by Jean Rabe
Anthony was glad of that. He replayed that part of his childhood again and again. So many fights with his grandfather. So many times his grandfather had tried to keep Anthony from screwing up his life. All the times when he caught Anthony smoking, stealing, or sneaking out at night. The times when he insisted Anthony stay in school.
Monica turned in her sleep. The bedsprings’ creak echoed the springs of his old bed in Grandfather’s house. That night he’d thrown himself on the bed in teenage melodrama, arguing over the sound of protesting springs. The last night.
“You cannot go out with them, Anthony. You are grounded. They are bad boys, and you cannot go with them.”
The ancient jazz from his grandfather’s record player was yet another way the old man was behind the times.
“You don’t understand! You can’t understand. You’re not even from this country. You don’t get it!”
He could not remember what any of it looked like. All he remembered were the sounds and silences of that night. The sudden silence of his grandfather—confused and unable to speak. The echoing wail of the ambulance siren. The beep-punctuated quiet of the hospital room as Anthony waited for the doctors to tell him it was a massive stroke. The total silence of the funeral home when his smart-ass teenage mouth could not say a thing.
“What’s that, baby?” Monica said.
Anthony mashed the pages back together. His hands twisted the string around them on autopilot. The radiator clanked again, louder, giving him a moment to stall. He held a fragment of the past, a relic of a memory older than himself. He could not take anyone else judging him about this.
“Nothing,” he said. She flinched at the flatness in his voice. “Just some notes about things to see in the city.” Anthony pushed the papers back into his pants pocket.
“Okay, baby.”
He watched her breasts rise and fall with a deep breath.
“Are you coming back to bed?”
Anthony put on his trousers. “No. Let’s get dressed. I want to get started on our tour.”
The lion did not roar.
Monica’s eyes were large. “How does it move around?”
Anthony closed the pocket watch in his hand and looked up at the lion. It stopped circling the cage—it had just enough room for that—then sank down and began chewing at the bald patches on its haunches. It ignored the stinking bowl of kibble and scraps in the far corner.
“I don’t think it can. These small cages in zoos were normal even when I was a kid.” He could smell the musk of the big cat over the metal of the cage; they were far closer to the lion than they would ever be in the naturalistic enclosures of a modern zoo.
“Is that why it’s chewing on itself? Because it has no room? Because it feels trapped?”
Anthony started to reply when a swarm of schoolchildren flowed around a corner and past them, a pushing, shoving, river of shouting youth. Behind them, a school-teacher in a muted floral dress prompted stragglers to keep up.
Monica pointed at the kids. “They’re so cute, Anthony.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I can’t afford kids. We’ve talked about this before.” Anthony looked at his watch again. “We’ve got to get going, anyway.”
“Fine.”
Anthony looked up; the hardness of her voice was also in her eyes.
“We won’t talk about it, Anthony. I’ll meet you at the front gate.”
He watched her walk away, her stride keeping pace with the students. A chuff from the lion got his attention. It had stopped gnawing at itself, its face instead turned straight toward him. Anthony understood how antelope felt.
“I can’t afford it,” he whispered. “I can’t afford to make another mistake.”
It was afternoon when they got to the docks, and even if the conversation was not forgotten, Anthony was not going to mention it. The early afternoon sunlight angled across the water as the ferry lowered its ramp. When it did, humanity poured out, swirling among the few people waiting nearby. The passengers’ brown clothing offset the sea of olive skin and dark hair. Pale manifest tags from the passenger ships were still pinned to their clothes. The sound of immigrant voices reached Anthony, a linguist’s stew of Europe, the words too fast in too many languages to understand. The smell of disinfectant came next, carried on their clothes from Ellis Island, pushing away the smell of the sea.
Monica leaned into his shoulder, a whispered breath in his ear. “Why are we here, baby? Isn’t the Statue of Liberty next on the itinerary?”
Anthony turned his head slowly from side to side, both negating and trying to take in each of the faces as they went past. He tried to imagine each one forty years older, to match them to the face he had argued with years ago. His heart twisted more with each small wave of people that passed. He was only able to see a few of them. There were too many—the ferry was emptying too fast.
They both swiveled at a joyful cry. A man, still in dirty work clothes gathered up a woman and child into his arms. The woman was speaking fast, high, excited, and then was stopped by the man’s passionate kiss. A small wordless sound escaped Anthony’s lips, his mind filled with memories of his father returning from business trips.
Monica looked at Anthony, then at the family, and then at Anthony again. He felt the wetness in his eyes, a tear running down his left cheek. He watched her piece together the snippets of his story, shared over coffee and pillows during their engagement. Her eyes widened, mouth shaping into a small O.
“Your grandfather,” she said.
Anthony nodded, wiping away the tears from both cheeks. There were still a few people getting off the boat.
“The records say he was here. I haven’t seen him yet,” he said, gaze roving back across the faces. She punched his shoulder.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Monica stepped in front of him, pressing closer. The lavender of her perfume mixed with the lingering antiseptic scent. She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Talk to me, husband.”
