Death Do Us Part

VI. Domenico

Domenico

     "These flowers are too beautiful for words Ina. Thank you so much for having them ready so quickly." I hug the short old woman, kneeling down so she can ruffle my hair the way she does every time I visit her shop.
     "Anything for my favorite customer."
     "I'm you're favorite?" I smile. "Really now? You wouldn't be sucking up for an extra tip now would you Ina?"
     "Is it working?" She eyes me over the rim of her round glasses, chuckling and pushing the hundred I try to hand her back into my hands. "Only jokes silly boy. One tip was enough. Get out of here and go see your mama."
     When she has her back turned to begin fulfilling another order, a slip the hundred into her tip jar, grabbing the large bouquet before headed out. "I'll be back soon."
     "Of course you will. I'm the best florist in all of New York State," she beams proudly.
     The sound of the doorbell follows me outside. A woman and her husband taking their dog for a walk pass me, and she eyes the bouquet jealously, a disappointed look aimed at the side of her partners oblivious face. She must think that these flowers are for my wife or girlfriend, but she doesn't know that they aren't for a romantic interest at all, but for the most important woman in my life.
     Dahlias of almost every color shift in my arms as I walk the block to my destination, the craft paper and cellophane keeping the bundle together crinkling as I walk the street, not bothering to wait for the crosswalk signal to tell me it's time to go.
     A man in a Toyota Camry speeds up to the crosswalk, honking at me as I stroll in front of his car on his green light. I flip him off, and for a second, he looks as though he might get out of his car to start something, but he eyes me up and down and thinks better of it, speeding off with another honk once I'm on the sidewalk.
     I'm used to asshole drivers in Manhattan, but in a smaller city like Saratoga Springs, I'd expect people to a little more patient and easy going, but I guess I expected wrong.
     At least once a month, or whenever I need to talk, I make the three hour trip here, always alone. I always stop at Ina's shop for flowers, and then I make my way to Greeneridge where my mom is.
     The cemetery is ghost town today, no pun intended. The only other living presence is the groundskeeper, the electric hum of his lawn mower filling the otherwise quiet air in the distance. I make my way through rows of headstones, to the white marble one at the bottom of the hill.
     The stone has aged some in the last eleven years, but it's in good shape compared to some of the others around it. I pay the staff here handsomely to keep it well maintained because I know that's how my mom would have liked it.
Dahlia Emilia Pacelli
     August 6th, 1974- April 16th, 2012
     Beloved daughter, granddaughter, mother, wife, 
     aunt, and friend.
     I can't bring myself to read the message included on the email epitaph, but I don't have to. Every word is memorized, engrained in my brain since the first time I came here and saw the headstone after she passed.
     Her death didn't seem real to me before that, but I'll never forget that day, just as I'll never forget the day I watched as her casket was lowered into the ground. On my first visit after her funeral, The grass hadn't even grown back yet, and I fell to my knees in the dirt and cried until I couldn't anymore.
     I'm quite a bit more detached from my emotions these days then I was at seventeen, but the woman who gave me life is the only one who deserves any empathy or sadness from me. Unwrapping the flowers from the craft paper, I lay the bundle gentle across the bottom of the stone, setting my jacket out on the floor to sit next to her grave.
     A light breeze whistles through the trees, birds chirping overhead and the nearby fountain bubbling the only sounds that can be heard now that the groundskeeper has stopped mowing. I'm not sure if he stopped because he was done for the day, or to give me some privacy, but I respect the quiet either way.
     "Hey mama," I say, pausing so that she can greet me back, wherever she is. "I know I'm a few days late, and I'm sorry. I feel guilt for not being here when I should have been, but I brought you your favorite flowers, like I always do."
Well that's alright sonny, I can hear her say. Cemeteries are for the living to grieve. You can talk and visit with me from anywhere, any old time.
     "Remember I told you about that girl my dad wanted  me to marry? I proposed today... sort of..."
     An added sense of guilt pains me, because I know that my mother wouldn't have approved of the way I did what I did. It was cold and careless, so far removed from the gentlemen she raised me to be.
