As we reached the car, I froze for a split second. There was a dark figure hiding behind a tree across the street. Looking closer, I could have sworn it was Lee, the janitor of the school. What the hell was he doing there? Gia noticed my concern, “Baby, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, sweetheart.” I eased her into the safety of the car. I didn’t need to concern her with that. Sal took the wheel while Gia and I embraced. Those fervent kisses felt like none other I ever experienced. I was like a skittish young virgin; this was all new to me.
She lived in a stately home on 85th Street. Her father and uncle were involved with the Longshoremen Union, and needless to say, business seemed quite good!
We pulled up right in front of her door; she tapped Sal on the shoulder, “Sal, would you mind pulling around the corner and letting me out?”
I was gravely injured, “Around the corner? Are you embarrassed by me?”
Sal came to her rescue, “Calm down lover boy, she doesn’t want her father seeing her get out of a car with two guys, capeesh?”
She lifted herself forward and kissed Sal on the cheek, “You’re so sweet, do you have a pen?” The both of us scrambled in, and about the car, we found one that hadn’t written a lick in two years. She laughed out loud; her glee sent chills up my spine! She reached into her tiny purse and pulled out a lipstick, she grabbed my arm and wrote her telephone number on my wrist. She then gave me the most earth-shattering kiss of my life. With an adorable expression, she rubbed her nose against mine, “Baby, call me in the morning, is that ok?” My eyes were glazed over; it was as though a missile had struck me. “Of course, I will.” As she left the car, she turned back to gaze at me three more times before she turned the corner.
Meanwhile, Sal was bowled over by Angie! While I was turning the club upside down, he and Angie had become a couple. But at that moment, Angie wasn’t on his mind, “Ant, if that son-of-a-bitch is still alive, he will come gunning for you. You embarrassed him in front of most of Bensonhurst!” I knew it, but what was done was done. At that moment, everything seemed blurred and obscure.
Our mother got up the moment we arrived home and took her faithful position in front of the stove. She only had to cook for one; I scurried up to my bedroom and locked the door. I looked at the clock; it was ten after three. That was morning, wasn’t it? I picked up my phone three times before I found the courage to go through with the call. The phone rang once; her familiar voice answered, “Is that you, Ant?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t wait.”
“Either could I.” We spent the remainder of the early morning whispering to each other sweet nothings. So began our epic romance, born at Romeo and Juliet’s, yet unlike Shakespeare, I had no intention of allowing our sonnet to become a tragedy.
*****
The past week caught up to me; I rolled over and strained every fiber in my body to focus on the face of my alarm clock. My mother knew I was still hurting from the fight, so she allowed me a pass on the mandatory paternal breakfast.
It was almost noon, and like all the other households in my neighborhood, I could smell my mother’s gravy simmering. There was nothing better than being Italian and living in Brooklyn. I stumbled down to the kitchen; a crusty loaf of fresh semolina bread was positioned right above the bubbling pot of tomatoey goodness. I broke the end off and dipped it in the sauce; my mother came from behind and pinched me. She grabbed a fork and stabbed a meatball, holding it in midair as though it was a lollipop. As if I was five years old, I gleefully took the offering and kissed her. She gestured towards the back, “Antonino, your brother and your friend Vito are waiting for you in the backyard.”
There was little doubt why Vito was here so early on a Sunday morning. I could see the seriousness in Vito’s face the minute I entered the yard, “Ant, you fractured that guy’s eye socket. They say he’ll be in the hospital for a week to ten days.”
“He had it coming.”
“Maybe, but we need to use this week to set everything square with his friends in Red Hook.”
Square? What did that mean? Sure, we could sit together in some nondescript social club and be lectured by a couple of old-timers how we needed to forgive and forget, and maybe, just maybe, one of these decrepit old grease-balls would tell him to forget the girl, but I knew better. His injuries would heal, and that punch might be put on the back burner, but that wasn’t at the core of the problem. It didn’t take long before people around the neighborhood took notice of the accuracy of the etchings carved into the bark of a few of the trees along 86th Street. Those carvings and what they represented would last for generations to come!
