The best-behaved boys of the eighth-grade, crisply dressed in black slacks, white shirts, and light blue ties, walked along the sides of the slow-moving float single file, while the rest marched in rows behind the flatbed. They carried black rosary beads; some bunched them in their hands while other boys laced them through their fingers.
Vinnie Matera, the class troublemaker with a flair for comedy, swung his beads, in a long loop, the tip end of the crucifix almost grazing the ground, until Sister Robbie Pentecost jogged up beside him and snapped her fingers. Vinnie quickly reeled his rosary back into his palm to safety and joined the rest of the class as they recited the sorrowful mysteries.
Broad Street was lined with onlookers who had taken their lunch hours to watch the procession. For the devout, it was a holy day. The priest would bless them, they would ask the Mother of God to intercede for their needs in heaven, or pray for their own mothers, grateful for their sacrifices on behalf of their families. For everyone else, it was the official kick-off of summer: with night games at Shibe Park cheering on the Phillies, days spent at Willow Grove Amusement Park on thrill rides like Sir Hiram Maxim’s Captive Flying Machine, and enjoying a week of rest during the annual union vacation over the Fourth of July holiday.
Holy water spiked through the air like a shower of diamonds as the priest blessed the crowd. The old-timers genuflected as the priest passed, while the younger people bowed their heads. Calla Borelli pulled her scarf up over her head to cover it as the holy water touched her face in drops like soft rain. She made the sign of the cross, whispering along with the drone of the crowd, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”
Dom Palazzini stood on the corner of Broad and Montrose as the procession passed. As the float turned the corner, he went down on one knee and a pain ripped through his leg. He winced but did not make a sound, though he did make the sign of the cross on his way up to standing. He felt old, everything hurt, even though he had just been to Dr. Schrenker, who told him he wasn’t in terrible shape, but admonished him to smoke less, eat less, and walk more. At sixty years old Dom wasn’t going to start listening to doctors. Defiantly, he pulled a Tiparillo out of his shirt pocket, unwrapped it, and lit it with the swanky monogrammed silver lighter his kids had given him on his last birthday.
A block down the route, Mike Palazzini knelt on the opposite side of Broad Street, feeling the cool drops of holy water on his face as the priest sprinkled the crowd. He made the sign of the cross, stood with ease, and dusted off the knees of his fine wool trousers before replacing his Borsalino fedora on his head. He slanted the brim over one eye before turning down Broad Street.
Mike walked against the crowd as it dispersed, nodding his head when recognized, flashing a bright white smile that matched his thick hair. He was fifty-nine years old and didn’t look or feel a day of it. He was strolling along thinking about the order his wife had placed at Paulie & Gloria Martines’ Cheese Shop, wondering whether Nancy had ordered enough parm and scamorza, when his brother Dom ran into him, almost toppling him. At first Mike didn’t recognize his brother. Mike’s instinct was to apologize and extend his hand, but Dom’s red face looked like a cartoon drawing of a bull galloping at full charge toward a matador. Mike could almost hear the snorting. All that was missing was the nose ring.
“Whoa,” Mike said under his breath. “Excuse me.”
“Hmph,” Dom grunted before moving past him.
“Not going to say anything? Not a hello?” Mike said sarcastically as Dom walked off. Mike noticed Dom’s limp. Too many baba au rhums, Mike thought to himself. His brother overdid the sweets. Dom had gotten heavy.
It had been at least ten years, probably eleven, since Mike had last run into his brother. He couldn’t remember. Dom appeared to be wearing the same suit he wore the day the brothers parted. Looked like the same shoes too. It wasn’t just Dom’s clothes that were old; he moved like the elderly. There was the protruding stomach, of course, but Dom had lost height as his knees had given out, heck, curved out, so his legs were shaped like two half-moons that would never connect to make a full one. But it was Dom’s face etched with anger lines and the deep wrinkles that develop from expressions of chronic annoyance that Mike noticed the most. Dom reveled in anger, it was as if holding a grudge held him together. The passage of time had obviously taught him nothing. After all these years, Dom had not yet learned how to live; he had not figured out that spending money should be more fun than making it. That was too bad. Mike shook his head in disbelief and entered the cheese shop.
Dom fished his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. He figured it had been two or three years since he had seen his brother on the street. He couldn’t remember. Curious for a second look at his banished sibling, Dom turned around to look where Mike had gone. The Martines Cheese Shop. Of course Mike shopped there. Only the best imported cheese brought in aged barrels from Italy. And Mike’s clothes! Only the most expensive lid, suit, and loafers for his fancy kid brother. Where had he gotten a suntan in May? Did he sit out on the sidewalk over on Fitzwater with a tinfoil foldout at high noon? Probably went to Bermuda. Of course Mike looked sharp—his idea of hard work was kibitzing with the customers and taking plenty of time off. As Dom remembered the argument that had severed their relationship, a fresh wave of resentment coursed through his veins.
Mike had been right about one thing—Dom liked being angry. Dom had been right about one thing, too—Mike looked good.
Around the corner, in the parking lot of the school, four members of the sodality of Saint Mary Magdalen de Pazzi, the social club and service organization for the ladies of the church, carefully lifted the statue of the Blessed Lady off the float, handing her off to the school janitor, who carried her in his arms like a bride over the threshold and back into the building.
Elsa stood at the base of the steps, holding a box, collecting the rosebud crowns she had made as the girls, in their pink dresses, filed back into the school for the reception. Elsa wore a simple beige wool coat over a day dress and a Breton hat of navy straw with a beige grosgrain ribbon at the crown, which set off her auburn hair.
“Where’s the cake?” Dom barked as he walked up the sidewalk.
“Inside, Pop. In the cafeteria.”
Dom gripped the metal banister of the stairs and worked his way up the steps.
“Are your knees bothering you?” Elsa asked him.
“The sun is shining, of course they are,” he groused.
“Look for Mabel. She saved you a seat,” Elsa called after him as he went inside.
“Thank you for your hard work, Mrs. Palazzini.” Sister Theresa, a young nun in a crisp black-and-white habit, placed the crown from the statue in the box. “I let Carol keep her crown. I hope you don’t mind.”