Dreaming August (14 page)

“He told me she was very beautiful,” Augie said. “For all her faults, I must admit that Carmen was as well. I did not give myself time to change my mind. I swore my friend to secrecy, got on a train and went to Brooklyn.

“It was an easy thing to find the restaurant. A very popular place. Meals were served family style, just like at home. The menu was whatever was cooking on the fire that day. My Flora cooked. Her husband, Anthony, played host. The children and, eventually, grandchildren served. Even the old man she called Papa had a job pouring wine he made himself. The moment I walked in the door, I was surrounded by family.

“I am not embarrassed to say I wept, Benedetta. Anthony came to me as if he knew, and in a way he did. I told him I had not felt home in many, many years. He said every
paesan’
who came had the same reaction when they first stepped through the door. A good man, my son-in-law. Kind and generous. My granddaughters brought platters of rabbit and vegetables and roasted potatoes. I ate my daughter’s food and it was like eating my mama’s again. Katherine, she never was a very good cook, but my Flora? A genius in the kitchen. Anthony insisted she come out of the kitchen and meet the new
paesan’
. I saw for myself her great beauty. It was like looking at Carmen on our wedding day, when I knew only what my eyes showed me and not what was to come.”

“Was she really that bad?” Benny asked. “Or do you remember it worse, do you think?”

“She hit me,” Augie said. “All the time. With a wooden spoon. She would lie in wait for me when I came home from work and knock me about the head, my back, my legs. Whatever she could reach as I ran from her. I believe she wanted me to hit her back, to give her reason to leave. She was an angry woman, Carmen was. Perhaps with reason. It was not an easy thing, being a daughter in so poor a village. She was given away, to me, when she was an infant. I wondered, had she been given a choice, if she might have loved me. Once she threw a brick through the window as I was coming up the steps and I knew then she never would, and for all her beauty and good cooking, I could not love a woman who hated me so much no matter how hard I tried. She was pregnant at the time, and Catholics were not permitted to divorce. There was no way out. At least, I believed there wasn’t.”

Augie fell silent. Benny continued walking, hoping he was still with her. She thought she could feel his presence, but whether it was him or his story causing goosebumps to rise, she wasn’t certain until he spoke again. “My daughter kissed both my cheeks before I left. She let me hold her little son, a boy she named Alessandro Augusto after the father who raised her, and the one she had lost. I should have told her then. I should have taken her into my arms and begged her forgiveness. But I was a coward, Benedetta. She had such a happy life. A good life. The man who raised her had been devoted and loving. Who was I to step in and claim what was rightfully his?”

“That was a tremendous sacrifice, Augie,” Benny consoled. “You did a noble thing.”

“Perhaps if I was not also afraid to lose my own happy life in Bitterly, I might have allowed myself to believe this was true at the core. But I kept silent for myself, as much as I did for Flora. I was afraid I would lose Katherine, my children, the kind regards of her family I fought so hard to gain. I feared more than I loved, Benedetta. That is a great sin.”

“Did you ever go back?” Benny asked. “To the restaurant?”

“Many times. Many times. Each time, I was greeted as an old friend. Once, when I went back after two years away, I learned the old man, Sandro, died. I could have told her then. When my in-laws died, I could have told her. When my children were grown, when Katherine died, so many times I could have told her. The more years that passed, the more impossible it became. Then it was too late. And now I am here.”

“Oh, Augie.” Benny wished to turn and hug him, to let him know with more than just words that her heart ached for his past. He was there, in her periphery. Just a blur. And a presence accompanied by the distinct sensation of being watched.

“Was that an, ‘Oh, Augie, of course I will help you,’ or an, ‘Oh, Augie, you miscreant. Why would you ever think you deserved assistance?’ Tell me, Benedetta, please.”

“The first one.”

Benny felt his relief as a physical thing. Breath on her neck. Electrical currents racing over her skin. She rubbed at her arms but the sensation remained.

“You’ve been dead a long time,” she reminded him. “I doubt the restaurant is still there.”

“But it will be remembered,” Augie said. “Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.”

“I know Bensonhurst. Kind of. I mean, I’ve been there. My mother’s family is from there, originally. It’s still very Italian.”