How could Louie allow the two of us to ride off into the sunset as boyfriend and girlfriend? Man and wife? That vision of Gia and I together would be a heart-wrenching, a constant reminder of his greatest failure in life. Truth be told, if the roles were reversed, I knew I couldn’t.
What Vito then said was more troubling, “Ant, maybe you should forget about that girl.” It stunned me; how could my brother-in-arms understand me so little? An incredulous chortle bubbled up, “Forget about her? They will have to kill me first!”
“Yeah…maybe they will!”
“Well then, Vito, I’ll die a happy man!”
“Come-on, Ant, let’s be honest, she was his girlfriend.” Vito was aiming for the path of least trouble, “Besides, did you sleep with her yet?”
My look of annoyance told him all he needed to know, “Ah-ha!” He whacked me on the shoulder, “Well then! No harm done!” I had a look of utter distress, and Vito offered no solace, “Anthony, my old buddy, old pal. Sorry for the rude, accurate things I just said! Besides, who gives a fuck anyway? Girls—schmirls, there’s plenty of calamari in the sea!”
Chapter 8
No Strings Attached
The notion of living my young life without Gia was incomprehensible. She made living exhilarating; I embraced every morning with immense anticipation. Spring days lengthened, afternoons became warmer, and Inferno, Brooklyn’s new anthem, chronicled that dazzling season.
The heat was on, rising to the top
The melody beckoned to all that life was heating up; street urchins opened hydrants for business every searing morning, while sewers, broom handles, and a rubber ball transformed our streets into a sport. Parents found their children lying face down on sidewalks “shooting” waxed-filled bottle caps, and “skully” became a word. Meanwhile, the cry of “keep your eye on the ace of spades,” along with three bent cards, still found its share of suckers. The boardwalk at Coney Island greeted throngs of sun worshipers, while thick clouds of pigeons soared above their rooftop coops, and the movies brought us a close encounter of a new kind.
Everybody is going strong
And that is when my spark got hot
I heard somebody say
Lightning darkened Gotham for two blistering days while a pair of burgeoning lovers begged the question that has echoed through the centuries; “Did my heart love till now?” But nothing marked that summer more profoundly than when a neighbor’s dog named Harry instructed a humdrum slayer of youth to turn his sights on Brooklyn.
Burn baby burn, disco Inferno
Burn baby burn, burn that mother down
*****
I loved to jump rope, and like everything else in the gym, that bell instructed me when to go fast for three minutes and allowed me to rest for one. The sweet tones of Donna Summer were brightening our arena. Her haunting melody caused me to question myself again, and again, could this be the magic at last? I knew the answer, oh, yes! It must be. My future as a fighter, and my life with Gia, as fresh and fragile as they were, were magical.
After twelve rounds, Izzy interrupted, “Hey kid,
do ya feel up to taking a fight in tree weeks?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, “Hell, yeah!”
“Goddamn it kid, don’t ya tink ya should ask for da details furst? Ya drive me bloomin nuts!”
There was no winning with my beloved trainer, no matter what I said, he had an array of arguments locked and loaded, “Ok, Izzy, what’re the details.”
“Ya stepping up in the world, my boy! It’s goin to be an eight-rounder at da Forum!” The Felt Forum was big time and would make it a hometown fight. “But kid, dis would be against Jimmy Weeden, he’s as tough as they come, fought for da crown twice. A true-blue Philly fighter.”
Now for those of you who don’t know what a Philadelphia fighter represents, there was a certain mystique in the name itself. They were a species of blue-collar warriors who had only two words in their pugilistic vocabulary; grind and grit. They always charged forward, and no matter what, they never retreated.
“Izzy, why don’t you train fighters in Philly if you think so much of them?”
“Ah, did I hurt ya feelings? Should I get ya a hanky?”
