The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel

by Dorothy Uhnak

  Dante felt his jaw relax, his mouth open in surprise. Oh, my God, my God. Who is this man? He knows. He knows. The memory of that night, the shovel crashing down, the blood, the fallen body. Dante felt the icy wetness of that December night more than ten years ago down his spine, along the back of his neck.

  Santini shrugged slightly, the elegant, indifferent gesture of a man who might be making a mistake. “It is up to you, Dante. Trust for trust.”

  Dante nodded. “You have my word. Trust for trust.”

  “So. Then I will tell you this thing that you should know, assuming you are to marry my daughter. You see her as a young, beautiful, bright girl, very protected in her home, in her schooling, among her friends. Innocent, carefully nurtured. As it should be with a cherished daughter. But more particularly with this girl, who has had tragedy in her life. You know she is motherless?”

  “Yes. Lucia-Bianca told me—”

  “Told you what?” The question was sharp and betrayed the expressionless face.

  “That her mother died when she was a little girl.”

  “What else?”

  “That she died in childbirth, along with her infant son.”

  “And how did she seem when she told you this?”

  Dante thought the question made no sense. “Sad, I guess. I … it is a sad thing to lose one’s mother.”

  “Yes. You too have lost your mother. But that was all she told you of the circumstances?”

  “Just that she was a little girl, three years old, I think. That’s all.”

  “And now I shall tell you the circumstances. And the reason I tell you this will become apparent. It is something the husband of my daughter must know.”

  Aldo Santini told his story. “My wife, Bianca, was a beautiful young woman, a northern Italian, fair of complexion, blue eyes. A carefully raised girl, cherished by her family and her friends. I married her in Rome and brought her here, where she knew literally no one. But it was not to be an immigrant’s home. I was older than she, I had a good business, supplying altar wine to the Archdiocese of New York. I brought her here, to this house. It was what she was accustomed to. Within the first year of our marriage, Lucia-Bianca was born. A nursemaid, an elderly Italian woman, came from Bianca’s family to take care of the child. My wife seemed lonely. I was, after all, at work all day, but I did not neglect her. I cherished my time with her. We had taken two trips back to her family by the time Lucia-Bianca was three years old. She went to church regularly, she became active in some church groups suitable for young women. But there was always this sadness. I felt always she was waiting to go back home. When Lucia-Bianca was three years old, my wife became pregnant, and we were told very early on to expect twins. She was a fragile woman, small-boned and tense. She had to spend a great deal of time in bed. She had many visitors, and to each of them she confided nothing of fear, anxiety, concern. Just a general sadness. The doctor said it was normal, to be expected.

  “The delivery was terrible, an ordeal. Two boys. The first was robust, pink and healthy. The second born dead, strangled on the umbilical cord. Two of her sisters came from Italy for a few weeks, her nursemaid took care of the new child. She seemed disinterested. She ignored both the infant and Lucia-Bianca. The doctor said it would pass; some women were like that after giving birth, and the sadness was because of the loss of the one child.”

  He paused, considering the tips of his fingers as they tapped together before his face.

  “Then, surprisingly, she insisted, one day, that she wanted to spend more time alone with the newborn child, my namesake, Aldo. The doctor felt this was healthy—finally, a show of interest. For a few days she fussed with the child, fed him, bathed him, sang to him. But still she kept Lucia-Bianca away. ‘I must give myself to this small boy,’ she said.

  “And then, one day, when the nursemaid took Lucia-Bianca to the park, my wife was alone in the house with my infant son.”

  Santini’s voice went very low, and Dante felt the small hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He leaned forward.

  “The note she left said that she had known all along that this surviving child longed for his twin brother. That they had been conceived together and it was meant that they be together for all eternity. That it was a great crime to keep this child from his twin—it was a violence to the soul of each child. This was the note she left.

  “It was my small daughter who found them. In the bathtub. My wife had dressed herself in her loveliest nightgown, filled the tub with warm water. She had slashed both of her wrists and her throat, as she lay in the water with the child to her breast.”

