“Are you?” Angelo pressed.
“What?” she said absently.
“In love.”
Gina shrugged. “Do you want some sfogliatelli?” she asked. “I’m really hungry for one.”
Laura watched them thank Aunt Anna-Maria for the pastries. Vinnie was praying on his knees beside the coffin. Coming toward them were four boys in motorcycle jackets. What a disgrace! Motorcycle jackets! They must be boys he once worked with, she realized, softening. Vinnie, finishing his prayers, seemed to know them. Adela was offering them coffee. Maybe, Laura thought, Anna-Maria was right to bring pastry after all. Maybe, she sighed, the old ways are best. The young ones are eating too, and they don’t seem to mind.
Father Romano touched her shoulder. “It’s time to begin,” he said.
“I’m glad you could come and say the prayer,” Laura said warmly.
Vinnie patted Romano on the back. “Nino wouldn’t have wanted anyone but you.” As Father Romano signaled for silence, everyone found a seat. Vinnie whispered to Laura, “At least we got rid of Bingo Benny.”
They found seats, Gina and Vinnie next to Laura, Angelo sitting just behind Gina.
“We are gathered here to honor the memory of our brother Nino, who passed from among us. Let us remember that as surely as he has gone before us, so shall we follow after. So let us celebrate the goodness of his life as a loyal son of the Church, ever mindful that the death of each of us is an example for all. It has been said that in striking our hearts, death only stirs up the embers of our faith. We are stricken in our loss, we shudder because we do not fully comprehend the Lord. Insofar as we are not like Him, we can only be pained. But if we have the divine spark within us, we may feel whatever wisdom flickers through us and mirrors our knowledge of God. The effort of our brother Nino was to turn from distractions from the Lord even as he lived in the world. He did his best to keep his eyes upon the ways of the Lord, in offering his help and wisdom and guidance to those young people who needed it.
“As Saint Augustine has written: ‘Be not conformed to this world . . . but cultivate a thirst for the spiritual nourishment of the church which is the world as it was, and live in a vision of God’s world.’ As God forgives our iniquities, so he heals all infirmities.”
“He was a little slow in helping Nino out with the gangrene,” Angelo whispered.
Gina waved his words away. She was, Angelo saw, swallowing it all. “Hey,” he whispered, “with your hair pulled back and all in black you look like the real thing. You could have walked in off the streets of Palermo.”
“Shut up,” Gina said. She had missed some of Father Romano’s words.
“ . . . affliction befell him, but his faith withstood the pressure of disease and amputation. The Lord redeems life from corruption; he has redeemed our brother now. We know that Christ died for all, that they who live may now no longer live unto and for themselves, but unto Him that died for them. There is no final joy in the material world,” Father Romano said firmly. “Therefore, the degrees of suffering we face fall away in the experience of grace, in the recognition of the infinite and sustaining perfection of the soul with God.”
“This isn’t a prayer for the dead, it’s a filibuster,” said Angelo. “Why didn’t you get Father Moran?” he demanded of Vinnie. “He gets it over with in a few minutes.”
Vinnie was mad. You could say what you like about Romano, but when you were in a spot, he came through. He was a real priest. “If you say one more word,” he hissed to Angelo, “you’ll be next!”
Angelo fell silent. All around him, the relatives were lapping it up. Even Gina looked like she couldn’t get enough of old Romano. He studied her profile, finely shaped nose, high cheekbones. She seemed completely self-possessed, at peace. It hit him. Now that Nino was gone, she had gone back to him! No wonder he felt alone.
Romano had passed on to other things. “Augustine also teaches us that ‘there is no soundness in them, whom aught of Thy creation displeaseth.’”
“Lots of things displeased Nino,” Laura murmured, with tears in her eyes. Gina reached for her hand.
