Peter signed up for the infantry as Pietro Bascano—the birth certificate looked genuine, yellowed a little and worn in the creases—passed his physical, and was told to expect his call-up anytime. Meanwhile he closed out his account at the Everglade State Bank before the financial division in Washington could do it for him, deposited the remainder of his advance in a competing bank, and drew from it to pay his share of the household expenses. He slept on the couch, cut the grass, and helped with the other chores. Some days he worked as a deckhand aboard Paul's boat, a job that mainly involved keeping the pilot and his customer supplied with beer. Once when they were out together alone, Peter sat in the stern chair with a heavy rod and something struck the lure with a slam that made him think they'd hit something in the water, but by the time Paul buckled the harness securing him to the chair, the fish had thrown the hook.
"Too bad, son. Landing a monster marlin like that could-a put you on the cover of Fish and Game."
"Wouldn't Hoover love that."
In the evenings, Paul, Sharon, and Peter went to the movies or stayed home and listened to the radio. The airwaves were filled with war news. Hitler's own officers had tried to assassinate him and failed. U.S. Marines captured the island of Guam. Japan's Premier Hideki Tojo resigned along with his cabinet. Captive Jews mounted an unsuccessful uprising against the Nazis occupying Warsaw. A second Battle of Berlin began with German V-2 rockets raining on London. A French general named DeGaulle liberated Paris. Churchill and Roosevelt met in Quebec to discuss the conduct of the rest of the war, which Lowell Thomas predicted would be a matter of weeks. FDR won a fourth term in November, with Harry S. Truman installed as his vice president.
"You were right, Dad," Peter said. "It'll be finished by Christmas. If I ever get over there they'll take away my rifle and hand me a mop."
Sharon said, "A mop is good. Nobody ever got killed swinging one."
"I ain't so sure about Chicago," Paul said.
"We agreed not to talk about that ever again."
"I forgot."
In December, with the visitors coming in from Fifth Avenue and Lake Shore Drive and steaming down the coast in oceangoing yachts, Peter helped Sharon decorate a fat Douglas fir (and polish a menorah), in shirtsleeves with all the windows open and Bing Crosby singing "Silent Night" on the radio. An announcer broke in. The German Army, under a heavy cloud cover that grounded the Royal Air Force and U.S. aviators, launched a surprise counterassault along a sixty-mile front in the Ardennes Woods and began pushing the Allies back toward the western border. The convex shape of the advancing line of tanks and infantry persuaded Churchill to refer to this new action as the Battle of the Bulge.
The reports were confusing: The British and Americans were holding their position; they were in full rout with the Nazis in hot pursuit; the Russians were slashing at the enemy's flanks; all leaves were canceled as troops from three nations prepared to prevent Hitler from retaking Paris. Peter tried to call the recruitment center, but all lines were jammed. He gave up after a half hour. "They're sure to call now," he said. "They need all the reinforcements they can get."
Paul jiggled the beer in the bottom of his can. "That's six weeks of basic. By then either Jerry'll-a shot his wad or they'll be cooking wiener schnitzel in Buckingham Palace."
Christmas morning, with the crisis still on, the three exchanged presents. Peter gave his father a heavy brass fishing reel he'd ordered from Abercrombie & Fitch.
Paul turned the crank: it went tick-tick-tick. "You could-a bought me a tie. You don't need to be spending so much."
"Consider it a gift from J. Edgar Hoover." He handed Sharon a small package wrapped in tissue. It was a collection of Victorian poetry in a supple leather binding. "I'm afraid it's not very revolutionary, but I thought of you when I saw it in the secondhand shop. I'm sorry it isn't something grand. I know so little about what you like."
"You know more than you think. I adore it. Paul?"
He was still playing with the reel. "That red one there, in back."
"How did I fall for someone so lazy?"
Peter stooped and retrieved the narrow flat packet. He tore away the wrapping and lifted the lid off a box containing a Rosary carved from blond wood, with a crucifix attached fashioned from the same material.
