No Time to Wave Goodbye (8 page)

Candy recalled Eliza’s face as Candy made her toast, about how her friend, Liza’s godmother Beth, had given her the courage to dare the one thing she was always too frightened to try to be—a mother—and about how Eliza had been just the kid to prove Candy was right to take the dare.

She asked Beth now if she remembered the little speech.

“Sheesh,” Beth finally said. “Guilt much? I want her to have a reception. I just hate it when I’m responsible for people being comfortable.”

Candy said, “How nurturing.” She paused. “Okay. I’ll host it. Or maybe George Karras will have it at his house. He has a big house.”

“Shut up! You’re so bad! It’s a burr under Pat’s saddle that we even invite George to these things,” Beth said. “I actually like having him. I’m used to him.”

“Okay. I’ll pay for everything. Even the cucumber sandwiches. On a civil servant’s salary.”

“You don’t have cucumber sandwiches in January,” Beth said. “You have meatballs and hot bread. Stuff people can spill on clothes they have to take to the dry cleaners.” She got up to fetch Candy more of Rosie’s almond cookies. Candy had probably already eaten a dozen, easy. Though she never gained a pound, to Beth’s knowledge, Candy had never done a day’s exercise in her life that didn’t entail the fitness minimals of the job. Season to season, Beth never knew if she’d have to belt her jeans or use a pliers to zip them, and Candy remained as lean and absent of topography as the flawless skinny skirts and wide-legged slacks she wore, summer and winter. At a moment’s challenge, she could drop and do thirty guy push-ups.

Katharine Hepburn genes, Beth thought. What a waste not to have passed them on—although if she had given birth to a child, there would have been no Eliza. What a waste for someone like this woman not to have someone she adored to warm up her bed each night.
Candy’s life had been an arrow pointed at sheltering children from the kind of people who would make beds cold and terrifying places, where no rest would come.

“Don’t be a snot,” Beth went on, handing Candy the cookie plate. “Gold Hat will do it. You don’t have to pay full price. You’re family. And fine! I give up! We’ll have it here and we’ll pay. Happy now?”

“Why, yes I am,” said Candy in her best Southern belle voice. She had, after all, grown up in Atlanta. She placidly completed her tenth invitation and held it up to show Beth that she’d already written Beth and Pat’s address as the party location. Beth rolled her eyes.

“You take me for granted.”

“Ditto,” Candy said. “You know what? I once thought … I would be writing
Vincent
and Eliza Cappadora.”

Beth set her pen down hard. “Get out! Vincent? You thought Eliza would marry
Vincent?
How could you wish that on your child? He’s not exactly husband material.”

“Don’t go telling me what husband material is, Beth. Vincent’s … an amazing human being. He’s entirely heart.”

“Not to me. Well, a little better now. Maybe.”

“We’ve talked about this for twenty years, Beth. Vincent worships you.”

“Not enough to tell me what his movie was about.”

“Exactly.”

Beth said, “Why did you think she’d marry either of my sons?”

“She’s too good for anyone else.”

“I’ll be damned,” Beth said. “Do you really think this?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Candy said pleasantly. “But back to the reception. What I’ll do is have people to pass the trays around and put the gifts on a table.”

“Off-duty cops you’ll force to do it,” Beth went on. “Wait! You’re changing the subject …”

“That’s what off-duty cops are for,” Candy answered. “That and house-painting. I pay them well.”

They finally agreed that the priest from Beth’s old parish, Father Cleary, would perform Stella’s baptism, before Mass on the second
Sunday in January, but he would come to the Catholic church in Harrington, which the Cappadoras sort of attended. It was called St. Lawrence the Grail, although Ben—who thought Harrington wasn’t really a town but instead a pretentious cluster of one-acre houses on one-acre lots plopped on some of the best farmland on earth—had renamed the church St. Lucrative the Gas Grill. It was tiny compared to the Lutheran church, which was the size of a Sears store. Pat said the Lutheran church confirmed his belief that there was a WASP plot to take over the world.

Eliza and Ben were staying at Beth’s house the night before the christening and the night after as well because Beth’s children hadn’t seen each other since the screening—Vincent had worked overnight so many times before the film was finally released, two weeks late, that he’d literally slept through Christmas Day. As godfather, he was not only coming to Chicago, but staying a few days afterward. Beth couldn’t wait for a chance to photograph all three of them, as well as Eliza and Stella.

