by J. Palma
Nino understood. He took a bite out of his burger.
"See,” Vincenzo said, pointing to an enclosed dome housing beside the traffic lights. “Cameras everywhere. I see them almost everywhere we go."
Nino repeated, "This isn't Naples."
Vincenzo put the car in gear and was about to leave when a stream of people passed beside his car, street side, preventing their exit. The people continued to the sidewalk.
Nino said, "What is this shit?"
People, mostly women, carried posters, picket signs. Vincenzo turned his head and read a few of the signs. Still not understanding the reason for the protests, until he read one more sign: "Abortion is murder."
Vincenzo broke into a coughing fit. He lowered his window and powered out a wad of greenish-yellow phlegm. He said, "Ah it's a protest. These women are protesting abortion."
Nino shook his head. "I'm tired of this place. We gotta get this job over with. And this Rizzo, he is an imbecile—all of his people are idiots," Nino said, referring to their provisional boss in America. “If someone like him is a boss here, imagine what we could do here.”
"Calm down, Americano." Vincenzo laughed at his brother. "You still want that name?"
"Yes. Because everyone will know what I did to earn it."
Vincenzo repeated: "I'm not crazy about doing the kid."
"You said that already. If it bothers you, flip for it?"
Vincenzo agreed.
Nino pulled out a coin from his breast pocket, flipped the coin in the air with his thumb. With the coin in the air, Vincenzo called tails. Nino trapped the coin against the back of his hand. Heads. It was settled. Nino would kill the boy.
"Now do you feel better?" Nino smiled kindly.
When the protestors had passed, Vincenzo started to inch out.
But before he could pull out, another group of pedestrians forced him to brake suddenly. Nino swore and told them to move. They only smiled back, unable to understand him.
Vincenzo said, "I like New York enough. This place is not what I thought. But I like it okay. The laws here, people actually follow them. Here you cannot drive the wrong way down a one-way street and then honk and yell like everyone else is wrong. No, here there is some decorum."
In a bored voice, holding up his burger, Nino said, "Look at this shit. You like this? And please, let's promise never to eat at this place Denny's. The coffee burned a hole through my stomach. Mi fa cagare! In Italy, food is poetry, it is art. Here it is like a bodily function. Something necessary, like shitting. I have been here long enough to see America is a land of dreamers. Everyone thinks they are something else, something they are not, something better than what they really are. This gives them license to not give a shit. Brother, this place, this America, is not like any place we've been.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOW LUCINA WAS back at the Larchmont home. Charles had scampered off for an afternoon nap, groaning and holding his stomach. The staff had disappeared neatly, doing whatever they do in the late afternoon. Even the Howells had vanished. Except for the shallow mechanical humming of the air conditioning, the house sounded as lively as a morgue. At once, fearful and desperate, Lucina attacked the small desk in the kitchen, digging through drawers, pushing papers and folders out of the way.
"You really think I'd keep it in there?" Lucina jumped at Dot's voice. Dot came from behind, barefoot and dressed in a gauzy cover up and sun hat. Lucina hoped to avoid such a confrontation and wanted nothing more than to disappear. "You are tearing up my kitchen for your passport, right?" Beneath her cover up, Dot wore a black one-piece.
Startled by Dot's cat-like approach, Lucina felt fearful and worried. Lucina returned the drawers to their closed positions.
"Where's the boy?"
"You mean Charles? Charles went to his room. He's not feeling well. Too much birthday ice cream."
"Birthday?"
"Yes. His birthday was yesterday. But we celebrate today with ice cream."
"Good for you." Dot seemed almost interested.
"Signora, I really need to have my passport. Not having it under my control makes me very nervous. I've heard stories, nightmares of these types of situations."
"So you can run away and leave us without a nanny? Absolutely not. Finding someone with your qualifications was extremely difficult."
"Signora, I promise, I will not leave."
