Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  “I think I can see her! Way out there.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Alonzo hoisted his boy up with ease and perched him on his shoulders.

  “That’s her, I can tell.” At first, Alonzo was simply playing along for the boy’s sake, but as others began to point out the statue as well, his own excitement grew.

  “And it says in this flyer that even if you can’t see it…ah, even if you can’t see it, she has broken chains at her feet to represent freedom and all the things that we’ll be able to do here.”

  “Your father is clawing at his coffin,” Rosa said from beside him. He hadn’t noticed her approach. She took a long drag on her cigarette, another of her new habits.

  “My father would be happy that I’m giving these boys the best chance at a good life that I can,” he said beneath his voice, although he knew Sonny would hear. Rosa exhaled but didn’t respond. She was wrapped up in a warm coat like it was winter, and she was shivering. It wasn’t Sicilian hot, sure, but Alonzo believed it was just another way for her to let him know that she disapproved. “Where are Enzo and Vico?”

  Rosa nodded her head to the side. “Playing dice with the other privileged youth.”

  It was true that very few of the boarders came from any kind of wealth, as they had. Most of them were farmers from Mezzogiorno escaping the natural disasters that had destroyed their crops, Sicilians escaping the oppressive taxes of the northern Italians, or anyone seeking to avoid the rigorous military subscriptions. Whether Rosa liked it or not, though, they were all equals now.

  “Maybe you could invite them to look?” Rosa flicked her cigarette over the edge and sauntered off to collect the twins.

  “Papà?” Sonny said, craning his head to see Alonzo.

  “Yes?”

  “Will the people here look like us?” he asked, a tinge of hope in his voice.

  “Not exactly, Sonny. But there are a lot of different kinds of people here. You’ll make plenty of friends.”

  “Okay, good,” Sonny said as he continued to watch the growing horizon. “Papà?”

  “Yes?”

  “And will they talk like us?”

  Alonzo let the silence grow. “No, they won’t.” He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say much.

  And he couldn’t say a word of English. None of them could.

  Little Italy, Manhattan—October 3, 1907

  Their new apartment in Little Italy wasn’t much: two bedrooms, one small stove, and a community bath down the hall. At the end of the day, Alonzo was just thankful they had found a place at all. The first landlord they’d approached, who owned a little apartment block on Mott Street, had turned them away. “No Sicilians allowed,” he had said. For a time, Alonzo feared he would actually have to approach one of the infamous “padroni.” But, after prayer, supplication, and a fair amount of promises to God, Alonzo found an opening in a tenement in Mulberry Bend. There were nearly one thousand other tenants lodged there, but at least they had a roof over their heads. It was better than the horror stories Alonzo had heard from some of the travelers back at the docks.

  At least there was a stoop, which was where Alonzo spent most of his time installed in a wicker chair. No longer able to spend time on the Sicilian coast, he took to the porch with a copy of the New York Times. He could hardly read English, and he didn’t know anything about baseball, but every update he could find on the New York Highlands—or “the Yanks,” as some called them—was the highlight of his day.

  “Lonz.” His wife’s voice carried from the doorway. He ashed his cigar and turned to her.

  “Yes, mio tesoro?”

  “You need to talk with your son.” Sonny appeared behind her. “Go on, love.” She patted her son’s back, and he moved forward like a convict called before a judge.

  “What’s wrong, pal?”

  “Mom is upset with me.” His eyes were wet, and he rubbed his wrist over his nose.

  “Did you do something wrong?”

  “I told her I don’t want to wear short sleeves to school anymore.” His lip puckered, and tears began to materialize in his long eyelashes.

  “Come here.” Alonzo helped his youngest onto his lap. He didn’t know exactly what to say. What was Rosa concerned about? “And why don’t you want to wear short sleeves? It’s been hot out.”

  “Just because…” Alonzo followed Sonny’s gaze to his little arms. Sonny began to sob as Alonzo rolled up the sleeves.

