Sophie's Last Stand

Chapter 2

M y brother, Joey, is a poet. I don’t know if Pa will ever recover from this. If Joey didn’t look and act so normal on the outside, I think Pa might’ve disowned him. As it is, Pa, the retired ironworker, just ignores the poetry part and tries to believe that Joey’s simply an English teacher, a college professor. Each year, when Joey’s newest book comes out, Ma carefully lines it up with the others on the top row of the bookshelf, and there it stays, never read by Pa and misunderstood by Ma.

Joey, for his part, doesn’t spout off rhymes or stare into space all misty-eyed like Darlene. Joey plays rugby on Saturday afternoons. He roughhouses with his kids, is openly affectionate with his wife and can fix anything. Pa holds this out as incontrovertible evidence that Joey is somehow just passing through a phase with his writing.

“Poetry, schmoetry,” Pa says. “He don’t mean nothing by it.”

Ma’s kind of flattered. It appeals to the well-hidden, romantic side of her personality. “He’s writing about growing up,” she says, like this is a tribute.

I’ve read Joey’s stuff, the stuff he doesn’t show our parents. Believe me, it is not a tribute. He talks about all the things we good Italians don’t mention, like the brutality of growing up Catholic, or the pain of living poor when the layoffs happen and the jobs don’t come.

Joey feels everything. He cried when Angela stood holding her father’s arm in the back of the church, right before she walked down the aisle and became his wife. He sobbed when his first baby, Emily, was born and he held her in his arms. He cried when the second baby, Joseph Jr., arrived two years later and cried yet again when the third baby, Alfonse, completed the trio. He laughs hard, he plays hard and he loves his family, all of us, more than we can ever truly know. I watch Joey so I see all of this, but my parents, they miss out sometimes when they don’t allow themselves to see the real Joe.

It was Joey who saw the dream in my old house. Joey who convinced Pa that this would be okay, that we would all pitch in and it would actually be fun, a family thing. He showed up for the inspection with Pa in the car, the two of them ready to find fault with my future acquisition. Instead, Joey wound up rubbing his hand lovingly along the old banister, kneeling down to show Pa the strength in the ancient heart pine floors, and crawling up under the rafters in the attic to feel the “bones” of my new home. It was Joey who won Pa over, and Joey who cheered me on when I had doubts.

“Soph, look,” he said, his fingers tracing the pattern in an etched glass window, “you can’t find detail like this anymore. It’s art. Oh, kid, you have scored here. What a deal!”

Joey didn’t let me back down on my dream, not for one minute. “You’re a Mazaratti, Soph,” he said. “Look at you—you divorced that piece of crap husband, you took your name back, you remembered where you come from and now you’ll be where you belong—with family, starting over.”

He drove the rental truck up to Philly with me that very week, loaded my belongings and waved goodbye to the old neighborhood as we pulled up onto I-95 heading south.

“Don’t look back,” he said. “I never have. I don’t miss it and I didn’t leave half the baggage you’re dumping. I say good riddance to bad rubbish, Soph. Step out there, make yourself a life and don’t worry about Philly ’cause Philly ain’t gonna worry about you.”

It was also Joe who convinced Ma that the reason I didn’t move into the planned community with them and Darlene was because I had a mission to teach inner city kids and needed to be close to my future students. Now this was all bullshit, but Ma bought it on account of it was Joey doing the sales pitch.

So it made sense then that it was Joey I called when I got into trouble—big trouble. I called him at his community college office, before I called Pa and before I could control my emotions. I called him not because I didn’t know what to do and he did, I called him because he would know what to say. He would know how to put the picture back in focus without shattering the lens.

“Joey,” I said, when he came to the phone, “you gotta get over here, quick.”

“What’s wrong?” Joey’s voice was strong and deep and, most of all, calm.

“I was…I was working in the backyard….” I clutched the cell phone, pressing it to my ear. I kept gulping, swallowing, standing there in the weeds, staring at the ground and trying not to lose control. “You know, hacking at those vines so I could get to the trash pile and haul it out to the bin.”

