Traditional Babe story…..almost

I angled out of my latest demolition derby reject at 6:03 p.m. Paychecks as a bond apprehension agent are feast or famine. I've been in a famine cycle due to the bonded actually appearing in court for their hearings and not my ineptitude. My low bond retrievals have kept me in gasoline money and little more. Hence my need to suck up my always shaky ego and bum another meal from my parents.

As expected my mother is standing by the door with a look of total embarrassment. Not only is my POS car a slap in the face to the neighborhood, I'm late for dinner. My mother considers it an obligation to have dinner on the table at 6 pm. Gabriel could be ready to blow his horn indicating Judgement Day, but he'd have to wait until the dinner dishes were cleared and dessert was consumed at the Plum house.

On Fridays I am bound my familial bonds to be at the dinner table unless I'm in the hospital, always a possibility, or I on a date, rarely a possibility. I know not to be late or be blamed for dry pot roast, overcooked chicken or soggy pasta. I have arrived in various personal catastrophic stages; burned hair, bruised face, torn clothes so often my family only notices if I'm late. On the nights I arrive in disarray and Joe Morelli, a Trenton Police Detective and my on-again-off-again boyfriend, is at the table, I can guarantee he'll have undercutting comments.

Tonight I arrive with a dirty shirt and jeans. "Well, at least they are only dirty, not torn," he mutters.

I reframe from rolling my eyes and respond, "I was trying to get into my car but some jerk parked his muddy panel truck to close. I guess I rubbed up against it."

"Is that why there are twigs in your hair and scratches on your arms," my mother jumped in like a vulture coming to carrion.

"I was helping Mrs. Kaminski get her cat out of the hedges."

"Yeah right," Joe mumbles.

I turned and stared at Joe, "It's the truth" and it was for both stories. The only bounty I had caught all day was Mrs. Kaminski's cat and I didn't get paid for my generosity.

"I don't know why you can't have a lady-like job, like at the button factory or sanitary products factory," my mother moaned. "Young ladies should not be chasing after thugs with a gun."

For a moment I was confused. Did she mean armed thugs or me having a gun? "I hardly ever take my gun, mother," I replied I've heard her tirade for years and was tired of it. "Anyway, the last time I went for an interview at the sanitary products factory the boss said he'd hire me if I'd serve his sexual needs starting with a blow job."

My mother's mouth fell open.

"Why do you think there is always an opening, pardon the pun mother, for a personal assistant?" I shot back. "No decent woman will work there."

"Frank, did you hear what your daughter just said?"

My father has selective hearing in the house and is virtually deaf at the dinner table, "Huh?"

Grandma Mazur was enjoying this and gave me a wink when I looked at her.

I looked down at my meal, it was not Ranger friendly. Ranger was my friend, mentor and a man that could cause me to hyperventilate just by looking at me. The Cuban sex god had a muscle chiseled body and other manly attributes. With his superhuman senses, he easily reads my mind, can cut steel with his eyes and can kiss either passionately or so lightly a butterfly wing would not be disturbed. I am in love with him but due to his lifestyle, a committed relationship isn't in his cards. I know this and have been hurt many times, but I can't bring myself to run for the hills.

My mind is brought back to the meal; all Plum dinners are heavy on the meats, fats, and non-fibrous carbs. Salad is not in the Plum lexicon. Recognizable vegetables are used as garnish. Only four vegetables make it onto a Plum dinner: tomatoes, green peppers, onions and garlic usually cooked into gravy and served with pasta. When a family member has a special occasion, my mother rewards them by cooking their favorite meal. The granddaughters receive fried chicken with spaghetti or more recently waffles and honey; Valerie receives Oso Bucco with creamy noodles. Albert, Valerie's husband and father of the youngest beloved grandchildren loves chicken Parmesan with white rice. Tonight's meal is pot roast and mashed potatoes, my least favorite meal nearly always served on Friday. I wish the Catholics would go back to fasting; at least I would get macaroni and cheese.

