Sheil and Martha came to the apartment several times in the days after I arrived in New York. They gathered items that were meaningful to them while we all worked to make the place seem more like mine.
Sheil remained quiet in her grief. Her silence was perceived as indifference to some, but I knew better. She had traveled here from India twenty years ago as part of a music troupe. Once she met my father, there was no looking back. An accomplished sitar player, Sheil had become very successful, working with the World Music Institute. Her transcending beauty and passion when she plays has made her a sought-after musician for many different kinds of acts looking to add that Eastern sound.
Even though I never saw her cry outwardly, I knew she was in a lot of pain over the loss of my father. She had found him in the apartment just moments after his heart attack. At his funeral she played a very long and sorrowful piece of music, but her face remained completely stoic. When I hugged her afterward, I realized the front of her sari was drenched. Tears had poured from her eyes without any change in her facial expression. It’s pure pain and pure surrender when your soul cries without any fight from your body and that’s how I knew she was deeply affected.
Pops’s funeral was more like a tribute. A large crowd gathered in the garden next to St. Brigid’s church where several musicians played songs and patrons of the café spoke about his generosity and character. That day was uncharacteristically warm for February. I remember through tears I marveled at the shards of light piercing through the trees, flooding the space with warmth and energy. It was a beautiful way to say goodbye to his body and a reminder that his spirit would remain. It was exactly what he would have wanted, something more like a peaceful memorial concert outdoors as opposed to a sad wake at Kell’s. In my father’s will he requested to be cremated but left no instructions regarding his remains. In my heart I promised that I would do something with his ashes. I would find a way to give his spontaneous, loving spirit one last hoorah.
Sheil lives in the apartment directly above Kell’s. My apartment is one building down and situated above Sam’s Italian Restaurant. Sam’s does not serve any coffee; they send all their customers to Kell’s, claiming we have the best cappuccinos. In return, we let them use a small storage space in our back office. It’s been a worthwhile relationship.
“Martha, I’m going to work seven days a week until we get the books straight,” I said one morning before we opened the café.
“You most certainly will not—you’ll burn out.”
“I don’t know if we’re making money or losing money and I am not going to hire someone until we figure out the finances.”
“I can tell you without looking at the books that we’re doing just fine,” she said, glancing toward the door where several patrons had begun to gather. “Anyway, your father kept meticulous records. If it says we’re in the black, then we are.”
She was right about one thing: my father was a good businessman and record keeper. The café was like a museum; one wall of the long narrow space was exposed brick, completely unmarred. The other side was beige wainscoting that met solid, navy blue paint, which was almost entirely covered by black-and-white photographs. The photographs varied between pictures of famous patrons, musical performances that took place in the café, my father’s friends or employees over the years, and quite a few of me. It seemed there was at least one from every stage of my life. The counter, refrigerator case, and register were old, but still gleaming and the espresso machine, as loud and cranky as it was, sparkled in the light of the low-hung fixtures.
Above the counter was a chalkboard with my father’s simple writing of the beverage names and descriptions. The only place that had visibly been erased over the many years were the prices. I briefly pondered the cost of the very first cappuccino served at that counter. Perhaps a nickel. Times had certainly changed, the prices had changed and more pictures had been added to the wall, but other than that, the café remained the same. The floors were old, worn, distressed wood, but they were cherished like the tables and chairs and the bar that stretched across the front window. I’d spent many summer nights with my father, cleaning and oiling the wood. The scent of citrus oil and espresso always mingled heavily in the tight space.