Brooklyn Wars

by Triss Stein

  No, I thought. Absolutely not. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore and certainly not with a total stranger. Not tonight and maybe not ever. I hit the Reply button, and harder than needed.

  “I am going to be unavailable for three days. Call again next week if you still want to talk to me.” So I guess I had a moment of weakness. Either that or irresistible curiosity.

  Should I give her my cell phone number? I decided emphatically No. This was a family trip and already had enough complications. I didn’t see that I owed her anything.

  Chapter Four

  I woke up happy and energized. We had a road trip today, always a small adventure. Later in the weekend, I could think about what Joe had said.

  I had packing to finish and time for a little rewriting for my advisor since I did not have pre-trip gassing up, tire-checking, GPS-loading. I had to admit to myself that it was a huge relief.

  Chris swore she was packed. Then revised that to say it was nothing she couldn’t finish after school. I reminded her that it was a family visit, no special occasion, and that she’d need just everyday clothes. To my offer to help her pack, she replied, “No. I can do it myself.” Two-year-old Chris used to say that too.

  I knew better then, and I knew better now. She had not seen this part of the family, including her older cousins, in almost two years. Her everyday clothes would be her best. They needed to be outfits that proclaimed, loud and clear, “I am all grown up now. And I live in New York.” There was much noise from her room after school, including some swearing, tactfully ignored by me.

  The first time she went to camp, last summer, she was up all night packing, so this was progress.

  Dad arrived, we got all the luggage in the trunk, not without some discussion of trunk-packing philosophy. Pillows and blankets and snacks in the backseat of his vintage Buick, a roomy, king of the road, American car. Chris and I tumbled in.

  “A little traveling music, maestro,” he proclaimed, and the Beach Boys filled the car.

  “You’re dating yourself, Grandpa.”

  “Nonsense. They’re classic for a road trip.”

  I think we were all a little giddy. It had been a long time since we’d made a trip like this.

  Chris and I annoyed each other during the excruciatingly boring time of getting out of Brooklyn and into New Jersey. We couldn’t figure out how we could both stretch out on the backseat in comfort and she whined until I snapped, “Then go sit in front and be even more uncomfortable.”

  And just like that, we accommodated each other, a pillow at each end of the seat, a blanket over both of us. And just like that, we were past lit-up urban Newark, past suburban New Jersey traffic. A rest stop somewhere deep in the country, filling the car with cheap gas. We stumbled half awake to use the restrooms, buy doughnuts and healthy drinks. Then we were in Pennsylvania, rolling north on I-81.

  I dozed. Chris dozed. Dad hummed along with the geezer rock station. The music was a flashback to Mom and Dad singing along on childhood trips. Mamas and the Papas. Dion and the Belmonts. The Four Tops.

  Suddenly we were in front of Judy’s roomy, clapboard house with an old-fashioned porch. I must have expressed my surprise out loud, because Dad, unloading suitcases, chuckled. “The geezer is bound to be right sometimes. You both slept all the way.”

  Judy hurried out in her quilted robe, shushing everyone. Her youngest, tallest son followed, taking the two biggest bags.

  “Billy’s in bed, and Mom, of course.” She hugged all around. “You must be beat. Come in. Allan, bags upstairs, please. Are you hungry? Did you have dinner before you left?” She took a deep breath. “Listen to me chatter! You get inside.” She hugged Chris again. “My grown-up niece. So glad to see you.”

  We staggered straight into an old-fashioned, overheated kitchen where cake, cocoa, and a full coffee pot awaited us.

  “Now you help yourselves. Beds are all ready when you are.”

  Chris blinked. “We slept all the way here. I think I’m awake for a while.”

  “Well, good. You can tell me all about the trip.”

  So Chris did. And I did. Dad went off to his well-earned rest. And Judy told us about Allan, stopping at home on the way to a music festival, and Grandma Donato, who sounded more ornery than ever. We laughed a lot.

