Papa’s Pasta Sauce

MODERN LIFE SHORT STORY BY FRANCESCA CAPALDI

The last batch of her papa’s pasta sauce was all Gina had left of him after he died. When her daughter makes a small storage mistake, Gina’s devastated.

It had been a long day at work for Gina. As she parked her car on the drive she noticed the sun, low on the horizon, highlighting the red and yellow leaves on the trees.

A Neapolitan song, frequently played on the family record player when she was a child, came to mind: “Malinconico Autunno”. Sad Autumn.

Pushing the front door closed with her foot, she stretched and yawned. Opening her eyes, she noticed the date on the day-to-a-page calendar sitting on the hall table. As if she needed reminding.

No, she wouldn’t think about that, not now.

“Hi, Lili, hi, Dan,” she called up to her teenage children. There was a vague response from each of their bedrooms.

As she sloped off to the kitchen she was followed by Candy, the golden retriever. Gina patted her head.

“Suppose you want your dinner, too. I’ll sort you out in a moment.”

She went to the fridge, realising immediately there wasn’t a lot there. On Fridays, she normally stopped by the supermarket on her way home to do shopping for the weekend, but the meetings had gone on a long time this evening and she hadn’t had the energy.

John wasn’t due home for another twenty minutes. Perhaps he could pick up something on his way back.

Looking out of the window, she tutted at the fading light. She’d never liked this time of year, with its ever-shorter days. But this year she had even more reason to feel despondent.

She pulled her mobile out of her bag and pressed John’s name.

“You home now?” he asked.

“Yeah. I was wondering if you could pick up a takeaway en route.”

“Sounds like a good idea. You must be as tired as me. I’m leaving here in five. Pizza OK?”

“Great. And yes, I am tired. But also . . . the date – tomorrow. I feel kind of weird.”

“The date?”

“October the thirteenth.”

“Oh, of course. That’s understandable.”

As she disconnected the call, Gina happened to glance up at the top of the freezer. There was a pot there, filled with something reddy-orange.

She dragged herself over and reached up to fetch it down. It was what she had dreaded.

The last pot of tomato pasta sauce, made by her father.

And it had defrosted. It must have been out all day. But how? Her eyes welled with tears she tried to sniff back, but it was no good.

Within a few seconds exasperation took over and she marched back into the hall before taking the stairs two steps at a time.

At the top she stood in the middle of the landing.

“Liliana! Dante!”

Both poked their heads out of their bedrooms.

“Did one of you go into the freezer this morning?”

Liliana put her hand up.

“Yeah, me. Only to get my bottle of water out.”

Gina’s daughter had a habit of placing it there each night so the following day, at school, she could have iced water for at least the morning.

“Bet you left the door open again, Lili,” Dante said. His sister had done this once before, accidently defrosting the freezer.

Gina ignored this.

“And did you move anything to reach it?’

“Only a packet of peas, I think. And maybe a couple of other bits. But I put them back.”

“Apart from the pot of pasta sauce. It was on top of the freezer.”

Liliana’s hand went to her mouth.

“Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry.”

“It was the very – last – one.” Gina felt the tears forming once again through the vexation.

“I must have forgotten –” Liliana started, before they heard the front door open.

“Oh, Lils! Papa’s pasta sauce was special,” her brother said.

Liliana started to well up, too.

“I know. It was an accident.”

John stood at the bottom of the stairs holding up a brown paper carrier bag.

“Pizza delivery,” he called with a smile. Slowly he lowered the bag. “What’s wrong?’

“Lili left Papa’s last pot of pasta sauce out of the freezer,” Dan called down.

“Thanks for that.” Liliana folded her arms, her bottom lip sticking out.

John put the bag down and put his arm around Gina. He reached out for Liliana as her first tears fell.

“I don’t know what else to say but sorry.”

John hugged them.

“I presume the sauce has defrosted, so not a lot we can do now. Perhaps we could have it with the pizza?” His face lit up as if he’d had a brilliant idea.

Gina stepped backwards.

“You don’t understand. He’ll never make that sauce again. That was the last of the ones we rescued from the freezer in his flat. I wanted to save it for a very special occasion.”

“I know, love. But for what occasion in particular? You never say.”

“I don’t know. I can’t decide.” Gina slumped. She’d never been able to make her mind up. It wasn’t as if she could have left it in the freezer for ever.

Though maybe that had been at the back of her mind. To have a little piece of him there for all time.

“Well, for now we’ve got dinner waiting and we ought to have it before it gets cold.”

Gina shook her head.

“I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed.”

Her husband and son watched her until the bedroom door closed.

