jimmies. Can I have one with
jimmies?”
‘Mrs. D.’ was Adele Dioli, who’d lived in
the house next door for at least thirty-five years. She’d been
their mother’s best friend. Her husband had died six or seven years
ago. Since shortly thereafter, she’d spent a lot of time in the
Pagano house. She’d become sort of a de facto housekeeper, running
errands for their father, cooking meals for him, keeping track of
the actual housekeeping service. To everyone but Carlo Sr., it was
blazingly apparent that Adele wanted something more. The few times
one of the kids had tried to point it out, their father had first
brushed it off and then gotten angry. So everybody now shut up
about it and let her constant attentions become a private sibling
joke.
“We have Mass first. So how about this? We
get a quick bath and get the sticky off you. Then, if you can sit
quietly with your books at Mass, you can have a doughnut with
jimmies when we get home.”
Trey’s face got serious. “Can I have two?”
He held up two fingers.
“For two doughnuts, you will have to be
very, very good during Mass. Like a little mouse. Can you do
that?”
He nodded solemnly, making tiny squeaking
noises. Carlo laughed. God, he loved this boy.
“Good job, pal. Let’s get you in the bath,
then.”
~oOo~
Carlo didn’t attend Mass regularly in
Providence; in fact, he really didn’t at all. His faith was not
lapsed, but it wasn’t exactly emphatically active, either. Still,
being Catholic was as much a part of his identity as being
Italian-American. It was culture to him at least as much as it was
religion. And in Quiet Cove, there wasn’t even a question. Mass on
Sunday. Period. If a Pagano was in the Cove on Sunday morning, then
he or she was sitting in a pew at Christ the King by nine
o’clock.
Almost half the population of the small town
of about five thousand year-long residents was of Italian descent.
The population blossomed in the summer to more than double its
census, but far fewer of the summer people had Italian blood. The
place became positively WASPy by Memorial Day. Still, the pews at
Christ the King were SRO for all four services every Sunday
morning.
The Pagano family took up almost a whole row
near the front, both sides of the aisle: Carlo Sr., Carlo, Trey,
Carmen, John, Rosa—and, genuflecting and dropping his ass at the
end just before Mass began, Luca. Even he wasn’t rebel enough to
blow off Mass. On the other side of the aisle, Uncle Ben and Aunt
Angie—their three daughters were all grown, married, and living
away—and Aunt Betty, Uncle Lorrie, and Nick, Lorrie and Betty’s
only living son. Joey sat next to Nick. Carlo didn’t like that.
Uncle Ben and Uncle Lorrie were the Paganos most people thought
about when they heard the name. Ben, the eldest brother, was the
Don of the family; Lorrie was his right hand. Nick was coming up in
the family, a capo in his own right.
Of all Carlo Sr.’s kids, Joey was the only
one who’d been dazzled by the family infamy. For the others, it was
a weight they’d had to carry. But Joey wanted to live in the world
of The Godfather —or even Goodfellas or The
Sopranos . Those fictional worlds weren’t exactly like the real
version, but that had not dissuaded Joey. Uncle Ben, deferring to
his youngest brother’s desires for his children to stay out of that
life, had always set him away. But if Joey had moved to the other
side of the aisle, maybe something had changed.
Carlo Sr. had scowled down the row when Luca
had sat down, his motorcycle helmet on the pew next to him, but
otherwise, his focus was on the altar. Carlo turned and considered
his father’s profile. He got the impression that he was carefully
trying not to pay attention to where his youngest son had decided
to sit. Not having been home for several weeks, Carlo wasn’t sure
whether this was a new thing or not, but the sense he got was that
everyone was as
jimmies?”
‘Mrs. D.’ was Adele Dioli, who’d lived in
the house next door for at least thirty-five years. She’d been
their mother’s best friend. Her husband had died six or seven years
ago. Since shortly thereafter, she’d spent a lot of time in the
Pagano house. She’d become sort of a de facto housekeeper, running
errands for their father, cooking meals for him, keeping track of
the actual housekeeping service. To everyone but Carlo Sr., it was
blazingly apparent that Adele wanted something more. The few times
one of the kids had tried to point it out, their father had first
brushed it off and then gotten angry. So everybody now shut up
about it and let her constant attentions become a private sibling
joke.
“We have Mass first. So how about this? We
get a quick bath and get the sticky off you. Then, if you can sit
quietly with your books at Mass, you can have a doughnut with
jimmies when we get home.”
Trey’s face got serious. “Can I have two?”
He held up two fingers.
“For two doughnuts, you will have to be
very, very good during Mass. Like a little mouse. Can you do
that?”
He nodded solemnly, making tiny squeaking
noises. Carlo laughed. God, he loved this boy.
“Good job, pal. Let’s get you in the bath,
then.”
~oOo~
Carlo didn’t attend Mass regularly in
Providence; in fact, he really didn’t at all. His faith was not
lapsed, but it wasn’t exactly emphatically active, either. Still,
being Catholic was as much a part of his identity as being
Italian-American. It was culture to him at least as much as it was
religion. And in Quiet Cove, there wasn’t even a question. Mass on
Sunday. Period. If a Pagano was in the Cove on Sunday morning, then
he or she was sitting in a pew at Christ the King by nine
o’clock.
Almost half the population of the small town
of about five thousand year-long residents was of Italian descent.
The population blossomed in the summer to more than double its
census, but far fewer of the summer people had Italian blood. The
place became positively WASPy by Memorial Day. Still, the pews at
Christ the King were SRO for all four services every Sunday
morning.
The Pagano family took up almost a whole row
near the front, both sides of the aisle: Carlo Sr., Carlo, Trey,
Carmen, John, Rosa—and, genuflecting and dropping his ass at the
end just before Mass began, Luca. Even he wasn’t rebel enough to
blow off Mass. On the other side of the aisle, Uncle Ben and Aunt
Angie—their three daughters were all grown, married, and living
away—and Aunt Betty, Uncle Lorrie, and Nick, Lorrie and Betty’s
only living son. Joey sat next to Nick. Carlo didn’t like that.
Uncle Ben and Uncle Lorrie were the Paganos most people thought
about when they heard the name. Ben, the eldest brother, was the
Don of the family; Lorrie was his right hand. Nick was coming up in
the family, a capo in his own right.
Of all Carlo Sr.’s kids, Joey was the only
one who’d been dazzled by the family infamy. For the others, it was
a weight they’d had to carry. But Joey wanted to live in the world
of The Godfather —or even Goodfellas or The
Sopranos . Those fictional worlds weren’t exactly like the real
version, but that had not dissuaded Joey. Uncle Ben, deferring to
his youngest brother’s desires for his children to stay out of that
life, had always set him away. But if Joey had moved to the other
side of the aisle, maybe something had changed.
Carlo Sr. had scowled down the row when Luca
had sat down, his motorcycle helmet on the pew next to him, but
otherwise, his focus was on the altar. Carlo turned and considered
his father’s profile. He got the impression that he was carefully
trying not to pay attention to where his youngest son had decided
to sit. Not having been home for several weeks, Carlo wasn’t sure
whether this was a new thing or not, but the sense he got was that
everyone was as
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