  Matter-of-factly he said, “My son died by drowning in his mother’s blood.”

  The silence was so sudden that Dante stopped breathing as though fearful of missing something being said. The final shrug was all Santini had to offer. What else could one say?

  “And … Lucia-Bianca …”

  “Understood nothing. She saw them for no more than a few seconds. Whatever impression she might have had, God alone knows. The nursemaid was a cool-headed old woman. She grabbed the girl and rushed her to her own room, gave her a doll to hold, closed the door. By the time I arrived at my home, the infant was wrapped in his blanket, in his crib. The police came. It was all kept very quiet. I have a certain standing; these things can be kept within the four walls of one’s home.

  “My daughter was sent to Italy, to my parents, for nearly a year. It took me that long to … come to terms, one might say, to get on with my life. Well …”

  Aldo Santini rubbed his bright eyes with his long, narrow fingers, leaned back slightly, then became stiff and straight again. His voice, so soft, so eerie, made his words all the more terrible.

  “I will tell you this. I have never forgiven her for the death of my child. It may be my sin, at this point, but I rejoice in the knowledge that her soul writhes in the eternity of hell she deserves for her despicable crime. That is why no one—at any time—in this house is permitted to speak her name in my presence. I speak to you about her now, this one time, and then never again.

  “And it may seem strange to you, but I will speak of her with others, on occasion, who know nothing about what she did. They will see me as a still-sorrowing, loving, devastated husband who was unable ever again to marry, because I had lost the perfection of my adored wife.

  “She stole my posterity from me; I could not allow myself, ever, to trust another woman. Not with what had happened to my son. Of course, I love and cherish Lucia-Bianca in the special way a father loves a daughter. But there is a difference. With a son, there is a feeling of continuity. When the second son was born dead, I grieved, but was grateful to God for the first child, that he was healthy and strong and my wife finally seemed healthy. What could go wrong?

  “I know, intellectually, that I should not blame her for what her madness did. But in my heart, for the rest of my life, dwells this anger, this hatred.”

  His eyes narrowed with the intensity of his need to communicate with Dante. “I tell you all this for a specific reason. My wife was a young, bright, protected girl. What happened was totally unexpected. Yet it did happen. It was not malice or exhaustion or neglect that caused her to do such a thing. It was a form of … madness. Something”—he snapped his fingers—“broke inside her head. God knows, women have endured losing a child, losing parents, and do not do such a dreadful thing. So, you see, there was something wrong inside her head that made her act this way. If you are to be the husband of my daughter, you must know her heritage. This is my trust in you.”

  Dante didn’t move. He was immobilized by the weight and force and reality of the confidence. He was numbed by the realization, but more, by its implications. Don Santini’s revelation bespoke not only trust but obligation. Clearly, Dante was approved as a husband for Aldo Santini’s only daughter.

  “And now, Dante, for your part of our bargain.” Santini settled back in his chair, unmoving, creating a sense of expectation and certainty.


  He knows, Dante thought. Somehow, in some way, my God, he knows, and if I fail to tell him, I will lose her.

  And so, quietly, unexpectedly, Dante D’Angelo, for the first time since that night in December of 1935, broke his vow.

  He told Aldo Santini what had happened, what role he had played—everything but the names of the others. He told of the confession, trial, and execution of Stanley Paycek. And, during the telling, he had the absolute certainty that the story was already known, that what he was doing was confirming something.

  “So.” The older man nodded, then said, “And the other boys with you that night, who took part in the killing of this degenerate?”

  Dante shook his head. “That was not part of our bargain.”

  For the first time, Santini smiled. It was with approval, as though another of his suppositions had been proven correct.

  “Good. Excellent. Well, enough for one night, I think. Shall we share some wine? A toast, perhaps.”

  He stood up, went to the sideboard, and poured wine from a crystal decanter into crystal goblets. He held the wine up to the light.