“Stick it where the sun don’t shine, this Brooklyn fighter will kick some Philly ass.”
The truth was James Weeden would test not only my skills and endurance but also my courage. This would be the first time I faced another man in an eight-round fight. It was a momentous task, but with so much clouding my mind, could I focus on this task at hand?
*****
It had been ninety-eight degrees the entire day, so when I met my father in the driveway, we both faced each other, utterly spent. His graying hair was standing on end. His clothes were dusted with marble and limestone, while his hands seemed dry and worn. He put his arm around me, “How was your training today.” This was unusual for him to ask, I guess now that I was his only son, he felt a need to show a little more emotion. “Pop, can we talk?”
“Sure, after we eat.” That was no surprise; everything revolved around the table!
As my mother went about frying potatoes for the sausage and peppers, Sal came home. My mother whispered in his ear, “Go upstairs and get out of your uniform. It will aggravate your father.” Sal knew better than to challenge her wisdom. A few minutes later, as the platters of food covered the table, Sal crawled down the stairs, all showered and shaved. He would see Angie after dinner; this became a village of young lovers.
For the first time in weeks, Saverio’s image seemed to soften, he lowered his fork and raised his eyes, “So, I hear you’re seeing Giuseppe Rizzo’s daughter?” Sal still smarting from his wounds, didn’t respond. From beneath the table, I gave him a subtle kick. He sat straight and nodded. My father pushed on, “I hear she’s a nice girl.” Turning to my mother for moral support, my father asked, “Rosa, don’t you think it’s a nice thing?” She put her fork down and crossed her arms, a signal that she would speak at last. “Saverio, I think you should embrace your son, he has found his way in life, and neither of us should stand in his way.” Here was a woman, who when she spoke, measured her words. She lifted her fork, lowered her head and began to eat again. I looked at my father, wrinkles in his face began to darken, he looked old, weathered and not equipped to deal with such tectonic changes in his life. He abruptly dropped his fork, was this the beginning of a storm? His right hand gripped the side of the table, and with a painful grimace on his face, in slow motion, slid down to the floor. My mother screamed in fright, “Gioia mia!" Sal and I straddled him and brought him to the couch. Sal loosened his belt and checked his breathing. “Ant, let’s carry him to my car. I don’t want to wait for an ambulance.” Saverio’s oldest son held his father for dear life. Everything happened so fast; there was little time for emotion. My mother sobbed, "Ti vogghiu beni cu tuttu u me cori!"
I drove, flying through every red light on Bay Parkway. My foot never touched the brake as I made it to Maimonides Hospital in record time. Doctors worked on him for an hour. My mother sat grimly in the waiting room, surrounded by my Aunt Angie and all the rest of the women in the family. Each held a rosary in their pocket, their anxious digits deliberately counting bead by bead, prayer by prayer; each one meant to save Saverio’s life.
It seemed like an eternity; Sal suddenly burst out of the ICU with a young doctor in tow. My brother’s face offered no indication, the doctor knelt by my mother, “Your husband is one of the strongest men I have ever seen. He had a massive heart attack.” Sal interrupted the doctor, “they had to revive him twice on the table.” That extraneous information caused a cry amongst all the women; the doctor continued, “For now he’s alive. He’s in intensive care, over the next twenty-four hours, we’ll know more.”
I never imagined life without my father; he was the constant through all the trials and tribulations of growing up. Saverio didn't gush over my boxing or inflate my ego, yet he was our rock who reacted to family disasters with philosophical thought and decisive leadership. In my weakness, he was my strength. Now I came face to face with the prospect he might be gone forever. Our ever-changing lives were now about to be set adrift.
*****
Hospitals most often lack any warmth, the antithesis of a home. Saverio lay in a bleach tinctured cubicle on crisp but thinning sheets. A curtain hung on a chrome railing, looking like they have recycled it a thousand times. An old TV set hung from the ceiling. A window giving him an edited view of the world below was just beneath the screen. In the corner were two chairs, frayed and worn, they stood sentinel at the foot of my father’s bed.