  “I don’t want the other boys to see the bedbug bites. They’ll make fun of me. They already don’t like me because I’m Sicilian and not Italian, and they’ll make fun of me because I’m poor. Everyone makes fun of me except Antonello, and that’s because he is even more poor than me.”

  “Hey, hey.” Alonzo pulled his Sonny closer to him and buried his son’s head in his chest. “Don’t you ever be ashamed of who you are. You come from good people, and you have a family that loves you very much. Don’t ever forget that.” He lifted Sonny’s chin.

  “Okay…”

  “I mean it. Don’t listen to those kids. They just say those things because you’re new. They were probably just like you—they’ve just been here a little longer.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. It was just like that in Sicily, and it’s just like that anywhere. You’ll be the neighborhood hero before you know it.”

  “I bet they’ll like my playing cards.” Sonny pursed his lips to hide a growing smile.

  “That’s my boy. Do you have your cards?” It was a simple fifty-two-card deck that Alonzo had spent a very precious nickel on to cheer his boy up. Sonny looked up and finally let his smile shine, putting his little hands on his father’s face.

  “I take them everywhere I go.”

  “Let’s see them.” As Sonny pulled them out, Alonzo picked up his cigar and wedged it between his teeth. “I’m going to show you a game. It’s one my father taught me. Did you know I used to play cards with my father too?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It was our favorite thing to do. He was an important man, and he didn’t have much time at the house. But when he would come home, he would always wake me up from my bed and ask me to play cards with him. It is the happiest memories I have with your grandfather.”

  “I wish he was still alive so he could teach me.”

  “Me too, Sonny, but I can teach you.” Alonzo pulled up a nearby chair and dusted it off. As Sonny plopped down on it, Alonzo pulled over a side table and began to deal the cards. “And you know the funnest thing about cards?”

  “What?” Sonny was already giggling in anticipation.

  “You get to say bad words.” Both father and son let out a laugh. “No, really! You can say whatever you want when you play cards. That’s the rule. But you don’t tell your mother, and you don’t ever say them when you aren’t playing cards. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Yeah, or I’ll pop you.” He smiled and ruffled Sonny’s hair. “Look. I got some bad cards. A Two and a Four. That’s no good… Shit.” Sonny’s face lit up with shock. “Do you have good cards?”

  “Nope.” Sonny looked back and forth between his cards and his father, and a mischievous grin only a child could wield split across his face. “Damn it.” He erupted into laughter, and Alonzo encouraged it by tickling his sides.

  “I love you, pal.” He pulled his son in with a firm hug and gave him a kiss on the head.

  Alonzo

  Castellammare Del Golfo, Sicily—February 21, 1905

  “Ever since your father died, you have led this family with honor and toughness. The Consentino family has never been more respected. Why do you now doubt yourself?” Alonzo’s uncle Umberto leaned back in his old leather chair, munching down on an unlit cigar.

  “Because I don’t know what to do, Uncle. What if I start a war? The Armettas are powerful. They have many friends, and I consider myself one of them.” Alonzo couldn’t keep his feet from tapping.

  “You call
them friend? Well, you also considered Piddu’s father a friend, and the Armettas knew this. Yet they killed him and his wife without consulting you or asking for your permission. What kind of friend does that?” a young associate, Turridru, added in from the shadows of Umberto’s dusty workshop.

  “Mind your place.” Umberto slammed his hand on the weathered wooden bench between them. “But still, I agree with the boy.”

  Turridru threw up his hands in exasperation and paced around the room. “I am grieved that they did this. I am insulted.”

  “As you should be. Do you not believe this deserves reprisal?” Umberto may have never desired to lead the Consentino Borgata, but if he had, he would have been a fine leader. Ruthless, determined, and bearing a sense of ethics that couldn’t be questioned.

  “But you didn’t answer me: What if this starts a war?”

  “It will start a war, Don Consentino,” Turridru said.

  “He’s right. That goes without saying. The Armetta family will want to exact reprisal. And they will seek to do so. The only real question is whether or not you are willing to accept the consequences of doing the right thing. Are you prepared to shed blood, willing to risk your own blood, to avenge the death of an ally your father held dear?” Umberto added.