“Yeah?” Joey didn’t get impatient like Pa would’ve done; he let me tell the story in my own time and manner.

“I hit something, Joe, with the machete, and when I did…” I swallowed very hard, looked at the long, thin blade stuck where it had landed, and tried to continue. “It, like, sank into something—you know, something soft?”

“Sophie,” Joe said, “tell me about it.”

“Joey, there’s someone dead in my backyard. I was just chopping weeds and I hit her. Joey, I think I might’ve killed somebody.”

I heard him exhale. “I’m coming,” he said, and hung up.

I stood there as if the gravity of the universe was pinning me to the planet, and stared at the body in front of me. If I’d really thought about it, I would’ve realized that she was probably dead before I hit her. How else could she have come to my backyard, rolled up in dark green plastic and positioned herself beneath bushes and weeds, waiting for my impending discovery? Who alive or conscious would wait for death like that?

Besides, there was no blood when I hit her. I mean, I knew, instantly, that I’d hit something that was flesh and blood. I shuddered because I could still feel the initial hit and then the sinking in of the blade. I’d knelt down, tugged at the plastic and fell backward as it gave in my hand, revealing the slim arm of a woman, the side of her body exposed to the bright morning sunlight.

That’s when I’d called Joe. Now I looked back at her and realized how I’d known she was dead. It was the paleness of her skin, an ashy-gray tone that live bodies just don’t have. The machete blade stuck upright from the middle of her chest, but there was no blood. I reached down nonetheless and touched her forearm. It was cool, even on a hot summer’s morning. She was definitely dead.

I lifted the cell phone once again and punched in 9-1-1. I drew in my breath and forced myself to say the words slowly and clearly. “My name is Sophie Mazaratti, I live at 618 West Lyndon Street and I have just found a dead woman in my backyard.”

It didn’t take much beyond that to get the ball rolling. The police station is only two blocks away. I live in the highest crime area in town. Three cruisers were in my driveway before I could hang up. The officers found me still rooted to the spot, the cell phone clutched in my hand and the body sprawled out in front of me.

“Jesus,” the first one said.

I crossed myself and turned around to face him. He looked like a kid, like he wasn’t old enough to shave. His eyes were huge when he saw the body, and he stopped just as I had, frozen, his ruddy complexion paling as the reality of what he was seeing hit him.

I could see his fingers twitch and he seemed to want to unsnap his gun even though a gun would be no protection against a dead body. He looked at me. I didn’t look like a threat—at least, I hoped not. I could see my reflection mirrored in the window of his squad car. I looked like the Blessed Virgin only with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. I can’t help that I look like a kindergarten teacher, and at this moment I was actually thankful. With a dead body in the backyard and my fingerprints on the machete, innocent and harmless were just the qualities I needed to portray to this trigger-happy first responder.

The young cop’s partner arrived, paired up with two other cops from the two other cars. Everybody was young and anxious and clearly experiencing something out of the ordinary. Hell, a machete sticking out of a body, that’s not ordinary in almost anyone’s experience. The three other cops stopped short in a clump of dark uniforms and aviator sunglasses. Two were women. One of the women was tall and big-boned, but the other one, a blonde, was about my size. I found myself ridiculously thinking, I could take her. What is it about cops that make people start feeling claustrophobic?

“Did you call us?” the blonde asked.

I looked back at the body. I sort of figured that part would be obvious. Who else was gonna call, the victim? “Yeah. I’m Sophie Mazaratti and that, there, is a dead body.”

One of the men snickered softly, then spoke into the microphone clipped to the front of his uniform. In the distance a siren wail started, then stopped. Dead. No need to rush—time was no longer a concern.

“Ma’am,” the big woman said, “why don’t you come with me and I’ll take your statement.” She looked at the first officer, the young redheaded boy. “LaSalle, secure the scene.” She looked past him, over the fence, into the neighboring backyard and on toward the projects. She was formulating an opinion.

