Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  “Giovanna, I’m sorry, but when we make more money, we will get a proper stone marker with his name—a big one. They don’t put a photo on the stone in this country, but the carver could make a boat. No, it’s better a building, maybe the triangle building.” Lorenzo babbled over the silence until he realized he should retreat.

  First, Giovanna brushed the dirt off the stone. With her finger, she traced the outline of the new grass. There was nothing else to fuss with, nothing to arrange. All of a sudden she understood the reason for vases and candles in the cemeteries in Italy. It gave you something to do, a connection, a way to take care of the dead.

  Left only with her prayers, she knelt at Nunzio’s head, kissing her fingers and touching them to the ground repeatedly. When that wasn’t enough, she laid her palms flat to the ground while she beseeched Nunzio to guide her and tell her how to live. The cold anonymous ground gave her no answers, and she collapsed forward on top of the grave. From afar, Lorenzo wondered if he should go to her, but not knowing how to comfort her, he turned away. Giovanna lay on top of Nunzio’s grave, letting the wails and sobs that she had locked deep inside escape. Lorenzo sat behind a tree for fear that someone would question why he wasn’t helping her, but he knew that this was a passage she must go through alone. He picked up a small branch, took out his penknife, and scraped at the stick.

  It was one or two hours later when Lorenzo noticed that Giovanna’s cries had tapered off to exhausted whimpers. He walked to where she lay on top of the grave and lifted her into a sitting position. Taking the corner of his jacket, Lorenzo wiped the mud and tears from her face, and, sitting beside her, he planted the stick, now a slender crucifix, in front of the stone. This gesture reminded Giovanna that she, too, had brought offerings.

  The first time she had walked into Lorenzo’s airless, dark apartment, she had looked for signs of Nunzio. Finding none, she had asked Lorenzo if he had any of Nunzio’s things. Lorenzo had produced a small box and explained that the clothes and tools had been given to those in need. Giovanna had taken the box to the farthest corner of the apartment and turned her back to the others while gently lifting out each object, starting with Nunzio’s cap. She had cradled his cap and then run his razor blade across her own skin, using it to cut the string holding a package of her letters. At the bottom of the box there had been two of the mustasole cookies that Giovanna had made Nunzio for his voyage. They had remained wrapped in the fabric of her wedding dress. The G and the N had been chipped but were still entwined, and the swordfish was missing part of its fin. Giovanna had remembered that she had made a third cookie, a crucifix. She had smiled, and the smile had turned into a big, throaty roar when she realized Nunzio had eaten the cross. “Ah, Nunzio,” she had laughed aloud, “I will say your prayers.”

  The sight of this new woman laughing at their dead uncle’s things had frightened Lorenzo’s children. They hadn’t known what to make of her and of the urgency with which she hugged them. They had loved their uncle and understood that this was his wife, and their papa’s sister, but she had seemed sad and strange. Their mother, too, had seemed uneasy in her presence.

  Now at the cemetery, Giovanna took the two mustasole cookies from the pocket of her skirt. She had also brought two of the ancient coins that they had played with as children and a lock of her own hair cut with Nunzio’s razor. She had thought she would leave these relics at his stone, but she feared they would blow away, leaving her husband anonymous once again. Instead, she laid them on the ground and dug four small holes while Lorenzo searched for a rock to help scrape at the dirt. When the holes were dug, Giovanna buried each talisman with a prayer and a promise.

  Covering the swordfish with dirt, she said a prayer to Saint Rocco and vowed to Nunzio to watch over all that he loved in Scilla. She took the coins and dropped them into the second hole. She told Nunzio that if there was justice to seek in his death, she would pursue it, and she prayed to Saint Joseph to guide her efforts. Her tears began flowing down her cheeks once again when she buried the G and N cookies wrapped in her wedding dress. Her prayer and promise became one as she vowed to Nunzio and Saint Valentine that she would never love another as she loved Nunzio.

