ࡱ> U rbjbjnn 4aaj  /\zzz$ "R6zzzzz6Kzz`󫝎x a0%#.%#8%#zzzzzzz66zzzzzzz%#zzzzzzzzz - M: THE WAKE By Sen Patrick Rocco Duffy 2021 West Virginia Fiction Competition, 2nd Place Winner Selected by Marie Manilla Michael had never seen a dead body before. The fact that he was supposedly looking at Dadjo, his fathers father, didnt help matters. The face was bloated and doll-like as if someone had lined the lips and creases with a greasy crayon. The big, waxy hands were laced together with an over-large crucifix. In life, Dadjo would never have touched a crucifix. And he never would have worn a brown suit like the one they had him stuffed in now. Michael knew this could not be Dadjo. This was not Michael Patrick OShea. But if you listened to the aunts, youd think hed never looked better. The Italian aunts gathered near the blanketed feet, clucking things like, He looks very natural! They did a nice job on him! From the other end came comments from the Irish aunts. Ive never seen himself in a suit and tie before. Oh, doesnt he look grand? Sure he looks twenty-two again ready to rise right up and go straight to Mass. More like the pub! They tittered. The Italians glared. Michael got up from the kneeler, sick from the smell of chrysanthemums and embalming fluid. He slouched back to the overstuffed, cranberry sofa and sat heavily next to Aunt Margaret, whom everyone called Peg. She gently wiped a tear from his cheek, brushed the long black hair from his brow, and said, Lets get out of here. They walked back to the house in silence. Aunt Peg held Michaels hand the whole way. When he tried to slip free she squeezed harder, shooting him a pleasant smile. The Italian aunts had gotten back before them by car. They had the food ready. Gorgeous aromas wafted from the basement stairway. Michael felt his stomach growl in anticipation. The men were already in the little nook off the kitchen playing poker. Their cigarette and cigar smoke did battle with the food smells, and lost. Lets eat. Said Peg. Then Ill teach those old bastards how to play cards. Not that they ever learn, mind you. Michael bounded down the stairs. The folding tables were stuffed onto the basement floor in two tight rows between the paneled support columns. Covered with white paper table cloths from the Hecks department store, the tables looked pristine, all of their cracks and worn spots hidden. An array of folding chairs, some wooden, some metal, even green lawn chairs, were pushed under the paper edges, ready for duty. The rickety old tables strained under the weight of the funereal feast: a steaming foil oven tray heaped with rigatoni, a platter heaped with linguini and white clam, a yellow bowl of meatballs, more platters filled with Aunt Marias hot sausage, Aunt Ginnys ox tail, Aunt Cams wedding soup, the ubiquitous fried peppers, eggplant dipped in egg and flour and deep fried golden brown, loaves of bread every three feet, strategically placed near bottles of Uncle Marcos homemade Dago red wine. And on its own small folding card table in the back, an industrial-sized plastic tray of every kind of Italian cookie imaginable. The Irish contribution? An Igloo cooler stuffed with cheap beer and ice and a few bottles of Jameson. The two cultures agreed on little. But one point of ancient and durable agreement was that the best remedy for grief was overindulgence. Lured by the smells and the racket of cooking, the men soon left the poker table and joined the mangia. For the next hour, Michael OSheas working class American basement transformed into a Celtic feasting hall, only instead of boiled venison, there was palate-pleasing, Italian peasant cuisine. And Glenwood Steel pint glasses full of Dago red or Iron City beer, more than adequately replaced the goblets of mead. The best thing about having all the aunts in one house was that Michael got out of doing the dishes. Only later in life would he look back with nostalgia at the advantages of patriarchal cultures. Not that the Irish aunts were overly concerned. They helped clear the table then retired to the living room to gossip. After all, wasnt it their patriarch who lie in state at Bodeys Funeral Home? Before he retreated up the stairs, Michael heard Aunt Cam tell the story about how all the aunts were expected to wash Papa Doms feet back in the old days when he returned from a hard day at a-school, his term for the Academy Billiard Hall, where he spent his afternoons makin a-deals. At least we dont have to do that no more! Aunt Cam laughed while elbow deep in suds in the old utility sink. The men, of course, performed no menial domestic tasks. These were men who blasted iron into steel, mined coal in perpetual darkness, or forged hammers at Glenwood Tool. Why would they be expected to clean up after themselves? Instead, bellies