“What do you mean?” Rosaria asked.
“Ma, why just one? Why didn’t you have more children?”
“I said, God, send me what you will. And he sent you to me, and that was that.”
“I want eight children someday.”
“Eight?” Rosaria beamed.
“I want a house full of noise and laughter and music and games and kids. It gets too quiet around here with just me. I want a big table and all the people I love around it. I want to be the father, the man in charge. I wouldn’t be like him. I’d be happy with my lot. I wouldn’t be miserable if I had a good wife, that’s for sure. I’d want people around all the time. I want a family so big I can’t keep up with them. I want to be like Mr. DeRea: when he calls for his children, he stutters because he can’t remember all their names. I want to be that confused, that I can’t remember who’s who. I want Christmas to be loud. Everybody singing.”
“That’s how it was when I was a girl. But we celebrated the Epiphany, after Christmas. The Marasco family takes their time with Christmas. We sang the songs, had the mass on Christmas, and something special—a fig tart, a sweet. We didn’t have much for presents.”
“No presents?”
“We didn’t have anything but each other.”
“Was it enough?”
His mother thought for a moment. “I thought it was.”
“Maybe that’s why Pop is so unhappy. Maybe if he had more children, he’d feel like the other men at Holy Family. You know, surrounded.”
“You were enough for me. If God sent you to me and only you, you were enough. I couldn’t have asked for more. Try and understand Papa. Your father left his home.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It will help you understand him. Think about it. I taught him English. When I met him, I thought he was shy and sweet. I think I liked him so much at first because he seemed in awe of everything, and it made me think that meant he appreciated the world and people in ways that the Italians that were here already might take for granted.”
“Ma, he takes you for granted.”
“You let me worry about that.”
Saverio stood. “I took the sauce off the stove and turned the burner off.”
“You’re a good one.”
The boy kissed his mother on the cheek before going up the stairs.
* * *
Saverio hung his church clothes, his one good pair of wool pants and his white cotton shirt, in the closet. He pulled on his flannel pajama pants. Feeling a chill, he buttoned up the top and pulled a sweater on over it. He crawled into his twin bed and curled up his knees to his chest. He was going off to sleep when he heard a knock at the door.
His father stood in the doorway of his room, lit by the dim bulb in the hallway behind him. Leone looked as though he were in relief, light passing through him only to fall into shadow, a chiaroscuro.
“Pop?”
“You need to leave this house.” Leone’s voice was even. He wasn’t angry—it was worse. He had made a decision. Yes, he had a bit to drink, it was the end of a long workweek, and he was exhausted, but there was no mistaking his command.
“What?” The boy sat up in the bed but kept the blanket around himself, as if a patch of wool could protect him from a man who wanted his only child banished from his home.
“You get out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t like your job, it’s not good enough. I no longer support you. You go out and find your own way.”
Even with the sweater, the pajamas, and the blanket over him, Saverio began to shake. His teeth chattered. He knew his father, and his father meant what he said.
“But Pop . . .” Tears filled Saverio’s eyes.
“Don’t cry,” his father commanded. “I was twelve years old when I left Italy. I don’t cry. Not then. Not now. I had nothing. I made it here with no English, a few coins. Nothing. You have everything but you no grateful. Not to me. Not to God. Not your mother. You find out about life when you live it. You’ll see.”
“Do you want me to go now?”
“The morning,” his father said. “You go. And you come back when you beg my forgiveness on your knees.” He closed the door behind him.
Saverio got out of his bed. He stood frozen on that island of helplessness, where there is no one to come to your aid, and nowhere to turn. He did not know whether to move or stand still. He had to think, but he was numb.
He knew that it would be much worse in the morning. By then, his mother would intercede, and there would be a reprieve, perhaps, but soon, it would happen again. He and his father would argue, and he would throw him out of the house. Saverio didn’t belong here. This was no longer his home, if it ever had been.