“ . . . so is our salvation,” Father Romano continued, heedless of less than perfect attention, “in discovering the light that dwells among the shadows, lurking even in darkness as a beacon of God’s grace. Our brother, though a sinner—as are we all!—was ever mindful that repentance opened up the way to the Lord. In the Lord is reconciled our hope for eternity and our fear of life and death, our sin and our longing for grace, the imperfect flesh which makes us shudder at the hand of God and the divine soul which makes us gleam, even through our misfortune.
“In understanding the death of our brother, we must try to understand its meaning for our lives. Our everlasting teacher, Saint Augustine, tells us that ‘virtue is the good use of free choice.’ Those who live in the world must perfect the good that we associate with action. By what you do, you can demonstrate your kinship with God. This goodness is open to each and every one of us, no matter what our calling, no matter how humble. Every act of virtue, Saint Thomas tells us, can be done from choice. But nothing makes us choose rightly except that part of the soul that wishes to be felt in the world, in action.
“Will we choose what is moral or what is ill? How can we acquire the habit of morality? We are here”—Father Romano’s eyes had begun to fill—“at the spot that I can best remember brother Nino, not as a priest but as a boyhood friend.”
“They used to talk a lot,” Vinnie whispered to Gina. “When they were in school, Papa Joe, Nino’s father, would take them for a Marsala and they would stay talking . . .”
Father Romano was losing his priestly tone. “We are beset now by a time when our moral discipline is severely strained. Our Church is our refuge in this storm.” He paused, his mind lingering over the past. “When we were boys, we wrestled with the questions people have always wrestled with when they look at the world and find it full of iniquity, inhumanity, cruelty. But,” he continued, almost pleadingly, “what individual in one lifetime can arrive at the right answers? An answer cannot be an answer for the moment, a solution only of a day. It must be an answer for all time.”
“What is this, one of those Protestant preachers you got us, Vinnie?” Angelo whispered.
Vinnie brought his heel back smartly into Angelo’s ankle.
“No virtue,” Romano went on, “makes us choose rightly. We must have the will to be right, to accept the gift of God’s grace.”
“You see!” Angelo hissed.
“Our blessing is the recognition that the Church has understood and perfected this will, and translated much of it for us into guidelines in the art of right conduct.”
Vinnie nodded emphatically; he had his own guidelines.
“Our brother Nino prayed for vigilance and for strength in his efforts on behalf of the misguided Catholic boys in his care. Now it is for us to be vigilant for the welfare of our souls, for who among us knows who will be called next before the Lord.” Father Romano paused and raised his hand dramatically. “Let us pray,” he said.
When the soothing, familiar prayers had been said and the benediction given, Father Romano took a drink.
“The hand that makes the sign of the cross is still the first to grab the vino, eh,” said Angelo, slapping the priest on the back.
“No wonder you get so dry, talking so much,” Vinnie said, ignoring Angelo.
Father Romano shrugged and sipped.
“Now there’s no one who was part of the old days,” Father Romano said hoarsely. “All the others have moved somewhere else or departed this world.”
“I know what you mean,” Vinnie said.
“Gone,” Angelo commented, “but not forgotten.”
Vinnie gave him a warning look. Nino was right. The kid was trouble. If there’s one thing that doesn’t belong at a funeral, he thought, it’s sarcasm.
Gina pulled Angelo away.
“What’s bothering you?” she said. “You really are impossib
le. Nobody behaved like that at your mother’s funeral.”
“That’s what bothers me. Funerals, period. Do you know how many I’ve been to in my life? And I’m only twenty-five. Since I was in the first grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Help, I’ve been to every funeral of every relative of every kid in the school. Especially since ninety-nine percent of them were across the street at Murdock’s funeral home. Other kids had recess and played baseball. We crossed ourselves in front of corpses. I must have put in several thousand hours smelling rooms full of death and roses. Everybody was great at my mother’s funeral,” he agreed. “But me, I was keeping it all in.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What could I say?” he said evasively.
“It was Nino, wasn’t it?” she demanded. “He did something that kept you in line. What did he do?” she asked curiously. He couldn’t have taken a strap to Angelo; he was too big.
“What did he do? Come on, tell me.” Gina pressed him, smiling.
