Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

Ignazio slammed the butt of his cane into the wooden porch, and futilely attempted to make it to his feet.

  “You’ve forgotten! You have forgotten!” he shouted, like an angry priest. Turridru looked over his shoulder at the garden and pretended he wasn’t hearing any of this.

  “I have forgotten nothing,” Alonzo said with the first hint of life in his voice.

  “But you have. Because of the work your grandfather and your father put in to give you all of this”—he gestured over Alonzo’s land—“you have forgotten. You don’t remember what it is like for the rest of Sicily, scraping and striving for every inch of land, clinging to what little bread they have left to feed their families. The land is arid and hard, the taxes rip everything out from under their feet. And yet you sit here, filling your belly and the bellies of your family with meats and cheeses. Look how tall they are becoming! And so, I say, you have forgotten that if you don’t fight for it, you will lose it. You will lose all of this, and you’ll become like the rest of us. Hungry, hard…with poverty and strife as a constant.”

  “You have not been so hungry. Not since my father brought you into this Borgata.”

  “Yes, and I earned that right by killing. By pulling the trigger. And now, even after all of that”—he finally made it to his feet—“we will lose that as well if we don’t have someone to fight for us. A leader to protect us. And you don’t have the ingredients, boy.” Ignazio shook his head, his left eyelid, which had grown limp over the years, now twitching with anger.

  “Here.” Turridru attempted to hand Alonzo the flowers. Alonzo let them fall from his lap to the porch. The wind scattered them, sending them across the porch and to the Sicilian soil beyond it.

  Turridru helped his father down the stairs, and gave Alonzo a glance over his shoulder. But Don Consentino wasn’t looking. His eyes were fixed on the land before him, perhaps considering Ignazio’s words.

  Sonny

  Little Italy, Manhattan—December 13, 1917

  “Come on, Maria! You can do it,” Sonny said, cheering her from their makeshift third base—the back tire of Mr. Bacchiega’s Oldsmobile. The pitcher wound up and tossed it down the middle, Maria’s bat whiffing long after it passed.

  “I’m no good at baseball,” Maria said, still shivering from the violent cold.

  “Hey, how about you pitch it a little slower, fella. She’s only six,” Sonny suggested, tamping his frustration. Antonello waited anxiously in their “dugout,” the light under the lamp post behind home plate. Being so much older than his playmates, he was dominant, and didn’t care to show it. Ever since he had started living with the Consentinos, and had the ability to bathe and change his clothes a bit more often, some of the older boys began to tease him less. Still, he liked to spend time with Sonny. His loyalty was constantly on display, even when Enzo and Vico laughed at him for it.

  The next pitch was underhand and slow, and the thin wooden bat, held out in front of Maria, smacked it back toward the pitcher. It didn’t go very far, but the outfielders were good sports and allowed her to take first base without attempting to tag her out. Sonny didn’t charge home plate to show his gratitude.

  “Sonny,” Maria said with a pouty lip from first base, “I want to go in.” She held out her hands, allowing errant snowflakes to collect in the palms of the mittens her mother had sewn for her last winter.

  “Okay, last hit,” Sonny said, nodding to Antonello to take the base.

  “No, Sonny, I want to go now,” Maria said, her voice pleading.

  Sonny sighed and stepped away from the Oldsmobile.

  “Let’s call it a tie game. We’ll finish up tomorrow.” Sonny put his arm around Maria and headed for home, which was just a few yards away.

  “Maybe tomorrow we can leave the little girlies at home,” Sammy Bacchiega said from the pitcher’s mound, hocking a loogie.

  “I think she’s already better than you, Sam,” Sonny jested.

  “Yeah, says you. You don’t know from nothing.”

  Sonny led Maria up the stairs, Antonello following behind. A tomboy by nature, Maria liked to tag along whenever Sonny would let her. He almost always did so, as his father had taught him to be especially good to Maria. Despite that, she did tend to get tired of playing most of the time.

  Alonzo’s voice carried through their tenement door: “You break my heart.” He spoke in Sicilian, and his voice was strained and fragile.

