Pins: A Novel by Jim Provenzano Page A

lady with big bosoms under a flowery blouse and tight pants that showed a bit too much of her wide hips smiled benevolently with a tray in her hands. “Your mother’s inside?”   Joey nodded.
    She called herself the Tuscan Welcome Wagon. That first September day with the huge moving truck taking up half the street, Irene DeStefano walked right through the open front door with a fresh-baked lasagna and a bundt cake. She walked right in as if she had always been his mother’s closest friend.
    A widow with kids in college, content to live alone in the smaller house next door, Irena “call me Irene” DeStefano seemed to move into their lives to fill up her own. But his mother liked her. Even so, every time he came home, it became a signal for her to wrap up the chit chat, let her “get dinner on the table.”
    He tried not to resent his mother’s times with her friend, but so often he had good news, or wanted to spout off about something someone said, or rehearse his day’s events before repeating them for his father at dinner, or after, or not at all. He sure wasn’t going to tell anything in front of Mrs. DeStefano, even though his mother probably discussed every cold or report card or ear infection.
    “Well, Hello, Joseph. How are you?” Mrs. DeStefano’s arms were out, demanding, so he hugged her.
    “Okay. Hey, Ma.” He bent down to kiss her. “I got a shirt, like you said.” He pulled the wrapped shirt from the bag.
    He wouldn’t tell his mother he’d taken all of three seconds picking it out from the bargain bin. He just knew what her idea of “a good shirt” meant, so he got one, as promised, stuffed with cardboard, about a dozen pins, one of which always seemed to stay hidden until Sunday.
    “What else did you get?”
    “Oh, a book, another shirt. See?”
    “That’s nice. Is that flannel?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Keep him warm,” Mrs. DeStefano said.
    “It’ll definitely keep me warm,” Joey grinned as he raced upstairs. He didn’t mean the shirt.
    He’d already scanned the Marky Mark book, saw the third nipple with a little arrow, and the wet shot, with his soaked jeans down so low, his skin taut like a cream-colored dolphin. Joey clutched the growing contents of his pants. Oh man. Save it for later.
    He read the page where Marky’s brother Donnie, from New Kids on the Block, told about his relationship with his brother. Joey had two NKOB cassettes, plus Marky’s too, which he’d scrubbed his Aunt Lilla’s stove to pay for.
    In the Marky Mark book, Donnie Wahlberg explained how close he and Marky were: “Whenever I’m leaving Marky or he’s going away, or like even when he finishes in the studio and is takin’ off, we always kiss goodbye.”
    It wasn’t sexy to Joey, just a reminder of how to love your family, even if he sometimes didn’t like them. He hadn’t kissed his brother in years. Mike never held still long enough for him to try. Of course, if his brother were Marky Mark, he’d probably have a hard time not kissing him.
    Restless, anxious, starving, not knowing whether to beat off or say a prayer for the contorted thoughts he had, Joey crept back to the top of the stairs to listen to the women talk. He didn’t want to pig out with Mrs. DeStefano there, so he perched, listening from above.
    “It’s very nice, give him a little responsibility.”
    “But you know, the mother is divorced.”
    “What does she do?”
    “Do?”
    “Her job.”
    “She’s a secretary at some real estate company.”
    No, Ma, he wanted to shout down the stairs. She sells houses.
    “Well, it’s good he’s making friends,” his mother said.
    “And in sports. That’s so good for a boy his age, to let off steam. The girls love an athletic boy.”
    A silence, then his mother shifted to talking about Sophia, then Mike, then Mrs. DeStefano said that no, Marilyn’s cancer had not gone into remission and Burt had yet to return from Cairo but it wasn’t until they said something about maybe next