“You’ll never find out from me,” Angelo said. “Just make me a promise.”
“What?”
“When I die, don’t show up at my funeral and say ‘my deepest sympathy’ to anybody. Don’t let Aunt Anna-Maria ask me to kill the vampires from the other side. And tell Concetta I couldn’t care less if Cecilia knows her plants are being watered every day, and tell—”
Gina laughed. “Didn’t you hear Father Romano? What makes you think that your death gives you any say?” She smiled wryly. “You don’t die for yourself, you die for all of us, just as you live for them and not for yourself. That’s it,” she said. “That’s the deal.”
Angelo looked at her. He didn’t think it was funny.
“Look,” she continued, shaking her head. “Look how ridiculous we are. I can’t avoid putting up with you and you can’t stop complaining. Look at my mother,” she said, pointing to Laura. “She is completely self-possessed. She took care of him day and night, supported him, and watched over everything from the first moment of his illness. Do you think she feels disturbed? She’s sorry he’s dead, but her life”—she poked him in the chest—“is in order. It’s a perfect balance sheet. Every responsibility has been discharged. She won’t even be lonely for more than a little while. She’ll take up the care of Aunt Anna-Maria, draw up a new slate, and balance that too. That’s the way they are.”
“It’s not the way I am. I can’t take the rigidity of it. Not that Aunt Laura’s rigid. But the whole robot life, one thing after another . . .” He shook his head in disgust.
“I know,” she agreed. “It’s awful. But they don’t think it’s awful. We just don’t see it the same way. But it doesn’t pay to be bitter and angry about it.” She hadn’t been angry, really angry, she realized suddenly, since she had left. There were other problems, but not that leaden rage, not that sense that they were coming for her. She looked back at the coffin. She had seen it before, somewhere. Somewhere it had been coming fast, coming for her. But that seemed like a thousand years ago.
“They’ll be closing soon,” Angelo said. Irritating as it was here, he didn’t want to go home. His eye caught Cousin Vinnie’s. “Now you’re the head man,” he joked.
Vinnie shook his head. “He was the last. At least in this family.”
It was true, Angelo thought. Vinnie really didn’t have whatever it took.
Hey, Nino, Gina thought. She could hear everyone saying goodbye. Tomorrow they would bury him and it wouldn’t be the same. “Saludama Cecilia!” Adela was saying.
“You’ll never find anyone who cared for you the way he did,” Vinnie said.
“No,” Gina said. “I won’t.” Somehow, talking to Angelo had killed the impulse to say “Good!”
“I’m leaving now,” Angelo said. “I’ll take Aunt Anna-Maria home.”
“You’ll gain an indulgence,” Gina whispered, grinning.
“I’ll say goodbye now,” Angelo said. “I’m not coming to the cemetery tomorrow.”
“OK,” Gina said. “Thanks for coming tonight.” She watched for a minute as he packed up Aunt Anna-Maria’s twenty-cup electric coffee pot. She could see the funeral parlor people in the wings, waiting to close up. She knew they were closing up Nino too! Hey, Nino, she thought, seeing all the letters tucked in around him, no rest for the weary! When I see you again, I want you to be able to tell me you delivered all your letters.
“You know,” Laura said apologetically, “it’s just the old custom. I had no idea so many people would be letter-writers!” She looked embarrassed.
“It’s OK,” Gina said. “It’s not a bad custom.”
“I never thought you would say that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Do you think he’ll remember to deliver them?” Laura asked hesitantly.
“He has plenty of time to do the job.”
“He never even remembered if I asked him to get bread and milk.”
“This is different,” Gina said.
“Sometimes, you know, you even receive answers. I saw Camilla last month when I was asleep. Did I tell you?”
“No,” Gina said. “What did she say?”