Saverio went to his closet and surveyed the contents. Two pairs of work pants. Two shirts. One pair of pants for good (church), one shirt for good (church), one suit jacket, a hand-me-down from his father, gray tweed with the wrong width of lapels, now woefully out of style, narrow ones. He hated wearing it and would leave the jacket behind. Shoes: one pair of work oxfords with rubber soles. He slipped his feet into them.
One pair of black leather lace-ups (for church) went into their cotton sleeves. One dress tie, black and white silk, striped. One black wool newsboy cap. No proper hat nor suit, vest, or jacket. Three pairs of white cotton undershorts, three white cotton undershirts, and three pairs of black wool socks. He pulled the olive-green canvas duffel that he used when he attended Holy Family School and carefully filled it with his clothes. He packed his rosary, a photograph of his mother, the book he won at the Dearborn festival, The Three Taps by Father Ronald Knox, along with the choir folder with the sheet music from church.
He sat on the edge of the bed and went through the contents of his billfold. In it, he had $17 and a River Rouge plant identification card. He pulled the envelope with his savings from under the mattress. His salary had been $25 a week at the Ford plant.
Saverio had spent $187 of his earnings to pay for half of the roof on his parents’ home, the trolley rides to and from work, shoes and his work clothes (his Rouge apron and gloves), and of course, Christmas.
He tucked the box containing Cheryl’s gold chain into the duffel before dressing. The dream of seeing her wear the necklace seemed like a hundred years ago. A desperate moment will bury a man more quickly than a happy one can save him.
He folded his only pair of pajamas neatly and placed them on top of the other clothes in the case before snapping it shut. He sat down and wrote his mother a letter.
December 24, 1932
Dear Mama,
Merry Christmas, my dear mother. Pop asked me to leave the house. I will write to you when I am settled. Don’t worry about me. As you told me, don’t worry, pray.
Love, Saverio
Saverio made his bed and tucked the letter under the pillow. He stood and looked around the room, memorizing the details of the bed, coverlet, lamp, nightstand, and dresser. He remembered his mother again, fished the cash out of the duffel, removed $50, and tucked it inside the envelope with the letter, returning it to its place under the pillow. He lifted the mandolin in its case off the shelf over the closet, threw the duffel onto his back, and opened the bedroom door. He peered down the hallway. His parents’ bedroom was dark, the house still.
He slipped down the stairs, through the living room, past the pieces of the broken chair and the Christmas tree. He thought he might take the package with his name on it from under the tree—he surely could use that hat—but he decided to leave it behind, with the gifts he had left for his parents. He had taken only what he needed.
Saverio quietly lifted his coat off the hook, pulled on the wool gloves his mother had made for him, and put on his old newsboy cap.
The only child of Leone and Rosaria Marasco Armandonada of 132 Boatwright Street, Detroit, Michigan, opened the door and walked out onto the porch into a beam of clear, white moonlight.
The temperatures had dropped below zero that Chr
istmas Eve, but Saverio didn’t feel the bitter cold. Within him there was nothing but fire, a low-grade burning rage from an anger that had gone unexpressed for too long, stoked by the confusion he held from being misunderstood and fueled by the pain of his unworthiness. His father’s rejection and Saverio’s aspirations had created a combustible grenade that was about to explode and propel him out of this life into a new one.
The boy’s heart raced at the possibilities as he followed the light.
2
Risoluto
(Bold)
July 4, 1938
Chi Chi Donatelli’s feet sank so deeply into the cool, wet sand, she closed her eyes and imagined them taking root below the silt, embedding themselves into the earth and spreading into tangled vines of curlicues, multiplying until they covered the ocean floor. That’s the effect Count Basie’s music had on her. His lush orchestrations filled the spaces of the world for her until there was nothing left as she listened to Swingin’ the Blues on WBGO out of Newark. The factory girl held a transistor radio up to her ear and pressed it close, as though it were a dial and she were a safecracker. She would not miss a single note.
The Atlantic Ocean rolled out before her like bolts of silver lamé under the white sun. She swatted a fly off of her bare shoulder, which glistened and was hot to the touch. At twenty years old, Chi Chi was petite and limber, with a figure that turned heads.
