The Spia Family Presses On

by Mary Leo

  Had he gotten away with it, or was he truly innocent? I couldn’t decide.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” I said, but it was an absolute lie and I hoped it came out as a genuine statement.

  The moment was awkward as I waited for his response. I didn’t quite know what to say to someone who’d just been released from a state prison. Usually, when I’d meet up with one of my recovering uncles or cousins, they’d have been out for a while and somewhat acclimated to their freedom. But this guy was fresh from the pen and the scars weren’t quite healed. Small talk felt weird. I mean, asking him what he’d been up to or discussing the weather didn’t quite seem appropriate.

  “Hey, ease up. I didn’t come back here to cause no trouble for your mom. I got a couple things to do and after that, I’m outta here. I got no time to be hanging around this place when there’s a cute little babe waiting for me in the city. I’m getting married, ya know.”

  I clenched my teeth. Who in their right mind . . . but then I flashed on the Menendez brothers—Erik got married while he was serving his life sentence to a woman who, by California law, can’t even have sex with him. “Congratulations!” I said and shook his hand.

  “Yeah, ain’t that something? But don’t tell nobody. There’s a few people around here that don’t want to see your cousin happy. One in particular who wanted to see me burn, but hey, I’m a free man. I ain’t carryin’ no grudge. Grudges don’t do nothin’ but give you a bad stomach.”

  A few measures of Turno Sorrento drifted our way, then a thud and a door slammed. The cuckoo announced it was half-past something as our attention immediately focused on the stairway. “Mom? We’re up here.” I called out, but no one answered and Dickey’s whole demeanor changed. I didn’t like what I saw. He looked mean.

  Angry.

  Intense.

  Was it our conversation on grudges? Or did he hate cuckoo birds as much as I did?

  I coughed. “I have something for you,” I said hoping to squash his sudden nasty disposition. “My mom kept this for you.”

  I pulled the ring out of my pocket and handed it to him. He stared at it for a moment and his demeanor changed back to the charming man.

  “Your mom’s a good woman.” He slipped the ring on his pinky finger on his left hand. It seemed too tight and he had to work at getting it over his large knuckle. I figured arthritis must have changed his fingers since he wore it last. He held up his hand to admire the ring. “Mark my words, baby doll, this ring is gonna give somebody real heartburn.”

  I couldn’t imagine why, unless he was talking about some jealousy thing that continually ran through the family. There were a lot of bright diamonds on the horseshoe. One thing this family never could get over was one-upmanship.

  “Maybe we should join everyone in the yard,” I said not wanting to be alone with him any longer. I was feeling way too weird.

  “Good idea,” he said as he stepped in front of me and headed down the stairs. “And I want to apologize for callin’ you flat face when you was a kid. I thought it was funny back then, but you was a pretty little thing, and you’re a beautiful woman now.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Maybe he hadn’t killed his mistress, Carla DeCarlo, and he was actually on the road to recovery like the rest of my family. I needed more empathy for my relatives.

  More compassion.

  More therapy.

  “You know,” he said. “I woulda thought you’d hate me. I know everybody else around here does.”

  I followed behind him, thinking my act had worked. It wasn’t that I hated him exactly; I didn’t know him well enough to feel that emotion. I’d heard plenty about him, so scared silly was more to the point.

  As we descended the stairs I noticed his perfectly manicured long nails. He’d been out of the slammer for less than forty-eight hours and he’d already had time for a manicure.

  I was jealous.

  The steps creaked under his feet. For a little guy, he carried a lot of weight, muscle weight, I supposed. “Hate’s a strong word.”

  “Not necessarily. I think it makes things easier.”

  “You mean when someone holds a grudge?”

  “I already told ya. I don’t hold no grudges,” he said as he stepped on the landing then headed for the front door, grabbed the glass knob and swung the white door open as far as it would go. Maryann’s music slowly faded. Conversation stopped. All I could hear was Bisnonno’s clock ticking.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  Before he stepped out on the porch, he turned back to me, leaned in closer, smiled, revealing a dimple on his left check and whispered in a low, raspy voice, “I get even.”

