familiar to Mary from her childhood as a toy shovel through wet, dark sand down at the Jersey shore. Scoop, scoop, scoop. And though it was only the two of them, her father would make eight cups of coffee. A veritable sandcastle of caffeine.
'Come more often? Dad, I'm here every Sunday, practically, for dinner.' Mary snared two cups by their chipped handles and grabbed two saucers in a fake English pattern they had bought at Wanamaker's a store that didn't exist anymore. They were just perfect, but she couldn't resist teasing. Think we'll ever get mugs, Pop?'
'Mugs?'
'Coffee mugs. They have them now, with sayings on them. It's a new thing.'
'Wise guy,' her father scoffed, blinking behind his bifocals. They were thick, but not as thick as her mother's. Her mother could barely see, from a lifetime of piecework sewing in the basement of the house. Her father had good eyes but could barely hear, the result of living with Mary, her twin, and her mother. Mary had bought him two hearing aids before he consented to wear the one he had now. It sat curled in his ear like a brown snail.
'No, really. I could get you a mug that says World's Greatest Father.'
'Nah. Mugs, they're not so nice. Not as nice as cups and saucers.'
'People use them all the time.'
'I see that. I know things. I get out.' He smiled, and so did Mary. It was a game they were both playing.
'And computers, they use, too.'
'Computers?' Her father cackled. 'I see that, on the TV. All the time, computers. You know, Tony. Tony-from- down-the-block. He got on the Internet.' Her father wagged the blue scoop at her. 'Writes to some lady in Tampa, Florida. How about that?'
There you go. You could have girlfriends in Tampa, too.'
'Nah, I'm more interested in my daughter and why she don't go to church with us on Sunday.'
'Oh, Pop.' Mary went to the silverware drawer for teaspoons. 'You gotta start on me?'
'Your mother would like that, if you went with us on Sunday. She was sayin' that to me just tonight, before she went to bed. 'Wouldn't it be nice if Mary came to church with the family?' Angle goes with us now.'
'Angie has to. She was a nun.' Mary's voice sounded more bitter than she intended, and her father's soft shoulders slumped. She felt a twinge at disappointing him, and guilt gathered like a puffy grey cloud over her head, ready to storm on her and only her. 'Okay, you win. Maybe I will go with you, sometime. How about that. Pop?'
'Good.' Her father nodded, one shake of his bald head, with a wispy fringe of matte grey hair. He set the coffeepot on the stove, twisted on the gas, and turned around as it lit with an audible floom. The pilot light on the ancient stove was too high again. This Sunday, you'll come?'
'This Sunday?' Mary plucked two napkins from the plastic holder in the center of the table, where they had slipped to the bottom. 'You drive a hard bargain.'
'I bid construction, remember?'
She laughed. 'Okay, this Sunday.' She eased into her chair at the table. It was the one on the far side. 'If I don't have to work.'
Her father turned to the stove, the better to watch the pot, and Mary noticed his heavy hand touch his lower back. In recent years, back pain kept him up at nights, but he pretended he liked to watch TV until two in the morning, and she had always cooperated in this fiction. To do otherwise seemed cruel, but now she wondered about it. 'Dad, how's your back?' she asked.
'No complaints,' he said, which was what he always said. Et cum spiritu tuo.
'I know you don't want to complain, but tell me. How is your back?'
'It's fine.' Her father opened the bread drawer and pulled out a plastic bag with an Italian roll it. He would have bought it at the corner bakery that morning, coming home every day with exactly three rolls; one for him, one for Mary's mother, and one for extra. The rolls would be buttered and dunked in the coffee, leaving veins of melted butter swirling slick on its surface and enriching its flavor. He took the roll out and set it on the counter, then folded
the plastic bag in two, then four, and returned it to the drawer, to be reused for tomorrow's rolls. It wasn't about recycling.
'Are you taking your pills, for the pain?'
'Nah, they make me too sleepy.' He put the roll on a plate and set it down on the table, near the butter, and Mary knew they would fight over it, each trying to give it to the other.
'Do you do your exercises?'
'I go for the newspaper in the morning, at the corner. In the afternoon, I buy my cigar with Tony-from-down- the-block.'
'But your back hurts. How do you sleep with it?'
'With my eyes closed.' Her father smiled, but Mary didn't.
'You stay downstairs at night and watch TV. It's not because you like TV, it's because you can't sleep. Isn't that right?'
Her father eased into his chair, leaning on one of his hands. His expression didn't change, a sly smile still traced his lips, but he didn't say anything. They sat at the table and regarded each other over the chipped china.
'Your back hurts,' Mary said. Tell me the truth.'
'Why you gotta know that?'
'I don't know. I just want you to tell me.' ' Her father sighed deeply. 'Okay. My back, it hurts.'
'At night?'
'Yes.'
'When else?'
Her father didn't answer except to purse soft lips. The coffee began to perk in the background, a single eruption like a stray burp.
'All the time?'
'Yes.'
'But mostly at night?'
'Only 'cause I got nothing to think about then.' His voice was quiet. The coffee burped again, behind him.
'I'm sorry about that. Is there anything I can do?'
'No.'
'Maybe we should try new doctors. I could take you back to Penn. They have great doctors there.'
'You made me go last year. S'enough already.' Her father waved his hand. 'Is that why you came here? To talk about the pain in my back?'
'In a way, yes.'
'Well, you're givin' me a pain in my ass.' He laughed, and so did Mary. She felt oddly better that he had told her the truth, even though it wasn't good news. She would have to hatch a new plan to get him back to the doctor's.
The coffeepot perked in the background, with better manners now, and she caught the first whiff of fresh brew. It was fun to drink coffee late at night, as settled a DiNunzio tradition as fish on Fridays. When her husband Mike had been alive, he used to join them for night coffee. He'd talk baseball with her father and even choked once on a cigar. He'd fit in so well with her family, better at times than she did, and then he was gone. She felt her neck warm with blood, her grief suddenly fresh. She hadn't felt that way for so long, but the Newlin case was dredging up memories.
'Honey, what'sa matter?' her father said, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. It felt dry and warm. 'I was only kidding. You're not a pain, baby.'
'I know.' Mary blinked wetness from her eyes. I'm okay.'
'You're about to cry, how can you be okay?' He reached for the napkin holder but there were none left, so he started to get up.
Mary grabbed his hand as it left hers. 'No, sit. I'm fine. I know I'm not a pain in the ass. Actually, I am, but that's not what I'm upset about.' She smiled shakily to convince him. 'I was thinking about Mike. You know.'
His face fell, his eyebrows sloping suddenly. 'Oh. Michael.'
'I'm okay, though.'
'Me, too.'
'Good. How's your back? No complaints?' she asked, and they both laughed. The coffee perked madly in the
