at himself, trying to be funny, but the words fell flat, jangling between us. My father knew I didn’t want to be like him—he’d always known—and our resemblance was a fact we danced around.
“No, really. How you doin’, Pop?”
“Not bad. Same old. Sit down, kid. I’ll make you something to eat.”
I’d also known he would insist on feeding me, and I didn’t argue. It was what we did, and I was grateful for the ritual.
“It’s freezing in here,” I said. “Too cold to be sitting with that window open.”
“Your mother used to open the windows and sing, and the whole block would kind of quiet down. She had big dreams of singing for thousands. I guess singing for this neighborhood was the closest she ever got. Sometimes she sang that song from Carmen. I told you the story of Carmen. Saddest story in the whole world.”
I didn’t think Carmen’s story was as sad as my mother’s, but I didn’t argue. “I know about Carmen and Mom and the window, Pop,” I said as gently as I could. I wasn’t chiding him. I was letting him know I hadn’t forgotten.
“I know you do. But I been thinking about her a lot. Maybe it’s that girl . . . that Esther. Mom never made it. I want Esther to make it.”
He didn’t look at me when he said her name. He reached for the coffee and poured me a cup.
“Pop—” I started, but he continued with his story.
“I’d sit here”—he pointed his spatula at the table—“nice and quiet, and she’d push the window open and begin. Everyone knew Giuliana Lomento.” Pop always said her name like she was a famous soprano, singing in a real opera, and he never used her maiden name. He always claimed her.
“I can still see her, clear as day, singing right there.” Pop pointed at the tiny fire escape and the drapes that fluttered on either side of the window. They weren’t the same curtains that had been there when Mom was alive. When I was growing up, Pop had had a woman come in once a week and clean up after the two of us and stick a few meals in the icebox. She’d washed the drapes every couple of months. Ironed them too, until they were threadbare. Pop had finally taken them down, but they were folded in his bottom drawer.
I walked over to the window and pushed it shut. He didn’t protest, but he hadn’t lost the faraway look.
“She could do with her voice what you do with your hands. You got her love for music. It just comes out in a different way,” he mused, his eyes on the steaks he was frying.
“I have your hands, Pop,” I said, waggling my fingers to bring him back. He was scaring me a little.
“You do,” he grunted. “They look just like mine. I don’t know how in the hell you fit them on those little keys.”
He set my plate down in front of me, dished up one for himself, and sank into the chair like he’d done a thousand times before. More than that. And I’d done the same for him. Maybe Mom had waited on us way back when, but I didn’t remember it. It was this, me and Pop, breaking bread together in the same old chairs at the same scarred table. I always sat here. He always sat there.
“I met Esther Mine.” I kept my voice measured like it didn’t matter, but I was watching him. He’d brought her up again; the whole thing was a little bizarre.
Pop’s eyes rose to mine, and his hands stilled. I was startled once more by the age in his face.
“You did?” he asked.
“Yeah. I met her. She’s nothing like Mom, Pop. I don’t know what the fixation is.”
“You went back inside Shimmy’s when I left?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“No. I walked a bit. Wanted to play. Ended up back at La Vita. When I got back to my hotel she was waiting for me. She’d been waiting a long time.”
“Huh.” He set down his fork and sat back in his chair.
“Pop, you don’t look good,” I said again.
“You come into my house and insult me like that?” he muttered, feigning anger. “I look fantastic.” He flexed his arms and stuck out his chest, but I didn’t laugh, and he waved me off like I was no fun at all.
“I’m getting old, Benito. You just haven’t been here to see it. I feel good. I