“YOU WANT SOME veal, Victor?”

“No, ma’am,” I lied. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“I made it last night. The whole family came. But I prepared too much. I have it left over. I will just have to throw away.”

“All right then,” I said. “If you’re just going to throw it away.”

“Good. Sit. And some baked rigatoni? And a sausage? You want me fry a sausage?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Parma.”

“Are you sure? No trouble.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble.”

“Sit. You’ll eat and then we’ll talk. Like civilized people. Sit.”

I sat. It was no use arguing with Joey Parma’s mother when she decided you needed to be fed. You would eat and you would enjoy.

Mrs. Parma’s house was dark, the curtains drawn, the lights low. I could barely see my way into the kitchen to the little Formica table to the side, but Mrs. Parma, in a long housecoat and slippers, bustled about her territory with an assuredness born of long practice despite her failing sight. When she opened the refrigerator and bent down to feel for the platter of veal, the light illuminated the lines on her cheek, her lean prowlike nose, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the stoic tragedy of a woman who lost her son years ago and had just now gotten around to burying him.

She hummed as she cooked, pouring olive oil into the pan, dropping in breaded pieces of veal that sizzled with excitement, placing a square of baked rigatoni in the oven, slicing a sausage and adding it to the pan. She took fresh greens from the crisper, brought them to her nose and then held them gently in her gnarled fingers as she sliced the greens roughly, chopped the garlic, fried it all up together before splitting a lemon and reaming it over everything. It filled the kitchen, the smell of meat and garlic, the spices, the sizzle of oil, the delicious clatter of her knives and pans and dishes, the sound of her soft humming.