"It was your mother's," Paul said. "I gave it to her as a wedding present. It's cypress. My grandfather whittled it. He had plenty of time. He was a rotten fisherman."
He remembered it. Maureen Vasco had never failed to carry it to Mass. It rattled as it straightened, darkened and lightened in the sun as it dangled from his fingers. It carried a faint scent of sandalwood he associated with his mother.
"Are you sure you want to give it to me? You don't have much to remember her by."
"She wanted you to have it. You and me got in a fight after the funeral so I never got around to it. Anyway, I don't need a string-a beads to remind me."
"Thank you, Dad."
"You ain't gonna start blubbering, are you?"
"Paul."
"Yeah, yeah. Ain't you forgetting something?"
Sharon shook her head, flicking her eyes Peter's way.
"You poked it out-a sight behind the couch. I seen you."
She sighed, drew an oblong package out into the open, and handed it to Peter. "I was embarrassed after what your father said about giving him a tie." He undid the ribbon, spread the paper, and laughed when he saw a blue-and-yellow necktie.
"I had a speech all ready about your neck getting cold without the collar," she said. "The man in the men's store said it's an exact copy of the one FDR wore to his inauguration."
"Which one? He's been around longer'n Andy Hardy."
"I love it." Peter slung it around his neck and kissed her on the cheek.
On the day after Christmas, ten days after it began, the German push collapsed. The sun came out, there was no Luftwaffe left to protect the ground troops from enemy air strikes, and the Panzers were running out of fuel. Whole battalions surrendered. That afternoon, while Paul was at Sunrise, a telegram came to the house ordering PFC Pietro Bascano to report to duty in Miami the following morning. Sharon cried.
He couldn't get away without another emergency food package. The marina was on the way to the station. He got off the streetcar and carried the sack and his valise to the pier where his father stood to his waist in water, painting a new name on the fantail of his boat. When he peeled away the stencil, it read MAGGIE. "How does Sharon feel about it?" Peter asked.
Paul looked up, saw the suitcase. "It was her idea from the start. Off to town, looks like."
"That's right."
"Got everything you need?"
He nodded. "The army will supply the rest."
"I wouldn't worry about 'em handing you a mop just yet. Them krauts don't know when they're licked." He put his bucket and brush on the pier and hoisted himself up onto it, streaming water from his soaked shorts.
"What happened to your swimsuit?"
"Don't need one. I got a boat."
Father and son stood facing each other on the pier.
Paul spoke first. "You ought-a drop in on him while you're in Miami."
"Kyril?"
"Hell, no. That commie?"
"Dad."
"You know who I was talking about."
"What would I say to him?"
"Try good-bye. I don't know what else there'd be."
"A wise man once told me you can't let a cut stay open. It has to be stitched up."
"I was talking about that girl."
"It still applies."
There was another stretch of not talking. Then they embraced. The moment was better than before, but it would never be less than awkward.
Henry, the old man at the toll gate, grinned. "Hey, going casual. New wheels?"
"It's rented." He'd drawn a five-year-old Chevy that refused to shift into third gear without taking the stick in both hands and swinging for the bleachers. He missed the dependable Model T. He held
out a dime.
"Don't insult me. I was starting to think they'd kicked you up to the Vatican."
"I had some family business up north. Have you heard any news about Mr. Capone?"
"He's up, he's down, he's up again. His doc came through about an hour ago."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"Naw. You kidding? You know anything about germs?"
"Not very much."
"My nephew brought a book home from school. They're too small to see."
"I've heard that."
"Any little bug that hopes to get the Big Fellow better bring along the whole North Side." He raised the barricade.
It was a beautiful day. Whitecaps alone separated the bay from blue sky and there were more boats out than he'd ever seen, more than he suspected had been out of mothballs since before Pearl Harbor. Clouds of seagulls followed them looking for handouts. The wind batted the side of the car and he felt as if he were driving directly across the surface of the ocean. Blasphemous thought: Were He to return to Galilee today, would Jesus walk or drive?
