The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  “What’s your name?”

  Though out of sorts, Shan realized advertising his heritage wouldn’t improve the situation. He mumbled the first alternative that came to mind. “Capello.”

  “What’s that you say?”

  “Tommy Capello,” Shan repeated, but not too loudly.

  The officer’s face softened a fraction. “Your family around here?”

  Shan answered honestly with a shake of his head.

  “Where do they live?”

  “In . . . Brooklyn.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  The officer had beady eyes and a bulbous nose, features certain to sniff out lies. But after all of Shan’s struggles, he couldn’t just surrender to an orphanage. Not when all he needed was a plausible address to be sent on his way.

  “Maywood Place. Number eleven.”

  The officer went quiet, the discrepancy obvious. The neighborhood was a nice one. If this kid had a family and a home there, why was he in a gravel lot in the rain, alone?

  But then he replied, “I’d say it’s about time you headed back. Don’t you?”

  The interrogation was over.

  Shan nodded in earnest. “Yes. Yes, sir.” Despite his soreness, he scrambled to pick up his cap from the ground, then his coin, which he glimpsed in a shallow puddle. As he turned to leave, he felt a tinge of relief until the officer stopped him.

  “This way,” he said. “My car’s over here.”

  15

  The soothing rumble of the motor would have lulled Shan to sleep if not for being jostled by bumps in the road. Each one alerted him which body parts had taken the hardest hits. While he had no desire to move from this seat, he still hoped a police emergency would force the officer to let Shan out.

  That hope evaporated when they parked before the house.

  Shan clambered out, realizing how groggy he’d become. The officer escorted him up the short walkway, as close as a shadow. It took concerted effort for Shan not to trip on the handful of steps to reach the porch.

  No doubt, the Capellos would be less than delighted by a reunion with the ungrateful mick they barely knew, filthy from a fight and delivered by a cop. He was also now as broke as could be, with nothing to offer, including his pride. If they denied ever knowing him, he wouldn’t blame them a bit.

  The policeman rapped on the door. Soon it opened to Mr. Capello, whose face swiftly clouded.

  “Sir, I’m Officer Barsetti. I believe this boy is your son.”

  Mr. Capello’s gaze cut to Shan. Before the man could respond, his wife rushed to the door in a floral apron. She layered her hands over her chest. “Mio Dio. Where have you been? We are so worried. And your face?”

  She looked to the officer, wrought with concern.

  “Your kid got a little scuffed up by some boys in the breadline. Nothing to fret about.”

  Mrs. Capello knotted her brow, disagreeing with the assessment. She reached for Shan’s chin with a gentle touch, but still the pain caused him to wince. “You are so hot,” she exclaimed. “And thin.” Then over her shoulder: “Lina! Fill a bowl of ribollita. Pronto.”

  Officer Barsetti crossed his arms with authority. His eyes returned to Mr. Capello, who had yet to utter a word. It was evident the policeman had more to say, perhaps aware Shan had taken the first swing, or detecting dishonesty.

  “Sir,” he said, “I don’t mean to make assumptions. But from the looks of things . . . it doesn’t appear your family’s in need of much charity. That food is for folks down on their luck, not kids looking for a free snack.”

  At this, Mr. Capello straightened. He was a man who believed in accepting only what he earned. If ever there were cause to reject Shan’s claim to the Capello bloodline, this would be it.

  Without so much as a glance at Shan, he replied in an even tone. “Of course, Officer. It will not happen again.” To solidify the deal, he extended his hand.

  The policeman accepted, but added, “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “Grazie, signore,” Mrs. Capello interjected, an edge to her gratitude. She ushered Shan inside as the officer tipped his hat. The instant he turned to depart, Mr. Capello closed the door.

  This was the second time the father had protected Shan from a questioning official. An unexpected gesture. Then again, given the family’s fibs at Ellis Island, maybe he felt obligated to remain consistent. Now that the officer was gone, he could send Shan on his way.

  “Go and sit,” Mrs. Capello said. “I will get a cold cloth.” She hurried to the kitchen as heat from the potbelly stove transformed the room into an oven.

