“It’s not going to be easy. I don’t always do things right—like tonight, I should have told you I wanted to take your mother on a date. I should have told you that I love her, and that I want us to be a family. But no matter what happens between your mom and me, it won’t change how I feel about you. You’re my daughter, and I love you.”
She launched herself at him, holding him tightly. “I love you, too, Daddy.”
He stroked her hair, and his touch was soft and gentle, and made her feel safe for the first time in her life.
After a long time, he drew back. “Now, I think you have someone else to talk to, don’t you?”
She stared into his green eyes and saw acceptance. It gave her strength, that look in his eyes. She nodded and slowly rose to her feet. At the door she paused and glanced back at him.
He smiled. “You can do it.”
And she could; she knew that now. She turned away from him and left her room, walking down the long hallway toward the living room.
Her mother was standing alongside the fireplace. She was biting her lower lip—the way she always did when she was nervous—and Lina understood at last how much and how often she’d hurt her mother.
Her mother, who’d loved her and kept on loving her no matter what…
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said softly, wishing that she could take it all back. Everything, all the little slights and unkind words and cruelties.
Madelaine gave her a slow, understanding smile. “I love you, baby.”
Lina threw herself in her mother’s waiting arms and clung to her. “I love you, too, Mommy.”
The sheer volume of knickknacks was astounding. Everywhere Angel looked, he saw turkeys and Pilgrims and cornucopias—candleholders, candy dishes, centerpieces. As he stood in front of the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames against his ankles, he stared at the row of decorations along the mantel. A rust-colored, half-painted papier-mâché turkey roosted in the middle of it all, Lina’s illegibly scrawled name across one folded wing.
He moved from item to item, touching each one. He felt as if he were moving backward in time. The only store-bought decorations were candles—everything else, Lina had made in school. From kindergarten there was the turkey. First grade was represented by a Pilgrim’s hat made from a shopping bag; second grade was a glazed clay thumb pot in the shape and color of a pumpkin.
He lingered over that one, his fingers gliding over the slick surface. With each year, he could see the progress in her writing and artistic skill. He tried to imagine her as a five-year-old with long black braids and a toothless smile, erupting through the front door with her newest treasure, but he couldn’t quite picture it, and the inability made him sad. He’d missed so much of her life… so much … and there was no going back. No reclamation of lost years.
Thanksgiving.
He forced himself not to think about the past and instead to look to the future. True, he hadn’t been there to hold her on her first day of life, or to take her hand on the first day of school, but he was here now, and he wasn’t going anywhere. He would be there on her wedding day, and he would walk his first grandchild to school.
He turned back around, thinking that the painful swelling of emotion in his chest should somehow translate into the perfect words of love, but nothing came out.
Instead, he watched them, the women in his life. Madelaine was busy following a recipe for low-fat gravy—and by the scrunched-up expression on her face, it was not going well. Lina was setting the table.
He’d never seen such goings-on for a meal. Ma never worked hard at Thanksgiving, that was for sure. He unearthed a sudden memory of the holiday from his childhood.
“Who wants white meat?” He could hear his mother’s gravelly voice barking through the dingy darkness of the trailer. No one answered. A minute later, she stumbled from the kitchen, carrying two steaming Hungry Man turkey dinners, tossing them down on the brown Formica table. “Yours is on the counter, Angel. I couldn’t carry three.”
She hadn’t made it through the entree before the booze kicked in. Midsentence, she pitched face-first into the mashed potatoes and gravy. He and Francis had laughed until they cried, then carried their tin trays into the living room. Together they sat on the spongy sofa, eating, watching television, and talking.
Brothers…
“Dinner is ready.” Madelaine’s voice brought Angel back to the present. The misty memories of the past faded.
He blinked and looked at the table. Long and oval, it was covered in a white linen tablecloth. It was dotted with flickering candles and layered with platters of food. He moved away from the fireplace and headed toward the dining alcove.
Halfway there, he stopped. Splashes of color marred the perfect white of the tablecloth, and it took him a second to realize what he was seeing. There were three sets of multicolored handprints on the fabric. At one end of the table, on either side of the white and burgundy china place setting, were two navy-blue handprints—and painted carefully alongside was the name and date, Madelaine, 1985. To her left, a tiny red set that read Lina.
At the head of the table, stark and alone, a yellow set. Francis.
Across the table, Lina’s gaze met his. “We … we did these a long time ago. I didn’t think …”
Angel noticed his own place setting beside Madelaine’s. There were no handprints, of course, just pristine white linen on either side of his plate. It made him feel ridiculously out of place.
Finally Madelaine emerged from the kitchen, and she was carrying ajar of green paint. She caught his eye and stopped. He couldn’t help noticing the pallor in her cheeks and the gentle tremble in her lower lip. “It’s a family tradition,” she said softly. She gave him a tender smile. “It’s a little messy.”
He took the paint and brush from her hands and wordlessly painted his palms, then, carefully, he pressed a hand on either side of his plate. When he was done, he stared down at his work, at the whole table, and felt as if he’d finally come home.
“I’ll paint 1996 above your hands after dinner,” Lina said.