“Oh, dear. Just the three of us then,” John said.

He headed downstairs but hadn’t reached the bottom before he realised the bag wasn’t where he’d left it. When he saw the trail of brown paper, cardboard box and pizza along the floor, he groaned.

“Candy!”

Dante was down two minutes later, by which time John had cleared up the mess.

“Lili says she’s not hungry. I know Mum’s upset, but it is only one pot of sauce. We’ve got other things to remember Papa by.”

“I know, son, but it’s the anniversary of Papa Joe’s death tomorrow.”

John recalled the phone call, almost a year before, to say a neighbour had found him with his head down on one of the tables in his restaurant, as if he were asleep.

It had been an awful few months after, arranging the funeral, clearing Joe’s things up and selling the business. Gina still hadn’t recovered from it all.

“Think it’s called anniversary grief.”

Dante leaned against the wall.

“A year already? I do miss him a lot. He had so much life in him. What can we do for Mum, though?”

“I don’t know.”

“I guess we’d better eat that pizza before it gets cold.”

John sucked his lips in.

“Bad news, I’m afraid. Candy got there first.”

The dog was curled up in the corner of the kitchen, head on her outstretched paws, looking guilty and remorseful.

“Oh, Candy,” Dante remonstrated. “Don’t suppose it would have been as good as Papa’s pizza, anyway.”

“Probably not. Beans on toast?”

“Yeah. I’ll do the toast, you do the beans. But first, I’ll see how your mum is and you check on Liliana.”

John followed his son up the stairs, considering the problem. But he hadn’t a clue what to do.

The next morning, a Saturday, Gina lay on her back in bed. She was staring up at the ceiling, watching the swirling reflections of the beaded mobile they had hanging in the window.

This day last year . . . She’d had a dream about Papa last night, something about her being a teenager in the restaurant. As she’d awoken, she almost fancied she could smell the wonderful aroma of garlic and tomato.

Weren’t people supposed to feel better after a year had gone by? She felt no different from the way she had when they’d received that awful telephone call.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the physical ache of loss. After losing her mum at twenty, it just wasn’t fair to lose her dad before she’d even reached her fortieth birthday. He’d only been sixty-nine. No age at all these days.

They’d been going to take him on holiday last month, back to his home village in Italy. He hadn’t visited in forty years and had been so looking forward to it.

“Why do we never go there?” she’d asked him as a teen.

“Ah, you know.” He’d lifted his hands, palms outwards, and shrugged. “All the family are here. And when do I have the time, what with the restaurant?”

It was true the business stole away many long hours. She thought he might retire at sixty-five, but he’d carried on. Gina reckoned throwing himself into work had been his way of coping with losing her mother.

When he’d died, she’d sold the business to her cousin Luca. She’d had no inclination to take it on herself but at least it kept it in the family.

There was a knock on the door, quickly followed by Dante’s voice.

“Mum? Dad?”

“What is it?” Gina called.

“Lili’s not in her room. I’ve checked round the house and garden. I can’t find her anywhere.”

John and Gina as one leapt from the bed. She checked the clock.

“Lili likes her lie-ins at the weekend. It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

In her daughter’s room they found her bed hadn’t been slept in. It was as neat as it had been when Gina made it yesterday morning.

Gina headed off for a tour of the house. It was unlikely Dante had missed anything, but she wanted to check for herself. She was at the back door letting Candy out when her son and husband caught up with her.

“Her phone’s ringing but there’s no reply,” Dante said.

She shut the patio door.

“I’ll ring the police.

John shook his head.

“No point. She’s only been gone hours at most. And she’s sixteen.”

Gina slumped on to a dining chair, shivering in her nightie.

“What are we going to do?”

“Let’s start by getting dressed.”

By the time Gina got back downstairs, John had called on neighbours whose daughter was friends with Liliana. Dante had rung up a couple of friends whose sisters were mates with her. Neither had any success.

“Here, I’ve made you a cuppa.” John handed her some tea.

“Thanks, you’re a love.” She clutched the cup with both hands, enjoying the warmth. “I wouldn’t be so worried if it hadn’t been for the business with the sauce. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t got so upset.”

“It’s understandable. By the way, I put the sauce in the fridge.”

“Thank you, but it doesn’t seem quite so important now.”

John stroked his chin.

“Perhaps we should try thinking like a teenage girl.”

Gina pondered. What did she do, as a teenager, when she argued with her parents? There’d been some quarrels over working in the school holidays when she’d been an older teen, still at school.

She’d had a few strops over it, walking out a couple of times. Poor Mum and Papa. She’d never gone far though. Mostly over the road to the river, watching the water rush towards the sea.

