The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  What would he be doing in Queens?

  The streetcar was about to depart when Shan hustled from his seat and hopped out. At an inconspicuous distance, he followed Mr. Capello into a stream of people toward an entrance of some sort. Chatter and bells grew with each step, a commotion explained by a sign overhead: Aqueduct Racetrack.

  The possibility of Mr. Capello gambling with even a penny was enough to freeze Shan in place. He realized it had done just that when a boisterous man excused himself, bypassing Shan with a woman on his arm. Nearby a uniformed guard eyed the crowd. Shan turned his face away, unsure of rules pertaining to age, and stuck close to the couple as they continued at a snail’s pace through the gate.

  The fellow, in a blatant attempt to woo his date, rattled off tidbits about various horses scheduled to race. The gal’s obvious disinterest did nothing to dampen his efforts. Once safely inside, Shan broke away in search of Mr. Capello. Huddles of gamblers, mostly men, dotted the area. Shan wove through clouds of pretention and cigarette smoke. He found relief in the open air of the grandstand, where breaks of sunlight brightened the sky. Attendees talked and laughed and shook hands while awaiting the next race, no different than guests at a church picnic.

  Come to think of it, the purpose of Mr. Capello’s visit could be no less moral. He might have come here to simply meet a friend who enjoyed the sport.

  Shan had just ruled this the most probable explanation when he turned and found himself face-to-face with Mr. Capello. The man stood there alone. Shock was etched into his features, deepened by a reprimanding look for finding Shan in such a place.

  Shan tried to explain. “I . . . saw you on the trolley . . .”

  There was a paper in Mr. Capello’s hand. It was no longer a newspaper but rather a small white note. The receipt from a bet. Mr. Capello traced Shan’s gaze, and his neck reddened. More from embarrassment, it seemed, than anger.

  Unsure what to say, Shan blurted, “I promise not to tell.”

  The silence stretched between them until a corner of Mr. Capello’s mouth lifted. It was a ghost of a smile. Only then did Shan comprehend the amusement of the scene, as if a child had been caught sneaking sweets before supper. A grown child, at that.

  Just then, a bell rang and the race began. Many in the crowd moved toward the rails. Mr. Capello glanced at the horses, a swift debate in his eyes, then gave a nod toward the track. “Come,” he said.

  Shan gladly obliged.

  Jockeys in colorful clothes and helmets clung to their horses. They yelled commands and swatted with short black whips. As the animals rounded the first turn, folks became more vocal. Based on Mr. Capello’s murmuring, he had bet on the one marked Number 5. It was three horses behind but making reasonable headway. By the time it reached the second spot, Mr. Capello was moving his hand in short jerks, as if wielding an invisible whip. It appeared to be working when Number 5 caught up to the first horse.

  Shan gripped the top rail, swept into the excitement. “Come on, you can do it.” The two horses competed for the win. Their necks bobbed and legs stretched, dirt spraying from their hooves. On the final stint, Number 5 lurched into the lead. Mr. Capello’s encouragement gained momentum. “Let’s go, let’s go! Andiamo!”

  Though Shan had nothing personally invested, his thrill as Number 5 crossed the finish line verged on electric. He and Mr. Capello simultaneously threw their arms into the air. For that instant, in a strange twist of events, they were united as a team.

  When the cheers died down, Mr. Capello led them toward a betting window. In line to collect his winnings, he reviewed a list of horses and odds for the next race.

  Soon they reached the clerk, who counted out a calculated sum. “Care to make another bet?”

  Mr. Capello proceeded with an air of confidence, this time with his hopes on Dusty Moon. Shan recognized the name. The man in the entry had shared news regarding that horse. Shan wracked his memory, trying to remember, not wanting to be wrong. Then it came to him. “Don’t do it.”

  Mr. Capello turned his head, puzzled.

  Shan kept his voice low in the event it wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge. “I heard a man say Dusty Moon prefers grass. That he doesn’t run well on dirt tracks.”

  Mr. Capello deliberated the information. The men behind them were growing impatient, shifting their stances and narrowing their eyes.

  “Well?” the clerk pressed.