     I also feel a gnawing sense of remorse, because even though Giada has become an increasingly annoying thorn in my side in the four days I've known her, she still deserved better than that.
     She's a bratty little monster, but her hatred for me is not unwarranted, and I know without question that she probably envisioned a magical proposal for herself when she was younger, with flower petals, candles and tears. She probably thought she'd be wildly in love, and so ready to marry the love of her life that her yes would have come without a moment of hesitation. Instead, she got me, and every single one of my bad characteristics and inadequacies.
     I knew the ring was on its way, and I knew there was no getting around what I had to do, but even so, I wasn't prepared to ask her to marry me, and probably wouldn't have been had I taken another month to plan.
     Realizing her brother was more than likely lacking in romantic ideas that would take a woman's breath away, my little sister Chaira offered to help me set up the proposal, but I refused the offer, insisting that I'd handle it myself.
     It wasn't originally my intention to forcefully slip the ring onto Giada's dainty little finger, but something about that girl makes my temper go from a two to a ten in half a second. Every other sentence out of her mouth is something sarcastic and rude. The same can be said for me, but I'm the fucking underboss to the Don of New York. She's a spoiled fashion student.
     I had planned to do it more traditionally, even though I practically had to choke out the four words each time I practiced it before meeting her at the airport. I'd fought with myself on the ride there, resolving to be kind and cordial, no matter what bitter words or snide comments she had for me, but that resolve crumbled the second she saw me and fixed me with that glare she seems to reserve just for me.
     "It didn't go quite the way I wanted," I tell my mom, swiping my hand across the back of my neck. It's warm, but not drastically so. I'm still sweating though, hot with shame at the idea that my mother would be so disappointed if she could see what a brute I behaved like. "And that honestly has a lot to do with me," I admit. "You always did say I had my fathers temper."
     The groundskeeper passes me, a bearded man who looks to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. He limps as he walks, grunting low each time he puts his weight down on his right foot. He smiles politely, bowing his head as he trudges past my mothers grave.
     I wait until he is gone again to continue, not wanting him to hear me talking when no one else is here, though I'm sure he sees quite a bit of that working in a Graveyard. I'm sure I'm not the first or last visiting family member trying to speak to a loved ones beyond the grave.
     "She's really beautiful-" I say, meaning those words whole heartedly. She's a pain, but to call her anything less than gorgeous would be a crime. " but I've only known her for four days and she's driving me nuts," I can't help but chuckle, knowing my mom would be amused at a five foot four woman giving me a run for my money. "She's got a whole lot of attitude and fire in her. I think you'd really like her."
     I know she would have. My mother was a strong Italian woman, bound to the life of a Cosa Nostra wife because my father wanted her and she had family to take care of, but she was a feminist at heart.
     "I know that you'd want me to be good to her, regardless of how I feel about getting married, but mama, I'm not ready. A lot has changed since you left... I've changed. I don't think- I'm-" I swallow the thick feeling in my throat. "I'm not meant to be someone's husband, not yet and maybe not ever."
     I'm seventeen all over again, sitting by my mothers bedside while I watched her get weaker and more sick by the day. One day, months before she passed, she called me into her bedroom to talk. She said she had something for me, and I was so sure it was the collection of watches my grandpa had meant for her to give to me when I turned eighteen.
     At this point, her condition was quickly worsening, and we both knew without saying it out loud that she wouldn't make it to see me reach adulthood. She did give me the watches that day, but her real purpose was to give me her wedding ring; a pear shaped Goliath of a ring  that she cherished even long after she'd lost all love for my father.
     I can still feel how heavy it felt in my hand, how she'd closed her fingers around mine, securing it in my palm when I'd tried to give it back to her. Even then, I knew that I'd never be able to stomach seeing it worn by anyone but her, but I promised her anyway that I'd give it to whoever stole my heart.
You'll make such a good father and husband someday, she always told me when I'd stayed home on the weekends so I could look after her. I guess I thought I could nurse her back to full health myself if I took care of her well enough, but she was gone that fall, weeks after her thirty eighth birthday.