Joe was at the table because my mother has deemed Joe and I will be married and if that means feeding Joe, it is money well invested. Actually Joe doesn't like pot roast either but loves a free meal. Before we can get to dessert, Joe's cell rings. He excuses himself, comes back a few minutes later and apologizes. Police business and he must leave. I can't remember the last time Joe and I finished a meal together before something interrupted us. Long ago I've learned he will now expect me to bring him his uneaten dessert and any leftover meat my mother wishes to share. Life is getting too predictable.

As I finished putting away the last dinner dish, my mother handed me the bag with dessert and left over pot roast for Joe. Obediently I take the bag directly to the Morelli house. My mood hasn't improved; perhaps it was PMS except it seems to have lasted weeks. I can't remember the last time I had a hearty laugh or actually looked forward to another day. OK, Ranger was in Boston for several weeks, maybe that's the reason.

Joe's truck was missing. Good. I let myself in and opened the refrigerator to put in the goody bag and found a complete ziti casserole curtesy of Joe's mother. Joe was not starving. I checked the rest of the refrigerator and found cold cuts and cheese in the pull out bin, actual fruit in the fruit bin, fresh milk and orange juice on the door, and 8 bottles of beer. Bob Dog and I stared at the ziti for a long time; finally I took out the pot roast, gave it to Bob and walked out the door with the dessert. I would have taken the ziti except I'd be expected to return the dish.

000

The noise was grating, I could have sworn someone was yelling in my ear. Perhaps they were; my mother is calling. I glance at the clock, 7:00 a.m. I'm too sleepy to worry about a medical emergency or perhaps she knows last Friday I gave the left over beef to the dog and kept the dessert.

"Stephanie, this is your mother calling. Today is Tuesday, your father's birthday. You promised to take your grandmother shopping so I can start cooking early."

"I'll be right over," I try to sound awake, but my face is still on the pillow. I get to the bathroom for an efficiency shower: just wet the hair, don't shampoo and wash only the necessary body parts. I finished in five minutes. The only benefit of this hour is I will be in time for breakfast.

I don't bother drying my hair, just pull it back in a scrunchy. The clothes drawer is almost empty; the undies don't match, the jeans from the closet floor were clean at some point. The t-shirt actually came from the drawer; laundry can be delayed another day or two.

My father's dinner menu will be as it has been for decades, Braciole with ingredients from Giovanchini's and Italian Cream cake from Italian People's Bakery. I chuckle to myself; Italian pot roast except his is stuffed with prosciutto, cheese and pine nuts.

I arrived at the family home early in the day expecting breakfast before taking Grandmother Mazur shopping. My mother will stay home and clean, though she cleaned the house yesterday and the day before. Once the groceries arrive, she'll retired to the kitchen for the day's duty; peel and chop the vegetables, prepare the filling, pound the meat and whatever else goes into Braciole. Unfortunately my breakfast plans were dashed, the women have already cleaned the kitchen and were anxious to get the day started; a gentle slap for another unknown transgression.

Before leaving I grabbed several cookies from the cookie jar, gathered my grandmother and head to the Giovanchini's market. Daddy deserves only the best provolone, prosciutto and real Italian pine nuts; not those from China that leave a funny metallic taste in his mouth. The Braciole requires a flank steak and in the Burg the best beef comes from Mr. Margola at the market.

"Buongiorno! What can I get you two lovely ladies today," boomed the voice from behind the meat display case.

Mr. Margola is slightly taller than me; possess a barrel chest, huge hands and arms, bald head with dark hair along the sides and back. His is somewhere between 30 and 65, there's no way of being more specific. His eyes are hazel, lips a bit puffy, Italian nose with the bump on the top.

Grandma Mazur responded, "We are making Brociole for my son in law's birthday. We need suitable beef."

"Ah, I have-a nice flank steak for you. Not many women make Braciole, they think it is difficult. How many servings you gonna need?"

I started counting; Mom, Dad, Grandma Mazur, me, maybe Joe, Valerie, Albert, the girls, left overs..."At least 12."

His eyes lit up, "You need two steaks!" After being shown the differences pieces, we asked him to select the perfect pieces. They all looked alike to me. After wrapping the meat in white butcher paper he asked, "Anything more for you lovely ladies today?"

