The Spia Family Presses On

THREE

My Cousin Dickey

Making my way up the service road, I knew no one could see my entrance. The road was blocked by trees and a four-foot-high lava stone wall—the same lava stone that had been used to build Jack London’s “Wolf House” back in nineteen-eleven.

As I pulled the truck into the private parking lot between Mom’s backyard and the stone barn, the usual set of late model cars were lined up along the fence, along with my mom’s new white Mercedes C350. There were also several current model cars lined up in a row that I didn’t recognize: a black Mercedes E class, a black Tundra, two black Cadillacs, a black BMW SUV and a black BMW Roadster. My family had a thing for black cars.

I didn’t recognize any of them, but I assumed they belonged to my relatives from San Francisco. Most everybody tended to get new cars every year, something my father liked to do to keep his enemies guessing, he would say. It seemed that these relatives had no shortage of enemies.

I grabbed Mom’s paperwork, slid out of the front seat, slammed the door behind me and just as I walked up the steps to Mom’s back porch, Aunt Hetty came charging out from the screen door. As soon as she saw me she pulled in a breath, let out a little “yeow” and grabbed the front of her white cotton blouse, which was half unbuttoned, a strange phenomenon for my overly modest aunt. “Holy buckets! You scared the bejesus out of me. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a person?”

Aunt Hetty had a hearing problem she wouldn’t admit to which caused her to be a little edgy. She thought everyone snuck up on her.

“Sorry. Is my mom in there? I’ve got something for her.”

She spun around, buttoned her blouse, pulled her skirt around so that the seams went down her hips, straightened her frazzled hair, smeared on some lipstick from a blue tube she always kept in her pocket, then turned to face me, grinning. That alone told me something was up. Aunt Hetty never grinned.

She and Aunt Babe were half-sisters, and sadly looked nothing alike. Babe had all the good looks in the family, while Hetty had nothing but a talent for baking. Her graying short hair stood out in little tufts around her heavily creased face, and because of her tendency to wear bright red lipstick that extended above her lip line, she always reminded me of an aging clown.

Unfortunately, Hetty took life seriously so the clown part was only in my imagination.

“She might be, but I didn’t see her. I’m too busy delivering cookies for the party. But I saw her go into the barn earlier. Or did I see her go into the barn this morning? I can’t remember. Don’t ask me these questions when I have so much on my mind. I don’t have time for them.”

Aunt Babe and Aunt Hetty, who weren’t actually my aunts—more like married-into-the-family-because-of-Cousin-Dickey—who actually was a cousin, owned and operated the pastry shop on the property: Dolci Piccoli, Little Sweets. They also shared a small California bungalow on the opposite side of the main driveway and were part owners of the orchard along with me and Federico, who also lived on the land in a one-bedroom house. Mom owned the lion’s share, or at least I thought she did. Now, after reading that document, there was no telling what would happen.

“Do you want some help?” I knew it was going to take a lot of cookies to satisfy this crowd.

“No thanks,” she said, and gently squeezed my arm with affection. I was momentarily put off. This simple act of warmth was something Aunt Hetty rarely did. Aunt Babe called her a “cold fish” because Hetty never offered a hug to anyone, and whenever she received one, her arms would be glued to her sides. “You’re such a sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

I wondered if the woman had been drinking, not that she ever did. Hetty was a dry state all the way. A role model if there ever was one. Then it dawned on me. “You’re worried about Babe being around Dickey again, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

I was sure she was playing the dumb card for my benefit. Or she simply couldn’t hear me.

I raised my voice and enunciated my words. “I said, YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT DICKEY AND BABE, RIGHT?”

“Don’t shout Mia, it hurts my ears.”

“Sorry.” She categorically ignored my question, which I let pass thinking perhaps she was preoccupied with her baking.

“I have to get back,” she suddenly announced after an awkward moment of silence. “Babe has two more trays of biscotti to take out of the oven and she won’t be able to handle them on her own. I’ll have to do the slicing before they cool, then get them back into the oven. I don’t have time to chat right now. The relatives are restless.”

Then she hugged me, and it was so shocking my arms never left my sides. As she pulled away she said, “When someone hugs you, Mia, you should hug them back.”

I wanted to say something like, what do you mean? You never hug back. Or, what’s going on with you today? Why are you so friendly? But before I could get the words formulated she turned and walked off toward her pastry shop.

You could have knocked me over with a twig.

I walked into Mom’s kitchen and called out her name, but didn’t get a response. Trays of amaretto, wedding and anisette cookies, cream puffs, torrone—a chewy flavored nougat and hazelnut candy that I absolutely loved—braided egg breads and several varieties of cannoli were piled high on every flat surface. The tiny country kitchen smelled like a bakery, only sweeter. I snitched two slices of orange-flavored torrone, took a delicious bite—Aunt Babe made the best torrone in the world—and made my way into Mom’s dining room through the arched open doorway.