As the trombone reached for the sliding note that blew high and clean in her ear, she stretched her free arm as if she, too, were reaching for the monumental rippling high C. When the entirety of the orchestra came in under the solo, she adjusted the red chiffon scarf that tied the long, shiny black curls off of her face.
“Chi Chi!” her sister Barbara hollered from the pier, but Chi Chi didn’t hear her because the beach was noisy and the radio was cranked. It was a perfect day because it belonged to her. She answered to no one. She let that knowledge wrap around her like the warm breeze off the Atlantic. Chi Chi was off the clock, the sun was high in the sky and looked like the face of a stopwatch without hands or numbers.
The beach at Sea Isle City was packed with union families during the July Fourth holiday week, from the water’s edge to the bluffs. This particular slice of the Jersey shore was punctured with poles anchoring billowing striped umbrellas of orange and white, navy and pink, and red and yellow; lolling beneath them were as many people as could fit. The remainder of open sand was a patchwork of beach towels and sunbathers.
From the pier, the colorful wedge of beach looked a lot like a jelly bean spill.
In the distance the boardwalk was packed, and beyond it the Ferris wheel was fully loaded, spinning in the light. The lines for Fiori’s Funnel Cakes, Cora’s Cotton Candy, Funzo’s French Fries, and Isle Show You the Best Hot Waffles & Ice Cream were long, but the customers didn’t seem to mind. Gumball-colored horses on the carousel cantered up and down as they revolved on a wooden platform painted in bold stripes of turquoise and gold.
The crash of the waves of the Atlantic Ocean drowned out the clank of the wheels on the wooden roller coaster as it looped over the buoys and pier; a peal of screams could be heard as the riders took the drop after the incline high in the air over the water.
Barbara Donatelli was twenty-two, wore a seersucker romper, and her long black hair in a braid. She had the face and figure of a young woman, but she carried herself with the posture of a put-upon matron. She marched toward Chi Chi and gave her a hard shove in the back to get her attention. Chi Chi reeled around and put up her fists, ready to belt whoever had dared put their hands on her.
“It’s just you.” Chi Chi released her fists.
“I’ve been hollering at you all the way from Fontaine,” Barbara complained. “Gimme.”
Chi Chi stepped back, holding the radio close. She closed her eyes and listened to the smooth clip of the final phrase before Count Basie signaled the orchestra to wallop the finale. When the DJ came back on the air, Chi Chi handed the transistor radio back to her sister.
“You could thank me for the loan,” Barbara said as she spun the dial of the radio to Off.
“Thanks.”
“Ma wants you home. We have company coming. She needs help,” Barbara said as she tucked the radio into her pocket.
“You’re there. Pop started the grill already.”
“All the cousins are coming over.”
“Where’s Lucille?”
“She’s helping Aunt Vi at the sausage and pepper stand.”
“Ugh.” Chi Chi swirled her foot in the sand. “I want to stay out. It’s my vacation.”
“Ma doesn’t get a vacation.”
Barbara knew that all she had to do was mention their mother, and Chi Chi would pretty much do anything she asked of her. Resigned, Chi Chi had turned to follow her sister back home through the maze of sunbathers when they heard a woman scream. Chi Chi turned back and scanned the water’s edge. She saw a young woman wading into the ocean, reaching into the waves.
“My boy!” the woman screamed again. “Help! Somebody help me! My son!” Another woman grabbed the mother by her waist as she attempted to go into the water. The surf had churned up, cresting in white foam that hid the swimmers beyond the shallow water.
Instinctively, Chi Chi ran to her. “She can’t swim!” the woman said, gripping the mother by her waist.
“There! Out there!” The mother pointed. “Help my son!”
Chi Chi looked out into the surf and spied an empty green raft floating in the middle distance. She dove into the surf and swam for it.
Barbara ran after her sister; shielding her eyes, she checked the lifeguard stand. No sign of him. “My sister is a good swimmer,” Barbara said, trying to soothe the woman, but it was impossible. They heard the lifeguard whistle behind them, the bathers parted, and then he, too, dove into the surf with a red board on a rope.
