”

  “I don’t see why you have to be the one to go around in the middle of the night waking everyone up. We’re in the process of moving here.”

  “Yeah, well, Violet and Alexander both have little ones at home.” Lily cringed. Watching her siblings have babies reminded Lily of her own failed attempts at staying pregnant, of the cousins her children would have had. If her first pregnancy hadn’t ended in miscarriage, her baby would be more than two years old by now. Even if her second one had gone to term, she would have a toddler running around, getting into trouble. At least she’d done the right thing by keeping the second pregnancy a secret from everyone except Joe. Her sisters wouldn’t know what it was like to fail at anything, and her mother sure couldn’t relate - even if she took enough time away from her social crusades to try. Lily sure didn’t need more questions to field. Joe’s were bad enough, grilling her about what she’d done and where she’d been as if she had somehow caused the pregnancy to purge itself from her body. As if she didn’t feel bad enough about it as it was. Having a baby was the one thing she was sure she could get right. Women all over the world did it all the time - sometimes even by accident. She didn’t know what it was about her that wasn’t put together right. How was she supposed to know why these things happen, especially since the doctors didn’t even know? Everyone liked to call it the miracle of life. Miracles are God’s to give. Or not.

  “Plus, I’m closest. I don’t mind. What would I do here anyway? It’s not like I can just go back to sleep.” She could, though. If she turned the lights off and climbed into bed, she was pretty sure she could fall right back to sleep, pretend none of this was happening.

  After Lily had delivered the news to Louis - who just stood in his living room and stared as though he were trying to discern whether Lily was really standing there telling him that their father was dead or whether he was only having a bad dream, Lily drove to her mother’s and banged on the door. A light flicked on in a second floor window, followed by the back porch light, followed by a finger pushing aside the curtains, followed by Lily’s mother’s face through the crack.

  “Did he crash the car, or did he have a heart attack?” she asked Lily through a voice thick with sleep.

  “Heart attack,” said Lily.

  As they pulled into the driveway at Chestnut Crest, Lily’s mother let out a yelp. Lily realized it was the first time either one of them had been there since the day her father had her mother arrested. Lily suddenly doubted the wisdom of bringing her mother there, considering that the Order of Protection her father received stipulated that she wasn’t allowed within a hundred feet of the place. But maybe the Order of Protection wasn’t valid anymore, now that there was no one left to protect.

  They stepped into the kitchen to find Auntie Rosa sitting at the table, rocking and weeping. Charles was on one side of her, William on the other, holding her hands. She looked up at Lily and her mother, her mouth agape, her eyes wide, and Lily braced herself for a display of loyalty-induced hysteria. She might kick them out. Or blame them. Or worse, she might look at them with those eyes of crucifixion she saved for serious suffering.

  “Betty! Betty!” Auntie Rosa called out through her sobs. “He’s gone! My baby brother is gone!”

  “Yes, I know,” said Lily’s mother, raising her right hand, touching the knuckle of her index finger to the end of her nose, in a vain attempt to hold back ambivalent tears.

  Lily had stood in this very same spot when she’d heard about Dolores. The same clock measured the moments as they dragged past, and the same strange sense of confusion surrounded her. Although now the kitchen was surprisingly tidy; clean dishes were stacked in the drainer, and a fresh hand towel hung over the door handle of the stove. Either her father had learned to care for himself, or he had found a woman. In any case, Lily wondered if he had arrived at the realization that he didn’t need Lily as much as he’d thought he did. Yet if he had realized that, then surely he would have also realized that he had placed unreasonable expectations on her. She’d always known that day of awakening would come for him. So why hadn’t he apologized? Why hadn’t he called her and said, “Hey, Lily of the Valley, I’m putting on a pot of coffee. Why don’t you bring over some sweet rolls from Dunkin’ Donuts - we need to talk.” That was how it would begin. It would end with him telling her how sorry he was, how unfair he had been to her. He would tell her he loved her, they would hug, and Lily would once again consider this place home. He couldn’t have died yet. They weren’t finished. They were still so mad at each other.

  One by one, members of the family appeared. Henry, Alexander, Louis - all red-eyed and silent. Violet stepped into the living room, and upon seeing the empty chair where her father always sat, and the smoke stand that still held an ashtray full of Parliament butts, she fainted and fell to the floor.

  “Violet!” shouted Lily’s mother. The boys picked Violet up off the floor, carried her upstairs, and laid her in the room that Ricci used when he was on break from classes at NYU.

  As the black sky turned gray, the room filled with Capotosti children, Jasmine and Charles being the last to file in.

  “Where’s Uncle Alfred?” Lily asked.

  “He had to go to the hospital to
fill out some paperwork,” said Auntie Rosa. “I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t do it again.” She and Lily exchanged a glance that reflected a memory of Dolores. “He’ll be back soon.”

  By six o’clock, every seat in the living room was occupied except for their father’s beat-up, threadbare, spring-worn old chair. Auntie Rosa limped across the room, and sat down in it.

  “I can’t b’lieve it,” she groaned, caressing the armrests, as if she could still feel him there. “I just can’t b’lieve it. First Our Lord took my little sister Teresa, then Ma and Pa, then Dolores, and now this - my bebi... they’re all gone.”

  Auntie Rosa took every death personally, as if God snatched specific people up from the earth deliberately to cause her pain - as if no one ever died whom she did not love, and as if no one who ever died left anyone behind but her.

  Lily felt conspicuous as hers were the only set of dry eyes in the room. She wished she had fainted like Violet, then people would really think she was suffering, that she cared, but without all the expectations of performance. In hopes of escaping the scrutiny of her sobbing siblings, she retrieved the dirty ashtray from the smoke stand and took it into the kitchen to empty it. She pulled the iron skillet out from the cupboard, and a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. It had been years since she had prepared breakfast in this kitchen, but her hands remembered where everything was, and she moved among the appliances and utensils as if she were one of them. It felt more honest than sitting in the next room crying for all the wrong reasons, or not crying for all the right ones.

  The aroma of freshly popped toast drew people into the kitchen, and Lily busily set plates and flatware at the table, pouring orange juice and setting a pot of coffee to brew.

  Auntie Rosa sat at the table. “I’m not hungry, Lily,” she said, picking up a half slice of toast and spreading orange marmalade on it.

  The back door opened and Uncle Alfred entered, his eyes rimmed with sorrow, holding his gray wool fedora in one hand and a plastic bag, through which their father’s personal effects could be viewed, in the other. Auntie Rosa spied the bag and let out a wail. Uncle Alfred froze in his spot, as if in shock at the sight of family members gathered around the table for a meal, his brother’s presence defined only by his wallet, his watch, and a brown plastic prescription bottle.