Angel went to wash his hands, and when he came back, Madelaine and Lina were both seated. They were both staring at Francis’s handprints at the head of the table, at his empty place.
It hadn’t occurred to Angel how hard this would be for them—this first holiday without Francis. It should have, but it hadn’t. Quietly he took his seat.
Silence settled in around them, leavened the mouthwatering aromas. “You both are lucky,” he began softly. “You have so many memories of him, and you’ll never lose those. Your tradition has brought him to this table with us, and he’ll be here forever, his spirit in those crazy yellow fingerprints.”
He heard Lina sniffle and saw her wipe her eyes.
’There are so many things I need to say to him and to you, but we’ll have to do it one day at a time, one holiday at a time. For now, let’s be thankful that we’re here, together. It’s what Francis would have wanted.”
Madelaine looked up at him, smiling across the table, and reached for his hand. “I guess it’s up to you to carve the turkey.”
He felt the ghost of his brother leaning over him, breathing against his ear as he reached for the knife. A thousand things crowded in his mind, things he wanted to say, needed to say, but all that reached the surface was, “Come on, bro, show me how to cut up this bird.”
He was just getting to his feet when a familiar voice burst inside his head: Start at the breast, Angel. God knows, you should know how to do that.
Angel felt himself starting to laugh. When he looked up, Madelaine and Lina were smiling at him, their tears gone.
And he started to carve the bird.
December settled on Seattle in a creaking, moaning layer of gray and white. Thick clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring all but the hardiest rays of the weak sun. Bare, shivering trees huddled along the roadsides, the wind a whimpering lament through their empty limbs. Evening had just begun to darken the ho
rizon.
Angel felt a fluttering of nerves as he drove up to Madelaine’s house. He’d been here a dozen nights and mornings since he’d first made love to her, but today the place looked different. Frost glazed the brick of the walkway, sparkled on the old brown shingles of the roof. The cold made everything seem glassy and fragile.
He left the engine running and got out of the car. Puffs of smoke rose from the exhaust pipes and disappeared in the chilly air.
He strode up to the front door and stopped, adjusting the fit of his dark blue suit, and then he knocked.
Lina answered the door. She was wearing a green velvet dress with a white lace collar and a big white sash. She looked so beautiful. He felt a swift surge of joy that, after all the missed years and missed moments, he was here, reaching out his hand for this lovely young woman who was his daughter.
“How’s my best girl?” he said.
She smiled. “Fine. Is everything ready?”
He shrugged, feeling his nervousness return. “I hope so. I spoke with Father MacLaren about a million times yesterday. He said my choice in music was … unusual, but he let me do what I wanted.”
This time her smile was a little shaky. “Good.”
He took her hand, gazed into her eyes. “Are you up to this?”
She nodded. Before she could answer, Madelaine came into the living room behind them. Lina stepped back and Angel walked into the house.
He couldn’t believe how breathtakingly gorgeous Madelaine looked. She was wearing an elegant navy blue wool dress and a single strand of pearls. She smoothed the creaseless lines of her dress. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Nothing. Come on, let’s go,” he answered.
For a second she looked scared, and he understood. He reached out her hand and smiled when she took it. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
The three of them left the house and climbed into the warm Mercedes. Wordlessly, each steeped in his or her own thoughts and memories, they drove to the church.
Angel pulled up at the curb and killed the engine. The huge brick church glinted in the last rays of the setting sun. Frost glittered on the mullioned windows and sparkled on the slanted roof.
Together, hand in hand, they walked up the walkway to the two huge open doors of the church. The first thing Angel noticed were the candles—they were everywhere, dozens and dozens of white candles standing on brass and silver candelabras, their dancing golden light sprayed against the walls. Boughs of evergreen were looped along the pews, held together by huge white bows. Noble firs lined the west wall, their green branches draped with glittering golden ribbon and tiny white lights.
And on the altar there was a huge heart-shaped wreath, made of white roses and evergreens held together by golden ribbons. In the center of the wreath was a picture of Francis, his face crinkled in a big smile, his hand lifted in a thumbs-up sign.
He looked so young and naive and full of life…
“Ah, Jesus,” Angel whispered as the grief hit.
“I haven’t seen that picture in years,” Madelaine said quietly beside him. “We took it up at Lake Crescent about three summers ago…”
He heard the throaty catch in her voice and it almost undid him. It took all his willpower to keep the grief at bay. He turned to her, saw the sadness that had settled deep in her eyes, and he tried to smile. He wanted to tell her again how much she meant to him, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice. Not here, not now, when Francis seemed so close and the pain of his death was so frighteningly real….
She touched his cheek, and he started, realizing how long he’d been standing there, saying nothing, just staring into her eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this.” He glanced at the people congregated behind them.
The smile she gave him was steeped in confidence. “Of course you can. It’s not a funeral—it’s a mass to celebrate his life.”
He nodded and closed his eyes for a second, trying to banish the sorrow that kept creeping into his throat. He wanted so badly for this to be a celebration of Francis’s life, but sweet Jesus, it was hard. How could you celebrate when all you wanted to do was crawl into a hole and never come out again?
