After dinner, Vito clears the table and places the dishes in the sink, plugging the drain and running warm water over them with a few drops of detergent. The water soothes his hands as he looks out into the back yard. Though they eat early in winter, the sky is full dark now. The tree trunks are lit only by the light from the window.
When he finishes the dishes, he dries his hands, puts on his reading glasses and sits at the table with the newspaper open in front of him.
Angie is on the phone in their bedroom.
He looks up from the paper. The cabinets, the appliances on the counters. The radio. He feels distant, distracted, touching his palm to his chest where the ache has been. If anyone were to ask, he’d say he doesn’t dwell on things. Angie does, he knows, but that is something he would not tell another soul.
Despite the short winter daylight hours, the days feel long now. Longer than they had been when was working. When he’d been up at four and at the Hunt’s Point market by five and then to their store on Tenth Avenue by 6:00 and opening the doors by 6:30, folding the boxes and stacking the crates, while the women with their mesh bags start to come in, looking over and touching the fruits and vegetables. All fresh this morning he’d tell them.
None of that fills his days anymore. After he sold the business to the Koreans, neither his mind nor his body have adjusted to the change. He still wakes at same time. Doses off soon after dinner. His body aches in ways now it never seemed to before. His mind wanders with nowhere to go.
You should read a book, Angie tells him. Go for a walk.
They had married right after high school. Lived with her parents in Bensonhurst and moved to President Street near Carroll Street Park when they needed more room. That was the best place, he felt. Families strollers, dogs, people who could tell the town your family came from just by looking at your face.
It was familiar. As familiar as this street now is unfamiliar, with three cars in the driveways and closed windows and doors.
It’s been ten years since they moved here, when people were beginning to move out of the city. Because of the schools. The cost of everything. Real estate. Before the bubble popped.
But the move was not what he expected. Not that he’s said a word about it to Angie. He doesn’t know how she feels. Maybe she has friends here. He knew the kids once did.
The uneasy quiet lasts all day now. How could Angie have tolerated this day after day, year after year? After the kids left. With no car. She never learned to drive. Only her cousin Marie in Larchmont to give her a ride when she needed one.
The Koreans gave him two-thirds of what he’d asked for in cash. He still owns the building. They pay him the rest in monthly installments plus rent. It seemed like a good deal. They had no lawyers. He thought that was best. The brokers and the lawyers take too much. And, for what?
Angie is on the phone in the bedroom with her sister Concetta. He hears her consoling voice. Concetta’s Salvatore is gone now a year. He’d left her something but not enough. Maybe it once seemed like enough. And then the COVID. The Espositos, the Santarpias, and the Ingoglias. All gone. Died or moved. Only the church is there for her. Morning and evening mass. Thank God, Concetta always says. That and her women’s group on Wednesday afternoons.
He gets up and moves closer to the bedroom door. Angie’s soft voice, Yes, I know, she says, Maybe it will get better, Con. God willing. You never know.
Hearing her voice, the caring in it, he thinks, She is all I have. All that matters. All he needs.
He should tell her that. And that there is nothing for him here. For them. They should move back to the city. Sell the house. Sublet an apartment. Cobble Hill. Carroll Gardens. Not a big place. Maybe with a back garden. Near Concetta. Maybe stay with her till they find a place. Sell the car. Who needs a car in the city?
They would have Saint Cecilia’s and the park. He would have places to walk. The smell of the bakeries. The pizzerias. Kind faces. People to talk to. The city. The constant sounds of mothers and children. Rhythmic life. He could find work part-time. Somebody could always use someone with experience.
And then of course, he thinks, when the time might come, Concetta would be there for Angie after he’s gone. Not so soon, God willing, but sometime.
Angie is quiet now. He imagines her sitting on the side of the bed. Her fingers touching her forehead. Her eyes closed. Her sister on her mind. Heavy.
He goes to the sink. Finishes the dishes. Scrubs the pots. Dries them all, stacks and arranges them in cabinet. Pats his shirt for his cigarettes. His pants. An old habit.
This time he will ask Angie to help. She has a clear head. She wouldn’t rush into anything. She would have handled the Koreans differently. He knows that now. She’s never said that to him, but he knows. She wouldn’t bring it up. He wishes she would.
Angie comes up behind him, Vito, she says, Concetta told me the city has changed. You wouldn’t recognize Court Street now. She says the Chinese are buying up stores and the brownstones. The prices are crazy, and the Moroccans and Yemenis are moving in. Why can’t they stay on Atlantic Avenue? I told her maybe she should sell her place and move up here and live with us. You know, get out of the city. Wouldn’t that be good?”
Angie wraps her arms around Vito’s shoulders, kisses the back of his neck as she always does, and holds him tight.
The Catfish Review 