Jerry started to grumble.
“Just pay the man,” Vicki ordered. “It’s only fifty cents.”
Jerry grabbed a bag of cookies, handed the man four dollars and fifty cents and then whispered, “Chasing Chinatown.”
The old man nodded, stood up and walked to the back of the factory. A minute later he returned and handed Jerry a red fortune cookie. Jerry cracked it open and read the fortune before turning to his wife with a grin on his face. “We have our answer.”
Chapter 10
The neighborhood I called home, North Beach, had the nickname “Little Italy” thanks to the large number of Italian immigrants who had settled there long ago. It’s still home to numerous Italian restaurants and delis, my favorite being Fanelli’s on Columbus Avenue near Washington Square. We lived a couple of blocks away from the square in an old Victorian on Pfeiffer Street. I liked the area. It was quiet, and the neighbors were nice and respectful. It felt like home to me.
I parked my Impala directly outside our house, like I always did. Before I made it to the front door, I could hear Lucy laughing inside. I looked at my watch: 8:00 p.m. She should be getting ready for bed.
I opened the door and spotted my little one sitting on the stairs in her PJs.
“Hi, Mommy,” she said as she waved.
I brought my left wrist up and tapped at my watch. “Shouldn’t someone already be in bed?”
“I was waiting for you to come home.”
That’s all she needed to say to have me ditch the tough Mommy attitude. I put my purse down and climbed the stairs with my arms out to give her a long hug. “Mommy’s missed you. Have you been good?”
“Yes,” she said with exaggerated nods.
“Did you finish all your dinner?”
More exaggerated nods.
“Have you brushed your teeth yet?”
That time she grinned and shook her head. “Nooooooooo.”
I pointed to the top of the stairs. “Get moving.” I patted her behind. “Brush your teeth. I’ll come by later to tuck you into bed.”
I watched her scramble up the stairs until she rounded the corner before I headed into the kitchen, where I knew I would find Po Po.
“Oh, you home. Good. I made noodles for dinner. I warm some up for you.”
My mother-in-law practically lived in the kitchen. Having her bedroom next door only encouraged it. I knew it was nearing her bedtime, so I told her not to worry. She had already changed into her nightwear. Maybe. I should really learn the difference between that blue dress and that blue nightgown.
I usually try to get home by 5:30 p.m. On days I’m running late, which I try very hard not to do, I call and give her the heads up. Being late means I most likely missed out on walking the kids — well, Lucy anyway— home from school. On days I was able to meet them at school, Ryan took the opportunity to walk home with his friends. If work was hectic, I would text him, and he had the responsibility of walking his sister home before he could hang out with his friends. It would be that way until Lucy was eighteen.
Po Po ignored what I said and put a plate of noodles into the microwave. “While that’s warming up,” I said, “I’ll tuck Lucy into bed and check in on Ryan.”
“Don’t take long. Microwave only need three minutes.”
I hurried up the stairs. Lucy had just walked out of the bathroom, so I made like a monster and chased her into her room.
“How come you’re home so late?” she asked as she climbed into bed and slipped under her covers.
“Mommy had to go to Muir Woods. Remember the park we went to with the really tall trees?”
“Oh, yeah. My neck hurt from looking at them.”
“That’s right; it did.”
She yawned, and I took that opportunity to bring the covers up to her neck before giving her a kiss goodnight. Her eyes were slowly closing. Yes! I stood up and turned off the lights. “Sweet dreams.”
I closed the door behind me and let go a couple of fist pumps. It had been a while since I’d had one of those right-to-bed moments. Usually she pummeled me with a series of “why” questions, or begged for a story, or the infectious giggles would attack her. But as she got older, the stalling happened less and less. Even the tantrums were fewer and farther between. Bedtime was becoming a natural occurrence and not a chore.
She went down quickly, so I was sure I had at least another minute or two left on the microwave timer. I stuck my head in Ryan’s room. Empty. When he wasn’t there, he could be found on the third floor. We had converted half the top floor into a media/playroom, and he had taken to doing homework and playing up there so Lucy wouldn’t bother him. He had her convinced that the floor was haunted, so she never ventured higher than the second floor. I’m sure some psychological damage was taking place, but hey, if it got Ryan to study, great. I would deal with the fallout later.
Ryan sat at the desk, his back to me, while he listened to music on his phone. When I placed my hand on his shoulder, he jumped, and I let out a laugh. “Got you!”
“Abby,” he moaned, “I’m trying to study.”
“And I’m trying to say hello.” I gave him a hug and kiss. “History?” I asked.
“Reading comprehension,” he corrected.
“How’s it coming along?”
“Pretty good. It’s one of my easier subjects. Math is the toughest.”
Ha! Stereotype debunked. I pity the fool that tries to copy off my kid during a math test. He’s following in my footsteps. I pinched myself as a reminder to look into a math tutor for him. I really didn’t want him to struggle in any of his subjects.
I noticed a bruise on the back of his neck. “What happened here?” I asked, pulling his collar down a bit.
“Judo.”
“Someone do a move the wrong way?”
“Sort of. We were practicing flips, and my partner didn’t execute well enough. The back of my neck hit his knee.”
“Ouch.” I touched it gently. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Ryan had come a long way from the little, whiny boy I remembered when we first met. I like to think I toughened the kid up and that his father was looking down at us with a smile. Judo, however, was the driving force behind his newfound confidence. He’d even started to take an interest in coming to the gym and hitting the heavy bag with me. I remember one day he got cocky and suggested we spar. It might have had something to do with him coming home after 5:00 p.m. on a school day and me doling out a week of no Internet, except for homework, as punishment. I told him, “Fine. Let’s go.”
We both entered the ring. Ryan had a silly grin on his face and started moving his feet back and forth like a boxer. He jerked his head from side to side. I suspected he thought I would take it easy on him. I didn’t.
The entire session lasted a few seconds. He threw a jab and came up short. I followed up with a straight right and flattened his nose. I didn’t draw blood, but I had made sure to put a little heat behind it, enough to sting. It was a friendly reminder to never underestimate his mother and taught him a lesson that girls are as tough as boys. That day also had me remembering how my father gave me my first black eye. It was his way of saying, “Come on. It’s time you learn how to box.”
I knew my father loved me, even if his ways of showing it were unconventional. He wanted two things for me: to be independent and to be able to protect myself. “If you can master those skills,” he constantly repeated, “you’ll be able to handle whatever life throws your way.” I liked to think I was instilling the same virtues in Ryan.
As I left Ryan to his schoolwork and headed back downstairs, my phone started to ring. I removed it from my back pocket and answered, only to hear the haunting voice I hadn’t heard in over a year.