“You never know who you might meet in an airport or on a plane,” she told him, “so it’s important to look your best.”
“Even a little boy?”
“Of course, Roy. You’re with me. I’m so proud of you. You’re a great traveler.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m proud of you, too.”
One afternoon when they were flying from Miami to New Orleans to see Roy’s mother’s boyfriend Johnny Salvavidas, their plane ran into a big storm and lightning hit both wings. The plane tilted to the right, then to the left, like Walcott taking a combination from Marciano, only the airplane didn’t go down.
“We’re really getting knocked around, Roy. Better keep your head down in case things start flying out of the overhead compartments.”
“I want to look out the window, Mom. I have a book about lightning, remember? The worst thing that can happen is if the fuel tank gets hit, then the plane could explode. Also, lightning can make holes in the wings and pieces of them can fall off. If it strikes the nose, the pilot could lose control and even be blinded. And during thunderstorms ball lightning can enter an airplane and roll down the aisle. That’s pretty rare, though, and the fireball burns out fast and leaves a kind of smoky mist in the air. Some scientists even believe ball lightning might come from flying saucers.”
“Don’t be silly, Roy. There’s no such things as flying saucers. That’s just in movies and comic books.”
When the plane landed at the airport in New Orleans, Johnny Salvavidas was there to meet it. He asked Roy’s mother if it had been a good flight.
“It was horrendous,” she told him. “We ran into a terrible thunderstorm and there was a lot of turbulence. My stomach is still upset.”
“What about it, Roy? Was the storm as bad as your mother says?”
“Lightning hit the wings,” Roy said. “We could have gotten knocked out of the sky, but we weren’t.”
Johnny smiled and said, “That can’t happen.”
He smoothed back both sides of his hair with his hands. His hair was black and shiny and fit tightly to his scalp like a bathing cap. He took Roy’s mother’s right arm and they walked together toward the terminal to pick up her suitcases.
The sun was going down and the sky was turning redder. What did Johnny Salvavidas know? There was a kind of lightning that moved across rather than up and down called spider or creepy-crawly lightning that can reverse itself and probably bring down a spaceship. Roy watched his mother and Johnny enter the terminal. He wanted to get back on an airplane.
CHILD’S PLAY
The two Greek brothers, Nick and Peter, had settled in Jackson, Mississippi, in 1935, three years after they emigrated with their parents from Patnos. Their father, Constantin, had worked in a grocery store for a Jewish family in New York City, where the immigrants had landed; but when the Great Depression cost Constantin his job, rather than join a bread line he used the few dollars he had saved to move his family south, where, he’d been told, it was cheaper to live. The Jewish grocers had a cousin who traveled in a wagon throughout Mississippi peddling household goods who apparently made a decent living, so Constantin informed his wife and sons, ages six and nine, to take only what they could comfortably carry, and they entrained to another, quite different, country.
In Jackson, the state capital, Constantin and his wife, Josefa, found part-time employment as night cleaners in government buildings, then Constantin got a job scrubbing down a diner frequented by local businessmen and politicians. After six months, he was hired on as a waiter, and within a year the owner died. With the assistance of several of the patrons, Constantin bought the diner, which he renamed The Athens Café. Josefa and their sons worked with him and soon The Athens was the most popular restaurant in town. After their parents died, Nick and Peter took over.
During the year or so that Roy’s mother had a boyfriend named Boris Klueber, who owned a girdle factory on the outskirts of Jackson, they often accompanied him when he traveled there from his headquarters in Chicago. Roy and his mother always stayed in the Heidelberg Hotel, as did Boris. The Heidelberg was the best hotel in Jackson, located only a few blocks from The Athens Café. This was in 1955, when Roy was eight years old.
Negroes were not allowed to eat in the diner, but all of the kitchen workers, including the cooks, were black. To get to the toilets, which were accessible only by a steep flight of stairs, customers were required to go through the kitchen. It was in this way that Roy became friendly with the employees. He was friendly, too, of course, with the owners, who enjoyed showing him photographs they took in Greece on their annual vacations. Neither of the brothers ever married, but Roy’s mother told him that according to Boris both of the brothers kept Negro mistresses.
“What’s a mistress?” Roy asked her.
“Women who aren’t married to the men who support them.”
“Why don’t they marry them?”
“Well, in Mississippi, it’s against the law for white and black men and women to marry each other. Don’t repeat what I’m telling you, Roy, especially to Nick and Peter. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“It’s a sensitive issue in the South.”
“Can Negroes and whites get married to each other in Chicago?”
“Yes, Roy. Laws are often different in different states. In Mississippi, and some other southern states, a white man can get arrested for dating a black woman; and a black man can be put in prison or even murdered for being in the company of a white woman. I know this doesn’t make sense, but that’s the way it is. As long as we’re here we have to respect their laws.”
“What if you went on a date with a Negro man? Would you be arrested and the man murdered or thrown in jail?”
“Let’s not talk about this any more, Roy. I shouldn’t have told you about Nick and Peter. And don’t mention it to Boris. Promise?”
“I already did.”