  “This is a special wine. Not the wine I provide for the churches. The priests should not sip such a miracle during mass. They might get carried away. It is miraculous, this wine. For special occasions.”

  This was indeed a special occasion. Dante waited for the older man to make the toast. It was simple, direct, and given in a positive, friendly voice.

  “To the future. To good health to you, and to my daughter and to my future grandchildren. To a grandson. Accept my word of honor that I will help you in every way I can to achieve your goals. You will become my son when you marry my daughter.”

  “Salud.”

  Dante was making a commitment far more complicated than he had anticipated. He was handing over his entire life. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it.

  Not even the official engagement, the giving of the small ring, the reading of the banns in Lucia-Bianca’s parish church, changed her firm rule. She would be a virgin bride.

  There was no way Dante could convince her of his pain, his frustration. Either let me make love to you totally, he pleaded, or we should not even touch each other until the wedding night in June, four months away.

  Lucia-Bianca shook her head. She could not exist without the passion between them, the touching, the deep incredible kissing, the rubbing. Night after night, Dante walked from her house to the subway in an agony of denial. He had not the slightest idea that he was being followed, night after night, from his house to the subway, during the ride, and as he walked to Lucia-Bianca’s house, then followed home. If he went from school directly to the house on Pelham Parkway, she assumed she had missed him, and went directly to the Pelham station and waited for him.

  Maryanne Radsinski had, from the age of twelve, been called by the neighborhood boys “Maryanne the Cunt.” Her parents were alcoholics who both held jobs, drunk or sober. Her mother cleaned apartments in the neighborhood. Her father was a mechanic and watchman in one of the garages on Webster Avenue. Maryanne discovered the fleshly delights by watching her parents, who were loud, passionate, boisterous, and hysterical in their lovemaking. She was their only daughter, and it was her job to cook for them and for her three brothers. She liked mothering her family. She also liked the idea of having fun for herself, and being popular with the neighborhood boys.

  She confessed to the at-first-horrified parish priest, who was appalled at her casual stupidity and delight. She provided great happiness to the boys, she said. Was it a sin?

  Finally, confused by her confessor’s reaction, Maryanne skipped all that stuff and went to the usual sins. Name of the Lord in vain; cursed; answered back; lied. Both she and her confessor seemed content with this arrangement.

  Maryanne became the legendary available cunt in the neighborhood. High school boys barely mentioned their shots with her. Everyone aged fourteen and up had done it with Maryanne. What she couldn’t understand was why none of the boys were nice to her.

  Among the few neighborhood boys who never gave her the chance to share pleasure was Dante D’Angelo. He was the handsomest, nicest of them all. He would nod to her, smile sometimes, not in that mean way, just a casual smile and hello. She was madly in love with him for years, and all her daydreams revolved around what a lovely life they could have together. Someday.

  After she finished eighth grade at the age of fifteen, Maryanne worked in the Woolworth’s on Fordham Road, in the makeup section. She loved it. She also made a few extra dollars, now and then, when she felt like it, by doing some man one of her favors. It was after Dante came home from the Navy and was in law school that she made her plan.

  She knew he was engaged, even before it became official. No guinea father allowed his daughter to go out with a guy that often without it was official.

  She also assumed certain things about Dante: that he left his wonderful girl’s house in an agony of frustration. Maryanne planned carefully. On the night she had chosen, she watched him leave the girl’s house and head not for the subway but toward the neighborhood park. He looked sad, leaning forward, hands deep in his pockets. He stood inside the park, one foot resting on the seat of a bench. He turned when he heard someone behind him.

  “What? Maryanne? Is that you?”

  Instead of answering him, she stood close to him, ran her heavy, knowing hands along his chest, slid open his fly, and removed his quickly hardening penis. She hoisted up her skirt and inserted him. He didn’t say a word as they slid down behind the bench, she on top, moving slowly over him, then helping him to turn over, to assume the man’s position, to obtain the man’s release.