“Who are all these people?” Candy was asking, holding up the handwritten list and shaking it.

Beth agreed but asked, “Who would you leave out? The old people? The Mob guys? Janice Dicksen from the movie? She lives on the South Side, right here.”

“You invited all of the people from the movie?” Candy said. Beth shrugged.

“Ben wanted to,” she said.

At that moment, Candy’s pager went off and she answered without preamble, “Where? I am out almost to Rockford. Get Jimmy to come in. NO. Not Emma Witcherly or Ray. Jimmy. And I’ll be there by … later on. By tonight. If you like the father anyhow…. He is, huh? Well, isn’t that fucking spectacular.” Candy snapped her phone closed. She wrote out two more invitations in silence. Then she said to Beth, “It’s freezing in here. Do you have a sweater I can use?”

Beth trotted up the stairs and brought back a thick nubbly cardigan. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Do you want to tell me?”

“No,” Candy said and went back to addressing the invitations.

“Okay,” Beth agreed, as she always did when Candy threw up the shield of her professional life.

“It’s a baby. Murdered and thrown in St. Michael Reservoir like a piece of garbage. Dad’s an old friend of ours, nice druggie snitch. But he changed his ways recently. Discovering the glories of crystal meth.”

“St. Michael Reservoir is the first place …”

“We looked for Ben. Uh-huh.” Candy covered her face, then glanced up at Beth. “Can you finish these? I have to go. I have to.” Beth stood up and tried to hug Candy, who shrugged her off with a repentant touch on Beth’s wrist. “I can’t bear it. These things drive me nuts. They did since Ben’s case. And it was worse when I got Eliza. Now, with Stella …”

“Keep the sweater. It’s cold today.”

“That’s how they found her. The creek froze.”

Three weeks later, Beth’s job was to pick up the Madonna and child (and Ben, too) the night before the ceremony. That meant also picking up about eighty bundles of silver-and-pink-wrapped packages—the trunk overflowed, and there was barely room for Stella in her car seat in the back of Beth’s Range Rover. She was glad, for the first time, that she had the bigger car, although Pat had needed to pry the keys of her eight-year-old Toyota out of her hands and give them to Kerry.

“Presents just keep coming, Auntie!” Eliza said, with childish glee. “Some of them are from people who aren’t even going to be there. They don’t even get food!”

It was at times like these that Beth was reminded that once, Eliza used to line up with thirty other children, by order of height, to receive a single blue cotton shirt and pants, which, after she turned five, she was expected to wash weekly by hand. Candy used to find her daughter in the laundry room, patiently watching the clothes spin in the machine. She worried that Eliza was autistic until Eliza learned enough English to explain that she was trying to look behind the washer at “the lady making it go.” In Bolivia, a baby at the orphanage was only another mouth to feed, not a cause for pretty presents.

Beth settled Eliza and the exquisitely chuckling four-month-old Stella. Buckling himself into the front seat, Ben promptly fell asleep. Stella had slept like an angel for six weeks then decided that the nighttime world was beguiling. Because Eliza wanted to start taking a few classes beginning next week, they’d begun to supplement the breast with the bottle, so Ben could feed her, which he did—every hour. When he came home from work at one or two a.m., Stella was all smiles.

Tonight, Beth thought greedily, she would do that—the cuddling, the changing, the feeding, carrying Stella in to Eliza only once. Ostensibly, it was to let the young couple have a night to rest. But Beth had not wakened to a baby in so long…. Did mothers who’d had the full complement of years with their children yearn in this way? she wondered. Was it even more poignant? From nowhere, at the wedding, Candy had said that she felt like she had only just gotten Eliza and was already losing her. Beth said nothing then but felt this same thing exactly. The years of her motherhood had been cored by the loss of Ben.

“Sam can’t wait to see Vincent,” Eliza whispered as, next to her, Stella’s lashes brushed her cheeks. “They’ve talked on the phone three times today already. Whenever Miss Eats Every Minute isn’t awake, he keeps saying, ‘Do you know how well the picture is doing? Do you know it won the star at the Toronto Film Festival?’ Sam is so proud.” Beth smiled, realizing how it still jarred her to realize that Liza had never known her husband by his given name. Eliza went on, “Auntie? Have you heard … any more about the movie? Like today?”

“Just that Vincent said last night they’re getting booked into real theaters all over the place. And I’ll have all three of my kids together tonight.” She paused and grinned into the rearview mirror. “I mean all
four
of my kids … and my grandchild. Under the same roof for two whole nights.”