Dot, cordial and earnest said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. We leave tomorrow for Los Angeles. When we return, by then, you will have proven yourself, and I'll return your passport. How does that sound? This is our insurance that you'll stay. As they say, good help is so hard to find. We'll be gone two weeks at the most. This is such a critical moment for us. I hope you understand."
Lucina found Dot's behavior mysterious and inscrutable. From rude and abrupt, she now offered a new beginning, and this mystified young Lucina.
Dot continued, "There is an American Express card in the kitchen for incidentals with a three hundred dollar a day limit. That should be ample for you and the boy."
"I'm not sure the best words, but thank you,” Lucina said. You're very generous. Perhaps I worry for nothing."
"Glad we settled this. No need to rip apart our house. Promise you'll forget this foolish mission to find your passport. I guarantee you will not find it here. We are keeping it safe. We're putting our faith in you, now you must trust us."
"Of course, Signora."
Dot started to head out when Lucina said, "I thought you said Europe." They looked at each other.
"Excuse me?"
"In my interview you said, you were traveling to Europe, for an urgent business matter. But now, you just said you were traveling to Los Angeles. Which is it?"
Dot said, "Dear, does it really matter to you where we are? We could be on the moon. Things beyond your purview have changed. Now, unless you require anything else, I will be on the terrace." The Dot Lucina had grown accustomed to returned at once, with a sharp and uncivil tone.
"You think she's the one?"
Poolside a few hours later, Dot reclined in the chaise lounge beside Will. Despite the impressive view of the Sound, Dot only frowned. Just a few yards from the terrace wall, Charles and Lucina took turns chasing each other, in an interminable game of tag.
Will said, "She's young, she's fit."
"You don't think she's too pretty do you?" She looked over the tops of her sunglasses at her husband.
"Now that sounds like jealousy."
Dorothy Howell's jealousy for younger Lucina was not unjustified.
Dorothy Howell, née Riley, born and raised in West New Brighton on Staten Island, had an unremarkable childhood. Back then the neighborhood was a hardscrabble mix of Italians and Irish. Her parents, working class Irish, whose only misfortune was a blind desire to better themselves, bought a small sky-blue row house and decided it was home. Dot remembered her father returning home late from work and eating dinner alone. Sometimes, he'd say something abrupt to her like, "You better not bring home no Dago." And then he was off to bed. The next morning, he'd leave the house in the dark, and the process would repeat. And that's how Dot remembered her father as a near stranger passing in the night, offering advice that reflected his mood or day.
She had three brothers. The oldest and possibly the smartest, Bobby, served eight years at Rikers Island for felony assault. The stiff sentence, her father said, was because he was Irish. His incarceration changed him forever. Next, Stevie, joined the New York Fire Department, Ladder Three. His framed picture hung in the living room beneath a crucifix. The Twin Towers were in the background. No one mentioned Stevie. The youngest, Patrick, married his high school sweetheart after he knocked her up. He lived about a mile away from his parents in the town of Richmond.
What was wrong with finding a man and settling down, her mother said when Dot presented her Princeton application to her parents seated at the kitchen table, broadsiding them with her secret ambition. Unbeknownst to each of them, Dot
had quietly risen to the top of her class. Their eyes swelled when they read the application: class president, captain of the debate team, Honor Society, National Merit Scholar. Clearly, she had set her sights on something bigger than a life as someone's wife in West New Brighton. Men were expected to move away. Daughters, however, remained home until a suitor was found. But here was Dot waving a nearly completed Princeton application in her hand, threatening to upset tradition. She only needed her parents to finish the financial aid section.
The Riley family's financial outlook had improved over the last fifteen years and buoyed by this rise, Dot decided to shoot for the stars. And what better place to start than Princeton? Dot's father had moved from janitor to middle management—a remarkable achievement on its own—thanks to a night school education paid for by his employer, a large multi-national pharmaceutical conglomerate. There was talk of moving to a bigger house, buying a new car, maybe a vacation to Florida. When Dot's mother learned how much tuition was for a school like Princeton, threatening to upend their assent into the upper reaches of the middle class, she called her daughter a goddamn bitch.
