Sure, he looks sad his best friend is gone, but there is more behind his eyes. I can’t put my finger on it and I’m no good at judging people’s moods. He’s always been the calm voice of reason and gifted at understanding human nature.
Over the years, Papa solicited his advice on handling tough work situations. Come to think of it—as a child, I remember him being there when I would wake up in the middle of the night to get a glass of milk. On my way back to bed, I would hear them talking softly in the kitchen.
With our vehicle stuck in traffic and the rain coming down like a velvet curtain at the end of a play, I ask, “Bressy, what was Papa into? He always claimed to work in construction, but he never built or fixed anything. He didn’t like me asking questions, but now. . . I’m wondering if there’s something I need to know. Papa was in perfect health. The coroner thinks it was a heart attack and unless the autopsy says otherwise, there will be no investigation. But I don’t agree. What do you think?”
Papa told me to always look a person in the eyes, look long and hard at the whites and try to see if they look at yours. Then, and only then, you will know if they are telling the truth.
Besnik is smart and looks me in the eye, “I don’t know Prende, we’ll have to wait and find out.” Then he turns his head to stare out the window and the silence between us tells me everything.
He doesn’t want me to read his face and he doesn’t want to say too much. He knows I’m suspicious and I wonder if I’m safe because if they got to Papa, they can get to me.
Death is so final. It’s quiet and creates a vacuum in one’s life. Unlike my mother’s death, Papa’s death came as a surprise.
I’m in total, utter shock.
Gone is my chance to tell Papa I love him and appreciate all he’s done for me.
Staring out my window at the picturesque Alps fading in the distance as I fantasize about what it would be like to be a snowflake and just float away, without a care in the world. I’m lost in my own world when we come to a quick stop, and I realize we’re at the airport.
A private jet sits on the tarmac in front of us. Besnik gets out and helps two men retrieve our luggage from the trunk. Dressed in custom suits, they look out of place here. I don’t recognize them but the way they square their shoulders and walk stiffly leads me to believe they have military training or police background.
When I finish staring at them, I realize I’m sitting in the car, by myself.
Shit.
I hurriedly gather my gloves and purse and throw open my door to catch up. Who are these men and why are they flying with us?
When I approach the stairs to the plane, one stiff recruit motions for me to go first, and I do. He’s quite handsome and if it was under normal circumstances, I might enjoy a flight home with him, away from my nosy family. But the only thing I can manage today is putting one foot in front of the other and I try to not to fall apart in front of them.
As we buckle our seatbelts, one of the stiffs sits next to Uncle Besnik and he talks in low tones but I’m not the naïve little girl I was yesterday morning. I try to eavesdrop, but I can’t make out what they are saying.
My gut tells me that whatever my parents were protecting me from is going to hit me in the face very soon. I may not know their secrets but what I do know is that someone will be held accountable for my father’s death.
Besnik talks in Albanian to the driver and the other men get into another car and follow us from the airport. When we arrive at my condo one of the dressed attendant carries my luggage to the door. Bressy stands beside him and pauses long enough to give me the impression he might want to come in.
“A coffee after our trip?” he asks.
“Thank you so much Uncle Besnik, but I’m so tired,” and it’s not a lie.
Besides, I’d rather be alone. He pauses and thinks better of pushing and watches me unlock the door and his men set papa’s suitcases inside the doorway.
I thank the handsome man and I still have no clue who he is; Besnik waves before he gets in his car and I’m left alone. I’m exhausted again.
I decide I’m going to work tomorrow as Saturdays are big days for us and with the holidays coming, I’d better make my money while I can and hope that it continues. I must keep myself together, but there’s no one here and there isn’t anyone that I need to impress or ‘hold up’ for as they say.
I hang my coat on the coat tree in the entranceway and set my purse down on the credenza near it. I am thirsty, and as I walk into the kitchen, the afternoon light hits Papa’s coffee cup by the sink, a reminder that the dishwasher needs to be unloaded and papa is never going to use that cup again.
Fuck the dishwasher. I grab bottled water from the fridge and pour the refreshing liquid down my throat. I live alone now, it’s a new me— I can drink out of the milk container and put it back in the fridge without being scolded.
3
Marchello
Saturday, I wake up late in the morning to a familiar ringtone. I know it’s Dante calling because the theme song toThe Godfatheris playing.
He hates it but it’s too funny for me to stop using it. Part of our brotherly bond lies in our infinite ability to piss each other off.
“Bro, what?” I yawn, unable to move beyond picking up my phone. For him to call me at this hour, it must be important.