Joey arrived right after she asked, “Was the machete already in her chest or did you do that?” I didn’t like her tone.

Joey reached my side just as I was answering her. “Yeah, well, I figured since she was already dead I might as well chop her up so’s she’d fit in the trash can better.”

“Soph,” Joe cautioned. “Let it rest.”

I turned around and went to him, right into the strong arms of my brother. “Joe, she’s a fucking idiot who’s trying to get wise,” I muttered in his ear. “I was just letting her know I don’t play.”

“Enough,” he whispered. “Let me talk to her.”

He turned away from me, loosening his grip and taking a step to offer his hand to the cop. “I’m Joe Mazaratti, Sophie’s brother. Listen, she’s a little upset. I mean, it’s a dead body. I guess I don’t have to tell you we’re not used to this sort of situation.”

The officer shook Joe’s hand. She wasn’t charmed yet, but she was on the slippery slope headed downhill to him. Women couldn’t resist Joe. I don’t know what it is. He’s good-looking enough, but he’s going bald. Personally, I think it’s his eyes. He’s got the Mazaratti eyes—intense, warm—and when he finally smiles at you, it’s like winning a prize. Of course, it could just be that Joe’s a nice guy and it’s genuine with him. If he likes you, you know it.

Joe was reading her nameplate. “Officer Melton?” He sounded the name out slowly and smiled. “How can we be of further assistance? You want Sophie here to come down to the station? You want something to drink, water? Move our cars? What?”

Melton, given too many options, hesitated briefly. “No, Mr. Mazaratti, if y’all could just wait on the front porch, or inside the house, that’s all we need right now. They’ll send out a couple of detectives and they’ll probably want to talk to Ms. Mazaratti, ask her a few questions.”

She didn’t even look at me now. It was all Joe. But that was fine by me. I was watching the cops string yellow crime scene tape across my backyard and feeling like everything was happening at the other end of a tunnel.

Joe took me by the arm and walked around the side of the house, up to the front porch steps. We climbed them and slowly sank down onto the top riser. Joey waited until Officer Melton joined the others in the backyard before he asked for the full story. He made me tell him twice, asking questions until at last I could see he was satisfied and had an accurate picture in his head of the events leading up to my finding the body.

“You don’t know who it is or anything, do you?”

I frowned at him. “Joey, I don’t know hardly anybody in this town but you guys. Besides, all I saw was an arm. It’s kind of hard to identify somebody by their arm, although she did have a kind of unusual arm.”

Joey was on it. “What do you mean unusual?”

“Well, she had this kind of tattoo on her knuckles,” I said. “Letters, you know, spelling out a word.”

“What word?”

“Hate. And then there was a, like, dragon symbol above that, on the back of her hand, but kind of small, toward her thumb.”

“You’re right,” Joe said. “That’s weird for here, but up North, you know that would be considered normal.” He laughed then and I had to laugh with him. It was eerie, laughing in the presence of a dead body, but it was like laughing in church—you know you shouldn’t, and that just makes it all the funnier.

The detectives pulling up in their unmarked, but totally obvious, sedan must’ve thought we were crazy. I saw the driver look up with a puzzled expression, check something on a piece of paper and then look back at the house. He was probably thinking he had the wrong address, what with us laughing like that, but the cop cars in the driveway confirmed it. They were on the scene with lunatics.

The crime scene van pulled right up in front of them and two technicians piled out and scurried up the driveway. If Joey’s stifled laughter and my giggles seemed odd, they weren’t stopping to mull it over. They had business in the backyard and time was wasting.

The detectives, though, were cooler. Detectives don’t rush. Rushing means you’re not in control, and I knew from Philly that detectives were always in control. The doors to the sedan slowly swung open and the two men got out of the car, the driver for a moment obscuring my view of the second detective.

