Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  “We were avenging a slight. Blood demands blood. Those three men attacked and killed associates of mine. Not only did they kill the man but they killed his wife too. And they mutilated their son.”

  Lupe spun into a fit of rage and slammed his fist down on the table. “Some sheep humping peasant family from Corleone or Palermo or wherever they came from! They come into this city, my city, and insult my relatives. They received what they deserved.”

  “I should have been consulted. They were associates of mine, and I would have handled it.”

  “Handled it like you’re handling this now? With a conversation and a handshake? The coward’s way wouldn’t do,” Lupe said, returning his focus to the tip of his cigar. Giuseppe stood with a stir, as did Lupe’s sons.

  “Was the coward’s way what I did in response? By killing the men who had wronged me and my family?” Alonzo asked. Lupe ignored him.

  “What do you really want?” Lupe asked sardonically. He made it clear that he was done talking.

  “The head of the man who killed my uncle. The man who attacked my family on the christening of my son.”

  Lupe laughed, and the men behind him shuffled uncomfortably. “That man was my son,” Lupe said. Alonzo noticed that, out of Lupe’s four sons, the perpetrator was the only one not present.

  “I know. And Umberto was like a father to me, a grandfather to my boys. He would have killed more of us too, if he had better aim, and hadn't run off.”

  “What makes you think I would give up my son?”

  “Justice. The men we killed were only those directly involved in the murders of my associates. We could have killed the proprietor of the restaurant; we could have retaliated on any number of your allies. But we didn’t. We spilt the blood that needed to be spilt and left it there. But Umberto had nothing to do with all of this. He was an old man, sick and frail. You gained nothing from his death.”

  Lupe took a long drag on his cigar and pulled it away from his face. He leaned in and smirked. “Better for the old and weak to die than the young and strong.” He winked.

  “We want him dead, Lupe.” Alonzo was unwavering on the outside. On the inside, he was about to fall apart. To his surprise, Lupe actually took a moment to think.

  “You know I will never hand over my son to his death. So, why, I ask myself, would you come to me with this request?”

  “If you can consider a suitable alternative, I’m open to hearing it. But as long as he is in Castellammare del Golfo, he will be marked for death. If I see him, I will kill him. And if I do, this war will continue, and neither of us can benefit from that.”

  “Perhaps we can send him off. He’s nearly thirty now. Perhaps he could go to work in Milan, Naples, Syracuse… Is exile good enough for my son?”

  “Yes.”

  “One thing I require”—Lupe held up a finger—“I want Piddu.”

  “Why?” Giuseppe asked, shocked and appalled. “He’s just a boy.”

  “Let us be realistic, gentlemen. He has caused all of this. You, my son, your uncle…pawns in a game. It was Piddu and his family who started this, and my cousins who ended it. Now they are dead. Only one remains alive.” Lupe puffed on his cigar and allowed the silence to linger. “He should be killed for the pain and hardship he has caused both of our families.”

  “That’s ridiculous! How could you possibly pin all of this on a boy? He did nothing but come to me for aid.” Alonzo couldn’t imagine that a grown man could genuinely believe something so preposterous. He must be angling for control. That’s what Piddu’s life was worth to him. Control, and nothing more.

  “Only the boy needs to die.”

  “No,” Alonzo said definitively. Turridru shot him a look of confusion, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to hear what Ignazio had to say either.

  “No? You tell me no after I promise to send my own son away to appease your gentle nature?” The veins in Lupe’s neck and forehead began to bulge. He was starting to look like the pigheaded caricature he was sometimes known to be.

  “The answer is no. The boy is under my protection, and I will not hand him over.”

  “As you’ve asked me to deliver up my own son?” Again, Lupe’s fists smashed against the table.

  “Perhaps we can send Piddu away as well.”

  “Not good enough. The boy needs to die. They should have never left him alive. There is nowhere in Sicily that I will not find him.” He slammed his cigar down on the table, extinguishing the flame. “Even in your own home.”

  “Then we have nothing left to discuss.”