  Mr. Capello appeared to be contemplating his next words.

  Shan fumbled to remove his cap, sweat pooling on his scalp. He stepped toward the davenport, but sapped of adrenaline, his muscles weakened. The air went hazy and the floor began to tilt. A relentless drumbeat grew in his head. He vaguely made out Nick entering the room. Shan reached for the wall, but his hand seemed to pass right through.

  “Niccolò, aiutami,” he heard Mr. Capello say with urgency.

  Then everything turned black.

  16

  When Shan was a young boy, his mam sent him to the cellar. He was retrieving a jar of peaches for her when a mouse skittered across the floor. Despite a diligent hunt, Shan never located the rodent, but he did find its home: bits of food and paper and leaves harvested in the corner of a crate. After he excitedly told his parents, his da marched down with a broom and dustpan, and in a couple of sweeps the nest was gone.

  Shan supposed, in many ways, memory was the same: a collection of scraps, pieced together one by one. Whether useful or comforting, rough or sharp edged, combined as a whole they provided a semblance of security. Identity, even. Until wiped away.

  This was never more apparent than now, as the odds and ends of his life fluttered through his mind. Lying in the dimness, he stared at the ceiling, determining dreams from reality. He remembered Mr. Capello standing in the doorway, gazing in. Then there was Mrs. Capello seated nearby, praying with a rosary, and later sewing needlepoint. She was there again, feeding him soup, then speaking to a doctor in another language.

  Of course, mixed into the visions was Shan’s own family, namely his mam and da, and Mr. and Mrs. Maguire. But their faces, unlike the Capellos’, lacked the details they’d once had. Their features were like wax left too long in the sun, melting into figures he barely recognized.

  “Allora! You are awake.”

  Shan turned toward Mrs. Capello, who entered the room with a tray. She set it on the bedside table and opened the curtains with a flourish. At the shaft of light, Shan blinked repeatedly, fighting the bleariness of hibernation.

  “Your fever, finally it is gone.” Leaning over him, she touched his forehead with the back of her fingers. “Bene,” she said, and smiled.

  Shan realized he wasn’t on a mattress on the floor, but in the bed belonging to Nick.

  With an apron over her light yellow housedress, Mrs. Capello twittered about like a hummingbird, zipping from one task to another: refolding clothes at the wardrobe closet, shaking out the blanket at the foot of the bed. And her words kept similar pace.

  “We are worrying so much. But the doctor, he says you are only needing food and sleep.” She propped Shan’s head with an extra pillow. “Niccolò and Lina are gone to the market. They will be very glad to see you.”

  There was good reason to doubt that, at least where Nick was concerned. Shan swallowed against the dryness of his throat. “How long . . .”

  She pulled the desk chair over. “It is four days. You are waking and sleeping many times.” Once seated, she picked up the bowl and spoon from the tray. “Now? You eat.”

  In a practiced manner, she brought the broth to his lips. The warm liquid soothed his throat and continued into his chest.

  He suddenly pictured his mam, how she would feed him soup—a brew of onion and pepper boiled in milk—to ward off any cold. Yet as quickly as the memory arrived, it drifted into th
e distance, a scrap of paper carried by the wind.

  Again Mrs. Capello fed him a spoonful. Then she dabbed his chin with a napkin, preventing a drip from soiling his undershirt. She must have cared for Tomasso in much the same way.

  The difference was Shan didn’t deserve it.

  The family had dared to lie to Immigration, provided food and shelter and, above all, use of their late son’s name. And Shan had repaid them by running off without a word—except to unload on Nick for stating the truth. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  During the fight in the breadline, deep inside Shan had found pleasure in releasing his fury. If it weren’t for being outnumbered or the officer’s intervention, he couldn’t say he would have stopped until the boy had taken his final breath.

  That darkness scared Shan now. He feared the same vileness behind his uncle’s rages could run in his blood like the plague. An illness destined to infect others. Although he dreaded returning to the streets, he had to speak up.

  “Mrs. Capello . . .” His voice came out raspy from disuse. When she tried to feed him more, he gently held off the spoon. “I want you to know, I can leave as soon as I’m stronger.”

