Translations:

Gesù = Jesus

Mi dispiace = Sorry

Chapter 6

Ramona Meets Ma

Ramona fixed her hair into a bun and dabbed some concealer over the tiny start of a hickey Jake had marked her collarbone with the other night. She sashayed to her closet and pulled out her work dress, humming as she tried to shake the sleep from her system.

It was seven on Monday morning and the mere mental image of Jake energized her as efficiently as a cup of coffee could. Walking her bike off the driveway, she pedaled down the road, onwards for Jones' Diner with a fluttering heart.

Six hours into her shift, Ramona was picking up her latest table's tab when out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall, dark-haired man saunter in. Her stomach jumped, but she didn't let herself believe it was her boyfriend who'd come for a surprise visit until he was clear in her view.

"Oh, wow! Hello!" she exclaimed, embracing him.

"The food good here?" he asked, kissing her cheek and sliding into a booth.

"Take a look at our menu. I think you'll like the marinated steak with potatoes or a cheeseburger with fries," she said, her internal butterflies swarming. "What do you want to drink?"

"Eh, a coke'll do, toots," he said, and before she moved off, he smacked her backside, causing her to release a giggle.

He was here not only for a meal, but to invite her over to the shack per Mama's demand. He'd been dating her for about three weeks now, so Mama insisted it was high time for her and Ramona to come face to face. In actuality, Mama would be analyzing his girlfriend from head to toe and for every little syllable that slipped out of her yap. And Mama could be judgmental, and certainly and unfortunately wasn't averse to being blatant and downright rude straight to those who found their way under her skin, whether intentionally or not.

The cubes floating in his fizzy pop clinked as the glass was set on the tabletop, knocking him out of his reverie on Mama's general aggressive disposition. "Thanks, 'Mona. I'll have the steak and potatoes with gravy. Oh, and I have a message for ya when ya get back."

Warning her of his overly grouchy mother was avoidable, so he opted to keep the fact secret for now, but was bound to apologize for Mama's remarks when all was said and done in the latter. He'd have to tell Ramona that new people in her life sometimes irritated Mama, and to just forget about her insults, if any were thrown at her.

"It'll be ready in fifteen minutes or so," Ramona said, scooting in beside him. "So what's up?"

"My ma asks that you come over for dinner tomorrow evening. I've told her what a lovely lady ya are, and she's anxious to meet ya."

"Yeah, I can come over. I've been wanting to check out the place since you said it's along the coastline. It's gotta be gorgeous, the interior and exterior."

Jake coughed to suppress the snort that almost flew loose. Sure, the coast could be defined as gorgeous, but the shack itself? He'd used more appealing outhouses.

"The coastline is…atmospheric," he said. "So I'll drive ya over there say 7:30 tomorrow?"

She nodded.

"The fuck's the feather duster?" Jake spat, scavenging their upstairs supply closet.

"We don't have one," Mama hollered from the kitchen.

"Shit, I'll have to go buy one, then," he sighed. "They're pretty cheap, eh?"

"What're ya so concerned for?" Mama walked out of the kitchen, a dripping ladle in her grip. "She the nitpicking type? Gonna critique our abode like she has authority to?" She scowled. "I'll be observing this gal hard and diligently, Jake. If a single remark of hers rubs me wrongly, or even if I hate what she's wearing-"

"Gesù, Ma, don't you care how the place looks for Ramona? Shouldn't it at least be a bit clean?"

"If she is at all worthwhile, she won't mind the dust and cobwebs," Mama snapped, stomping back into the kitchen.

"And the leaks and rats," Francis mumbled.

Jake sighed again. He had faith Ramona wouldn't really mind the dirty home, but for the sake of formality, he wished to present her with a sanitary eating area. If he were to leave this room the stuffy, webbed, musty, dusty mess it presently was, she wasn't bound to be too impressed, and Jake was supposed to be a repairman, for crying out loud. Why would he let his mother's residence go to shambles if he was a practiced man of restoration?

"This dump's gotta be spiffed up at least some," Jake said, removing his jacket to wipe the dust off the tables and clear out all the spider webs in sight and reach. "You're gonna be outta here by seven, eh?"

"No, I'm not going to the strip joint till round eight, why?" Francis asked with furrowed brows.

"If you're moseying about while 'Mona's here, you best behave yourself, eh?" Jake said, glaring solemnly.

"I'll give it my best shot," Francis said halfheartedly.

"You will be respectful to her," Jake said, his glare on the smaller man darkening. "One fuck up, and you're gettin' your nose and nuts smashed in."

"Cool it, would ya? And I thought I was one to get worked up over stupid shit."

Jake pitched his freshly dust-absorbed jacket Francis' way. "Don't you ever use that word in regards to my ragazza!"