“Ah, perhaps your mother remembers On the Fire
.
Or a relative will. It is a place to—”

“Benny!” Charlie’s shout spun Benny to his voice, and there was Augie. No indistinct blur, but a spectral glow with features aghast and flickering. As if a gigantic hand grabbed her, four fingers clung, stretching, grasping, and losing purchase.

Sound crackled between her ears. Benny wobbled.

Augie was sucked away like a spider in the vacuum.

And silence.

Benny shook her head clear. Part of her saw Charlie coming her way, baby Valentine in his arms. Another part saw Augie swirling in a vortex back to the bottom of the pool.

“Augie?” she whispered. “Are you there? Augie?”

No answer. No presence Benny could even pretend to sense. Charlie was saying something, handing her the baby. Benny spoke words, later hoped she made no promises she wouldn’t keep. The next thing she became fully aware of was riding slowly through the cemetery, taking the circuit twice. And though she tried first Henny’s grave, then Augie’s, he did not reappear.

* * * *

“You’re a fool, August. Worse than a fool.”

“How can I be worse than a fool?”

“You let her see you.”

“I have never been so exhausted.”

“Of course you are. You almost went out like a candle.”

“Is that possible?”

“Sure it is. Seen it happen in my time.”

“What happens, Harriet? To those who go out like candles?”

“Nothing good, Augie. Nothing good.”

She Murmurs Sleep

Benny chewed slowly. Her thoughts, as they had been these last days, on Augie. She went to the cemetery every day after work. Three days, and still no sign of him. Not even a whisper inside her head.

“I didn’t mean to,” she told Harriet one day, while tending her garden. “It was a reflex. If he can’t come back because of me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

No reassuring pat on the shoulder. No presence or glow in her periphery. Just the silence of a cemetery where even ghosts kept to themselves. Her only consolation was, maybe, Harriet might be able to let Augie know she would do whatever she could to help him keep the promise he made to his daughter.

On this task, Benny had more success. A quick internet search showed her On the Fire still existed in Brooklyn. The proprietor was Tina Giadetti. The delicious-looking menu appeared a bit too extensive to still offer only whatever was on the fire, yet the black-and-white portrait embellishing the online menu and every page of the website was of a small, extraordinarily beautiful woman, her cheek pressed to that of a smiling, elderly man.

In the days since Augie’s confession, Benny gathered information about the establishment itself, almost nothing on the people behind it. She had no idea what Flora’s married name was, or if she’d taken her stepfather’s name when her mother remarried. The name Fiore got way too many hits for her marginal internet skills, and calls to the restaurant were answered by staff that, wisely, would give out no personal information. She would have to go to Brooklyn herself, just as Augie had done all those years ago, and see what she could find firsthand.

Benny finished the
pastafazool
in her bowl and set it empty into the sink. Gone was the queasiness, as well as the heartburn. Her appetite lately was the stuff of legend, if one’s goal was to win an eating contest. Her mother had eyed her with wary pleasure as she filled her second bowl.

“Thanks, Ma,” she said. “Delicious, as always.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Clarice barely looked up from the pot she scrubbed. “You going upstairs?”

The hopeful tone in her mother’s voice didn’t escape Benny’s notice. “Not unless you want me to make tea while you finish up.”

“If you want. Sure. I won’t be much longer.”

She hadn’t missed the hopeful tone, and neither did she miss the quickly quelled smile flash on her mother’s lips. Benny put the kettle on, and took two mugs out of the cabinet. Irish breakfast tea for her mother, raspberry for her. Waiting for the water to boil, she leaned against the counter while Clarice tidied the kitchen.

Even as kids in need of chores to earn allowance, she and her brothers never got kitchen duties. This was her mother’s domain, and she guarded it zealously. Filling the dishwasher, wiping down the counters, putting every pot and pan back into the right place was her religion. Aside from the occasional goodie-baking, cooking of any kind was a forbidden sacrilege. Food was her mother’s medium, and she an artist of great skill and exacting temperament. Benny used to think her mother had some kind of disorder. In the course of her adult years, she came to understand it was pride. The kitchen belonged to Clarice Irene Grady, end of story.