He followed Lina and Madelaine into the front pew, surprising himself when he genuflected. He thought instantly of Francis—how his big brother would have laughed to see Angel kneeling in the house of the Lord…
Angel clung to that memory. That was the Francis he wanted to remember. Not the priest, but the big brother who’d tried to protect Angel… the man who’d taken care of Madelaine and Lina all those years, and never asked for anything from anyone except that he be allowed to love them…
After what seemed like hours, Father MacLaren strode to the altar, his white robes radiant in the candlelight.
“We come together in this holiday season to remember one of our own. Father Francis Xavier DeMarco, who was one of the shining lights in this parish. You all remember him as a loving, caring, gentle man who was always there for you when you needed him, beside you with a ready smile and a willing heart. We have mourned his passing and will continue to, even as we celebrate that he is now with the God he loved so keenly in life.” He turned, lifted a hand toward Angel. “We have with us Father Francis’s brother, who was unable to attend the funeral, and wishes now to say a few words about his brother.”
Madelaine gave his hand a squeeze.
Angel swallowed. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, just standing. Unsteady on his feet, he walked toward the altar and took his place beside Father MacLaren.
He looked out at the crowd of oval faces and felt suddenly out of place. All these people—strangers—knew Francis better than he did; each one of them probably had better, truer words to say.
The sadness that came was almost overwhelming. Angel bowed his head. After what seemed like hours, he found his voice. “You all know a different Francis than I did,” he started softly, finding his way through the darkness one word at a time. “You speak of a caring, quiet priest, but that’s not who I knew at all. I knew a big brother who always waited to walk me home after football practice, even though he had so many better things to do; I knew a lanky kid with a crooked grin who always believed the best in me, even when I proved him wrong. I knew a boy who stole cookies with me one day, and then made me eat them all because wasting food was a bigger sin than stealing. I knew a young man who held me when I cried and promised that someday he would make things okay….
“But I never gave him the chance. I used to think I was afraid to believe in him; truth is, I was afraid to believe in myself. If I had …” He sighed. “If I had, I wouldn’t be standing here, talking to you about a man I loved but didn’t know…”
He turned and looked at the picture of Francis in the wreath, and suddenly felt a deep longing for his brother. He couldn’t seem to latch on to his memories, couldn’t find one that he could talk about. He wanted to find something that would make them all laugh, take this wrenching moment and make it something different, something that didn’t hurt so badly.
But he didn’t know what to do or say or think, except I miss you, Francis, I’m sorry…
He saw Madelaine rise to her feet amidst the crowd. She turned to the choir director and gave a quick nod. There was a momentary fumbling of cassettes, and then the music hit: “That Old Time Rock ’n’ Roll,” by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band.
The lyrics came at him like an old friend…. that kind of music just soothes your soul…
Music swelled in the church, wildly inappropriate, and it took him back to his childhood, back to the crazy days when he and Francis were together all the time, when all they had was each other. They’d danced to songs like this one, and laughed to them and played them again and again on that old turntable in the living room.
He looked at Madelaine, and saw that she was laughing through her tears. He saw the glassy, faraway look in her eyes and knew that she was remembering Francis. Their Francis. Not the quiet, serious priest, but
the gangly, blond kid with the blue, blue eyes and the smile that seemed to light up a room and a heart as big as tomorrow.
In the space of a heartbeat, he remembered it all, the good times and the bad, the nights when they’d laughed and the mornings they’d cried.
And he couldn’t imagine why he’d ever left all that, or why he’d never come home. At the thought, he felt tears sting his eyes, and within seconds, he couldn’t focus. The glittering church swam before him until it was nothing but a smear of white flowers and flickering candlelight. He knew that he’d remember the smell of this church forever—that from now on, when he smelled evergreens and roses, he would think of his big brother.
I’m home, Franco…He squeezed his eyes shut, unashamed of the tears that coursed down his cheeks. I’m home again, big brother, and I’m not going anywhere this time.
Thoughts crowded his head and he tried to sort them out, tried to come up with the words he should offer to the man he loved so deeply, but in the end he realized it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about words or apologies or memories—it was about the simplicity of love.
Just that. Love. A brother’s love, a father’s love, a family’s love. And love wasn’t like bodies—it didn’t go away, not ever. It stayed there inside of you, tangled in moments and memories.
He opened his eyes slowly, saw Madelaine and Lina through the burning glaze of his tears. I’ll see it through with them, Franco. I swear to God I will.
The music came to a sudden, crashing halt and silence fell again, blanketing the church. Angel looked at the crowd, and realized that they weren’t strangers at all. He saw old Mrs. Costanza from the corner flower shop, and Mr. Tubbs from the garage on Tenth Street, and Mr. Fiorelli, the pharmacist…
He focused on Madelaine and Lina, gave them a trembling, heartfelt smile. “I can’t thank you all enough. When I look around, I see my brother, see glimpses of the man he became. I can see the way he touched all your lives, and I know how much you all must have mattered to him. And most of all, I thank you for loving him, for caring for him, for letting him love you. The world will be a little dimmer place without him, but I know now that he’ll never really be gone … because he’s inside all of us.”