  I tried not to be unnerved by her son’s resemblance to Jeff and the way his smile brought him back.

  And then, suddenly, we all sagged and it was three in the morning.

  “Leave everything and go straight off to bed. Chris, you have the big attic room all to yourself—a choice of bunk beds! And, Erica, you’re right at the top of the stairs. There are fresh towels in the bathroom across the hall. Now you sleep tight and for as long as you feel like it. Breakfast can be anytime.” She muttered softly, “No matter what Mom says.”

  She caught me looking at her and turned red. “Well, you know Mom.”

  ***

  In the morning I dug out my robe and headed downstairs to the welcome smell of coffee brewing.

  There were scrambled eggs and bacon, and also biscotti and several other kinds of pastry I could not name. Brioche? Sponge cake? Something filled with cream. And plenty of high-test coffee. All the men were diving into the eggs and bacon; Judy was gulping down coffee. And Phyllis, Jeff’s mother, was daintily dipping biscotti into her coffee cup. Everyone except Judy’s men were talking. It was loud. It had been a long time since I’d eaten breakfast with a family.

  Grandma Phyllis gave me a smile of sorts. “Good morning, Erica. It’s nice to see you for breakfast at last. Have a biscotti. I made them, of course.”

  “Good morning. Thank you. I would never pass up your biscotti.” Actually I think biscotti are a dry waste of calories but I stopped myself from saying it.

  “That’s right. Now come give me a kiss. Chrissie gave me a big hug when she came down.” She pinched Chris’ cheek. “I adore my little American cara mia.”

  Chris accepted “little,” even though she’d hit five-foot six inches, and Judy ignored that “American,” which applied to her children too.

  “So, my darling, we have work to do. I have very much to show you, so put on your clothes, and we sit down in the living room and begin.”

  Everyone got up and cleared the table before Judy shooed us out of the room. I realized suddenly that I had nothing to do. Not having any immediate responsibilities happened in my life…well, never. I could go back to bed, a tempting idea. I could go for a walk. I could join Chris and my mother-in-law and learn some of my husband’s family history.

  Phyllis politely but indifferently made room for me in the living room, crowded as it was with scrapbooks, photo albums, and cartons full of, as she explained, “this and that. They help my memories rise up to the top of my mind.”

  They were deeply into collaborating on a family tree. “Now see, Chrissie, these are the ones who came to America, and then these were born here. There are baptismal records at Sacred Heart in the old neighborhood. Donato was my husband’s name, of course. This is my own family, the Palmas and their connections.”

  “So no keeping your name after you got married in those days?” Chris shot me a sly smile.

  Her grandmother made a sound like a snort. “What nonsense that is!” She went on, “And they were your father’s grandparents, that generation. Francis? He was my father and your father’s granddad. I can tell you plenty of stories. And write down that he married Carmela Rossi in…oh, I’m forgetting the year.”

  Though it was Jeff’s family, he had never cared much about all that history, so this was not bringing up any of my memories, sad or happy. I started looking at the boxes.

  Each box was neatly labeled: Family Holidays. Christmas and Weddings. Funerals. What in the world could be in that one? I gave it a tiny pat and moved on. Aunt Philomena / Navy Yard. What? The label was on some cartons and al
so a small metal chest, brightly painted in a lush design of fruits that reminded me of Italian dinnerware. A tiny padlock held it closed.

  “Phyllis, did your family have some connection to the Navy Yard?’

  Phyllis looked up, annoyed at being interrupted. “Some? Not some. Lots. Half of my family, and it was a big one, worked there one time or another, some right up until the dark day it closed.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “So? You never asked.” From her it was an accusation. “Don’t distract. We will get to that later.” She turned back to Chris. “Now, honey, I have some stories about these brothers.” She placed a finger firmly on the sketched out family tree.

  I went to see if Judy would like to go out for a coffee she did not make. Two coffees and plate of pastry later, we finally had a chance to talk.

  “It’s been…how long has it been?”

