Protected By the Monster

“My uncle just left me more money than I ever thought I’d have in my life,” I said. “Of course I’m a little curious about my family.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “But honey, I’ve told you a thousand times. They’re not good people, they’re not good people at all. What’s there to know?”

“They’re still my family,” I said, trying not to let the frustration show.

I must not have done a good job, because my mind stiffened a bit. I could see her getting defensive already in the set of her eyes, in her body’s posture.

“I wish I’d never known them,” she said. “If that makes any difference. I wanted to give you the same thing. I wanted you to have a chance, honey.”

I let that settle for a second, letting myself feel what she’s trying to say. I can understand her wanting what’s best for me, and in her mind, keeping the gangster gamily away from me would ensure they could never influence me and drag me down a bad path.

On that level, I could understand.

But now I knew gangsters. As much as I wanted to pretend like I didn’t, I was coming to like being around Luca, I was starting to respect him and want him more than I really was prepared for.

That had to mean something.

“You married Dad,” I said after a silence. I stared down into my coffee, unable to meet her eyes. “Why did you marry him if gangsters are so awful?”

She was quiet as she looked at me. Her eyes went fuzzy, unfocused, and she turned away, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. She leaned her head back, cradling her skull in her hands, and sighed as she looked up at the ceiling.

“He was charming,” she said.

“That’s all?”

“He was charming, and handsome, and fun to be around.” She smiled a little bit. “I’d grown up with men like him, remember. But your father wasn’t violent like some of the other guys. I knew how to handle a man with a temper, but I didn’t have to do that with him.”

“You fell in love with him, right?” I asked.

“Not at first.” A smile slipped over her face. “He pursued me. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” I said. “You never talked about him much.”

She looked at me then, and I thought I saw something, something deep and dark and sad, something she’d been carrying her whole life. The weight on her back, the truth of her self, that thing she didn’t want to admit to herself.

But then it was gone as her face shifted back into a mask again.

“My family used to do more business in Philadelphia back then,” she said. “This was before the Leone family really took over the city. My family would come in from time to time and do whatever it was they did. I never asked questions, I didn’t really care. But on one of those trips, I went with my father to a meeting, and your father was there. He asked me out afterwards, and I told him no, and laughed at him, but he never gave up. From then on, every time I came to the city, he’d find out somehow and ask me on a date.”

I smiled, head tilted. I couldn’t exactly understand this image of my father as a spurned but persistent lover, not after Mom had painted him as a horrible gangster all my life. But then again, that squared with the man I remembered, gentle and kind and funny, always playing with me, always available for me.

“What happened then?” I asked.

“We went out,” she said. “He took me to this mob place, an Italian place in South Philly, it’s gone now. Afterward we walked along Passyunk, stopped in a bar for a couple drinks, then he took me back to my hotel.”

“Did he kiss you on the first date?”

She laughed and shook her head. “He was a gentleman.”

“How did you end up married? I mean, you lived in different cities.”

“He started coming to Chicago every weekend,” she said, head tilted, eyes far away, lost in the shroud of memory. “At first, he pretended like it was on business, but then it became clear he was just coming to see me. We dated like that for a few months, and then he asked me to marry him, and I just said… I said yes. I was so young and stupid and in love, and I couldn’t help myself.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” I said, laughing a little bit.

“I wasn’t always so angry, you know,” Mom said. She leaned forward, chewed on her fingernail, picked up her coffee. She held it cradled between her hands and stared down into the mug for several long breaths.

“When did you start to hate them?” I asked, my voice soft and gentle.