’Til Death

Chapter 3

By one-thirty that bright Sunday afternoon, Antonio Carella was ready to shoot his wife, strangle his son, disown his daughter, and call off the whole damn wedding.

To begin with, Tony was paying for the wedding. This was the first time — and the last time, thank God — a daughter of his was getting married. When Steve married Teddy, it was her parents who had paid for the festivities. Not so this time. This time, Tony was shelling out, and he was discovering that the wedding would cost, at a conservative estimate, just about half what he earned in an entire year at his bakery.

The biggest of the thieves, and he had half a mind to ask Steve to arrest the crooks, were the men who called themselves Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated. They had arrived at the Charles Avenue address at 9:00 A.M. that morning (after Tony had stayed up all night in the bakery getting his Sunday morning breads baked) and proceeded to turn the Carella backyard into a shambles. The Carella house in Riverhead was a small one, but the land on which it rested was possibly the largest plot on the street, stretching back from the house in a long rectangle that almost reached the next block. Tony was very proud of his land. His back yard boasted a grape arbor that rivaled any to be found in his home town of Marsala. He had planted fig trees, too, nourished them with loving care, pruned them in the summer, wrapped them with protective tarpaulin in the winter. And now these crooks, these brigandi, were trampling over his lawn with their tables and their ridiculous flags and flower canopies and...

“Louisa!” he had screamed to his wife. “Why inna hell we can’t hire a hall? Why inna hell we have to have a outdoor wedding! A hall was good enough for me, an’ good enough for you, an’ good enough for my son, but Angela has to have a outdoor wedding! So those crooks can tear up my lawn an’ ruin my grapes an’ my figs! Pazzo! E proprio pazzo!”

“Shut up,” Louisa Carella said kindly. “You’ll wake up the whole house.”

“The whole house is wake up already!” Tony said. “Besides, there’s nobody in the whole house but me, you, an’ Angela, an’ she’s getting married today an’ she’s not sleeping, anyway!”

“The caterers will hear you,” Louisa said.

“For what I’m paying them, they’re entitled to hear,” Tony replied, and grumblingly he had got out of bed and gone down to the back yard to supervise the setting of the tables and the construction of the bridal arbors and bandstand and dance floor. The caterers, he discovered, were very fancy people. Not only were they turning his back yard into a Hollywood set for Father of the Bride (starring me, Antonio Carella, he thought sourly) but they were also building a twelve-foot mermaid, the length of the young fish-woman’s body to be sculpted from ice, a similarly sculpted ice tub to rest beneath her and contain bottles of champagne for any thirsty guests. Tony prayed to God the sun would not get too strong. He visualized the fish-woman melting into the tub, the champagne beginning to taste like lukewarm ginger ale.

At one o’clock, his son and daughter-in-law arrived. Now Steve was a boy Tony could usually count on. Before Steve had gone into the Army, he used to work nights at the bakery, even though he was going to college during the day. Steve was a boy who could be trusted. He was a boy a father could count on. So today — San Giacinto di California! — even Steve had turned on him. Today, of all days, with those thieving Weddings-Fetes, Incorporated, tearing up the lawn, with Angela running around like a chicken senza capo, with the world of Antonio Carella slowly collapsing around him, his own true son Steve had arrived at the house with three additional guests! Not that Tony minded the extra expense. No, that didn’t matter to him at all. So he would work an additional four months in the bakery to make up the money. But it was having to explain to these Incorporateds that there would be three more people and that they would have to arrange them at different tables. Steve was insistent on that. No, he did not want to sit with his friends. He wanted one here, and one here, and himself over there! Pazzo! His own son, as crazy as all the others.

And the tall one, the redheaded one with the white streak in his hair — sangue della maruzza! He was enough to frighten all the bridesmaids in Riverhead. And Tony was sure he had seen a gun under the redhead’s coat when he stooped down to tie his shoe. A big black revolver sticking out of a shoulder holster. All right, it was a good thing for his son to be a cop, but did his friends have to carry weapons to a peaceful Christian wedding?

And then Angela had started. At one-fifteen, exactly one hour and forty-five minutes before the wedding, she had begun to cry as if the world was trying to rape her. Louisa had come running out back, wringing her hands.

“Stevie,” she said, “go up to her. Tell her it’ll be all right, will you? Go. Go to your sister.”

