No Time to Wave Goodbye by Jacquelyn Mitchard Read Free Book Online Page B

chimney! Another Cappadora behind the steam tables, fighting with people over tomatoes on the dock downtown, driving a Caddie, wearing a nice dark Italian suit with a blue shirt and a red tie. And, just like the script, once Ben was back from the woodsy-artsy eastern college, Grandpa and Dad immediately demanded their pound of flesh—a hundred and seventy pounds, to be exact. And Ben-good-boy had to forsake his softball team and even his girl to twitch the corners of the tablecloths, take away the one knife that had a spot on it, to lay just one bay leaf on the gravy that didn’t need even a single extra grain of salt to be perfect—gravy from Grandma Rosie’s recipe made the way it was eighty years ago by her mother, a recipe guarded like the step-by-step plans for a nuclear weapon.
    To Beth, Vincent said, “That’s when Ben said, I have a surprise for you. You’re going to be an uncle.”
    Kenny brought Vincent a Campari and soda, which Vincent stared at in contempt until Kenny, laughing again in the soundless way he did, replaced it with two flutes of champagne. Vincent felt a huge lump in his throat. He had to chug the bubbly and ask for the bottle to get over the urge to start bawling. Finally, he said, “How long have you been married, Sam? A week?”
    “Long enough,” Ben said.
    “You’re a kid.”
    “I’m a kid whose parents had a kid by the time they were my age. Although the jury’s still out. That could have been a mistake.”
    “We know it was a mistake. Dad was in grad school.”
    “I mean a lifelong error, Vincent. Not a failure of technology.” They both laughed then.
    “Well, fucking congratulations,” Vincent said. “Fucking hallelujah. But how does this rule out my movie? And how does Eliza figure to be a mother when she’s what? Twenty?”
    “She’s twenty-one. And Eliza knows how to wash her face and pickup her clothes, Vincent. She’s been washing clothes since she was five.”
    “Right, sure. I know that,” Vincent said, penitent. When Eliza’s slang made her sound like a born West Sider, they forgot that she’d spent the first part of her life in one of the poorest places in the poorest country on earth. At Saint Francis Orphanage in Bolivia, eight-year-old Eliza had been considered one of the
older
children, expected to take care of the babies.
    It wasn’t until Vincent got into the car that he started to freaking cry like an asshole. Jesus. Ben was going to be a dad. Ben, married and a father. Ben was like Dad, the marrying kind. Vincent was like nobody. He didn’t even resemble anyone in the family as far as he could tell. Kerry looked like their mother, Ben like Dad. Maybe he was a throwback. Or the milkman’s kid.
    “Which ones were the hardest?” Beth asked now. “I’ve had shoots that took five hours before the person got halfway settled down …”
    “The Whittiers were hard to convince, but they were easier to do. Once we got there. I don’t think either of them was really sold on the idea. The guy was totally, totally against it. The girl, Blaine, the one who was so shy at the party? She was great. And the mom was just so sweet and soft. But Bryant Whittier is such a pompous guy. The first thing he asked was what we hoped to accomplish, and while we were talking he made some comment about the footage of earthquake victims. He said that people liked to feel good about themselves but compassion had its … I don’t know … something … that those stories gave people who saw them a compassion high or something that they didn’t deserve. The Caffertys were willing, but oh wow…. We left the Caffertys at six that night, Ma. We got there to set up at eight in the morning.”
    “Why?”
    And so Vincent took a huge breath and told Beth about the Caffertys. From the corner of his eye, Vincent saw a gray limousine glide past and wondered if Charley Seven was making sure he’d drop off a payment before he went back to California.

CHAPTER FOUR
    B eth asked him,