“I can’t make him anything but the dog he is, but I can change his luck. You’ll see, Carolina. The mal occhio has power.” Izzy is pulling a cigarillo from her purse and spitting the end into the ashtray on the table. She inhales deeply, and I can tell that she is deep in thought.
I hate Vassari as much if not more than anyone, but Zia’s words, the gravity of her voice, and the intensity of her stare send a shiver through me. I close my eyes and lie back on the pillow. Zia and I don’t talk the rest of the time that Mama is gone. We are both preoccupied with our own thoughts. I am grateful for the silence.
Dear Diary, May 14, 1925
When Sara came to pick up Mama for confession, I felt that anger well up in me again. She had a ring around her eye from being hit and a look on her face like a dejected dog. I have to wonder why she still goes to confession. Why in the world does she need confession when Vassari is the one who needs to ask forgiveness of God? For that matter, he should be asking forgiveness of Sara, of her unborn children, of Gino Sirotti’s widow, and of every person who has had the misfortune of crossing his path.
So why, God? Why do you allow evil? Why don’t you protect Sara? Why don’t you pluck Vassari off the earth or strike him with lightning? How does someone become pure evil like that?
* * *
Bruno has the habit of following the boys to school now, and he and I walk the boys home after school. It hasn’t taken long for Bruno to become attached to us and likewise we to him.
Apparently, Luca Vassari has noticed Bruno on these walks. I don’t know how else he could have seen him—Luca has never come to our house, and I know that Pa and Mama would never open the door to him. We are all too attached to Sara to overlook the way he treats her. Anyway, I heard Pa’s voice outside, so I looked out the window, and I was surprised to see him engaged in a conversation with Luca right on our front sidewalk.
“Mama, come quick. Pa is talking with Vassari, and he looks angry.”
“Holy Mother of God—what does that man want?” asks Ma. She’s grabbing the corners of her apron and twisting them in her hands. We’re both trying to watch the confrontation by standing off to the side of the window. We don’t want either of them to see us eavesdropping.
“That’s a pity, Costandini,” I hear Luca saying to Pa, “a waste of a good fight dog.” He’s chewing tobacco and with a quick movement of his lips, he spits a wad right next to Pa’s shoe.
Not everyone would notice this, but I see Pa’s neck muscles and jaw tighten. “Don’t hit him, don’t hit him,” I hear Mama chanting under her breath.
“A pity?” says Pa, “What’s a pity is a man who mistakes his wife for a punching bag.”
“Jesus help us,” whispers Mama while she makes the sign of the cross.
Luca’s eyes have narrowed, and his teeth are clenched. Pa seems to have lost all sense of fear because he keeps talking anyway.
“That dog is my children’s pet. He also makes a good watchdog—keeps undesirable people away from the house.” Then Pa spits next to Luca’s shoe.
Luca’s face turns red with anger, but just when it looks like he will punch Pa in the face, he laughs. “Sure he does,” he says and laughs again, more sinister, as he turns and crosses the street. His fedora is cocked to the side as if he is somebody, but he’s nobody. He’s a little man who drinks and gambles and beats his wife.
Ma is hysterical now. “Why did Pietro do that? He’s gone crazy! Vassari can have the dog. We don’t need the dog.” She is absolutely frantic.
Pa walks into the house, and Ma assaults him by pounding her fists on his chest. “You won’t be happy until I am a widow like Daniela Sirotti. How could you? How could you be so foolish? The Mano Nero will be after you and after the rest of us now.”
“Magdalena, get hold of yourself.” Pa’s grabbing her by the shoulders and looking at her hard. “You are being ridiculous. The man wanted the dog, and I said no. He isn’t going to fight a duel over a dumb animal, and the Mano Nero surely have bigger fish to go after than me.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Pietro. No fish is too small. You remember what they did to Carmine DeRiggi. Carmine wouldn’t let Luca have a bag of oranges for free. The next day, when Carmine opened the produce stand, there was no fruit anywhere. Not a grape, nothing. And he was lucky. They could have hurt him—like they did Four Fingers Scualacci. Wouldn’t he give anything, anything, to relive that day so he could swallow his pride and have his finger back? All because he refused to give up his protection money. His finger is worth more than any amount of money. What is that stray dog worth to us? A finger? An eye? A husband?”
