best as she could, from the depth of the ocean and my father’s rage, demanding payment for answering a simple question? Unimaginable. Today I simply reached for my wallet.
“All I have on me is forty-eight dollars,” I said.
“I’ll take a check.”
“No, you won’t.”
I offered her two twenties and eight crumpled singles. She snatched them, folded the bills in half and stuffed them into a pocket, all in one motion.
“I really think he was writing in English,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“A DP was a Displaced Person. A refugee from Eastern Europe who ended up in Western Europe after World War II. You’ve heard the term.”
It was true. I’d heard my parents mention it once or twice when I was a girl but it hadn’t stuck in my memory. In truth, I didn’t know much about my parents’ lives before they immigrated to America. They were never keen on sharing the details. I had been consumed with making good enough grades to get out of town, make my own money, and cease being dependent on them.
“I was a DP,” my mother said. “Your father was a DP. Your godfather was a DP, too. Most of the old-timers in the community were DPs. We lived in DP camps in Germany, France, and Austria before we came to this country. We were scattered all over the place.”
“So if he had the letters DP in his appointment book—”
“It could be anyone. Most likely someone he was in camp with. A friend.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Who else would you call DP? Someone who shared the experience with you. And let me tell you, it wasn’t a compliment to be called a DP.”
“Why not?”
My mother sighed. Her self-confidence seemed to leave her with her exhalation. Her eyes fell to the table and her voice softened.
“The world hated us.”
That was the substance of what I got out of her. I followed up with a few questions about DP camps, but she clammed up and concocted some excuse about needing to do her calisthenics before one of her beaus picked her up for an early lunch. After I told her I was leaving, I loitered around the table for a few seconds to make sure she wasn’t going to offer me a hug. When she took my plate and turned her back on me to head toward the dishwasher, I thanked her for her hospitality and left.
“Next time bring your checkbook,” she said. “Save the crumpled singles for your brother’s strip joint.”
I climbed in my car, slammed the door shut, and made the tires squeal. My mother’s condo was located on a road with a blind brow that led to a treacherous “S” turn. As the Porsche slithered through it, I tried not to look at the giant sycamore at the apex of the bend, where bouquets of flowers popped up now and then. People had left flowers for drunk drivers and reckless teenagers, and also a professor from Yale. I crossed myself three times, a habit from my days as an altar girl, and prayed my dead husband had successfully negotiated purgatory and had been welcomed through the pearly gates. Yeah, he was a bastard, but I held grudges against only the living. Praying and contemplating forgiveness also tended to calm me down, and by the time I’d negotiated the side streets I was focused on my mission once again.
I zipped onto I-91 headed east toward my brother’s house in Willimantic. As I powered onto the entrance ramp, I spied a white compact car following me. A bend in the on-ramp offered me a sideways view of the car. It was low-slung with tinted windows, remarkably similar to the two cars that had been parked around the corner from my godfather’s house last night.
But the car merged slowly into the right lane as I accelerated into the fast lane and it disappeared behind me. I tried to chalk my concern up to paranoia, but I couldn’t kid myself. Donnie Angel was out there, somewhere. In truth, I was surprised he hadn’t come after me yet. There was information in his absence, as though he wanted me to keep doing what I was doing.
Whenever our paths did
“All I have on me is forty-eight dollars,” I said.
“I’ll take a check.”
“No, you won’t.”
I offered her two twenties and eight crumpled singles. She snatched them, folded the bills in half and stuffed them into a pocket, all in one motion.
“I really think he was writing in English,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“A DP was a Displaced Person. A refugee from Eastern Europe who ended up in Western Europe after World War II. You’ve heard the term.”
It was true. I’d heard my parents mention it once or twice when I was a girl but it hadn’t stuck in my memory. In truth, I didn’t know much about my parents’ lives before they immigrated to America. They were never keen on sharing the details. I had been consumed with making good enough grades to get out of town, make my own money, and cease being dependent on them.
“I was a DP,” my mother said. “Your father was a DP. Your godfather was a DP, too. Most of the old-timers in the community were DPs. We lived in DP camps in Germany, France, and Austria before we came to this country. We were scattered all over the place.”
“So if he had the letters DP in his appointment book—”
“It could be anyone. Most likely someone he was in camp with. A friend.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Who else would you call DP? Someone who shared the experience with you. And let me tell you, it wasn’t a compliment to be called a DP.”
“Why not?”
My mother sighed. Her self-confidence seemed to leave her with her exhalation. Her eyes fell to the table and her voice softened.
“The world hated us.”
That was the substance of what I got out of her. I followed up with a few questions about DP camps, but she clammed up and concocted some excuse about needing to do her calisthenics before one of her beaus picked her up for an early lunch. After I told her I was leaving, I loitered around the table for a few seconds to make sure she wasn’t going to offer me a hug. When she took my plate and turned her back on me to head toward the dishwasher, I thanked her for her hospitality and left.
“Next time bring your checkbook,” she said. “Save the crumpled singles for your brother’s strip joint.”
I climbed in my car, slammed the door shut, and made the tires squeal. My mother’s condo was located on a road with a blind brow that led to a treacherous “S” turn. As the Porsche slithered through it, I tried not to look at the giant sycamore at the apex of the bend, where bouquets of flowers popped up now and then. People had left flowers for drunk drivers and reckless teenagers, and also a professor from Yale. I crossed myself three times, a habit from my days as an altar girl, and prayed my dead husband had successfully negotiated purgatory and had been welcomed through the pearly gates. Yeah, he was a bastard, but I held grudges against only the living. Praying and contemplating forgiveness also tended to calm me down, and by the time I’d negotiated the side streets I was focused on my mission once again.
I zipped onto I-91 headed east toward my brother’s house in Willimantic. As I powered onto the entrance ramp, I spied a white compact car following me. A bend in the on-ramp offered me a sideways view of the car. It was low-slung with tinted windows, remarkably similar to the two cars that had been parked around the corner from my godfather’s house last night.
But the car merged slowly into the right lane as I accelerated into the fast lane and it disappeared behind me. I tried to chalk my concern up to paranoia, but I couldn’t kid myself. Donnie Angel was out there, somewhere. In truth, I was surprised he hadn’t come after me yet. There was information in his absence, as though he wanted me to keep doing what I was doing.
Whenever our paths did
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