  FOUR

  For a Few Bottles More

  Trying to get my mother alone during the party was like trying to isolate one snowflake in a blizzard.

  She scampered around attracting family as if no one could breathe without first learning how from Mom. Even Uncle Benny couldn’t seem to get her alone. I know because I watched him follow her around for about an hour.

  It didn’t help that Mom glued herself to Dickey’s side so tight that I was sure their hips had fused.

  And never mind that the only time she spoke to me was to ask if I could bring out another plate of olive focaccia, panini with buffalo mozzarella, tomatoes and chicken or anis cookies or pasta drenched in our Limonato olive oil, browned garlic and fresh parsley, or grilled veggies brushed with our Estate olive oil. But the strangest request was to help open more bottles of wine for the guests—Leo’s wine. I couldn’t imagine who might have brought it since most of the people in my family didn’t like the Russos or their uppity wine.

  But that was beside the point.

  As if anyone in this group needed help with a wine cork!

  Then she fussed over not having enough olives on the tables, but when I looked around, there were mounds of olives on every surface.

  Federico had gathered all the varieties we cured and filled up several wooden bowls he’d commandeered from my mom’s kitchen. Believe me, we had enough olives. Plus he brought out his famous tapenade made with chopped black Kalamata olives and sweet wine. His was my mom’s all-time favorite.

  I was thinking that making good tapenade took time, especially if you didn’t use a food processor like Federico who insisted on chopping everything by hand. It would be a great addition to my cookbook, especially since you had to refrigerate the mixture for about ten hours. All that chopping and marinating could work for a level two alcohol need, like right before a job interview or a date to meet the parents or having to wait to talk to your mom about a document that could potentially change your entire life.

  If I didn’t clear this up soon, I would have no choice but to slip away from the festivities and whip up a couple dozen pizzas just to ease the tension.

  Taking in a deep breath and looking around, I noticed I wasn’t the only tense one in the bunch. Federico appeared to be just as uneasy as I was. He usually enjoyed watching people eat his olives and delight in his tapenade, but not today. He seemed a bit uptight as he leaned against my mom’s porch railing, sucking on his pipe, staring at the crowd. Then again, he never was one for family gatherings. They made him uncomfortable.

  Federico was not only our groundskeeper, and olive expert, he was also my dad’s younger brother. My mom and I never would have made it through my dad’s disappearance if it wasn’t for Federico’s help. He kept a roof over our heads when money was tight, and taught me all those things a dad taught his daughter.

  Admittedly, in this family those lessons included how to lock and load a weapon, how to shoot to kill, and the ever popular, never trust anyone, no matter who they are. He must have told me that one a hundred times.

  I wasn’t too keen on the weapons program, but I learned the trust mantle in spades. Every shrink I’ve ever been to said the same tired refrain: You have trust issues.

  Ya think?

  Uncle Federico also tau
ght me the basics that my dad never had time for: how to ride a bike, how to tie my shoe, how to pitch a baseball and how to leave your lover.

  I was very good at leaving a lover, it was the taking the lover back when I knew he was bad for me, that I sucked at.

  The thought gave me a headache, so I popped a dozen spicy olives hoping they would take away the pain.

  Truth be told, as the day wore on and dusk began to engulf our front yard, everyone seemed edgy. Perhaps they were all thinking what I was thinking: What was Dickey planning?

  There seemed to be a rumor going around that Dickey was trying to convince everyone to plow under the olive trees and plant grapevines. Another rumor had it that he thought we should sell the land to developers for a resort. Still another rumor had him taking over the business. And from what I had read in those documents earlier that day, any one of those scenarios seemed possible.

  I held on to one thought: Dickey said he had a few things to do then he was out of here.

  Did he lie?