  She tsked. “Come, eat,” she said. But Shan needed to explain, to make clear he wasn’t ungrateful.

  “I know it’s been hard . . . and I’m only making things worse.”

  Mrs. Capello reclined slightly in her chair. Her sudden solemnness confirmed she understood the reference to the son she had lost.

  She set aside the spoon and bowl. Mindlessly she wiped her hands on her apron.

  Shan suspected she might depart, in need of privacy, until she replied. “If you wish, you may go. First, you will listen.” The order was gentle but an order all the same.

  Working to concentrate, Shan nodded. After a moment, Mrs. Capello’s unseeing gaze settled on the window.

  “For so long, Tomasso’s heart, it is not well. He is getting worse, but nothing we can do. Then one night, a dream comes to me. It is so clear I wonder if I am awake. I see my mother. She is a beautiful angel.” Mrs. Capello made the sign of the cross, clarifying that her mother, too, had passed on. “She is smiling at Tomasso. She warms him with light, and he is well again and so happy. The next day a telegram comes. My father-in-law is sick, it says. And I know this is a sign. My heart tells me we must go there and God and the angels will heal our boy.

  “Benicio says he will return to Siena to see his father. But I tell him we go together, come una famiglia—as a family. The children, they have never seen our home country, I say. I do not tell him the dream. It will sound foolish. And my faith must be strong. Pero . . . on the ship, another dream comes to me. My mother, again she smiles at Tomasso and there is much light. But now he is taking her hand, and I see they are going to heaven. I reach out and call to them, but they are too far. I beg them, please do not go. Then the light grows so bright, I cannot see. And then they are gone. I wake up screaming. I want to go back, away from Italy. But it is too late . . .”

  During the tense pause that followed, Shan barely dared breathe. It was a mistake, bringing up the topic; he hadn’t intended to open an old wound. He was about to say as much when she resumed her story, sunlight glinting off the moisture in her amber eyes.

  “In Siena, my sisters say we must go to il duomo to pray to the Madonna. They say she will give miracles if we pray very hard. Lina and Niccolò, they do this. But it is Benicio who goes two times every day. He prays for his father, but even more for Tomasso. Finally I go to the church, but not to pray. I will bring Tomasso to show Madonna that my mother, she is wrong.”

  At this, Mrs. Capello’s tone intensified and a tear rolled down her cheek. “God will see he is too young, that he needs to live many more years. But Tomasso, he is in my arms and he looks up in il duomo. His eyes are so big. He sees something I do not see. He smiles at me and says, ‘Va bene, Mama.’ It is good, he tells me. And he holds me close. I feel so much peace, so much love.”

  The sudden awe in Mrs. Capello’s voice matched the glow in her face, shedding layers of sorrow and years. It seemed as if speaking of her son was less a hardship than a keepsake in a trunk sealed for too long. Shan saw this in her eyes when they finally connected with his.

  “It is ten more days when Tomasso dies. I am sad, yes, but also happy. I know he is in a beautiful place with my mother. Benicio, though, he feels only anger. He curses Madonna, and also God. Even more, he curses Benicio. He is Tomasso’s father and he cannot fix this. But then . . . then you come to us in New York, and it is a sign to me. We can save this boy, I say. But Benicio, he does not agree.”

  Shan lowered his gaze to the coverlet. Mr. Capello’s resistance had been clear from the start. Now at least Shan knew the reason.

  “I understand,” he offered, and truly he did. “Using his son’s name—it was too much to ask.”

  “No.” She tilted her head at Shan, correcting him. “He does not want to fail again. When you are gone, he is so worried we will not find you. He blames himself. Niccolò and Benicio, they search and search.”

  Shan tried to hide his surprise at this. All the time he was away, he hadn’t imagined the family feeling anything but relief.

  As if to emphasize the contrary, Mrs. Capello reached out and clasped his hand. “One night I wake up and Benicio is gone. I am going down the stairs, and I see him. He is on his knees praying. He is praying for you. The next day you come to our door, and I know you are sent by our sweet angel Tomasso. I know this,” she said, “because already you bring faith back to us.”

