Spoonbenders

“Old friends check in, Irene. That’s a normal human activity.”

“Since when is he your friend?”

“Jesus Christ.” He raised the paper again—and immediately dropped it. “And could you get those boxes out of the front hall? Nearly broke my neck.”

“They’re not mine. Did Buddy order a computer?”

“Who the hell knows what Buddy does.”

“Where would he get the money? That’s, like, two thousand dollars.”

“Two grand? For a computer? What do you do with it?”

“You can go on the Internet,” Matty said. “Or do homework on it.” He’d appeared in the doorway, keyed up as a puppy.

“I’m not having you sit around this house playing computer games,” she said.

“Can we ask Uncle Buddy if we can open them?” Matty asked.

“What’s for dinner?” Teddy asked.

“I’m not making dinner tonight,” Irene said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I think you just did. I’m busy enough, making a cake.”

“A cake? Why would you—oh. Maureen’s birthday.”

“Buddy would have a fit if we didn’t celebrate.”

“Did I say I didn’t want to celebrate? Of course I do.”

“Good, because Frankie and Loretta are coming over.”

“Hey, maybe Buddy bought the computer as a birthday present,” Matty said.

“For his dead mother?” Irene said.

“It’s Buddy,” Matty said reasonably.

“You make the cake, I’ll take care of dinner,” Teddy said, as if it was his idea. “I was thinking pizza.”

“You hate pizza,” Irene said.

“No, I hate most pizzas. I have high standards. I used to stop by this restaurant in Irving Park. Nick Pusateri ran it. He could do this crispy crust, just snap in your mouth like a God damn cracker. I used to bring them home for you guys.”

Irene had forgotten all about them. He’d carry them in on a cardboard bottom with a puff of white paper over them, no boxes. You’d break open that paper and delicious steam would bathe your face.

“He had a son, Nick Junior,” Teddy said. “Not the brightest bulb. Somehow managed to become a real estate developer and get rich.”

“You don’t say,” she said.

“So last week, I run into this woman at Dominick’s. Never met her before. Her name’s Graciella, has three kids. And guess who her husband is?”

“If it’s not Nick Junior, then you’re shitty at telling stories.”

“I’m going to ask Uncle Buddy,” Matty said, and vanished back inside.

“Small world, right?” Teddy said. “Small God damn world.” He put aside the paper and pushed himself out of the lawn chair. “I’ll be back for dinner.” He set his hat on his head, then adjusted the angle. He stepped out the side gate just as Matty came sprinting up. The kid had run all the way around the house.

“Buddy says I can open it!” Matty said.

“He did?” Irene said.

“Well, I asked him if I could, and he nodded.”

“Fine. You can set it up in the basement—after you take a shower. And do not install the Internet!” He ran inside again.

She watched her father back the car out of the garage, going extremely slowly. She wondered how many years were left before they had to take away his keys. It was a certainty that she’d have to make the call alone. Buddy was oblivious and Frankie was too much in the sway of the Legend of Teddy Telemachus to take action.

She picked up the newspaper Teddy had been reading. A headline was circled in black marker: PUSATERI OUTFIT MURDER TRIAL BEGINS. She read the first paragraph, then the second.

“God damn it,” she said.

“What is it?” Matty said from behind her.

“Your grandfather’s hanging out with mobsters,” she said. “Again.”

“Really?” He sounded more excited by this than she liked. She looked up and saw that he was wearing only a towel.

“The water’s turned off downstairs,” he explained. Matty and Irene had been using the downstairs shower, ceding the upstairs bath to Dad and Buddy.

“Use the other one,” she said, and walked into the kitchen, reading.

Nick Pusateri Jr. may take the stand in his own defense, his legal team said Monday. This continues weeks of speculation about whether Pusateri, accused of the 1992 slaying of Willowbrook businessman Richard Mazzione, would testify. Pusateri is thought to be a high-ranking member of the Chicago Outfit, and the son of alleged crew boss Nick Pusateri Sr. Prosecutors are eager to implicate other members of the organization.

She finished the article and dropped the paper into the garbage. Murder, mobsters, and Destin Fucking Smalls. Whatever was going on with her father, she didn’t like it.

The death of her mother was the landmark by which Irene navigated her memories. The day she first met Destin Smalls was only seven months before Maureen’s death. It was early in February, on the morning Irene found her mother crying.