     The weight of carrying around the unfulfilled promise I made her has haunted me for years, but I didn't get my half of the deal either. I never found the girl to steal my heart, so it feels careless to bestow one of the things my mother left me on someone it isn't meant for.
     Giada gets my blood pumping in more ways than one, but she's about as close to stealing my heart as she is to becoming a world renowned brain surgeon, so she can't have my mothers ring. She got what my jeweler picked out, and lucky for me, the fucker's got great taste.
     "Your ring is on the other side of the Atlantic, in Italy." I'd been there at our families home just last week. I was so close to keeping my promise, but I couldn't bring myself to go into the room that belonged to my mother to get it. I wasn't ready to walk in and see all of her things just the way she'd left them, but I also knew I would go ballistic if I found that anyone had cleaned and moved her stuff after she passed, because I demanded that no one touch a thing.
     I had this fear that I'd walk in and see the ghost of her sitting at her vanity doing her makeup, or lounging in her king sized canopy bed where she liked to watch old films.
     Irrational I know, but she loved that room. It was her safe space, so if her spirit lurks anywhere, it's there. If it wasn't for my Nonna's  insistence that my mom come back here to Saratoga Springs so she could look after her, she would have spent her remaining days there.
     "She didn't ask for this life either, and she doesn't want to marry me anymore than I want to marry her.  I bet if you were here, you'd want me to give her your ring anyway. You'd tell me to make the best of the situation and try to get to know her, wouldn't you?"
     Of course she would. My mother was nothing short of a saint, a small woman with a fierce heart and the best intentions for everyone who was lucky enough to know and be loved by her.
"I'm sorry I can't keep my promise, but that ring doesn't belong to her. It will always be yours, and if you're up in heaven scolding me for being stubborn and cold, I'll just have to learn to live with it, the same way I had to learn to live without you."
______
     Perhaps I should be even slightly concerned with the ten missed calls from my father, but I needed the quite time on the road to myself, and acknowledging the string of missed calls and texts wouldn't have gotten me back to Manhattan any faster, so I left them all unanswered. I go MIA like this only once in a while, which I don't doubt drives my family to insanity, but even the underboss of New York needs time to himself every once in a while.
     It gets to be too much, being pulled this way and that way, everyone needing things from me, expecting things. At times I feel like an overfilled pressure cooker that's been left on for too long, and the feeling that I could explode at any second terrifies me.
     I don't have the luxury of being able to take an extended vacation whenever I want, and I can't do therapy, for obvious reasons, so I don't let myself feel too bad when I take a little half day to do something that brings me peace.
     I can't say that my usual methods of obtaining peace worked, and it has me more on edge than when I left for Saratoga earlier this afternoon. Though my visits to my mothers gravesite are accompanied by gloom and longing, they usually reset me and give my mind some sense of order, but not today.
     Without thinking on it too hard, I come to the conclusion that my unrelenting sense of unrest might have something to do with the five foot four women who flew back to the West coast with my ring on her finger this morning.
     It was agreed upon that she would be allowed to finish her last semester before the wedding, but when I initially accepted those terms, I hadn't imagined I'd be as bothered by it as I am now.
     Territorial, and fiercely protective of things that are mine, I should have anticipated this, should have expected that her leaving would fill me with a perpetual state of dread.
We haven't grown fond enough of each other that I'll miss her in her absence, but I worry about what she will get up to while she's away. I should be thrilled to have two months of freedom before she comes back and wedding planning kicks into high gear, but I can't stop imagining all of the ways she might cause trouble or embarrass me.
I wouldn't put it past her to purposely get pregnant with another man's baby just to spite me and force us to call off the engagement. The thought alone fills my stomach with a wave of nausea. Is she on birth control? Did she have a romantic interest before she came home for Spring Break? If she did, are they serious?
These are questions I never got to ask because we were too busy trying not to strangle each other. If I was committed to my peace, I'd let these matters float away and accept that this isn't a real love match anyway, so why should I care what she does, or with who.
