Now daughter Jessica asked, “Do you go to court much, Karen?”
“God, no,” Karen replied. “In fact, the only times I’ve ever been in a courtroom were to watch Cil testify on some of her cases. Professionally, I have no need to be in a court house.”
Grandma Falco leaned over, speaking in her version of a whisper to Joe’s mother.
“They send the men to court,” she said.
“Mom,” Jennifer said, again with a warning in her tone.
Priscilla spoke up. “This antipasto is awesome,” she said. “Who put this together?”
“The girls did that,” Jennifer said. “They’ve been doing it every Thanksgiving since they were young kids.”
Grandma Rizzo spoke up. “I taught them how to make it,” she said. “But they never use ah-leech. It’s not as good without ah-leech.”
Priscilla noticed Karen’s look of puzzlement.
“Anchovies,” she said softly. “Ah-leech is Brooklyn-Italian slang for anchovies.”
Karen nodded. “Oh,” she said.
“Scommetto che quella le mangierebbe,” Joe’s mother said to Jennifer’s mother in low tones, referring to Priscilla.
Joe shook his head. “No Italian, Mom. It’s rude.”
“I won’t talk,” she said, shrugging and feigning insult.
He nodded. “Good idea, probably.”
Later, with simmering plates of pasta, sausage, meatballs, and pork braciole dominating the table, Priscilla gave a hearty laugh.
“I had no idea the Pilgrims ate this good, Joe,” she said.
“Yeah, well,” Rizzo countered, “the Indians probably brought this stuff. I don’t think the Pilgrims were noted for their cuisine.”
Grandma Falco spoke up. “No, but the Italians are.”
Grandma Rizzo chimed in. “And for their art, and their literature, and science, engineering, medicine-”
Carol broke in. “And their mobsters.”
Grandma Falco shook her head. “Never mind, Carol, we get hit on the head enough with that from television and books. And from the movies. If it was anybody else, there’d be lawsuits, riots, and God knows what else.”
“Okay, Mom,” Jennifer said.
“No,” Grandma Rizzo interjected, “your mother is right, Jennifer. It’s not okay. She’s right to say it.” She glared at Carol. “And you, you be quiet. You bring that up in front of strangers?”
“They ain’t strangers, Ma,” Joe said gently. “Priscilla’s my partner.”
Grandma Rizzo spooned manicotti onto her plate and reached for the gravy boat. “But still not family,” she said. “And don’t say ‘ain’t.’ What are you, a strattone?”
Joe turned to Priscilla and Karen. “The secret to an Italian Thanksgiving dinner is in the pacing,” he said. “One dish of antipasto, two manicottis, a couple of meatballs, a little braciole and sauseech, a few pieces of Italian bread. Then we take a break, watch a little football before the turkey comes out.” He shrugged. “Turkey’s overrated, anyway. Best way to eat turkey is tomorrow, in a semolina hero, with mayo and provolone and roasted peppers.”
“I was around eighteen before I even tried a piece of turkey on Thanksgiving Day,” young Jessica said. “By the time it would come to the table, I was always full.”
Grandma Falco snorted. “Turkey,” she said. “Ameri-cahn.” Then she glanced sheepishly at Karen. “Which is good, too. But… try my braciole. Go ahead, try it. Then you’ll see.” She shook her head. “Turkey,” she repeated, baffled.
“So,” Carol said to Karen, “when did you and Cil meet?”
Karen smiled. “About two and a half years ago.”
Grandma Rizzo muttered. “Oh, ma-don,” she said.
Priscilla smiled down the table toward her. “This manicotti is unbelievable,” she said. “Best I’ve ever had.”
The elderly woman’s face lit up. “Really? You think so?” she said. “Take another piece, don’t listen to my son, you can have more than two, there’s plenty. I made extra.”
“I may just do that, Mrs. Rizzo,” Priscilla said.
Beaming, Grandma Rizzo waved a hand at Priscilla. “Eat, eat, and call me Marie, dear. Please.”
Priscilla broadened her smile. “Like Joe’s oldest? Marie?”
She nodded proudly. “Yes. My granddaughter, the doctor.”
“Not yet, Grandma Rizzo,” Marie said. “Not quite yet.”
Jennifer’s mother leaned forward. “And Jessica is named after me,” she added. “Try the meatballs, Priscilla,” she added. “They’re delicious. I made them.”
LATER, WHILE coffee and dessert were being prepared in the kitchen and Joe dozed in his recliner in the den, Carol, Karen, and Priscilla gathered in the living room.
“It doesn’t make sense, Cil,” Carol said, her face set in anger. “He works with a female cop every day, then he tells me it’s not a job for a woman. And after a lifetime of listening to him preach about equal opportunity… Apparently it was all just bullshit.”
“Carol, your father means well,” Priscilla said. “Believe me, his heart’s in the right place. And to tell you the truth, if I had a kid, girl or boy, I’d probably steer him away, too. It’s not the right choice for a lot of people. It’s complicated. It’s not just about male or female. And what he’s not telling you is, he’s just plain scared. Afraid you’ll get hurt, shot maybe. He doesn’t want to say it. A lot of old-time cops believe saying it out loud is a jinx. Believe me, he’s scared.”
Karen added, “Cil and I may have a child of our own someday, and I wouldn’t want to see him or her become a police officer, either. Your father only has your best interest at heart.”
“And what I want isn’t important?” Carol said.
“Nobody’s even suggestin’ that,” Priscilla said calmly. “That’s just your defensiveness talking. But here’s what I think you should do: hear your father out, weigh what he’s got to say. And keep in mind, he’s tryin’ to do right by you, his motives are good. You know, after all those years on the job, Joe knows what he’s talking about. Hear him out, and you respect his opinion.” She shrugged. “But keep in mind, it’s your life. Ultimately, you gotta decide. And when you do, he’ll go along with it, either way.”
Carol leaned forward. “What about you, Cil? Do you regret having become a cop?”
“Not for one second,” Priscilla said with a smile. “Your old man would ring my neck if he heard me tell you this, but the truth is this is the greatest job on the planet. I love it.”
Priscilla reached out and patted Carol’s knee. “I think I know this guy, Carol,” she said, “in ways you never can, bein’ his daughter and all.”
She leaned back on the couch, pursing her lips. “When all is said and done, if you come on the job, he’ll be there for you. I guarantee it.”
LATER THAT evening, after the guests had gone, Rizzo went down to his basement office, cell phone in hand. He sat behind the desk, taking a Nicorette from his pocket, absentmindedly calculating the remaining hours before morning when he would once again have access to the Impala and its secret glove compartment stash.
Rummaging through the desk, he found his phone book containing the number he needed.
The call was picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?” he heard.
“Hello, Dan, Joe Rizzo here. From the Sixty-second Precinct.”
There was a pause. “Hello, Joe, how are you?” the man said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, Dan, couldn’t be better. How was your Thanksgiving?”
“Great, just great. And yours?”
“Perfect,” Rizzo said.
“Glad to hear it, Joe. So what can I do for you?” Dan asked, a slight tone of resignation barely apparent.
“You’re still with the Daily News, right?” Rizzo asked.