"Ya mean stupid?" Francis scoffed.

"QUIET DOWN, DAMMIT!" Mama shouted through the thin walling that separated the kitchen from the foyer where her sons were bickering.

"Mi dispiace, Ma," they said. Jake glanced at the smeared, cracked window nearest to the front door. "We have any cleanin' solution?"

"Have we ever?" Francis snorted. He went to the grimiest window and spat on the glass, using his shirt to scrub a section until it was partially translucent.

Jake blew the dust off of an old, slightly melted cream-colored candle that had been on the closet floor. Fishing out his Zippo from his pocket, he lit it and placed it at the center of a dusted table, a vague vanilla scent wafting in the air shortly thereafter. A semi-welcoming and peaceful ambiance slowly settled in, a rarity when the Fratelli trio were about.

"Is that it?" Ramona asked when the building came into their view from down the dirt road.

"...Yep," Jake said, suddenly self-conscious of the shithole he, Ma, Francis and Sloth had been taking shelter in for the last eight years, this abandoned restaurant being the family's fifth home since moving to the States. He inwardly swore the closer he drove them to the creepy hut.

"Holy cow!" Ramona exclaimed, Jake's heart thumping. "There's a lighthouse back there!"

"What remains of one," Jake chuckled, relieved that her exclamation wasn't on how terrible the building looked.

"What happened to it? Did it just break down with age?"

"Uh, yeah." He pulled into the garage and parked.

"That coast is wonderful. Your mom's very lucky to have it as her backyard. Oh, I should have asked you this by now...What is your mom's name?"

"Agatha, but she goes by 'Mama' for everyone, so you call her that."

Ramona considered that to be kindly maternal of the woman. "She must be motherly towards all, hm?"

"She can be," he lied, sliding the tall garage doors shut and latching them together, then placing a hand on Ramona's shoulder. "Over here."

Ramona studied the structure of the rough wooden home and its sooty windows damaged with thick, spidery cracks and even holes. She assumed this place was quite old, built many decades ago. The railing on the short stairway leading up to the porch was crooked and had dozens of tiny splinters sticking out of it. If she were to lean on it, she'd bet the railing would snap apart in an instant.

The steps creaked forbiddingly as she and Jake climbed them, and a chill slithered down her spine; she couldn't help it, but was irked at herself for getting spooked so easily and in the midst of her boyfriend and his mother. Just because this place resembled a haunted barn, she would force on a brave and guest-appropriate demeanor. She was striving to make a friendly and placid first impression.

She involuntarily tensed when Jake opened the front door and stepped in, signaling for her to follow. He was tensing, too, for fear of how intensely Mama would glare at his girlfriend and whether or not her tone of voice would be harsh when speaking to her. Mama's hostessing could not be seen as reputable by even her worshiping sons.

"Here we are, peach."

In a matter of several seconds, Ramona got the eyeful she was not expecting prior to coming here. Big and stretchy cobwebs were strung from the ceiling and corners, some vivid, others light and thready. The air was stuffy and subtly musty but her nostrils took in an even subtler vanilla fragrance. The candle and its flickering flame on one table gave the vicinity remote charm, but overall her set mood was leery. Interestingly, there were three rectangular dining tables spread out, for when they got plenty of company, she surmised. Four stools were lined against a long counter to the right of the room. A few light bulbs dangled from the ceiling, emitting only enough light to give the large room a dim glow. Also, the floorboards under their feet creaked just as the porch steps did.

"Oh my." She searched fleetingly for something to compliment. "This is...homey."

Jake put his arm around her shoulder. "It was built before I was born. Some renovation is in order, eh?"

She politely shook her head, though she was a bit confused as to why Jake couldn't do some redecorating and repairing himself. She kept mum on the matter, deciding the answer wasn't her business.

"Ma is in the kitchen cooking us supper," Jake said, guiding her to the table with the lit candle.

"Oh, good. I haven't eaten anything since eleven this morning," she said, about to sit on a wooden chair when from the hallway's opening further down the room walked out a man dressed in a gray collared shirt with a vest and tan slacks, his mousy-brown hair cropped and uncombed. A faint mustache and round glasses decorated his face. "Is this your brother, Francis?" she asked Jake, regaining her stance.

"Yeah, how ya doin'?" Francis replied for Jake, holding out a greeting hand.

"Super. Your mom's home is lovely." She shook his hand, his eyes locked on her breasts which were fuller than Lucille's by two cups or so.

"Thanks, but uh, that word doesn't quite match this dump's description," Francis snickered, a scowl burning into him, his brother having noticed where his eyes were.

Jake pinched Francis' thigh beneath the table, out of Ramona's sight. Francis flinched and took hint, averting his gaze then.

"Jake told me you work at Michelangelo's. Their pasta and pizza is to die for," she said, unknowingly terminating the brothers' silent feud.

