real excited about it, until he told Me-me.
“You keep talking like that and they’ll be sending you to the funny farm,” she told him.
But sometimes he’ll sneak down late at night when everyone’s asleep. He maneuvers the dial back and forth, over static and music and announcers and preachers. The voices are kind of like ghosts, the way they come out of nowhere.
There’s a hiss and Pop-pop’s eyes light up.
“See?” he says excitedly. “There he is!”
All I can hear is static.
“What do you and Mickey talk about?” I ask.
“The war, of course,” he says, and frowns at me. “If it weren’t for all of them hooligans, he’d be alive right now. He’d be sitting right here eating a piece of your grandmother’s apple pie.”
Not if he was lucky, he wouldn’t. Me-me’s pie is mushy and the crust is hard as a rock.
A warbling sound comes over the radio.
“What’s that you say, Mickey?” Pop-pop asks loudly.
I kiss him on the head and say, “I’m going back to bed.”
Me-me is standing at the top of the stairs in her bathrobe.
“He listening to that box again?” she asks.
I nod.
She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why he can’t get over that boy.”
The next morning when I get to the store, there’s a big commotion.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Aunt Concetta died,” Frankie says with a grin.
I groan. I’m not groaning because Aunt Concetta’s dead. Truth is, I didn’t even know her very well. She’s part of Nonny’s circle of friends, these old Italian women who all wear black and play cards. She’s not a real aunt, and I think she was over ninety, anyway. I groan because it means there’s going to be a funeral. And a wake. And a mass.
Italians do death big. Big wakes. Big funerals. Big parties after, with lots of food. Personally, I’d rather have the party when I’m alive. What’s the point in someone making you a fancy meal after you’re dead? It’s not like you can eat it.
But Frankie’s excited.
“After this, I’ll have fourteen cards!” he says.
What he’s talking about is the little prayer cards you get at the funeral home when someone dies. Frankie collects them just like baseball cards. He calls them Dead Trading Cards. They’re kind of like real trading cards. See, they a have a picture on one side, usually of the Virgin Mary or Jesus or one of the saints, and on the other side they have the statistics—the name of the person who died, birth and death dates, and a little prayer. Frankie’s been collecting them forever, and sometimes he even trades them with other kids. I don’t know about Frankie sometimes.
The evening of the wake, Me-me helps me get dressed.
“Are they expecting a lot of people?” Me-me asks as she irons what I call my funeral dress. It’s black cotton with a white Peter Pan collar. It’s my summer funeral dress. I have a winter funeral dress too, which I got from Uncle Nunzio. Black wool with white piping.
“Probably,” I say. Usually everybody who ever met the dead person once shows up at the funerals for my Italian relatives.
“There,” she says. “That should do nicely.”
I pull the dress over my head and tug it down. It feels a little tight in the chest.
“Me-me,” I say, “look.”
“You’re growing up,” Me-me says. “Take it off and I’ll let out a few stitches.”
A few snips and another ironing and she hands it back to me. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. It doesn’t look quite right.
“Last season for this dress,” Me-me says with a critical eye.
The doorbell rings. I’m expecting Uncle Angelo, but when I open the door I see Cousin Benny standing there, tugging at his tie. I look over his shoulder and see Frankie sitting in the backseat of the car.
“What’s going on? Why are you driving?”
“The baby’s sick, so Aunt Teresa can’t come.”
“What about Uncle Angelo?”
“He’s sick too,” Benny says, but his mouth twitches, which means that
“You keep talking like that and they’ll be sending you to the funny farm,” she told him.
But sometimes he’ll sneak down late at night when everyone’s asleep. He maneuvers the dial back and forth, over static and music and announcers and preachers. The voices are kind of like ghosts, the way they come out of nowhere.
There’s a hiss and Pop-pop’s eyes light up.
“See?” he says excitedly. “There he is!”
All I can hear is static.
“What do you and Mickey talk about?” I ask.
“The war, of course,” he says, and frowns at me. “If it weren’t for all of them hooligans, he’d be alive right now. He’d be sitting right here eating a piece of your grandmother’s apple pie.”
Not if he was lucky, he wouldn’t. Me-me’s pie is mushy and the crust is hard as a rock.
A warbling sound comes over the radio.
“What’s that you say, Mickey?” Pop-pop asks loudly.
I kiss him on the head and say, “I’m going back to bed.”
Me-me is standing at the top of the stairs in her bathrobe.
“He listening to that box again?” she asks.
I nod.
She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why he can’t get over that boy.”
The next morning when I get to the store, there’s a big commotion.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Aunt Concetta died,” Frankie says with a grin.
I groan. I’m not groaning because Aunt Concetta’s dead. Truth is, I didn’t even know her very well. She’s part of Nonny’s circle of friends, these old Italian women who all wear black and play cards. She’s not a real aunt, and I think she was over ninety, anyway. I groan because it means there’s going to be a funeral. And a wake. And a mass.
Italians do death big. Big wakes. Big funerals. Big parties after, with lots of food. Personally, I’d rather have the party when I’m alive. What’s the point in someone making you a fancy meal after you’re dead? It’s not like you can eat it.
But Frankie’s excited.
“After this, I’ll have fourteen cards!” he says.
What he’s talking about is the little prayer cards you get at the funeral home when someone dies. Frankie collects them just like baseball cards. He calls them Dead Trading Cards. They’re kind of like real trading cards. See, they a have a picture on one side, usually of the Virgin Mary or Jesus or one of the saints, and on the other side they have the statistics—the name of the person who died, birth and death dates, and a little prayer. Frankie’s been collecting them forever, and sometimes he even trades them with other kids. I don’t know about Frankie sometimes.
The evening of the wake, Me-me helps me get dressed.
“Are they expecting a lot of people?” Me-me asks as she irons what I call my funeral dress. It’s black cotton with a white Peter Pan collar. It’s my summer funeral dress. I have a winter funeral dress too, which I got from Uncle Nunzio. Black wool with white piping.
“Probably,” I say. Usually everybody who ever met the dead person once shows up at the funerals for my Italian relatives.
“There,” she says. “That should do nicely.”
I pull the dress over my head and tug it down. It feels a little tight in the chest.
“Me-me,” I say, “look.”
“You’re growing up,” Me-me says. “Take it off and I’ll let out a few stitches.”
A few snips and another ironing and she hands it back to me. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. It doesn’t look quite right.
“Last season for this dress,” Me-me says with a critical eye.
The doorbell rings. I’m expecting Uncle Angelo, but when I open the door I see Cousin Benny standing there, tugging at his tie. I look over his shoulder and see Frankie sitting in the backseat of the car.
“What’s going on? Why are you driving?”
“The baby’s sick, so Aunt Teresa can’t come.”
“What about Uncle Angelo?”
“He’s sick too,” Benny says, but his mouth twitches, which means that
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