Page 40 of Boss of the Year
Its twin, guilt, lodged itself in my gut.
Culinary school or not, I should have come home sooner.
There was something else behind the shadow that my strong force of an older sister had become. Pauses behind her words. Something left unsaid.
I glanced at the living room. Joni had Lupe in her lap while Nathan was explaining the finer points of Lego robotics construction to the boys.
“Hey.” I nudged Lea’s hip with mine. “What’s going on? I mean, besides the obvious. And don’t say ‘nothing.’”
Lea sighed, the weight of the world in that single breath. Her eyes darted to her kids, then back to me. “I’ve been thinking,” she began as she cut a zucchini with careful, precise strokes, “about making a change.”
I grabbed a tomato to slice. “What kind of change?”
She kept her eyes trained on the zucchini. “A change like leaving Belmont.”
“Oh? Like for Queens? Or maybe Staten Island?” It wasn’t the worst idea. “You could probably get a bigger place outside the city. And get into a better school district.”
“I was thinking a bit farther away. Like a different part of the country entirely.”
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. “You want to leave New York?”
It didn’t compute. Lea had the Bronx running through her veins more than any Zola. Our grandparents had been part of the old Belmont, the version filled with wise guys and first-generation immigrants from the old country. They had lived and raised their children in a part of the city where people still spoke Italian at house parties and Mass. Until Joni and I were born, most of the restaurants and shops on Arthur Avenue were still owned by families who came from Naples, Sicily, and Rome.
But Belmont was different now. Nonno was long gone, having passed when Joni and I were just kids. Our grandmother, on the other hand, had gone back to Rome, having decided to spend her golden years in Italy once she was finished raising all of us. The old brown house on Hughes Street was currently rented to a lovely Colombian family, and the rest of the neighborhood had more Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Albanian residents than Italians.
And yet, Lea and Mike had stayed, dedicated to raising their family in the neighborhood they still loved.
Stupid me, I thought they’d be there forever. They were a touchstone in a world that was constantly moving.
“Why now?” I asked. “Don’t you think it’s kind of soon after Mike’s passing to make such a big change?”
“It’s been almost four months. I have to do something.”
Lea grabbed another zucchini and started chopping, her movements mechanical.
“Everything here reminds me of him. Every corner, every window, every damn crack in the sidewalk. And the kids…” Her voice broke. “They deserve a fresh start. Somewhere with better schools, like you said. More space. Somewhere without ghosts.”
I searched for an argument to make her stay. But I couldn’t find it.
Because I’d left, hadn’t I? Temporarily, but I’d still gone away, and even now, I was living at Prideview, not in the Bronx. Matthew was in Boston. Frankie lived in London. Kate spent half her time in LA.
Joni was here for now, but once her dancing got back on track, that could change.
Who were any of us to demand that Lea live her life as a memorial to what once was when we were all moving on?
“Where would you go?” I asked.
Her shoulders sank, like she was relieved I wasn’t fighting her. “I don’t know yet. Upstate’s a possibility. Maybe outside of Chicago? Somewhere I can find a cheap house and live with a part-time job while I raise my kids. Somewhere with a lawn to mow or a creek to fish in or whatever people do in the sticks.”
The unspoken worry hung between us: money. The sale of the auto shop would pay off some debts, but it wasn’t enough to provide long-term security for a family of five.
“What about work?” I asked. “Didn’t you just start that bookkeeping job?”
Lea’s mouth twisted. “I got written up yesterday. It’s the third time. Apparently, grief isn’t conducive to perfect attendance.”
That had to be a painful slap to my sister. In school, Lea had been a shooting star. Graduated with honors and was a great accountant before she stopped working to raise her familyand do the books for the garage. She undoubtedly hated being labeled a bad worker.
“Well, that’s just heartless,” I told her as I finished slicing my third tomato.