The driver, a reed-thin older man, moved and started walking up the walkway. The second detective followed, head down and face partially obscured as he spoke into his cell phone. But even from a distance, even with his head down, I felt the shock of recognition. Mr. Wonderful was about to walk back into my life and this time I couldn’t run away.

He saw Joe first. I stayed on the porch, half-hidden by the overgrown magnolia tree, half hiding behind the porch pillar, watching. It had been almost six weeks since that first meeting in the tiny chapel, since the day I’d passed him on the sidewalk like there wasn’t a thing to it but two strangers smiling politely. Now here he was, poised on the edge of my life, about to change everything. But it was Joe he recognized.

I watched the detective snap the cell phone shut and follow his partner toward Joe, who stood in the driveway. Mr. Wonderful wore dark, well-tailored trousers, a white starched shirt and a subdued red tie. It picked up the intense gray color of his eyes, deepening them. His skin was darker, more tanned, as if he’d spent even more time outdoors since I’d first seen him. He moved like an athlete, graceful but with a coiled energy that seemed ready to spring forth at any opportunity.

I saw the detective’s eyes light on my brother, and the broad smile that had first drawn me to him appeared, un-checked, as if he had forgotten that this was a homicide scene and not just a chance meeting between two friends on the street.

Joe had the same sort of smile on his face, easy and warm. As I watched, he clasped Mr. Wonderful’s hand, then drew him in and hugged him, the way we do family or close friends up North.

Italians don’t love casually. We take hostages. You are either all the way in with us or a stranger. There is no phony Southern “Y’all come back now, hear?” If we don’t want to see you again, we don’t invite you back. I could tell just by watching that Joe knew this guy, knew him well and liked him. My heart flipped over and I rubbed my palms across my thighs, smoothing the fabric of my faded overalls.

“It’s a mess,” I heard Joe say. “My sister Sophie just moved down from Philly…gonna live in her dream house…now this. Marone.”

Mr. Wonderful was looking at the scene, over Joe’s shoulder, not seeing me there on the porch. He shook his head, agreeing with my brother.

“You know the district,” Mr. Wonderful said. “It’s transitional. These things happen sometimes…probably a hooker who got dumped after a bad deal.” He shook his head again, but his eyes darkened and his expression was grim. His good humor was gone and he was all business.

Mr. Wonderful looked at my brother and the smile flashed back for a second. “Joe, you got a sister? Why didn’t you tell me? She doesn’t take after you, does she?” Now he was grinning, trying to lighten up the situation for my brother.

Joe touched the top of his scalp and grinned. “No, Gray, she’s got hair.”

His name was Gray. It was perfect for him. It matched his eyes. Oh God, I was drooling like an idiot.

But Joe didn’t waste time. “Sophie,” he called, turning and revealing my hiding place on the steps. “Come here. I want to introduce you to someone.”

I stood, my hand touching the porch rail so I wouldn’t trip walking down the steps because the way I felt, I couldn’t trust my body not to betray me. I saw him do a double take, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening, either. I saw the easy smile flash, then grow tentative as I suppose he remembered me passing him on the street like a stranger.

I smiled back because I couldn’t stop myself. I was suddenly so very glad to see him. My brain wasn’t working right. My inhibitions, the stuff that would normally put on the brakes and stop me from looking foolish and desperate, were gone. Instead it was just me, smiling up like he was someone I already knew well, someone I wanted to keep close to me.

“She don’t always look this good,” Joe said, picking up on something, but uncertain of what it was. “She’s down here, what, two weeks? Already she’s with the overalls and the work boots.”

That stopped me. I suddenly saw myself as Gray must be seeing me. I was covered in dirt and yard grime, sweaty, probably smelly, too. I was wearing one of Pa’s old V-necked undershirts, worn overalls from the thrift shop and a red bandanna around my hair. I lifted my hand to touch the bandanna and the unruly curls my grandma Mazaratti once said would trap birds. This was wonderful. Dirty, no makeup and standing right in front of what Darlene called my destiny. Marone a mia.