  Sonny paused before the door, but Maria opened it and continued inside regardless.

  Alonzo sat with the twins in dim candlelight. The lights on their first Christmas tree were not turned on. No music was playing in the background.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Enzo said. Sonny helped Maria take off her multiple layers, and hung them up on the coat hanger carefully.

  “You suddenly show up with new coats, shiny black Oxford shoes… Did you not expect me to find out?” Alonzo continued to address the twins in Sicilian. It seemed he couldn’t find the right words in English.

  “And that makes you feel bad?” Enzo said, his voice bordering on disrespect. Sonny froze, shocked. It was rare to hear their father talked to like this—by anyone.

  “You insult me. You insult my intelligence. You insult my ability to provide for our family.”

  “We got tired of wearing your old saddle shoes.” Enzo exhaled.

  Silence crept into the empty space of their small abode, and Sonny decided to try and make it to his room, leading Maria by the hand. He refrained from looking into the living room, not wanting to provoke a conversation with his father or brothers. He did, however, peer into the kitchen, where his mother hovered over the kitchen sink scrubbing the dishes, her knuckles white from clutching the sponge so tightly. She looked over her shoulder at them, her eyes bloodshot. Tears stained her cheeks.

  “Mamma, what’s wrong?” Maria asked, her voice not as quiet as she thought.

  “Go to your room, Maria.” Rosa sniffled.

  “And you do all this while living in my home?” Alonzo’s voice carried from the living room.

  “I’m sorry, Papà,” Vico said, but Alonzo continued.

  “I have given you everything you could have ever needed. You have betrayed me! My heart is broken.” He increased his volume even further. “You bring this illegal money into my home, in front of your brother and your little sister?” Sonny, leading Maria to her room, reluctantly stole a glance into the living room. Enzo and Vico were seated beside each other on the couch, Alonzo looming over them like a policeman in an investigation. In his hand, he clutched a wad of money. It was clear he had found it somewhere in the home. “People talk. And I can hear them snickering behind my back, like I don’t know that my boys are criminals.”

  “Dad, we didn’t mean to hurt you, or Ma, or the kids. We’re just trying to make our way, like you did,” Enzo said. Alonzo hid his face. Sonny looked on, unable to peel his eyes away, like when he stepped on a bug and had to check the extent of the carnage.

  In the dull living room light, Alonzo did not look his forty years. He looked more like sixty. The flesh of his face hung, and centered in bags under his faded-blue eyes. The hair on his head was swept over to hide his growing baldness, but there was nothing he could do to hide the gray developing around his ears. His fragility in this moment shocked Sonny as much as the argument.

  “You say to me, ‘we’re sorry,’ and yet you will not say you will quit what you are doing. So, if you want to be on the streets, you can live on the streets. I want you out by the morning.” Alonzo’s voice was now barely audible.

  “Pa, it’s freezing out there,” Vico said, pleading, fear in his voice.

  “You have friends now. If they care for you as much as you attest, they will surely have a place for you to stay. Also”—he turned for the hallway, noticing Sonny for the first time—“you have all this.” He tossed the wad of dollar bills onto the couch.

  Alonzo passed by Sonny and paused in the kitchen. He looked at his wife for a mo
ment, his hands akimbo on his hips, wet streaks staining his face. He turned to Sonny, blinking tears from his eyes. The look told Sonny something like: “You don’t ever do this to me.”

  Sonny struggled to swallow, and finally found the courage to walk to his room.

  He nestled onto the floor, in between the two twin beds he had shared with Enzo and Vico. He didn’t know if they would be coming in tonight—or ever again, for that matter. But he wanted to leave their beds open, just in case.

  During the night, Enzo and Vico came in and began packing a few of their things. Sonny pretended to be asleep until he felt one of the twins hovering over him.

  “I love you, Sonny Boy,” Enzo said, and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first time the brothers had ever used the term. Sonny found himself being hoisted into the air, in Vico’s arms. His brother laid him on the bed and tucked him in. They knew he wasn’t a very sound sleeper, but Sonny pretended to still be dozing regardless.