  It wouldn’t be the first time. I was sure of that.

  I looked around at the familiar faces and thought this party was getting way too weird.

  The cousins seemed downright angry. The uncles looked irritated. Even Aunt Babe wore a scowl, or was that her Lauren Bacall look, or could it be Mimi Van Doren? I couldn’t be sure. She liked to dress like the blond sirens from the Noir films. Aunt Babe loved to play the starlet, and what better place than at her former husband’s freedom party?

  Aunt Hetty had reverted back to her “cold fish” self. Maryann and Jimmy’s music had taken on a decisively melancholy tone. Uncle Ray no longer spoke to anyone. His wife Valerie was on her fourth or fifth glass of wine, and Zia Yolanda—who was somehow a great-aunt—sat alone under a tree, crying, kind of. In all the years I’d seen her cry, which happened at every family event, never once did she shed one real tear.

  Just when I was falling into a pit of believing some of the rumors, I spotted my best friend, Lisa Lin, heading straight for me. The mere sight of her smiling face put me in a better mood. If anyone could lift me out from this gloom and doom disorder, she could.

  “Nobody will talk to me,” she said, half pouting, a glass of white wine in one hand and a biscotti in the other. Lisa was a dunker, and a biscotti dunked in wine was one of her favorites. She looked fabulous in her skinny black jeans, high black boots and a bright red girly sweater, completely accessorized with big glam jewelry, and a tiny floral shoulder bag that screamed Betsy Johnson. The woman was all about high-end designer. Her silky black hair was pulled back in a long braid, her almond eyes sparkled, and her face lit up when I smiled back at her. Lisa and I were exactly the same height, had the same creamy skin tone and probably weighed in within a pound of each other, and while she outgrew all her training bras in one summer and went on to a sturdy underwire, sadly, I remained in that training-bra stage. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration, but not much of one.

  But the one true thing about Lisa that set her apart from everyone else I knew was her genuinely warm smile and that Julia Roberts laugh. It was infectious, and once she got going no one around her was immune.

  “They’re all jealous of your success. What are you doing here?”

  We hugged, kind of. Her hands were otherwise occupied.

  “I had a book signing at Readers Books today, remember?”

  Instant guilt ripped through me. I had completely forgotten about her signing. “I’m sorry. I’m a lousy friend. Why you put up with me . . . I was actually on my way, but this whole Dickey thing had me spinning. I’m surprised you’re here after I didn’t show up.”

  “Not that you even invited me. My mom had made dinner plans for me tonight in Chinatown with yet another of her “he’s the perfect boy for you” dates, but when I heard about the big freedom party at Spia’s Olive Press, I had to stop by and meet Dickey. Besides, he gave me a great reason to escape another match made in hell.”

  “I had every intention of showing up for the signing. Honest. And I would have invited you then, but my brain flipped into save the family mode, and you know I’m worthless when that happens.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to show up. Sounds as if you’re getting way too involved with your family, girl. You need a break.”

  “That’s the plan. Sand, beach, sun and men. No family. Want to come to Maui with me? I leave Sunday night.”

  “Can’t. I’m signing in Chinatown that day. My relatives from San Diego are coming in.”

  “The flight doesn’t leave until ten-thirty. We haven’t been on a trip together in a long time.”

  “Actually,” she said, leaning on one foot, pushing out a hip. “I do need to go to Maui for research. I’m doing a guide on how to survive on an island.”

  “Maui doesn’t seem like an island that requires survival techniques.”

  “Oh? Think spring break, plucky young chicks and eager young studs. Lethal combination. I’m teaching these women how to survive raging hormones, not how to build a fire, although, come to think about it . . . ”

  She pulled out a tiny digital recorder and made a verbal note to herself on bonfires on the beach.

  Lisa seemed to have an idea a minute, and all of them were of the high concept variety that publishers gobbled up.

  “I’ve got some of those raging hormones of my own,” I said.

