That spring day in the Garden City Hotel where we first met she was sitting in the lobby, obviously waiting for someone. A girl, I hoped. She caught my eye immediately. Her long flowing blond hair. She was willowy and fresh. Prim, scrubbed, and athletic. Her eyes, already wrinkled from smiling, were blue-green, with a few touches of brown. And the purest skin I had ever seen. I wanted to stroke it. I was there to meet someone from European-American Bank.
It didn’t take long to strike up a conversation with her. When she rose to greet her friend — female, I was pleased to see — I had a chance to look her over head to toe. Even lovelier than when seated. I managed to overhear that they were going to play tennis after lunch at the Casino Club across the street. During lunch with my banker, I had trouble concentrating. I hurried through it with the speed of a teenage boy parked in lovers’ lane. Declining coffee, I glanced at my watch, murmured something about being late, and almost ran to the Casino. I went to their court and sat down, saying nothing. It had the desired effect.
“Are you a coach?” she finally asked during one of the change-overs. “It’s difficult to concentrate with you watching us.”
“I was hoping it would be. I want to sign you up for Forest Hills.” She laughed. “Ill make a deal with you. I’ll go away if you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
She laughed again. A full, hearty laugh that tripped up and down the scales. “Oh, I couldn’t. I don’t know anything about you. But I see you’re not the passive type.”
“Henry Martin. Henry Sabatini Martin. Ill fill in the details over dinner.” I had a huge, probably silly smile on my face, both hands turned up in mock supplication.
“I’m not sure if…”
“Let me call you later.”
“Nancy MacAllister. Five-five-five, nine-three-nine-zero.”
Nancy was in her late twenties and was, or seemed, unaffected, and a little naive. So I moved cautiously. Everything we did was fun; I phoned her using a variety of foreign accents, sent letters, unexpected gifts, went dancing, to art shows, ballets, and concerts, ate exotic food in Manhattan, put the top down with the air conditioning on in her convertible during nice summer days. I did not attempt to get her into bed. Actually, she was the one who said to me one night, “Henry. Oh, Henry, please make love to me.” Now that’s great strategy, Henry, my boy!
She worked in an office building in Jericho, an assistant marketing director for Weybridge Publishing Company. She enjoyed her job, and was told she had a solid future with them. Friday afternoons, in good weather, we’d play tennis at her club or mine; afterward, we’d often have dinner with her family. On occasion, I’d have the MacAllisters to my club. Two or three times, I included my parents.
Nan radiated. I felt very comfortable and totally at peace with her. The more time we spent together, the better it got. If there was one thing that bothered me, it was her complete lack of interest in world events, national politics, or the economy. But she was very astute and sophisticated about the arts. And had a real talent for painting. Watercolors, especially. Collages, too, that were highly original
One weekend, we flew out to Nantucket Over a huge bucket of steamed clams and beer in an out-of-the-way restaurant on the water, I leaned over and whispered, “Hey, young lady, look out or you’re going to turn into a clam. But before you do, how about getting married?” She dropped the steamer she was holding. Before she could say anything, I carefully put a napkin in her lap and told her to open it. Inside was a blue ring case.
“Yes,” she said, before opening the case. “Oh, yes, Henry. A thousand times, yes!”
I studied her for a moment. “Nancy, you have the most beautiful face on the face of the earth,” I said. "I'll be the best husband they ever created.”
We were married in that same cathedral. Protestants, Catholics, and Jews assembled as if for an ecumenical conference. Nan and I were on cloud nine. I had every intention we would stay that way forever.
What a difference a generation makes! Neither my parents nor Nancy’s had ever raised a murmur about our intermarriage. I thought suddenly of all my parents’ tribulations when they made the mistake of falling in love.
“This is lousy, Barb, I mean, it really stinks. “ They were having hamburgers and Cokes in a White Castle on Jericho Turnpike in New Hyde Park. Barbara met him there after his Army Reserves training meeting. She looked scrubbed and pert in her pleated skirt, sweater, and saddle shoes; Jake trim and fit in his officer’s uniform. “Cant even go over together to your house or mine,” Jake growled. “Like we’re criminals or something, sneaking around. “He waved an arm, accidentally knocking over the bottle of ketchup, which broke on the tile floor, spilling its contents over a wide area. A disgruntled waiter shuffled over, mop in hand. “For Chrissake, watch what you re doing,” he said. Then, seeing Jake’s uniform: “Sorry, sir, “ he said. Jake realized it was one of the men in his platoon.
