Death Before Dishonor Page 3

  Honestly, Pat was against seeing the obstetrician. They came because Francesca wanted to, even if she showed no interest every time.

  Francesca’s agitation was growing visibly, so Pat decided that it would be best to conclude the day’s appointment. She was already stressed. He didn’t want to make it worse. Although they technically weren’t done with the appointment, he had the perfect excuse; they needed to pick up Terry, their adopted son, from daycare.

  “We thank you for your time, Doc,” Pat said, interrupting the doctor and rising to his feet with a hand extended.

  “Oh, uh, right then. I suppose we’re complete for the day.” Dr. Yusef stood to his feet and gripped Pat’s hand. “You have a spectacular day, sir. And you too, Mrs. Ciccone. We’ll all see each other soon enough, I’m sure. I apologize if this isn’t the quick fix that you were hoping for. We will find a solution, though. You have my word.”

  “No apology needed, Major. After all, you’re only looking out for our best interests.”

  ***

  “You were awfully quiet back there,” Pat said, sounding matter-of-fact as he started the engine to their minivan. “Something wrong?”

  “I can’t seem to make my uterus work—but no, Pat, there’s nothing wrong at all,” she said as she situated herself in the passenger seat.

  “Well, I appreciate you being diplomatic.”

  Her head turned towards him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I appreciate you being diplomatic.”

  “Something tells me that you’re being a sarcastic dickhead.” Francesca’s voice became instantly venomous with her deep Jersey accent. “Are you being a sarcastic dickhead right now, Patrizio?”

  “Baby, no. I was legitimately saying thank you.”

  “I bet you were.”

  “Okay, why are you being a psycho hose-beast right now? I didn’t do anything to you?”

  Her temperature climbed through the roof. “Now I’m a hoe?”

  “No, babe. I said hose—hose, baby. Like a water hose.”

  “Mm-hmm. Don’t backpedal now, sweetheart. You’ll find all your stuff on the lawn when you come home from work tomorrow,” she threatened as she began fixing rogue strands of hair in the mirror of the visor.

  “Alright, you sit here. I’m going to run back inside.”

  “For what?” Her tone hadn’t improved.

  “To see if the doc will give you a prescription for an anti-psychotic, because this pregnancy thing has got you acting clinical.”

  Francesca exploded. “You know what? Screw you, Pat! I’m sorry that I don’t take this as well as you do. You have no idea how humiliating this is—how upsetting. But you don’t care about how I feel. You just want to try to act cute.” She mocked her husband, “I appreciate you being diplomatic, babe,” with a terrible imitation of his voice. “Psht—please.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down, honey.” Pat signaled with his hand for his wife to slow down. “I was just saying that I’m glad you didn’t light off in the doctor’s office—just like this.”

  Francesca exhaled disgust.

  “Better out here than in there, I suppose,” Pat said. “Temper-tantrums solve all problems, after all.”

  “Don’t get all righteous with me. Remember, I know where you came from.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You think you’re so righteous, but you came from the same place I did,” she said sharply, her accent going into overdrive.

  “What?” His face pruned. “Look, mafia princess, I’m sorry that I’m not living up to my impoverished ethnic roots, but my ‘self-righteousness’ got you out of Jersey City and feeds you currently.”

  Francesca’s mouth dropped open. Mafia princess? Who did he think he was? “You must have bumped your head, asshole! Your family is no better. Don’t think I don’t know about your brother Alfonzo and your cousin Larry! Everyone else around here may think that you’re God’s gift to mankind, but I know where the real Patrizio Ciccone comes from. So try that diplomatic crap elsewhere!”

  Pat looked at her blankly. “Are you done?”

  She threw her hands up in a fit and turned to look out of the passenger window.

  “Francesca—”

  She cut him off. “Whatever, Pat.”

  “No, baby, for real. Listen, I was saying that—”

  She cut him off again. “I just think it’s funny how—!”

  Pat slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Would you be quiet long enough for me to get a word in?”

  Francesca’s lip curled.

  “I’m not quite sure where this whole fiasco turned into a throat-cutting session—”

  Francesca cut-in again. “How about when—”

  “Francesca!” Pat raised his voice this time.

  “Awright,” she said, sounding surprised that he was getting upset. “G’head.”

  “I understand how stressful this is for you and sometimes it’s going to make you act irrational, but you have to remember that I’m on your team here, baby. We’re doing this together.”

  “How could you understand? You’re not a woman.”

  Why did women always resort to semantics? Pat was just trying to be sensitive towards his wife, and she was crucifying him for it.

  “Fine, forget that I said understand. Substitute empathize instead.”

  “This is easy for you.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You get to come home after work to a hot meal and an inviting wife. Then, after you’ve had your fun, you get to sit and spectate while I deal with my argumentative lady parts.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest. “Must be nice.”

  Have his fun? Really? That’s what this was about? “How did this become my fault.”

  “Everything is your fault. You’re a husband.”

  Pat—at that very moment—realized that he was fighting an uphill battle, and he was losing it miserably. Francesca was not in the mood to have a rational, objective conversation, and Pat should’ve allowed her to have her time of melancholy and grief. She would have talked to him about how she felt when she was ready, and the blast radius wouldn’t have been as large. He accepted that he had brought this on himself. But that didn’t mean he was going to go out like a punk either.