  The chestnut curl of her hair was tied with a thread, and Giovanna held it tight before putting it in the dirt. This was the hardest promise to make, and she prayed to Saint Anne, the patron saint of laboring mothers, for help. Lorenzo, seeing her silence and concentration, tipped his hat and walked away. With Lorenzo gone, Giovanna took the hair and pressed it into the ground with both hands and vowed to Nunzio Pontillo what she knew he would want the most—that she would go on living.

  Life in the Costa household settled into a routine. Giovanna helped Teresa, who was in the fifth month of a difficult pregnancy, with the housework and children. Domenico and Concetta were in school, and the baby who was born before Nunzio died was now toddling around. After a month, Giovanna mentioned to Lorenzo that she would try to find work as a seamstress or take in piecework, but Lorenzo asked that she continue to help Teresa until the baby was born.

  Teresa encouraged Lorenzo to let Giovanna find a job, because in truth she was not comfortable with her around. It was not because Giovanna was not helpful; in fact, Teresa thought Giovanna was too helpful. Teresa came up to Giovanna’s chest, so she felt diminished even before Giovanna did anything. And when Giovanna did something, in Teresa’s mind, she always did it better than Teresa did. Giovanna could lift and carry double what Teresa could, but it was how quickly and efficiently Giovanna accomplished everything that intimidated Teresa. Teresa still did the cooking—she would not relinquish her kitchen—but even when Giovanna remarked that a dish was delicious or asked how something was made, Teresa felt threatened.

  Nothing bothered Teresa more, however, than seeing Giovanna help the children at the table in the evenings with their letters—and watching them teach Giovanna English. One evening when Lorenzo was out at the cafe, Giovanna asked Teresa to join them, saying, “Come, Teresa, we’ll learn together.” Teresa pretended to be too busy and brushed them off with a terse, “I don’t have time for that.”

  For his part, Lorenzo was oblivious to his wife’s discomfort. He was glad to have his sister with him; it eased his homesickness and allowed him more freedom, because he worried less about his wife’s precarious pregnancy with Giovanna around.

  But Giovanna saw that Teresa needed her privacy, and on her fourth Sunday in America, she decided to leave her alone to prepare the meal. The children watched Giovanna dress in hopes that even though Zio Nunzio was gone, they could still have a Sunday adventure; eventually, little Concetta worked up the nerve to ask Giovanna where she was going. When Giovanna answered that she was going to the cemetery, the children were only slightly disappointed. They knew the outing would at least involve a trolley ride, so they enthusiastically asked to join her, heads rotating from their mother to their aunt for approval. Giovanna waited for Teresa to answer first. Moved by this respect accorded her and by the children’s longing, Teresa reluctantly said yes. The children ran for their Sunday clothes, because leaving the neighborhood meant dressing their best. Giovanna waited by the door in her black dress and head scarf while Teresa nursed her toddler in the awkward silence.

  Giovanna only had the memory of her trip to the graveyard with Lorenzo to go on, but she was certain she could retrace their route. Out of their mother’s gaze, the children were more comfortable talking to their aunt and rambled on about their walks with Nunzio, and they were rewarded with Giovanna’s rapt attention. From high in the El heading east, the children turned in their seats and pointed out buildings to Giovanna. Giovanna was so enthralled that she missed their stop and didn’t realize it until the train pulled out of the station. She nudged Domenico to ask another passenger for directions and smiled at Domenico with pride when he sat back down. He was a bright boy, lean and tall.

  Following the passenger’s directions, they got off at the next stop and waited for the No. 5 trolley. The area
was desolate, making Giovanna anxious. When the trolley appeared, Giovanna grabbed the children’s hands and whisked them onboard and into their seats with great relief. The conductor came toward them. Giovanna opened her purse that was hidden in the folds of her dress and for the first time confronted the strange American money that Lorenzo had put there. Domenico, seeing her bewilderment, pointed out the coins she needed to give to the conductor.

  The horses trudged up the street, pulling the car along the tracks. The street was lined with factories and construction sites, which explained the area’s desolation on a Sunday. Ahead of her, Giovanna caught sight of a strange building taking shape. The frame appeared to be round. She squinted, the trolley drew closer, and her pulse quickened. There was no mistaking the stucture. It looked like a gigantic pasta pot.