"Ah, yeah, I've made some delicious dishes," Francis bragged falsely. "Jake here's a big fan of my alfredo."

Jake went rigid and coughed while a brow of Ramona's rose. Jake hadn't gotten around to telling Francis he was to pretend to be a john cleaner, not that Francis in turn would have appreciated the title nonetheless.

"Oh, you're cheffing now? When I first met Jake he told me you do janitorial stuff."

"What?!" Francis snarled, his scowl on Jake stronger and more venomous than the one he got just moments ago. "You told her I scrub shitters?!"

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about!" Ramona said, giving a lighthearted laugh and patting Francis' angrily flexed arm. "Somebody's gotta do that job anyway, and it was you for some time, but hey, now you've leveled up to the warm and yummy smelling kitchen, right?"

Francis snorted, his scowl morphing into a sneer. "I'm gettin' ya back for this," he told Jake, stabbing his index finger into Jake's chest, then stomping off in the direction of the front door, swinging it open and slamming it shut behind him.

"Don't mind him, doll," Jake excused. "He's always been cranky like that. Got PMS like a Barbie doll."

"So he won't be joining us for dinner?"

"No, but I'll be," announced a bold and gravelly-voiced woman from feet away. Ramona looked over to see a squat and hunched-over brunette lady somewhere in her early to mid fifties wearing a baggy smock, a moth-eaten knee-length skirt and a black beret. She lumbered to them gripping a steaming pot with her calloused bare hands, a deep frown on her fallen face and a mean gleam in her narrowed muddy-brown eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Fralo," Ramona said, holding out a hand once the hot pot was placed on their table.

"I go by Mama, girlie," Jake's mother informed grouchily, not taking Ramona's offered hand but putting her own hands on her hips.

"My mistake, ma'am—Mama," Ramona said, awkwardly lowering her hand. She drew her attention to their dinner. "Mm, this smells great. What have you made?"

"Beef stew," Mama said, her gruffness living on in her tone. "The biscuits, bowls and spoons are in the kitchen. I'll go fetch 'em."

While Mama was on temporary leave, Jake rubbed Ramona's shoulder therapeutically, trying to lessen her minor case of unease. Already, Ma was behaving rudely for their guest.

"Eh, she can be cranky, too," Jake whispered as quietly as he possibly could. "Those sort of genes are passed in the Fralo line, I guess."

"It's no problem, Jake," she murmured, dismissively waving her hand.

The bitter crow was back out in a jiffy with a ladle, a basket of biscuits and three stacked bowls with spoons. Ramona wondered why Mama continued to grimace as if a hunk of dung were right under her nose. Were her and her eldest son Francis just peeved that they had to live here in this dilapidated building? Jake claimed he was living elsewhere in an apartment not far away, while Francis stayed here to care for their arthritic mom. Even so, couldn't Jake try to spruce up by replacing the windows or painting the walls a brighter, sunnier color? Ramona was trying not to judge the situation, but her instincts couldn't help but be critical and a little suspicious.

"Bon appétit," Mama huffed, plopping into a chair and scooting in between them.

Ramona waited for Jake and Mama to serve themselves, aiming to remain civil. She'd held this personal rule from her youth where she was concerned with her manners and how courteous she was towards others, even those who weren't so courteous themselves.

"What, ya don't like beef stew?" Mama asked Ramona.

"Oh, no, I do, I was just-"

"Waitin' for one of us to serve ya?" Mama spat. "This ain't a restaurant anymore, and I certainly ain't no waitress!"

"Oh dear, no, M-mama. I was just waiting until you and Jake got your bowls first."

Both Jake and Mama saw that if Ramona were to go any redder she'd shade purple. His earlier fears were coming true, so to try to resolve the bad tension, he said, "Ma, she is a sweet girl. Don't misinterpret her like that."

"Well, alright," Mama said, her expression still not softening. "Why don't ya go ahead and dig in, girlie."

"Th-thank you." Fighting to steady her quivering hand, Ramona grabbed the ladle's handle and scooped a small mound of the stew into her bowl. She then plucked a biscuit from the basket's batch. It was the most rock-solid biscuit she'd ever encountered in her life, but for the life of her, she held her peace. However, Jake did not.

"These are cold and stale, Ma," he complained, knocking his lump of bread on the equally solid tabletop. "And where's the butter?"

"Dip it in your stew, and don't you whine to me," Mama snapped, chomping into her biscuit effortlessly. As she chewed, she scrutinized the much younger and prettier woman's outfit. Ramona's pink sundress wasn't anything provocative; the length stopped just above her knees and less than an inch of cleavage was visible, which couldn't be prevented as the girl did carry bosoms that would definitely feed Mama's grandchildren well.