“They won't listen,“ Barbara was saying. “My father won V even let me bring it up. Mom keeps reminding me that in Italian families the father always has the last say. “ She reached across the table and took Jake*s hand. Jake, what are we going to do?” Her look was imploring; tears were forming in the corners of her eyes.
‘Here’s what,“ Jake said, squeezing her hand. “Next Saturday, you tell them you re staying over at a girlfriend’s. We leave early, drive down to Maryland, and get married. “
She managed a smile. Jake,” she said. “Dear, dear Jake… I couldn’t. They’d never forgive me. Ever. “
‘Yes they would. So would my mother. She’s just as worried as your parents. But if you want to wait
“No,“ Barbara said, smiling broadly, “I accept! Let’s do it. Let’s elope. Yes, elope!” Jake got up, and moved over to Barbara’s side of the table, put his arm around her, and kissed her. A long kiss. Minutes. Maybe hours. Several people at nearby tables began clapping, but the young couple didn‘t seem to hear or care.
On a Friday afternoon two weeks later, Salvatore Sabatini walked into his home and was greeted in his dining room by his wife and daughter. And Jacob Martin.
“Hey, what’sa he doing here?” he asked belligerently. “Barbara, I told you, he’s notta to come here!”
“Poppa, please. We want your blessing.“ She was standing, her hands open. “Jake’s going on active duty very soon. I know it’s not what you wanted for me, but Jake’s a wonderful man. I love him, Poppa. With all my heart. Please, Poppa, we want to get married. “ Her voice was breaking; tears were streaming down her face. Next to her, Jake stood at attention.
Sal glanced over at his wife, who was looking at the floor, then back at his daughter. “I tell you — no, no, no, no! Notta my daughter in mi casa!” With that, he marched to the stairs, walked up two steps, and said, “He’s notta to come here anymore, mi sendisti?” He stomped up the stairs and went into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Barbara turned to Jake, collapsed into his arms, and began to sob. Angela sat, saying nothing, shaking her head.
“Momma, talk to him. We’re going to get married even if he —” She stopped, gazed into Jake’s eyes, and then said quietly, “Momma, you re not to tell Poppa. We eloped last weekend. Please forgive me for not telling you. I was afraid. “
“Oh, “Angela said slowly, “oh. “ She started to get to her feet, fell back on her chair for several seconds. Finally, she stood up and faced the window. ‘You think I didn’t know this might happen, “ she said as she went over to Barbara. “This is not a good thing. “ She looked up, as if searching for help. Then, “But you’re my sweet, wonderful daughter, my baby girl. I want you always to be happy. “ She held Barbara’s face. “He’s not Sicilian, but… the thing is, you are already married!” She embraced both of them, then stepped back. “Poppa should never know of our little secret. I'll try to work on him to come around. Joey, he won’t approve, either. Maybe not as bad, he being Jake’s friend. “ She pushed them toward the front door. “A little time… later, a real wedding
<
br /> “Momma
You heard me. A real wedding. Just like in Sicily, with a priest
“Anda rabbi…”Barbara said.
“Oh, God! I don’t know, I just don’t know…. But I’ll try.” She paused, “I don’t know how long. Poppa must say yes. I must make him say yes!”
“Mrs. Sabatini, “Jake cut in. You should know my mother’s going to be very upset, too. Especially when I tell her our children will not be brought up Jewish. Or Catholic, for that matter. Barb and I have already settled that question. “
“Oh, “Angela said. “Oh, oh, oh… Not Catholic. “ She gave a deep sigh. “But I’ll try. I’ll try.”
But Angela could not get Sal to agree. Arguments were the order of the day in the Sabatini household. One afternoon Jake drove Joe to Jones Beach. “Joe, you’re not going to like this, but —”
“But what? You took another job without checking with me first?” They were walking on the boardwalk. The gulls were screeching overhead, their raucous cries spoiling the peacefulness of the afternoon. The sky was a perfect blue, a few puffy clouds drifting east.