“You’re lucky my mom let me leave! When I take Stella outside, Mom wants to wrap her up like we’re going dog-sledding in Alaska….”

“It’s probably colder here than in Alaska right now,” Beth said.

“But Auntie, she’s so … overprotective…. She’s always saying, ‘Now, Eliza, I don’t know. She’s barely four months old. Taking her out
of her environment …’ Actually, what my mom would have said is, I think it’s goddamn foolish taking a baby out in this goddamn …” Both women laughed, Beth feeling an interior crescent of gold unfurl as she always did when Eliza called her “auntie” in the Mediterranean way, the affectionate name for a godmother or any older woman relative.

“You don’t get your mom, Liza,” Beth said. “You were her … um … this isn’t going to mean anything to you. But once there was a knight called Lancelot …”

“The Holy Grail,” Eliza said.
“Duh.
I read the myths when I was little.”

“Well, this is no myth. That was you for her.”

Eliza shook her head. She pointed to Ben’s face on Beth’s keychain—Kerry’s gift of a heart-shaped gold picture frame that enclosed a photo of all three of them when they were small—the one that jangled beside the one Eliza had given her and Candy, with Stella’s photo.
“My husband
was that for her.”

“Just because she didn’t have you yet,” Beth said.

Even before she could press the button on the automatic garage-door opener, Vincent threw open the door of the house. As if someone had hit him with an electrical prod, the sleeping Ben sat upright and was out of the car before Beth could put the vehicle into park. Her throat closed when Ben covered the lawn in two steps and practically picked Vincent up with a hug so eloquent she didn’t need to hear the words they said, although they evidently had a bunch of words to say. Vincent shouted something to Ben, who nodded and pumped his fist in the air…. Beth began to struggle out of the car, carrying a stack of presents. By then, Ben had given Stella to Vincent, who was holding her in the goofy way single guys did and saying that it was a goddamn stroke of luck she looked like her mother. Ben was so lustrous with pride Beth thought he would glow in the dark.

Beth dumped her first load of gifts and went back for more.

Kerry came in from her lesson and started ragging on Vincent that Stella wasn’t made of china. Then she added, “Sam. Vincent. Are you crippled? Can you see Ma carrying stuff in from the car? Alone?”

But Vincent ignored Kerry and said, “Ma, remember when I came out here after the movie was screened? And you said, Vincent, I have to ask you something?”

“Yes,” Beth said cautiously.

“Well, Ma, I have to ask you. When was the last time you turned on the TV?” Vincent said.

“I don’t remember,” said Beth.

“Radio?”

“Umm, last Sunday?”

“Look at the answering machine, Ma,” Vincent told her.

Beth gasped. There were thirty messages. She had left just a few hours before. “What’s going on?” she asked. “What am I not in on?”

“Have you watched the news? Have you read a newspaper?”

“Come on!” Beth said. “No! I’ve been trying to plan a family event here …”

The door to the house slammed open. “Hey!” Pat called. “Where’s Martin Scorsese?”

“Pop’s worse than Mom! Kenny probably had to tell him,” said Kerry, running to hug her father’s neck.

“What?” Beth asked again.

Pat came into the room, his tie askew, his face shining with sweat and excitement.

“Ma,” Vincent said. “
No Time to Wave Goodbye
was nominated this morning for an Academy Award.”

“What do you mean?” Beth asked.

Ben said, “Beth! Did you hear what he said?”

“An Oscar, Ma! An Oscar for Best Documentary Film!” Vincent told her.

Beth sat down on the floor. “Is this a joke?”

Vincent sat down beside her. “I thought it was at first,” he confessed. “I asked to call them back. They said I could never guess how many people did that.”

“Honey, I don’t know what to say…. Vincent! Congratulations! I’m … floored.” Vincent patted the carpet beside the two of them and grinned.

Then Pat pulled Vincent up and swept him into a hug. “Does this mean you’re officially reformed?”

“Oh, no way, Pop. It’s worse when you succeed,” Vincent teased. “Anyhow, it was only nominated….”

The doorbell rang. Pat answered.

“We’re looking for Vincent Cappadora?” a cheerful young woman said. A Channel 5 van sat at the curb. Vincent crossed to the door. “We had to track you down here. Your buddy Rob said you were at your parents’ house.”