Anthony closed his eyes, listening to the waves, the seagulls. The crowd was thinning; he could pick out individual voices, words in different languages. He took a deep breath, willing the dark despair back down his throat before opening his eyes.
“Talk to me, baby,” she said. “Let me in your head.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Anthony looked past her face, past the sunlight in her hair to the ferry beyond.
“Bullshit.” Anthony’s attention snapped back to her. Her cheeks burned red, the light flashed in her eyes. “It does matter. You brought me here, you chose this for our honeymoon, and you didn’t tell me the real reason why.”
It sounded stupid as he said it. “I thought you would be mad.”
“Jesus,” she whispered, pulling away and turning to look back at the boat. “I want to hold you and slap you at the same time.”
The few immigrants who remained clutched multilingual handbills promising work while following better dressed men into the city. Anthony slowly reached out to her. When his hand brushed the soft hair on the side of her neck, she tensed, and then leaned back into him.
Her voice was soft. “This is your grandfather who had the stroke, right?”
“Yeah,” Anthony said. “I was an idiot, arguing with him over stupid things. Probably sent his blood pressure through the roof. Caused it.”
Monica slid under his arm until she was facing him again. “Good to know some things don’t change,” she said smiling, and kissed his cheek.
Anthony pulled her close and spoke into her hair. “They’re raising the ramp now. I missed him. I only know he was on this ferry, then in the mines two weeks later.” He sighed. “We only have a few hours left before we have to go.”
Monica kissed him again. “We can finish the tour. We can just go to that speakeasy, baby, and try to enjoy ourselves.”
Anthony tried to smile as they turned away from the dock. “This is the past, and I have to concentrate on the present, right?
”
The alley outside the club stank of piss and nausea. Inside, it was clean and glittering. The jazz quartet’s jackets shone silky blue, and waiters brought gin in teacups to the tables. Cigarette smoke hung in a low cloud over the dancing crowd.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Monica asked when the music paused.
“Relax,” Anthony said. “There’s no raid here tonight. They checked that when they made up the itinerary.”
With a musical slide of notes, the trumpet player led the band into another song. A young woman, hair bobbed and hose turned down, danced past their table. Her arms and legs flew in a frantic Charleston.
Monica drank the rest of her gin in a quick motion. “C’mon baby,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Let’s dance.”
Despite the month of lessons at home, Anthony’s limbs did not want to cooperate at first. A live band and a busy dance floor just seemed different from the living room floor and old recordings. But after a few missteps and one slightly mashed foot, he started to feel his body relax into the music. Monica’s mouth had broken into a huge grin as their hands flitted from knee to knee.
Then Anthony saw him.
The busboy was clearing a table, as awkward as Anthony had originally felt on the dance floor. Anthony stumbled, his limbs suddenly numb and unresponsive. The earliest pictures of his grandfather had not prepared him for how much the young immigrant would resemble the man he had grown up with. The wood floor banged into Anthony’s knee, a sharp spike of pain sweeping aside the rest of his confusion.
“Are you okay?” Monica asked as the band finished the song.
“He’s here,” he said, gesturing to the busboy. Monica glanced over while Anthony picked himself up. “I’m going to talk to the owner.”
A ten dollar bribe and ten minutes later, Anthony watched confusion ripple across his grandfather’s face. The stern man he expected was not there. The lines, the weariness from the mines, had not yet appeared. He was just a boy, alone in a new land, summoned away from his new job by a tip for more money than he would make in a week.
“How can I help you?” his grandfather said in his thick accent.
Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but his chest and throat tightened around the words. Monica spoke into his silence. “Are you Antonio Marinelli?”
His grandfather’s eyes widened. “I am he. Who are you?”
Anthony felt the vibration in his pocket. Monica looked at him a second later; her recall device had vibrated its five-minute warning to her, too. Their vacation was nearly over. Anthony took a large drink from the teacup.
“What are your plans, Mr. Marinelli?” he asked.
His grandfather took a long look at Anthony, and then laughed. “Plans? I have a room I share with five men, and they say we are lucky! The padroni get me a room, this job, but they want me to work more. They tell to get me to go work in the mines, but . . .” His grandfather sank back in the chair. “Is it worth it? Perhaps I return to Italy soon instead. America could be a mistake.”
The recall vibrated again. Three minutes. Anthony covered his grandfather’s left hand with his own. “It will be worth it, I swear. All of it.”
His grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know me?”
Anthony kept his eyes locked with his grandfather. He spoke fast, hoping the man’s English could keep up.
“It will be hard. After you leave the mine, when you think you are done with work and children, an ungrateful child will be in your home.”
His grandfather tried to pull back, crossing himself with his free hand. “Una maledizione!” he whispered.
Anthony held tight. “No curse. You will think this child is a failure. He will be too stupid to appreciate you. One day, though, he will be successful. He would have made you proud. He will realize how much you meant to him.” His grandfather stopped pulling his arm away, instead leaning toward Anthony. “But by then, it will be too late to tell you.”
His grandfather lapsed into muttered Italian again for a moment, and then said, “Are you an angel? A demon?”
