Rena nods. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Enzio continues: “Good, thanks. So, Eddie, he thinks about Madeleine, he thinks about his kids, he thinks maybe he’s gonna piss himself and then his brains’ll be splattered on the beach, the end. But instead of pissing himself or begging for his life, he starts laughing. Like a goddamn clown. Just hardy-fucking-har. Excuse me. Just hardy-har-har, you know? Maniac stuff. The Godorskys are taken aback. They’ve never seen this. Eddie laughs harder. The Godorskys start arguing in Russian. They think maybe he’s got something on them they don’t know about. They turn on each other. Gun’s off the back of Eddie’s head. Now the one brother is pointing the gun at the other brother. The other brother takes out a gun and points it at the one with original gun. Then bam. They shoot each other. Just like that. Eddie gets up and looks around and the Godorskys are on their backs, choking on blood. Eddie laughs some more and then steals their car and goes home.”
“What’s the point of that story?” Rena asks.
“Laugh a little, that’s what.”
And she does laugh. Russian mobsters shooting each other like that. Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph. What a tale.
“There you go,” Enzio says. “You’ve got a nice laugh. All these years, I’ve never heard you laugh, you know that?”
She’s still laughing. Now she can’t stop. She’s looking across at Enzio, this old man who just told this ridiculous story, and she’s noticing his elbows on the table, his flabby chin, hair under his nose and around his ears that he’s also missed shaving, earlobes that dangle like melted coins, a little burst of blood vessels on his forehead.
“Okay, okay,” Enzio says.
“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “I can’t stop. I’m gonna pee my pants.”
“Don’t piss your pants.”
“I can’t—”
“Christ, what’s so funny?”
She gasps. Tries to settle herself. Her laughter finally sputters to a stop. “Sorry. Just the whole thing.” She waves her hands in front of her as if swatting away gnats. “I’m done, I swear.”
“You’re laughing at me?” Enzio asks.
“Not at all,” Rena says.
“I’m no fool.”
“I know. I mean, you wanted me to laugh, right?”
“Not like that.”
She gets up. “I need some water. You want some water?”
“I don’t like water.”
Rena goes over to the sink and runs the tap, passing her hand through the stream to make sure it’s cold enough. She takes a glass from the dish drain, fills it, and slurps down the water, her back to Enzio. “You’re mad?” she asks. She doesn’t particularly care if he is—he’s just a neighbor to her anyway—but she feels bad for laughing at him. She feels bad he knows she was laughing at him. She wishes Vic was still alive for a lot of reasons, but mostly, right now, so she wouldn’t have to deal with Enzio.
“I’m fine,” he says, picking at his ear.
She runs more water into her glass and downs it. “I’ll come with you to your house,” she says, and she’s not even sure why she says it. Maybe she knows it’s the only way the tension will die.
“Yeah? Wine and cookies?”
“One glass. Maybe a cookie.”
Enzio claps his hands together. “That’s a start.”
Rena places her glass in the sink slowly, hoping if she takes long enough Enzio will go away and she won’t have to go with him on this, this . . . what else to call it but a date?
“You won’t be sorry,” Enzio says, grabbing his jacket. “I’m a gentleman.”
“Famous last words,” Rena says.
Enzio’s house is just a few doors down, a two-family brick job. Enzio no longer rents out the downstairs. He tried about fifteen years ago and got into a bad situation with a bunch of gypsies. A Christmas wreath still hangs on the front door of the upstairs apartment, which is where he lives. An Italian flag dangles from a pole rigged on the ledge of a third-floor window. The flag is weather-bitten, ragged. The Virgin Mary in the front yard has a chipped nose. Next to her is a flattened garden that died with Maria. Enzio’s near-mint 1962 Chevy Impala, driven sparingly, is under a blue tarp in the driveway.
They climb the short staircase up to the second-floor entrance. Enzio leaves his white Filas on a mat outside and asks Rena to take off her shoes.
“Really?” she says.
“I care about the carpets.”
She nudges her feet out of her white Keds and kicks them onto the mat next to Enzio’s sneakers. All these years, she’s never been in his house. Not once. Not for coffee with Maria. Not anything.
It’s exactly what she imagines. Totally from the past: green shag rug that’s still in decent shape, plastic on the sofa. Elaborate vases. Paintings of vineyards and posters of Jesus on the walls. There’s a heavy glass cigar ashtray on a coffee table covered in lace doilies and the smell of bad cologne in the air. The only thing out of place is the big-screen TV in the living room.
“You like the TV?” Enzio says, noticing her noticing it.
“It’s big,” she says.
“Sixty inches. Picture’s great. Like having the movies in your house.”
“I don’t get these big TVs. Give me a little TV. That’s fine. Why do I need to feel like I’m in a theater?”
“I’ll show you the picture after. You’ll be impressed.”
Rena follows him into the kitchen. She takes a seat at the table. It’s Formica, the top patterned with white and gold boomerangs. A saltshaker stands alone in the middle of the table, a hulking ring of keys snaked around it. She looks over at the refrigerator. No pictures, no magnets. Dirty dishes are toppled in the sink. Empty pizza boxes are stacked on top of the dish drain.
Enzio motions at the boxes and says, “The bachelor’s life.” He digs around under the sink and comes out with a dusty magnum of wine. He strips away the seal, humming, and uses a corkscrew key to yank the cork. He fills a couple of juice glasses, their flowered sides laced with smeary fingerprints, and gives one to her.
“Thanks,” Rena says, lifting the glass up to her nose and taking a whiff.
“Larry does a great job with this,” Enzio says. “He makes it down in his basement. I used to make it like that, but I got lazy. He’s devoted.” He comes over and sits across from her at the table, reaching out to clink her glass. “Salute.”
Rena doesn’t clink back. She sips the wine. It’s fruity and heavy.
“The good stuff, right?” Enzio says.
“Not bad,” she says.
“Not bad, my ass.” He takes a long slug. “You want a cookie? What kind? Savoiardi? You’re a savoiardi girl, I can tell.”
“I’m good.”
“Come on, have a cookie.” He gets up and opens the refrigerator. The white box of cookies is on the top shelf, wrapped carefully in a plastic Pastosa bag. Keeping cookies in the refrigerator was a big no-no for Vic.
“I’m good.”
“You sure? I’m having one.” He peels back the plastic, opens the box, and takes out a seeded cookie. He munches on it, cupping his palm under his mouth to catch the crumbs. “I’m lonely eating this alone. Have one.”