  Mr. Capello returned to his list and drew out his words, deciding as he spoke. “Instead I will bet on . . . Wild Shamrock. The Irish, they are lucky, yes?”

  The clerk barked a laugh. “Whatever you say, pal.”

  Shan remained silent as the bet was finalized.

  Once away from the booth, Mr. Capello stopped and held the ticket before Shan’s face. “You must never,” he said, “risk more than you are ready to lose. Capisci?”

  In this way, the man’s vice still befitted his ethics. More or less.

  “Yes, sir,” Shan said.

  As the start of the race closed in, Shan’s enthusiasm gave way to apprehension. What if the man with the racing tips was wrong? The newfound pleasantness from Mr. Capello could very well end if Dusty Moon, in fact, took the win. What’s more, he could now lose money on a horse representing Shan’s heritage. Potential for double the blame.

  But it was too late to reverse. The horses were lined up at the starting gate.

  Spectators again crowded the rails. They raised binoculars and fanned their hats. In a matter of minutes, the race was on.

  Along with Mr. Capello, Shan cheered openly for Wild Shamrock, though internally he was also rooting against Dusty Moon. A track never seemed so large, nor a competition so fierce. The hooves thumped as wildly as Shan’s pulse. By the final stretch, Dusty Moon and Wild Shamrock were battling two other horses for the lead. Shan was now screaming for Wild Shamrock, feeling as though he were the jockey himself. But then Number 2 tore away as if spurred by a jolt, leaving all his competition behind.

  Dusty Moon came in fourth, and Wild Shamrock in second. Shan expected Mr. Capello to be disappointed; instead the man kissed the ticket with gusto. “We win!”

  The bet was merely to place, he explained. Apparently his faith in the Irish only went so far.

  By late afternoon, from a combination of luck, calculations, and more overheard tips, Mr. Capello had won far more than he’d lost. The grandest time, however, came from the exchanges between races as they rested in the stands.

  Mr. Capello spoke about weighing the odds, tempered by trusting your gut. By way of example, he cited the brave feats of Christopher Columbus—“Cristoforo Colombo,” more accurately—which led him to list great contributions from other Italians over the centuries: from the Roman Empire and the pope to Dante and Michelangelo.

  Still, his zeal was no stronger than when he landed on the subject of baseball, the feats of “Ping” Bodie in particular. The Yankee centerfielder was said to be one of the most feared sluggers in the game, his skills naturally owing to his Italian descent.

  “He was born Francesco Pezzolo,” Mr. Capello said. “And do you know what I hear? Last week he challenged an ostrich to a duel of eating.”

  Surely the man’s accent had altered the correct word. “An ostrich?” Shan repeated.

  “Eleven bowls of macaroni, and only Ping is standing. This is how you know he is a true Italian.” The accomplishment was delivered with such reverence that Shan aimed for a straight face, but a laugh slipped out.

  Thankfully Mr. Capello also chuckled, adding, “Even before going to the Yankees, always he is Tomasso’s favorite.”

  There was his name again. Tomasso Capello.

  Variants of it had saved Shan on more than one occasion. And yet, while he’d learned a good deal about how the boy had died, he knew nothing of how Tomasso had lived.

  Mr. Capello’s lingering smile suggested an opportunity to ask.

  “What was he like?” Shan ventured gently. “Your son, that is.”

  L
ike a plummeting pop-up, the man’s face shut down. He appeared to have briefly forgotten that his son was gone, but now remembered.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  The day was going so well. Shan cursed himself for ruining it all.

  Mr. Capello gazed distantly toward the track. He inhaled as if to speak, surely to announce it was time to leave. Instead, he gave an answer. “He was a kind boy . . . always curious.” The words carried a hint of a rasp. “He had questions, so many questions. He wants to know why this, why that, Papa. How does this work, Papa.” Mr. Capello shook his head, softening from images Shan couldn’t see. “Every day he would make me laugh. He was a good boy, my Tomasso. A very good boy.”

  Shan was tempted to touch the man’s shoulder, yet feared he might overstep. He simply offered, “I miss my parents too. My mam especially.”

