Linda Cardillo - Dancing On Sunday Afternoons

by Linda Cardillo

  It had snowed on Thursday and it was frigid, but stil people waited, smal bursts of conversation or the brittle tinkling of gold charms dangling from gloved fingers piercing the February air. The police had built a fire in an ash can on the corner of Fifth and Prospect to warm themselves, scowling over the flames at the bad luck of drawing such a duty.

  Antonietta’s brothers were also outside—having a smoke, watching the line of well-wishers, watching the police. My Roberto was there—the one they cal ed the Scarecrow, the one with whom I’d been keeping company.

  What happened next was unclear, ful of the scum of rumor, self-deception, self-aggrandizement.The newspapers, based on police reports, gave one account. Eyewitnesses—the aunts and cousins, the countrymen on both sides who were standing in the line—gave other versions, each containing some elements that coincided, some of their own embroidery. Antonietta’s family remained silent.

  There was one element that recurred in al accounts—that the origin of the afternoon’s events was a conversation in the line questioning the paternity of the child. It was Antonietta’s brothers who overheard the provocative comments. And it was Roberto, as oldest, who led them to avenge the besmirched honor of their sister.

  Fists let loose. Women screamed. Crucifixes and medals of Saint Anthony were hurled into the snow. The throng surged as if caught in a maelstrom. The police, roused from their resentful apathy, descended with truncheons at the ready. Words, shouts, the quickening ripple of danger, like an animal beating its hoof on the ground to warn its herd, reached those inside. People rushed out into the snow, to defend, to witness.

  Antonietta, faltering and confused, clutched the baby, paralyzed by what had happened to her celebration until her mother grabbed them both—as well as the white satin bag fil ed with the gifts of wel -wishers—and led them to a smal room that led onto the al ey. I myself stood in the doorway as people rushed in one direction or another.

  The Scarecrow was at the center of the confrontation, his towering height an easy target for the cops, who were making their way toward him. And then it happened. A uniformed arm reached around from behind, encircling Roberto’s neck. The cop’s other hand then covered Roberto’s face, trying to pul him back.

  Suddenly, the hand flew away, blood pumping, spewing al those surrounding Roberto. The arm around Roberto’s neck released its hold as the cop sought to stem his own blood. Roberto ducked and disappeared.

  But not before he turned his head—his mouth a twisted, carmine slash—and spit out a finger.

  The smel of blood sent another tremor through the crowd. As abruptly as they had converged upon the fight—

  the men compel ed to defend the honor of one family or another, the young boys driven simply to partake in the frenzy, the old women bound by ancient oaths to fling their curses—they now scattered, flying from the fringes in al directions.

  An ambulance and police wagons began to arrive, bel s furiously sending out yet another warning to those stil engaged in the melee, police reinforcements pouring out of the wagons onto the street to subdue the violence of the mob with a violence of their own.

  In contrast to the fury and confusion outside, a hol ow and desolate silence had seeped into the hal . Without an audience, the musicians had long since ceased their rondos and bal ads.

  The floor, only minutes before fil ed with knots of chatting neighbors and romping children, was now strewn with remnants of food half-eaten, coats forgotten in the madness to join the brawl, a shoe lost in the press of the curious. The last of the mothers had shepherded her children out the same door through which Antonietta had been led to safety. My own family had al left before the fight, but I’d stayed behind to enjoy the waning moments of the party, to listen to the music, hoping to dance one last time with Roberto.

  Earlier in the day, I’d darted about from one group to the next, a playful sprite. First dancing with the children, then whispering playfully into the ear of Roberto. I had felt as if a scherzo played in my head.

  But the liveliness and joy that had animated me were drained from my body. I was alone; I was not safe. I backed away from the front door, feeling stricken. I thought the hal was empty. Then I heard the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs two at a time and a voice cal ing my name. My head jerked toward the voice, my eyes charged with terror. It was Paolo. I felt a fleeting relief wash over me, but then my attention was immediately drawn back to the door by renewed wailing and screams. In a few seconds, the cops would be inside.

  Paolo reached me and reached out for me, taking my trembling body into his arms and guiding me toward the al ey door. I knew only that I had to get out of there, away from the fighting, away from the cops. I was terrified of what would happen if someone told them I was Roberto’s girl.