Now Mama has worked herself up, and she is in a frenzy. She starts to create a little shrine on top of the dry sink. First, she pulls a statue of St. Anthony from the drawer. Next, St. Michael the Defender. Then she opens and slams drawers until she finds five candles of different sizes and colors. Our Lady of Lourdes is already a permanent fixture on the dry sink.
“I need matches, Pietro. Where are the matches?” Mama is talking through tears now.
“Magdalena,” Pa is talking to her softly now and putting his arms around her. “Magdalena, it’s all right. Calm down. No one is going to hurt us.” Mama is crying full force into his shoulders now.
I walk out of the room and upstairs to my bedroom.
Dear Diary, May 20, 1925
Vassari tried to take our dog today, and Pa refused him. Mama is hysterical because Pa stood up to him. I know that Pa thinks Mama will calm down, but he’s mistaken. Those candles will be lit, and Mama will be calling Zia Izzy to protect us with her charms and amulets. I wish I could feel relieved, but I don’t. This time, I think that Mama is the rational one. I was proud of Papa, though. He was very brave today. I just hope it was the right thing to do.
When is courage really foolishness? Or vanity? When is it justified? When is it necessary? All of those saints who gave their lives for the Church—what did it prove? Will they be rewarded? Did they sacrifice their lives just to stand up to stupid, ignorant people who wouldn’t know truth or goodness if Jesus himself returned?
I am proud of what Pa did today. I just really hope it was the right thing to do.
3
At dinner the next night, Mama is feeling better, and we all have stories of the day that we want to tell.
“The men at work are talking about layoffs, Pa.” Giova works at the same plant where Pa is employed, but he works with the laborers, and Pa works with both labor and management. He’s the only Italian to hold a foreman’s job. That’s quite an accomplishment, but Pa speaks excellent English, and he’s very responsible. Everyone knows that Pa can be trusted, that he’s an honest and hardworking man.
“I know that Mr. Hubbard is talking about the need to cut costs, but it won’t come to that. I think the men are worrying too soon. Nothing like that has been said.” Pa gets up and walks into the kitchen to get more wine.
“Do you know what they call Pa at work?” Giova whispers to the rest of us. “They call him ‘New Shoes.’ They all know when he’s coming down the stairs because of those shoes he’s always shining, and then they quit goofing off!”
We all know how concerned Pa is with his appearance at work. “Always cut a fine figure,” he says. He often brings a second shirt to work and changes at lunchtime because the Pittsburgh air is so dirty it makes everything gray in a matter of hours. Every day, Pa wears a tie and a vest, a watch tucked in its pocket. He wants to make sure that the management sees that he is clean and well dressed, and we all know why. Italians are still proving themselves in this country. Pa wants them to see that all of us aren’t the greasy, garlic-smelling, unshaven, and unrefined people that ‘they’ think we are. That’s a big order for Pa—to think he has to change how Americans think about Italians, ‘Americans’ meaning all non-Italian people, but especially the Anglo-Saxon majority.
“And what is so funny?” asks Pa.
Giova shakes his head ever so slightly at us so we won’t tel
l Pa. Mama gives him a look, but she won’t tell, either. She loves Giova, and she has no intention of betraying his confidence. I think that Mama is especially proud of Giova because he is so handsome and because everyone likes him. It’s hard not to like him. Giova always sees things that other people don’t. If you are sad, he’s the one who notices. If you need help, he’s the one who will come to your aid.
Giova is 5’ 7”, and the tallest Costandini who has ever lived—at least in the last four generations. He has very straight black hair—a little long—that constantly falls into his face. Like Mama, he has high cheekbones, but he has Pa’s chestnut brown eyes. What gets to everybody—especially the girls—is his smile. He has perfect, straight white teeth and a smile that lights up his whole face.
“Guess what?” asks Marcello. “Today, Sr. Cora beat Tony and Mario Cardinali for fighting in front of the church. She kept saying, ‘How dare you strike another human being in the front of God’s house!’ But the whole time, she was hitting them both!” He’s now laughing himself silly.