She’d done much the same the first few months after Papa had died, standing opposite the restaurant, watching the tide get higher and lower. At times Liliana had joined her.

There was something calming about being by water. And being near the restaurant, though it belonged to Luca now, made her feel close to Papa.

“You OK, love? You seem miles away.” John stroked her arm.

“I think I know where Lili might be.”

She put the half-drunk tea down and fetched her keys from her bag.

“Where are we going?”

“You stay here in case she comes back. I won’t be long.”

The drive to the river took ten minutes. The low sun spread a golden wash of colour over the area.

Although it was warm for October, the beach and river areas were quieter today, not brimful of tourists as they often were in the summer.

Gina parked near the pier and walked along the riverside, past the ornamental pond, on to the road with its row of cafés. A small yacht passed by, causing ripples.

The swans, until now floating majestically on the water, bobbed up and down, yet seemed unfazed.

On the low wall overlooking the river, across the narrow road from the café, a girl in a tracksuit was sitting, her long, dark hair tied in a ponytail. Liliana.

She was swinging her legs as she looked out across the river, towards the yacht club.

Gina stopped and removed her phone from her pocket to ring John. He answered quickly.

“I’ve found her, by the river. I thought I might.”

The conversation was brief. She slipped the phone back into her pocket and set off again. When she sat down next to Lili, she said nothing initially.

She could see now that she was crying silently, the tears obvious against her olive skin.

“It’s a year today,” Liliana whispered.

“It is. I’m sorry I got upset with you. I suppose I felt, well, that . . .”

“That the pasta sauce was the last bit of evidence that Papa existed?”

“Something like that. It was like he was still around, standing in the kitchen, his apron wrapped around him, singing Neapolitan songs.”

Liliana took her mother’s hand.

“He showed you how to make the sauce, didn’t he?”

“Yes. But it never tastes the same when I make it. There’s something missing. I think Papa had more patience than me. He used to let it simmer for hours.”

Liliana pulled herself up.

“Well, there’s something I need to tell you.”

What now, Gina thought.

“Go on then, spit it out.’

Liliana opened her mouth to speak, but it froze there as she looked up the road towards the pier. Gina twisted round to see what had taken her attention. John and Dante were hurrying down the road.

“Might as well tell everyone at once,” Liliana said. “Even better, Luca can help me.”

It was then Gina noticed a familiar figure jogging across the road, the hem of one of Papa’s aprons flapping as he went. Her cousin reached them as John and Dante did.

“Has Lili told you?’ he said.

“Hadn’t quite got around to it yet.”

“It was really strange, Lili calling round this morning with her idea, because I was about to give you a ring.

“I was rooting around that big old freezer in the cellar, and what should I find shoved at the back?”

“Papa’s pasta sauce!” the family chanted in unison.

“Yeah, six pots of Uncle Joe’s special recipe, and it couldn’t have been made long before he passed away.”

“How wonderful!” Gina exclaimed, feeling the tears sting her eyes once more, this time in happiness.

“When Lili arrived and told me what had happened, we hatched a plan.” He pointed to her to carry on.

“Luca’s closed on Sunday evenings so we thought tomorrow we could have a dinner here, invite some of the family round.”

“A celebration of Uncle Joe’s life,” Luca said. “Get Mama, Auntie Chiara, Uncle Marco, my brother and some of the cousins. But only if it’s OK with you.”

“Oh, yes, please, that’s a great idea,” Gina said.

“I’ll make some fresh pasta, buy some good lamb from the butcher, crack open a couple of bottles of Gavi di Gavi.

“I just wish my tomato pasta sauce was as good as Uncle Joe’s was. His was always the best.” Luca put his hand sideways against his mouth. “But don’t tell Mama I said that!”

Gina elbowed him playfully and the others laughed.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I better get ready for opening.” He looked up and down the road before almost skipping back to the restaurant.

John considered his family.

“What shall we do with the pot of sauce at home?”

“Have it this evening,” Dante said.

“Papa’s pasta sauce two evenings running?” Gina said. “Do we mind?”

“No!” came the resounding reply.

“What I thought.”

They headed off, arm in arm, back down towards the pier. Gina and the children belted out a rendition of “O Sole Mio”.

It was a song they’d all heard Papa sing since they were little, playing the conventional Neapolitan for customers and family alike.

Gina felt the happiest she had since her father had passed on.

She knew now he’d always be around her, in her children, in her aunts, uncle and cousins. In lots of their memories. And in all their attempts at his recipes – especially his pasta sauce.

Enjoy exclusive short stories every week inside the pages of “The People’s Friend”. On sale every Wednesday.