distended, belts loosened, they retired directly back to the kitchen nook for more poker, planning a second feast for before they returned to Bodeys to shake hands with mourners. This time, Aunt Peg, a steelworker herself, took her seat at the table. She pulled her long red hair back into a bun, securing it with a rubber band. Then she rolled up her sleeves, baring her sinewy, freckled forearms like she was getting ready to arm wrestle the boys. Her bravado made Michael smile. He loved to watch her peer out over the cards when she played, scanning from uncle to uncle to stare them down, her sweet green eyes hardening into icy emeralds until each man looked away, cleared his throat, and sipped his beer or played with his coins. She loved to apply bright red lipstick in a showy manner before snapping her cards down to emphasize another pot won. These exaggerated, girly displays really irked the boys. Michael squeezed in next to her, squatting on Nanas old red kitchen stool between Peg and her brother, Michaels Da, Joseph OShea, new clan chieftain outright. Safe to say, Joe was feeling his oats. Jesus, he said. Wee Michaleens here to help his auntie play cards with the big boys. Look out! He winked at no one in particular. Just shut your gob and deal the cards Josephine, said Peg. Michael is just here to watch me stuff his college fund with yins drinking money. College? That one? Hell be sweating side by side with me and Franco next summer at the mill. No way Da, said Francis OShea, Michaels older brother, whom everyone called Franco. Mikes going to college. Mikes better than the mill. Better? Joe whistled sharply through his nicotine stained teeth, then paused to light a cigarette, blowing smoke across the table in Francos direction. Michaleen is too soft and quiet for anything like that. You have to want that. I was talking to Stosh Duplaga, the little Pollock, not the big one, down at the mill the other day. He was tellin me all about how his kid got bit by a dog. What was I gonna tell him, how my kid draws comic book pictures all day inside the house? Hows he gonna go to college when he wont leave my basement? Get outside I tell him. So your idea of a good kid is a dumbass who gets bitten by dogs? Peg sneered. You would be proud of that? Point is, hes soft. He reads. He draws. He dont do nuthin useful. Just like Da. God rest his soul. Yeah, said Peg, hes just like Da. And thats a good thing. He reads. What a waste of time. Now leave him alone and deal. Yeah, deal, for Chrissakes, added Uncle Marco the coal miner. We aint getting any younger over here. Well all be on a slab down at Bodeys before we get another hand in. Five card draw, Joe declared. Nuthin wild. Shocker, said Franco. Thats what you always play. Boring. Michael was grateful for his older brother always shouldering the heat from the old man as they grew up. Mam had died right after Michael was born. Shed taken her own life with her husbands 38. No one ever talked about that. They said it was an accident so she could be buried in consecrated ground. But Joe knew, and he blamed the baby. Franco blamed Joe, and made himself an easy target to protect little Mike. Though hed read about the baby blues, and had overheard people say it wasnt his fault, Michael carried the guilt. Hed only seen a few pictures of Mam, the old man having hidden most of them somewhere. Dadjo drew him a portrait from memory. Michael cherished the drawing, but kept it hidden lest the old man confiscate it. He knew Mams casket had been kept closed, yet seeing Dadjo in his, evoked imaginings of Mam in hers. In these visions, Mams fish-grey skin and blue lips made the flesh-colored putty clumsily slathered into the gunshot wound all the more prominent. The old man slammed his cards on the table in disgust. How do you lose with three aces? He bellowed. The racket jolted Michael out of his fever dream. Thats it popscrew up the only deck of cards we have! scolded Franco. Shit, Joe sighed. Gimme a break. Goddamned lucky! He ran his bony fingers through his crew cut, pulling off his black frame glasses to rub his eyes as Peg raked in another pot, her bright red lips pulled back into a jokers grin, whistling a catcall through her teeth like a construction worker. Thanks for all the donations, fellas. She taunted. Hey Josephine, I ever told you you look like Joe McCarthy with that fascist hair and glasses. Franco chuckled. Said Aunt Peg the commie! Shut up! Joe snarled. Michael remembered all of the old mans attempts to make his brother a hard kid. This mostly involved forcing him to play every sport, work the hardest jobs for the lowest pay, and especially, to fight. Most memorable was the time his brother took on Buster Cottrell, the garbage mans kid, a hulking illiterate with tattooed