  Lupe stood and placed his hat back on his head.

  “My son will remain here as long as Piddu is alive. If you want this war to end, that is what I require. As far as you and your dwindling little borgata, you are not worthy of my time. I have no more quarrel with you. Blood was shed, but it can end as soon as you would like. The boy is the only one who needs to die.” Lupe and his sons left, the light from the door evaporating behind them.

  Alonzo

  Little Italy, Manhattan—July 2, 1911

  Alonzo slid the deck of cards across the table to Sonny, and asked him to cut the deck. He had tried to pin down Enzo and Vico to play cards with them that summer evening, but, at eleven, they would rather spend time with other neighborhood kids than with their father and little brother.

  “Oh, buddy, you better be scared. This is a good hand.” Alonzo shook his head, his best attempt at dissuasion. Sonny stifled a grin and placed a few chips forward. He called his father’s bluff, like he always did. Even at five years old, Sonny knew that, when his father actually had a good hand, he wouldn’t say anything.

  And he didn’t. Alonzo pretended to be deliberating for some time, shuffling a few chips before throwing his cards on the table. “I fold.”

  Even in a game of cards with his son, Alonzo couldn’t find much luck.

  He thought that having his own place would fix his problems, turn everything around. That wasn’t the case.

  Along with a new business came many new expenses. He was earning an income, and his business was growing daily. But he could still see the look on his wife’s face when he would count up his earnings and tell her that it was best if they didn’t eat out that night. He still had to tell his boys that they couldn’t afford new summer clothes, even though they were bursting at the seams in last year’s attire.

  “I think I’m getting better than you, Dad.” Sonny giggled and swept the few chips into the center of the table to his holdings, as if it were all of King Midas’s gold.

  “Better than me? I’m just taking it easy on you.”

  Sonny looked away from their porch, down Mulberry Street toward the setting sun.

  “What do you think it’s like at home right now?”

  “Home? We are home,” Alonzo said, but he realized what Sonny meant before he finished speaking.

  “In Sicily, Dad. Sometimes I don’t remember it.” Sonny struggled to shuffle the cards as his father had taught him.

  Alonzo replied, “I bet it’s hot. Hotter than it is here. You’d have to take a long dip in the water just to keep from melting.”

  Sonny grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “I like the heat. Vico says that there were bugs that would glow at night.”

  “Yes, lightning bugs. We have them here too, it’s just hard to find them in the city.”

  “I haven’t seen any.” Alonzo looked up and nodded as some other tenement residents came and sat on the porch across from them. They ignored him, as most of the Italians did, and continued debating emphatically about something or another.

  “Well, there’s something we don’t have in Sicily.” Alonzo pointed to the young man walking up the rickety old steps to greet them.

  “Antonello!” Sonny jumped to his feet, always excited to see his pal. His friend obviously didn’t share his excitement. He stepped by Sonny, straight to Alonzo. He lowered his head and hid his eyes behind a ragged newsboy cap.

  “Mr. Consentino, ca
n I stay here for a few days?” He stifled a few sniffles.

  “What’s wrong, Antonello?” Alonzo asked, dusting off another chair beside him and patting for the boy to sit. Antonello pulled at his loose knickerbockers and kept his feet planted. “Antonello?” The boy began to cry more, and Alonzo stood.

  Sonny ran inside, Alonzo figured to grab his mother. Alonzo noticed that Antonello was nursing one of his arms.

  “Come here,” he said firmly, but when he realized Sonny’s friend wasn’t going to move, he went to him instead. He unbuttoned the sleeve of Antonello’s white shirt, the only one he ever seemed to wear, and rolled it up to reveal a large bruise. The wound followed the shape of a large hand. Alonzo tried to calm himself, but when Antonello finally looked up, he saw that the boy’s lips were split and the skin around his left eye was puffy and purple.

  “He was hitting my mamma, Mr. Consentino,” the young man sobbed. “I tried to hit him with a candlestick.” He finally made it to the seat Alonzo had offered him, plopping down in defeat.