The kettle whistled. Clarice wiped the last counter. Benny poured the tea, handed one to her mother and headed out to the swing. Sunset spread its last rays from behind the mountains, the trees. The day had been mild, and the evening was on the chilly side. Benny wished for her hoodie, but was too lazy to go upstairs and get it. Bats swooped at the rising insects. The mosquitos had already gotten her twice. Slapping at the spot, she told her mother, “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be able to stay out. The bugs are ridiculous.”

“I have spray.” Clarice held up the can, her finger on the button. Benny’s hands shot up.

“No. Thanks. I can’t stand the smell.”

“Don’t be silly. Would you rather be bitten? West Nile and all.” Clarice moved closer with the insect repellant.

Benny leapt out of the swing, nearly spilling her tea. “I said no!”

“Goodness, Benny. No need to be sassy about it. Fine. Get bitten.”

Clarice stepped away and doused herself with the repellant. Benny took slow, quiet breaths until her heart ceased its hammering, until she could stop picturing her Cricket with an arm growing out of her thigh, or sprouting a single eye in the center of her forehead, brought about by accidental exposure to bug-death-in-a-can.

“Peter leaves for Cape May tomorrow.” Clarice blew across the top of her mug. “He seems excited.”

“I’m a little jealous. I haven’t been to the beach in years.”

“You should go. It’s not that far of a ride.”

“It is on a scooter.”

Clarice waved at the gnats circling her head. “You can borrow the car whenever you like. Or go with someone else who has a car.”

Benny rolled her eyes. “Or a truck?”

“A truck would work, too. What about Johanna? I imagine she heads down to the Cape every once in a while to check on things. Hitch a ride with her. Or go with Savannah. You could probably both use a break from the farm. You have many friends in this town who would love to see more of you.”

Benny pursed her lips. The kitchen might be her mother’s domain, subtlety was not. “Someone like Dan Greene?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“Ma.”

Clarice’s burst of musical laughter surprised her. “Oh, settle down, Benedetta. You can’t blame me for trying.”

“Why do you even?” Benny grumbled. “This way you get to keep me here forever.”

“Heavens, why would you say such a thing?”

Benny glanced up at her mother. “Isn’t it what you want? To always have me and Peter here?”

Clarice patted Benny’s knee. “Now that is what they call a double-edged sword, Benedetta. Of course I want you always with me. But I want you to be happy. Wherever and with whomever you wish. I mean that with all my heart.”

“Then why are you always going on about Tim moving so far away?”

“Should I not miss my son?”

“I didn’t say that.” Benny slumped back in the swing. “But it makes him feel bad to think he’s hurting you by living in North Carolina.”

Clarice Grady sipped her tea, wiped the rim free of the rose-petal pink lipstick she always wore. “It is a fine line to walk, sweetheart, being a mother. Many fine lines, in fact. You tell me, Benny. What is worse? To have him feel bad that he lives so far away? Or have him feel bad that his mother couldn’t care less he does? I let him know I miss him, but I don’t hound him. If he feels bad, that’s on him, not me. Right or wrong, it’s my line. It’s not so easy. You’ll see. One day.”

Benny opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She watched her mother out of the corner of her eye as she had learned to watch Augie. There was something about looking sideways that gave a perspective she’d never gotten before.

What others think of you is none of your business.

Where had she heard that before? Maybe her mother. Maybe some social media feed. It was nevertheless true. A lifetime of rebellion, six years of complacency—neither had as much to do with Clarice Grady as they did with Benny herself. Thought became thought. She lowered her mug. “Ma?”

“Yes, Benny?”

“I was wondering if you’d go with me someplace.”

“Where to?”

“Brooklyn,” Benny answered. “Didn’t your family live there?”

“Bensonhurst, yes. Oh, my. I haven’t been there in years. I think there might still be cousins in the area. Why do you want to go there?”

Benny considered lying, and settled for half the truth. “It’s for a friend. An older guy I met at the cemetery one day.”

“Oh? Who?”

“Just some old guy.” Benny hedged around the truth. “He doesn’t live in Bitterly. Relatives are buried here, though. He’s looking for someone, his daughter, and has been a long time. The last he was able to track her down was a restaurant in Bensonhurst, but he can’t travel so far. I thought, maybe, I could go into the city and see if I can find her, let her know he’s looking for her.”