A couple of days later, while Roy was cutting through the kitchen of The Athens Café to use the toilet, one of the cooks, Emmanuel, who was taking a cigarette break by the back door, said to him, “How you doin’ today, little man? You enjoyin’ yourself?”
“Sort of. There’s not much for me to do. I don’t have anyone to play with.”
“I got a boy about your age. His name’s John Daniel.”
“Can I meet him?”
Emmanuel removed his wallet from one of his back pockets, took out a photograph and handed it to Roy.
“That’s John Daniel, that’s my son.”
“He’s white,” said Roy, “like me.”
“That’s on account of his mama is white. He’s got her colorin’.”
“My mother says white and black people can’t get married to each other in Mississippi.”
“That’s right. John Daniel’s mama and I ain’t married, not to each other. I don’t get to see him except his mama sneak me a walk by.”
“There’s a Negro boy in Chicago I play with. His name’s Henry Cherokee, and he’s part Indian.”
“Me, too. My grandmama on my daddy’s side is half Choctaw.”
Roy returned the photo of John Daniel to Emmanuel, which he replaced in his wallet.
“Gotta get back to work,” he said, and tossed his cigarette butt into the street.
That evening Roy and his mother were having dinner with Boris in the dining room of the Heidelberg Hotel when Boris whispered to her, “See that waiter there? The one who looks like Duke Ellington.”
Roy’s mother looked at the waiter, who, like the other waiters, was wearing a tuxedo.
“He’s quite handsome,” she said.
“He’s Mrs. Van Nostrand’s back door man.”
“Sshh. Don’t talk that way around Roy. Why do you have your factory here, Boris? I don’t like Jackson.”
“Manufacturing’s cheap. No unions, no taxes. It would cost me four times as much to have a plant in Chicago like I have here.”
Roy watched the waiter Boris had said resembled Duke Elli
ngton as he served an old white man and an old white woman at another table.
“Mom,” he said, “the next time we come here, could we bring Henry Cherokee with us?”
THE MESSAGE
Roy was alone in the hotel room he shared with his mother when the telephone rang. It was ten to four in the morning and Roy was less than half awake, watching Journey into Fear on TV. He’d fallen asleep on and off during the movie, and when the telephone rang Roy looked first at the television and saw Orson Welles, wearing a gigantic military overcoat with what looked like dead, furry animals for lapels and a big fur hat littered with snow. The picture was tilted and for a moment Roy thought that he had fallen off the bed, then he realized it was the camera angled for effect.
“Kitty, that you?”
“No. She’s not here, I don’t think.”
“Who’s this?”
“Her son.”
“She’s got a kid? How old are you?”
“Seven. Six and a half, really.”
“Your mother didn’t tell me she had a kid. How many more kids she have?”
“None.”
“What’s your name?”
“Roy.”
“You sure she’s not there?”
“No. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Know where she is?”
“She went out with some friends, around ten o’clock.”
“It’s almost four now. She was supposed to meet me at one. Said she maybe would, anyway.”
“Do you want to leave a message?”
“Yeah, okay. Dimitri, tell her. If she comes in, I’ll be in the bar at the Roosevelt Hotel until five.”
“All right.”
“She leaves you alone this time of night, in the room?”
Orson Welles was growling at someone, a smaller man who kept his head down. The picture was lopsided, as if the camera had been kicked over and it was lying on the floor but still rolling.
“Kid, she leaves you by yourself?”
“I’m okay.”
“She’s kind of a kook, your mother. You know that?”
Orson Welles did not take off his coat even though he was in an office.
“Go back to sleep, kid. Sorry I woke you up.”
Roy hung up the phone. He and his mother had been in this city for a week and Roy was anxious to return to Key West, where they lived in a hotel located at the confluence of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. A beautiful, dark-haired woman was on the screen now but she kept turning her head away from the camera so Roy could not see all of her face. She looked Cuban, or Indian.
When Roy woke up again, the television was off and his mother was asleep in the other bed. He looked at the clock: it was just past ten. The heavy drapes were drawn so even though the sun was up the light in the room was very dim. Roy’s mother always hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob. She was wearing a blindfold. Roy lay listening to her breathe, whistling a little through her nose as she exhaled.
What was the name of the man who had called? When she woke up, Roy would tell his mother that a general or a colonel with a strange accent had called from a foreign country. Roy could not remember his name, only that the man had said it was snowing where he was calling from.
RIVER WOODS
Roy’s father drove as if his powder blue Cadillac were the only car on the road. In the fall of 1953 there wasn’t much traffic between Chicago and the western suburb of River Woods, where they were headed. It was mid-October, Roy’s favorite time of the year. Sunlight slithered through the trees and the air was comfortably cool; in a month they would have to keep the car windows closed and the heater on.
“Who are we going to see, Dad?”
“A business associate of mine, Jocko Mosca. He has a classy layout in River Woods.”
“Does he have kids?”
“Two sons, much older than you. They don’t live here.”
“Did you tell him tomorrow’s my birthday?”
“You can tell him.”
“Jocko is a funny name.”
“It’s short for Giacomo. He was born in Sicily, which is an island off the heel of Italy.”
