Toni
The worst day of my life actually turned out to be three.
The past few days I’ve moved to my room and slept. I’ve eaten what Maria Fernanda’s brought me, responded when spoken to and slept whenever I could.
Whenever I sit up, memory smacks me back down under the covers: Papa’s parchment face, Laurenz’s squinty eyes.
Whenever I try thinking of anything, the gut-wrenching fact returns: his last minutes were spent with the one woman who didn’t deserve a second of his time. That my Papa couldn’t even be permitted to die in peace. That that is a wrong that can never be righted.
It seemed this black repetitive clench of a day would continue forever, until, finally, she asked it. The question I’ve been dreading.
“The funeral is in a few minutes. Will you go?”
Her question shakes me awake.
I sit up.
I know what I have to do. And yet what I have to do and want to do are two entirely different things. Funny how the wrong thing is always the easy one.
Maria Fernanda tries at a smile.
“They picked the marigold flowers, his favorite. He’ll be buried beside your mother. Your uncle came to town too.”
Slowly, I pick myself up, get out of bed.
“I won’t go,” I tell her, “Then the Rebel Saints would know just who Toni Piccolo is, not to mention that it would be a prime time for Carlos and his men to take me out.”
Maria Fernanda nods. “I’m not permitted to go either.”
Then, leaning in, she adds, “There’s been much movement in the house the past few days.”
I walk over to my closet, pick out some black pants and a white button up.
They can have their funeral there, at the old church Papa loved, all those people, some who loved him, many who didn’t deserve him. I’ll have my own here. Out in the backyard, by the fire pit he loved.
I’ll have my own funeral here, I’ll honor him in my own way.
Jane trots by my side as I make the preparations, make the horrible black tea he always liked, get out a lighter, put on a coat.
Outside the fire pit is full of leaves.
I can’t even remember the last time we used it. The last time we were a family. Maybe that died years ago with Mama; maybe it was never really there at all. Who knows?
There’s a pile of logs already there, as if someone knew. That today’s a fire kinda day.
I light them and a flame flickers to life. From one log to the next, until a full fire is raging.
I sit down on the log bench Papa made and think of him.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” I say. “I’m sorry for not being a better leader. For not continuing what you started. I’m sorry I haven’t got along with Carlos in years. I’m sorry about Mama.”
I sip the tea, my throat rejecting the horrible bitter taste, my hand still forcing it down. I can do this, drink his tea, say goodbye. And yet, the tea won’t go down, no matter how I try. Mid-pour, my hand freezes.
Just like the family business. No matter how I tried to accept it, resign myself to it – I couldn’t. Because it wasn’t right for me. Because I’m a different person, with a different moral code.
“I’m sorry Papa,” I say, my voice louder now, less wavering, “But I won’t stop. I will remake the Piccolo business from the inside-out, you’ll see. I will shift it and mold it and morph it until it is unrecognizable in the best way, until it’s something both of us can be proud of. I will do you proud. I’ll do it.”
I stand up, pour the tea out into the grass.
“Because you’re wrong, Papa. I’m sorry and I love you, but you’re wrong. Success doesn’t have to be hard, you don’t always have to sacrifice your morality to get what you want. Yes, it takes hard work and time, but I think you can succeed alongside people, not on their backs; I think win-wins can breed success.”
“And I love you Papa. I don’t think I ever told you enough, and I wish I could’ve told you at the end. That I love you with all my heart. That I don’t agree with a lot of what you did, but I still believe that you were a good man, a loving man. That you did the best you could. You were the best father I could’ve asked for, and I’ll miss you every day.”
I sit down, speak some more to the flames.
“And I hope that, wherever you are, you’re happy and at peace. I hope that you finally got what it was that you were searching for.”
Jane is letting out a low moan. I pat her, the tears streaming down now, practically blinding me and yet… not quite.
Not enough to obscure the moving shape on the horizon, by Compound One. Moving black shapes.
I stop moving and listen. Voices.
I stamp on the flames and run inside.
Please God, not now.
I rush around to the front of the house, stop at the corner.
There are no guards. There’s two men there. I run back.
Wasn’t it convenient how Carlos and the rest of them just up and left – no protection for the house, nothing?
Running into the back of the house, I slam the back door, lock it. Race to the basement, get out my gun, cursing myself.
How could I have been so stupid? Overthrowing me right amidst our own father’s funeral?
This has Carlos written all over it. It’s just too perfect.
No sooner am I at the bottom step then does the front door start rattling.
I crouch down just as it’s kicked in.