Pulling my steering wheel around the bend leading to my fathers estate, I do my best to wipe these worries from my mind, and compose myself before I face my family. My dad will want to know all about how the proposal went, and I refuse to appear shook up or bothered by that woman.
It takes a few minutes to get past all of the security checkpoints here, but fortunately I'm not being searched or pressed like a normal guest. Matching red and white Ferrari F8's are parked side by side in the driveway. Dario and Elio. My little sisters Range Rover is parked a few feet from mine, and my uncles car on the other side of hers.
"This fuck has the audacity to give me shit and call it roses," my dads booming voice reaches me through the open kitchen window. Everyone is dining outside on the back patio tonight.
"He tells me over our phone calls that's it's in a prime location with beautiful views. Imagine my fucking surprise when I pull up to a run down dive bar, in the middle of two massive construction sites, in the shittiest part of Staten Island. A waste of time, the whole thing. There's no way I'm putting my money into that piece of-" his rambling cuts off as I close the patio doors behind me.
"Look at this kid, rolling in so casually after being god knows where all day. What happened? Did you lose your fucking phone? Last I checked, you have two of the damn things." He lets his fork clatter onto his plate, folding his jewel laden fingers and fixing me with a hard stare.
"I was busy with personal things. I got the sense from your texts that it wasn't an emergency, so I figured you could manage without me for a day. You do have two other sons after all." I plant my hands roughly on the shoulders of my two younger brothers, clapping their backs with more aggression than necessary.
The twins tense, but don't otherwise acknowledge my presence. They are still mad that I ditched them in Milan on what was supposed to be a pre engagement brothers trip.
I didn't feel much like clubbing and getting lap dances with a forced proposal looming over my head, so I flew solo to Capri with the intention of getting my mothers ring, and then flew home without telling them when I decided I wouldn't give the ring to Giada.
"He's an engaged man," my uncle Emilio defends. "Not long now before all of his free time belongs to his wife. Give him a break fratello."
"Ill break my foot off in his ass if he pulls this shit again," my father warns. It's an empty threat. He can hardly get up and down the stairs these days without his lungs threatening to burst.
"Noted." I kiss the top of Chiara's head, slipping into the seat beside her, across from Dario. She pats my hand, giving me a wary look. I'm sure my siblings and uncle have gotten an earful of my fathers frustrations with me.
The table falls silent, apart from the sounds of ice hitting the walls of my fathers glass as he twirls his drink around. Dario and Elio lean lazily in their seats, exchanging a smirk that makes me want to reach across the table and smash their heads together.
The pricks wear matching shirts, Dario's red, and Elio's white. Their mama used to dress them the same when they were little, but somewhere around middle school, they adopted their signature colors, and they've stuck with it. The thought of them calling each other to coordinate outfits each morning would be hilarious were it not so pathetic.
"So you did it," my father says, setting his drink on the glass coaster near his plate. I figured Davide would call him to tell him the good news.
"Yes," I respond blandly, brushing a stray leaf from the table cloth.
"How did it go?" My sister chimes beside me. All my father wants to know is if I managed to put a ring on Giada's finger, but Chiara is more invested in the specific details. "Did she say yes?"
"She didn't say no," I shrug, pouring myself a glass of red wine, placing a white napkin in my lap.
"I mean... did she have a choice?" Elio says, to which Dario snickers like a grade school kid being told an inappropriate joke. Elio grins, pleased with himself. The glare my father pins them with ends their amusement.
"How did you ask? Did you just say Marry me, or did you say Giada, will you marry me?" I can see the romance and hope alive in my sisters eyes, the back of my neck burning as I realize I have to disappoint her.
"Not exactly, no," I admit. There's no sense in spinning a lie of candlelight and me dropping to one knee. I'm sure my fiancé would be all too happy to tell my family about how unsentimental the proposal was. "I sort of just... I just put the ring on her finger." I feel all eyes on the table on me, my sisters jaw snapping open.
"You did not," Chiara sighs incredulously. Across from us, the twins howl with laughter, laughter so manic that even the most fiery glare from my father couldn't stifle it.
"You cocky bastard! I love it," Dario grins with approval.