arms the size of the mufflers on his dads garbage truck. Franco, who started the fight, did his best, but Buster pummeled him. When Franco walked through the door with a puffy face and bloody nose, old Joe grabbed him by the arm and marched him right back to the Cottrells front yard for a rematch. Franco took a second, much worse beating and had to be carried home. You see that? the old man asked Michael. That right theres a man. You take a beating. You get up, dust off, and take another one. Indeed, Franco spent his whole life taking beatings, sometimes giving them, and always keeping the old mans ire directed away from his little brother. He even volunteered for the Army and went to Vietnam. When he got back, it was straight to work in the mill with the old man and the uncles. Of course, the war changed him, as it did everyone. He pushed back and Joe backed down. I wanted to go over to Nam too, believe me, but I lost my toes in the mill, Joe said one time. Franco glared at him. You never would have made it through that, he said. Joe cleared his throat and changed the subject. Michael watched the old men roll their eyes as Peg won several hands in a row. Losing to a girl clearly annoyed them. Peg lit up a cigar and suddenly, the smoke started to bother Joe, who grew angrier with each lost hand. He took it out on Michael. Why dont you go outside and play with your cousins? Stop it Josephine! Peg fired back. Hes fine right here with me. Yeah? If you found a husband, you wouldnt need to be playing cards with men all the time! Why? You scared? This pays better than the mill. And how will I ever find a man to live up to the high standards youve set? I dont think a man is really what you want" Ive had enough of this shit, Franco interrupted as he stood and threw back another shot of Jameson. Where you goin? Joe demanded. Im going to do what I should have done before. Im going to go get him, Da, to give him the send-off he wanted. What the hell? What send off? Sit down. Youre drunk. Franco poured himself another shot, threw it back, and shoved his way out of the kitchen cubby, rocking the table and spilling drinks. The old men grumbled. Yo! Hey! What the hell Joe? Watch it! Jesus Christ, kid, settle down, said Uncle Primo, the tool maker. Seven card stud, Peg interrupted, robustly exhaling her cigar smoke. Red bitches are wild! Come with me, Mike. Joe demanded. No. Peg said. Leave this poor kid out of your shit. Hes fine here with me. Joe stormed out the back door. He could be heard shouting for his cousins in the back yard. Michael scrambled under the table to escape the kitchen nook. Where you going Michael? Aunt Peg asked. I need some air, he replied. Watch out for the dogs, kid, Uncle Pasquale the steel roller joked. As Michael walked through the hall past the living room, he could hear the aunts talking about Dadjo, so he paused near the archway. I mean, dont get me wrong, he was a good man, Aunt Cam was saying. He was. But lets face it, he was not a hard worker. He was a dreamer. The man was a poet, goddammit, said Aunt Eileen, defensively. Michael could see that the Italian aunts were on the couch near the front window, while the Irish aunts were seated across the way in the love seat near the fireplace, or on chairs nearby. It looked like a standoff, or a sit-off, at least. I didnt mean offense Aunt Cam said, adjusting her massive plastic framed glasses that made her eyes look cartoonishly big. None taken, said Aunt Kathy, the eldest of Dadjos three sisters. We understand that if your sister Rosie hadnt been the breadwinner, this family would have been in trouble for sure. But she loved my brother, and she wanted him to do what made him happy. She had his poems put in books. She had his drawings framed and hung. She loved to hear him sing. Indeed, the house walls were covered in Dadjos art. Michael could still hear him humming a tune or reciting a poem every bit as good as anything Yeats or Whitman ever wrote. Nana Rosie had died a few years ago. Dadjo had been on the decline ever since. They were true anam cara, soulmates. Shed worked many jobs, from seamstress to nurse, and even worked the mill during the big war Molly the Riveter they all called her, for the irony paving the way for her daughter, Peg, to be the first fulltime female steelworker at Glenwood Steel. When Nana Rosie died, Dadjo forbade any kind of viewing. I dont want her gawked it. Hed said. Well keep her as fresh and beautiful in our memory as she was in life. This is how Michael knew Dadjo would not like what his son had done, putting his corpse on display at Bodeys like a bloated marlin hanging at a dock down at Ocean City so the drunken fishermen could snap pictures. Its great that he got to write his poems and make his doodles, but lets be