Until then, neither parent had shown interest in her academic achievement and were shocked by the application. The plan, secretly shared between her parents, was that she'd marry a nice Irish boy. And that was it. Her mother always looked down on young Dot, jealous of her beauty, of her brains, of her future, but mostly her ambition. Dot's mother openly worried how this would impact the family's financial future, but secretly she perceived the application as an act of one-uppance, as though Dot thought she was better than them and here was the proof. Her father, on the other hand, couldn't be prouder and vowed to do all he could. In the end, her mother softened and the family was able to arrange financial aid for Dot to attend college.
Sophomore year at Princeton was hard for Dot. Her father lost his job suddenly, and after striking out in the job market, he traded a life behind a desk for one behind a broom. Dot's mother called the registrar's office and immediately had her daughter withdrawn from classes, citing that she was needed at home to help with the family finances.
On the drive home, Dot wept. Along the way, her mother reminded Dot she was trying to become something she was not. Her mother said things like, “This was God's will,” and, “Think of your father.”
To console Dot her father suggested that when the finances improved next year she could return to Princeton. Both mother and daughter knew that was a lie, and the theater of the charade grew tiresome. Eventually, Dot avoided talking to her parents all together.
Observing Lucina and the boy play in the grass, chasing each other and shrieking in peals of silly laughter, Dot experienced a rush of thoughts.
Jealousy rose in her, like a deep ocean current upwelling emotions from her past. This bothered Dot greatly. She imagined a similar jealousy her mother must have felt in her own daughter. Finally, she understood the jealousy her mother nurtured all those years ago. She understood the delight her mother took in knocking her own daughter down. Was it intentional? Or something Darwinian? Dot was unsure. Regardless, she considered Lucina a threat, a superior species who would usurp Dot's own life if given the chance. But the circumstances of the job were unusual, and as Will said, Lucina was the perfect hire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LATER THAT NIGHT, a protracted scream wrenched Lucina from bed. Sprinting into the hall, she listened for the source of the screams. Corkscrew in hand, she hollered in Italian, "Who's there?" Unsurprised, the cries led to Charles' bedroom.
Not sure what to expect, she burst into his bedroom and flipped on the lights. He sat upright in his bed, his mouth split wide open. Veins strained beneath his neck, his eyes clenched shut. Unprepared for such a strange sight, she hesitated, unsure how to proceed. His breath came in fast, circular breaths.
At his bedside, she caressed his back soaked with a hot sweat, and made a "shhhh" sound. Beneath her touch, his eyes flashed opened.
He whispered, "I, I, I saw someone. Standing over me. Right over there."
She spun around. His screams terrified her, and for a brief moment, she believed him and expected to see someone else in the room. But the room was empty.
"Was I screaming?"
"Mamma mia! Yes you were." Fear laced her voice. Will had referred to these episodes as night terrors, something Lucina hadn’t remembered until now. "Do you have these often? The night terrors?" He shrugged and gave the impression he was unaware of the fear he had stirred in her. This was a new twist to her job.
"Do you have the same nightmares?"
He slipped his arms around her waist and hugged her tight, his head buried in her chest.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"When you ready, you tell me. It doesn't matter when, okay? Sometimes talking about these things helps."
She eased him back into bed but did not leave yet. Experiencing his night terrors first hand, with his glass-rattling screams, struck a chord. Her heart raced and she busied herself straightening the covers on his bed thinking he needed a doctor, not a nanny. When she started for the door, he begged her to stay.
She agreed to his request, meaning to stay for just a few minutes, but she fell asleep on his bed and did not open her eyes until seven in the morning. Still in her clothes, she rubbed her stiff neck. Back in her room, another copy of the rules was conveniently placed on her desk. She started to read them, but drifted asleep for an hour.
