Philip Carlo - The Ice Man

This stone-cold, remorseless killer was nervous, indeed had butterflies in his stomach; he’d never been to such a function, had no idea what to expect, what to do, how to act, what was expected of him. Barbara’s whole family was there, fifteen people in all. Grandma Carmella had been cooking nonstop for days. Huge, colorful platters of food were ready to be served. Barbara introduced Richard, awkward and painfully shy, to cousins, aunts, and uncles he’d not met yet. It was now that Richard met Barbara’s cousin Carl. “He’s my favorite cousin,” she told Richard. Of course her aunt Sadie was there, and she was warm enough to Richard, but she didn’t like him, didn’t like anything about him—what he did, where he came from, where he was going. Still, she resolved to be nice, to make him feel welcomed no matter what. After all, it was Christmas Eve, the time of love and family unity, and if her Barbara wanted him there, so be it. She’d make the best of it, hoping it was only a passing phase.

Drinks were soon poured. Toasts were made. The smell of delicious southern Italian foods permeated the air, mixing with the strong smell of pine coming from the Christmas tree. Richard knew better than to drink whiskey, and he only had a glass of white wine to be social.

When they all sat to eat at the long, glorious table Barbara and Nana and Aunt Sadie had carefully set, Richard sat next to Barbara. They started with colorful platters filled with antipasto, red peppers in oil, salamis, prosciutto, all kinds of cheese, stuffed peppers, olives, artichoke hearts. They then had the customary spaghetti and clams, followed by fried fillet of sole, stuffed shrimp and shrimp scampi, stuffed calamari, and grilled lobster tails. This was followed by fruits and nuts and more cheese, followed by Neapolitan stuffed artichokes, to help with digestion. Then, of course, the desserts.

Richard had never even seen a home-cooked Italian meal like this, let alone eaten one, and he was amazed at how good everything was. Warmed and flushed by the beautiful meal, he was even more touched by how the family openly showed affection, readily touched and kissed and hugged, the constant banter and laughter. He was seeing something he had never known existed: a tight-knit family enjoying one another’s company, openly showing tender feelings. By the time espresso was served with sweets Carmella had made—also sambuca and grappa—it was near twelve, the time when gifts were given. Richard hadn’t brought any gifts. He didn’t know you were supposed to, and when Aunt Sadie handed him a carefully wrapped gift and said, “This is for you, Richard, merry Christmas,” he was touched. He was speechless. And there were still more gifts for him, from Barbara, from Nana Carmella, even from Barbara’s mother. Richard was so moved that tears actually filled his eyes, and like this he opened his gifts—a sweater, some cologne, a nice suede jacket from Barbara. All choked up, Richard tried on the jacket. It fit perfectly. It was the nicest gift anyone had ever given him.

“Is it always like this?” he asked Barbara.

“What do you mean?” she asked, smiling.

“Everyone so nice and warm and giving,” he said.

“Of course—it’s Christmastime,” she said. “It’s always like this, Richard.”

The following day, Richard returned to Nana Carmella’s house carrying gifts. He had shopped all morning and made sure he’d gotten something for everyone that would be there. He gleefully handed out the gifts, receiving thank-yous, kisses and hugs. He never knew people could be so warm and effusive, readily expressing their feelings.

Soon they all sat down to eat again, and this meal was even larger than the meal the night before. There was antipasto, lasagna, and eggplant parmesan, followed by ham and lamb, with three different kinds of potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, rice balls, huge bowls of salad, and fruit, sweets, and fennochio (fennel). They ate for hours, taking a break after each course; much wine was poured, toasts were made, there was laughter, and old and new jokes were shared, some a little bawdy. They also sang Christmas carols.

That Christmas Barbara’s family grew to accept Richard: his shyness, how much he obviously enjoyed being there, the considerate gifts he’d brought, won them over. Though he was not Italian, they made him feel welcomed and loved, as if he were truly one of them. Part of the family. He wanted to reach out and hug them all, wrap his powerful arms around them and hold them tight. With a warm glow, he sat there eating and smiling, and maybe—truly for the first time in his entire life—Richard was glad to be alive. Richard felt… loved. He was so moved, so touched, that he went out on the back screened-in patio and cried in his cupped hands. Barbara found him there like that and she took him in her arms and held him tight, thinking he was just a big baby.

If she’d only known.

After the holidays passed and the New Year began, Richard and Barbara saw each other more and more. But Barbara was beginning to feel stifled, boxed in. Richard was always there. No matter which way she turned he was there, waiting for her, opening doors for her, demanding her undivided attention. He had cut her off from seeing her friends, certainly from dating anyone else, and she felt that she was trapped. She had grown very fond of Richard, but she wanted a little room to breathe, to go for sodas, to go shopping and have long talks with her girlfriends. She resolved to tell him. She had the right. She was only nineteen years old and couldn’t do anything on her own anymore. She thought of the best way to do this, turned it over in her mind. She did not ask any of her friends or anyone in her family for advice because she didn’t want to let anyone know how hemmed in she felt.

Meanwhile, Richard decided to take her to his favorite haunt in Hoboken, Sylvia’s Ringside Inn. Richard had told Sylvia all about Barbara, the wonderful time he’d had over the holidays, the feast they’d served. Barbara didn’t particularly want to go to the Ringside Inn. That was a part of Richard’s life she wanted nothing to do with. But being polite, she agreed to go, and Richard proudly introduced Barbara to the crowd there, and to Sylvia. Sylvia was outright rude, even hostile. She felt Barbara had been keeping Richard away from the place. Richard’s pool playing had been a draw. She’d been making money because of him. Sylvia resented Barbara and had no reservations about letting her know. The feeling was mutual—Barbara thought she was the rudest, ugliest person she’d ever met and told Richard so. “I don’t like being here,” she said. “It’s dirty, it smells. I don’t like the people; I don’t like this Sylvia character! My God, what a face; could stop a clock, could stop Big Ben. I want to leave, Richard.”

For the life of him Richard couldn’t understand Barbara’s animus or why Sylvia was so unfriendly, and the couple left.

“I don’t ever want to go back there,” Barbara said, “and truth is, I don’t see why you would either. It’s below you, Richard.”

“Okay, guess it was a bad idea to bring you,” Richard said. They never went back as a couple, and soon Richard stopped going altogether.

Several days later Barbara finally mustered the courage to tell Richard how she felt. He had come to pick her up at work. When she got in the car she still had no idea how dangerous Richard was, that he carried a gun and a knife with him all the time. However, she would soon learn.

“Richard, I need to talk with you,” she began.

“Sure,” he said, sensing he was about to hear something he wouldn’t like.

“Look, Richard, I’m very fond of you. You know that. It’s… well, I feel trapped. Everywhere I turn, you’re there. I want some space; I want to hang out with my friends. I’d like to go out on a Saturday night with my girlfriends like I used to do.” She went on to describe, her voice kind and considerate, warm and sincere, how she needed space. She was very young and didn’t, she said, want such a “serious commitment.”