“What’s so funny about that?” asks Lindo while he stuffs his little fat face and continues to look down at his plate. Lindo usually doesn’t look up until the plate is clean. For a little kid, he sure likes his food. That makes Mama beam.
The irony of Marcello’s story isn’t lost on the rest of us, and we all laugh—even Mama tries to suppress a smile.
“We call her the Mighty Midget,” says Marcello.
“Marcello, I don’t want to hear that again,” says Pa, and he’s not laughing anymore. “Sr. Cora is an adult, a teacher, and a bride of the church. You won’t call her names. Understood?”
Marcello rolls his eyes a bit and grunts a response.
In the meantime, Mama is clearing the dishes and preparing scraps for Bruno. She hands them to Marcello and tells him to feed the dog.
“I know that Sr. Norbert would never hit anyone,” I say. Before I can continue my praises, I am interrupted by a howl from outside. Mama and Pa exchange a glance, and then Pa and Giova run outside. I can hear Marcello crying that the dog is gone.
Pa storms into the house and his face is beet red. “That does it! Luca has gone too far!”
He heads to the closet and grabs a baseball bat. I can see that Mama is about to have a heart attack.
“Pietro, where are you going?” she says, but we all know the answer.
“He isn’t going to get away with this,” says Pa, and he slams the door behind him.
“I’m following him,” says Giova, and he runs out the door before Mama can hold him back.
Mama runs to the makeshift altar, rebukes St. Anthony, returns him to the drawer, and replaces him with St. Jude. Then she calls us all together and makes us pray the rosary. Five minutes after we are done, Pa and Giova return.
Mama puts her face into her hands and cries. The little boys run to Pa.
“Did you find Bruno, Pa? Did you bring him back?”
Pa shakes his head no. He doesn’t look at the boys—only at Mama. “I couldn’t find the dog, and Vassari says that he doesn’t know anything about it. Lying bastard. I told him that if I find out he is responsible, I’ll be back.”
“You didn’t!” cries Mama. “Are you completely out of your mind, Pietro?”
“I’m tired of that man, Lena. I’m tired of what we let him get away with, and it has to stop.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be you who stops him.”
“Tonight I think it could have been me. I was mad enough to punch him, but Sara came up from behind him, and she looked terrified. And I didn’t want him to take this out on her. This isn’t over.”
Mama is moaning and running her hands through her hair. She cannot believe Papa’s reckless behavior and is anticipating all of the possible consequences.
Dear Diary, June 4, 1925
I can’t imagine why Luca would want to take Bruno from us. He must want him for a guard dog, but why? Bruno isn’t at his house. He doesn’t own a business that needs to be protected, like the lumber yard. He may have done it to spite us, but he did first ask Papa for the dog, so I don’t think that’s it. The only other possibility is that he really has sold Bruno to be a fight dog. I don’t want to ask Papa about that because Marcello and Lindo will cry. I don’t want to know the answer, either. Poor Bruno—he had a sweet life with us for a few weeks.
* * *
The next day, Mama seems to think she is preparing The Last Supper. She has been cooking all day—an enormous meal—and now she is sending me to Main Street for some fresh fish.
Since yesterday, she has not been in her right mind and is agitated—constantly looking out the windows, locking doors, and jumping at every sudden sound. I can’t say that I’m sorry to get out of here for a while. Her anxiety and nervousness are contagious. I’m starting to feel antsy now as well.
There a light sprinkle today, the usual April showers, but I don’t mind walking in it. Winter in Pittsburgh is cruel and monotonous, and I am always filled with relief when the last signs of it are gone.
Bernelli’s Market is bustling today. I guess everyone has cabin fever and is willing to suffer a little rain today.
“Carolina! Hello!” There’s a soft squeeze on my arm, and I turn to see Mrs. Pantuzzo’s broad smile. I consider it my good fortune that Mama isn’t with me.
“Mrs. Pantuzzo!” Both of her children are with her, and I can see that she has her hands full trying to hold on to them and carry her bags. “I’m almost finished here as soon as Mr. Bernelli wraps my fish. If you are on your way home, I can help you with those bags.”
