Be good to your mother.' He hugged me again and just walked
down the beach--into the night."
Oliver watched tears slide down his mother's cheeks.
She lifted a napkin and wiped away her tears. "He was very handsome."
"No need of that shit," Paul said.
They were silent.
"Paul's right," Oliver said.
"My mother packed up and brought us back to New Haven. We lived with
her folks for a while."
"Good old New Haven," Paul said.
"Now, _your_ father . . ." She smiled at Paul.
"He liked the ladies," Paul said.
"What did he do?" Oliver asked.
"He was a stone mason, made his own wine, raised hell. Fought with
Uncle Tony until the day he died. They were tight, though--don't let
anybody else say anything against them. Bocce ball. Jesus." Paul shook
his head and held up his glass. "Life," he said.
"Yes, life." Oliver's mother raised her glass.
"Coming at you," Oliver added.
"Us," Paul said.
They touched glasses and got on with a shore dinner of lobsters and
clams.
Oliver said goodbye in DiMillo's parking lot. He walked home imagining
the sixteen year old Dior Del'Unzio with her mouth open as the white
dove flew upward and then with her hand to her mouth as her father
walked away.
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