Love and the widow(er)3
I had this one gestating in my head after experiencing the moment of bereavement that happens when you get to the end of the run of a long-standing TV sitcom, and realise there'll never be any more of it, ever again. Ally Barone continues to analyze her family. And other families. The focus alters here to a different family dynamic, but one possibly even more dysfunctional...
3121 Aberdeen Street, Queens, New York:
"DOUG!" Carrie called up the stairs. "Aren't you ready YET!"
She resumed impatient pacing around the living room. She ached for a cigarette, but fought down the temptation. Hell, wasn't it the woman who had the right to be late in gettin' ready to go out?
"Hey, what's the big rush?" Doug demanded from upstairs. "The guy ain't gonna be getting any deader! And last time I checked, he wasn't called Lazarus!"
Carrie took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm. The kids were with Holly, right? And Arthur could be trusted to come over to Lynwood in his own good time. She hoped. He knew the address. She just hoped he didn't try to hit on the widow. Carrie had met the widow. She tried persuasion.
"Doug. We are going to an Italian thing here. Your friend Ray Barone, right? His father died? You gotta be there. And I want some face time with Debra."
Carrie Heffernan and Debra Barone had kinda bonded from their first meeting. A shared suspicion they'd both married idiots was part of the deal. And they both had infuriating elderly relatives. And latterly, children. Nothing bonded quite like adversity. Carrie had learnt a lot about dealing with kids from interacting with Debra. It was vital knowledge. And these days, Debra's eldest was a sitter of choice. Ally was one smart kid. She watched everything and nothing escaped her. She thought before she spoke. She was one cool kid. Carrie liked her.
Carrie took a deep breath.
"Doug. You do realise the Italian thing means we pay respects to the dead, right? And when that's done, there's free food? A sort of eat-as-much-as-you-can, we're Italians, we get offended if you don't, running buffet? View the corpse is your ticket, then it's chow time!"
There was noise above that signified somebody getting a move on. Carrie smiled, contentedly. The free-food gambit always worked with Doug. He was so predictable...
She placidly straightened Doug's tie.
"Ready?" she said. "Let's go."
"All this for an old geezer who rear-ended my car and tried to weasel out of payin' insurance by blamin' it on me." Doug grumbled.
"Who is the father of your friend Ray." Carrie reminded him. "Whatever you think of Frank Barone, a lot of family are hurtin' right now. Least we can do is to show."
She picked up her purse and paused to check out her new black outfit. She suspected Marie Barone would subtly criticise her for showing too much leg and cleavage at her husband's wake. Or conzu. Or whatever the Sicilian word was for it. She shrugged. It didn't bother her. Marie was Marie. And her food was famous. They left for the car together.
"'Sides, Ray Barone paid for the car repairs. Said he'd try to get the money back from his father. That's a decent sorta guy, you know? You got to go to his father's wake, Doug."
"Conzu."
"Whatever."
"I'll drop the bill for car repairs into the casket. He can take it to wherever he's goin' with him. Hey, hope it's fireproof."
"Doug, listen to me. It's not about you."
They quietly bickered throughout the short drive to Lynwood. It was a staple of Heffernan family life.
New York University, Faculty of Sociology and Psychology.
Course: Abnormal Family Dynamics.
Student name: Alexandra Barone.
Freshman Paper in Social Dynamics of the Family. (First notes, dictated to voice-recognition function on computer)
Right, choose suitable music to make it difficult for people to listen at the door. I know my family. I know my parents. I know my grandmother. She was sniffing round up here on the pretence of gathering laundry for washing. That makes me kinda suspicious. Turn it up, loud but not too loud:
All our times have come;
Here, but now they're gone...
Get my paper-writing-for-college-voice on. Talk formal, Ally. Here goes. Southern Italy and Sicily respect the tradition of il conzu. It has many features in common with the Irish wake, an opportunity to mourn the deceased, celebrate his or her life, and have a massive family get-together, with all this entails in terms of long-simmering arguments and feuds emerging. The centerpiece of the conzu is the casket or coffin containing the deceased, who, paradoxically, is guest of honor at their own party. Italian tradition is that the casket should be open, or at least, have a removable upper lid so that the head and shoulders of the deceased are visible for inspection and final regards. I understand in Northern Europe, especially Ireland, the coffin is completely closed throughout. Ireland is also a temperate northern European nation where a wake may go on for up to five days. In Southern Europe it is necessarily shorter, as Italy in particular is a far warmer climate, hot and humid in summer months. This leads to a wake of no longer than two days, for a reason I hope I do not need to have to spell out.