  “You should have seen the boy, Uncle,” Alonzo said. “It was awful. They mutilated his hand. Made him watch as they emptied their guns into his parents… What kind of insult could have been so offensive that this was warranted?” Alonzo genuinely wanted to know. If there was just cause, he would leave well enough alone. He would return to his home and make sure that Piddu was well, and then he would send the boy on his way.

  “Does it matter, Don Consentino? It doesn’t,” Turridru said. “No matter what the offense was, piddu’s parents were your allies, and the Armettas killed them without pause. Either to send a message to you or because they do not believe you have the spine to do anything about it.”

  “Quiet, damn you!” Umberto turned to the young man and shouted before convulsing into a fit of coughing. “Who does this young man think he is?”

  “He’s right, Uncle,” Alonzo said.

  “I know he’s right, but he needs to mind his station.”

  “I brought him here for a reason. I wanted his counsel as well.”

  “More fool you, then. He’s reckless.” Umberto turned and scowled at Turridru, who met his glance with a furtive smile.

  “I am tired of this.” A beam of light entered the old workshop as Turridru’s father, Ignazio, hobbled in on his cane. “Alonzo, your father… Do you remember your father?” He fumbled his way to the table, using his cane to guide him, since his eyes were no good.

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Well, I’m having a hard time believe you, boy.” Ignazio poked his cane at Alonzo like a weapon. “Have you heard how I became part of this Borgata?”

  “We’ve all heard it, Father. A thousand times,” Turridru spoke up, hiding his irritation with feigned cordiality.

  “Your father entered my florist shop to buy some flowers for his own father’s grave. A miscreant came in and was going to kill your father right in my place. So I shot him. Dead. I shot him dead, close enough to your father that he lost his hearing for a week. And he invited me, and my entire family, into yours, because of what?”

  “Because you—” Alonzo began.

  “Because of action. There were bad men in the world, and I put one of them down like a rabid dog. Action. What will you do now? Bad men live, and you have a choice to make. Will you do something about it, or will you sit here sniveling about right and wrong?” The blind old man plopped down on Umberto’s newest wooden bench, snarling. Alonzo thought if anyone needed to mind his place, it was Ignazio. Old and blind he may be, but what right did he have to give lessons on how to run a Borgata?

  “And if my own people die because of it? If the Armettas retaliate?” Alonzo asked.

  “Than you live with the consequences.” Ignazio had already struggled to his feet and was hobbling for the door, making it clear that he deemed this a waste of his time by shaking his head and wagging his fist. “Or you can send a message to all of Sicily that your friends can be killed with impunity, that your father’s legacy means nothing, and that this Borgata is nothing but a guise. Your choice.” Ignazio departed, slamming the door behind him with what little force he could muster.

  “I’ll do it, Don Consentino. Say the word, and I’ll do it myself,” Turridru said, stepping closer to him. Alonzo looked to Umberto, who only lowered his head and said nothing more. Alonzo assumed that his diplomatic uncle agreed with Ignazio. He felt he was the only one who had misgivings. If that were the case, the decision was already made.

  Castellammare del Golfo—February 27, 1905

  Alonzo trailed behind his ambitious young companion Turridru. He could keep up, but this was his least favorite part of running a Sicilian Borgata, a network of family allies that looked to him for protection and guidance. Betrayal was tantamount, and couldn’t be ignored. Revenge was necessary. Blood demanded blood.

  “They’re in there.” Turridru nodded toward a local delicatessen that was owned by a cousin of the Armettas.

  “You’re sure it’s only the three we’re looking for?” Alonzo asked, trying in vain to hide his reluctance. He couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of this young man, but what else could he do?

  “I’m sure, Don Consentino. I’ve trailed them for a few days, and this is where the three young men get lunch every afternoon. Father saw them enter not thirty minutes ago.”

