Blessed are the Meek (19 page)

 

Chapter 40

P
ULLING INTO
N
ANA'S
curved driveway and seeing her sprawling house nestled in the hills of Livermore's wine country always brings peace to my heart. The slanting sunlight gives the house's white Carmel stone an ethereal glow. Giant, overflowing flowerpots and trailing vines add splashes of cheerful color to the front of the home. The extensive garden beds in the back are testimony to my grandmother's endless energy. In her eighties, she won't even consider slowing down. Her home has been the host to our family's big Sunday dinner for the past fifty years or so, ever since my mother was a little girl, and the family moved out of San Francisco's Italian neighborhood.

Donovan has been in jail a week. It's time for me to face my family. Father Liam and Donovan agreed it would be safe for me to spend the weekend with my grandmother. I've hardly come up for air all week. Every day I stop at the jail to visit Donovan. After, I head to Annalisa's, where I pound on her door for a few minutes before heading into work. In the newsroom, I spend my days churning out as many evergreen stories as I can before heading to the rectory late and falling into bed.

I'm so relieved to be at my grandmother's house. Lopez followed me to her long driveway, then peeled off, back to his place in Oakland. I know I'm lucky to have such a loyal friend, but I need my family at the moment.

My world feels so uncertain right now—­I need some grounding. Nana has always been my confidant. And I need to confess.

“
Mi cara.
You make your nana so happy coming to stay,” she says, giving me kisses on both cheeks. “I heat up some
pasta fazool,
we have some wine, and watch
Wheel of Fortune,
okay?”

“That sounds perfect,” I say with a smile. That's what I need—­something normal and mundane and wonderful with someone who loves me unconditionally. I need some relief from the despair I feel. Thinking of Donovan sitting in jail sends flutters of panic through me as if a heavy weight is pressing on me, and I can't escape.

I know tomorrow is “D” Day. The day I have to face my family about Donovan's arrest. If my Nana knows anything, she isn't letting on. By the way Nana is treating me, I have a feeling my mother didn't tell her.

For some reason, I always blurt out the things that are bothering me while my Nana and I do dishes after a big meal. Tonight is no exception. She hands me a glass to dry and I say, looking at the big colorful ceramic cross above the sink, “Donovan was arrested for murder last week. But he didn't do it.”

Very little ruffles my grandmother, who has outlived one husband, three children, and one grandchild, and I find it comforting that this doesn't, either. She stops and looks at me, with her brow furrowed with thought.

“He has good lawyer? Does he need money? I have some money, okay?”

“He's got a really great criminal lawyer. One of the best. A friend of his family. Thank you. Save your money for your trip to Italy this winter.”

“Then he should be set free.” She dismisses the problem as if it were nothing, handing me a bowl to put away on a high shelf.

“It's not that simple. Someone has done something to make him look guilty, and I'm not sure we can show he's innocent without finding the real killer.”

“So. You find the real killer,” she says with a shrug. I find it refreshing that instead of trying to protect me and warn me off my own efforts like the rest of the world is doing, my grandmother has faith that I can do something to help.

I give her a big hug. I'm so lucky to have her.

Before bed, I sneak into the living room and dig out an old photo album my nana keeps in a drawer. Flipping through photos of Caterina and me as children is always bittersweet. I think of Frank Anderson. As far as I'm concerned, his days are numbered.

T
HE NEX
T MORNING
I attend Mass with my grandmother in Livermore, then we come home to stir the sauce for Sunday supper. It's been simmering on the stove since seven this morning. Two gigantic, industrial-­size pots hold the red sauce, a dozen pork chops, three dozen meatballs, and two dozen Italian sausages.

My grandmother fixes the same meat sauce every Sunday, frying the meatballs on Saturday morning so they are ready to simmer in the sauce the next day. My back almost hurts just thinking about all the work involved in rolling that many meatballs every week. I'm glad I was there this morning to help.

­People start showing up in small groups after they attend their own Masses at Catholic churches across the Bay Area. Everyone arrives with a dish to share. Aunt Lucia brings some green beans with almond slivers. My brother Dante's wife, Nina, has three loaves of fresh bread. Uncle Dominic comes bearing a platter with mozzarella, fresh tomatoes, and basil from his giant garden. I give my niece, Sofia, an extra long hug.

