This part explains the death of Patricia and
Paul's father, Robert.
The year was 1993, it was an ordinary day for me.
I was a Freshman in high school and life wasn't
easy. I was bullied for everything imaginable
and I wasn't doing well in school.
I was expecting today to be like
every other day. I expected to find my
father sleeping on the couch, playing
cards with his "friends", or eating
our refrigerator empty. But no...
not today.
I was mortified...
I was shocked...
There lay my father, a heap of black laying
in our dinning room floor; motionless.
There he lay, Mr. Robert Ritromi,
as most called him, to me, he was
"Papa".
People use to say such nasty things
about Papa, about how he changed
our last name to an Italian one to
disguise himself from people trying
to find him. He was a dealer
in a street gang, rival to an Italian
gang in the city. They say that
Ritromi was my mother's last name,
an Italian female worker for one of the
rival gangs. I never met her. From what
I hear, Papa moved us from the big
city when I was very young to lay low
for a while, but I guess someone
found him... He was shot and
mortally wounded.
I was so distraught. Trici was usually
home by now but every now and
again I would beat her home...
Why did today have to be one of
"those" days...
I closed my eyes and began to cry.
Trici came in a couple moments later,
calm and collective. I will never forget
what she did next.
Trici violently grabbed my left arm
and began to sob uncontrollably,
forcing me to glance over once more
at the lifeless corpse that was my
late father.
After a few moments of uncontrollable
crying on both our parts, Trici
took on her nurturing role
as my big sister and petted me up.
She assured me that all would be fine.
Just two days after our father's
murder, we hosted a small funeral
in our back yard.
That morning I mourned next to the wooden
box my father lay inside of. It was all
we could afford, as Trici told me. I
understood that but I knew MY
papa deserved better.
My sister always had a way with words. She
came up behind me and told be to
quit that crying
"I bet you'd hate
for dem girls over yonder to see
you lookin' like that" she
said, trying to get my spirits
up. She was right, i'd
hate for Renette or Connie
to see be balling like that.
I always had a soft spot in
my heart for Renette.
The guest were beginning
to arrive, all 6 of them.
Of all my father's so-called "friends"
only a small few though enough to
mourn his death. None of his
card playing buddys, none of
his old buddys from the gang,
none of his old friends he lent
money to... The first guest was
Miss Trish Tingle, a single mother
of a two daughters, one adopted.
That was Renette, Miss Trish's biological
daughter, and the girl I dreamed of
every night since I was 5.
That was Connie, the adopted daughter.
She was a bit more of a friend in my mind
but people always told me she adored me
despite her taunting and name calling.
That is Mrs. Steffani, a widow from down
the street who "graduated" with my
father and was an old friend of his.
That's Reverend Bob Smith the 3rd and his son
and my old best friend Bob Smith the 4th.
An only child Bob was a boy raised by a
strict father in a very religious home.
I really miss old Bob, he was killed in
a car accident the day after his 21st birthday.
Because we only had 3 chairs in our
house, we decided to have everyone
stand instead, so no one would feel
left out.
Reverend Smith preached his words of
comfort
Mrs. Steffani sung songs of God
and heaven
While Connie and Renette gossiped
quietly.
And Miss Trish scolded quietly.
Trici and I looked on in
sorrow.
The funeral was over... The wooden box
lay there waiting for who ever to come
and take it up to the cemetery, costing
Trici and I more money.
Later that evening, Trici, still dressed
in her funeral get up approched me
saying "Did ya hear ReRe and Connie
talked 'bout you at the funeral day?
You know they like you!"
with a small grin.
I lashed back scream "OUR PAPA IS DEAD N
DATS ALL YOU CARE BOUT!?" her reflexes
made her jump back. Any other time I did
something like that she would have smacked
the taste out of my mouth but it was
different this time.
Without her saying or doing anything I began
to cry. She reached out to hold me but
I cringed away.
I turned and ran to Papa's big bed.
His big bed that he would never let
me sleep in when I was little.
If there was
a storm
"Suck it up child",
Scared of the dark
"Nothins gonna get
ya",
If I couldn't sleep,
"You better try
harder boy".
As I laid there
Trici came in and told me a story.
Something I never understood
when I was little. Trici always had
a strange relationship with Papa, not
like the one I had with him. I then
understood why Trici would have
bruises on her arms and legs, why she
would return to our bedroom crying
uncontrollable after a few hours locked
in Papa's room, why she had trust issues
when it came to men. After that story,
I understood why Papa's death effected
her differently than it effected me...
And I understood why he never let me
sleep in his bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment