Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

23 | Meeting the In-Laws

THE OLD GRANDFATHER CLOCK with claws and horns chimed eleven, and Johnny Siciliano still hadn't arrived at the Kelly residence on Seventh Avenue for an informal brunch.

Caroline Kelly wore a mask of indifference, fanning herself with her napkin in the middle of February. Her hair was piled in voluptuous layers atop her narrow head, tendrils of bleached blonde greased back into acquiescent obedience.

Stuart Kelly glared at his wife, his silvery hair gelled back to reveal a high forehead and stout face.

"Fashionably late," she dragged her spoon along the rim of her soup bowl, producing a discordant sound, "is this the way they act in Italy?"

"He isn't from Italy, Mother." Pamela sighed, though she had explained the fact several times already. "He's lived in Brooklyn all his life."

Caroline continued, fixing her hair as she stared at the wall in contemplation. "The way those Italians live in tiny apartments, all crammed together like that with their foreign foods, you'd think they didn't even know they were in America. I hope he doesn't force you to live like that when you marry him."

Pamela began to correct her mother's ignorance, but she doubted Caroline Kelly would listen.

Even though months had passed since she had last shared a meal with her family in her parents' Seventh Avenue apartment, it seemed as though nothing had changed.

Pamela had awoken to the soft stirring of Lorna in the hallway just off the bus from Queens, then the gurgling pot of coffee in the kitchen—one that worked so much better than the device on Fifth Avenue. The reluctant morning sun had slid itself beneath the crack left by her bedroom drapes, fragmenting the darkness. Her mother had risen half-past seven as she usually did, and met her with a curt morning greeting in the hallway, her curlers askew in a rare moment of disarray.

"You must know that schoolgirl outfit makes you look five years younger." Caroline had chided, referring to Pamela's long, navy skirt, old saddle shoes and flannel blouse. "You are to be a married woman, and I wouldn't want this mysterious fiancé of yours having any second thoughts."

At that moment, Pamela had wanted to hug her mother: bury her face into her bony shoulder, and tell her the truth, and that she had missed her terribly, despite all the quarrels and hurt long dividing them. She had grown up in the past few months, and she realized how quickly life could slip away.

Stuart Kelly was called home for the fateful brunch occasion. He had been staying out in New Jersey for the last couple of weeks, conferring with business partners and potential investors, or else avoiding his wife.

Pamela hoped he wouldn't resent her when he met Johnny Siciliano, or that he would laugh him out of New York. She knew Stuart to be a rational man, and unintimidated by flash and smooth talk.

When he stepped into the dining room, Pamela had recognized her father. She hadn't seen him since the week before she left, but he was the same bushy-haired man she had known all her life, with his pale freckles and firm jaw.

"Pamela?" He examined her through his square spectacles, tilting a silver eyebrow inquisitively and pushing a leather suitcase into the arms of one of the help.

"Hi, Da," Pamela sniffed, overcome with emotion, and climbed out of her seat to face him. She had never been close to her father, but seeing him after so long was quite overwhelming.

After her father had kissed her on the cheek, his forehead wrinkled with his confusion. "Your mother told me about your sudden disappearance. I've been concerned. If you wanted a trip, you should've told me. I could have gotten you a vacation to Cuba or somewhere."