  “Must be ten years. You have never been here since we moved Mom, so…when? When we came home to get her?”

  “I think so. Boy, was she mad that weekend.”

  “Oh, yeah, and for a long time, too. There was no life for her anywhere except the old neighborhood. Never mind the fainting spells she was having. Or the aides she fought with. Or…well, you know.”

  “She looks awfully well now.”

  “She found a church, a bakery, someone who grows vegetables in his garden and gives them to her. She’ll never, never admit it but I think she likes it here after all.” She smiled, wryly. “Did you notice how she sounds more Italian than she used to?”

  “I thought so! Wasn’t she a Brooklyn girl?”

  “You bet. She was born in Kings County Hospital and so were her parents! No, she’s establishing her identity here in the boonies. And get this? You know her legal name is Phyllis?”

  “Sure.”

  “My dad made her change it when he came home from the Navy. She was named after her aunt and he said he wasn’t marrying anyone with an off-the-boat name like Philomena!”

  “No! Philomena? It’s pretty but…”

  “Well, she’s back to Philomena now!”

  We cracked up together.

  “She’s making sure these hicks from upstate New York know who she is!”

  “I don’t know how you live with her.”

  Judy shrugged. “I’m used to her. The real hero is my Billy. But he grew up himself with his grandma living in their house.” She shook her head, smiling fondly.

  “Has it been good to have Chris more in her life?”

  “Oh, you bet. She’s talked about nothing but this visit for two weeks. Talking and cooking and tearing the attic apart for albums.”

  We went silent, sipping and nibbling. I wanted to ask how Phyllis felt about me these days, all these years later. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Seeing Phyllis again stirred up so many memories of that emotional time when we seriously considered eloping. She had softened somewhat when Chris was born but still, I wondered if I could assume anything like good will.

  Judy checked her watch. “Look at me, frittering away the morning having fun! I have to get home to make lunch. Come on. We can pick up rolls on the way.”

  I was astonished at the speed with which she had a meal on the table: rolls, platters of cheese and cold cuts, olive salad, pickled vegetables, macaroni salad, various dressings, sweet peppers. And Dad and Billy walked in the door just as we sat down. Had they been carrying a timer?

  Overwhelmed with what was on the table, I settled for cheese and vegetables. Chris, the occasional vegetarian, piled on the cold cuts.

  “I keep telling you, Judy dear, that mayonnaise does not belong on an Italian sandwich. Not mustard, either. But do you listen?”

  Judy flushed but her voice was even. “Mom, you know you used to put them out on our table. Dad liked it, and sometimes my children did too. And still do.” She didn’t say “So there,” but the toss of her head got it across.

  “Humph. It was wrong when your dad wanted it too. He learned to do it when he was stationed out there in America.”

  “Hey, hey, Mama Phyllis.” My dad was jumping in. “You know sometimes we have to give in to these young ones, even if it seems weird. ’Cause why fight?” He winked at her. She merely tossed her head.

  What was my dad up to? By her standards, he was one of the young ones himself. And he’d always been the guy who never ducked out on an argument.

  “Erica.” She snapped it out and I sat right up. “We start on the Navy Yard box after lunch. You may join us if that interests you.”

  “Well, yes, I am just starting a chapter of my dissertation about it.”

  “Chapter? With the stories I’m gonna tell you could write a book. You should, too. You young people clean up and then we three go get to work.”

  “Ma and everyone else, out, out, out. With an empty kitchen I’ll get it done in half the time. Billy, you got the supplies at Home Depot? You and Cal going to fix the pipe in the bath upstairs?”

  “Count on us,” my father promised. “Billy is going be the boss, and I’m gonna hand him the tools.”

  Chris and I looked at each other with wide eyes. I knew my dad didn’t even own a toolbox.

  We followed Phyllis back to the living room.