"Shut up Dario," Chiara hisses, banging both of her little hands on the table. "It's not funny. I can't believe you did that Dom. That's so barbaric and unromantic."
"What do you want me to do Chiara? We were in the middle of the fucking airport. You want me to roll out the red carpet and orchestra?"
"The airport!" Her eyes bug out of her head. "You proposed at the airport? What the fuck is this, a bad romantic comedy? Why would you think an airport is a suitable place to ask a girl to marry you, or in your idiotic case, shove a diamond on some poor girls hand like you own her!"
"Chiara," my father warns. "Let's relax. What does it matter how he did it as long as it's done? Everything will be fine, and I'm sure it will become a funny story to tell at the wedding."
"I told you that you should have proposed on Easter Sunday, but you didn't listen to me." Chiara points a lilac manicured finger at me.
"That church is beautiful. It would have been an ideal place to propose, but no! None of the men in this family have romantic bone in their body, so I should have known you'd do it in a way that took the least amount of effort. You're such an ass!" She throws her napkin at me.
Her chair topples over behind her as she stomps away, but not before throwing the contents of her wine glass in the twins direction, splattering both of them in deep red liquid. She got the perfect range of motion to hit both of her targets, flicking her wrist with the glass stem clutched between her fingers.
"This is Botegga you little brat!" Elio jumps from his seat, dabbing at the material of his shirt with his napkin like that will do any good. The damage doesn't look so bad on Dario's already red shirt, but Elio looks like he got in a knife fight.
"Yeah? I hope it stains asshole! Laugh at that!" She calls behind her, slamming the double doors so hard that the glass vibrates in the window panes.
"Just like her mother," my uncle Emilio chuckles. "Wine throwing is Martina's signature move. She learned from the best." My father runs his hands over his tired face and stands to leave as well.
"I'm going to bed," he announces, finishing off the rest of his drink with one large gulp. "Your sister is here for two more days before she goes back to school, and I don't want her sulking around and being a terror because she's mad at you. Make that right however you can," he tells me.
I hadn't planned on it, but I suppose I should. I do feel bad for upsetting her, my poor little sister who just wants to believe that love is real. I don't mean to shatter her perceptions of the way marriage and relationships are supposed to work, but the logical, no nonsense part of me wants to prepare her for her own future.
It's unlikely she'll be allowed to marry whoever she wants, unless of course the person of her choosing is someone of use to our family, someone with a great deal of power. My father would never let her tie our name to someone he deems a nobody.
"Alright kids," uncle Emilio grunts as he rises from his chair. "That's my que to get on home before the wife starts calling. You all be good now. Congratulations on the engagement Domenico." He claps a hand on my shoulder.
Elio, still dabbing at his shirt to no avail, let's his eyes trail up to me, another shit eating grin plastered on his face.
"What?" I demand.
"I hate to enjoy this so much bro, but it's nice to see the golden boy sweat for once. You aren't dealing with this engagement well, are you?"
"I'm not sweating anything. I'm dealing with it just fine," I grit my teeth. "Thank you," I mutter to the staff member who sets a steaming plate of pesto pasta in front of me.
"What happened in Milan? You dipped out in the middle of the night without so much as a text," Dario raises an eyebrow.
"Are you my keeper now? I wasn't aware I had to fill you twin pricks in on my every move. I had something to take care of. Mind your business."
"In all seriousness, we just want to make sure you're good, and you have your head on straight," Elio tosses the stained napkin on the table, abandoning his mission to rid his expensive garment of the wine. "We thought you might need one last trip to get all of the debauchery out of your system."
"This situation might not be ideal, but it's not the end of the world. If you don't like your wife, just find a mistress or two, like all of the uncles do. I'll turn the other way," he offers like that's some huge help. "Elio, are you gonna snitch on Dom to his new wife if he has a few whores on the side of his marriage?"
"None of my business brother," Elio shakes his head. "Your secrets are safe with us."
"As much as I'm dying to have this conversation, it's making me lose my appetite. I'm sure the two of you have a strip club that's missing your presence. Why don't you run along?"