  “Come on,” Enzo said from the doorway, and the twins left. Sonny wished he had the right words to say, but he couldn’t find them.

  Enzo

  Williamsburg, Brooklyn—February 2, 1918

  “Bring us some more brown,” Enzo shouted to the barkeep. They were regulars at the Olympic Club now, and therefore had earned the right to make orders like this. Enzo delighted in it, and he thought Vico enjoyed it more than he let on.

  They had begun attending with Bartolo and Francesco, but now spent most of their afternoons there, taking part in the “free lunch” deal painted on the window. The fact that the bartender never asked where their parents were didn’t hurt. A pint of beer or a glass of whiskey was perpetually in hand.

  “Ante up, boys,” Bartolo managed to say from one side of his lips, a ten-cent cigar dangling from the other. They tossed a few chips on the table. Gambling was illegal, or so they had been told, but no one seemed to care in Williamsburg.

  Enzo remembered how his father had taught them to play cards. Not like this, he thought. A saloon, booze, smokes: this is where men were men.

  “I see that smile, Francesco. It’s a dead tell.” Vico folded. He had been gloomy lately, and it had brought Enzo down. They had spent Christmas alone, for the first time in their lives, and Vico seemed to be unhappy with their new living quarters on the corner of Grand Street and Sixth Avenue. But he had an affinity for cards. Maybe it reminded him of home and their little brother.

  The bartender placed four drinks on the table in front of them, spilling some over their shoulders.

  “Easy, old boy,” Bartolo said, wiping some of it off.

  “Say, Francesco, who was that dame you’ve been keeping company with? She was a real looker,” Enzo asked, finally feeling on equal terms enough to jest with them. The Consentino boys might still be outsiders, but they were outsiders on the inside. The new guys, but guys none the less.

  “Mind your own potatoes,” Francesco said, then analyzed his cards and placed the first bet.

  “Oh, I’ve seen her too,” Bartolo, picking up on it, continued. “She’s a real bug-eyed Betty. Do you roll her over when you’re makin’ whoopee?”

  “My car, my girl…you’re just looking for something.” The bet came back to Francesco, and he threw his cards on the table. “The only Jane this guy has is Rosy Palm and her five sisters.” He grinned triumphantly, wiggling the fingers of his own hand. Enzo laughed and slapped the table.

  “You kidding me? I chase more skirt than all of youse three combined,” Bartolo said, only slightly offended that the joke had bounced back on him.

  A burst of sunlight spilled into the saloon, followed by a stampede of footsteps.

  Enzo instinctively grabbed the piece he had recently purchased, but turning to see that all of the men had gold badges on their chests, he slid it back into his belt.

  “No one move a muscle,” one of the policemen said, pushing through the other bar patrons.

  “Is there something wrong, Officer?” the bartender asked.

  “Just shut up,” the policeman replied, a distilled Irish accent in his voice. His eyes surveyed the room and finally settled on their table. “Enzo and Vico Consentino?” he asked. His uniform was buttoned so tight, and so high, it looked like it would cut off his circulation.

  “What of it?” Enzo asked, undisturbed.

  “You’re both under arrest for the robbery of Burnett’s Clothing Store.” He materialized a warrant from his jacket pocket. Several of the other policemen rushed forward and pushed the brothers against the table, restraining their arms behind them.

  Enzo looked across the table at Bartolo and Francesco, who were silent, mouths agape. Bartolo shook his head as slowly as possible, as if to say, “Don’t say a word.”

  “Don’t worry, Vico, these bulls don’t have shit,” Enzo said, eating the felt of the tablecloth. The policemen were rough, and tugged his arms farther up his back into a chicken wing. “You hear me? You stupid Micks!” Enzo shouted. A billy club crashed against his head, and the lights went out.

  Vico

  Civic District, Manhattan—February 4, 1918

  The only thing in the courtroom older than Chief Justice Hiscock was the wood floor. The judge lowered his bifocals and seemed to be analyzing a few papers. Enzo and Vico had been in there for what felt like days, but was really more like hours.