Jake stopped, turned to face his partner. His friend. “Look, Joe, it’s time I told you. “He took a deep breath. “Barb and I eloped. A couple of months ago. With the way everyone is, we had no choice. Your mother knows, but not your old man or my mother. “
Joe’s face grew bright red. Jake could almost hear the clenched teeth grinding; his eyes were flashing, his face was hard and unforgiving, his eyes narrow and fierce. ‘You sonofabitch, ‘foe said softly. ‘You had to do it, didn’t you? Jesus, Jake, you really fucked things up. “He tapped a cigarette from his pack, turned back, and leaned on the boardwalk railing.
“No, Joe, I didn’t fuck anything up. I did something great. Just wait; the day you fall for somebody, I mean really fall, you'll understand. Your sister said it right, ‘This is America, not Sicily.’ Barb and I don ‘t have a helluva lot of time. “
“Now that’s a really stupid statement, “ Joe said, wheeling around. “What happens if you get knocked off and maybe you've had a kid? Where does that leave Barb?”
“We had it all out, Joe. It may sound romantic, but Barbara said she’d rather have whatever time we could married than regret not having been together for the rest of her life. “Jake stood next to Joe, both leaning on the railing, staring unseeing at the fishing trawler plying the waters a mile or two offshore.
After a long minute, Joe turned to Jake and put his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “All right, you clown. So it’s done. And I know Barb loves you, though God knows why. “He paused. “The least you coulda done was take me along for a witness. O Jesus, Pop’ll have a hemohrrage.” He stuck out his hand, then clasped Jake in a bear hug. ‘You crazy sonofabitch! Now I gotta have you as my brother-in-law!”
A broad grin covered Jake’s face. “I never thought of that, “ he said. “I mean, a partner, okay, but to have you as my brother-in-law! I told Barb you’d go along with us. I got to tell you, it’s not been easy, married but not being able to live together. “
“Hey, kiddo, that’s your problem!” Joe chuckled. “Ten years from now, we’ll all laugh about it. Even Pop, I hope. Now that I know, I’ll try to work on him, too. Hey, cumpar, you owe me big!” He slugged Jake hard on the arm, then looked down at his hand. “Jesus, “ he said, “what kind of training they giving you down at the armory?” He flexed his fingers. “Now, let’s get back to that building before our guys fuck up something. Beers on you later, Martin. Lots of them. “
“Mom, “Jake said to his mother one evening over dinner. “The Sabatinis are really nice. Nothing phony or pretentious. Old world values. And Barbara —”
“Jacob, she’s not of our faith. That’s part of the old values, too.” She gazed at him imploringly. “So many nice Jewish girls just looking to get married. The Isaacs’ girl. She’s very pretty, and a college girl, too. And what about that other one, whose family owns those newspapers? Now that would be a match."
Jake breathed in deeply, cleared his throat, and said, “Mom, of course marrying a Jewish girl would be easier, but I have to tell you, so many of them are princesses. Sure, some Protestant and Catholic girls, too. Material things. How much I make, what kind of home I expect to live in. “
His mother screwed up her face but didn’t reply. “Barbara Sabatini has it all balanced right,” Jake continued. “Mom, we fit together. Same ideas. Same values. Same hopes. “ He rose and kissed her on the forehead. “She reminds me of you. She really does. “
“It’s got to lead to heartaches, Jake, “ Helen Martin said with a shake of her head. She gazed for a long time at him. Her boy. Her fine young man. Everything his father wasn’t. “But it doesn’t look like you’re going to change your mind. “ She sighed, clasped her hands. “Maybe soon I could phone Mrs. Sabatini. Ask her over for tea. “
After weeks of his wife, son, and daughter all’ badgering him, constantly militating to gain his consent, Sal began to soften his stance. Jake was a nice man. And to break up these two might be the end of Martin Sabatini. This boy was becoming someone. Jake — if only he weren’t Jewish.
“All right, “ Sal said one day, when Joe was berating him for being so pig-headed.
“All right what, Poppa?” Joe asked.
“All right, Barbara can bring-a the boy here if she wants. “
‘You’re great, Poppa, “Joe said, pumping his father’s hand furiously.
