Eddie pushed off the counter and moved to the electric turner to spin the hot dogs. “What do I know? I ain’t been to church since … whenever.”
Ben knew he meant Connie’s funeral. The whole thing had been a shit show, from his own parents’ uptight, robotic appearance to Eddie’s mom on Xanax propped like a rag doll in a metal folding chair to Eddie’s dad smoking on the curb with the men, including his brother-in-law Frank Cillo, cracking knuckles and talking about throwing a Molotov cocktail on the front porch of Connie’s doctor’s mansion. Half the guys in the neighborhood went just to see the Cillo girls dressed up. Francesca wore a black scoop-neck top with a skirt, like a ballerina. Mira’s dress was simple and sheer around the hem, and it whirled when she walked up to the casket and settled in a flutter on her calves when she kneeled down; Ben remembered that. They squared their shoulders toward each other, talking to no one, not even relatives, their faces pale ash. Mira strayed from Francesca’s side once, to rearrange a disordered vase of pink-and-yellow-sprayed carnations from the Parks Department, slipping the flowers into different positions with meticulous care. She never acknowledged Ben, which seemed okay—that was how they did things. It was acceptable for a Lattanzi to attend a Villela wake, but grabbing Mira Cillo and crushing her against his chest in front of her father and his parents was not.
Both girls stayed out of the line of relatives that led away from the open casket, in which Connie was perfectly intact, if unrecognizable. Ben’s head had throbbed from the masses of stargazer lilies, cheap, since it was Easter season, their gaudy, pink blooms clobbering everyone with a medicinal funk. And though Ben was sure he hadn’t brushed against them, he found yellow powder on his sleeve. The second Ben’s parents paid their stiff condolences and left, Ben bolted and accepted a hit off Kyle’s joint right in the parking lot.
There had been no funeral for Francesca and Mira. Only a private cremation.
Ben wedged hot dog buns into cardboard rectangles. “I wanted to say. I know my dad and your uncle had their differences. But we feel your pain.”
“Benny, what are you talking about?” Eddie said, shaking his head.
Ben’s stomach tightened.
“Not for nothing, but ain’t no one’s thinking about the Lattanzi-Cillo feud right now. In fact, maybe it’s time all that crap went away,” Eddie said, tonging hot dogs aggressively into buns.
Ben agreed gruffly. The unfairness of Mr. Cillo warming to the Lattanzis after Mira’s death was too much to think on. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to make it about that.”
Eddie kept his back to Ben, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I know you didn’t. You’re one of the good ones. Guys are easier, you know. Uncle Frank’s a guy’s guy. He didn’t know what to do with girls. Feminine protection and mood swings and shit. It had to be hard. You think you’re doing the right thing: treat them like glass, keep the dogs away, protect them, hold them real close. And still this happens. Sometimes I think this family’s cursed. Like the Kennedys or something.”
A kid waved a dollar over the counter. “Can I have a Ring Pop?”
Eddie threw the kid a lollipop. “Suck it.” He moved to the fridge and pulled out a mesh bag of lemons and drew a short knife from the drawer under the counter.
“Nah, you’re not cursed.” Ben pretended to wipe down the sales counter and peeked over the ledge, searching for a note tacked underneath. “The truth will come out,” he murmured distractedly.
Eddie froze, his knife hovering over the lemons. He turned his head. “Ain’t no truth to come out. They fell.”
Ben stepped forward. “God, everything I say keeps coming out wrong. I’m not thinking straight. Tell you the truth, Eddie, I loved them.”
Eddie’s shoulders fell. “I know you did. Nobody knows why any of this happened.” He let the lemon roll away, signed the cross over his chest, and looked up. “Only The Man knows.”
Their shift went along predictably, each falling to his own thoughts. Ben was glad for the quiet, scanning his eyes over every nook in the snack bar. If Eddie was paying attention, he might have noticed that Ben was taking unusual care, lifting the rubber dividers in the cutlery drawers, dusting behind massive plastic mayonnaise tubs, and inspecting the back of the money drawer. Eddie sliced more lemons than they would need for ten pitchers of lemonade. Ben enabled his distraction, grabbing a two-pound bag of sugar and three fat plastic pitchers and filling them partway with water from the tap. Eventually, Ben left Eddie with his lemons and tended the dogs. Rolling the dogs on the turner, he meditated on where he’d gone wrong in his calculations. Mira’s secret note would not be found; Ben had checked every inch of the space. His mind skipped to the next place they were alone, and wondered when and how fast he could escape the snack bar to get there. His dead ex-girlfriend was watching from somewhere above, he was sure of it, and he was failing this task. As he gazed over the empty counter, his mind played a terrible trick. He saw Mira in her father’s shirt, soaked not from the pool but from the quarry lake. Ben shivered. Pretend-Mira smiled and handed him a dripping dollar bill.
The dollar.
Ben dropped the dogs and walked swiftly to the tiny hall that led to the back pantry. On the cork board, among tacked-up messages begging for more hours, mysterious keys, and a coupon for Dunkin’ Donuts was Mira’s dollar. He had pinned it on the board that day, gotten busted by Mira doing it, and hadn’t cared. It seemed right, a secret reminder every day of what he was busting his butt for: eyes on the prize and such. He lifted the corner and found her note underneath, folded into a delicate sliver. His fingers fumbled, and it fell to the ground, light, achingly slow.
Ben snatched it off the sticky floor and cleared his throat. “Eddie, you good?” he called shakily. “I gotta go to the can!”
Eddie grunted over a mountain of chopped lemons. Ben slipped off his apron and sidled from behind the counter, ducked into the locker room. He landed hard on the bench and peeled apart the tiny folds.
Daddy tells Francesca that it’s all in her head.
But I’ve seen it happening with my own eyes for years.
Now, she bleeds.