  Alonzo nodded for his friend to lead the way. With one hand, he clutched the sawed-off shotgun hidden beneath his suit coat. With the other, he rubbed his fingers over the rosary that dangled from his neck. Before they reached the door, he tucked the rosary back into his shirt, and then quickened his pace.

  Turridru kicked the door with as much force as the eighteen-year-old could muster. Alonzo rushed in behind him.

  Chairs scraped violently against the linoleum floor as the Armettas struggled to their feet. Alonzo pulled violently at the trigger. The shot reverberated to his elbows, to his shoulders. Smoke from the tip of his weapon obstructed his view.

  Blood cascaded across the room as the body of the first man tumbled back over the table, sending wine and a bowl of grapes and cheese across the floor. Alonzo shot again at a second man who tried to duck behind his fallen brother, pellets of buckshot ripping through his chest.

  The third brother drew a pistol and pointed it at Alonzo.

  As the man braced to pull the trigger, a bullet shredding through his cheek. Turridru paced over to Alonzo, his pistol still smoking.

  “I’ll check the back. The owner is here somewhere.”

  “No, let’s go,” Alonzo said. Turridru shot him a look, and stood firm. Alonzo rushed to the man Turridru had shot and rolled him over to his stomach. He was still sucking in air, but his moments were numbered. Alonzo pulled a dagger from his belt and shoved it into the man’s back, at the spine.

  It was a message. The Armettas had betrayed them, and this was the result.

  “Let’s go.” Alonzo bolted for the door, his mind returning to his pregnant wife and his two boys at home. Turridru followed behind him, and they made for the door as quickly as they had entered. Behind them, the owner shouted a curse, and two blasts of a shotgun rang out.

  Alonzo sprinted with a vitality he didn’t realize he possessed, and Turridru trailed him closely.

  “We shouldn’t have left their cousin alive!” Turridru shouted as they passed through a field to where two horses had been staged.

  “We had a point to make, and we made it.”

  Sonny

  Little Italy, Manhattan—January 18, 1910

  “I don’t like that boy. I never have.” Sonny’s mother’s voice carried in through the screen door as he attempted to pay attention to his cards. “I heard some of the other parents talking. They said they’ve seen Antonello smoking cigarett
es.”

  Sonny swept up the cards and moved farther from the door.

  “That boy shows up every day with fresh bruises. His father is beating him, Rosa. Badly,” Alonzo said.

  “So we’re supposed to let him influence our son because he has a bad home life?”

  “We can help him,” Alonzo insisted. Sonny moved farther away still.

  “We should help him. I feel bad for him too. But he is eight going on nine. Why does he want to spend time with our Vincente so much? He’s only five, Alonzo. And they’re from Naples. You can never trust a Neapolitan.”

  “That’s your mother talking, Rosa. We don’t have Sicilians or Neapolitans anymore. We’re all Americans.” Sonny heard his mother’s sardonic laugh carry through the screen door.

  “They don’t think that. And neither do you. We shouldn’t even be here. My cousin in Buffalo says the entire community she’s in is from Castellammare del Golfo. The Bacchiegas say that Williamsburg in Brooklyn is full of our kind. So why are we here?”

  Sonny slid his cards into his pocket and tried to find a toy to play with, anything he could do to distract himself from their fussing.

  “I don’t want that anymore, Rosa. We left for a reason. As long as we’re around other Sicilians, they’ll know who I am. They’ll know who we are.”

  “And that’s such a bad thing?”

  “No, Rosa. But you know exactly what I mean.”

  “So being around Italians is better? If we were around our own people, maybe you would be able to at least find a decent job.” Sonny’s mother opened the door and began to enter before pausing. Sonny pretended he hadn’t heard anything until he perceived something was wrong. Headlights spilled into the dark tenement foyer and engulfed his mother. “Who is that, Lonz?” Rosa stopped in her tracks.

  “Go inside, Rosa. Shut the door.”

  “Come on, baby boy. Let’s go upstairs,” Rosa said, extending her hands to carry him up to their tenement.