Seasons don't fear the Reaper,
Nor do the snow, the wind or the rain,
(We can be as they are)
Italian immigrants to the United States in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries brought the traditions of Home with them. As New York can also be hot in the summer months, the tradition of the two, or at most three-day, conzu came with them. My grandfather died in early November when the weather is turning from fall to winter. Even so, my grandmother thought a two-day conzu was most prudent. Our neighbors on Fowler Avenue, most of whom are from non-Italian backgrounds and traditions, also made their feelings on the matter clear to Grandma. However, they all came to give their final respects to Frank Barone, even the Parkers, our near-neighbours, and of course to partake in Grandma's hospitality. I noticed none of them expressed an objection to free food and drink.
Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity;
Forty thousand men and women every day;
Another forty thousand come in every day;
(We can be like they are)
Come on, baby,
(Don't fear the reaper)
That choice of music isn't accidental. I got it from Dad's sounds collection. I read one of the guys who performed this song died recently. Instead of "RIP", people started using "DFTR" at his funeral and it's kind of catching on. Internet meme. "Don't Fear The Reaper" - DFTR. It's another way of marking death as a rite of passage. Traditions evolve. And they all work for the people left behind. Here comes the big instrumental break, I'll let it record...
Came the last night of sadness,
And it was clear she couldn't go on;
And the door flew open and a wind appeared;
The candles blew and then disappeared;
The curtains flew and then He appeared
(And she had no fear);
And she ran to him
(Then they started to fly);
They looked backward and said goodby;
She had taken his hand
(she had become as they are)
Come on, baby
(Don't fear the Reaper)
One day they'll play that at funerals. It's kinda comforting. I'd like something like this played at mine. That last guitar break is like a fanfare of trumpets.
319 Fowler Avenue, Lynwood, New York
The principal Barone residence was full of people, largely women belonging to the extended Barone family and friends and acquaintances, not all of them Italian. Wishing he could have found an excuse to get the Hell out of there and onto a nice sane golf course, Ray Barone walked cautiously in. He noted his mother was safely surrounded by women of her own age, who were offering condolences and surreptitiously checking to see their own husbands were still alive, where this applied. He sneaked cautiously past, watching Amy, Ally and others running relays to the kitchen for more and more food. Barone family gatherings had this consolation about them. There was always food. And it was good food.
About to sneak a canole, he yelped. A long lean woman, not unattractive with a large vulture nose, paused in hanging a black drape and grinned at him.
"You?" he yelped.
"Why not me?" Peggy asked, sweetly. "I'm a neighbor. I've got Italian blood. I'm with Peter McDougall."
She indicated a guy who would look, even in the driest weather, like a bedraggled mouse.
"Hi, Ray." Peter said.
"Peter is Amy's brother. Amy is married to your brother. Which means I got a family link to the Barones."
Peggy made as if to return to draping a portrait of Frank in black chintz, then said, reflectively,
"I brought cookies."
Without warning, her right hand swept round as if to slap Ray on the butt. He made a high-pitched yelp and flinched forward by about two feet. Peggy pulled her slap and laughed. Looking around, Ray saw Debra was laughing too. So was Ally. He felt strangely let down.
"Just makin' a point." Peggy said, sweetly, then returned to drape-hanging.
"Hey, dude!"
Ray turned and saw the odd couple who were Doug and Carrie Heffernan coming in. As usual, Carrie stole the show. Doug just looked awkward, like an oversized teenage boy forced into his first suit and tie. Carrie wore mourning black as if she were doing it a great big favor, and it showed. Again, Ray wondered how the heck those two had got together. Then he thought about the awkwardness of his first fumbling approaches to Debra, and realised a fundamental truth: it's never the guy who decides. Women get to choose. And for whatever reason, Debra and Carrie chose us.
"Hey. You!" Ray replied.
Ray and Doug high-fived. Carrie and Debra went through the kiss-kiss, cheek-cheek thing women did.
"Was that woman about to slap you on the butt?" Doug asked, curiously. Ray grimaced.
"Yeah. Long story. Ally's old girlscout leader. We go back a few years. She's kinda family now."
Doug rubbed his hands together.
"That the spread?" he asked. "Hey, your mom sure can cook!"
"Doug..." Carrie said, without turning her head.