I tried not to look into the meat display case; naked chickens, reddish grey beef liver, whitish brains, and items I didn't want to ask Grandma Mazur what they were. Maybe this is one reason I don't cook, the meat looks and feels disgusting.

We assured him that was it for today. Mr. Margola cheerfully said, "And wish Mr. Palumbo a happy birthday for me." Palumbo was close enough I thought.

As I put the steaks in our basket, the glass case in front of us was suddenly covered in a smashed egg. Splat. The yellow yolk and clear gel oozed down the glass. I whipped around and found myself staring at my nemesis, Grandma Bella Morelli, Joe's grandmother. In rapid succession several more eggs sailed in our direction but hit the display case, cracking open and oozing down onto the floor.

Dressed in black hosiery, black skirt, black sweater over a white blouse and a black head scarf fastened behind her ears allowing her old lady ear lobes to swing free, Bella was the Burg's stereotypical Old World grandmother. It doesn't matter if it is old world Italy, Sicily, Greece, Spain, Grandma Bella fits the mold. Only her white running shoes showed a New World influence.

Bella cackled like the wicked witch of the west, though her coloring was not green. Hefting a #3 tomato can from her grocery cart; she launched the behemoth can towards Grandma Mazur screaming "Denti cadono". Bella must have been Sicily's shot put champion to put so much force behind the can. Instinctively I pushed my grandmother away from the giant can, not thinking about broken hips or clavicles.

The can missed us both but crashed through the meat display case, shattering the glass. A sound like a mad bull erupted from behind the counter. Mr. Margola spewed every Italian swear word I've ever heard and more I've yet to learn. He pushed through the door into the butchering area and was about to enter in the retail area when Bella launched two more eggs; both hitting the counter adding to the floor goo. Mr. Margola burst into the retail area waving his arms around and slipped on the mess. Resembling a cartoon character slipping on ice, his legs and arms flailing, Mr. Margola fell forward crashing his face onto the meat display cases' metal edge. Instantly his mouth filled with blood and he began spitting broken teeth. Bella's curse for broken teeth had come true, but I suspect on the wrong person.

Bella never stopped laughing and continued launching several more eggs, one hitting me in the temple. I was stunned for a moment and stumbled backward, tripping over Mr. Margola, my head bouncing on the tile floor . I lay on the tile floor admiring the flashing stars. The pain was excruciating and though the egg had cracked and the goo fallen onto my shoulder, I didn't notice. I was dealing with the pain.

I could hear Bella cackling and worried about Grandma Mazur and stumbled back onto my feet. Grandma Mazur was holding her own and was out for revenge. Reaching through the broken glass into the meat case, she grabbed a large piece of beef liver, and hurled it at Bella yelling in Hungarian "Maj arc." (Liver face). The wiggly organ meat hit Bella on the face, clung momentarily before sliding down towards her chest. I wanted to laugh. Instead I turned around and wrapped my arms around Grandma preventing her from launching more liver. A wet gooey splat on my back indicated Bella had returned the organ meat.

"Grandma please find a towel behind the counter for Mr. Margola," I suggested as I ignored the liver stuck to my blouse. Eventually the meat lost its grip and fell to the floor. Bella continued to cackle while I bent down to tend to Mr. Margola who was bleeding profusely.

Spectators were gathering not to aid Mr. Margola or to stop Bella, but as a Greek chorus ready to comment while the tragedy played out. I wasn't surprised to see Mrs. Spinoza's cell phone in hand, no doubt filming the whole incident. Like the choragus, she will be the main commentator, spreading the news through the Burg.

Angie Morelli, Bella's daughter in law, arrived to survey the damage standing with her hands on her hips trying to decide who was to blame. By now Bella was quiet with the angelic innocent "not me" look on her face. Mrs. Carmen Giovanni, one of the Burg's most pious and caring women broke through the gathering crowd to join me tending Mr. Margola. As she knelt down to help hold a towel for Mr. Margola, she turned to Angie Morelli, pointing to Bella, she screamed, "Lei e diavolo." (She is the devil.) Several spectators crossed themselves or took their rosary beads from the purses and kissed them.

