"Good idea, we'll take him some peach preserves," Concetta said, grabbing a cracked and empty jar. "He always loved my peach preserves."
Marlene whipped up a breakfast of eggs and Italian sausage and tried just as hard to whip up a festive "everything's normal" conversation, talking about the twins and Lucy and Butch's campaign. But there was little if any response, and eventually she stopped trying and they ate in silence, until Concetta looked up and asked Mariano if he'd liked the peaches.
Mariano had stopped eating and stared at her for a moment, blinking his eyes rapidly. "I can't take much more of this," he finally replied and stood up from the table. He stalked off into the living room with Marlene running along behind him.
"She's crazy," he said as Marlene helped him into his coat. Part of her purpose in coming over was to give him a break so that he could spend a few hours down at the local VFW post.
"She's not crazy, Pops, she has Alzheimer's, it's a disease…like cancer. She can't help it," Marlene replied.
"If she just tried a little harder…," he said, but his voice trailed off as the tears sprang to his eyes. He hugged Marlene and headed out the door.
Marlene returned to the kitchen, where she found her mother still sitting in her chair, staring at the half-finished meal. "I'm tired," she said. "Would you help me to bed, Josephine?"
Sighing, Marlene did as asked. She was grateful that her mother slept for the next few hours. She used the time to return to the basement, where she located the big cardboard box marked Christmas and brought it upstairs. Inside was the old, plastic, three-piece Christmas tree her parents purchased in the 1960s and had kept ever since as a "family tradition." She set it up, strung it with lights, and hung ornaments. All in all, it was a pretty sad excuse but better than nothing.
When Concetta woke and came into the living room where Marlene was reading a magazine, she clapped her hands at the sight of the tree. "Well, hello, Marlene. I didn't know you were visiting. Mario should have come and told me. But at least he finally set up our tree. Now, I'll have to get to my shopping to have something to put under it. Christmas trees just don't look right without presents."
Happy for any little sign of her mother, Marlene smiled back and patted the couch next to her. "Pops is off talking to his buddies at the VFW, and I figured you could use the rest," she said.
"How many times do they need to hear the same old lies," Concetta replied, and they both laughed.
They were still sitting on the couch laughing as they pored over the photographs in one of the family albums that Concetta had so carefully put together when Mariano returned home. "Hello, my darling," Concetta said when he walked in the door. "How dare you leave me for those boys at the club."
"You go on now," Mariano said, winking at Marlene. "We'll be all right. Come Concetta, my love, say good-bye to our beautiful daughter and we can sit on the couch and watch some golf on the television."
Concetta nodded. "I'll see her to the door, Poppa. You turn on your golf game."
Happy that at least for the moment her mother's ship appeared to have sailed back into the sunlight, Marlene hugged her mother at the door. But just as she was breaking the embrace, Concetta whispered in her ear.
"If I disappear, you'll know I was telling you the truth about that man," she said, then hurried back behind the door.
Marlene went home and was glad that her husband and the boys were still gone. She didn't want to talk to anyone or have any reminders that the picture of a stable family might, in the end, be an illusion. She gathered her painting supplies and headed out before anyone got home.
While in New Mexico, and much to her surprise, she'd discovered that she had a talent for painting, and she also found it meditative and relaxing, especially after a morning like the one she'd just had. But it wasn't until she was in a taxi that she decided to go to Brighton Beach, and from there walked down the boardwalk to Coney Island.
Still thinking about the conversation she'd had with her husband about the attack on Liz Tyler, she'd decided to feature the pier and, off to the side and in the foreground, the Ferris wheel. It took a bit of artistic license because the scene in her painting didn't exist, at least not in the perspective she'd drawn it in. But if I wanted accuracy, she thought, I'd have taken up photography.
She didn't really have the heart for it, though, so when the cold started to make it past her coat, she decided to pack it in and go get a cup of tea at the tearoom she'd passed. As she walked back up the boardwalk, she saw several older couples who reminded her of her parents, only these were speaking to each other in Russian.
For decades now, the Brighton Beach area had been an enclave for the Jewish Russian emigre community. The women and some of the men she saw were dressed as they might have been in St. Petersburg-in furs and leather. The antifur crowd wouldn't have lasted two minutes. There were probably a dozen fur shops along Brighton Beach Avenue that boasted-in signs written in both English and Russian-"Real Russian Furs from Siberia…Best Price, Half-Off Sale."
Marlene had just about reached the teahouse when she passed a bench on which sat a young woman with her face buried in her hands. Then she noticed that the woman was crying.
She started to walk on past-she'd had enough emotional turmoil for one day-but she'd never been good at walking away from someone, especially a woman, in trouble. She turned back to the young woman. "Are you okay?"
When the woman looked up at her, Marlene was struck by the exotic beauty created by the wide Slavic cheekbones below jade eyes that gave her face a feline quality. She was somewhat older-early forties-than Marlene had first thought but was one of those women whose looks would change but not diminish with age.
The woman started to nod her head yes to Marlene's question. But then shook it and began to sob. "Nyet," she cried. "Is not okay for me."
Marlene leaned her easel against the wall behind the bench and sat down next to the other woman. "Can I help?" she asked.
The woman shook her head again. "I am sorry, my English is not so good," she replied. "This is not for your concern. But I thank you for asking…showing me…umm…compassionate. I do not have many friends here, so I thank you for kindness." She wiped at her tears with the sleeve of her coat and held out her gloved hand. "My name is Helena Michalik."
Marlene's mind was telling her to stand up and walk away, but her heart kept her seated and she shook Helena's hand. "Marlene Ciampi. It looked like you could use a friendly face." She glanced up and saw the sign for the St. Petersburg Tea Room. "How about we get out of the cold and have a cup of tea," she said, nodding toward the establishment.
Helena hesitated but then sighed and nodded. "Yes, perhaps, some tea to warm my body and my heart."
When they entered the tearoom, it took a moment for Marlene's eyes to adjust to the dark interior. It wasn't just the dimmed lights, either; everything in the place was dark-the woods, the heavy velvets, and the rich carpets. Even the otherwise colorful Russian Orthodox icons seemed dark in tone. The Russians are a moody people, Marlene thought.
The room was long and narrow, and as her eyes adjusted she noticed two large men in monochrome rumpled sweatsuits watching her and Helena from the back of the room on either side of a door marked Office. Bodyguard types. This place must do a hell of a business to need that much muscle, she thought. Otherwise, the tearoom was empty except for the waitstaff.
Marlene looked back at Helena, who was also watching the two men with a worried look on her face. They frighten her, she thought; then she looked down as Helena took off her coat. "Congratulations! You're going to have a baby."
Helena blushed and smiled as both of her hands went to her belly as if to support the small mound growing there. "Yes," she said. "Finally. We have been trying for years. Now we say it must have been the water in America. A child has sprouted."