The PaTriarch

Chapter I

The Wake: June 3, 1950

Mary Petracca looked out the kitchen window.  The basil plants on the fire escape were sprouting.  She touched the dirt and it was dry.  The basil was wilted. Mary took the watering can out from under the sink and filled it.  She watered the six small basil plants and watched them perk up as the water saturated their roots.   At least she could see life in a plant. 

The phone rang.  It was Victor Cinque, the funeral director.

“Mary, it’s me, Victor.  Vito’s ready.”                                                                Mary’s husband, Vito, and Victor had been friends.  They had socialized at the saloon on 107^th Street and at the midtown gym, where Vito had boxed.  Vito’s sudden death had shaken Victor badly.

“The public viewing is from 2:00 to 4:00.  You and the kids can come in at 1:30 for private time.  Can I pick you up?”  he asked sadly.  His voice was raspy.

“No, thank you,” Mary answered,  “I’ll be there with my children.”

“I’ll be outside my office waiting.” 

*  *  *

Marco and Philip had a light lunch of fresh mozzarella and tomatoes.  Tess, the youngest, wept intermittently.  Maggie, eighteen, was detached, as though she weren’t part of the scene.  Mary hadn’t cried since she learned of Vito’s dying the day before.  Cause of death?  The coroner had said “heart attack.”  Vito had been the picture of health, physically fit, a man who, at fifty, was in the prime of his life.

The only manifestation of Mary’s intense depression was that she couldn’t focus on what had happened.  She busied herself with menial tasks, doing some twice, fussing over her plants on the fire escape, washing a pot over and over.  She was in shock.  She had prepared chicken soup with ditalini pasta for the family.  Tess came into the kitchen, composed and wearing the camouflage of makeup.  She sat at the table and sipped the soup.  Maggie couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.  They ate lunch in silence.  Philip, the nineteen year old, struggled to put his tie on.  His hands shook, exposing his inner turmoil.  His older brother, Marco, helped him.  Philip looked even more slender than usual in his black suit.  Marco, the classical violinist of the family, was used to black suits which he wore in his work on the concert stage.                                 

Maggie, the rebel,  was wearing a brown dress with a white collar.

“That’s not an appropriate color, Maggie,”  Mary said. 

 “Your father died,”  Marco snapped, “put the damned black dress on.”                Maggie refused, and Mary intercepted “Let it go, son.”

Marco’s face was red with rage.  Even at this tragic moment she had to buck the traditions?  He wanted to slap her face, but Mary’s hand on his arm calmed him down.

At 1:30, the family left the building on 107^th Street and walked around the block to the funeral parlor on 106^th Street.  Victor was waiting outside and escorted Mary while her children paired off in twos as they approached the casket. 

Mary hyperventilated with suppressed sobs.  Marco urged his mother to let it out.  “Cry, Momma.  Don’t hold it in.”

Mary knelt.  She touched Vito’s cold hands that were holding rosary beads.  “Vito,” she whispered.