  “Observe,” he said out of nowhere.

  “What?”

  “Observe.”

  A puzzled sneer crossed her face. “Observe what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Spectate isn’t a word. Use the word observe instead.”

  “Christ, save me,” Francesca groaned. “I can’t believe I said until death do we part.”

  Pat smiled. “Baby, you make dying with me sound bad.”

  Francesca’s face was stone. “Only if it’s slow.”

  “Francesca,” he said and then paused for effect, “any death with you will surely be quick.”

  “Keep pushing me, Pat, and your children are going to be fatherless.” She pointed out the windshield. “Drive.”

  “I love you, baby. Even if you’re the angriest woman on earth.”

  “Ugh, drive.”

  ***

  Pierside Market. Tokyo, Japan. Twenty-five and a half years ago.

  Francesca passed through the open door of the pierside market, wiping the rebel strands of hair that blew into her face as she passed under the blower situated above the entrance. Her sundress waved violently in the rushing air, accentuating the disproportionate bulge of her abdomen; she and Pat were finally expecting a child of their own. They were due to have a boy in three short months.

  The couple still hadn’t decided on a name. They often spent hours going through baby books looking for the perfect one, something unique and enchanting, and befitting a first born.

  There is power in a name. A name defines an individual in one short sequence. It’s like a first impression except that a first impression requires face time; that’s not so with a name.
A name can invoke feeling by simply saying it aloud, or invoke a completely different one by writing it. Therein was the difficulty that Pat and Francesca were having with agreeing on a name: their expectations of their long-anticipated son were high beyond measure and different for each of them.

  Pat wanted a son that was stocky and solid, that had his broad shoulders and his wife’s mesmerizing eyes. Beyond that, outward appearance didn’t matter. What mattered was what was inside.

  He wanted his son to have heart and motivation. He wanted him to be a man’s man with unparalleled athleticism and a high pain threshold. He wanted an athlete and a scholar. He couldn’t wait to teach his son to fight, even though Pat had no intention of permitting his son to box, considering Pat’s past.

  Francesca’s wishes for her son were more complex than those of her husband’s. She wanted a son bestowed with her husband’s brilliance and patience but hoped that he also maintained her side of the family’s business and streetwise savvy—without the criminal element, of course. His physical appearance was also very important to her. Although Pat was an amazing athlete, she rationalized that her brother, Julius, was the ideal physical template for her son. Julius fit the description of tall, dark, and handsome one-hundred and ten percent. He was a mountain of a human being, with a full head of black hair—even at the ripe age of forty-two. He also had olive-toned skin that didn’t burn in the summer and a square, chiseled jaw that made him look intimidating even when he smiled.

  Like Julius, her son would be a heartbreaker with a warm smile and a loving heart. Unlike Julius, however, she would teach her son a woman’s worth and raise him to be a true gentleman who would be the envy of all men—a feat that her mother, Marcella, hadn’t been able to achieve with Julius. All of that coupled with her husband’s patience, ambition, and perseverance would make her son a model husband and a successful professional. If she raised him as she intended, her son would provide her with grandchildren that Pat and she could dote on.

  Francesca felt that Pat’s expectations were too simple and too vague, but she respected that men are inherently different than women and Pat didn’t love the same as she; that was okay with her. Pat was going to be an excellent father. Hell, he already was. He showed that daily with their adopted son, Terry.

  Francesca loved Pat more and more every day as she watched him father a boy that was not of his making. Pat was the most amazing man she had ever met, and to think that she was going to give him a child—a child that she carried for him—made her feel tremendous pride.

  How lucky was she? Francesca had known the minute that she’d met him in the seventh grade that their lives would come to this point, this fine moment; she had known that she’d be Mrs. Patrizio Ciccone with two beautiful sons. It was an amazing feeling indeed.

  Her two-way pager buzzed.

  “Please, don’t be Pat,” she begged beneath her breath as she chased after her pager inside her purse. She found it buried beneath a ton of miscellaneous accessories.

  It was him. Pat had sent her a messaged that read: Baby where r u? Sent 10:11 AM

  He was checking up on her.

  Francesca Ciccone: In bed where im supposed to be hun. Sent 10:11 AM

  Francesca wasn’t supposed to be out of the house; the obstetrician had prescribed her bed rest for the final phase of the pregnancy. She was high-risk pregnancy, and the doctor wanted to ensure the greatest margin of success; still, Francesca had become stir-crazy. She couldn’t watch enough terrible Japanese soap operas and couldn’t shop through enough catalogues to pass the day. She had been cooped up for days on end and needed some fresh air. Going to the market, she’d decided, could not be so stressful on the pregnancy—not any more stressful than her lying idly in the house all day, watching soap operas one after the bloody other. Besides, she wanted to pick up something special for Pat and Terry.

