Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  “I can walk,” Sonny said, double-checking to make sure all of his things had been gathered up. His mother ushered him up the stairs, but he stopped. “I forgot a card.”

  “Hurry and get it. You need to clean yourself before bed.” Rosa pointed her finger as Sonny hurried down the stairs.

  Sonny hadn’t forgotten any cards. He felt bad about lying, but he couldn’t go upstairs if something was going on outside. Pretending to look for a Jack of Hearts in the dark, he peered out the window. A black car had pulled up out front. Several men were in the vehicle, and most of them had remained seated. The motor of the automobile continued to rumble. One of the men, however, took his time walking up the concrete stairs to greet Sonny’s father. Sonny watched, heart racing, as his father straightened with tension until the man drew near. Eventually, his father’s posture relaxed, and he embraced the strange man with a hug and kiss.

  “Sonny, have you found it?” Rosa called from the stairwell.

  “Still looking,” he called back, his eyes glued on the doorway. His father talked with the man for a brief moment, until the stranger reached into his three-piece suit. He pulled out a thick envelope and handed it to Alonzo. Sonny’s father waved his hands in resistance at first, but eventually took it and bowed his head. Sonny couldn’t hear the words they spoke, but after a moment, the stranger held out his hand. It was marred badly, and only a thumb and perhaps another finger or two remained.

  Sonny shook with terror, and bolted up the steps.

  “Did you lose another card, Sonny? We can’t afford another deck.”

  “No, I found it, Mamma.” He clung to her leg as tightly as he could, allowing her to carry him up the stairs. He shut his eyes and tried to force out the image of the Hook-Handed Man.

  Little Italy, Manhattan—February 17, 1910

  It was a happy day.

  It wasn’t like most days. Even Sonny’s mother was smiling and cheerful. His father was singing Sicilian folk songs at the top of his lungs, and Enzo and Vico were playing nice as well.

  Sonny sang along with his dad and took advantage of his mother’s geniality by dancing around with her in the kitchen.

  “Go on, now. Go on. Get your things—as soon as your father is ready, we’ll be leaving.” Sonny’s mother smiled at his playfulness but waved him from the kitchen. Sonny stopped by his favorite place in the kitchen before he left, his mother’s china cabinet. It was the only part of their tenement that reminded Sonny of the wealth and prosperity of their time in Sicily that his brothers so often talked about. Vico told Sonny that the china set was the only nice thing that his mother had had time to grab when they were preparing to leave for America. Sonny didn’t remember it well, and had been fairly confused about what was going on at that time, but he was glad his mother had remembered them. There were only three pieces left, and his mother often lamented that she had once had many more. One was chipped and cracked from the long sea voyage, but the family was still proud of them. The only thing his father had brought that wasn’t of functional purpose was his rosary. Sonny loved to play with it when his father fell asleep shirtless on their couch after returning from some day job or another.

  That was about to change, though.

  Alonzo had just purchased a building down the road, and he was opening a barbershop. One just like Sonny’s grandfather had once been the proprietor of back in Castellammare del Golfo. Sonny had never seen his father so youthful. Alonzo seemed to bounce on his toes, and a jolly tune was always flowing from his lips.

  His brothers questioned where this good fortune had suddenly come from. His mother didn’t seem to be interested in its roots, but simply in the fruit it might bear. But Sonny knew. He was just a boy, and none of the others thought he was smart. But he had seen it. Their recent fortune had something to do with the strange man who had shown up at their door. It had something to do with that envelope the man had slid into Alonzo’s hands. He just knew it. He also knew better than to ask questions or to mention it. He simply hoped he never had to see the Hook Hand again.

  The Consentinos traveled the six blocks by foot, but when they arrived, Sonny found his excitement none depleted.

  “Here she is.” Alonzo turned and took a deep bow before the windows of his new prize, “A.C. Barbers” freshly painted in yellow letters at the top. A white pole that looked awfully like a candy cane twirled just before the window with a bright light above it.

