Gangster (49 page)

    How long did it last? I asked, a slight tone of cynicism in my voice. This great love affair?

    It never ended, Mary said, ignoring the snide remark. We would get together a few times a year, see each other whenever our other lives allowed. He was always a good friend to me.

    I turned to glance at Angelo, his harsh breath coming out in even slower spurts. Did he love you? I asked.

    A married woman learns never to ask her married lover such a question, Mary said. But he treated me as if he did and that mattered as much as saying it.

    What about your husband? I asked. Did he ever find out about you and Angelo?

    He may have suspected, Mary said. But he didn't know for sure until I told him about it.

    What made you tell him?

    I got pregnant, Mary said. She took a deep breath and I could see the tremble in her hands. And he needed to know the child I carried wasn't his.

    Did you have the baby?

    This all happened a long time ago, Gabe. Mary stood and walked slowly around the bed, facing out the large window. I was so young, and in those days, if it was known that I was having another man's baby, it would have caused quite a scandal. It needed to be kept quiet. Luckily, my husband was a caring and understanding man.

    You had an abortion? I asked, losing the harshness, warming once again to her presence.

    No, I had the baby. I was sent away on a long vacation, had the baby and put him up for adoption. Then I came back home and resumed my life, never mentioning it to anyone. That's the way it stayed for the next ten years.

    Were you ever curious? I asked. About what happened to the kid?

    Every single day, Mary said. It gnawed at me until I could no longer tolerate it. That was when I went to see Angelo and asked for his help. I needed him to find our son.

    You popped this on him after not telling him for ten years? I shook my head. I can't imagine he took it all that well.

    He listened and said he would find the boy, Mary said. And he would make sure that he would be raised the right way. But he insisted that the child never know who his real parents were. He felt we had stripped him of that on the day I gave him up.

    Why would you agree to something like that? I asked. Especially after so many years had passed?

    At least I would know where my son was and who he was with, Mary said. I didn't have the resources to find him on my own. Angelo was the only one I knew with the power to bring him back. And it was enough for me to know that my boy would be put in safe hands.

    That's a difficult find even for somebody with Angelo's clout.

    I didn't have anything other than the form I filled out when I signed him over to child welfare, Mary said, her voice breaking. I gave that form to Angelo, kissed him on the cheek and walked out of the bar.

    And he found the boy.

    It took him awhile, but yes, he did. She was now standing directly between Angelo's bed and my chair, a hand on my shoulder. He had been shuttled from one foster home to another and had spent the years in between in an upstate orphanage. Once he had tracked him, Angelo arranged for the boy to be placed with a family in his own neighborhood.

    I stood and stared at Mary, grabbing her arms and gripping them tightly. Don't stop, I said.

    After a few months, the young boy left his foster family behind and moved into Angelo's bar. And he raised him as if he were his own son. Because he was.

    I was short of breath and felt lightheaded, the ground swirling beneath my feet. How could he have not said anything? How could he keep quiet all these years? And how could you have allowed it to go on for so long and not told me?

    He raised you as well as any father could have, Mary said. And he loved you as much as he could love anyone. That was his way of telling you. As for me, I've made quite a few mistakes in my life. Not telling you I was your mother has been, by far, my biggest.

    What do you do now? I asked. Disappear again?

    That's up to you, Mary said. I've left a card with my address and phone number in his night table. It would be nice if we could get to know each other, even at this late date, but I'll understand if you choose not to contact me.

    I nodded.

    There's one final thing you need to know, Mary said.

    I did my best to smile, but it didn't come easy. Please don't tell me I have a brother, too, I said.

    Mary shook her head. Angelo's money is going to be left to his children, she said. To all of his children. But he's leaving you a little something extra. Something he thought you'd want. Something you loved as much as he did.

    What? I asked.

    The bar you grew up in, Mary said. It's been a home to your memories. And now it belongs to you.

    I stared at her, too choked up to speak.

    I'm glad we finally got a chance to meet, she said. You've done well with your life. No parents could be as proud of their child.

    I walked out into the hall and let the door close gently behind me, allowing my mother a few silent moments with the man she still so very much loved.

EPILOGUE

_____________________________

Summer, 1996

When you really want love you will find it waiting for you.

--Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

THE ROOM WAS dark, the only light the green glow from the machines that were helping to keep him alive. I stood above the bed and looked down at him. I reached out a hand and rested it on top of his. It felt empty of life, the veins pulsing slightly. I had turned my back on him for so many years, allowing his hatred for the choice I made to fuel my anger. Eventually, as he aged and neared his final moments, I came closer, not wanting him to die alone, still feeling a bond and a love that had been established over so many years.

    I looked over at his night table, surprised to see rosary beads curled like a snake next to a pitcher of water. I picked up the beads and opened the table's small drawer. Next to a few hospital forms and a box of tissues was an old, tattered wallet. I picked it up and turned on the small overhead light. There was no money or credit cards or any form of identification inside. It was the perfect gangster wallet, no link or trace to any one person or any one place. I snapped open the small plastic photo folder. Inside were three pictures, each one of a woman. The first I knew to be Isabella. The second was of a younger Mary, wearing a black suit and white hat, smiling under the glare of a long-ago summer afternoon. I turned the flap to the final photo. It was a picture of my wife, Janet. As I stared down at it, looking at her sweet, beautiful face smiling back up at me, I remembered something Angelo had said during a dinner we had one week before he was hospitalized. Every gangster makes a mistake that costs him more than he hoped to lose, he told me. I made that mistake with you. I made it on that night in that room above the bar. What happened there should never have happened.

    I closed the wallet and put it in its place. I turned back to Angelo and leaned across his body and kissed him on the forehead, my lips feeling the cold of his flesh. I held his hands and rested my head against his cheek, his warm breath brushing against my neck.

    I had come to watch him die.

    His name was Angelo Vestieri.

    He was my father.

    A gangster.

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