“Thank you. I was just wondering how I would make it. I didn’t mean to buy this much, and there are more bags than I thought there would be.”
Our walk home is slow, and I find myself laughing a lot. Mrs. Pantuzzo tells me to call her Nicoletta, and it occurs to me that she probably isn’t more than ten years older than I am. I wish we could be friends. The sad thing is, I don’t even know why we can’t.
We arrive at her porch, and I set her bags on a wicker table. “Would you like to stay for some coffee?” she asks. Of course I would, but Mama would have a fit.
“Mama will be expecting the fish. Maybe another time.”
“Thank you, Carolina, for carrying the bags and for the company. It’s so nice to talk to another woman for a change. Elena and Vincenzo, say goodbye to Carolina.”
I wave goodbye and can’t help but walk a little taller. No one has ever called me a woman before or treated me as a real grownup. I know that Nicoletta knows why I am not staying, and I can’t help but feel shame for the way she is treated in this town by Mama, by Izzy, and by the other women. Only Sara seems to be tolerant of her.
When I arrive home, Mama is nowhere to be seen.
“Mama? Mama!” I think I have called her for fifteen minutes and have covered every room of the house when finally I hear a noise in the basement.
“Mama! Are you down there?” I walk halfway down the steps and look around for her. An arm emerges from the cold cellar, and I hear her voice.
“Get in here—pronto, pronto!”
She has snapped, and I would refuse her ridiculous command, but she seems absolutely distraught.
“For God’s sake, Mama! Why are you hiding in here?” I look into her tear-streaked face and watery green eyes, and it occurs to me that somehow I am now the parent.
Mama slaps my wrist. “Don’t you ever use God’s name in vain—and talk low! A note came while you were gone. It was slipped under the door when I was in the cold cellar. I think it’s a message from the Mano Nero.” She reaches for her pocket but has a hard time retrieving the note in the darkness of the cellar.
My heart stops because that’s how the Mano Nero sometimes works . They leave notes imprinted with a little black hand.
When she finally shows it to me, I uncrumple it and swear again. “For God’s sake!”
She tries to slap my face, but it’s a half-hearted attempt, and all she can ma
nage is a feeble swat.
“Mama, this is a telegram. This isn’t from the Mano Nero—it’s from Zia Teresa in Calabria. It says that Giuseppe is coming to New York on a ship called the Duca degli Abruzzi and that he will take a train to Sharpsburg. He will arrive on June 21.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank you, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus.”
“Who’s Giuseppe?”
“He’s Teresa’s oldest boy—he’s a little older than Giova. Come on now. Let’s get out of here. I have fish to cook, and I need to think. We’ll put Giuseppe in the attic with Giova. God willing, we’ll still be alive when he gets here.”
Dear Diary, June 5, 1925
Mama is in the kitchen, but I’m going to stay in my room for a bit. I think I need a break from her for a few minutes. Some days, she’s too crazy for her own good.
A telegram arrived about my cousin Giuseppe. I wonder what he is like. Too bad he isn’t cousin Giuseppina. I guess that would be too much to ask for in this house of boys.
I made a friend today—Nicoletta. Outside of my family, I don’t think I’ve had a friend before. Mama doesn’t need to know. She has Sara, and she has her sisters. She doesn’t understand that I would like to have a friend, too.
My brothers are dear to me, but the little ones are certainly not my friends. Giova will always be special—I believe we have a closer relationship than most brothers and sisters, and he often tries to do things for me. But who can I talk to about my life? And who can I talk to about my feelings? About dresses and hairstyles and movie stars? That is an emptiness that I feel, and that is why I long for a friend who is a girl and who is my own age.
* * *
“Your mama is not feeling well today, Carolina,” says Pa. I’ll get Marcello and Lindo off to school. Be a good girl and take care of Mama for me, okay? I will be home from work as soon as I can.”
I don’t know if Mama has made herself sick from all of the worry of the last few days or if she has the flu that I had last week. Either way, she is burning up with fever when I check on her upstairs, and she seems to have the same symptoms that I had.
The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts Page 6