“I am no demon, Nonno.” Anthony said. The room began to fade as his recall device pulled him back through the centuries. The music of the band faded, too, sounding less like a live band and more like a record played long ago.
Anthony threw himself on the bed, and then glared back at his grandfather through his bangs. The old man looked small next to the oversized black light posters, his starched white shirt and teeth glowing.
“You cannot go out with them, Anthony. You are grounded. They are bad boys, and you cannot go with them.”
The ancient jazz from his grandfather’s record player in the living room was yet another way the old man was behind the times.
“You don’t understand! You can’t understand. You’re not even from this country. You don’t get it!”
Anthony stared at his headboard, not wanting to even give his grandfather the satisfaction of eye contact. But out of the corner of his eye, Anthony saw the old man smile a little, his lips curving into the words, “You’re welcome.”
Anthony shook his grandfather’s hand one last time. “Thank you,” Anthony said.
And they were gone.
A Night to Forget
C. A. Verstraete
Christine Verstraete is a Wisconsin journalist who did see the Titanic display in Chicago, but doesn’t remember anything out of the ordinary happening. She’s had short fiction published in the Dragons Composed and The Heat of the Moment anthologies, in Mouth Full of Bullets, and coming in The Bitter End. She is also the author of a middle grade novel, Searching for a Starry Night: A Miniature Art Mystery, a 2009 Eppie finalist for the e-book version. Contact her at her Web site: http://cverstraete.com or stop by her blog, http://candidcanine.blogspot.com.
The building’s faded brick and dirty windows made Jessica Adams question whether she’d found the right place.
She eyed the ad once more before exiting the car. Matt should’ve come and checked the place like he promised. Would’ve saved her a trip, and a ton of aggravation, she muttered.
Her mood sour, Jess inched closer and tried to peer beyond the layer of dirt in the front window. The inside of the store was dim, its secrets well hidden. She rubbed the dirt from a section of a pane of glass, her effort providing a slightly improved view of the items piled haphazardly on the window ledge. The collection included a faded cruise program, a black-and-white image of a woman in an elegant, ankle-length dress, and a pair of lady’s gloves, the tiny pearl buttons dull with age, the cloth’s once pristine white a memory.
The quaint scene seemed better suited to an antique shop than a place offering the kind of vacation she had in mind. She’d envisioned a private beach in the Caymans or a secluded cabin in the woods, just the two of them. Instead, Matt had begged off, telling her he was too busy for vacations. So, a little peeved, she went alone to investigate the new agency he’d seen advertised in the paper. She had half the mind to book a vacation for herself.
Her bravado faded now that she was here. She read the small, hand-lettered sign tucked into the bottom window pane and scoffed: TIMESHARES—ADVENTURE FOR THE AGES. The place was as likely to book her dream vacation as she was to win a million dollars. It sounded, well, kind of odd and a bit too good to be true.
“Good old Matt,” she groused. “He did it again.”
Disappointed, Jess refolded the newspaper page and shoved it in her bag. She needed a good strong cup of coffee. Maybe someone at the coffee shop could recommend another travel agency so the trip wouldn’t be a total waste.
She was about to leave when a flicker behind the glass caught her eye. Had the owner arrived? Guess she could at least see what the place offered and hope that the pickings weren’t as slim as she expected.
Finding the door open, she stepped inside. “Hello? Anyone here?”
She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The view was staggering—row upon row of shelves stuffed with old bo
oks; faded manuscripts covering the walls and stuffed in baskets. Then there was the art: paintings, the varnish brown and cracked, hung in every available open space.
What a mess.
Still, the more she looked around, the more her curiosity grew. Each painting had a note tucked into the frame with the title, name, date: The Battle of the Bulge, Napoleon, Cleopatra.
Annoyance gave way to fascination as she wandered around. Was the owner branching out? Probably a good idea from the look of the place, she thought, as her finger rubbed a layer of dust off a painting.
Her questions about the missing travel agent faded at sight of the next painting. She studied the majestic ocean liner streaking through the mist: Maiden Voyage, The Titanic, the paper said. Not that she needed a note. She’d know the image anywhere.
The tragedy of the Titanic had captured her imagination since she was a child, thanks to her mother. Besides classic children’s stories like Jack and the Beanstalk or Mother Goose, her mother’s favorite, often-told tale had been about how her great-aunt had boarded the Titanic as a child. She had perished with many of the other immigrants traveling in the bare-bones quarters in the ship’s bowels.
Jess had repeatedly studied the faded photo of a young, unsmiling Polish girl dressed in a matronly long dress, babushka on her head, and clunky, old lady shoes on her feet. The patched, battered carpetbag she held accented the girl’s poverty.
She’d always suspected that the story of how the poor girl made it to England and onto the Titanic was just that—a fable. Family legend said the girl’s uncle won the third-class ticket playing dice (her mother said others insisted he stole it) and gave it to her in hopes of giving her a better life. So the story went.
Jess had begun her search for answers when her sixth grade teacher made everyone research and write an essay on a historical topic. To her surprise, she not only discovered that her mother’s story was true, but a helpful librarian led her to a list of Titanic passengers—which included her great-aunt.