Children are racing around the backyard, and bright linens are flung on the long wooden-­plank tables under my grandmother's grape arbor in the backyard. Each Sunday, more than thirty ­people, mostly family, but family friends, too, arrive to eat Sunday supper. It's my favorite day of the week and has quickly become Donovan's. My stomach flip-­flops imagining him in a jail cell while we bask in the day's glorious sunshine and warmth. A wave of guilt makes my stomach churn. It puts a pall on everything today.

Shortly before 1
P.M.
, my mother arrives with a giant pan of tiramisu. I've been anxious, waiting for the sound of her sandals to enter the kitchen, where I've been helping my grandmother. At this point, Nana really doesn't need my help to stir the sauce. In reality, I'm hiding from my family and the questions in their eyes. When my mother arrives, she puts the dessert in the refrigerator and places her hands on her hips, looking at me.

“Guest bedroom. Right now.”

I know better than to argue.

“I don't understand why you don't ever call me back,” is the first thing she says once the door closes.

I shake my head. I don't know why I react that way. I wonder what my shrink would say? Which reminds me, I've ignored her phone calls about scheduling an appointment this week.

“You are a grown woman, Gabriella. I'm not going to scold you. I want you to feel you can turn to me when things are . . . difficult. Okay?”

She reaches over and hugs me tightly.

“Now,” she says, standing up and straightening her beige linen skirt, “what is going on with Sean? How could they possibly arrest him for murder? Who is out to get him? What can I do to help? I will move the heavens and Earth to help prove he is innocent.”

For some reason, a few hot tears form in the corners of my eyes when I see how my mother instantly defends Donovan and is ready to fight for his innocence. I don't know why this surprises me. It shouldn't.

I realize she is treating me like an adult. Talking to me as a friend, almost. I wonder if this has to do with her change of heart about visiting the cemetery. She's about to walk away when I lightly touch her arm.

“Mama, did you go that day?”

She knows what I mean. The anniversary. She turns to me with a smile so bittersweet that my chest hurts. She nods. “It was good. Really, really good.” She presses her lips tightly together, and her eyes are glossy with tears. “I'd like it very much if you would go with me next time.”

I don't answer, afraid I'm going to burst into tears. I nod back.

“Go fix your face, honey. My hug smeared your lipstick. Everyone is going to be wondering where we are,” she says, giving me a small kiss on my forehead like she used to do when I was a little girl.

She's going to talk to the rest of the family, so they won't bother me with questions, she says, and walks out.

I'm grateful for her intervention. Nobody bothers me or even gives me funny looks. It works for everyone except my brothers. Not long after, Marco and Dante corner me in the living room.

“Oh no.” I look for a way to escape, but they are standing in front of the only door out of there. “I thought Mama told you to leave me alone.”

I catch Dante, the pretty boy in the family, checking his hair in the mirror over the hearth while Marco, our eldest brother, talks.

“I know you think he didn't do it, and hey, maybe he didn't, but I'm letting you know, if your boy is a killer, he's not only going to have to contend with the law, he's going to have to deal with us.” Marco raises his eyebrow, as if I'm not already getting the point.

Dante turns around. “Yeah, we will fuck his shit up.”

“Correction. We will destroy him,” Marco says. He doesn't believe in swearing, saying only uneducated buffoons resort to cursing.

“Easy boys,” I say, rolling my eyes. It's comforting to have two loyal, Italian-­American brothers, but it can be a royal pain in the ass. Dating in high school was the ultimate nightmare because both of them thought they should play the asshole Italian father figure in front of all my dates. I know it's wrong, but I'm touched by their fierce loyalty in a little bit of a screwed-­up way. I don't condone violence, but it's still nice to know in this crazy world my brothers will always have my back.
No matter what.

“Why don't you save that energy for getting the guy who hit me over the head. You're wasting time worrying about Donovan when the real killer is out there.”

“Don't worry. The guy who hit you on the head, he's going to regret that,” Dante says.

“Then worry about him, not Donovan,” I say. “You said Donovan was like a brother to you now.”

“Yeah, well, that situation changes dramatically if it ends up he's playing around on you with that woman and whacking ­people,” Marco says.

“Yep,” Dante chimes in. “Whole new ball game then.”

“Don't believe everything you read.”

“That's rich, coming from you, little sister,” Dante says with a smirk. “Big newspaper girl admits that what's in the papers is pure crap.”