honest, all that hard work drove my sister to an early grave, said Maria, Nanas youngest sister. Dont start Maria. Dont you dare besmirch our brother in his own house like that! Kathy shrieked. He was a bard and a poet. In old Ireland, Chieftains would have served him the best food and wine for his stories and songs. Goddammit. Well too bad this aint old Ireland, Cam retorted. The best food around here got made by my sister, Neapolitan style! Oh thats rich, Aunt Pat fired back, coming from someone who claimed to make better wedding soup at her own sisters funeral. Legend had it that when the Father Carmine eulogized Nana by saying she made the worlds best wedding soup and pasta fazul Aunt Cam, who never mastered the art of the whisper, said right there in church, My soup was better, in a whisper loud enough for Father Carmine and the entire congregation to hear. Well, my soup is better. Rosie never used enough pork for the little meatballs. Bland. Realizing it might go on like this until it was time to go back to Bodeys, Michael sighed and went out onto the front porch. He sat on the steps and thought about Dadjo. He could picture him sitting at the table in the kitchen nook where four angry men and one angry woman were now playing poker, sipping his tea, whistling, and working his crossword puzzles, installing little smoking clay pipes at each corner as he finished them. Michael loved those little pipes. Hed squirreled away several of the completed puzzles under his bed in a shoe box. What the aunts were saying was true. Dadjo was a dreamer. Hed worked numerous jobs over the years, from fireman to security guard, but never lasted at any of them. He slept through a two-alarm and missed a shoplifter while he was in the back room writing a poem. But Dadjo was beloved in Glenwood. He was everyones favorite pub-goer, keeping the steel and tool makers entertained every evening at Duplagas Bar when they stopped by to unwind after another back-breaking shift. Dadjo would be there, regaling them with epic Irish tales of war and uprisings, or singing one his favorite songs, maybe Carrickfergus or On Raglan Road. Dadjo had the gift of eloquence. He made people whose lives were mostly a depressing grind, happy, at least for moments. And those moments had value. They made life bearable. Though deep in thought, Michael suddenly felt as though he was being watched. Looking up, he locked eyes with a large black dog, a menacing beast with long ears, its pink tongue poking in and out as it stood in the street, panting on a cool autumn day. Michael couldnt help wondering what it would feel like to be bitten by such a creature. This was his big chance to impress the old man. Keeping his gaze fixed, he stood up and slowly walked toward the dog, though every fiber of his being screamed warnings to run back inside the house. The dog was now just a few feet away. Michael slowly extended his arm and opened his hand. He could feel the hot breath as the dog continued to pant. The dog moved forward and Michael closed his eyes, turning his head sideways like he did when he got a shot. The next sensation might have been his own warm blood oozing around his fingers, or it might have been the wet lapping tongue of a German Shephard mix. Michael opened one eye. Indeed, the dog was licking his hand. After a moment, it turned and ran off toward the mill. Michael raised both hands above his head and looked up, expecting to see blue sky. What he saw instead caused him to gasp. The sky was orange, and it was moving. At first, he thought it might be the end times, maybe the exhaust from a Soviet missile attack. But as his eyes focused he could see, there above Glenwood Avenue, a great, fluttering orange and black migration of monarch butterflies. Michael spun round with his hands still held high and watched the living orange sky flow south in a steady, undulating column, like molten lava flowing down the side of an egg-blue mountain. Usually not much for company, Michael looked around, eager to share this moment, to have it confirmed by another set of human eyes. But he was alone in the middle of the street. The neighborhood was as quite as it had ever been except for the distant hum of the mill, and the barely audible barking of the dog, which he could still see galloping far away, as if chasing the neck of a monarch dragon. Michael made his way back to the porch steps, glancing up periodically at the orange stream as he went. It seemed endless, this parade of monarchs. He sat and stared. At last the front door opened and Aunt Peg sat down beside him, pulling at the rubber band and releasing her mop of monarch-red hair. They stared together silently at the butterflies. Aunt Peg held his hand. As the tail end of the migration at last became visible, Peg broke