The houses they passed were set far back from the road. Most of them had long, winding driveways leading to buildings you couldn’t see from a car, and some were behind iron fences with spikes on the top. Jocko Mosca’s house had an iron fence in front of it but the gates were open. Roy’s father drove in and stopped next to the house. Just as he and Roy got out of the car, a man came out and shook hands with Roy’s father.
“Rudy, good to see you,” he said. “This is your boy?”
“Hello, Lou. Roy, this is Lou Napoli. He works with Mr. Mosca.”
Lou Napoli was not a large man but he had very big hands. He shook hands with Roy and smiled at him.
“You’re fortunate to have a son, Rudy. And one handsome enough to be Italian. Quanti anni ha?” he asked Roy.
“He wants to know how old you are,” said Roy’s father.
“I’ll be seven tomorrow.”
“A lucky number,” said Lou. “Let’s go in.”
They descended three steps into an enormous living room. The ceiling was very high with little sparkling lights in it. The walls were made of stone. There were five or six couches, several armchairs, lots of tables and lamps and a stone fireplace that ran nearly the entire length of one wall. A swimming pool snaked under a glass door into the rear of the room.
“I’ve never seen a swimming pool in a living room before,” Roy said.
“This is only part of the pool,” said Lou. “The rest of it is outside, on the other side of that glass door. It’s heated. You want to take a dip?”
“I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
“If you want to go in, let me know and we’ll find you one. I’ll tell Jocko you’re here.”
“Pretty swank, isn’t it, son?”
“Jocko must be really rich.”
“Call him Mr. Mosca. Yes, he’s done well for himself. When his family came to America, from Sicily, they had nothing.”
“Your parents didn’t have anything when they came to America, either, Dad, and you were ten years old. How old was Mr. Mosca when his family came?”
“Probably about the same age I was. None of that matters now. We’re Americans.”
“Jocko is here,” announced Lou Napoli.
Jocko Mosca was wearing a dark gray suit, a light blue shirt and a black tie. He was tall, had a big nose and full head of silver hair. He entered the room from a door behind a bend in the pool. Roy noticed that there was no knob on the door. Roy’s father waited for Jocko to walk over to him. They embraced, then shook hands, each man using both of their hands.
“It’s good of you to come all the way out here, Rudy,” Jocko said.
“We enjoyed the drive. This is my son, Roy.”
Jocko Mosca leaned down as he shook hands with Roy. His nose was covered with small holes and tiny red bumps.
“Benvenuto, Roy. That means welcome in Italian.”
“I know. Angelo taught me some Italian words.”
“Who is Angelo?”
“He’s an organ grinder. He has a monkey named Dopo. They come into my dad’s store and have coffee and Dopo dunks doughnuts in the cup with me. Dopo means after.”
Jocko stood up straight and said, “Rudy, you didn’t tell me your boy’s a paesan’.”
They laughed, then Jocko said to Roy, “I hope you’ll be comfortable in here while your father and I go into another room to talk.”
“I’ll be okay, Mr. Mosca.”
“Call me Jocko. We’re paesanos, after all.”
The two men left the room and Roy sat down on a couch. A pretty young woman with long black hair, wearing a maid’s uniform, came in carrying a tray, which she set down on a low table.
“This is a ham sandwich, sweet pickles and a Coca-Cola for you,” she said. “If you need something, press that button on the wall behind you.”
Roy fe
lt sleepy, so he lay down and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, Lou Napoli was standing in front of him, holding a cake with eight candles on it.
“Did you have a nice nap, Roy?” he asked.
Jocko Mosca and Roy’s father were there, as was the maid.
“He must have been tired from the drive,” said Roy’s father. “We got up very early today.”
Lou passed the cake to the maid, who put it on a table and lit the candles. Lou, the maid, Jocko and Roy’s father sang “Happy Birthday”, then Lou said, “Make a wish and blow out the candles. The eighth one is for good luck.”
Roy silently wished that his father would come back to live with him and his mother. He blew out all of the candles with one try.
Later, while his father was putting what was left of the cake, which the maid had put into a blue box, in the trunk of the Cadillac, Jocko Mosca handed Roy a little white card.
“This is my telephone number, Roy,” he said. “If you ever have a problem, or anything you want to talk about, call me. Keep the card in a safe place, keep it for yourself. Don’t show it to anyone.”
“Can I show it to my dad?”
“He knows the number.”
Roy’s father started the car. Roy and Jocko shook hands, then Jocko opened the front passenger side door for him.
“Remember, Roy, I’m here for you, even just to talk. I like to talk.”
Jocko closed the door and waved. He and Lou Napoli watched as Roy’s father navigated the driveway.
“You all right, son? Wasn’t it a nice surprise that they had a cake for you?”
“Do you want to know my wish?”
“No. You should keep what you wish for to yourself. Remember that you can’t depend only on wishing for something to come true. It will always be up to you to make it happen.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
The gate in front of one of the houses had a metal sculpture of a fire-breathing dragon’s head on it.
“River Woods is a beautiful place, isn’t it, Roy? Would you rather live out here or in the city?”
The Cuban Club Page 14
