Page 9 of The Magic We Made

“But bluefin’s more thanthirty dollars a pound—”

“Give your sister a break, Mark. She’s had a tough year.”

Dina smiles at me—a smile I recognize. It’s a tender and pitying smile, the kind I give to patients who’ve lost their life savings to a romance phishing scam.

That’s what I am to my family now, thanks to my divorce: a victim. Who apparently needs to get laid.

Before I can tell Mark exactly what I think about his opinions on my sex life, Dina adds, hastily, “Violet wassucha great cat.”

This is an interesting strategy: Distract me from thinking about my divorce by reminding me of theotherrecent source of pain in my life, the loss of my beloved pet.

Mark seems to catch on to what Dina’s doing. “Yeah, that’s true. Violetwasa great cat. I remember when you got her as a little kitten—how old were you then, Frankie, seventeen? You had that cat for twenty years! What cat lives for twenty years?”

“Most of them, actually, Mark.”

“Not true! That’s a sign of a great pet owner, is what that is. Violet had a great, long life. We should all be as lucky as Violet. But youcouldjust report this stray cat to Animal Control, and they’ll come out and set up a live trap for it. Or go to the animal shelter and adopt anewcat, one that’s been socialized and isn’t living under your front porch. That’s how normal human beings usually get pets, instead of trying to lure them into their homes with expensive tuna.”

This is rich coming from Mark, who not only sports twin sleeves of tattoos and hair that is almost as long as mine, but lives with three beagles and a practicing witch. I love Dina, a lawyerwho dabbles in both the supernatural and culinary arts in her spare time. I support her belief that practicing witchcraft is a feminist act, since for centuries it was a commonly held opinion that women were more susceptible to corruption by the devil because we’re “weaker” than men, not only physically, but also spiritually and emotionally. That’s why so many more women than men were executed for being “witches.”

Fortunately only misogynistic weirdos believe this outdated and sexist shit today. But even though I agree with Dina that practicing witchcraft can be a healthy path toward spiritual growth and even empowerment, I wouldn’t call either herormy brother “normal.”

Which is why I say to Mark, “I’m not certain thereissuch a thing as ‘normal human behavior.’ But if there is, you’re definitely not qualified to determine what it is.”

He bristles as Dina snorts into her wineglass.

“That’s it!” he cries. “I’m not wasting quality seafood on you again, Frankie, especially if you’re just going to turn around and give it away to stray cats. And for all you know that old ladyisbeing haunted.”

“She isn’t.” I lift a piece of Mom’s garlic bread and nibble on it. Delicious. “She was robbed. And I can prove it.”

I’m not about to go into the details of everything I’ve been doing to help Mr. and Mrs. Baumgarten get their complete—or prorated at the very least—refund. But it’s a lot.

“Behind you,” Mom warns as she bustles from the kitchen carrying a casserole dish, lobster-shaped pot holders on either hand. Mark and Dina leap out of her way. “Look out, this is hot.”

“Hmm, smells good.” Mark reaches to pluck off a piece of perfectly crisped cheese from the side of the dish. “As always.”

Mom slaps his hand away, just as she’d done when he was a little boy and tried the same stunt. “Marco, make yourself useful for a change and get me a trivet to put this on.”

“I’m useful.” Mark grabs a trivet from the sideboard and lays it on the table so Mom can put down the dish. “I made that ziti.”

Our sister Angelica, who has followed Mom out from the kitchen, snorts. “All you did was layer the pasta. Mom made the sauce.”

“Layering the pasta is the hardest part!”

They continue to bicker, just as they have every Sunday for as long as I can remember. Mom started the tradition of Sunday Gravy shortly after Dad died. During those first tear-soaked, uncertain weeks, Mom decided to leave the running of the restaurant to the weekend staff on Sundays because, she said, “Sunday is a day of rest.”

To Mom, “resting” means putting a big pot of homemade tomato sauce on the stove, along with meatballs, Italian sausage, pork, and whatever other cuts of meat happen to be around the house, allowing it to simmer all day, then requiring all four of us—myself, younger brother Mark, and younger sisters Angelica and Caterina—to show up and eat it with her, no matter our schedules. She calls this Sunday Gravy. It’s her way, she says, of honoring Dad, who worked himself into an early grave trying to make the restaurant a success and life better for us.

Twenty years on, Mark, Angie, Cat, and I arestillexpected to show up every Sunday for dinner at 4 p.m., so it’s more like lunch... only now we’re also expected to bring our friends, children, spouses, and even romantic partners...

Those of us who still have one, anyway.

“Hey, Frankie.” Angie’s husband Troy has come striding intothe dining room from Mom’s den, where he’s been watching a ball game. “What’s going on out there by your place? We’ve had a ton of complaints recently of trash being dumped at the Seat.”

The Seat—or Satan’s Seat, its proper name—is in the middle of Center Island, directly across the lake from my house. It’s a pointy rock formation that looks like a throne the Devil might sit on (if one believed in the Devil). I can’t see the Seat from my back deck—or even on my daily morning swims to the island’s shore and back—because it’s hidden from view by a thick forest of trees, even in the winter when all the leaves have dropped.

That’s probably why the Seat has been a haunt for local teens for as long as I can remember. It’s a secluded area they can easily boat to, then have sex and/or get drunk and high far from the disapproving eyes of parents... but not from law enforcement like my brother-in-law Troy, a ranger with Fish and Wildlife.

“It’s been a real mess this summer,” he goes on with relish. “Lots of partying. We’ve been finding empty wine bottles and beer cans every single day.”