The freckle-faced guard at the gate recognized him after a moment and swung it open. He crunched up the driveway for the first time in six months and coasted to a stop behind a gunmetal-gray Cadillac with medical plates.
At the door he hesitated before knocking. What if Brownie answered? He knocked. Danny Coughlin opened the door. He wore a green silk sports shirt with a square tail outside plaid shorts, sandals on his large bare feet. A tall misty glass beaded in his fist. He narrowed his eyes, then broke out in a leer. Vasco realized at that moment that he had never liked Danny.
"Jesus. How long's it been?"
"Long. I had some personal things to take care of. How is Mr. Capone?"
"He had a stroke."
This wasn't Danny, who turned away to look at Mae Capone standing in the middle of the living room. She had on a blue dress with a knee-length hem and her hair was tied back in a ponytail, a way Vasco had never seen it. Her face was shiny. The air conditioner was off and the ceiling fan seemed to be moving the same old air around in a continuous cycle. Her hands were folded in front of her waist. "Hello, Father. We'd about given up on you."
"Said he had some personal things." Danny leaned a little on the personal. Vasco thought anyone would be a fool not to have some inkling of what had been going on even if the man hadn't told what he'd seen.
Mae made a slight gesture. Danny stepped aside to let him in, closed the door, and went outside to the patio, placing his feet carefully. Vasco moved closer to Mae.
"Rose went out to bring him sandwiches and found him floating on his back in the pool," she said. "Al swims like a demon whenever he's in the water; it's the only exercise he gets. He never floats. She called out to him, and when he didn't answer she got Brownie. He dragged him out of the pool and carried him upstairs. He's conscious now, talking. Dr. Phillips said it was lucky he didn't turn over onto his face. He thinks it was a mild stroke, but he's sent for a nurse to stay with him. Until he's out of danger, he says."
"Mr. Capone's a strong man."
"That's what everyone says. If you hear it often enough it gets so it doesn't mean anything."
"It's true, though."
"You're talking about what happened the last time you were here. That's the last anyone will ever see of the old Scarface Al. He'll never be able to manage anything like it again."
"I'm relieved. It was frightening."
"What did you expect?" She was angry suddenly. "Why do you think I attend Mass three times a week? Soup kitchens and a big smile won't save him from hell."
"One thing will."
"He'll never apologize for the life he's lived." The anger was gone. "He asks for you all the time. Where were you?"
"I've been staying with my father in Fort Lauderdale. I'm leaving the priesthood."
"Is it because of Rose?"
"No."
"I won't ask any more questions. In the first place I don't judge people, and in the second I have problems of my own. She hasn't said anything. No one has, and I don't know who knows anything or what they know. It's a house of secrets. But I'm used to that."
"I wasn't meant to be a priest."
"You're too young to know what you were meant for. Al was two years younger than you when he took the path he took. You can see how that turned out."
"In a way, you've made my point," he said. "I want you to know, the Seal of the Confessional is eternal. I can't be released from it no matter what."
"Nothing's eternal in this world. Only in the next." She glanced toward the stairs. "Please don't leave without seeing him. The doctor won't be with him much longer. Rose is in the kitchen if you'd like to talk with her."
"Thank you."
She unfolded her hands and held one out. "I'm glad you came, Fath—Peter. I think you may have added time to his life."
He took it. "If what you said is true, I may have to answer for that."
"We all have to answer for something. God made sin, don't forget." She left him and climbed the stairs.
Rose was wiping and putting away dishes when he went into the kitchen. Brownie was chopping vegetables at the counter. When he saw Vasco his big knife bit into the wooden cutting board with a blow like an axe. After a second's pause he resumed with machine-gun rhythm, his hand a brown blur. Rose wiped her hands and hung the towel on a rod. She looked crisp and efficient in her black-and-white uniform. Her face showed no surprise at his entrance; it might have been twenty-four hours since his last visit.
