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“All cried out?” Lisa looks closely at me.

“I haven’t cried yet,” I tell her.

“Open the floodgates. Trust me. You’ll feel better.” She squeezes my hand. “I’m gonna sign the book.” Lisa makes a quick sign of the cross and returns to the foyer.

The Color Corps of the Knights of Columbus, some around Uncle Louie’s age, a few older, march into the room wearing black tuxedos, capes, patent leather dress shoes, red-and-white silk sashes, and Napoléon-era chapeaus with white ostrich plumes. The somber fourth-degree knights move into formation, creating a semicircle behind the casket. Once in place, the men raise their swords like a flank of Roman centurions in the fourth century awaiting the command to attack Avellino.

I’m thinking I might finally weep when my sister elbows me and whispers, “Bobby’s here.”

Bobby towers over the mourners—not a stretch, because most of them are over eighty years old and under five foot three. In this light, Bobby Bilancia holds on to the golden hue of his summer tan. He is crisp and pressed, in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and navy-and-white-striped tie. He respectfully maintains his gaze on the casket while every woman in the room rests her eyes on him.

There was no need for Connie to announce that my ex-husbandwas in the room because his delicious scent did the job for her. This is a man whose natural fragrance is a combination of peppermint and the Como woods after the rain, and while I am certain I made the right decision in leaving him, my single regret is that I had to leave the musk of Bobby Bilancia behind. But I couldn’t take it with me and leave our issues behind; it was an all-or-nothing deal.

I’m glad I wore the three-inch black suede stilettos instead of flats. I’ll think about why it’s important that I look attractive for my ex-husband in a state of grief later. Bobby works his way from Aunt Lil through the line to me, expressing his condolences for our loss. From the looks on the faces of the mourners as their eyes travel from me to Bobby and back again, it’s clear that the stench of my divorce lingers far and wide across the state of New Jersey like the emissions from the glue factory in Newark. They believe I was an idiot to leave him.

“You holding up okay, hon?” Bobby says in my ear as he embraces me, covering my body like a warm blanket.

“Thank you for being here.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“I know,” I whisper. Bobby may not be the best texter, or an avid reader, but he is a huge part of the first third of my life should I live to be ninety. This was the man I promised to love forever, and this is why, in some way, I always will. Bobby Bilancia is incapable of holding a grudge.

“Louie Cap was a good soul,” Bobby says. “He loved you, Jess.”

Bobby lets go of me and gently touches my cheek before kneeling before Uncle Louie’s casket. Bobby’s shoulders are so broad you could serve dinner for eight on his back. He begins to make the sign of the cross with his right hand. He taps his forehead, then his chest. He extends his hand to his far shoulder (it’s a reach), then his near one. He presses his hand to his lips. Bobby’s sign of thecross is technically smooth, like a secret signal detonated by the Giants quarterback as he alerts the offensive line before a play.

My mother narrows her eyes at me and cocks her head toward Bobby, with a look that says her physically proportioned ex-son-in-law is a loss she feels daily. Without saying a word, she makes the point that cutting this good man loose in a world where there are precious few of them was the biggest mistake of my life. I flash to a memory of her dancing with Bobby at our wedding, and it makes me sad, but not sad enough to cry. I’m going to return this handkerchief to my mother in pristine condition.

The Sodality of Saint Rose enters the funeral home single file. They walk slowly up the main aisle, forming a line on either side of the casket. Mom stands and joins them. The sound of purses snapping open and rosary beads rattling is soon replaced by the drone of Hail Marys as we enter the glorious mysteries with Babe Bilancia as prayer leader.

My former mother-in-law is a beauty. Babe is round and well powdered, like a zeppole. In her youth, she was small and curvy like a violin; now her shape is similar to a bass fiddle. She has kept the shoulder-length jet-black hair blown straight in a chin-length bob since I’ve known her. There’s a furtive look in her bright blue eyes, but there always has been, all the way back to Saint Rose School, when she was the homeroom mother and brought thirty-six cupcakes to school with Bobby’s face on them and it wasn’t even his birthday.

