four.”
“Right. If there is any change, you know the number.”
“Do you have a cell?”
“Not in the U.S.”
“Okay . . .” She handed me the pastry box, then fished around in her purse, found a business card, and wrote on the card, saying, “My home number and my cell.”
I exchanged the card for the pastry box and said, “See you Saturday.”
“Thanks, John, for all you’re doing for Mom.”
“It’s nothing.”
“And what you did for Dad. I never properly thanked you.”
“He was a good man.”
“He thought the world of you.” She added, “And your father was a good man, and he . . . he understood what you were going through.”
I didn’t reply, and we did a quick hug and air kiss. She turned, took a few steps, then looked back and said, “Oh, I have a letter for you from Mom. I’ll bring it Saturday.”
“Okay.”
I watched her walking quickly toward the hospice house, then I turned and got into my rental car.
As I drove down the lane toward the road, I replayed the conversation, as people do who are trying to extract some meaning beyond the words spoken. I also analyzed her body language and demeanor, but Elizabeth was not easy to read; or, maybe, as several women have told me, I miss the subtleties. If a woman says, “Let’s have a drink and talk business,” I actually think it’s about business. It’s a wonder I ever got laid.
Anyway, on to my next adventure: dinner with don Anthony Bellarosa.
Ethel
,
Elizabeth
,
Anthony
. And, eventually,
Susan
.
An individual life passes through a continuum of time and space, but now and then you enter a warp that sucks you back into the past. You understand what’s going on because you’ve been there before; but that’s no guarantee that you’re going to get it right this time. In fact, experience is just another word for baggage. And memory carries the bags.
More importantly—egg drop or wonton? Chopsticks or fork?
I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I noticed a big American flag decal displayed in the front window of Wong Lee’s, next to the credit card decals. I also noticed Tony (formerly known as Anthony) sitting in the driver’s seat of the big black SUV I’d seen a few nights earlier on Grace Lane. The windows were tinted, but the driver’s window was down, and I didn’t see Anthony Bellarosa (formerly known as Tony) inside the vehicle.
Tony spotted me and shouted, “Hey! Mistah Sutta! Hey! It’s me! Tony. How ya doin’?”
It would have been difficult for me—or anyone within half a mile—to ignore him, so I walked toward the SUV and said, in my best St. Paul’s accent, “I’m doing very well. Thank you for asking.”
“Hey, you look great.” He reached through the window, we shook hands, then he opened the door and jumped out. He wanted to shake again, so we did, and he said, “The boss is inside, waitin’ for ya.”
I glanced at my watch and saw I was fifteen minutes early. Frank Bellarosa, a graduate of La Salle Military Academy, once advised me, apropos of meetings and battles, “Like General Nathan Bedford Forrest said, Counselor, ‘Get there firstest with the mostest.’” Probably Frank had passed that on to his son, and that made me wonder how much Anthony had learned at the knee of his father before Frank’s life and Anthony’s education had been cut short. And, I wondered, how much was in the blood?
Tony inquired, “So whaddaya been up to?”
“Same old shit.”
“Yeah? You look great.”
I think we covered that, and I wished I could say the same about Tony, but he’d aged in ten years, a result, possibly, of job stress. Nevertheless, I said, “You’re looking good, Anthony. Well—”
“Tony.”
“Right.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his black sweatsuit warmup jacket and offered me one, which I declined.
He lit up and said, “The boss says no smokin’ in the car.”
“Good rule.” The SUV, I now
“Right. If there is any change, you know the number.”
“Do you have a cell?”
“Not in the U.S.”
“Okay . . .” She handed me the pastry box, then fished around in her purse, found a business card, and wrote on the card, saying, “My home number and my cell.”
I exchanged the card for the pastry box and said, “See you Saturday.”
“Thanks, John, for all you’re doing for Mom.”
“It’s nothing.”
“And what you did for Dad. I never properly thanked you.”
“He was a good man.”
“He thought the world of you.” She added, “And your father was a good man, and he . . . he understood what you were going through.”
I didn’t reply, and we did a quick hug and air kiss. She turned, took a few steps, then looked back and said, “Oh, I have a letter for you from Mom. I’ll bring it Saturday.”
“Okay.”
I watched her walking quickly toward the hospice house, then I turned and got into my rental car.
As I drove down the lane toward the road, I replayed the conversation, as people do who are trying to extract some meaning beyond the words spoken. I also analyzed her body language and demeanor, but Elizabeth was not easy to read; or, maybe, as several women have told me, I miss the subtleties. If a woman says, “Let’s have a drink and talk business,” I actually think it’s about business. It’s a wonder I ever got laid.
Anyway, on to my next adventure: dinner with don Anthony Bellarosa.
Ethel
,
Elizabeth
,
Anthony
. And, eventually,
Susan
.
An individual life passes through a continuum of time and space, but now and then you enter a warp that sucks you back into the past. You understand what’s going on because you’ve been there before; but that’s no guarantee that you’re going to get it right this time. In fact, experience is just another word for baggage. And memory carries the bags.
More importantly—egg drop or wonton? Chopsticks or fork?
I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I noticed a big American flag decal displayed in the front window of Wong Lee’s, next to the credit card decals. I also noticed Tony (formerly known as Anthony) sitting in the driver’s seat of the big black SUV I’d seen a few nights earlier on Grace Lane. The windows were tinted, but the driver’s window was down, and I didn’t see Anthony Bellarosa (formerly known as Tony) inside the vehicle.
Tony spotted me and shouted, “Hey! Mistah Sutta! Hey! It’s me! Tony. How ya doin’?”
It would have been difficult for me—or anyone within half a mile—to ignore him, so I walked toward the SUV and said, in my best St. Paul’s accent, “I’m doing very well. Thank you for asking.”
“Hey, you look great.” He reached through the window, we shook hands, then he opened the door and jumped out. He wanted to shake again, so we did, and he said, “The boss is inside, waitin’ for ya.”
I glanced at my watch and saw I was fifteen minutes early. Frank Bellarosa, a graduate of La Salle Military Academy, once advised me, apropos of meetings and battles, “Like General Nathan Bedford Forrest said, Counselor, ‘Get there firstest with the mostest.’” Probably Frank had passed that on to his son, and that made me wonder how much Anthony had learned at the knee of his father before Frank’s life and Anthony’s education had been cut short. And, I wondered, how much was in the blood?
Tony inquired, “So whaddaya been up to?”
“Same old shit.”
“Yeah? You look great.”
I think we covered that, and I wished I could say the same about Tony, but he’d aged in ten years, a result, possibly, of job stress. Nevertheless, I said, “You’re looking good, Anthony. Well—”
“Tony.”
“Right.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his black sweatsuit warmup jacket and offered me one, which I declined.
He lit up and said, “The boss says no smokin’ in the car.”
“Good rule.” The SUV, I now
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