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“I’ll be your best friend,” Connie promises.

“You’re my sister. That’s enough of a load.”

“Move it along, girls!” my father bellows from the top of the stairs. “Aunt Lil can’t be late.”

Connie helps me dress quickly. We run up the stairs and out to the porch. The family cars are lined up in front of our house, a pre-funeral cortege. Dad is helping Aunt Lil into Uncle Louie’s Impala. Diego takes the driver’s seat while Connie helps their girls into Joe and Katie’s minivan, where the children squeeze in and sit on top of one another like a stack of sippy cups.

My mother rolls down the driver’s-side window of her cabriolet and leans out the window. “Giuseppina. Come with me.”

My new best friend, Connie, shoots me a look of support before tucking into the Impala. I get into the passenger seat as my mother starts the car.

My mother wears head-to-toe black: square-framed sunglasses, a black linen coat dress, suede knee boots, and matching gloves. If she wanted to kill someone, she wouldn’t leave a trace in this getup. She frowns as she pulls out into the street behind my dad, who follows Joe. “I don’t like pants at a funeral.”

“I don’t like that Uncle Louie died.”

“Do you have anything to tell me?” She doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. “Babe Bilancia called this morning and said you and Bobby were texting when Louie was in the hospital. I mean, something is going on. He put on a suit for Louie’s wake. Is there something I need to know?”

“It’s none of Babe’s business. I don’t think about Bobby anymore,” I fib. At least not thoughts I can control.

“Aunt Lil wants you to make a few remarks at the funeral Mass.”

“I can’t.”

I’m more concerned I might make it throughwithoutweeping, which would be worse than if I stood up at the lectern and collapsed in a tsunami of tears in front of the congregation. My mother hasn’t noticed I have barely registered an emotional reaction to Uncle Louie’s death. This is the reality of the forgotten, put-upon daughter; the only thing that matters is that I’m not wearing a skirt. As if appearances matter on this dark day.

“Are you sure you can’t get up and say a few words? How about a reading? Or you could do something wordless like bring up the gifts. I really wish you had worn a dress.”

“Well, I didn’t. And you have me confused with someone else, Ma. I can’t do any of it. No readings. No eulogies. No thoughts and no prayers.” My thoughts are a jumble, and my prayers weren’t answered, so I suggest, “Let Joe give the eulogy.”

“All right,” Mom agrees, fanning her fingers in black suede before gripping the steering wheel. “You were never one to take thestage.” Mom nods with understanding. “When you did take it, you were in the chorus. Nothing wrong with that. The glare of the spotlight is not for everyone.”

“I would have done anything for Uncle Louie—wherever he is, he knows.”

When we enter the church, I feel eyes on me; the mourners are looking for my tears, as though I owe them a breakdown. But I can’t cry. I’m angry.

7

The Grief Buffet

The dining roomtable was loaded with food, prepared and dropped off by the ladies of the church Sodality. We’re down to a few platters, some lingering friends, and our family. The topics of conversation were repeated on a loop: the funeral Mass was lovely, the burial windy, and the mini prime rib tea sandwiches from Bilancia Meats were scrumptious.

I clear dishes and carry them to the kitchen. My hands are deep in suds when I hear, “Lemme help you, Jess.” I turn to face Bobby, who smiles at me.

“I’ll take over,” he says.

“You were always great about doing the dishes.” I lift my hands out of the water. Bobby hands me a dish towel.

He bumps me with his hip. “You dry. I’m a better washer.”

“Just like old times!” Babe Bilancia announces from the doorway. “You don’t see me! I’m here for my Tupperware.” She scans the kitchen and finds the square plastic container with a handle. “I’m outta here.” Babe waves goodbye and goes out the kitchen door.

Bobby and I laugh.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “You up for a walk?”

Bobby guides meacross the street to the walking path along Lake Como. The setting sun glints like a brass button on a bolt of lilac flannel as the lights inside the houses on the lake turn on at dusk. The only sound is the trill of a Bonaparte gull as it swoops through the sky and skims onto the surface of the water. The bird is a sleek missile of Calacatta marble in her black-and-white plumage. I take Bobby’s arm as we walk along the water’s edge.

The newly fallen leaves crunch under our feet. When the path along the lake narrows, Bobby guides me to walk in front of him. He is a good communicator when we aren’t looking at each other.