  “My mother can hook you up.”

  “I’d rather take a cold shower.”

  “Try a vibrator. It’s a lot more pleasant.”

  We laughed and hugged again. This time Lisa put her drink down on a table to get in for a tight one.

  She and I grew up in San Francisco together. I lived in North Beach surrounded by my Italian family, and she lived three blocks away in Chinatown surrounded by her Chinese family. We used to do everything together, even drinking. Thing was, Lisa knew when to stop. I didn’t. But ever since I started working for my mom, we rarely saw each other. She was busy writing, and I was busy keeping my family honest.

  When we pulled apart she said, “I brought you my latest book. It’s up on your desk. I know how you never lock your door, so I let myself in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you ever read my books?”

  “Of course I do,” I lied.

  She raised an eyebrow, an endearing habit, but one I knew well. Whenever that eyebrow went up, she knew what you were saying was total bullshit.

  Truth was I simply never had time to read, not that I was ever a reader. Even in school she would write all my book reports and term papers. Hell, I hardly watched TV, and lately I didn’t even date. I didn’t do much of anything. Our business and my family sucked up every spare moment.

  I was truly pathetic.

  Lisa, on the other hand, was on her third best-selling book, The Girly Girl’s Guide to Bad Boy Survival. Her first and second books in the Girly Girl Survival series, Country Survival, and City Survival had made her a very wealthy woman, much to the chagrin of most of my family. Anyone who potentially generated more money than they could, posed a threat. I didn’t exactly know what kind of threat, but in my family those little details were irrelevant.

  “You really should read them. I put a lot of research into those babies and who knows, you might need to use one of my tips someday.”

  As if. . .

  “Absolutely. I’ll read one tonight.” In all honesty, I had every intention of reading her books that very night, but, what was that saying about some road being paved with good intentions?

  “Liar.” She knew me too well. “You hate to read. It’s the only reason I don’t take it personally.”

  “Okay, but if you come with me to Maui, I promise I’ll read one on the plane.”

  “Do you even remember how to read?” She took a couple sips of her wine. I watched, remembering the taste on my tongue. I was partial to an Italian red rather than one from Napa. Not that I didn’t think there were some fabulous California wines, but wines from the Basilica
ta region in Italy were my absolute favorite. “I mean, maybe you should take a refresher course first. Reading one-oh-one.”

  “Don’t get snide. Just come with me, and I promise to read an entire Girly Girl book of your choice. If I don’t, I’ll pay for your trip. Deal?”

  Not that I had that kind of money lying around. But certainly I could get through one of her books—I mean, what were friends for if not to support each other’s creative endeavors?

  She shrugged. “What the hell. Maybe you’ll actually buy one of my books next time.”

  “I always buy your books.” Of course, I couldn’t truly remember buying any of them, but I owned them all, so I must have.

  “I always give you my books.”

  Probably true. I just sighed. She had me.

  “I buy all your books, and read them from cover to cover. But you already know that, babe,” Uncle Federico’s voice boomed as he moved in closer to us. He had been standing a couple feet away, arranging his olives on the table.

  Lisa turned to face him. “Ooh, tell me more,” she flirted, moving up closer to him. “I love when you talk books to me.”

  He grinned and chuckled, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. Uncle Federico had one of those deep, guttural laughs that could charm most any woman, even Lisa who had a crush on him since she was a little girl. He was in his mid-forties, with rich brown hair, graying temples, bedroom eyes and a body that was sculptured from years of working in the grove. He dressed in casual cool, jeans mostly, and either a white fitted shirt or V-necked tees. He always wore a thick silver necklace that his dad, my grandpa, gave him when he turned sixteen.

  Uncle Federico had a sexiness to him that attracted all types of women, but he wasn’t much interested in a steady relationship. Said he didn’t want to be tied down to one woman. My mom said he’d gotten burned once and never recovered from the loss. A short fling was about all any female hopeful was ever going to get out of him.