  The al ey was stil clear, and Paolo hurried us over the hard-packed snow, throwing his coat over my shoulders because we hadn’t had time to search for mine. It wasn’t far to Claudio’s house—just a couple of blocks over on Sixth. But the way was rutted and slippery, slowing our silent progress.

  Halfway there, I stopped, twisting my body away from his side. I grabbed the rough bark of a tree for support, bent into the road and began to retch.

  Paolo held me from behind, brushing away the stray curls that had fal en into my face. At first, I resisted his help, pushing his hand away; but then, overwhelmed by my heaving, I submitted.

  I even al owed him to wipe my mouth when, spent and exhausted, I lifted my head and leaned against the tree, eyes closed against the demons I’d seen that afternoon.

  We had barely spoken since he’d cal ed out my name. What words could I utter? How could I describe to him what I’d seen? But he did not ask me for words. He put his arm around me again, taking more of my weight than before. Paolo knew I was stil unsafe out there on the street.We could stil hear the strident cal of the wagons and the shouts of those chasing and being chased.

  I had been depleted by the vomiting, in my wil to reach safety as well as my physical strength to do so. But Paolo made us keep moving.

  Up ahead, a man approached us. It was Claudio. Word had reached him of the fight and he’d come to find me.

  “You should’ve gone home with the rest of us,” he barked. He raised his hand to strike me. Instead of flinching, my response was merely a sul en and wan silence. “Get in the house!” He gestured dismissively with the raised hand. I trudged up the stairs and slammed the door behind me, but not before I saw a look of disbelief and disapproval on Paolo’s face. He seemed to be assessing my brother in a different way that afternoon, judging him not as a business partner, but as a man who might mistreat a woman.

  Claudio and Paolo remained outside in the snow. Paolo described the chaos and offered to return to the hal to retrieve my things, but Claudio decided to go back with him.

  When they arrived, the last police wagon was pul ing away. One of Antonietta’s aunts emerged from the al ey and began gathering the medals and charms that lay scattered in the snow. She would have to purify them and bless them again. Any of the magic they’d once possessed was now lost—especial y if they’d been trampled or splashed by the blood whose traces lay everywhere.

  On Monday afternoon when Paolo opened the Palace, the place vibrated with the drone of hushed, excited voices. The newspapers had reported that morning that the finger had not been found; neither had Roberto.

  He had vanished, protected by the silence of his family. There was talk of nothing except the christening and the ferocity of Roberto. If the rumors hovering above the whiskey glasses and distracted card games were true, Roberto was on his way to Italy.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Iron

  Another loss wrenched from me, this time in the other direction.

  Back to Italy, they al said. Disappeared, hidden, flown. The blood wiped from his mouth, the memories of eyewitnesses wiped clean. Did I want that mouth on my mouth again? Did I want to taste that blood over and over again in my dreams?

  I felt s
o alone. The feelings I thought I had for Roberto seemed no more than a foolish girl’s daydreams. The thril of being held by him in a dance was now overshadowed by the realization that there’d been nothing of substance—only heat—between us.

  The days since he’d been gone were my undoing. The warmth with which our connection had surrounded me was unraveling like a poorly knit sweater. I dragged myself to the store every day and pretended to some industry, but I was weighted down by my worries, by the fatigue that overtook me until I could not lift my body one more time in any kind of movement. I col apsed onto the bench in the waning afternoon sunlight and leaned my head against the wal .

  Claudio came almost every day to inspect, to check up, to spy. He had not forgiven me for the taint I carried by my connection to Roberto. The cops even came to question him, big Claudio, with al his friends in the right places. People had been whispering to Claudio, people who thought they knew things, who thought they could gain Claudio’s favor with their revelations. After that visit from the cops, he raged into the store. Til y was in the back sorting spools of thread; I was up front, doing the tal ies from the previous day, waiting for customers.

  He drew his hand across the countertop, leaving a track in the dust, and began to rant about how filthy I was, how lazy. I suspected this had nothing to do with my housekeeping, but I didn’t keep my thoughts to myself. I yelled back. Big Claudio! Trying to keep his sister in line! That’s it, isn’t it? The neighborhood’s saying, Look who he lets her get mixed up with.