When Chi Chi reached the raft, she dove under it but found nothing. She tried to flip the raft, thinking it might have gotten attached to something—driftwood, or an old railroad tie that loosened from the pier. Her heart pounded in fear—she could not move the cloth raft. She felt around its edges. The lead rope was submerged; only the loop attached to the raft floated on the surface. She dove under the water again, sliding her hands along the grooves of the tangled hemp and followed it.
Soon she found the boy, lifeless, his head directed to the ocean floor. The boy’s ankle was twisted in the loop of the rope. Panic surged through her, but, focused on her task, she loosened the knot and pulled him to the surface. As she held him, a wave washed over them, dragging them under as he slipped out of her grip. She flailed in the surf as she reached for him. The force of the waves pushed his body toward her, and she grabbed him again. She pulled him to the surface using the thrust of the current.
Chi Chi gasped for air. With one arm, she clung to the boy and kicked, reaching desperately for the raft with the other, pulling the boy behind her as the lifeguard swam toward them. The boy floated on the surface as she held him. In her arms, he was cold and rubbery, like a doll. His lips were a faint blue, and his eyes were closed when the lifeguard reached them. The lifeguard spoke to Chi Chi, but she couldn’t hear his instructions; it was as though she were floating inside a thick glass bottle, and the boy, the raft, and the lifeguard were outside of it.
“Hold on to the raft,” the lifeguard instructed again as he lifted the boy and placed him on the safety board, turning him over, facedown. Instinctively, Chi Chi swam to the far side of the board to protect the boy. With the lifeguard on the other side of the board, they swam toward shore, steadying the boy between them, the raft trailing behind them.
Chi Chi saw salt water as it oozed from his open mouth. The boy couldn’t have been more than seven years old. As they reached the shallow water, the young mother tore away from her friend and Barbara and ran toward her son. “Michael!” she cried.
“Hold her back,” the lifeguard ordered.
Barbara put her arms around the
woman and restrained her, with the help of the friend. It was as if the entire population of Sea Isle Beach had gathered silently on the shore to watch the lifeguard breathe into the boy, who lay still on the board on the cold sand.
Chi Chi knelt down next to the boy as the lifeguard pressed his chest and breathed into his mouth. “Come on, Michael,” she whispered into the boy’s ear. “You can do it. Come back.”
The lifeguard pressed the boy’s chest gently and steadily with his flat open hands, trying to open his chest so he might breathe.
The boy’s face began to take on color around his nose, the pale blue skin became tinged with pink. He moved his neck. The lifeguard helped him turn his head when suddenly the boy threw up salt water and whatever else was inside him. The boy began to gulp air. Chi Chi and the lifeguard helped him sit up. The lifeguard gently tapped his back, and the boy leaned forward and spit up more water. Soon, the boy’s throat burned, he clutched it, and he began to cry. His mother broke away and ran to her son, knelt in the sand, and held him. She wept as her son’s chest heaved.
Chi Chi sat back on her heels and watched the boy and his mother. As Michael curled up in her arms, his pale back curved like a seashell. As the boy cried, his breath moved the clean line of his backbone fluidly, like the links on a chain.
The lifeguard gave the sign that the boy was safe. The crowd behind them cheered. The roar, Chi Chi was certain, could be heard down the shore as far away as Wildwood Crest. Chatter erupted as the crowd announced the happy ending: He’ll live. He made it. Poor kid, that was a close one. Barbara kicked sand over the spot where the boy had been sick, until all evidence of it was buried. The lifeguard corralled the people back to their umbrellas and blankets. Relieved, they receded from the water’s edge. Today would be an ordinary day after all. Chi Chi kept her eyes on the mother and son. She bit her lip, tasting salt water, not from the ocean but her own tears.
* * *
“What’s the head count, Ma?” Barbara leaned out the kitchen window.
“I think twenty-five, but it could go to thirty if the Rapucchis show up.” Isotta smiled from the backyard of their freshly painted Cape Cod home as she and Chi Chi unfurled a red-and-white-checked tablecloth on the long picnic table.
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