I called out for my mom again.

Still no answer.

I could hear my relatives out in the front yard arguing and laughing, normal behavior for that group. Accordion music rose above the din, which meant Cousin Maryann was in good spirits. Maryann and her traveling accordion never missed a family gathering, no matter what the event. She even played at my mother’s bedside during my delivery, which could account for my abnormal fondness for accordion music. I even took lessons when I was ten, but then realized that playing an accordion was just about the geekiest thing I could do, so I gave it up, but only after I learned to play and sing e’ Gumbad e all the way through, with all the musical instrument sound effects, I might add.

I still harbored a longing to pull out my old accordion whenever Maryann came around. Problem was, if I did, she would never let up and I’d be the one accompanying her at these events instead of Jimmy. I could hear him out there picking on his mandolin. He owned and ran a tavern in North Beach called Labella. If I had our lineage correct (there were so many honorary family members that it was hard to keep up), he was Maryann’s younger brother, both somehow related to me on my father’s side of the family.

My mom’s house was silent except for the ticking of the cuckoo clock she had inherited from Bisnonno Luigiano, which would drive me crazy in my drinking days when I was nursing a particularly bad hangover. Especially when that damn bird popped out to announce the time, boring a hole right through the middle of my skull. My great-grandfather was a masochist and a sadist, I was sure of it.

I checked my mom’s bedroom on the first floor, a romantic shabby-chic haven of pastels and excessive lace, but she wasn’t there. Her jewelry armoire caught my attention and I decided to leave the paperwork from the bank in the top drawer instead of out in the open on her small desk. I figured she wouldn’t want me to hand them to her in front of any of our more notorious guests.

As soon as I slid open the top drawer Torno Sorrento began to play, my mom’s favorite Italian song, especially when performed by Pavarotti. I shoved the stack inside on top of mom’s antique handgun, and closed the drawer tight, glad to be rid of the responsibility. Dickey’s ring was still tucked inside my pocket. With the amount of tension she had going on that morning, she probably would want to hand it over as soon as possible.

I left the room and ran up the polished wooden steps to the second floor, sliding my hand along the white railing as I went. I scoped out each room. All I found were various open suitcases and clothes scattered across the beds, but no Mom. One of the bedrooms had a small balcony, but the French doors were closed so I figured she wouldn’t be out there. A black suitcase lay open on the rumpled bed, and I couldn’t help noticing the brightly colored clothes inside. All neatly folded with the price tags still attached.

Giving up my house search, I thought it might be time to join my family out on the front lawn, but just as that damn cuckoo chirped its time, a shadow moved on the creamy walls in the hallway. The combination of the two sent a shock wave through my body and I grabbed onto the wooden railing to make a speedy retreat, but then thought better of it. I was teetering on the edge, and if I took even one step forward I would end up on the landing in a heap of splintered bones.

“You gotta be my little cousin Mia,” a deep male voice bellowed as the shadow turned into a rather short, slim, fifty-something man wearing a tailored brown suit, a dark gold shirt, and spit-shined brown shoes. He was hand combing his hair back from his face, wiped his face with a white hanky, shoved it into his pants pocket while straightening his suit coat as if he had just put it on, his shoulders adjusting to the confines of the jacket in typical male fashion. “I’d recognize you anywhere. Had your picture up on the wall. Of course, you was younger in the picture, but you still got them pretty almond eyes.” He stopped. “Hey, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I was out on the balcony admiring all them olive trees. This place is bigger than I remember, and them trees all got taller.”

He came in close to give me a kiss. I let him. He kissed both my cheeks and I instantly knew I was face to face with the man of the hour. He smelled clean, with the hint of red wine on his breath.

“Cousin Dickey,” I said, throwing him a smile. After all, I didn’t want to seem inhospitable. There was no telling what he would do if I was disrespectful. Respect was the linchpin in a family like this. If you crossed that line, things could get ugly real fast.

“In the flesh.” He gave me a toothy grin, and I could feel the tension building between my shoulders.

I’d never met someone who seemed so proud to be who they were. He oozed self-confidence, and even though he must have weighed less than my mom, was no more than five-foot-four inches tall, had a ravaged face, gray silky hair combed straight back with the help of some kind of oil—olive oil, no doubt—and sported a classic Roman nose. The man had an infectious smile, and piercing blue eyes.

I now realized that it was Pinot Noir that permeated the air. Releasing my death grip on the railing, I took a step toward him.