  Vico’s heart hadn’t stopped racing, and when called upon, he struggled just to summon the strength to project his voice. He knew Enzo was afraid too, but he held his head in such a way that made Vico think he was proud. Not proud of the theft, or proud of being arrested, but proud that they had kept their mouths shut. They could have probably walked away free if they had sung like canaries, but they’d decided beforehand to keep quiet.

  They weren’t even the perpetrators of the crime, after all, but simply lookouts. Enzo had said in their holding cell that if they kept quiet, they would be lauded as heroes when they got back. As always, Vico believed him.

  The benches behind them were mostly empty, but Vico kept looking over his shoulder to see if his mother and father had come. Each time, he was relieved but also saddened. The trial was decided from the beginning. They were guaranteed to be sentenced. But the child in him felt like Alonzo could explain to the judge that they were simply misguided youths, and then Chief Hiscock might just let them off the hook.

  “This is your first offense, boys,” the judge said, tapping his lips and sitting back in his chair. Vico thought his wardrobe looked ridiculous. “That makes me want to give you another option. You have stolen from your countrymen in a time of hardship, in a time of war. Do you understand that?”

  Vico had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Ye-yes, Your Honor.”

  “Acts like this make it hard for Americans to trust your people when they come over. You make it more difficult for everyone. But this is your first offense. I will allow either or both of you to join the United States Army, for the duration of the war”—Vico lost his breath—“or I hereby sentence you to two years in Sing Sing penitentiary. I believe you can return from either as decent members of society, but currently you are unfit for that freedom.”

  The county-assigned attorney stood and gestured for both the twins to do the same.

  “So, what do you decide?”

  “I’ll go to prison,” was Enzo’s only reply. Vico imagined the elongated response as something like, “the Kaiser never did me no wrong. Besides, we can do time in Sing Sing standin’ on our heads. No big deal.”

  “And do you wish to go to jail with your brother?” the judge asked, all eyes suddenly falling on Vico. He shuffled nervously when he realized how long he had been standing silently.

  “I’ll go—” he tried to say.

  “Speak up.”

  “I’ll go to war.” Vico did his best to ignore his brother’s shocked response. It was the first time the two of them would ever be away from one another. And that’s precisely why Vico had decided to go.

  Sonny
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  Little Italy, Manhattan—October 19, 1918

  The smell of tomato, ricotta salata, basil, and eggplant filled the restaurant. It was quaint, warm from the food, and had good music playing in the background. Being only a few blocks away from their doorstep, Sonny was surprised his father had never brought him here before.

  “How is it?” Alonzo said, his mouth open to cool his first bite.

  “Excellent, Papà.” Sonny’s favorite dish had always been pasta alla Norma, but it was usually when his mother made it. This little restaurant on Prince Street made him reconsider, though.

  “Good, well, eat up. Your mother says you haven’t been eating enough.” It was true. Ever since the twins had left, Sonny had felt sick at his stomach. Some of the boys had spread rumors that his brothers had gone to jail or to war, but when Sonny would ask about it, his parents would reply that they didn’t want to talk about it.

  Ever since Enzo and Vico’s departure, Alonzo had doubled down on his desire to spend one-on-one time with Sonny. He had always fashioned himself Alonzo’s favorite, but now the two seemed inseparable. His father looked at him in a way that unnerved him, as if his father were worried. Always worried.

  His father seemed to be afraid that Sonny was unraveling. He wasn’t, but he didn’t mind the extra attention. He wasn’t unraveling, but he was confused. About a lot of things.

  “How is it, paisano?” The Hook Hand approached, a wily grin on his face. Sonny was now twelve, and neither the Hook Hand nor his deformity unnerved him as much as they once had. He simply did not like him. He didn’t like how his father stiffened when he drew near. Perhaps this was why Alonzo had never brought him here.

  “Delicious.” Alonzo leaned back and kissed the man on the cheek. “Have you met my son?” The Hook Hand turned to Sonny, and they locked eyes for the first time. They were gray and piercing. Sonny wanted to look away, but couldn’t.