"Something to do first." Ray said. "Italian funeral. You know? I'm just hoping it ain't gonna ruin your appetite."
This time it was Debra, without missing a beat in her conversation with Carrie, who said "Ray!" as a gentle warning.
Ray shook his head and led Doug into another room. The centerpiece was a casket held up on trestles. Their rough wood had been hidden under the ever-present black draping. The half-lid coffin was open at one end; the rest was draped in the Italian and American flags.
"Huh." Doug said, in an embarrassed quiet, unsure of what to say. He looked down at the earthly remains of Frank Barone, a testimony to the mortician's art. "Guy looks healthier than he did when he was alive."
"Ah-huh." Ray said, wondering why in this time and place he felt no grief.
"Guy gonna be cremated?" Doug asked. Ray winced slightly.
"Hell, no. Italian funeral. That means the horse-drawn catafalque with the black plumes. Strictly burial."
"Just as well." said Doug. "Else he'd be road-hoggin' the crematorium conveyor, you know? Shuntin' the coffin in front and giving it a fender-bender."
Ray recalled the time his parents' car had smashed through the front wall of his house. Uneasily, he wondered if his father could manage that in his coffin.
"Condolence book's over here. Don't want anyone to suffer more than they have to." Ray said, awkwardly. Doug signed, leaving a space for Carrie to add her name.
"Did you ever get the cash back from your old man? For my car repairs?"
Ray smiled wanly.
"What do you think? Come on, some of the guys are here. There's beer."
"Er... mrs Barone?"
Marie turned to face her neighbor Mr Parker. Sensing discord, several Barone women flanked her. The extended Barone family was full of feuds, simmering resentments, and arguments going back years, even generations. They were Italian, after all. But if threatened by an outsider, every Barone would unite to face down an external threat. With all the mercy of a steel-jawed gin-trap.
Bill Parker gulped slightly. He sensed the support from other Fowler Avenue neighbors fading away. But he was committed.
"May I express my most sincere condolences on your loss... umm... it must be a troubling and a very sad time for you. And the hospitality at this time is marvelous. But... umm..."
"Go on." Marie invited him. Ally Barone, interested, was at her grandmother's side, something tolerated by the older women. Ally would have to do this some day, after all. It was well she knew the traditions now. Which included stonily glaring at a troublesome outsider who wasn't even Italian.
"But...umm... do you really think it's seemly to have all this food in the same room as... well... the mortal remains?"
Marie said nothing, but her eyes displayed a lack of empathy. If anything, they narrowed. Bill Parker carried on digging a hole for himself.
"I mean... the residents' committee... a dead body in the house... human remains... health considerations... we were wondering, er... "
"The funeral will be in two days' time." Marie said, drawing herself upwards and outwards and giving a very good impression of a woman a foot taller. "Until then, Frank stays here."
She turned, indicating the conversation was closed. Parker retreated, having done his best. He'd even solicited Captain Robert Barone concerning the legality of the situation.
"Well, whaddya want me to do?" Robert had replied. "Believe it or not, no laws are being broken. Not unless the body is deliberately abandoned, illegally buried, or neglected. And by "neglect", I mean as in some cases I've seen as a cop where, for instance, the death has not been reported and the relatives have carried on drawing welfare and pensions as if the deceased were still alive. Up to years, in some cases. I'm sure I don't need to draw you a picture? Or I could take you down the precinct and show you scene-of-crime photos, and I warn you they ain't pretty. No? That's the difference, you see? And we in the NYPD do not interfere with accepted cultural and ethnic ceremony. That's a surefire way to provoke grievance, you dig?"
No, the neighbors just had to put up with the last middle finger Frank Barone was gonna give them. And like it. Robert watched Parker's retreating back, uncrossed his fingers, and felt grateful he hadn't had to bring up the mass fight he'd had to break up at a Puerto Rican funeral, where grief and alcohol had escalated into a really big breach of the peace.
And now he was watching the guys from the lodge paying their tribute. Albert was solemnly laying out a US Army sidecap on the closed half of the casket, on the American flag, together with crossed gloves and a pistol holster. He nodded, soberly. That was allowed. Even mandatory. Pa had seen active service in Korea, after all. He was a vet. But something was wrong...
Robert stepped forward, ignored the cry of "Hey!", and lifted the pistol holster, It felt suspiciously heavy...
"Hey, Bobby, that's nearly sacrilege!"
"Grave-robbing!" agreed another Lodger.