Grandma Bella responded by throwing her head back into malocchio position, (the evil eye) and cursed me, " Possono vostri organi ascuigare. Possiate maiavere figli. As if that wasn't enough she redundantly added, "Sarete sterili," then spat. I wasn't quite sure what Bella said other than the organi and sterili – organs and sterile. The ladies watching the spectacle gasped and again crossed themselves or kissed their beads.

I looked over to Mrs. Giovanni for translations. She whispered, "Since you are the only young woman here, she just condemned your organs to dry up and you will be sterile." I stood up, swung around and placed my hands on my hips mimicking Angie Morelli but said nothing. What could I say? I thought the finger, the bicep slap with an upraised fist, or the Italian chin flick was appropriate but the Morelli women were walking away and any gesture would be wasted.

As Mrs. Morelli dragged Bella away, the old lady away wiggled free; turned and pointing four fingers in our direction spat and cursed, "Morte." Holy cow, even I know that means "death."

Everyone who heard gasped, even Mr.. Margola. The observers once again crossed themselves, kissed their rosary beads, or crucifixes. Mrs. Morelli, momentarily stunned, crossed herself then slapped Bella on the head and pulled her towards the store front.

The gathering crowd parted like Moses moving through the Red Sea allowing the two Morelli women passage. Nobody wanted to stop them and risk Bella's malocchio.

Before the Morellis had gone far, Grandma Mazur loudly barked in Hungarian, "Isten bocsasson meg neked" and crossed herself.

I looked at my grandmother and tilted my head in a questioning gesture.

She replied, "It means may God forgive you. The old witch has just condemned her own soul with the Morte curse."

Suddenly there's a thump and we turn to find Mrs. Giovanni flat on the floor. "She's dead," Mrs. Spinoze wailed and more hands fly from heads across chests and beads are kissed, but nobody thinks to help the fallen woman.

I reached down to the prone figure feeling for a pulse, praying I find one. I don't think any of the spectators here know CPR and though I'm not the most up to date, I would be forced to give it a try. I sigh with relief, "It's OK, I think she just fainted."

By the time the police and EMTs arrive a crowd has tripled inside the store and people gather around the outside wanting to know what happened. New spreads through the Burg faster than the speed of light. By the time the emergency vehicles arrive, I'm sure my mother has already received her first report.

Holding a bloody towel to his face, the EMTs lead Mr. Margola to the ambulance. Mrs. Giovanni is sitting up with an oxygen mask on her face but looking pale. A gurney is brought for her. TPD cop Eddie Gazarra, my cousin by marriage, was one of the first to arrive and began taking statements.

"I'll start with you Steph, what is your version?"

"Version?" I indignity asked.

"Steph, by the time I interview these other witnesses, I'll have numerous variations. Let's start with those initially involved."

I scrunched my eyes but kept my voice low so as not to add more fuel for the Burg hotline. "Before I begin, confiscate Mrs. Spinoza's cell phone, she was videoing everything."

"So let's start at the beginning," he said, knowing Mrs. Spinoza will have already sent the video to half the Burg.

"Grandma Mazur and I were buying meat when eggs started splattering on the meat display case..." When I got to the Morte curse, Eddie's eyes raised just a bit. Even the seasoned cop was surprised.

"Let me get this straight, your grandmother didn't start this by throwing liver at Mrs. Morelli?" he asked.

I sighed, "Eddie, the glass had to be broken to get to the liver. Bella broke the glass with that tomato can sitting on top of…..whatever that is in the case."

Eddie looked over and scrunched his nose, "Sweetbreads."

"Do I dare ask what they are?"

He shook his head, "No."

"I nailed her but good; right on the kisser." Grandma Mazur puffed up. "I still have an accurate throw, better than Bella's, she only hit Stephanie once. The others hit the counter. She must be strong though, that big tomato can flew like a fast ball."

"And what did you do?" Eddie said going back over my statement. I had already told him everything, this was a cop thing.

"Nothing."

"Nothing, that doesn't sound like you," he said.

"The air was still blue from Mr. Margola's swearing before he fell, I didn't want to further pollute Jersey's clean air," I replied. "Watch the video."