the silence. I wish Da were here to see this. Michael nodded agreement. I like to think hes with them now. Flyingsomewhere better, he said. Then, after a moment, Wish I was going too. Wish I could fly. A butterfly landed on his knee. He looked at Peg and they both smiled. But the butterfly was injured. While one of its wings pumped steadily, trying to gain lift, the other hung limply. Michael offered his index finger and the butterfly climbed aboard. Youve a new friend, havent you, Peg laughed. Well he wont have medical insurance for the vet, so use this. Open a bank account with whats left and start saving for college. Shed placed a huge wad of well-worn currency near his leg. I took those old bastards for everything they had, Peg crowed. Theyre in the living room right now trying to explain to their wives why they need to borrow a few more bucks, so they can win it back. But Im done. Thats it. Thats your money now. And I have a lot more than that in the bank. Im a pretty good gambler, Mike. I want you to use it when youre ready. Dont worry, you can pay me back when youre a bestselling author. But if I ever see you walk into that mill Ill break both your knees. Now hide that money. Im going to tell them I already spent it on a bag of dope. Capeesh? Michael smiled and nodded, stuffing the cash into his pocket. But aunt Peg The front door crashed open and the old man stepped onto the porch, firing up yet another cigarette as he stopped behind Michael. I told you to stop playing with bugs, he snarled, stooping to slap the butterfly off Michaels finger. It hit the sidewalk hard and lay motionless. Michael punched his fathers leg and jumped down to help the stricken insect. I hate you! he shrieked. Jesus Christ! Peg shouted, jumping to her feet. Youre such an asshole Joe! Im going to kick your fascist ass, right here on our fathers porch! Peg put her dukes up, John L. Sullivan style. Old Joe exhaled smoke and laughed, crushing his cigarette out on Dadjos old slate porch. Yeah? Go ahead. I dont fight girlsnot even girls who want to be boys. Just as Peg drew her fist back for a haymaker, Franco rolled up to the curb in front of the house in his sky blue LTD. The doors flew open and Franco climbed out with five of his cousins. He popped the trunk, and the group tenderly lifted onto their shoulders a large object wrapped in a white sheet. It appeared to be a human body. You have to be fucking kidding me, Joe said. After a period of chaos during which Franco threatened to help Aunt Peg pummel Joe if he didnt get out of the way, the body was taken downstairs. Everyone stay here until I call you, Franco commanded. Or so help me God, I will show you what the Army taught me to do. What the hell is going on Joey? Uncle Marco the coal miner asked as he emerged from the bathroom, hiking up his pants. Is it time to eat yet? Rattled by his eldest sons threats, Joe sat down on the plastic-covered sofa and poured himself a drink. The aunts whispered in groups. Most of the other men went outside to smoke, where they saw Michael, sitting in the grass, holding a butterfly in his cupped hands. Hey kid, you alright? Uncle Pasquale, the steel roller asked. Why you holdin that bug? Just then, the butterfly flapped its wings both of them, and launched itself from Michaels hands, flying south as if nothing had happened. Go! Michael yelled. You can still catch up! You can make it. That kids a little funny Uncle Marco said to Pasquale. Nice boy. Little funny. Pasquale nodded agreement. Soon, Franco was at the door calling everyone to gather. Follow me downstairs. He said. And please keep an open mind, and have respect. Michael was the last to make it down the steps. He could hear the other adults murmuring. Aunt Kathy was sobbing. There, laid out on his old work bench, was the body of Michael Patrick OShea, poet, bard, artist, and raconteur. The body was covered to the neck in the sheet, surrounded by lit candles. The face was no longer bloated, and this looked more like Dadjo. Jesus son, said Joe. What the hell have you done here? Its what he wanted, Da. Its what Dadjo wanted. He told me many times. He told you too, but you never listened. He said he wanted a real Irish wake when he died. He didnt want to end up embalmed in some funeral home. This is what he wanted. I hope you will respect it. At this point, the Italians seemed adjusted and satisfied. This was no big deal. If its what Mickey wanted, then good for him. Said Uncle Marco. Yeah, Cam agreed. Good for him. Uncle Pasquale took out his Kodak and snapped a few pics of the corpse, just like hed done at his own wifes funeral. Peg stood behind Michael, placing her hands on his shoulders. Youre right Franco, she said. He wanted this. He wanted to be in his own home with family. Thank you for