At the conclusion of the rosary, Mom, Dad, and Aunt Lil stand. My parents flank Aunt Lil as they follow the Sodality and the Knights of Columbus out of the viewing room, through the foyer, and outside into the parking lot. Soon, I am alone with Uncle Louie.

The scent of roses fills the air, a sign that Saint Padre Pio is hovering over us, or it’s possible that Mr. Cortese replaced the scent plugin the hallway outlet. (I’m going with the saint.) Uncle Louie and I talked about his devotion to Padre Pio on our long drives between jobs. He said,Padre Pio cured everybody that touched him, but he couldn’t save himself. Poor bastard. Suffered terribly. Got the stigmata, you know. He’d be eating a plate of macaroni and spring a leak.We had hoped to visit Padre Pio’s cell in the rectory in Puglia, sit on his cot, and try on his glove. Now I will never do any of those things, because a pilgrimage without Uncle Louie would not be the same; in fact, it wouldn’t even matter.

I kneel before the casket. Uncle Louie is laid out in his best suit and tie, a forest-green pinstripe in silk wool, with a crisp white shirt and purple tie. I straighten the K of C sash and pat his cold hand. I’m glad they put the vest on him. He would not have wanted to go through eternity without the cinch. His hands are folded, a rosary of black beads woven through his fingers. Luckily, Uncle Louie and I had manicures over our lunch hour a couple of days before he went into the hospital, so his nails are short, neat, and buffed. He would be happy about the timing.

“You would be pleased with your wake,” I say quietly. “Big turnout. The guest book is full.”

Memories are the art of emotion, Uncle Louie said when we replaced a floor in Christy Ronca’s home, exactly as it had been installed years earlier by Grandpop Cap. I had attempted to talk her into a modern, fresh design, but she wanted the same floor she always had. Uncle Louie told me not to push.We remember in order to hold on.

“Please help me hold on,” I ask Uncle Louie. I make the sign of the cross and rise from the kneeler.

I grab my purse in the coat room. I’m starving. I’m looking forward to the array of bereavement desserts that await me at home in Mom’s kitchen. When Grammy B died, it took me one week to eatan entire Texas sheet cake by myself, but I did it. After the first slice or two, I didn’t bother to use a plate and fork; I just left the knife in the pan and sliced off a piece here and there until there was nothing left but crumbs and my low self-esteem.

When I arrive home, my parents are already upstairs in bed. Every surface of the kitchen is covered with pans, tins, and Tupperware containers full of desserts. There are trays heaped with lemon bars, seven-layer cookies, and cannoli. There are enough cakes on pedestals to pull an all-night cake walk at the Feast. There are two Bundt cakes soaked in rum that give the kitchen the scent of a dive bar in Freehold.

I search through the bounty until I find Genevieve Belcastro’s Texas sheet cake. I grab a steak knife and cut a hefty square of the chocolate-and-coconut confection. I open the refrigerator and pour myself a glass of milk. The refrigerator is packed with charcuterie platters of capicola, sliced turkey, and roast beef. There are layers of casserole dishes and a gigantic plastic bowl with macaroni salad. Mom is all set for the funeral luncheon after the graveside service. Usually, the sight of all of this would make me cry, but I don’t.

I make my way down to the cellar with the milk and cake. I place the cake on the table, wriggle out of Lisa’s dress, and put on my pajamas. I check my face in the mirror as I brush my teeth. I look awful for someone who has yet to shed a tear.

I climb into bed and balance the laptop on my thighs. I log in to Thera-Me, where I find a response to my plea to stay with Dr. Sharon.

Dear Patient Jess,

We believe the patient is best served by rotation care. Team mental health care is effective and we provide the best onlinetherapy anywhere. Please complete the form for Exercise 2 with Dr. Raymond at your earliest convenience.