Irene said, “Well, Dad didn’t even tell me your name till just now.”
“I’m not surprised,” Graciella said. “I think he likes to play the mysterious man in the hat.”
“I’ve made a mistake,” Dad said jokingly. “Dinner’s over. So glad you two met.”
The waitress materialized at the table. “Drinks now?”
“Oh yeah,” Irene said. “We’re going to need a lot of drinks.”
The meal proceeded with Palmerian efficiency, propelled by the fast hands of Oksana. The conversation weaved between the flying plates on a river of alcohol. Graciella was a drinker, and Irene was happy to keep pace while she tried to suss out who this woman was and what she was doing with her father. When she fibbed, it seemed to be mostly for politeness; the big lies, Irene suspected, were lies of omission. She mentioned kids, and said they were all fine (kids were never all fine), but the husband was absent from the conversation—despite the wedding ring on her hand and an engagement diamond the size of a meteorite.
Dad had turned courtly and solicitous—to Graciella anyway; Irene was left to order her own drinks. Dad laughed at everything the woman said, kept touching her arm, recommended favorite menu items like he was on staff. After they’d ordered dessert (“The lava cake’s stupendous,” Teddy announced), Graciella excused herself to the ladies’ room.
“So,” Teddy said. “Do you like her?”
“What the hell are you doing, Dad?”
“Try to calm down. I know it’s difficult for children when their widowed father falls in love, but I was hoping you could—”
“Back the hell up. You’re in love with her?”
“I am,” he said with formality.
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Dad, she’s married.”
“Not wisely, and not well. Nick Pusateri doesn’t deserve her.”
“Who’s Nick—?” And then she remembered where she’d heard the name. “Shit. Is Graciella the mobster’s wife?”
“Don’t be judgmental. It’s not attractive.”
“You’re banging a gangster?!”
“I’m not banging her,” Teddy said. “Besides, I’m pretty sure she’s throwing no carnal thoughts in my direction. I’m”—he made a vague gesture with three fingers—“cute.”
“You’re also twice her age.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t fall in love with anyone unless they’re at least half my age plus seven. Bare minimum.”
“You just decide who you fall in love with, huh?”
“You should try it sometime. Walk into a grocery store—not that awful place you work, I recommend Dominick’s—and pick out a stranger. Look for the beauty in them. Look at the way they hold a melon. Listen to the way they talk to the clerk. And say to yourself, I love this person.”
“You do this a lot?”
“Every day.”
“You’re going to get arrested.”
“It would be worth it,” he said.
“Fine. You’re an emotional daredevil. All I’m saying, you couldn’t try to jump into the pants of somebody who wasn’t Lady Macbeth?”
“Lady Macbeth wouldn’t wear pants.”
“Listen to me, Dad—you can’t be trying to screw a gangster’s wife. It’s suicidal.”
“And you’re not listening to me.” He glanced toward the restrooms to make sure Graciella wasn’t on her way back. “It’s not about screwing and banging and—where did you get such a filthy mouth? It’s not about sex. I haven’t used my dick in so long I wouldn’t know where to find it. I sent it out for a pack of Camels in 1979 and it never came back.”
“I really don’t want to be talking to my father about his dick.”
“Irene, this is about finding someone. You find someone and you make them the most important person in your life—even if just for a little while. A day! An hour even! Tell me how that’s a bad thing.”
“The bad thing is when the important person’s husband shoots you in the back of the head.”
“Fair point,” he said. He still had one eye on the entrance to the restrooms.
“What am I doing here, Dad? I’m the last person you should bring along if you want to stay with this woman.”
“She’s coming back,” Dad said. “I just need to know one thing—do you like her?”
Irene sighed. “I kinda do, actually.”
“Perfect,” he said.
And suddenly Irene realized that she’d been tricked into something. What, she had no idea.
She’d discovered a fact of modern life by standing at a cash register for hours: mindless work could nevertheless fill up your mind, like radio static. If she stayed busy—pushing canned goods down the chute with her left hand while busily ten-keying the prices with her right, making small talk, sorting cash—then she didn’t have to think about what day it was, what time certain flights landed, or how she was going to die alone.
“You getting a cold, doll?” Phyllis asked from the next register.
“I’m fine,” Irene lied.
Phyllis harrumphed. She was a champion harrumpher.
Irene had stayed off the computer for four days, a new record since the day it arrived. Her father was delusional about choosing to fall in love, but maybe the opposite was true: you could choose not to fall in love. All she had to do was keep totaling the cans of Aldi cola (twenty-two cents apiece), keep boxing the groceries, and send each customer out of the store with a cheery goodbye.
“Kill the wabbit,” Irene said.
The customer, a woman who was too old to date her father by twenty years, said, “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” Irene said, and presented her the receipt as if it were a winning lottery ticket. “Have a nice day.” On to the next customer.
But there was nothing on the conveyor belt. Irene looked up, and the next customer was a man in a business suit.
“Joshua? What are you—?”
He put a finger to his lips.
She stepped around the deck of the aisle, embarrassed by her polyester uniform, her pulled-back hair. She hadn’t even put on mascara. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
Without saying a word he stepped to her. Raised his eyebrows. Waited.
Shit. He was right. No more words.
She pulled his face to hers and kissed him.
9 Frankie
How the hell did coaches stop themselves from killing their star players? Frankie wondered. At first you’re in love with everything they can do for you. You start dreaming about glory. You can hear the roar of the crowds. But then you start depending on them. You need them. And eventually, as the training wears on, the star begins to doubt you. They have ideas of their own. And every time they don’t do what you ask them to do, you feel like they’re taking something away from you. Stealing glory.
“Listen, Matty. All you have to do is watch me open the safe, then come tell me the combination. If you don’t practice, it’s never going to work. Trust me. I’ve been through this.”
“I am practicing,” Matty said. He sat on the safe, arms around his stomach, staring at the garage floor. “Just…not in front of you.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not you. I can’t do it in front of anybody.”
“How do you know unless you try? I’m beginning to think you don’t have what it takes, Matty.”
“I’ve gone really far, Uncle Frankie. The past couple weeks. All on my own. So I’m ready to try Mitzi’s Tavern.”
Frankie was stunned. “Right now?”
“Tonight. Or tomorrow night. It depends.”