  “Come on!” Enzo hurried through the doorway as Vico followed in close pursuit. Sonny entered last, slowly and curiously, holding tight to his mother’s hand. He stopped and admired the room, mouth agape. Mirrors lined the walls, and barber chairs were stationed before them, a white towel draped over the back of each.

  “What do you think?” Alonzo asked Rosa, along with a wet kiss on the cheek.

  “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you, Lonz.” She was joking, but Sonny could see from the pursed grin on her face that she was almost as delighted as her husband.

  “I can’t get this damned thing to work.” The low, rumbly voice came from a man in the back of the shop perched over a phonograph. The man spoke in English, but Sonny knew he had said a bad word. He craned his head and, noticing the children, apologized for his language.

  “Rosa, boys, this is Oscar. He is going to work with us.” Alonzo began to speak in English, a new talent he seemed anxious to show off. The man shook their hands one by one, and finally knelt by Sonny.

  “And you must be the oldest?” Enzo and Vico were appalled by the comment, but Sonny simply analyzed the man and didn’t reply. He had a funny look about him, with pale-white skin and bald spots atop his head. Bifocals twice the size of his eyes hung on the tip of his nose.

  “He doesn’t talk much,” Rosa said, shaking her head.

  “He’s just a little shy. Say hello, Sonny.” Alonzo patted his back and squeezed his shoulder.

  “I’m not the oldest.”

  “Yeah, I am,” Enzo shouted with great pride.

  “No, you aren’t. Vico is just as old as you.” Sonny scrunched his nose at Enzo. It was their age-old argument. Enzo was born a few minutes before Vico, and had clung to that narrative to justify his rightful place as the eldest brother. Vico never protested.

  “Well, you might not be the oldest, but do you want to be the first to get a snip?” Oscar snipped his scissors, and his eyebrows danced emphatically.

  “No, me!” Enzo tugged at his sleeve.

  “I want Papà to cut my hair,” Sonny said.

  “Alright, Sonny Boy,” said Alonzo, now speaking in Sicilian, as he picked his youngest up underneath an arm with ease and swung him into a nearby chair. “Look here.” He fished through his multiple layers of winter clothing to find a sharp razor with an ivory handle. “This was your grandfather’s. See his initials there?” Sonny reached out and ran his fingers over it. “Be careful, it’s still sharp. This little blade will run this entire building.” He waved his arms as if overlooking a kingdom. “And, one day, maybe it’ll be yours, if you want to cut hair like your papa.” He winked and ruffled Sonny’s unkempt hair. “We’ve got to fix that.” He swung the chair around and started to work. Sonny watched him in the mirror, amazed. He didn’t know if he wanted to cut hair, but he wanted to be just like his papa.

  HEARINGS BEFORE THE

  PERMANENT SUBCOMMITTEE ON INVESTIGATIONS

  OF THE

  COMMITTEE ON GOVERNMENT OPERATIONS

  UNITED STATES SENATE

  EIGHTY-EIGHTH CONGRESS

  SECOND SESSION

  PURSUANT TO SENATE RESOLUTION 17

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1963

  Senator McClellan: I have a question for Mr. Valachi.

  Chairman: Go ahead.

  Senator McClellan: Did Sonny Consentino ever talk much about his childhood?

  Mr. Valachi: No, not really. Why does that matter? He turned out the way he turned out.

  Chairman: Answer the question, Mr. Valachi.

  Mr. Valachi: He never ta
lked about it much. His brother Enzo did some, but most of what I knew came from hearsay, what I heard from others.

  Senator McClellan: Go on.

  Mr. Valachi: His father was a connected guy in Sicily. Apparently, he was pretty important and had a lot of connections. They moved here when things were getting a little rough across the pond, and I think he tried to get away from that life. I heard once that they moved to Little Italy because there weren’t many Sicilians there.

  Senator McClellan: Sonny’s father, Alonzo, wanted to break from his criminal organization ties?

  Mr. Valachi: Yeah, or at least he wanted it to seem that way. I don’t know. All of it caught up to him pretty quickly.

