The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter by Tom Mendicino

Author:Tom Mendicino [Mendicino, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2015-07-16T16:00:00+00:00

The morning storms have swept through the area and a bright sun blazes overhead. The grass is wet from the drenching rain; Michael’s tempted to take off his shoes and socks and walk barefoot across the cemetery lawn. The graveside service was mercifully brief, with only Sal’s daughters, their children, a single resentful son-in-law, and the Gagliano brothers in attendance. The trek to the cemetery was a pitiful convoy of four cars, including the hearse, a mere shadow of the police-escorted processions of fifty vehicles Frankie and Michael remember from their youths. The prayers over, Sal committed to the earth, his youngest daughter says she’s driving Father Jack back to South Philly and reminds Michael she has something of her father’s she wants to give him at the funeral lunch.

“Probably his retirement cuff links from the refinery,” he grumbles when he and his brother are alone.

“I bought a couple of Mass cards in your name,” Frankie says.

“What do I owe you?”

“Ten minutes of your time.”

“Please, Frankie,” Michael pleads. “Don’t ask me to do this!”

“Mikey, there’s no way we’re coming all the way out here and not paying our respects.”

Frankie snatches a fresh floral tribute off Sal Pinto’s grave.

“My godfather’s gonna come back and haunt you for stealing,” Michael warns him with a laugh.

“Fuck Sal Pinto,” Frankie snarls, sounding almost fierce.

“Do you even remember where it is?”

“Of course. Jesus, Mikey, how long has it been since you’ve made a visit?”

Visit is an odd way to describe a pilgrimage to their father’s grave. Visit implies a pleasant conversation over a cocktail or coffee and cookies, catching up on the latest news; it hardly describes staring slack-jawed at a granite tombstone, counting the minutes before you can leave without seeming disrespectful.

“I don’t remember,” he says, knowing perfectly well he hasn’t visited the old man’s grave since Frankie forced him to do it on the first anniversary of Papa’s death.

The long walk to the Gagliano family plot is downhill, which means a trek back up the driveway to pick up the car. He complains that they aren’t driving, but Frankie insists the walk will do them good.

“So, are you going to tell me who did this to your face?” he asks, taking advantage of the forced march to extort a confession. “And don’t lie. Remember, I’m a prosecutor.”

“I told you what happened. I tripped on a curb crossing Christian Street. Fell flat on my face,” Frankie swears.

“Give me one good reason to believe you. I bet your priest buddy can tell me what happened.”

“So what do you think?” Frankie asks, pointing straight ahead. “Impressive, huh?”

“Jesus Christ, Frankie!” he gasps, his mouth agape.

Impressive is one way to describe the garish monument that’s been erected in the center of the Gagliano family plot. A seven-foot weeping marble angel, a strange hybrid of a Biblical messenger and a minor god of classical myth, stands vigil over the graves of Luigi Gagliano and his many wives, brandishing a sword in one hand and a lantern in the other.

“What the fuck!” is all he can say.

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