All was quiet at the dinner table. My daddy had plans to go back to work and my mother was washing dishes. Did you remember to pick up the dry cleaning? she called from the kitchen. It's in the car, he called back absently and went back to his crossword puzzle. Annoyed, she told me to go and get it and I was nearly out the door when the newspaper went flying and he scrambled to his feet, knocking over the chair in the process. No! he shouted suddenly, I'll get it!
To hear him raise his voice was a shock and he nearly knocked me over getting out the door. My mother appeared in the doorway, frowning at the commotion as he pushed past me and went outside. He was back in seconds with the drycleaning over one arm and a caught in the cookie jar expression his face. She looked at him suspiciously, the frown turning into a scowl and demanded Something wrong with the car? He took a minute to catch his breath then looked at her with an innocent smile and said No, no. I just felt bad about forgetting the cleaning. Her eyes narrowed and I held my breath waiting to see which way she would go. Surprisingly, she decided to let it pass and muttering about having to live with people who would forget their heads if they weren't attached, headed back to the kitchen. Retrieving his crossword, my daddy settled in his recliner with his pen and coffee.
The screaming started several minutes later. He put aside his puzzle and pen, took a sip of coffee and said calmly,
It appears that you mother has discovered Mr. Rosetti. I had no idea what he was talking about but I followed as he
got up and went outside. At the front door he gave me a wink and said She never has learned to leave well enough alone.
Unsatisfied with his explanation about the cleaning, she had slipped out the back door and in the dark opened the door of his ancient Mercury station wagon. The back seats had been lowered and Mr. Rosetti, a young and handsome man with a striking resemblance to Sal Mineo, was peacefully laid out in an elegant silk Italian suit with diamond rings on his fingers and a diamond stick pin in his tie. My hysterical mother was clutching the sheet that had covered him and howling incoherently like a wounded wolf. There's a body ....he's dead....oh my God, you brought a body ....in the station wagon!
My daddy grasped her firmly by the shoulders, gave her a hard shake, spoke her name sharply. She dropped the sheet and gasping for breath pointed a trembling finger at the station wagon. This is Mr. Rosetti, dear, my daddy told her, He's very dead and he can't hurt you. She looked at him open mouthed and wild eyed and he spoke soothingly,
Go inside, dear, this is nothing for you to worry about. He gave her a gentle push toward the back door, re-covered Mr. Rosetti's body, and closed the station wagon's rear door. You too, he gestured at me and winked again.
Mr. Rosetti had been the unfortunate victim of a gangland shooting in Boston's North End and his wake was to be that evening. My daddy hadn't had time to pick him up and return him to the funeral home before coming home for supper so he did the practical thing. He hadn't counted on anyone discovering the body, at least so he claimed, but what was done was done so he laced a glass of warm milk with a sedative and saw my mother safely asleep before he chauffered Mr. Rosetti away.
Just bad judgement on my part, he assured me later and winked.
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