"You lost weight," she said. "Got yourself some color."
"I've been doing a lot of honest work. You look very nice." She did. He'd forgotten how staggeringly pretty she was.
"Got yourself all healed."
He glanced at Brownie, but the big man seemed engrossed in his chore. He touched the bump on the bridge of his nose. "A little the worse for wear. My father says it adds character."
"Folks never say that when something good happens. You heard about Mr. Al?" He nodded. "Can we go for a walk?"
"I'm working."
"Mrs. Capone said we could talk. She suggested it."
She thought. Then she untied her lacy apron and hung it beside the dish towel.
They passed Danny sitting at the table with the umbrella on the far side of the pool, smoking a cigarette and drinking from his glass and looking out across the bay. A patrolling bodyguard strolled behind the two-story cabana, his pistol out of sight under a sport coat in the moderate heat of December. Vasco and Rose stepped around the wooden bench, where all the glass shattered during target practice had been swept up, and descended the shallow slope to the beach, Vasco holding her hand in support. Her palm felt warm and a little moist. At the bottom she took off her shoes and carried them as they walked along the shore. "You still pretending?" she asked.
"Right now I'm pretending I'm a priest who left the Church. It never ends really."
"What are you going to pretend to be next?"
"A soldier. I guess I'll know whether it's real or not the first time I face enemy fire."
She laughed. "Well, you done did that."
"Has Brownie given you a hard time?"
"He knows better. I don't need no bodyguards, like Mr. Al."
"What do you need, Rose?"
"Not a thing, now I'm engaged."
He stopped and turned to face her. The wind lifted his hair. "Not to Brownie."
"Jesus, no!" She laughed again, the man's laugh now, loud and deep. "Maurice?" He could think of no one else. He'd seen her with her people one night and had thought he knew everything about her. He knew nothing. "Maurice is more Chester's type."
"Chester the bouncer?"
"Opposites attract. You've never met my fiancé. I didn't meet him myself till four months ago. He's in the merchant marines. No segregation there, coloreds and whites swab the deck side by side and sleep next to each other in hammocks. A lot of things are going to be different when this war ends. He's in the Bay of Japan
now. We'll be married when he gets out."
"You're worried about him, of course."
She nodded, fixed him with her mahogany-colored eyes. "I'll worry about you, too. Write us a V-Mail when you can. Send it to Mrs. Capone."
"I will. I'm happy for you, Rose."
"Me, too, for you. Once you get through pretending to be this and that." She glanced toward the house, up and down the beach, out to sea, where the people under sail were no bigger than gnats. Then she took his face in both hands and kissed him hard enough to bruise.
He said good-bye to her at poolside, where the umbrella table was vacant now. He wasn't ready to go inside yet. He sat in Danny's chair and watched an oil tanker waddling low in the water on the horizon. In a little while a chair leg scraped mosaic tile. He turned to see Sonny Capone seating himself. Sonny wore a white open-necked shirt with an orange scarf tied around his throat, earpiece in place. He looked heavier in the face now and more like his father than ever. More than Vasco did. My brother. He knew now why he was drawn to him.
"Long time no see," Sonny said. "Mother told me your plans. When she said you were here, I was afraid it was for Last Rites."
"Did you talk to him?"
He nodded. "He's weak, but you couldn't knock that smile off his face with a naval gun. He said he wasn't born in Brooklyn Harbor to drown in a wading pool in Miami."
"I always admired his sense of humor."
"I wouldn't count him out just yet."
"I'm not. I only spoke in past tense because I'm leaving. I got my orders today."
"I wish it was me. Every day I watch those planes taking off from the air depot and I wish I was on one. Or I think I do." He touched the beautiful curve of his upper lip. Vasco hadn't inherited that feature. "I know what it's like," he said. "Not being sure what it is you want."
The Confessions of Al Capone Page 54