They share a quick glance before shrugging and moving to leave. "You know if you keep letting tension build up inside yourself the way you do, you're gonna lose it one day man," Elio tells me, popping a cigarette between his lips. "It's not good to keep all of your feelings and emotions bottled up like that."
"What did you get a therapy license I wasn't aware of? Get off my case."
"Maybe we can plan another boys trip before your fiancé gets back," Dario suggests. "You'll need it. Call us when you decide to stop being a grumpy prick." They disappear, leaving the scent of Dior cologne and cigarette smoke wafting behind them.
The yard is quiet now, nothing but the gentle bubble of the pool filter nearby disturbing me. I like dining alone. It's what I'm used to, and I've never been a huge fan of family dinners with all of the pointless chatter and opinions and squabbling between my siblings. I prefer the solitude and silence.
______
The house is almost deserted after I finish my meal, most the staff having gone to bed after cleaning up the kitchen. The only noise in the house comes from the den down the hall from the living room. My sister sits on the couch, watching some reality show with her legs tucked under her and a big blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
She turns her head only slightly as I enter the room, but doesn't say a word to me, even as I'm lowering myself to sit at the bottom of the L shaped sofa.
"If she hates you and makes your life miserable, it's your fault you know."
"She hated me before she met me Chiara. That ship has sailed. There's nothing I could have done to make her like me."
"As much as I hate to reward your bad behavior with a compliment, you can be really sweet and charming when you want to Dom. You're not a bad guy, no matter how much you try to act like you are. I know you could win her over if you tried a little harder." I groan, laying back on the couch, positioning a decorative pillow under my head. I'm exhausted, and I haven't done anything physically draining today. It's all mental.
"You don't know this girl Chiara. She's a nightmare. It's like it's her sole mission in life to work my nerves and wind me up. Every other sentence out of her mouth is something sarcastic or rude."
"Sounds like you," she snorts. "Assuming you're not exaggerating, you guys might be perfect for each other."
"She's nothing like me," I snap. "And I'm not exaggerating. She's not the sweet little blushing bride you're imagining."
"Well what were you expecting of a girl who's being plucked from her own life to fulfill a treaty between our families? It's totally unfair, and I know it's not your fault either, but you have an opportunity to make the best out of this situation for the both of you. You have the chance to treat her right, and show her that her life with you can be beautiful, that you'll be good to her."
I keep my petty comments confined in my head, but I don't want to be good to her, not after the resistance she's shown. I'm being forced into this marriage just as she is, so why should I have to be the bigger person? Why should I have to battle my way through her unpleasantness. I won't do it.
"I'd be less abrasive if she would. You don't understand how hard it is, how hell bent she is on making me mad. I could get on my hands and knees, promise her the entire world on a silver platter, and she wouldn't budge."
"Have you tried that?" The cool glare I give her doesn't phase her. She's dead serious.
"I'm not going to get on my knees for that woman ever," I state firmly. "She doesn't deserve that from me."
"She didn't deserve your half assed proposal either," she gives me a scowl of her own. "If you came here to prove to me that your actions were justified, you're wasting your breath."
"I'm not here to justify anything. I just wanted to apologize for upsetting you." It makes sense that she's so bothered by my treatment of Giada. It's just as I said, she too is fated to marry someone of my fathers choosing someday, and I'm sure the thought that her future husband might treat her the same as I have my fiancé terrifies her.
     "I'm not expecting you to understand the strange and tense dynamic between my fiancé and I, but I do want you to know that I'd never let anyone treat you the same. God help any man that ever makes you cry."
I'm expecting this to make her smile, but it doesn't. She just gives me a sad stare and shakes her head.
"That's not comforting Domenico. Thank you for always protecting and looking out for me as my big brother, but she's someone's little sister too, someones daughter. Why is it always not my sister, not my daughter, not my mother, but men rarely show the same respect to women they aren't related to. She's going to be your wife soon Dom, and wether that means something to you or not, it means something."
Chiara doesn't give me an opportunity for rebuttal before she's wrapping her blanket around herself. She flips the television off and leaves me sitting in the dark with even more to think about than before.