Bad Marinara

From trembling thin fingers an inch-long ash of a Kool menthol cigarette hangs precariously over bubbling marinara, Lenoir’s mind is troubled, elsewhere. She’s suddenly startled back to reality when the phone rings, she settles herself, takes a puff, and walks cautiously to answer.

“Hello?” she softly speaks into the receiver as she walks around the kitchen tethered to the rotary phone attached to the wall.

“I can’t talk to you about that.”

“I can’t!”

“Not on the phone Mother!” she insists slamming down the receiver and returning to cooking only to see the bit of ash be enveloped into the bubbling sauce.

“Oh well, I’m not eating this crap,” she whispers to herself.

“What did you say, Lenoir?” Her husband Manny asks as he slinks by to grab an insidious-looking package smeared with blood and dirt from the harvest gold refrigerator.

Manny quickly leaves gnawing on a stubby Monte Cristo cigar and slapping her ass as he slinks startling Lenoir again sending more ash cascading into the sauce. She stands motionless as the sting dissipates not knowing how a reaction from her would be taken. The sound of the front door closing and the roar of his Cadillac coming to life are the signs from an unforgiving god that she can begin to relax. She pulls a chair out and collapses into it exhausted from her edgy, high-strung existence. Tears rush down her cheeks as she realizes her husband’s true nature and her place in it. She had been quite querulous and demanding in the past, but Manny has been very irascible lately since that package showed up three days ago. What was in that package? Why did its presence have such an impact on Manny? He had always been the stereotypical Italian mafia type, he wore tracksuits, and pinky rings, and slicked back his hair, but that was a persona he worked hard to emulate. After ten years of marriage, she had never thought he was a part of that life, but she enjoyed the benefits that image afforded her. Beginning on Monday when she would pick up the receiver to place a call, she could hear the forewarned telltale click of someone recording her phone calls. She had never heard the click before the electric company began working on the lines on their street this very week, and that coincided with the arrival of a bloody dirt-covered package. As Lenoir lights another cigarette and leans back to relax, she recalls the night Manny came home disheveled as he furiously tried to clean the blood and dirt from the package, but some stains just won’t come clean. She had offered to help, but that was the beginning of his brutality directed towards her.

The phone rings and breaks up the thunderous bubbling of the sauce on the stove, Lenoir barely turns an eye to give recognition to the interloper of her solace. She sits and puffs away on her cigarette drawing in deep the flavor she addictively loves so much, the instrument of her calmness. The phone stops ringing for a moment and then begins again.

“Fuck!” she screams bolting from her chair and stomping angrily to the phone.

She stares intensely at the phone as it rings and rings, standing stoic with her hands on either side of the body of the phone she slowly leans in, and her expression changes to that of rage.

“Why won’t you fucking leave me alone!” she screamed as she reared back and punched the wall hitting a calendar that had already covered a damaged spot from past frustrations.

Lenoir spins and sits as the phone stops ringing and then begins again. She looks up defeated out the picture window onto the expanse of her backyard and spies a man perched on a pole wearing a hard hat, holding a phone, and looking directly toward her. The phone rings again.

“Hello?” she answers and can see the man on the pole talking to her.

“Mrs. Luciano we would like to talk with you about a certain package that may be in your possession, would you have a moment to talk?” he asks politely.

Lenoir sits with the receiver to her ear and begins to cry again, all that she has is about to come crumbling down. The life they have built, her home, and their daughter are all in jeopardy because of something Manny has done, and the proof is in that package.

“Mrs. Luciano?”

All she ever wanted was to find a good man who would take care of her and give her some children, isn’t that what every good Catholic wants? Now because something completely out of her control is going to break all that apart.

“Mrs. Luciano, we can help you and your daughter,” he offers.

It is as if the man on the other end of the line is reading her mind, or is it that he has been in this position so many times he knows exactly what to say? Is he offering a helping hand, or is it a means to an end, and all they want is to parade Manny Luciano past the throngs of flashing bulbs and reporters so they can say they are tough on organized crime? If they had ever seen Manny’s office, they would know he can’t organize anything.

“We only want to talk and explain what we can do mam, your husband is on a downward spiral, and I would hate for you to be caught up in that. We can give you a whole new life for you and your daughter if only you would talk with us,” he explains.

“I’ll do it… Did you hear me, I said I’ll do it!” she declares afraid to be overheard, then looking up to see the man hanging sideways limp upon the pole.

Suddenly she hears the roar of Manny’s Cadillac race into the driveway and slide to a stop. Shock and anxiety overcome her, her legs won’t move, and she’s paralyzed with fear. Life has slowed as she musters all her strength to pull herself up and put one leg in front of the other. Through the picture window, she can see Manny hurrying to the front door, and with a kick, it bursts open. She pivots right as the first shot grazes her shoulder, but as she reels from the sting of a gunshot, she can hear his approach. Manny turns the corner determined to keep her from turning on him when he is doused in boiling hot marinara sauce and knocked to the ground by Lenoir as she runs past him even more determined to survive. Her fear and his screams had silenced her to the gun battle taking place on her front lawn. Quickly she tries to move the damaged front door out of the way, but with little success. A bullet violently strikes inches from her face and presents a deadly catch twenty-two. Bullets are flying outside, and Manny is standing, slipping, and sliding her way as she struggles to move the door out of her way. Lenoir digs deep and gathers a strength that all women have deep down and can push the door open so she can leave, then Manny grabs her arm.

Lenoir twists and fights to get away but his massive paw has latched on for good fueled by the rage he feels for her. That feeling of defeat begins to set in as a bullet wisp by her head, rustling her hair and striking Manny dead center in the chest, his grip loosens, and he hits the floor. Lenoir falls with him as she is struck with grief at the loss of her husband, the man she once loved, but realizes more than ever she needs a new life. The barrage of bullets has ceased outside, she stands and walks out triumphant yet distraught. Agents rush to her aid but not before she can see the fallen body of her daughter, a casualty of the zeal of law enforcement and organized crime.

“I am so glad you are okay!” An agent says rushing to help her through the carnage.

“I have lost everything…”

“You can still help us Mrs. Luciano, and we can still help you,” He pleads.

Lenoir mindlessly steps over bodies and sloshes through blood and shell casings. The gravity of what she has lost hits her like a ton of bricks and pales in comparison to putting a mobster behind bars.

“Mrs. Luciano we can give you another life if you testify to everything you know.”

“I don’t want another life,” she says falling to the ground on top of a pistol, placing it to her head and without hesitation pulling the trigger.

The agent grabs her body as she begins to collapse to the ground, he knows if she dies their case will fall apart. He calls for the paramedics and then turns to her to comfort her.

“Why? You could have had everything,” he begs to know why.

“They overheard me, they would have never let me live…”