  Senator McClellan: In what way?

  Mr. Valachi: They were poor, and then suddenly they weren’t. I wasn’t around for any of this, you see. But I heard from others that he might have still been connected. It would be hard to go from being a wealthy man in your homeland to being a poor man in a foreign place. I assumed he did what he had to.

  Senator McClellan: Do you believe Sonny became connected to your organization through his father?

  Mr. Valachi: I don’t know. He was already involved when I met him. So were his brothers.

  Senator McClellan: Did they have a good relationship with Alonzo? Did they speak of him often?

  Mr. Valachi: Like I said, Sonny didn’t talk about personal stuff very often. When he did, though, yeah, his father came up a lot. They called him “Sonny” because of his likeness to his father. In Italy, that nickname usually goes to the firstborn. But Enzo wasn’t much like their old man. I always got the impression they didn’t have much of a relationship. Sonny was different, though.

  Senator McClellan: That is all.

  Chairman: Thank you, Senator.

  Alonzo

  Castellammare del Golfo—March 4, 1905

  The screams were horrifying. Perhaps even worse than when Rosa had given birth to their first two boys.

  Alonzo waited anxiously in the foyer of their home, biting intensely on his knuckle. He bowed his head and tapped his feet like he was running for the hills.

  “Brother! I came as soon as I heard.” Alonzo’s brother, Giuseppe, hurried to his side and kissed his cheeks.

  “They say there are complications, Giuseppe. She’s been in there all day.”

  Giuseppe looked down and contemplated what to say. Alonzo’s youngest, and only surviving, brother had always been an eternal optimist, but there wasn’t much he could say. He fingered the petals of the roses he had brought for Rosa, and sat down on the dusty old bench beside Alonzo.

  “Then let us pray for the baby. That it will be strong,” Giuseppe said.

  “What about Rosa? What if something happens to her?” A tremor enveloped Alonzo’s body, and a sort of moan escaped from deep in his chest.

  “It will not be so. She is tough, your wife.”

  Rosa’s cries picked up in the other room, and so did the voice of the midwife.

  “Brother”—Alonzo turned to him and finally found the courage to take Giuseppe’s hands between his own—“what if we are being punished because of the bad things I’ve done? What if God punishes me and makes this child crippled, or lame?” Tears fell from his eyes. He couldn’t ever remember crying in front of his little brother.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace…the Lord is with thee…” Giuseppe began, cradling his older brother in his arms like their mother had before she passed. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.”

  Giuseppe’s words left a hollow pit in Alonzo’s gut. Giuseppe seemed to consider this and fumbled through the words. He had always been a devoted Catholic, quick to point out God’s sovereignty, but he had a shortage of prayers in his arsenal for moments like this.

  Rosa’s screams died down to low groaning. Then the cries of a baby took its place.

  Alonzo jumped to his feet, and hesitated before the doorway into the bedroom.

  “Rosa!” he shouted as Giuseppe came behind him and grabbed his shoulder. He received no reply.

  After what felt like hours, the door crept open, and the midwife slid out and closed the door behind her.

  “The baby has been born, Don Consentino.” She bowed her head. A gentle smile lined her face, but it was etched with worry and perhaps sadness.

  “Is it alive? Is it healthy? Is Rosa safe?”

  The midwife bounced her hands vertically, indicating that he should quiet down. “The baby is alive. A baby boy, in fact.”

  Giuseppe let out a gasp of relief, but Alonzo was still panicked.

  “You have not said that the baby is healthy. How is Rosa? Rosa!” The midwife sidestepped to keep him from the door.

  “You don’t want to go in there, Don Consentino. Very bloody, all around. Your boy will most likely live, but when he was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, and he struggled to breathe. I’ll need to keep an eye on him.”

  “‘Most likely…’” The words were wrenched from Alonzo’s chest like a dagger. He thought again about the things he had done and felt guilt sweep over him like a coastal current.

