He still came when Sal called, though he worked as a bodyguard more than anything else. He stood in the shadows, making sure no one approached, making sure Sal could eat and drink and laugh in peace. He drove him around in a big, black car, and everyone knew that Jack Lomento kept Sal safe. Pop didn’t call attention to himself, but the whole neighborhood knew who he was, regardless. That meant they all knew who I was. I was Lament’s kid. The musician. When Mrs. Costiera died and left me her piano, we’d had to bring it in through the balcony with a crane. Nobody ever complained about my playing, though the walls were thin, and I never stopped. Or maybe they were just too afraid of Pop to say anything.
“This is where I was happiest,” my father always said. “Why would I want to leave?”
I left the Sheraton at two and drove to the old neighborhood and spent half an hour trying to find a place to park. Pop’s car was next to the curb right in front of our building, in the same spot it always was when he wasn’t working. Nobody ever took his spot or laid a hand on the car. When a visitor made the mistake of taking the space, he was quickly informed of his mistake and told to move immediately.
“That’s where Lament parks,” people would say. “You gotta move.”
Once, someone made the mistake of ignoring the warning and returned to the spot to find their car gone. It had been moved two blocks over. I suspected Frankie used his tow truck to enforce the unofficial zone, but he never copped to it.
It was Sunday afternoon, and everyone was home. I finally parked at the church, sliding into a space a parishioner had just vacated, and walked home, noting how the people got older but nothing else changed. A few folks called out my name, and I waved and tipped my hat, but quickly walked the other way. I’d been roped into playing the organ for Mass every Sunday growing up. I had to wear an altar boy’s cassock and it would tangle around my legs and obscure the pedals. I liked the big sound and the power of the organ but hated the monotony of the music and the endlessness of the service. Pop never went, but he made sure I did.
I climbed the stairs to my father’s apartment, my eyes on the treads, and wondered how many times I’d made the trip. Up and down, a million times, nothing changing but the size of my feet and the length of my stride.
I thumped on the door—ba dum dum—the same rhythm I always used, and I listened for Pop’s footfalls. It took him a little longer than usual.
I thumped again.
“Is that you, Benito?” I heard him ask.
“It’s me, Pop,” I said through the door.
A clatter of locks and the door swung wide. Pop knew full well all the evils in the world. He always locked the door.
“You’re staying, right?” he asked, looking for my suitcase.
I didn’t want to. But I would. I’d anticipated the argument and decided it wasn’t worth it. My things were in the trunk of my car.
“Yes.”
“Good. Smart.” He clapped me on the shoulder and stepped aside, letting me enter. He kept his back straight, but the skin beneath his blue eyes was dark and thin, hanging in ripples that extended into the wrinkles on his pale cheeks. He’d never been pale before. Even the skin that was covered by his undershirt had always been caramel colored. It was sallow now. In the haze and the half light of the club and the darkness of the street the night before, I hadn’t noticed.
“You’re looking at me funny,” he grunted.
“You don’t look good, Pop,” I said softly.
“Well, as you reminded me last night, you look just like me, so prepare yourself, son. Someday this will be you.” He waved a hand back at himself, trying to be funny, but the words fell flat, jangling between us. My father knew I didn’t want to be like him—he’d always known—and our resemblance was a fact we danced around.
“No, really. How you doin’, Pop?”
“Not bad. Same old. Sit down, kid. I’ll make you something to eat.”
I’d also known he would insist on feeding me, and I didn’t argue. It was what we did, and I was grateful for the ritual.
“It’s freezing in here,” I said. “Too cold to be sitting with that window open.”
“Your mother used to open the windows and sing, and the whole block would kind of quiet down. She had big dreams of singing for thousands. I guess singing for this neighborhood was the closest she ever got. Sometimes she sang that song from Carmen. I told you the story of Carmen. Saddest story in the whole world.”
I didn’t think Carmen’s story was as sad as my mother’s, but I didn’t argue. “I know about Carmen and Mom and the window, Pop,” I said as gently as I could. I wasn’t chiding him. I was letting him know I hadn’t forgotten.
“I know you do. But I been thinking about her a lot. Maybe it’s that girl . . . that Esther. Mom never made it. I want Esther to make it.”
He didn’t look at me when he said her name. He reached for the coffee and poured me a cup.
“Pop—” I started, but he continued with his story.
“I’d sit here”—he pointed his spatula at the table—“nice and quiet, and she’d push the window open and begin. Everyone knew Giuliana Lomento.” Pop always said her name like she was a famous soprano, singing in a real opera, and he never used her maiden name. He always claimed her.
“I can still see her, clear as day, singing right there.” Pop pointed at the tiny fire escape and the drapes that fluttered on either side of the window. They weren’t the same curtains that had been there when Mom was alive. When I was growing up, Pop had had a woman come in once a week and clean up after the two of us and stick a few meals in the icebox. She’d washed the drapes every couple of months. Ironed them too, until they were threadbare. Pop had finally taken them down, but they were folded in his bottom drawer.
I walked over to the window and pushed it shut. He didn’t protest, but he hadn’t lost the faraway look.
“She could do with her voice what you do with your hands. You got her love for music. It just comes out in a different way,” he mused, his eyes on the steaks he was frying.
“I have your hands, Pop,” I said, waggling my fingers to bring him back. He was scaring me a little.
“You do,” he grunted. “They look just like mine. I don’t know how in the hell you fit them on those little keys.”
He set my plate down in front of me, dished up one for himself, and sank into the chair like he’d done a thousand times before. More than that. And I’d done the same for him. Maybe Mom had waited on us way back when, but I didn’t remember it. It was this, me and Pop, breaking bread together in the same old chairs at the same scarred table. I always sat here. He always sat there.
“I met Esther Mine.” I kept my voice measured like it didn’t matter, but I was watching him. He’d brought her up again; the whole thing was a little bizarre.
Pop’s eyes rose to mine, and his hands stilled. I was startled once more by the age in his face.
“You did?” he asked.
“Yeah. I met her. She’s nothing like Mom, Pop. I don’t know what the fixation is.”
“You went back inside Shimmy’s when I left?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.