Page 7 of Save the Drama for your Mama
Rounding the corner on my walk, I headed down Isabella Avenue, the grandeur of the family property coming into view. Built in 1920 for my great-grandparents, the Spanish colonial revival home had been declared a historic landmark back in 1982.
As I walked up the cobblestone path to the front door, I glimpsed a familiar figure amidst the solemn beauty of the private cemetery next door.
“Alfredo!” I called out, pivoting in his direction.
A knowing smile formed on his weathered face as he approached in his navy-blue polo with the Twin Palms Cemetery logo on the chest, blue jeans, and charcoal New Balance walking shoes. “My eyes must be playing tricks on me. This can’t be so.” He chuckled as he got closer.
“Give me a break—it has only been six months.” I wrapped my arms around him. “It’s good to see you, Alfredo.”
He was more than just a caretaker of the cemetery and a neighbor on the other side of our property. He had been a mentor, a confidant, a role model, a surrogate grandfather, and a genuine friend over the years. He kept me out of trouble when I was young, serving as a constant, nurturing presence in my life, something my mom had appreciated since my dad had died when I was ten.
Alfredo had even built us a treehouse in our backyard.
He clapped me on the back a few times, grabbed both of my arms, studied me from head to toe, then shook his head in surprise. “You look good, as usual. Leaner.”
“Thanks.” I shrugged. “I have a new habit of walking every morning for an hour, and working out more. It helps me think. I have to do something with my time. The words have not been flowing since, well, you know.”
Alfredo nodded. “It’s been quiet here without your mom around, but that’s not a reason for you to not come see me. Glad you finally graced us with your presence.” He smiled to take away any sting, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I heard your car pull up late last night. How long will you be here?”
“The entire summer to finish my book and enjoy the house,” I said. “You’ll be tired of seeing me around here, I’m sure.”
“You keep talkin’ gibberish, and I’m going to put you to work in the marble orchard,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder to the cemetery.
“My muse is on life support, so maybe that’s not such an awful place for me to be,” I said. “Speaking of work—have you been bench-pressing tombstones? You look amazing for someone closing in on the century mark.”
“And you look pretty fit for someone who sits around all day on his patootie.” He laughed, since we had always enjoyed poking fun at each other. “Don’t you go making me older than I need to be.” He flexed his bicep, which was bigger than mine. “I’m seventy-five and I feel alive.”
Alfredo was always smiling, and always rhyming, an endearing display of his jovial personality. Although I had to admit it was slightly jarring whenever he busted out lyrics from an old school rap or R&B song from the eighties and nineties.
“Like I always say, if my body is moving . . .”
“Your life is grooving,” I said, chuckling. “I want to catch up with you, but my book is not going to write itself. Do you still frequent McP’s?”
“Every Sunday for lunch,” Alfredo said.
McP’s is a local Irish pub and grill on the main drag, founded by a former Navy SEAL the same year they had declared our home a historic landmark.
“Care to join me this weekend?” Alfredo asked. “Of course, it would be your treat, Mr. Big-shot-high-roller-author-man.”
“I’m sorry, but you must have confused me with Stephen King or James Patterson.” I laughed. “But you’ve got yourself a deal. We can walk over there together, but I’m sure I’ll see you before then.”
“You can count on it. Now, off you go to finish your book,” he said, giving me another hug, then gesturing to the house before turning back to the cemetery.
Time to get busy,I thought as I made my way toward the back door.
“Baby—I’m home!” I said, stepping inside the house and closing the door behind me.
My eight-month-old beagle—Romeo—came flying in my direction and launched into his usual routine. First, he barked to tell me off, because how dare I leave him alone for an entire hour? Second, he transitioned into hisI-forgive-youstage, licking any exposed skin he could get his tongue on, like I was dog-nip. And finally, he plopped down to the floor into hisI’ve-completely-forgotten-what-happened-and-all-I-need-is-lovemode, offering me a chance to rub his belly until the end of time.
“I’m so glad we cleared up that misunderstanding,” I said, finishing up the belly rub. “You happy now? Do you want a treat?”
He popped back up to his feet and barked.
“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”
Romeo followed me to the kitchen and hovered over his bowl, his tail wagging, like he had lived here forever, and hadn’t arrived last night.
After asking him to sit, I gave him a bully stick. I turned around, intent on procuring a jumbo mug of coffee for myself.