"I don't see Pa turning in his grave." Robert grated, with, as they all had to accept, some accuracy. "There's a real pistol in this."
"So? He's entitled. Show some respect!" Albert said, hotly. Then went very quiet as Robert, with intense care, unloaded the gun.
He held out a palm full of glistening shells.
"You guys could have checked the weapon was empty first." Robert said, with icy calm. "What the hell? You guys, strong drink, and a loaded gun? I'm impounding these shells."
There was desultory argument. But Robert was a senior cop, in full dress uniform. He returned the unloaded gun to the holster, replaced it carefully on the coffin, adjusted its set, then stepped back and saluted, with ponderous majesty.
Meanwhile, Doug, Ray and the guys had retreated to the kitchen, to be near to the source of food, drink a few beers, and reminisce about Frank. It was an ideal place to be. The women let them be and tolerated them, and they had first choice of the freshest food. Occasionally Marie popped by to smile warmly and exhort them to eat. This was what funerals should be about, after all.
All conversation stopped in the main room. There was a reverent "Jeez-a-lu!" from a Lodge member. It sounded so like Frank that Debra was startled. Carrie nudged Debra's arm.
"Who the heck is that?" she breathed. Debra shrugged.
"Stefania. Family friend. Might have ended up married to Robert at one point." Debra looked round. "Sorry, Amy." she added, quickly.
"Hey, he married me." Amy said.
"Who's the little guy with her?" Carrie pressed. "Legs up to her ass, with that little guy on her arm, twenty years older, with a really good tailor..." Carrie paused. She was streetwise. "He's Mob, right? Mafia? Local sotto-cappo?"
Debra smiled.
"We all wonder that. He's her dad. Signor Marco Fogagnolo. Hates Robert. Another reason why they broke up."
"A local businessman and man of affairs." said Amy. "A man of respect."
She had learnt a lot about Italian-Americans through Robert. It was vital knowledge. Amy sometimes suspected, like Debra, she'd married into the Mob. People wondered that about the Barone family, headed as it was by a woman who frequently made offers people could not refuse.
"Ah-huh." Carrie nodded. "Just tryin' to make him as one of the Five Families. Law practice I worked for once, did business for the Lucchese. But I'd make that guy as one of the Bonanno. Somethin' about him. Name Fogagnolo rings bells, too."
"You can tell?" Debra asked.
"Hey, I worked for lawyers." Carrie said. "Honey, they're the sixth Mafia family in this city!" She ticked them off on her fingers. "The Columbo. The Genovese. The Bonanno. The Gambino. The Lucchese. And worst and nastiest Family of all, the one that makes the Sicilian Maf look like pussycats, the New York Bar Association. Trust me. I know whereof I speak!"
Debra nudged Carrie urgently.
"Carrie? People around here may be talking Italian. But they can listen in English."
The three women went for more drinks. Carrie was enjoying herself. Funerals could be fun...
"I liked him." Stefania Fogagnolo said, tears streaming down her cheeks. "He was... somehow real. You know?"
Her father had signed the book and was presenting real and sincere sympathy to the widow Barone. If there was anything, any little service, he could perform for the new widow, however large or small, she was to let him know. Ally noted the degree of respect accorded to the grave and unsmiling little man, impeccably dressed and styled in the best Italian fashion. She felt moved to take the glamorous older woman by the hand.
"You are kind, Ally. I thank you."
It can't be easy, being a daughter of a man with unspecified business interests in the Italian community. Mom thinks the reason Stefania is still single is that her father frightens men off. Or warns them off. In his eyes, nobody is good enough. And he would not have liked a policeman as son-in-law. Who'd be drop-dead gorgeous? We all want it, but if you have it, it's a curse. And here's Mom...
"Hey, Stefania. Come and have a drink with us. This is Carrie."
Ally was left child-minding again. She sighed. But it was her expected role here. In an Italian family, everyone has an assigned role...
"I do wish people wouldn't put their drinks on Frank." Marie complained. And on top of the Flag, too. Show some respect and for once in his life, treat him like he was people."
As the house filled, the casket had become one more flat surface to rest glasses on. Ray hastened to reassure his mother.
"Big turn-out, ma." he said. "lots of people must miss Frank."
"Really, dear?" his mother said, sceptically. "Half of them are only here to make sure he's dead. And this is me talking!"
"I'm takin' care of the other things, Ma." Robert said, joining them.
"The other things?" Ray asked. Robert grimaced.
