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“You needed to pay the taxes on the foreign money.”

“You read my confession. I apologized and now I’m serving my time,” Googs says defensively. “How many times am I gonna apologize? I’m getting bored over here already.”

I lean back in the plastic chair. “Do you get many visitors?”

“My daughter. My son, not so much. He’s in pharmaceuticals and can’t associate with convicted felons, or so he says. Not for nothin’, I said, ‘Gio, you’re selling Ozempic for five hundred and change a pen, who’s the gangster here, me or you?’ ”

“That’s too bad.”

“Kids. That’s another hayride of crazy. I could choose to be miserable, waking up on a foam mattress the thickness of a waffle every morning, but I tell myself, ‘Googs, find something.’ Find one thing that makes it worthwhile to get out of bed in the morning.”

“Have you found it?”

Googs nods. “I get to the cafeteria early before anyone else. I take one of those thick white regulation mugs off the stack. I hit the tap and fill it with fresh, hot coffee. I add cream. Two sugars. I stir. I sit down at a table by the window and sip. By the time I’m done with that cup of coffee, I almost believe I can face anything, conquer any foe, right any wrong. I believe in myself again. That first cup of coffee makes life worth living.”

Googs says goodbye; he’s due to work in the prison candy store. As he walks away, he resembles Frankie Valli on the reunion tour in Vegas. There’s a slight catch in his gait—either his hip or his knee is acting up, or maybe both. But even with the limp, he’s still gotit. Italian men may lose a little something here and there, make mistakes and misjudgments, but no matter what, they retain the swagger.

Once I’m outside the building, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I survey the pale green fields around the prison. The world looks washed-out, faded on the cusp of spring instead of coming to life. I have spent a good deal of time trying to understand Uncle Louie and his business dealings since he died. My uncle wasn’t a crook or a thief, but he wanted to make as much money as he could in the time he had.

Googs may like the feeling of importance that money brought to his life, or maybe he was in desperate need of it. He had so many obligations: ex-wives to take care of and children to support. Imagine the energy it took to juggle the funds going out with what came in. Imagine the energy it took to keep those interested in his finances off his trail. It could not have been easy. He constantly changed his phone number because no sooner had he made contact than he had to give the person the slip. I’ve had the same phone number since I bought my first phone.

But this doesn’t explain Uncle Louie. He made enough money with Cap Marble and Stone to provide a good life for Lil and himself. Why did he need the second company? What value was it going to add to his life? I check my pockets for Uncle Louie’s keys. I drove the Impala over here today. It wasn’t like the old days because he’s gone, but in some small way, I wanted Uncle Louie with me.

I am thinking of my uncle when the sun blasts through the clouds. I see Uncle Louie inside the car in the driver’s seat. He’s waiting for me. I stand before the hood ornament on the Impala like it’s the prow of a ship. I am afraid, and yet I have so many questions for him.

“Why, Uncle Louie? Why the Elegant Gangster?” I ask.

A wind kicks up in the parking lot. Clouds move in overhead and reflect on the windshield, obscuring him. Uncle Louie takes his hands off the steering wheel and speaks to me through the glass. He wears the Fourth Degree sash over his Knights of Columbus tuxedo. The Napoleon hat with the white marabou feather is perched on his head like a bird.

“Ah, Jess, don’t make me say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“I was squirreling. The dough. You know, the money. I was worried about you kids. Philly and Joe were always underwater. Holding on to the house. Something was always breaking over there. You kids were growing up, and you were smart, and how were they gonna send you to school? How were they going to give you the necessities? Your father was a smart enough guy, but it’s never about brains. It just isn’t. He never took chances because he felt he couldn’t. He stayed in insurance all his life because it was a steady paycheck. He never ruffled any feathers, and in this life, you get nowhere unless you agitate. Joe Senior needed to push but he didn’t have the courage. He was afraid he’d lose everything if he made demands. Your father’s dream was having a family, and he got that. Beyond that, Joe Baratta Senior did not aspire. My sister is a good woman, but she can’t get along with people. She was put-upon from the day she was born—she blames everything on the pink crib. She was an Italian American girl, and while she might be a princess, she believed she was a second-class citizen. Nothing worse than royalty that doesn’t trust the crown. My sister moved through life like a porcupine, looking for any reason large or small to give people the needle. Despite all of it, she gave me my nieces and nephew, so I forgave her for everything. I loved you kids like my own and I got a little peek into what it might have been to be a father. A father will do whatever he has to do to take care of his children. You kidsmotivated me to work hard. You gave me a purpose. I owe everything to you.”

I rush to the driver’s-side door and throw it open. I look in the front seat, I check the back seat, but Uncle Louie is gone.

I go to the trunk of the car and open it. His K of C regalia is gone. No sash, no hat, no tuxedo. No sword. He took them to eternity. I snap the trunk shut.

I get in and start the car. I grip the steering wheel. The scent of Woodhue wafts through the car. “I got this, Uncle Louie,” I say aloud.

But do I?

25

The Impala

I pull into AuntLil and Uncle Louie’s garage. The automatic door closes behind me, and the car practically parks itself in position, as though it has sense memory. They say people have souls. Houses have souls. But no one ever says cars have souls, and they do. Uncle Louie’s 2018 Impala was his tabernacle. I press the automatic button to recline the driver’s seat. I lean back and fold my arms across my waist. I look out the pristine windshield. The garage is like a showroom. A worthy home for the Impala. Uncle Louie’s car was his baby, waxed on the outside and polished on the inside.

When Uncle Louie told me stories about his uncles and aunts, he’d bring them to life in unforgettable detail. Sometimes, I’d request a particular story. Tell me the one about Uncle Shooky or Uncle Hap or Aunt Gus, and he’d repeat it. They became so real to me in the telling, I almost thought I had lived them. Once I asked Uncle Louie, “How can I love someone I’ve never met?”

“Wearethem, Jess. We arethem,” Louie would say.

Perspective is the gift you receive when you leave home. The only way to make yourself whole is to understand what shattered you to pieces in the first place.

Angelo taps on the car window.

“Get in,” I say through the glass.