Tony had watched his son go upstairs. That wailing from the upper-story bedroom window had not ceased. Tony sat with his daughter-in-law Teddy — com’é grande, he thought, povera Theodora! — and the three strangers, Mr. Hawes, Mr. Kling, and Miss Maxwell, drinking wine and ready to shoot his wife, strangle his son, disown his daughter, and call off the whole damn wedding!

He fumed and fretted until Teddy patted his hand. And then he smiled at her, and nodded his head, and rested his hands on his paunch and hoped — please, dear God! — that everything would turn out all right and that somehow he, Antonio Carella, would survive the day.

Standing in the corridor outside Angela’s bedroom, Carella could hear his sister sobbing beyond the door. He knocked gently and then waited.

“Who is it?” Angela said, her voice breaking.

“Me. Steve.”

“What do you want?”

“Come on, Slip, open up.”

“Go away, Steve.”

“You can’t chase me away. I’m a police officer investigating a disturbance of the peace.” He wasn’t quite sure, but he thought he heard his sister stifle a laugh on the other side of the door. “Slip?” he said.

“What?”

“Do I have to kick it in?”

“Oh, wait a minute,” Angela said. He heard footsteps approaching the door. The bolt was slipped, but Angela did not open the door for him. He heard her footsteps retreating and then the bedsprings creaking as she hurled herself down. He eased the door open and entered the room. Angela was lying full length on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She wore a full white slip and her brown hair tumbled to her shoulders in a riot of disarray. Her slip had pulled back to reveal a blue garter taut around her nylon.

“Pull down your dress,” Carella said. “Your behind is showing.”

“It’s not a dress,” Angela said poutingly. “It’s a slip. And who asked you to look?” but she pulled it down over her leg instantly.

Carella sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s the trouble?”

“There’s no trouble.” She paused. “There’s no trouble at all.” And then she sat up suddenly, turning her brown eyes toward her brother, surprisingly Oriental eyes in a high-cheekboned face, the face a refinement of Carella’s, pretty with an exotic tint that spoke of Arabian visits to the island of Sicily in the far distant past. “I don’t want to marry him,” she said. She paused. “That’s the trouble.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t love him.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Carella said.

“I don’t like swearing, Steve. You know that. I never could stand swearing, even when we were kids. You used to swear on purpose, just to annoy me. That, and calling me ‘Slip.’”

“You started the ‘slip’ business,” Carella said.

“I did not,” Angela told him. “You did. Because you were mean and rotten.”

“I was telling you the truth,” Carella said.

“It’s not nice to tell a thirteen-year-old girl that she’s not really a girl because she still wears cotton slips.”

“I was helping you on the road to maturity. You asked Mama to buy you some nylon slips after that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and she refused.”

“It was in the right direction.”

“You gave me an inferiority complex.”

“I gave you an insight into the mysterious ways of womanhood.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Angela said, and Carella laughed aloud. “It’s not funny. I’m not going to marry him. I don’t like anything about him. He’s a worse boor than you are. And he swears more. And besides...” She stopped. “Stevie, I’m afraid. Stevie, I don’t know what to do. I’m terrified.”

“Come on,” he said, “come on,” and he took his sister into his arms and stroked her hair and said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Steve, he’s killed people, do you know that?”

“So have I.”

“I know, but... we’re going to be alone tonight in... in one of the biggest hotels in the world... right in this city... and I don’t even know the man I’m about to marry. How can I allow him to... to...”

“Did you talk to Mama, Slip?”

“Yes, I talked to Mama.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said, ‘To love is to fear nothing.’ I’m translating loosely from the Italian.”

“She’s right.”

“I know, but... I’m not sure I love him.”

“I felt the same way on my wedding day.”

“You didn’t have all this church hullabaloo.”

“I know. But there was a reception. It was just as nerve-wracking.”

“Steve... do you remember one night... I was sixteen, I think. You’d only been a cop a short time. Do you remember? I’d just come home from a date, and I was sitting in this room having some milk before I went to sleep. You must have had the four-to-midnight shift because it was pretty late at night, and you were just coming in. You stopped in here and had milk with me. Do you remember?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Old Birnbaum’s light was burning across the way. We could see it through the window there.”

He looked across at the window and through it over the long expanse of his father’s back yard to the gabled house belonging to Joseph Birnbaum, his father’s closest friend and neighbor for forty years. He could remember that spring night clearly, the sound of insects in the back yard, the single light burning in Birnbaum’s attic room, the thin yellow crescent of a moon hanging listlessly over the sharply slanting roof of the house.

“I told you what had happened to me that night,” Angela said. “About... about the boy I’d dated and... what he’d tried to do.”