  “Now let me explain.” She had her finger in the air. This was a lecture. “The Navy Yard had lots of Italians working there. Beside the different unions, there was even an Italian fraternal organization. The Columbian Association. My dad, before he was drafted, my granddad, some uncles and great-uncles. So, Chrissie, you ever been there to see it?”

  “No, but Mom has.”

  “Ah.” She gave me a long look. “I was there many, many times when I was little, ’cause my dad came back from the war and got his old job back. They built ships and repaired them there. They tell me I went to the launching of the battleship Missouri, and saw Vice President Truman, as he was then, but honestly, I was too little to remember. My grandpa said that battleship he helped build was where the war ended. Wait, I have a picture.”

  She immediately put her hands on the album and there it was, a photo of men in work clothes, standing in front of the almost-complete battleship holding up tools and smiling for the camera. On the next page, a photo of General MacArthur and Emperor Hirohito on the Missouri, signing the treaty that ended the war. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me chills.

  I added, “The battleship where the war started—the Arizona, which sank in the Pearl Harbor bombing—was built at the Navy Yard too. Like bookends.”

  Phyllis looked at me with surprise. “I didn’t know that. Or I’ve forgotten it.” She nodded. “They were proud to work there. Now Chris, you need to know it was a huge place. Miles of roads and rail tracks and places to eat and bank. The first time Dad took me that I can remember, I saw the train chugging right through the whole property. I couldn’t believe my eyes! And my little brother kept saying choo-choo all the way home.

  “Okay, so here’s a special piece of family history.” She opened another page to four women in a row, dressed in coveralls, their hair bundled up in flowered kerchiefs, carrying lunch pails. And they all had dark red lipstick in place, too. They were striding out of the Yard main gate, smiling, but the men on the side looked shell-shocked.

  “Ha. That right there is my Aunt Philomena, the tall blonde, her first week of work. I was named for her; she was my godmother.”

  “Wow. Mom, did you know about this? There were real Rosie the Riveters? In real life?”

  “Chris! What exactly to you think I do for a living? And I’ve seen that photo before, in the museum.”

  “You’ve seen it in a museum? I thought this was the only one. Well, anyway, Chris, she was my heroine when I was little.” She stopped. “Of course this…this photo…was taken when I was a baby, but she still worked there when I was growing up.”

  “Tell abo
ut the picture, please. I’m going to take notes.”

  “It was taken soon after the first women started learning the heavy jobs at the yard. Before, they only did office work, maybe, and sewed in the flag shop.”

  “For a lot less money, I’m betting?” I already knew the answer, but wondered if Phyllis did.

  She nodded. “What I heard—this was from her and my dad too—was that she fought her parents hard about taking that job. There was shouting.

  “See, Chrissie, it was a patriotic thing. Some of her brothers and cousins were already in the service and there were calls out to women to take a man’s job and free the men up to win the war.”

  Chris was keyboarding away, paused, looked up expectantly.

  “And?”

  “Well, the way I heard it, she was all fired up to go sign on. But her parents said no way, not ever.”

  “Why? I mean, wasn’t it the right thing to do? Why weren’t they proud?”

  “Not at first.” Phyllis looked back at me. “Erica, how do we explain to this modern young lady? Bring in your history learning, why don’t you?”

  That might have been the first time she ever acknowledged I had a profession. Or would have, someday.

  “Well, I suppose they thought it was unsuitable work for a woman. Lots of people did, at least at first. It was dirty and physical, definitely not dainty.”

  “Also it meant working with men all day,” Phyllis added. “Anything could happen.”

  “They worried about all that? Come on!” Chris shook her head. “I mean, it wasn’t the Dark Ages. You knew them, and I know you. So it’s like…” She counted off on her fingers. “Four generations. Not long ago. We could almost touch them.” I was so proud. A historian’s child. She got it. “So what finally happened?”

  “My pop, her favorite brother, Francis, came home from basic training, all decked out in his uniform and the whole family was so proud. They had a flag with another blue star up already.”

  “Okay, I’m lost. What is all that?”