  “You can stay here, Antonello.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “What was that?” Rosa said from the doorway, Sonny holding her hand. Alonzo now lamented that he’d let Sonny go in to fetch Rosa. She was no fan of Antonello, who, at thirteen, was older than the twins yet liked to spend time with her five-year-old.

  “I told this young man that he could stay with us for a while.” Alonzo looked up at his wife, speaking firmly yet tenderly.

  “Oh? Where will he stay? In the two beds our three boys share? Or should we sleep on the floor and let him take our bed? Perhaps he can share Maria’s crib.” She stepped forward, her voice containing the fire only a Sicilian can muster. Her anger was stunted when she saw the bruises, but only slightly.

  “My pa kicked me out, Mrs. Consentino,” Antonello said. “I don’t know where else to go.” He couldn’t muster the courage to look at her.

  Rosa wiped her hands on a pink dish towel hanging from her belt. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. Make sure the twins are back. I want all you boys to wash your hands and face when you come in.” She shot Alonzo a look that said she would relent this once but didn’t appreciate him making these kinds of decisions without consulting her. Alonzo knew she wasn’t really as hard as she pretended to be. He was an idealist and a fool, so he needed a pragmatist like Rosa, but he knew how soft and good her heart was. He knew she’d put up a fight, but she was never going to turn away a child in need.

  “Come on, Antonello. We were playing some cards. We can deal you in.” Alonzo tried to speak in English to the best of his ability, since it was Antonello’s native language. He wanted to make him feel welcome.

  “Mr. Consentino?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s my birthday.”

  “Well.” Alonzo looked at Sonny and winked. He felt at the change in his trouser pockets before continuing. “What are we doing?” He stood and headed for the stairs.

  “Huh?” Antonello turned to him, showing the first bit of life since he had arrived.

  “Come on, then. Ferrara is just down the road. We need to get some cannoli.” Both of the boys leapt to their feet and chased after him. “Just don’t tell your mother I let you have sweets before dinner.”

  “Yes, sir,” they responded happily. As Alonzo led them down the sidewalk to their favorite pastry shop, he hoped they would come across that Antonello’s deadbeat father. After Alonzo was done with him he wouldn’t be hitting women and children anymore.

  Sonny

  Little Italy, Manhattan—July 27, 1911

  Sonny followed his brothers up the stairs of their tenement fire escape. The twins bounded up a few stairs at a time with ease, but Sonny had to take one step at a time.

  “Wait on me!” Sonny shouted, trying to pick up his pace. But he was weighted down by a few pillows under each arm and a deck of cards in his hand, and he was extremely cautious not to drop them.

  They made it out onto the roof.

  “Jesus, it’s hot out here too!” Enzo shouted, sweat already darkening the back and underarms of his white shirt.

  “Don’t let Mamma here you say that, Enzo,” Vico warned.

  Sonny laughed at his brother and ignored the fact that he had taken the Lord’s name in vain. Enzo was always hot, but on a night like this, no one could blame him. The heat was oppressive. It was thick, almost with a physical presence. Sonny thought the heat even seemed to have a smell, but perhaps it was just the rotting fruit and vegetables on the street carts below them.

  It wasn’t the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last, that their tenement was simply too hot to sleep in. On nights like this, Enzo would grumble and complain as Rosa instructed them to grab a few things and head to the roof.

  Sonny enjoyed it, though. It was almost an adventure. And they all got to be together.

  They nodded to the other tenants gathered there and found a spot by the edge of the roof to place their things.

  “Who do you think that fella was?” Enzo asked, still reeling from seeing an important-looking gentleman in Alonzo’s barbershop earlier that day. It was all he and Vico had been able to talk about since they’d gotten home.

  “He sure did know how to dress,” Vico said instead of replying.

  “Did you see the money in his billfold? When he paid Papà he had a roll of dollar bills in there. He could have bought a lifetime of haircuts if he wanted to.”