“It’s been a long time,” I said, wishing the time was even longer, like perhaps not in this lifetime.

“Eight years, two months, three days, and seven hours, but hey, who’s counting.”

Then he laughed, a great big deep laugh, and he tapped my arm like I was supposed to laugh with him.

I knew enough about my family to join in when one of these aging Made Men thought something was funny. “You’ve got me there,” I answered, chuckling, nodding my head, and so wishing I was out on the front lawn with the rest of my family, taking accordion lessons from Maryann. For the first time ever, while I stood a little too close to Dickey, accordion lessons didn’t seem like such a bad idea, and even though he seemed genuine enough, I couldn’t get murderer out of my head.

Had he gotten away with it, or was he truly innocent? I couldn’t decide.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I said, but it was an absolute lie and I hoped it came out as a genuine statement.

The moment was awkward as I waited for his response. I didn’t quite know what to say to someone who’d just been released from a state prison. Usually, when I’d meet up with one of my recovering uncles or cousins, they’d have been out for a while and somewhat acclimated to their freedom. But this guy was fresh from the pen and the scars weren’t quite healed. Small talk felt weird. I mean, asking him what he’d been up to or discussing the weather didn’t quite seem appropriate.

“Hey, ease up. I didn’t come back here to cause no trouble for your mom. I got a couple things to do and after that, I’m outta here. I got no time to be hanging around this place when there’s a cute little babe waiting for me in the city. I’m getting married, ya know.”

I clenched my teeth. Who in their right mind . . . but then I flashed on the Menendez brothers—Erik got married while he was serving his life sentence to a woman who, by California law, can’t even have sex with him. “Congratulations!” I said and shook his hand.

“Yeah, ain’t that something? But don’t tell nobody. There’s a few people around here that don’t want to see your cousin happy. One in particular who wanted to see me burn, but hey, I’m a free man. I ain’t carryin’ no grudge. Grudges don’t do nothin’ but give you a bad stomach.”

A few measures of Turno Sorrento drifted our way, then a thud and a door slammed. The cuckoo announced it was half-past something as our attention immediately focused on the stairway. “Mom? We’re up here.” I called out, but no one answered and Dickey’s whole demeanor changed. I didn’t like what I saw. He looked mean.

Angry.

Intense.

Was it our conversation on grudges? Or did he hate cuckoo birds as much as I did?

I coughed. “I have something for you,” I said hoping to squash his sudden nasty disposition. “My mom kept this for you.”

I pulled the ring out of my pocket and handed it to him. He stared at it for a moment and his demeanor changed back to the charming man.

“Your mom’s a good woman.” He slipped the ring on his pinky finger on his left hand. It seemed too tight and he had to work at getting it over his large knuckle. I figured arthritis must have changed his fingers since he wore it last. He held up his hand to admire the ring. “Mark my words, baby doll, this ring is gonna give somebody real heartburn.”

I couldn’t imagine why, unless he was talking about some jealousy thing that continually ran through the family. There were a lot of bright diamonds on the horseshoe. One thing this family never could get over was one-upmanship.

“Maybe we should join everyone in the yard,” I said not wanting to be alone with him any longer. I was feeling way too weird.

“Good idea,” he said as he stepped in front of me and headed down the stairs. “And I want to apologize for callin’ you flat face when you was a kid. I thought it was funny back then, but you was a pretty little thing, and you’re a beautiful woman now.”

“Thanks,” I said, thinking maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Maybe he hadn’t killed his mistress, Carla DeCarlo, and he was actually on the road to recovery like the rest of my family. I needed more empathy for my relatives.

More compassion.

More therapy.

“You know,” he said. “I woulda thought you’d hate me. I know everybody else around here does.”

I followed behind him, thinking my act had worked. It wasn’t that I hated him exactly; I didn’t know him well enough to feel that emotion. I’d heard plenty about him, so scared silly was more to the point.

As we descended the stairs I noticed his perfectly manicured long nails. He’d been out of the slammer for less than forty-eight hours and he’d already had time for a manicure.

I was jealous.

The steps creaked under his feet. For a little guy, he carried a lot of weight, muscle weight, I supposed. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“Not necessarily. I think it makes things easier.”

“You mean when someone holds a grudge?”

“I already told ya. I don’t hold no grudges,” he said as he stepped on the landing then headed for the front door, grabbed the glass knob and swung the white door open as far as it would go. Maryann’s music slowly faded. Conversation stopped. All I could hear was Bisnonno’s clock ticking.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Before he stepped out on the porch, he turned back to me, leaned in closer, smiled, revealing a dimple on his left check and whispered in a low, raspy voice, “I get even.”