Looking upon my father as he lay there, utterly still, a tube forced down his throat to keep him breathing, made him look so weak and vulnerable. His strength that once raged like a fire had faded away to an icy numbness. Alone with him in the room, I stood silent, my eyes kept tightly closed, trying to match my breath to the beeping of the machines that surrounded the bed, the only indications of this lion’s existence. For the first time, this stone that our family rested on, had been fractured. I fought the tears back, real men don’t cry, yet what could I do? I was so helpless. I felt like the cow herded into a truck meant for the slaughterhouse; only the cow doesn't know where it's going!
As I remained vigil at his bedside, I was startled as a gentle hand gripped my shoulder and whirled me around. Gia embraced me as no other could. She rested on her head on my shoulder; her silent hold gave me strength. From behind her, I heard a rough and raspy familiar voice; it was Albert Columbo and his wife. They accompanied their daughter; it was the first time I saw him up close. He was a large fellow with matching hands, which seemed quite capable of snapping a man’s neck. He had the face of a bulldog, fierce looking, but at the same time, a sense of kindness concealed just below the surface of his staunch veneer. As though it was his issued uniform, he dressed in a dark, three-piece suit, a long cashmere coat with a matching fedora. This man commanded one of the toughest unions in the city, and he looked every bit the part. I offered my hand to him; he grabbed it and yanked me close, embracing me, as though he already accepted me into his family. “Anthony, we are all with you. Whatever you need, you come to me.” In my neighborhood, that was an amorous gesture. Because of my love and respect for his daughter, I knew that came with no strings attached.
*****
I stood at my father’s bedside for the next eighteen hours. Countless friends and family came to show their love and respect for him. I think even in his vulnerable state, he could feel the outpouring of love. These expressions were more than just a few kind words; there were the affectionate kisses on his forehead, the way people gripped his hands caringly, massaging them and calling out to him to come back.
I awoke that second morning at his bedside; his color slowly began to return. The sickness ravaged my father’s body; the transformation couldn't have been any crueler. I hugged him tight and slipped into bed
with him, I whispered in his ear, telling him all about my Gia. I then saw the tiny corners of his mouth slightly grin. My blood gushed with hope! I knew it; the old bull was fighting his way back; he would not leave us just yet.
That evening, as Father Pete prayed with the family at the bedside, Saverio suddenly gripped his beloved wife’s hand. She had been steadfast the entire time, keeping a mask of courage and assurance, but that modest gesture caused her to crack. She collapsed, sobbing. Father Pete, Sal, and I held her as a nurse slipped a chair beneath her. Not more than a half an hour later, the doctors came down and removed the breathing tube. We all rejoiced; we avoided a calamity. Even though he still seemed so frail, deep inside, somewhere in that broad-chested bull, was still a tenacious Sicilian. He had too much to live for, and it would take more than a blip on the heart screen to put him down.
I took an ice cube and rubbed it around my father’s dry, chapped lips, the cool moisture helped to revive him. His lips moved, he struggled, attempting to speak. The sound was faint. I leaned as close as I could; I needed to hear his first words, “Pop, what is it? What do you want? Anything!”
His voice a faint whisper, I leaned closer, and I made out what he was saying, “Cannoli…get me a damn cannoli.” I beamed; his first thoughts were about food! His desire proved to us all that he was well on his way to recovery. It was now time to concentrate on my upcoming rendezvous with a Philadelphia fighter.
*****
Dr. Cohen seemed much too severe to teach teenagers chemistry. He was wound so tight; I didn’t think it would take much to set him off and discover how much damage he could incur. The odd thing was, only the students saw it.
The preceding year he won the Award for Teaching Excellence. He took a perverse pleasure in attaining such a position of public trust and respect, becoming bizarrely charming and socially intelligent to our parents. With those accolades, his hidden perversion became more apparent.
Say Goodbye and Goodnight Page 8
