friends was about.
Friendship and honor, I thought. Just like Tony says.
I GOT UP AT eight. Showered and dressed, then went to Tony’s house. Arrangements had to be made for Pops. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I knew I’d have help. The smell of Rosa’s meatballs hit me as I climbed the steps to her house. I hated to think of something nice on a day like this, but Rosa’s spaghetti and meatballs seemed to help any situation. As I opened the screen door, I thought about Mamma Rosa. She had simple solutions for everything, and most of them had a root in food.
Rosa blamed air conditioners for half of the woes of the world. Said they kept people inside, made them stop socializing. “Once you stop talking with your neighbors you find things wrong with them,” she said. “And if you keep the windows closed at night, people holler more at each other, or worse—at their kids. If half the neighborhood is listening, people will be more careful with their words.”
Worst of all though, she blamed those vile air conditioners for blocking the sweet smell of food being prepared. There was something magical about the smell of sauce and garlic from a whole neighborhood, Rosa always said. Tony and I used to laugh about it all the time, but Mick disagreed. “That’s okay for you dagos; tomato sauce smells good. But over by my house all that’s getting cooked is potatoes. And let me tell you, potatoes smell like shit when they’re cooking.” We used to laugh our asses off about that.
I stopped, took a final whiff of the sweet-smelling sauce, then walked in. “Morning, Mamma Rosa. Sure smells good in here.” Angie stood behind her, white-and-green apron covered in sauce. I didn’t think she would have been here this early.
Rosa’s face lit up. She set the big wooden spoon down, the same versatile spoon that both stirred the sauce and beat our asses, and then she ran for me, arms open wide. She squeezed me a few more times than necessary, then shoved me toward the table and into a chair. “Sit, Nicky. You need breakfast.”
As she stirred the sauce, she yelled upstairs. “Tony. Carlo. Get down here and have breakfast with Nicky.” She turned to Angie. “Make some espresso for the boys.”
I jumped up from the table. “I can get that, Mamma—”
The spoon wagged at me, and her eyes slapped me back into the chair. “Sit down. Angie will get it.” She brought a meatball over, skewered on a fork. “Taste this. See what you think.”
As I nibbled on it, she kept talking. “I called Jimmy Maldonaddo.” She looked my way, made sure I saw her face. “He said to tell you how sorry he was. Said to tell you your father was a good man.”
I nodded. Nobody had much to say about Pops when he was alive, but now people were coming out of the woodwork to sing his praises.
“Jimmy will take care of everything,” Rosa said. The wake will be tomorrow night, and the funeral the next day. Father Dimitri will do the ceremony.” She looked at me again, but this time with business eyes. “He’ll be put next to your mother.”
“Of course,” I said, but then the embarrassment hit. “Mamma Rosa, I…”
“What?”
“I don’t…how am I gonna bury Pops? I can’t pay for any of it.”
She let her spoon fall into the sauce—a cardinal sin—and then she reached for me. “Nicky. Mio bambino. Don’t worry about things like that.”
I pushed away. Looked into her eyes. “I can’t ignore it. Pops needs to be buried, and I’ve got nothing.”
She smothered me in her arms. I felt her crying. “Don’t you worry, Little Nicky. I’ll take care of your Pops. A lot of people owe your Mamma Rosa favors. And it’s time they paid.”
R OSA TOOK OFF HER apron, told Angie to finish the sauce, then went upstairs to dress. She put on her finest checkerboard dress, her best pair of nylons, and her black walking shoes. She grabbed her purse from the dining room table and walked up the street toward the funeral home.
Friendship and honor, I thought. Just like Tony says.
I GOT UP AT eight. Showered and dressed, then went to Tony’s house. Arrangements had to be made for Pops. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I knew I’d have help. The smell of Rosa’s meatballs hit me as I climbed the steps to her house. I hated to think of something nice on a day like this, but Rosa’s spaghetti and meatballs seemed to help any situation. As I opened the screen door, I thought about Mamma Rosa. She had simple solutions for everything, and most of them had a root in food.
Rosa blamed air conditioners for half of the woes of the world. Said they kept people inside, made them stop socializing. “Once you stop talking with your neighbors you find things wrong with them,” she said. “And if you keep the windows closed at night, people holler more at each other, or worse—at their kids. If half the neighborhood is listening, people will be more careful with their words.”
Worst of all though, she blamed those vile air conditioners for blocking the sweet smell of food being prepared. There was something magical about the smell of sauce and garlic from a whole neighborhood, Rosa always said. Tony and I used to laugh about it all the time, but Mick disagreed. “That’s okay for you dagos; tomato sauce smells good. But over by my house all that’s getting cooked is potatoes. And let me tell you, potatoes smell like shit when they’re cooking.” We used to laugh our asses off about that.
I stopped, took a final whiff of the sweet-smelling sauce, then walked in. “Morning, Mamma Rosa. Sure smells good in here.” Angie stood behind her, white-and-green apron covered in sauce. I didn’t think she would have been here this early.
Rosa’s face lit up. She set the big wooden spoon down, the same versatile spoon that both stirred the sauce and beat our asses, and then she ran for me, arms open wide. She squeezed me a few more times than necessary, then shoved me toward the table and into a chair. “Sit, Nicky. You need breakfast.”
As she stirred the sauce, she yelled upstairs. “Tony. Carlo. Get down here and have breakfast with Nicky.” She turned to Angie. “Make some espresso for the boys.”
I jumped up from the table. “I can get that, Mamma—”
The spoon wagged at me, and her eyes slapped me back into the chair. “Sit down. Angie will get it.” She brought a meatball over, skewered on a fork. “Taste this. See what you think.”
As I nibbled on it, she kept talking. “I called Jimmy Maldonaddo.” She looked my way, made sure I saw her face. “He said to tell you how sorry he was. Said to tell you your father was a good man.”
I nodded. Nobody had much to say about Pops when he was alive, but now people were coming out of the woodwork to sing his praises.
“Jimmy will take care of everything,” Rosa said. The wake will be tomorrow night, and the funeral the next day. Father Dimitri will do the ceremony.” She looked at me again, but this time with business eyes. “He’ll be put next to your mother.”
“Of course,” I said, but then the embarrassment hit. “Mamma Rosa, I…”
“What?”
“I don’t…how am I gonna bury Pops? I can’t pay for any of it.”
She let her spoon fall into the sauce—a cardinal sin—and then she reached for me. “Nicky. Mio bambino. Don’t worry about things like that.”
I pushed away. Looked into her eyes. “I can’t ignore it. Pops needs to be buried, and I’ve got nothing.”
She smothered me in her arms. I felt her crying. “Don’t you worry, Little Nicky. I’ll take care of your Pops. A lot of people owe your Mamma Rosa favors. And it’s time they paid.”
R OSA TOOK OFF HER apron, told Angie to finish the sauce, then went upstairs to dress. She put on her finest checkerboard dress, her best pair of nylons, and her black walking shoes. She grabbed her purse from the dining room table and walked up the street toward the funeral home.
Similar Books