  Giovanna pushed to the opposite side of the trolley to get a better look. A long stretch of the road was fenced in, and near the gate to the site she could see a sign. Sounding out the words, Giovanna nearly collapsed. BROOKLYN UNION GAS COMPANY. She had to stop herself from leaping off the trolley—and she would have had the children not been with her.

  Falling back into her seat, she tried to breathe normally. She had asked Lorenzo to take her to the gas tanks, but he said that he didn’t know exactly where the site was because he had picked up Nunzio’s body from the coroner’s office. The children pestered her for an explanation, and she told them through controlled breaths that this was where their uncle had been working when he was killed. Domenico and Concetta had been told how Zio Nunzio had died, but seeing the site prompted questions about the accident that Giovanna couldn’t answer. Questions that she too began to ask.

  “Basta, Giovanna! What for? Nunzio is with God. Nothing will change that!” blurted Lorenzo in exasperation.

  Giovanna peppered Lorenzo with questions, trying to learn every detail she could about Nunzio’s death. How did he find out about the accident? What did he do next? Who was at the coroner’s office?

  Lorenzo would protest, and she would pause only to repeat the question a few moments later. Defeated, he began giving her one-word answers. Lorenzo watched the determination and concentration on Giovanna’s face as she recorded his answers, and he finally understood. He cursed his stupidity for not recognizing sooner how desperately Giovanna needed to do this. She sat before him writing, but in his mind he saw Giovanna in control, delivering babies, and generally being her fearless self. Giovanna couldn’t allow Nunzio, or herself for that matter, to be a victim. Understanding that this exercise was fundamental to his sister’s survival, Lorenzo became a more cooperative player.

  It was hours before Giovanna ran out of questions, but Lorenzo’s answers simply raised more questions. Her desire to keep going was strong. She knew in her heart that she had started something she would finish, whether or not it was the right thing to do.

  ELEVEN

  “Dio mio!” Teresa’s screams rang through the apartment. Labor had started a month early. Giovanna was relieved when Teresa ordered Domenico to fetch the doctor who had delivered her other babies. She didn’t feel ready for the miracle of birth. Giovanna imagined that she would simply keep the children out of the way. Smiling, she thought someone might even send her to the pharmacist for belladonna as she and Signora Scalici had done to Maria Perrino’s mother. But Domenico had returned breathless and in a panic, announcing that the doctor was nowhere to be found.

  Giovanna calmly sent Domenico back out, ordering him to wait on the doctor’s stoop. She closed the door behind him and turned to her sister-in-law. “Teresa, this baby is not going to wait for the doctor. Do you want me to help you?”

  Having birthed three babies, Teresa knew Giovanna was right and managed to nod yes before the next contraction.

  Two hours later, Domenico burst through the door with a panting American doctor who had been dragged through the streets. The apartment was quiet; Teresa was feeding her newborn, and Giovanna was scrubbing sheets.

  “Why do you women all have to deliver at the same time?” groused the doctor. He pulled the blanket from the baby and gave her a quick once-over.

  Giovanna didn’t stop washing but kept an eye on the doctor. She didn’t understand what he was saying, but she followed his actions.

  “She’s little but looks healthy. Let’s take a look at you.” He motioned Domenico into the hall and examined Teresa. “No rips, but the baby was small.” He called over to Giovanna, “Did you deliver this baby?”

  Giovanna shrugged apologetically. “Non parlo inglese.”

  The doctor opened the door and called Domenico into the room. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing to Giovanna.

  “My aunt.”

  “Did she deliver the child?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ask her if she’s a midwife.”

  “She is.”

  “Then why did you get me?”

  “Mamma told me to.” Domenico looked at the doctor like the man was an idiot.

  “I’ll never understand you people,” he muttered. Turning to Domenico, he said, “Tell your aunt to go see the midwife Lucrezia LaManna at 247 MacDougal Street. She needs help. There are not enough people to deliver all these Italian babies.”

  “Okay. Do I tell Mamma anything?”