“Don't change the subject,” I say. “Donovan didn't do it, and if you want to help, then please believe me. Come on. You guys welcome him into your homes. He hangs out with you and watches football. He's family now, right? I need you to believe in him.”

Marco's face softens when he hears the pleading in my voice. Dante comes up, loops his arm around my neck, and ruffles my hair with his fist, like I'm in junior high school again. “Don't worry. If your boy didn't have nothing to do with it, he'll be cool.”

“Yeah,” says Marco, spreading his arms wide. “We'll welcome him back with open arms.”

“Yeah, he's family,” Dante says. “He's family—­until he fucks with a Giovanni. Then he's dead meat.”

L
A
TER, THE OLD
uncles are peeling their peaches and plopping the wedges into their wineglasses for dessert, when Marco's wife, my sister-­in-­law Sally, places my newborn niece in my arms.

“Would you hold Adriana while I use the bathroom? She misses her auntie anyway.”

Adriana, unlike most babies in our family, takes after her mother, with nearly white blond hair. She looks up at me solemnly as I gently rock her, then sing, “Frère Jacques.”

How can such a little thing seem so wise? I lift her up and smell her head. There is nothing like the smell of a baby. I inhale deeply and smile. Then I hear whispering. I look up to see Marco and Sally watching me. I didn't realize it, but they had been standing there for a while watching.

“I didn't mean to be hard on you earlier, but you're a good kid,” Marco says. “You deserve to have a man who loves you more than anyone else, like I love Sally here. That's all I want for you.”

Sally nods in agreement.

“Thanks.” I stand and thrust the baby at them and rush off.

The rest of the afternoon is spent with my family and filling up on wine, coffee, and dessert. I squirrel away two small pieces of my mother's tiramisu so I can take them back to the rectory to share with Father Liam and Father Michael. When Lopez came to meet me at my grandmother's house to follow me back to the rectory, Nana loaded him up with enough leftovers to feed an army. Now she has a fan for life.

The family time has done me good. But my mood darkens as I grow closer to the rectory in Oakland, with C-­Lo's car in my rearview mirror. I can't block out images of Donovan sitting in a jail cell. Or the thought of some, faceless monster named Frank Anderson plotting how to prey on his next victim.

 

Chapter 41

D
ONOVAN HAS BEEN
in jail for nine days now. But it feels like a lifetime. Visiting hours start in a few minutes. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I left the rectory this morning in plenty of time, but I'm stuck in traffic on the Bay Bridge. I bite my lip and watch the patterns of the cars, waiting for an opening in traffic.

Donovan has finally agreed that I don't need Lopez trailing after my every move as long as I promise to let him know when I'm pursuing more “risky” leads or stories. I feel like a kid let loose at recess. I gun my motor, switching lanes on the Bay Bridge like I own it.

I can't be late. I need to spend the full thirty minutes with him. Even that is not enough. I rush into the jail lobby fifteen minutes late, eager to get in to see Donovan, but when I hand my visitor request slip to the clerk, she tells me he already has a visitor.

Troutman? No, attorneys get special visiting hours, don't they? Donovan's mother? I've been meaning to call or go visit her, but for some reason I've avoided it. I think I'm afraid. I don't know her that well and find her slightly intimidating. After Donovan's dad died when he was ten, she single-­handedly raised him and his six older sisters. He's always been the baby. Sometimes I worry she thinks I'm not good enough for her only boy.

While I wait, I get my chess book out of my messenger bag and study some moves I've been contemplating using against Tomas. I wait, tapping my foot nervously. I can't concentrate on my book. If his mom doesn't hurry, I won't get to see him at all.

It's nearly 9:50 when I complain to the clerk.

The woman behind the glass booth shrugs. “You'll have to wait for the next visiting hour.”

“When's that?”

“Ten.”

“Fine.” I can't argue. I'll be late to work, but with all the extra hours I've put in lately, I know Kellogg won't complain. Besides, I can't blame Donovan's mother for wanting to spend the entire time with him.

After a few minutes, a stream of visitors begins exiting the interior of the jail. My heart sinks. It's not his mother.

Annalisa.

A surge of jealousy ripples through me. She's wearing a red wrap-­style dress that leaves nothing to the imagination and stiletto, over-­the-­knee boots. My faded jeans and floral blouse feel provincial. Her face is somber. She is still beautiful, but she has dark circles under her eyes. Before she notices me, I catch a look of despair pass over her face. She clutches her closed fist to her mouth and stifles a sob. Right then, she sees me.