  Mr. Capello absorbed this, an admission Shan rarely voiced, then he gave a look of understanding. Shan sensed the start of a tenuous bond as they sat in quiet—a moment soon broken by the boom of a lady’s voice.

  “Signore! Signore Capello!”

  Mr. Capello hesitated, shifting gears, before coming to his feet. He pinned on a smile. “Signora Allegri.”

  “Che cosa fai?” The woman appeared in her sixties and somewhat plump. Her facial features differed from how Shan pictured Italians, with her fair skin, blue eyes, and blond curls straying from her cloche.

  “How nice to see you.” Mr. Capello exchanged a peck on each cheek.

  “My husband is over there, placing a bet.” She wriggled her gloved fingers toward the entry area. “He will be so pleased to find you. We have heard you are back, but we have not seen your family at Mass.”

  “Yes . . . we have been busy. With work and children. Settling in.”

  “Si, si. Of course.” She nodded, though Shan could see she didn’t entirely believe the reasons. After all, not all immigrants strove to leave their pasts in another country. For some, Shan realized, the past lay just across the river.

  “And who is this?” The woman noticed Shan seated in the background but looked uncertain. “You are . . . the oldest son?”

  Shan slowly rose, not knowing how to respond. He barely had a chance to shake his head when the woman gasped and clasped her hands together.

  “You are the one we hear of. The small one, who is doing so well after going to Italia.” She made the sign of the cross before holding Shan’s face in awe. Her hands were like a baker’s, strong from shaping dough. “My goodness, has it been so many years? You have grown so tall.”

  She turned back to Mr. Capello. “It is a miracle. A gift of God, no?”

  The man’s mouth moved in a subtle twitch, as if choosing between answers.

  Perhaps it was the common ground he’d found with Shan, and the suggestion that Tomasso had brought them together. Maybe it was the hope flickering in the signora’s eyes, or because, quite plainly, it was easier to agree.

  But for one reason or another, Mr. Capello replied with a smile, “Veramente. A true gift.”

  18

  For once, Shan appreciated the noise and bustle of the streetcar, relieving any pressure to talk the whole ride home. At the racetrack, he and Mr. Capello had already said so much.

  When finally they entered the house, where Italian spices fragranced the air, Shan breathed in the new scent of home.

  Nick was reclined on the davenport. “That errand sure took a while.” His casualness as he flipped through a magazine—this one appropriate for family viewing—suggested nothing buried in the comment.

  Shan shrugged. “I ran into your father.” An honest answer without specifics. A harmless secret to keep.

  In the entry, Mr. Capello removed his hat and pointed for emphasis. “And now he knows why Italians have made this world great. Without them, we would not have the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We would not have democracy, or even America for that matter—”

  “Papa, not again,” Lina groaned from the sitting room rug, where she stopped in the midst of dressing a doll. “We’ve heard all of this a thousand times.”

  “Oh? A thousand, eh? Then you must only listen to it one thousand more.”

  It was difficult to judge from his expression if he was teasing. Before Shan could decide, Mrs. Capello emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Bene, you are both here. Supper will be ready in twenty minutes. I will put out olives and nuts—”

  “No,” her husband cut in.

  “But . . . I am keeping the prosciutto for supper.”

  “No,” he repeated. “You are not making supper.”

  Shan’s confusion was reflected in the faces of the others until Mr. Capello clarified. “I am taking my family out to dine.”

  From the stillness pervading the room one would think he had announced plans to jump from the Tower of Pisa.

  He flicked his hat upward. “What are you waiting for? Andiamo. Get ready, we go.”

  Breaking into a grin, Nick tossed his magazine aside. “Sounds dandy to me,” he said, and started for the entry as Lina sprang to her feet.

  “Wait! I want to wear my favorite blue dress,” she said, already sprinting for the stairs.

  “But—we cannot go,” Mrs. Capello insisted. “The food, it is cooking—”

  “And we will eat it tomorrow,” her husband declared.

  Not since childhood had Shan dined in an actual restaurant. The excitement of choosing from a full menu made his mouth water.

  “I don’t know about you,” Nick said, pulling his coat from a wall hook, “but I could go for a big juicy steak tonight.”