When she woke, she got Charles dressed and fed him a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast and then hurried him to the front door where they watched the Howells depart unceremoniously for their business trip. Dot's parting reminder to Lucina: "Remember the rules." Lucina, losing her patience with Dot, rolled her eyes and waved half-heartedly as the Benz hurried into the summer heat, leaving Lucina alone in the giant house, with a child she barely knew, let alone understood, and last night's round of night terrors still fresh in her mind.
Standing in the grand foyer with the checkerboard floor, she had an uneasy feeling. The air conditioning still pumped arctic level temperatures. The lights still illuminated the house. But Lucina noticed something else. Absent were any family photos or any trace that someone actually called such a grand place home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LUCINA PACED THE kitchen, feeling that her life had been thrown into a tailspin.
Earlier in the day, as planned, the Howells left for their business trip, taking Albert with them. Afterwards, Lucina and Charles spent the day in the TV room, lounging in the deep cushioned recliners, enjoying a Batman marathon. Hours later, she emerged from the room thirsty, with sleep in her eyes, and entered the kitchen where she read the updated employee calendar posted beside the fridge. She learned both the cook and driver would be unavailable for the next two weeks. Attempts to reach Dot went to voice mail. Lucina left several messages, progressing in tone from polite to spitting mad.
“You promised the staff would be available!” Lucina yelled in one message. She waited for Dot to call, to answer, for these unexplained schedule changes. But a response never came.
She glared at the fridge. A thought crossed her mind and she became happier for it.
"Do you have a suit—with a tie?" she asked Charles.
"I think so."
"Well, we are going to have a party. A feast. How does that sound? I refuse to be angry. If they want to play games, we'll play games too."
He smiled.
"You go upstairs. Do you think you can dress without my help?"
"I don't know how to do a tie."
"You bring it to me, no problem. I used to tie Papa's ties."
"Can I wear Batman instead?"
"Is that what you want?"
He nodded, grinning.
"Come as a Batman if you want. But please, change your underwear." The boy hurried off. "I don't think he knows how to wipe his ass yet."
She entered the elevator and pushed the button for the basement.
In the basement,
beside the elevator door, she found a panel of light switches, and flipped them all into the up position. Overhead fluorescent lights snapped on, illuminating a long gloomy corridor the length of the house. A series of ducts followed the ceiling. Lucina could hear a low-frequency thrumming noise from the air conditioning compressors. Behind the first door, some kind of wood shop with every hand tool imaginable hanging from a pegboard. Tables with saws, sanders, and drills. She picked up the heaviest hammer she found, swung it and satisfied with its heft, continued walking, moving to the next door in the corridor.
A gym. Free weights. A stationary bike. Yoga mats. TVs suspended in each corner. Various benches. Exercise ball. She picked up a ten-pound dumbbell, comparing it with the hammer. Dissatisfied, she dropped the dumbbell.
She continued and opened the other remaining doors. A few closets. More storage rooms. A sauna. A utility room with machinery. A mix of mothballs and dust in the air.
The last door on the right, Lucina found what she came for, tipped off by the words printed on the door “In Vino Veritas”. The wine cellar, not really a cellar, but just a room behind a locked door.
With a sudden ferocity, she swung the hammer into the knob. The door groaned, but the lock held. Two more strikes broke the assembly free from the door. She pulled the doorknob free and the door yawned open with a short kick. Inside, such a beautiful scene wasted on the Howells. Wasted on a prudish wife and a drunkard husband.
Behind the door, she found what she expected. Temperature-controlled with oak shelves, two leather chairs, and a small island in the center for tasting. She spun on her heels, taking in the room. Will was right. The room housed maybe a thousand bottles of wine. As far as she was concerned, this satisfied breaking Rule Number 2: “The wine cellar is off limits.” She fished out the rules from her back pocket, found a pen in the island drawer, and drew a line through item two.
She grabbed three bottles of red at random, from three different shelves, and returned upstairs, depositing them on the dining room table. In the kitchen, she couldn't find a proper red wine glass so she opted for a squat drinking glass usually reserved for cocktails. She headed to the master bedroom with one of the bottles and locked the door once inside.