  It was her dream, but it was true, it was real, it was finally happening. She was giving pleasure to Dante D’Angelo, she was binding him to her for all time. He was her husband in her dream, and would be in fact.

  She loved him so much.

  “I was stupid. She was available,” Dante told his uncles, Joseph and Victor Rucci.

  They glanced at each other and then back at Dante. He was a handsome sonofabitch, with their dead sister’s thick black hair and light brown eyes, and his father’s square, determined chin. He was one of the lights of the family: Dante, getting a law degree, marrying a rich man’s only daughter.

  Joseph, the older of the two Rucci brothers, shrugged. He was short and thickset, his hands made for the butcher trade. “So everybody, once inna while, they give it to a whore. So what’s the big deal here? Every kid in the neighborhood shoved it to this cow. So what’s her story?”

  Victor, the younger, with a shrewd face, the family’s most successful businessman, sensed this was more than just an arm-twisting by a girl looking for some money. This was the scheme of a whore looking for a different kind of life. “So what she tells ya, tell me again, Dante.”

  Dante licked his lips. “That she hadn’t let any man touch her for six months. That she wanted to be ‘pure’ for me, and that now she was carrying ‘our child.’ Jesus.”

  Joseph snorted and shrugged. “So who believes the whore, she ain’t touched no man? Between us, we could come up with what, maybe fifteen, maybe twenny guys say they …”

  His brother interrupted. “That’s not the point, right, Danny? That’s not the point.”

  “So what is the point?” his brother demanded. To him, this was a simple matter, easily handled.

  “The point is, this whore could make trouble for Danny. She can open her mouth to this girl Danny’s engaged to, his madonna with her father, right, Danny? She’s a good girl, your Lucia-Bianca?”

  “Yes. She’s a good girl.”

  “Ah, nice,” his older uncle said, kissing his fingertips and smiling. “That’s the way a bride should be—good girl, clean, pure. A nice Italian girl, huh, Danny?”

  “Yes,” he said, miserably.

  “So, what we gotta do is, we gotta have a talk, and make an arrangement with this whore, this Maryanne, who wants to marry you.” Victor aimed a mock pun
ch at his nephew’s shoulder, tapped him twice. “You a good boy, Dante, you come to the family. You know we’re here for you.”

  “You understand why I couldn’t let my father know anything about this?”

  “Your father, God bless him, would say you gotta honor a obligation to this woman. Your father, bless him, is one of the last innocent people in the world. A good man, your father. You done right to come here, Dante.”

  “Uncle Victor, I don’t want you to … she’s an ignorant, mean-minded girl, but I don’t want anything …”

  “Hey, you want I should make scrambled eggs but don’t break no eggshells?” His voice was suddenly hard, but then he smiled. “Hey, we’re none of us wiseguys in this family, kiddo. We’re just blood. You’ll see. We’ll take care of it nice. You get back to your books, you study hard, you marry this good Italian girl, you have a good life, ya hear me?”

  Dante embraced his uncles, one after the other. He pulled back, and he and Victor studied each other. Dante nodded. He knew it would be all right.

  He was free of Maryanne the Cunt.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN THE WAR WAS OVER AND THE heroes came home, Willie was the first usher to be let go. It was a legal matter; they had to reserve jobs for the homecoming vets. He told Mr. Felnick, yeah, he understood—and how long do you think these heroes are gonna work in their little red jackets before they start school under this GI plan? Listen, don’t call me, Mr. Felnick, I got better things to do with my life, too.

  They had everything, these returning bastards. Their jobs reserved; paid money by the good old U.S.A. for up to fifty-two weeks if they just wanted to loaf around; college tuition; extra points on civil service exams; low interest rates to buy a house. It was all for them and nothing for guys like Willie.

  Except he still had his job with the Ruccis. Two of the drivers had been killed in the service, another was going to school, another came home with only one arm. At any rate, they’d have kept Willie on. He was a hard worker. He never complained about overtime; he didn’t skim any more than anyone else, and he never ratted on anyone.