we’re identical.”
The man had noticed the bull horns. He touched them. Sure enough, they were real. “Suzy is an Indian,” he said, “like you folks.”
“She’s adopted,” whispered the woman.
“But not a Seminole,” he said, and laughed so loud everyone else in the room jumped.
“I don’t follow you,” Sandra said.
With a whiny sigh, the man stopped laughing. Suzy sat at what would be her desk and stared at its Formica top. Francesca wanted to give her flowers, wine, chocolate, whatever it would take to make her smile.
“Florida State,” the man said. “They’re the Seminoles.” He pantomimed throwing a football. He laughed again, even louder, and stopped laughing, even more abruptly.
“Naturally they are,” Sandra said. “No, I mean about being an Indian. We’re Italian.”
The man and the woman exchanged a look. “Interesting,” he said.
Inner-esting.
“Yes,” said his wife. “That’s different.”
Francesca apologized and said her mom and sister had to go but she’d be back in just a sec to help Suzy with her stuff.
Her mother flinched slightly at
stuff,
but of course did not correct Francesca in front of the Kimballs.
Francesca and Kathy held hands on the way out to the car. Neither one of them could, or needed to, say a word.
“Want me to drive, Ma?”
Sandra opened her purse, took out a handkerchief and her keys, tossed the keys to Kathy.
“Don’t get pregnant,” Kathy said.
Their mother let this go, did not even express feigned decorous shock.
I won’t become a WASP either,
Francesca thought.
Or a dumb blonde. Or anyone else’s sister.
She squeezed Kathy’s hand. “Don’t wreck your eyes reading,” Francesca said.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Kathy said.
“Maybe I
am
you,” Francesca said.
It was an old joke. They’d always wondered how their mother had kept them straight as babies, always presumed they’d been mixed up a few times until they were old enough to assert their own identities.
They kissed each other on both cheeks, the way men would, and Kathy got into the car.
As Francesca hugged her mother good-bye, Sandra managed it at last. “I only wish,” she whispered, “that your father could be here to see this.” Sandra stepped back, triumphant. She looked from one daughter to the other. “His college girls.” She blew her nose. It was very loud.
“Pop never liked us to cry,” Francesca said.
“Who likes to see his family cry?” Kathy said.
“He wasn’t exactly one for tears himself,” Francesca said, wiping her face on the sleeve of her raincoat.
“Are you
kidding?
” her mother said. “Sonny? He was the biggest baby of us
all.
At movies he’d cry. Corny old Italian songs made him blubber like a baby. Don’t you remember?”
Seven years later, and Francesca was already starting not to.
She watched the Roadmaster nose its way through the clogged, narrow, palm-lined drive. As the car pulled around the corner, Francesca silently mouthed the word
good-bye.
She had no way of knowing this for sure, but she’d have bet her life her sister did the same.
Chapter 5
N ICK G ERACI heard footsteps coming from across the darkness of the abandoned casino. A heavy limping man in squeaky shoes. “Sorry to hear about your ma, kid,” a voice called.
Geraci stood. It was Laughing Sal Narducci, Forlenza’s ancient
consigliere,
dressed in a mohair sweater with diamond-shaped panels. When Geraci was growing up, Narducci was one of those guys you saw sitting out in front of the Italian-American Social Club, smoking harsh black cigars. The nickname was inevitable. A local amusement park had this motorized mannequin woman at the gate called Laughing Sal. Its recorded laughter sounded like some woman who’d just had the best sex of her life. Every Sally, every Salvatore in Cleveland, and half the Als and Sarahs, got called Laughing Sal.
“Thanks,” Geraci said. “She’d been sick a long time. It was kind of a
The man had noticed the bull horns. He touched them. Sure enough, they were real. “Suzy is an Indian,” he said, “like you folks.”
“She’s adopted,” whispered the woman.
“But not a Seminole,” he said, and laughed so loud everyone else in the room jumped.
“I don’t follow you,” Sandra said.
With a whiny sigh, the man stopped laughing. Suzy sat at what would be her desk and stared at its Formica top. Francesca wanted to give her flowers, wine, chocolate, whatever it would take to make her smile.
“Florida State,” the man said. “They’re the Seminoles.” He pantomimed throwing a football. He laughed again, even louder, and stopped laughing, even more abruptly.
“Naturally they are,” Sandra said. “No, I mean about being an Indian. We’re Italian.”
The man and the woman exchanged a look. “Interesting,” he said.
Inner-esting.
“Yes,” said his wife. “That’s different.”
Francesca apologized and said her mom and sister had to go but she’d be back in just a sec to help Suzy with her stuff.
Her mother flinched slightly at
stuff,
but of course did not correct Francesca in front of the Kimballs.
Francesca and Kathy held hands on the way out to the car. Neither one of them could, or needed to, say a word.
“Want me to drive, Ma?”
Sandra opened her purse, took out a handkerchief and her keys, tossed the keys to Kathy.
“Don’t get pregnant,” Kathy said.
Their mother let this go, did not even express feigned decorous shock.
I won’t become a WASP either,
Francesca thought.
Or a dumb blonde. Or anyone else’s sister.
She squeezed Kathy’s hand. “Don’t wreck your eyes reading,” Francesca said.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Kathy said.
“Maybe I
am
you,” Francesca said.
It was an old joke. They’d always wondered how their mother had kept them straight as babies, always presumed they’d been mixed up a few times until they were old enough to assert their own identities.
They kissed each other on both cheeks, the way men would, and Kathy got into the car.
As Francesca hugged her mother good-bye, Sandra managed it at last. “I only wish,” she whispered, “that your father could be here to see this.” Sandra stepped back, triumphant. She looked from one daughter to the other. “His college girls.” She blew her nose. It was very loud.
“Pop never liked us to cry,” Francesca said.
“Who likes to see his family cry?” Kathy said.
“He wasn’t exactly one for tears himself,” Francesca said, wiping her face on the sleeve of her raincoat.
“Are you
kidding?
” her mother said. “Sonny? He was the biggest baby of us
all.
At movies he’d cry. Corny old Italian songs made him blubber like a baby. Don’t you remember?”
Seven years later, and Francesca was already starting not to.
She watched the Roadmaster nose its way through the clogged, narrow, palm-lined drive. As the car pulled around the corner, Francesca silently mouthed the word
good-bye.
She had no way of knowing this for sure, but she’d have bet her life her sister did the same.
Chapter 5
N ICK G ERACI heard footsteps coming from across the darkness of the abandoned casino. A heavy limping man in squeaky shoes. “Sorry to hear about your ma, kid,” a voice called.
Geraci stood. It was Laughing Sal Narducci, Forlenza’s ancient
consigliere,
dressed in a mohair sweater with diamond-shaped panels. When Geraci was growing up, Narducci was one of those guys you saw sitting out in front of the Italian-American Social Club, smoking harsh black cigars. The nickname was inevitable. A local amusement park had this motorized mannequin woman at the gate called Laughing Sal. Its recorded laughter sounded like some woman who’d just had the best sex of her life. Every Sally, every Salvatore in Cleveland, and half the Als and Sarahs, got called Laughing Sal.
“Thanks,” Geraci said. “She’d been sick a long time. It was kind of a
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