  Pat Ciccone: Where r u really? Sent 10:12 AM

  Francesca Ciccone: In bed. Sent 10:12 AM

  Pat Ciccone: R u lying to me? Sent 10:12 AM

  Francesca Ciccone: No. R u spying on me or something? Sent 10:13 AM

  Pat Ciccone: ;) I have my agents everywhere. Sent 10:13 AM

  “Whatever,” she snorted, tossing her phone back into her purse.

  Francesca, realizing that she was holding up traffic at the door, moved clear, pulling Terry by the shoulder to allow a handful of elderly Japanese women to pass. Then she moved over more, noticing that a non-pregnant Francesca would have been clear, not an as-pregnant-as-a-house Francesca.

  “I’m sorry.” She waved to them. “I forget that I’m bigger than I remember.”

  The ladies, not understanding English, all nodded vigorously and smiled as they scooted past.

  As if being in the way wasn’t enough, her clothes were riding up; this never happened before. She situated her maternity clothing, thinking that maternity styles were cold hideous. She looked like a vintage car with a cover over it. She envisioned her husband at work conversing with his contemporaries about their restored muscle cars except that Pat wasn’t talking about his car but rather his wife. That made her growl.

  She supposed maternity clothing was low on a fashion designer’s list of priorities. How does one make a horse not look like a horse, after all? Not to mention that pregnant women didn’t need to look attractive since they didn’t make great prospects. Francesca was sure that fashion designers just glued and stapled fabrics together and tossed them on the shelves at retail prices. Criminals…

  Adding injury to insult, her back hurt on a regular basis, her feet swelled without notice, her usually smooth face constantly broke out, and her moods swung from one extreme to the next. Any romantic who romanticized pregnancy needed to get hit by a bus or a train or an aircraft carrier; Francesca didn’t much care what a romantic was hit by as long as the object was very big and very painful.

  Francesca waddled up and down the aisles in the market, looking at clothing, jewelry, and other miscellanea, not quite sure what it was that she was looking for.

  “Mommy, can I get this?” Terry asked in his usual soft voice.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said, looking down at him. “What did you say?”

  He regarded her with his big, dark orbs.

  Terry was a tall-for-his-age four-and-a-half-year-old boy who had coffee-brown skin and a long, distinguished face. He was cleanly cut like Pat, who took Terry to the barbershop every week. Pat and Francesca did not know who Terry’s biological parents were, but they had divined that his paternal donor was probably a prime candidate for the NBA based on the attributes passed to Terry.

  Pat and Francesca had adopted their once-nameless son when he was six-months old and had named him Terenzio Gianni Ciccone after Pat’s and Francesca’s grandfathers; they called him Terry for short.

  Terry was credited with being the most well-mannered child on the planet. He had rarely cried when he was an infant, reserving such behavior for the most extreme situations, and he had begun talking early. During Terry’s terrible toddler years, he had only thrown a handful of temper tantrums and, on most occasions, had chosen instead to stare intensely when he hadn’t gotten his way.

  Terry was a curious child and an avid daydreamer. He loved to draw and read and especially loved helping out his dad around the house. He was meticulous for his age, keeping his room clean with little guidance, and he tended to catch on to new things quickly. Francesca’s only worry was that he wasn’t very social and didn’t talk much. Pat assured her that he’d grow out of it and that he’d probably acquire Pat’s biting sarcasm.

  Terry held up a coloring book. “Can I get this?”

  “Sure, honey. We can color together when we get home, okay?”

  Terry smiled brightly, his dark cheeks swelling with pleasure.

  “Okay, Terry, mommy needs to get herself together because I’m not even supposed to be here, and daddy’s going to be really mad if he finds out that I’ve been gone long, so help me find something for him. Okay?” />
  “Okay,” Terry said, nodding one distinct time.

  Francesca moved about the market as swiftly as she could, knocking things over and then apologizing to people for cursing aloud. Eventually, she realized that her search had turned into aimless wandering and that she had somehow landed in the seafood section of the market when she last remembered being in a clothing section—weird. Now, where was Terry?

  “Terry?” she said loudly. “Where are you?”

  Panic began to pool in her stomach when she spun and saw him on the other side of the seafood section, fascinated by the live lobsters rattling around in their tank.

  “Terenzio Gianni!” she yelled, rushing up to him and snatching him by his arm. “What are you doing over here?”

  Terry’s eyes and mouth were wide open, suddenly realizing that he was in trouble. He hadn’t meant to make her mad; there was some really ground-breaking stuff going on in the lobster tank, and he pointed at them, trying to show her. Francesca wasn’t buying that. Clearly, the lobsters were the most important thing going on in the world of little people.

  She practically pressed her nose to his. “Terenzio Gianni, don’t you ever walk away from mommy like that! What if someone had grabbed you and taken you away?”

  He blinked twice.

  Francesca heard laughing.

  She stood up straight, pressing her hand into her lower back, and looked over her shoulder. There was an elderly Japanese woman behind the nearest counter giggling at her with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

  “Children funny,” the woman said with a thick accent, struggling with the “L.”

  “I suppose they are, huh? They’re especially funny when you can’t find them.”

  “You pregnant.”

  Francesca couldn’t tell if the lady was asking or stating the obvious. Francesca went with the former. “Yes—yes, I am. My husband and I are expecting in a few months.”