  Shan agreed, relishing the thought of his old favorites. “So long as it’s with a large heap of potatoes.”

  Clearly outnumbered, Mrs. Capello marched back into the kitchen, muttering in Italian. Something about her terrible appearance and putting the food away and—if Shan understood correctly—money not growing on trees.

  Shan and Mr. Capello traded a look, acknowledgment that the extra funds had come from elsewhere.

  Twenty minutes later, the family arrived at the small but lively restaurant. The irony of Mr. Capello’s choice was not lost on Shan, nor on the rest of the family.

  “But, Papa,” Lina pleaded as they were guided to their table, “we eat Italian food all the time.”

  “This is not Italian,” he said. “This is Sicilian.”

  Over the wall murals of Italy hung decorative strings of garlic and peppers. The ingredients, like the aroma, matched those in the Capellos’ kitchen, just three blocks away.

  Shan quietly asked Nick, “Is there a difference?”

  “What do you think?”

  The waitress left them at a red-and-white-checkered table in the corner, a white candle aglow at its center. Opera music played faintly in the background.

  Still standing, Nick said, “Pop, why can’t we just go out for a hamburger? You want us to be seen as good Americans, right?”

  Shan caught the glimmer in Nick’s eyes, an awareness of using the man’s theories in the rest of the family’s favor. Hopefully it would work.

  “But you are not just Americans,” Mr. Capello said, taking his seat. “You are Italian Americans. Now, sit.”

  Shan obeyed, still grateful for the luxury of the outing, and the others followed. Though Mrs. Capello proceeded without complaint, over her face passed a message that at home they’d have been eating similar food by now at a lower price. Her husband’s claims that Palermo Ristorante was rumored to be one of the finest eateries around did nothing to alter her stance.

  Before long they all placed their orders, and soon the meals arrived. Only then did Shan recognize the true value of the outing: Mrs. Capello was able to eat without delivering dishes, clearing the table, or tidying the kitchen. Aside from a brief remark about her own sauce being better than the one on her ordered ravioli—likely rooted more in pride than in taste—she wound up looking as pleased as the rest of the family.

 
Even Shan had to admit his “tomato pie,” made of thick, rectangular bread covered in sauce, anchovies, and cheese, was rather delicious. He just wished the same could be said of the grappa.

  At Nick’s urging, Shan had accepted the after-supper drink, which appeared as clear as water. Unimpressed by the smell, he’d decided that downing the small glassful, as he would cod liver oil, would be wiser than drawing it out. Yet when he gulped it down, the liquor caused his chest to flame and his face to scrunch as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

  Lina and Nick snickered, and their father couldn’t help but smile. Mrs. Capello chided Nick for not giving Shan a proper warning. But then she promptly tucked her chin and used a napkin to wipe her mouth, long enough to suggest a grin.

  Once Shan recovered, his delight at seeing the family this way increased the lightness in his head caused by the grappa. It had been a good while since he’d been the source of people’s laughter. He had forgotten the satisfaction of entertaining a crowd, knowing he was directly responsible for the smile in their eyes.

  Perhaps he had more to offer the Capellos than he’d thought.

  He straightened in his seat and puffed his chest. From weeks of observing Mr. Capello, Shan lowered his voice to mimic the man’s accent and declared, “Why are you laughing this way? Always Capello men are serious. For five generations, this is how we survive.”

  The family halted as they registered the likeness.

  “Papa, it’s you!” Lina suddenly laughed, as did Nick, who pressed for more.

  Relying on details he had collected, both consciously and not, Shan continued the impersonation. “Just look at the success of the Romans, eh?” He pinched invisible coins. “You think they build a great empire by laughing all day? No. And what of Michelangelo? He would be hired to paint only the . . . the pope’s bathroom ceiling if he sat around, listening to silly jokes. Capisci?”

  Mrs. Capello covered her mouth while giggling, this time her amusement clear—unlike her husband, who gave no hint of a reaction. For a second, Shan worried he might have offended the man. But then a glimmer entered Mr. Capello’s eyes, and Shan knew he was safe.