two-inch-thick oak door with its rounded top, beveled panels, and small cut glass windows in the upper sections, the product of some long-dead craftsman’s time and attention and artistic capacity. It takes all my strength, all my will, to keep from kicking the thing right off its rotting frame. As we step upon the stoop, I feel Melody tighten her hand around mine. With a held breath, I reach down and grip the handle and latch in my hand, and gently open the door.
NELLA VITA—CHI NON
RISICA—NON ROSICA
(IN LIFE: WHO RISKS NOTHING,
GAINS NOTHING)
ONE
Of all the things that could strike us as we walk in, it’s not the smack of a sibling’s hand on a shoulder, not the lilting sound of my father’s soundtrack of Sinatra or Mario Lanza or Dino Crocetti (he refuses to call him Dean Martin), not the sound of loud voices bouncing off the scarred maple floors of the entryway; it’s the smell of the Sunday gravy. I would argue that Sylvia has some of the best chefs in Williamsburg, if not all of Brooklyn, yet our kitchen never captures a gastronomic aroma as powerful and warm as my father’s Sunday gravy, the veal- and pork-based red sauce that simmers all day long and serves as the base for most other dishes to be made. The scent asks you to come in and have a taste, grab a glass of wine, sit and tell it about your day. It has a comforting effect—one that might be working on Melody as well; she looks around the house like a child glimpsing a museum for the first time. Her eyes move from object to object, from the paintings on the wall to the pictures on the piano in the study. She catches a fleeting look at my father and mother in happier days, images of my brothers and me in younger, less intimidating stances and sizes.
We pause here in the entryway as I survey the scene; it appears everyone has congregated in the kitchen, as much a tradition as the meal itself. My mother could never “shake people out of her cooking space,” and eventually she and my father gave up, blew out the adjacent laundry room and increased the size of the kitchen by 30 percent.
I pull Melody down the hallway to the back of the house, her hand still cold, still trembling. As we break the fringe of the kitchen, a dozen or so people are milling about and various conversations are under way, the largest being where Peter stands before a small crowd of listeners. With his back to us, he says, “So I told him, ‘Hey, relax; you still got nine fingers. That’s nine more lessons!” Peter’s blatant copyright infringement of Tommy Fingers’s material brings a smattering of laughter, mostly from Gino’s and Jimmy’s wives, gazing adoringly at Peter with their heads cocked, wishing they’d somehow landed the dashing mafioso instead of the also-rans.
I slap Peter on the back and say, “Yeah, except what you really meant was he had seven fingers and two thumbs left, right?” The same response I used to give Tommy when I was a kid; if Pete can recycle old material, why can’t I?
He turns around and hugs me hard and fast, whacks me on the back. As I reach to return his hug, Melody is reluctant to release my hand. When I slide over, Melody slips right behind me like she’s hiding in my shadow, peeks her head around the side of my neck.
Everyone turns to look at me and Melody, and all of the conversations come to an abrupt end—except for the one occurring in the far corner of the kitchen between my father and Eddie Gravina, a manila folder positioned between them like they’re singing from the same hymnal. In my peripheral vision I can tell they’re staring at us. My father gets up from his chair slowly, grabs his pants by the belt, and pulls them way up to compensate for the down-drifting that’ll occur with each step toward us. He carries the manila folder with him.
I can feel Melody slink behind me again as my father comes our way. I wonder what’s running through her mind, wonder if she recognizes the now gray and overweight man who once acted the lead role in her night terrors. The only way this will work is if she faces him. The only way this will work is if he faces her.