“Yes, I remember”

“I never told Mama about that,” Angela said. “You were the only one I ever told. And I asked you if this... happened all the time, if this was what I could expect from boys I dated. I wanted to know what to do, how I should behave. Do you remember what you told me?”

“Yes,” Carella said.

“You said I should do whatever I felt was right. You said I would know what was right.” She paused. “Steve... I’ve never...”

“Honey, shall I get Mama?”

“No, I want to talk to you. Steve, I don’t know what to do tonight. I know that’s awfully silly, I’m twenty-three years old, I should know what to do, but I don’t, and I’m terrified he won’t love me any more, he’ll be disappointed, he’ll—”

“Shhh, shhh,” he said. “Come on now. What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me.”

He looked into her eyes and he took her hands and said, “I can’t do that, Slip.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not a baby in cotton slips any more, and you’re not a little girl who’s suddenly puzzled by her first kiss. You’re a woman, Angela. And there isn’t a man alive who can give a woman instructions about love. I don’t think you’ll need them, honey. I really don’t think you’ll need them.”

“You think it’ll... be all right?”

“I think it’ll be fine. But I also think you’d better start dressing. Otherwise you’ll miss your own wedding.”

Angela nodded glumly.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re going to be the prettiest goddamn bride this neighborhood ever had.” He hugged her, rose, and started for the door.”

“Was... was Teddy frightened?” Angela asked.

“I’m going to give you one bit of brotherly advice,” Carella said. “I won’t tell you whether Teddy was frightened or puzzled or innocent or whatever. I won’t tell you because marriage is a private thing, Angela, built on faith more than anything else. And whatever happens between you and Tommy — tonight or forever — you and he will be the only two people to ever know about it. And that’s one of the frightening things about marriage... but it’s also pretty damn reassuring.” He went back to the bed, and he took her hands again, and he said, “Angela, you have nothing to worry about. He loves you so much he’s trembling. He loves you, honey. He’s a good man. You chose well.”

“I love him, too, Steve. I do. Only—”

“Only nothing. What the hell do you want? A written guarantee that life is just a bowl of cherries? Well, it isn’t. But you’ve got a clean slate, and you can write your own ticket. And, honey, you’re starting with one of the major ingredients.” He grinned. “You can’t miss.”

“Okay,” she said, and she nodded her head emphatically.

“You going to get dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Okay,” she said again, more emphatically. She paused. “But I think you’re a louse for not giving me at least one hint!”

“I’m not a louse. I’m a loving brother.”

“I feel better, Steve. Thank you.”

“For what? Get dressed. Your blue garter is very pretty.”

“Go to hell,” she said, and he closed the door behind him, chuckling.

The boy’s name was Ben Darcy.

He was twenty-six years old, with bright blue eyes and an engaging grin. He wore a blue mohair suit, and he walked across the back lawn with a long-legged lope, coming to a stop before the back porch where Tony Carella sat with his guests.

“Hello, Mr. Carella,” he said. “Lots of activity going on. Are you excited?”

“The caterers,” Tony said, looking out across the lawn at what seemed to be miles of white tablecloth. “You’re early, Ben. The reception doesn’t start until five.”

“But the wedding’s at three. You don’t think I’d miss Angela’s wedding, do you?”

“I think maybe she’s gonna miss it herself,” Tony said. “You know my daughter-in-law, Teddy? This is Ben Darcy.”

“I think I’ve seen you before, Mrs. Carella,” Ben said. Teddy nodded. Her back was killing her. She wanted to ask for a straight chair, but she knew Tony had given her the most comfortable chair on the porch, and she did not want to offend him.

“And these are some friends of my son,” Tony said. “Miss Maxwell, Mr. Hawes, and Mr. Kling. Ben Darcy.”

“Just call me Ben,” Ben said, shaking hands all around. “I’ve known the Carellas so long I feel like a part of the family. Is there anything I can do to help, Mr. Carella?”

“Nothing. Just keep out of the way. For setting up those tables and things, they’re making me a poor man.” He wagged his head forlornly.

“He’s the richest man on the block,” Ben said, grinning. “Everybody in the neighborhood knows that.”

“Sure, sure,” Tony said.

“When we were kids, he used to give out free rolls at the back door of his bakery. But then he started pinching pennies. No more rolls.” Ben shrugged.

“It was a free Salvation Army soup kitchen there,” Tony said. “I figured out one day I was giving away five hundred rolls a week to kids who come to the back door! I also figured out it was the parents sending the kids around to suck Tony Carella’s blood. No more rolls! Absolutely not! Cash on the line! No credit in my bakery!”