We both stare at one another without saying a word. She visibly pulls back her shoulders as she passes. Part of me is tempted to run after her and hold her down and ask her what the hell she meant by saying Donovan was “protected” and what does she know about these murders. All the things I've wanted to ask her. But if I do run after her, I'll miss the last visiting hour.

I can't do it. I can't miss seeing Donovan. It's like a drug. I need to see his face. Every day. If I don't, the careful façade I've erected to keep it together will crumble.

I don't get up until I hear the front door to the jail close behind me.

D
ONOVAN LOOKS
GAUNT,
and his skin has an unhealthy pallor that I have a feeling has nothing to do with his orange jumpsuit. His beard has grown, surpassing its normal sexy five o'clock shadow. He gives me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. It makes my stomach churn to see him like this.

My visits are becoming increasingly depressing. He refuses to talk about what it's like in jail, but the purple shadows under his eyes tell me everything I need to know. I compose myself before I pick up the ugly beige phone to talk to him, wiping it off on my shirt, which is sadly, a trick a serial killer taught me during jailhouse visits.

The first words out of his mouth are about Annalisa. He knows me well.

“I'm sorry you had to wait. She usually comes in the afternoon.”

Usually?

“How is she connected to all this?” I ask. “Please tell me. I've been going to her house every day trying to get her to talk.”

“She won't talk to you. She's jealous. She knows how I feel about you.”

“Then you tell me how she's involved. Please.”

“I can't.” He looks away as he says this. “You have to trust me.”

I don't have a choice, do I? I don't want to waste my time here talking about her, anyway.

“Fine. Let's not talk about her. I put some money on your account.”

He gives a wry smile. “Thanks. I'm thinking about taking up smoking.”

“For food, silly! Or maybe a razor,” I say, eyeing his scruff.

He rubs his chin. “Yeah, not my best look ever. Thought I'd grow a beard.”

“I hope you're kidding,” I say in a snooty voice.

He laughs. “Totally.”

He's not going to be in here long enough to grow a beard. He can't be. I need to know he's going to get out soon. It's taking all my acting skills and what feels like enormous effort to have this lighthearted conversation when all I want to do is put my head down on the counter and cry. But I won't.
Die before cry.

“What has Troutman come up with for your defense?”

He gives me a look. “He's working on something. I think he's getting close. I can't talk about it, but we might be onto the real killer.” Donovan looks away when he says this, at something over my shoulder.

“Is this place bugged?” I remember how my visits to the Martinez jail were videotaped.

“I don't know.”

“Why can't you talk about it? To me? I understand not telling others, but why not me?”

“I'm sorry. I would tell you if I could, but Troutman made me swear to keep it under wraps. For now. It will all come out at the prelim.”

My heart sinks. That's not for weeks.

“How are you going to survive that long?” I try to hide the sob in my throat, but it escapes. Every day he is here makes it more real and less of something I can deny or pretend isn't happening.

For the first time today, Donovan gives me a real smile, a wide one. “What do you think? I'm some pansy who needs thousand-­count percale sheets and lobster to survive? I grew up on the streets of Oakland. I know how to survive a few days in the clink. Don't worry about me. I'm more worried about you. How's it going at Father Liam's?”

“Fine. Great. I'm still a prisoner there. In a gilded cage. I think I've gained ten pounds!” I give a mock sigh of exasperation. It works. He laughs.

“Oh, what I wouldn't do for some of Father Liam's famous roast lamb. Or for some of your manicotti for that matter!”

He's trying to be a good sport, but I can tell it's hard. I'll play along.

“Don't worry. As soon as you get out, I'm going to spend the next six months fattening you back up!”

“That's my girl,” he says, then grows serious. “How's your family? I thought about you all day Sunday.”

“They're good. My mother is really worried about you. And Nana offered to help pay for your attorney.”

I can tell this means something to Donovan. His eyes grow soft. “Tell Nana to save her money but that I am honored she offered. Give your mother a kiss for me, too.” He looks down. “I hope they don't think —­”

“No,” I interrupt. “They have unwavering faith in you.”

He catches something in my voice or the way I say it. “But your brothers . . . that's a different story, isn't it?”

I shrug. “They'll be fine.” I try to act nonchalant, but I can see the pain in his eyes.