  “Yes”—he snapped his bag shut—“tell her not to have any more children.” The doctor left and with him went the stale smell of scotch.

  Giovanna waited outside the fence at Brooklyn Union Gas. It was near quitting time, and she watched the men gather their tools and tin lunch boxes. A whistle blew and sweat-stained workers streamed out of the gate; Giovanna stopped the first Italian face she saw.

  “Signore, do you know Nunzio Pontillo?”

  “No.” He turned quickly to another man. “Hey, is there a Nunzio Pontillo on this job?”

  “No, no,” protested Giovanna. “He was working here. My husband. He was killed on the job, almost a year ago. I want to find someone who worked with him.”

  The man sighed sympathetically. “I’m sorry, signora. Most of us are a new crew they brought in to line the tank.”

  Giovanna noticed another man who had stopped walking but hung back. For a moment they stared at each other. “And you, signore, do your remember my husband, Nunzio?”

  The first man spun around to see whom Giovanna was talking to and exclaimed, “Oh, Nospeakada! He was here when the accident happened. I think he’s the only one left.”

  “Did you know Nunzio?” Giovanna repeated.

  “Signora, he hasn’t spoken since the accident.”

  Giovanna didn’t avert her gaze from Nospeakada. “Can you please help me?”

  The other man noticed a foreman at the gate staring. “Signora, he can lose his job. It’s no coincidence that the only guy left on the job is mute. It’s best we all go.”

  “Here’s my address.” Giovanna pressed a scrap of paper into Nospeakada’s hand. “Please, if you find your voice, I would like to talk.”

  The other man had already walked away and was motioning for Nospeakada to join him. Nospeakada glanced back at both Giovanna and the foreman and left.

  With so many hours on her hands, she walked from Brooklyn back to the Lower East Side. It became apparent that here in America you would have to find beauty in different things, but she had a hard time getting past the filth. Nunzio had never written of it; his head must have been in the clouds. Grime seemed to cover everything and even hovered in the air. If Giovanna closed her eyes and thought of a color for New York, it would have been gray; the city dulled even the brightest blue skies, patches of grass, and fruit on pushcarts.

  Through his letters, Nunzio had taught her to appreciate the lines and grandeur of New York’s buildings, and she found beauty in their spires, angles, and in the shadows they cast. What she both hated and loved the most were the attempts at replicating the splendor of Italy in the tenements. She had seen Lorenzo’s idyllic little paintings of Calabrian countrysides in the foyers of tenements. Th
ey made her heart ache at their nostalgic hopefulness, while her head laughed at the absurdity of these little landscapes in the dark. The paintings didn’t amuse her as much as the burlap that was shellacked onto the walls with linseed oil in order to resemble linen in the dim light. What intrigued her most, however, were the plaster walls and wood trim painted to look like marble or granite. In this America, even if you didn’t have something, you simply created its facsimile. On the surface, nothing would be denied you in America.

  Giovanna observed that Italian-American immigrants fell into two categories—those who had completely embraced their new world and those who spoke only of returning to Italy. This schism made perfect sense; loyalty for Italians was often a much stronger characteristic than reason. However, the Italians who had wholeheartedly accepted America and cursed their homeland at every opportunity still took pride in their heritage. Giovanna was amazed that two of the most prominent statues in New York were of Italians.

  Downtown, Domenico had taken her to the statue of Garibaldi in Washington Square Park, near the big arch to nowhere. “When he was a boy, your Zio Nunzio would ride his donkey and pretend he was Garibaldi,” reminisced Giovanna, looking at the statue.

  Domenico had looked at his aunt incredulously. “He had his own donkey?”

  Another time, Lorenzo brought Giovanna uptown to see the new statue of Columbus at Fifty-ninth Street. Hundreds of Italians, mainly from the north of town, converged at the column on Sundays. Giovanna heard one well-dressed man exclaim that they should also put statues of Vespucci and Verrazano around the circle.

  Returning home from her trek, she heard Domenico arguing with his father even before she opened the door.

  “I can read and write. I speak English, what more do I need to know?”