  Where a terrible soreness had plagued Shan’s throat, a lump of emotion now took its place. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was hope, something he had considered long gone.

  It was an idea he’d love to believe, anyhow, that a guardian was looking out for them. If so, perhaps his mam, too, had guided him here, to this home, this family.

  Yet with the thought also came a weight, the responsibility of proving himself worthy of such a blessing.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall, brisk taps that brought Lina bursting into the room. “Oh, goody. You’re up!”

  Releasing Shan’s hand, Mrs. Capello smiled and stealthily brushed tears from her face. Meanwhile, Lina launched into a list of items they’d bought just for Shan at the market. He tried to keep up, switching tracks, until a second figure appeared in the doorway.

  Lina halted her rambling and stepped aside to make room for Nick.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” Shan managed a wavering smile. He searched for something to say, to ease the awkwardness.

  But Nick rested his hands in his trouser pockets and said, “Does this mean I get my bed back?” His mouth slid into a grin.

  Relieved, Shan replied, “Anytime you want.”

  Nick pondered this. “I don’t know. I kinda like yours better,” he said with a shrug.

  “I suppose we’re okay, then.”

  “Yeah, we’re okay.”

  The exchange was as simple as that. No explanations or apologies, for they were all there in the unspoken.

  Then Lina jumped back in, recounting the trip to the market. As Nick inserted wisecracks about the quirks of other customers, Mrs. Capello picked up the bowl, returning to her task.

  And somewhere in the middle of it all, Shan made a choice. Once well enough, he would return to the Navy recruiting station. Not for an update, but to let the kind secretary know there was no reason to search any longer.

  17

  The bell dinged as the trolley approached another stop. Shan had chosen a seat by a rear window to take in the midmorning air, somehow forgetting the fumes and industrial smoke that clung to the city. It was his first outing since recovering. In contrast to the serenity of the house, every sound and movement seemed magnified, almost to an overwhelming level. After his visit to the recruiting station, a nap might be in order.

  Mrs. Capello had insisted Lina and Nick help her at the community garden today but would have
preferred Shan stay at home. “You must not do too much,” she’d told him with a sigh of worry. It was a far cry from the warnings Nick often received from his father to avoid being viewed as a lazy Italian: “Always we must show pride, that we are good, hardworking Americans.”

  This was the reason, no matter the occasion, for shined shoes and tucked shirts and trousers smartly pressed. It also explained Mr. Capello’s constant drive to improve his English by reading the nightly paper and practicing words over and over that were difficult to pronounce. And it was certainly why Nick had been given an ultimatum, as his father saw no purpose in waiting until summer for his son to earn a wage.

  “You have two weeks, or I find a job for you,” Mr. Capello had declared during supper the night before. It went without saying that the latter would involve ice deliveries or garbage collection, common work among Italian boys their age. Mrs. Capello concurred, so long as the job wasn’t dangerous and would not interfere with school in the fall.

  The trolley rolled to another stop. Outside of a café, a newsie peddled the latest headlines. Another boy across the street polished the shoes of a businessman puffing on a cigar. Despite no demand that Shan do so, it seemed only appropriate for him to seek similar work.

  As he contemplated his options, passengers rose to exit before others climbed on. In the midst of the shuffle, Shan noticed a gentleman seated near the front. He was wearing a brimmed hat and reading the paper, like most men on board, but a partial turn of his head revealed Mr. Capello’s profile. An odd surprise.

  “I will be working on Staten Island all day,” he’d said to his wife over breakfast. While he did usually wear suits for consultation appointments, he was now traveling in the opposite direction. Suddenly he broke from his reading and glanced around, as if suspicious of being watched.

  Shan sank into his seat, cap lowered. Mr. Capello didn’t seem the type to sneak off with another lady. And not when he had such a lovely wife.

  After a cautious stretch, Shan stole another peek. Mr. Capello’s attention had returned to his paper. Shan was due to change lines at the next stop. He knew he ought to leave well enough alone, but curiosity won out and he continued to ride until Mr. Capello finally stepped off—in Ozone Park.