"Practically every guy from the Lodge is claiming Dad owed him money. I been telling them to bring proof to me and not to worry Ma."
Ray frowned. It was horribly, horribly, plausible.
"Does he?"
"What do you think? When I went out lookin' at their cars and noting infractions and violations, some of the guys retracted and said not to worry about it. I said I'd refrain from callin' up Traffic and citin' car numbers, with a view to callin' in unpaid speeding and parking fines."
Robert smiled, mirthlessly.
"I'm a cop, Ray. Cop can't find an issue with a car, any car, that calls in a fine, that cop's not lookin'. But Ma, there're still two or three guys who still insist Dad owed them, even after I kinda hinted I could call in fines and penalties that would wipe out the profit. Or get their cars towed as unfit. Or else have a patrol waitin' at the top of the road to do drink-driving checks. I'd guess they're genuine creditors. Might be good to pay them. Averages out as two hundred dollars a guy."
Marie Barone nodded, imperiously.
"Tell me their names, Robbie. I'll go and have words with their wives."
She paused. Then said, in a grating voice
"Who. Let. Harriet Lichman. In?"
"Mom..." Ray said, despairingly. He knew his mother's paranoia about Harriet Lichman. "There's only one way Harriet Lichman could run away with Dad now. And she couldn't carry the casket on her own."
Marie sighed.
"Let her stay." she said. "so she knows I won in the end and Frank died my husband."
And Marie Barone smiled happily, having got the last word.
And back in Queens, Arthur Spooner laid back on the sofa in the Heffernans' living room, watching TV and placidly waiting for Carrie and Doug to come back. He'd been invited, as one who'd met most of the Barone family at one time or another. He certainly liked the little girl Ally, who made him think fondly of Holly Schupmann, only sharper and brighter. But that godammned Lodge was out in force and he was blackballing them as a matter of pride. Certainly not the other way around. He took his ease, hoping Carrie had thought to fill a takeaway bag for him. He'd heard of the reputation of Barone food. But this was a matter of pride.
"Your father's not here?" Debra Barone asked Carrie Heffernan. Carrie shook her head.
"Ah-huh." she said. "You'd think he would be. Old guys keep score by going to funerals for other old guys who've dropped out. It's a hobby, I guess. And free food. That's an old-guy magnet, usually. We said he'd be welcome, but when he heard the Lodge were gonna be here, he got sulky. Apparently they turned him down as a member. Said he wasn't the right sort and wasn't of sufficiently good character. He kinda takes things like that to heart."
Amy's jaw dropped open in surprise.
"They do refuse people?"
"They blackballed Arthur J. Spooner." Carrie said, simply.
Amy and Debra looked at each other. The idea of the Caribou Lodge considering a potential member was not of sufficient standing in the community and was so deficient of character that not even the other guys in the Lodge wanted him as a member was... horrifying.
Stefania was slow to get the idea, but said, in her careful English, that another uncle had been refused entry to La Cosa Nostra because the members considered him a little crazy in the head. Was this the same thing?
"Pretty much. Yep." Carrie said, cheerfully.
"Let's get a drink." Debra said, firmly. As one, the four women moved towards the amply-stocked bar.
OK, I've been trying to avoid footnotes. Can't do it. Assorted ideas: the names "Umberto Fogagnolo" and "Marco Fogagnolo" appear on historical lists of Mafia members from Sicily and Naples who emigrated to the USA and joined Families in New York. for the producers of ELR, when casting and naming Stefania's slightly sinister scary father, this cannot have been wholly coincidental.
Carrie Heffernan is a streetwise New Yorker and former juvenile delinquent who got streetwise very quickly and continued a life of minor crime by becoming a legal secretary to a law firm. Although not Italian, she'd be very likely to recognise Mob when she sees it.
Any readers familiar with Terry Pratchett's Discworld will spot similarities to Gytha "Nanny" Ogg in my description of Marie Barone, and of the wider Ogg family in my take on the Barones. This is not accidental. Marie is a more genteel, less promiscuous, Gytha Ogg with a magical way with food and a domineering manner over sons and mere daughters-in-law. Debra Barone would find many points of familiarity among women who marry into the Ogg family.
Allen Lanier, keyboards player with the Blue Oyster Cult, did not write the song "Don't Fear The Reaper". He did have to do with arranging and producing it. After his recent death, DFTR, as opposed to RIP, became something of an internet meme. As Ally Barone notes, traditions grow and evolve.