doing this. It will make a great story that he would have loved to tell down at Duplagas. Now you can tell it. Have you all lost you minds? Joe asked. This aint right. I dont care what he asked for. This aint how its done here. This has to be against some kinda law, aint it? He looked imploringly from face to face. Meanwhile, Aunt Kathy was crying a river, moaning, rocking, and shivering keening, as Franco pointed out later. Am I the only one who thinks this is fucking crazy? Joe hollered, getting more worked up. Howd you even get him outta Bodeys? They keep the doors unlocked, Franco said. Small town. Safe. Nobody steals, especially the bodies. This aint Transylvania, Pops. Nervous laughter. Even Kathy stopped sobbing to smile weakly. On Ragland Road on an autumn day, I saw her first and knew Aunt Peg was singing. That her dark hair would weave a snare, that I might one day rue Franco joined. I saw the danger, yet I walked, along the enchanted way Others followed, including, at last, Joe. The Italians shrugged at each other and bowed their heads in respect. And I said let grief, be a falling leaf, at the downing of the day By the end of the song, the OSheas were all singing as loudly as they could and the Italians, having figured out the simple melody were humming along in solidarity. When the angel woos the clay hell lose, his wings, at the dawn, of day The group fell silent. Then Joe raised his glass. He was openly crying a sight none of them had ever seen before. OK Da. If this is what you wanted, so be it. To Michael Patrick OShea. My Da. For all your faults, you were a better man than me. That the truth of it. I never met a better man. Slaint and Salute. Slaint and Salute! Can we eat now, Joe? Uncle Primo the tool maker asked. As his family made their way back to the folding tables for a second, more luxurious mangia, another trip to Bodeys having been obviated, Michael was left alone with his grandfather. He stepped closer to the work bench, the same one where Dadjo had taught him to carve a little bird from an oak branch. This now was, or at least had surely been, Michael Joseph OShea. The creases were gone as was the crucifix, replaced by a picture of Nana Rosie. Michael kissed his fingers and reached out his hand to softly transfer the kiss to Dadjos lips. The old seancha seemed to smile. Michael pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Grabbing a carpenters pencil from a drawer, he started to work a crossword puzzle next to Dadjo. 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This    2 e0 was not  2 0 Mi 2 0 chael  2 0   2 0 Patrick  2 0 OShea.    2 70     2 H0    42 H0 But if you listened to the    2 0 a 2 P0 unts, youd think hed never looked better. The Italian aunts gathered near the     2 H 0 blanketed  52 0 feet, clucking things like,     2 00     2 H0     2 H0   2 N0 H  (2 Y0 e looks very natura  2 0 l 2 0 !  2 0    2 0     2 H0     2 H0  42 N0 They did a nice job on him!    2 0   2 0     2 (H0    ^2 :H70 From the other end came comments from the Irish aunts.        2 :0     2 LH0    %2 _H0 Ive never seen  2 _0 himself   2 _0   12 _0 in a suit and tie before.  2 _z0   2 _0     2 qH0    2 H0 Oh  %2 a0 , doesnt he look  2 0   2 0 grand 2 0 ?  2 0     2 H0     2 H0   2 N0 S  (2 W0 ure he looks twenty   2 0 - 2  0 two again    2 0   2 &0   J2 **0 ready to rise right up and go straight to   2 '0 Mass.  2 R0     2 H0     2 H0  2 N 0 More like  2 0   O2 -0 the pub! They tittered. The Italians glared.     2 0     2 H0    C2 H%0 Michael got up from the kneeler, sick   2 70   &2 <0 from the smell of      2 0 chrysanthemums    2 0   (2  0 and embalming fluid    2 0 . He    2 HV0 slouched back to the overstuffed, cranberry sofa and sat heavily next to Aunt Margaret    2 p0 , whom    2  0 everyone   2 H 0 called Peg  2 0 . She   2 0 gently   72 0 wiped a tear from his cheek,   2 0 brushed  2 0 the  2 0   2 0 long  /2 0 black hair from his brow    2 0 ,  2 0   2  0 and said,   /2 )H0 Lets get out of here.   2 )0     2 <H0    2 NHd0 They walked back to the house in silence. Aunt Peg held Michaels hand the whole way. When he tried         #2 `H0 to slip free she  2 `0   R2 `/0 squeezed harder, shooting him a pleasant smile.     2 `0     2 sH0    2 Hf0 The Italian aunts had gotten back before them by car. They had the food ready. Gorgeous aromas wafted         .2 H0 from the basement stair   2 0 way  2 0 .  R2 /0 Michael felt his stomach growl in anticipation.      2 (0     2 H0   "Systemn}n}(M--  00//.. ՜.+,0 hp|  6i  Title  !"#$%&'()*+,-./0123456789:;<=>?@ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVXYZ[\]^_`abcdefghjklmnopqrstuvwxyz{|}~Root Entry Fx1TableW%#WordDocument4SummaryInformation(ip2DocumentSummaryInformation8CompObjr  F Microsoft Word 97-2003 Document MSWordDocWord.Document.89q