Grandma Mazur spoke up, "Bella hit her in the head with one of the eggs, it knocked her out."

Eddie looked at the side of my head, "Hate to say it, but this might leave a goose egg," he snickered.

"Very funny."

"Goes nicely with the liver bits still suck on your back," he continued.

I jumped ahead in the story; "When Bella turned around threw the death curse, Mrs. Giovanni fainted. At first we thought she was dead, but I felt a pulse. None of the spectators gave any aid, they just watched."

Eddie was taking notes but I also knew he was recording our conversation on his lapel camera/recorder. "And then?" he asked.

"As Angie Morelli was walking Bella out of the store, grandma yelled at her in Hungarian. It wasn't a curse, it was asking God to forgive her for casting the Morte curse. I'm sure others here think it was a new insult."

Eddie shook his head, "You and your grandmother might want to take a vacation for a while; Alaska, Bermuda, Atlantic City."

"Why? This isn't my fault."

"Steph, between the gossip, you mother, Bella, Joe….speaking of Joe…." he trailed off as the hot TPD detective moved into the store.

The spectators parted again as if Moses was returning allowing Joe passage. I could swear some spectators were smiling in anticipation of another spectacle this time between Joe and me. More cells phones were held high.

There was a time I would be panting watching the luscious hunk of Italian come through the pack. Yes he was still lovely; dark hair, muscles and a certain swagger, but his charms were growing stale. "What did you do this time Cupcake?"

"Me?" I sneered. "It was your grandmother" and I give him a brief recap. When I get to the part about dried up reproductive organs he broke into laughter, "Does this mean I don't need to use a condom anymore?"

I stood and stared at him unbelieving he's laughing! Mr. Margola will probably need extensive dental work and may have a broken jaw. Mrs. Giovanni fainted or may have had a heart attack. Grandma Mazur could have been hit by the tomato can, and my head was still ringing. All Joseph Morelli cares about is his sex life? My mind flashes to the many times I've been nearly blown up by exploding cars, sliced, diced, shot or drowned by crazy people only to be verbally abused afterwards by Joe often in full view of spectators and other cops.

Where is his concern for me or others? Has being a cop turned him cold so all he cares about are "the boys?" My face turns read, it is all I can do to keep my arms by my side. I'm not going to go into full rhino mode here in Giovanchini's market. "You think this is funny, Joe? Has being a cop killed your compassion? Your grandmother's action severely hurt Mr. Margola and maybe Mrs. Giovanni. Your grandmother threw a giant can at Grandma Mazur that could have caused even more injury. To top it off, she cast a Morte curse on us. Four people Joe: Mr. Margola, Mrs. Giovanni, Grandma Mazur and me. Your grandmother is crazy, no, she is evil. You Morelli men are her spawn, not something to be proud."

Before I could add more including his embarrassing me about the dried up organs and he surely wouldn't tolerate me laughing about "the boys," his face turned red. I went too far disparaging his grandmother as well as his family in public. It is exactly what the rest of the Burg has done for years, but never directly to a Morelli.

In an instant, his fist reached my face. Before I could register its movement, it makes contact and I fall back into the bread display. Eddie grabs Joe's arm, "Stop it Joe!" Eddie screams. Joe spins with anger in his eyes and swings at Eddie who dodges the swing and is able to pin Joe's right arm behind his back. "Settle down Joe, Cool It." Joe seems to relax and Eddie lets him loose. Joe looks over at me and glares, but moves away out of the store. Once again the crowd separates as they are stunned at what they just saw. Maybe the Morelli golden boy was more like his father than anyone thought.

I couldn't believe Joe hit me. He's never done anything like this; usually his face turns red, he throws his arms around and he yells. My eyes are wide along with several onlookers. I think I notice a few more crucifixes were being kissed.

Eddie shakes his head knowing he'll have to write up Joe's battery on me and his attempted battery on a fellow policeman. There was an audience, Eddie's lapel camera and probably more videos soon to be updated to the web. This won't be swept under the rug. Quite the contrary, this will roar like a flame thrower through the Burg.

Eddie comes over and helps me back up, "You might consider Australia," he whispers.