“She asked me to look out for Gloria and make sure she doesn’t get too thin. Do you think it was real, or do you think it was just a dream? Those things don’t happen here. You know, my mother once went to the fountain to fill her jug with water for the house. She was there, filling it, when all of a sudden she saw another woman pouring water over her hands. ‘Marcellina, hello!’ she called out, and the other woman smiled sadly. Then she remembered the woman had died three months before, and she said ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph’ and crossed herself. As soon as she did that, the woman vanished. But that was in the old country, where people were superstitious. Even the priests. Your father used to tell that when he was a boy he heard of an eruption of Mount Aetna. The earth blew open just above the town of Nicolosi. The lava poured out like a river of fire. But the priests came from Catania with a relic of Saint Agatha. They held it up before the lava and you know what?”
“What?” Gina said.
“The lava stopped. Now who can say for sure whether the lava stopped for Saint Agatha or whether it just stopped? Down there,” Laura said, referring to Sicily, “they overdo it. They have a Day of the Dead in November. The second of November, I think. The Giorno dei Morti is bigger than Christmas. They give all the kids big presents in the names of the dead in the family. It’s just the way things are done . . . were done. Now things may be different, even there. Now they have running water,” she said, thinking of her mother’s huge well jar.
Gina drew back as she saw Laura turn to kiss Nino goodbye. She has never been bitter, Gina thought, watching her. No matter what he did, or how they fought, she has never turned sour. Gina felt a rush of tenderness for her mother. It would have been so easy for Laura to try to make her feel guilty, to ask her to move back. But she had done neither.
They walked out together into the winter night.
“Get in, we’ve been waiting for you,” Vinnie said from his overpacked car. “I’m taking everybody home.” They made room for Laura and for Gina.
“No thanks,” Gina said. “Nobody’s going my way, it’s too far in the other direction. I’ll get a cab.” She closed the door after Laura.
“Don’t take the train alone at this hour,” Laura said. “I’ll see you here tomorrow. Don’t forget! Eight o’clock sharp.”
“I’ll be here,” Gina promised, watching the car pull away. She walked down the street toward the subway station, feeling less tired with every step. The silvery clouds stretching here and there couldn’t dim the brilliant full moon. A white light seemed to flood the streets, brightening the tinsel on discarded Christmas trees still waiting to be picked up. It was only ten o’clock, but the streets were empty except for isolated figures hurrying along.
After so much noise, Gina thought, what a wonderful silence. The air was shockingly cold after the flower-choked room. She
ignored the cab that passed, unwilling to give up the sensation of the sharp air, the white light. At the subway station, she turned left without hesitating, and kept walking. There was a time, she thought, when I hated this walk. Under the El, soot always sifted down into your eyes, your hair, your clothes. But the winter wind was pure, cold, dustless. She could remember waiting for buses—was it only five or six months ago?—when she stood in a dirt shower while the screeching train wheels cut into her ears like knives. Now the wind blew the noise away.
She had always thought Queens Plaza had to be one of the ugliest places on earth. She could see Long Island City High School off to the right, circled by a parking lot, two crumbling factories, and a pizza place. It must be something in me, she realized, because I don’t feel pulled by these things anymore. The noise doesn’t reach me; the street is just to walk on; I can’t lay hold of the four years I spent in the school with the blackened windows. The traffic pressing around her as she made her way to the walkway of the Queensboro Bridge only made the night sing. She kept moving forward, climbing over the chain that closed off the walkway, rushing up the ascent.
The moon washed the river in white light. Here and there bits of ice were floating like flat arrows on the shimmering water. In the distance, the Empire State Building, still lit red and green from Christmas, anchored the city, the curving edge of waterfront winding south from it. Cars and lights colored the river’s edge as far as she could see. The wind over the water was searing, but she didn’t bother to zip her jacket. She stumbled; riveted on the city floating in the river, floating in space, she didn’t notice the metal rubble on the walkway. The path was an obstacle course of old junk: mufflers shiny with grease, old cans, bridge-beams feathered with flaking paint. A bridge like a ruin, she thought, brushing flakes of rust from her skirt, a ruin like a bridge. The surface was worn down to the metal supports; it gleamed in the moonlight from sheer use, the metal bones of a breaking back.
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