“But only when I’m-a here, “ he added, holding up a waving finger. “Only when I or your momma are here. “
And so it was, finally, that Salvatore Sabatini accepted the American way, exactly four months, three weeks, and two days after the American president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, had spoken his somber words to all the Sabatinis huddled around their radio, and to Jake and his mother a mile across town, about “the day that shall live in infamy. “
Sal had consented, but he had never expected to lose the battle of the wedding itself. To his great chagrin, he learned that the ceremony would not be performed as he had planned, before the altar of St. Ignatius Holy Roman Catholic Church, but in the Sabatini living room in Elmont, New York. On Saturday, June 16,1942. The intended chose the father of a classmate of Jake’s, a judge, to do the honors.
Joe, who had dropped out ofHofstra College after one semester several years earlier, was drafted a few weeks after Jake reported to Fort Hollins, the advanced base for the U. S. Army Second Engineers. Joe elected the infantry and was shipped off to Fort Benning, Georgia, for basic training. He finished at the top of his class, rose quickly to the rank of private first class, then corporal, then sergeant
Joe had received a weekend pass to attend the wedding. On Friday, Jake drove into Manhattan to pick up Joe at Penn Station. Joe saw Jake first, ducked behind a column, and grabbed him from the rear in a bear hug, knocking off Jake’s officers hat. Joe was resplendent in his uniform, new staff sergeant stripes on his sleeve, his body fit and toned by months of intensive physical training. Joe laughed, relaxed his grip, and hugged his brother-in-law.
“Hey lootenant, sir, you sonofabitch! Great to see ‘ya. All I've been looking at is guns and rucksacks. Khaki, khaki every-fucking-where. GIs from all over the goddamn country. Can you believe it, half of ’em never saw an Italian in their whole fucking life! A few insults, a couple of free-for-alls in the barracks. Now we get along good. Had to explain to a few of them fuckheads they cant pull that shit. “
“Swing first, think later, that’s Joe Sabatini, all right,” Jake said. ‘Anyway, looks like the Army agrees with you. By the way, Sergeant, didn’t they teach you enlisted men that you don’t hug officers’? Section 8, it’s called.”
“Sorry, lootenant, “ he said, saluting smartly. “Now, cumpar, as your brother-in-law, apiece of basic advice — after tomorrow, with Barbara, all you got to do from now on is say yes’ to everything she tells you. “ He laughed. “That’s how you learn to live with Italian broads. “ He hoisted his duffel bag onto
his shoulder. “We walkin home, lootenant, or did you remember to bring the car?”
“Car? Oh, shit! I knew I forgot something. “Jake grinned. “It’s two blocks away, on Thirty-fifth Street off Ninth, “Jake said. They started toward the escalator.
“Well, at least I got me a girl. What’ve you been doing for sex, Joe, jumping on some fat, dumpy little private?”
“No, birdbrain. They got some great chicks in the South. Babes who flutter and faint over us handsome guys in uniform. Pact is, I met a really nice girl. Brigitte. Different from anyone I ever met.”
‘You should see your house,” Jake said, as they were driving over the
Queensborough Bridge. ‘Bedlam. I mean, real bedlam. Your mothers fussing. Everything gotta be perfect. Your old man doesn t know what the hell to do with himself And Barb’s acting as if nothing special was happening. “
“Sounds like a good time to keep my head down, “Joe said. “Practice for when we get overseas. Hey, what's the scoop?” he asked. “Think you'll be going over soon ?”
“The Krauts are moving through Europe like shit through a tin horn, “ Jake said. “Any idea when your outfit will be shipping out? And which theater?”
“Hear all kinds of rumors. My guess is Africa. What about you, Jake?”
“Military secret, “Jake said, pulling his eyes up into a double slant.
The next afternoon, at 4:10, almost on schedule, Barbara s Aunt Catherine played “Here Comes the Bride” on the upright piano while Sal Sabatini walked his daughter from her bedroom down the stairs, past the dining room to the end of the living room. She looked absolutely radiant; her bridal gown of white satin had been originally created in Sicily for her mother’s wedding. Judge Thomas Hartman performed the short ceremony as the wedding party stood in front of the fireplace. Predictably, both mothers sniffed and dabbed their eyes. Jake kissed the bride considerably longer than tradition required. The guests snickered; Jake pulled away only when Joe yelled “Time!” and popped open a bottle of champagne.
The Ego Makers Page 9