  “What about my sister-in-law?” Giuseppe asked.

  “She must rest now. She is very weak and has lost a lot of blood. This birth wasn’t as easy as the last. The baby had shifted in her womb. I’ll get back to her. I’ll let you know if we need anything.” She bowed and stepped back into the room, letting the door swing shut in front of Alonzo’s face.

  “Let us keep praying, brother,” Giuseppe offered, but Alonzo shrugged the hand from his shoulder and strode away from him as if he were a ghost.

  Creaking began from the steps near the entryway. Both Consentinos halted and watched as Piddu slowly made his way down the stairs. He was still living in their home, a constant reminder to Alonzo of what had happened to him, and what Alonzo was forced to do because of it.

  “Is it over?” Piddu asked genuinely, a tinge of hope in his voice. Alonzo met his gaze until Piddu’s smile completely faded. Then he turned and walked away.

  Rosa

  Castellammare del Golfo—March 8, 1905

  Rosa shielded her eyes from the sun as they exited onto the steeple steps. Family and friends lined the way, clapping and cheering as if it were a wedding. Instead, she held up her precious baby boy, who she had named Vincente after her father. No one had yet called him that, though. She had taken a few days before selecting a name. She had pretended that her two favorite male names had already gone to her first two sons and she couldn’t think of anything else. Alonzo had gone along with it, saying that he refused to name him. It should be for Rosa to decide.

  Her true intention was to put off naming the boy as long as she could. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t stand the thought of naming the boy if he were to pass away in his infancy, as it looked like he might. She kept this quiet because, in her heart, she knew she would suffer whether the boy was named or not. Just as she had suffered through the two miscarriages and the stillborn before.

  Regardless, in the interim of the child’s birth and the receiving of his name, he had been dubbed “Sonny Boy.” It made sense. While Rosa was too tired and too weak to get to her feet care for the baby, Alonzo was already curled up beside the crib. He fell asleep with one hand on the baby’s belly for the first three nights. Alonzo had always been a devoted father. Rosa had never seen a man, so fearless and brave, be as nurturing and loving to his children. She loved him more than she could say, and certainly more than she actually would say. Perhaps it was just better left unsaid.

  Despite the boy’s resurgence and growing health, Rosa made it clear that she wanted to have the baby christened as soon as possible. Through tear-filled eyes, she implored her husband, “If something happens, I want to know that I will be with my baby in heaven.” She meant if something happened to either her or the baby. Just after the delivery, either seemed plausible. Alonzo had argued that nothing would happen; he wouldn’t let it. Eventually, he capitulated, a
nd began to make arrangements.

  Now, just four days after the troubled birth, she ushered the baby through the halls of their ancestral church, where her family was buried. And yet, it was not a somber moment. It was a celebration. As she stepped carefully down the stairs, gripping the steady hand of her husband for balance, the christening felt more like a festival than a Catholic Sacrament.

  “He looks just like his big brother!” her aunt Margarete said, dabbing a tear from her eye with a white handkerchief.

  “He’s built like a bull,” Uncle Umberto said, proudly slapping his nephew on the shoulder.

  “Perhaps he’ll grow up like his great-uncle, then!” Alonzo’s contagious laugh rang out as he leaned to kiss the man.

  Giuseppe stood at the end of the throng, another bouquet of flowers in hand.

  “Or perhaps he’ll turn out like his favorite uncle, if I have anything to do with it.” Giuseppe’s bright smile matched his brother’s.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.” Alonzo leaned in and embraced his brother.

  Their celebration was halted as tires screeched in the distance. A black automobile pulled up in front of the chapel, and a man jumped out, a machine gun resting on his hip.

  Bullets began to fly. Rosa, with her mother’s instinct, turned and protected the baby. Alonzo pounced on top of them, shielding them both with his body. Rosa’s shrill cry rang out over the bullets. The throng of gatherers cowered to the ground, and some scurried off. Only a few met the assailants.

  Without delay the armed man pounced back into the vehicle, and it sped away.