Jake looked at Ramona, apology in his expression. His upbringing varied from hers by a long shot, and chances were she was seeing that for herself. Mama was terse and crabby even when there was no real need to be.

"You of the middle class?" Mama asked after scarfing down her bread.

Jake sighed but Ramona didn't seem troubled by the question. "Well, I suppose I technically am. My dad is a stockbroker and my mom is a freelance journalist, although I am just waitressing at the moment." She smiled. "I'm no wealthy girl by myself."

"Ah," Mama said, shoveling stew into her mouth and swallowing it straight down. "I can't say the same for us. Ya see, I birthed my sons out in the sticks of Bari, Italy, and I brought 'em up there with my now deceased bastard of a husband. We were piss-poor, girlie. My boy here had to wear Francis' hand-me-downs and he's always been bigger than him, and my youngest Lotney was already needing men's clothes when he was nine he was so damn tall. Their pa worked in a slaughterhouse till his death early in 1960, and I stayed home full-time to support my boys till they were old enough to fly the coop and fend for themselves. Heck, ya weren't even born yet, were ya?"

"No, I was born in March of '65," Ramona said, her ears shocked from the sad speech. "Mama, if you don't mind my asking, how did your husband...die?"

"Suicide," Mama said with a pokerface, not a touch strained. "He had it comin'."

"Oh, Lord, I'm so sorry!" Ramona blurted, her eyes wide. "I - I had no idea."

"Tasty soup, Ma," Jake butted in, to change the inappropriate, grim-for-dinner subject. "Won't you try it, 'Mona?"

"Yes, didn't I tell ya to dig in?" Mama groused. "Do so before it goes cold."

"Oh, right," Ramona said quickly. The conversation was so distracting that her appetite had practically leaped out the window. She gingerly took in a spoonful. Her taste buds were dealing with bland meatiness; this stew could have used extra spice and herbs, but it wasn't foul. To maintain her civility she ate away, and would until there wasn't a drop left.

"We had to reuse bathwater," Mama said in a nonchalant tone, like it was as ordinary as how many families all sip from the same gallon of milk. "I would have my three sons bathe together in the tub once per week, then I would go in and wash up myself after 'em. I had to heat the water on the stove because the pipes' water got barely lukewarm."

Jake's hunger diminished at the memory of bathing with Sloth and Francis in the nude, even when they were into their early teens. Only being restricted to a single bath every seven days just made the experience all the grosser.

Ramona was at a loss for words, so she chose to keep eating and listening.

"Mama, please," Jake pleaded. He couldn't remember if he'd ever been embarrassed before, but he sure was at that moment.

"What? Oh, alright, it is girlie's turn to talk, ain't it?" Mama silenced, getting seconds from the pot. Ramona had a confused look on, unsure of what the hostess meant.

"Cat got your tongue?" Mama muttered when Ramona didn't speak.

"Um, you want to hear about my childhood?"

Mama shrugged. "Why not?"

"Well, I was born here in the city, and so was my younger brother Dylan. We both went to Astoria Elementary and the junior high and highschool of the same name and district…" She thought on what else she could go on, but Mama spoke up.

"You bunch had unlimited hot water and lots of clothes, huh? Never even dreamed of panhandling on the streets or hauling in firewood as the sole source of heat during the winter," Mama ranted, successfully baffling the guest. "Yes, wasn't all your luxury just splendid-"

A distant, inhuman roar echoed into the room with gasp-worthy suddenness. Ramona took a sharp breath and flinched in her seat, Mama and Jake sighing and rolling their eyes.

"You left the TV on, Ma," Jake said, standing up. "Be right back, 'Mona."

"That - that didn't sound like the TV, though," Ramona stammered, staring across the room towards the hallway's opening. "That was awful loud-"

"Haven't ya ever seen King Kong?" Mama slurped up the rest of her stew. "Damned gorilla roars his lungs out plenty."

"Right, right." Ramona relaxed, her eyes drifting downwards to spot a tattoo on Mama's left forearm of a three-dimensional cartoon anchor with a torn bright red cloth looping it, the black word on it reading: SON.

"That's a neat tattoo. So which son is your favorite?" she teased.

Mama looked her grimmest yet, pupils darkening to match her tattoo's shade. "I love all three of 'em equally just as any good mother should," she snarled.

"Of course, Mama. I was just joking around," Ramona defended, so close to hiding under the table to dodge the other woman's bone-chilling glare.

Mama harrumphed. "You got any ink?"

"No."

"Good."

Ramona folded her hands over the tabletop, an excessive sense of discomfiture shrouding any kernel of ease she could've been harboring deep down. There was something quite off about this home and this irritable woman, but as Ramona was falling heavily for Jake, she opted to embrace this ominous picture, faithful the creepy tones of it would come to slide in time.