“He still gives away rolls,” Ben said warmly. “All you need is a hard-luck story, and Tony Carella begins weeping. If the story’s good enough, he’ll give you the whole damn bake shop.”

“Sure, sure. The Rockefeller Foundation, that’s me. I’m in business for my health.”

Ben nodded, grinning. Idly, he asked, “Are you gentlemen in the baking line, too?”

Kling, ready to answer, glanced at Hawes first. Sitting with the sunlight glowing in his red hair, the white streak starkly naked against the flaming crimson, Hawes resembled nothing less than a baker. He caught Kling’s eye and said, “No, we’re not bakers.”

“That’s right,” Ben said. “You’re friends of Steve, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you policemen?”

“Us?” Hawes said. He laughed convincingly. “Hell, no.”

Teddy and Christine looked at him curiously, but they did not betray puzzlement.

“We’re theatrical agents,” Hawes lied unashamedly. “Hawes and Kling, perhaps you’ve heard of us.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Hawes said. “Miss Maxwell is one of our clients. She’s going to be a big star one day, this girl.”

“Oh, really?” Ben said. “What do you do, Miss Maxwell?”

“I...” Christine started, and then stopped.

“She’s an exotic dancer,” Hawes supplied, and Christine shot him an angry glare.

“An exot—?” Ben said.

“She strips,” Hawes explained. “We’ve been trying to convince Mr. Carella here to let Christine pop out of the wedding cake, but he doesn’t think it’s such a good idea.”

Tony Carella laughed. Ben Darcy looked unconvinced.

“Hawes and Kling,” Hawes repeated. “If you ever become interested in show business, give us a ring.”

“I will,” Ben said. “But I don’t think I’ll ever become interested in show business. I’m studying to be a dentist.”

“That’s a noble profession,” Hawes said. “But it lacks the glamour of the entertainment world.”

“Oh, teeth can be pretty exciting,” Ben said.

“I’m sure,” Hawes answered, “but what can compare to the fever pitch of opening night? Nothing! There’s no business like show business.”

“I guess you’re right,” Ben said, “but I’m glad I’m studying dentistry. I imagine I’ll go into periodontal work later on.” He paused. “It was Angela who first convinced me to become a professional man, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Hawes said.

“Oh yes. I used to date her. Date her? Hell, I began taking her out when she was seventeen and I guess I camped here on the Carella doorstep for the next five years. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Carella?”

“Yes, he was a pest,” Tony agreed.

“She’s a wonderful girl,” Ben said. “Tommy’s a very lucky guy. There aren’t many girls like Angela Carella around.”

The screen door behind Ben clattered shut. He turned abruptly. Steve Carella came out onto the porch.

His father looked up. “She’s all right?” he asked.

“She’s all right,” Carella said.

“Girls,” Tony said mysteriously, and he shook his head.

“Hello, Ben,” Carella said. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“So-so. You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“I guess so. I was just out for a walk, thought I’d stop by to see if I could lend a hand. Is Angela all right?”

“She’s fine.”

“Everything seems to be okay at Tommy’s house. The limousine’s there already.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. Sitting in Tommy’s driveway when I walked by there.”

“Good. Then I better get started.” He looked at his watch. “Honey, Bert and I will be riding with Tommy. You don’t mind, do you?”

Teddy looked up at him. He could read in an instant any nuance on her mobile face. Deprived of speech since birth, her face had become a tool of expression so that meaning was instantly transmitted through her eyes and lips. He had expected displeasure at his announcement but, reading her face now, he saw only puzzlement and realized she had not “heard” him. Standing behind her as he’d spoken, he had not shown her his lips to read. He knelt beside her chair now.

“Bert and I are going to the church in Tommy’s car. Is that all right with you?”

There was still no displeasure on her face. The puzzlement remained, and with it came a suspicious narrowing of the eyes. He knew in that moment that he had not fooled his wife. He had not told her of the incident with the black widow spider, but Teddy Carella — in her silent world — had already fathomed that something was amiss. The presence of Hawes and Kling was not the fulfillment of a social amenity. They were here as policemen, not wedding guests. She nodded, and then reached up to kiss him.

“I’ll see you at the church,” he said. “Are you all right?”

She nodded again. Her back was still killing her, but she sensed her husband had more important things on his mind than the trials of pregnancy. She flashed a sudden, radiant smile. Carella squeezed her hand. “Come on, Bert,” he said.