  Sonny rolled his eyes and unrolled his sleeping bag, the one he’d be sleeping on top of tonight, rather than inside. He wasn’t so impressed by the man. Sure, his chesterfield overcoat and hay-skimmer hat looked like they were fresh off a mannequin, and his watch had little diamonds set along the face, but he was rude. He’d skipped ahead of the other customers and hadn’t waited his turn. Alonzo had cut his hair and remained courteous, but Sonny knew that, given the chance, his father would have used the moment to teach his sons about respect and treating others like you want to be treated, like the Bible said.

  “That guy runs Little Italy. Did you see how everyone stood when he walked in?” Enzo said.

  “You ever think Papà might be a big shot and just doesn’t let us know?” Vico chimed in.

  “I bet a nickel he is. He knows everybody in town.”

  “Papà said to stop talking about that man, Enzo,” Sonny said, placing a few pillows down beside his for his mother and father.

  “He isn’t up here, is he? Mind your own potatoes.”

  Sonny didn’t really understand what that meant, but he didn’t say anything else. The twins were always bringing home funny sayings like this from school, to their mother’s irritation.

  “Any room for us?” Rosa asked from the door, balancing baby Maria on her hip, as Alonzo held it open for her.

  “Yes, beside me!” Sonny scooted over and dusted off the spots he had designated for them.

  Enzo and Vico rolled their eyes, but Sonny didn’t mind, since both his mother and father approached and sat down beside him. “Can I hold Maria?” he asked.

  Rosa had already been passing her along. Sonny prided himself on being a good little helper to his mother and father, who sometimes became too tired to take care of little Maria. Enzo and Vico said they had already helped with him, and they didn’t want to again, but Sonny doubted how often they had been of any use.

  He scooped up the baby girl and placed her in his lap, Rosa exhaling with relief beside him. She stretched, probably for the first time in hours, and laid her head on her knees.

  “I’m tired, Sonny Boy,” she said, and then pretended to snore.

  “You’re not asleep! Is she, Maria?” Sonny grinned.

  His mother had recently taken a job working as a seamstress at a little old shop down the road. Sonny didn’t know what she did, or why she had to work for so long, but she always came back exhausted and complaining about how bright everything was outdoors.

  “No, I’m not sleeping yet, but I wish I were.” Rosa continued
to speak in Sicilian, as she always did.

  “Not yet, Mamma! We have to count the stars,” Sonny replied, dabbing at a glob of drool on Maria’s chin.

  It was tradition by this point. The first few times the tenement had become too sweltering to bear, everyone had been so irritable, they barely talked. Sonny’s father, like always, wasn’t going to allow his clan to pout. So he came up with a little game to cheer them up.

  He said it was a game he played with his family back in Sicily, but Sonny decided his father was making it up on the spot, and he doubted that they had ever had to sleep on the roof back in Sicily. He didn’t know much about their home back in Sicily, but he pictured it with luscious gardens, overflowing fountains, and spiral staircases.

  “He’s right, Rosa. We have to.” Alonzo chuckled and gave his bride a wet kiss on the cheek. “You can start us off, Sonny. Where’s the Big Dipper?”

  Sonny flipped Maria around in his lap, and pretended to confer with her about the location.

  “Right there!” Sonny used Maria’s little hand to point it out.

  “You got it. Boys, you going to join in?” Alonzo called out to the twins, who ignored him and continued to chat among themselves far enough way to avoid being overheard. “Little Dipper?”

  “I think that’s it right there,” Sonny said.

  “That’s right,” Alonzo replied, but Sonny doubted the authenticity of his answer.

  “Is it actually?”

  Alonzo tilted his head and squinted his eyes until Rosa burst into laughter.

  “He never really knows!” She slapped his knee.

  “I think you’re better than I am already, Sonny Boy,” Alonzo said.

  “You foolish man,” Rosa said playfully.

  “A fool for you.” He leaned over to kiss her again, and this time, he waited until she offered her lips.

  Sonny tried to think of something clever to say, or another constellation to test his father on, but when he turned again, both his parents were fast asleep in each other’s arms.