  So Claudio didn’t want to hear any more. He wanted me to shut up. He grabbed the first thing his hand touched, which was one of the irons we sold. Not the buttons or the packets of needles in five different sizes or the bolts of rickrack or satin ribbons. An iron. We kept about five of them out on the shelf. He did it so quickly, I didn’t have time to duck, didn’t have time to protect myself. The iron met the side of my head.

  He didn’t even turn to see the damage he’d done, the blood, my blood, not some cop’s blood, seeping through the fingers I had clutched to my scalp. He raged out the same way he’d raged in, my life a personal affront to his dignity. Til y, who’d been cowering, hiding in the back room, crept out to help me.

  But I didn’t want help. I ran out onto the sidewalk, screaming at my brother, screaming at the mess my life had become.

  Claudio strode away from me, putting the winter city landscape—of slushy paths and buttoned-up people, hurrying with their heads down—between us. When I reached the corner, shivering and hoarse, he was already two blocks ahead of me. Whatever had fueled me was used up and I felt the cold, the throbbing in my head, the sticky matting of my hair.

  Broken, I turned back—again—to the sudden, solid presence of Paolo.

  CHAPTER 17

  Tears and Blood

  Paolo took me to his sister Flora’s house. She drew a basin of warm water and sponged away the blood from my face and hair.

  “Ai, you poor child,” she consoled me as she ministered to me. I could not see the wound, but I’d felt it with my fingers, felt the flesh ripped jaggedly apart exposing something soft and wet. My head throbbed, my throat ached. I wanted to He down and pul the covers over my face.

  Flora did not have the skil of Giuseppina, but she had a gentle touch and a kindness I hadn’t experienced since setting foot in America. She turned to Paolo.

  “What Claudio has done to this child is a sin! You find him and tel him that! And tel him you’re not bringing her back to his house.”

  I wasn’t afraid to go back to Claudio’s. But to defy Claudio, to fling his anger back in his face by not returning home, was an idea that seized me.

  Paolo was silent. Did he agree with Flora? Would he shield me from Claudio, even though he was Claudio s best friend?

  I looked at his face, so familiar to me. The neighborhood saw my brother Claudio with respect—for his success, his powerful friends. But for Paolo they had a kind of deference— for his intel igence and his learning. It was Claudio they came to when they needed a favor, but it was Paolo they turned to when they couldn’t understand something—a paper from the government, a letter from home they couldn’t read or respond to. It set him apart, put him a little on the outside of the everyday life we were al caught up in. It made him lonely, in spite of his connection with Claudio.

  I had for so long purposely ignored Paolo’s presence in my day-to-day life or, at least, treated him lightly. A friendly voice, a smile, a hand with my packages, a handkerchief for my tears, an arm to support me over the rutted ice. I had only seen these smal parts of him, offered with such restraint and graciousness, because I had not wanted to see the passion and the will restraining that passion. I had not been wil ing to see the whole man.

  Flora’s baby started to wail in her crib. Flora put aside the cloth and went down the hal way to tend to her.

  The blood was stil trickling down my forehead, mingling with my tears. I grappled for the cloth and held it against the wound.

  “Here, let me help you,” Paolo whispered. He eased the cloth from my hand and tentatively dabbed. “I don’t want to hurt you. Let me know if I do.” He was hesitant. Almost afraid to touch me—not because of the blood but for other reasons.

  Paolo stood before me, his head and heart fil ed with words that he did not utter out loud to me, and his hand

  —in a gesture that felt, at that moment, closer than an embrace—stained with my blood.

  The intense pain of the last hour, the gnawing emptiness of the last weeks, even the longing for my home and family in Italy that I thought I’d put behind me after al these months, suddenly fil ed my vision. I began to cry, wildly, unrestrained, huge tears spil ing down my face.

  I felt Paolo’s hand lift from my forehead in a moment of confusion. “Am I pressing too hard?” I shook my head, not knowing how to express my own confusion—sadness, despair, loneliness, gratitude, hope. How could I be feeling so many different, conflicting emotions? I did not know myself. I had always been so sure, the roots of my self so well-planted and nourished by Giuseppina’s teaching. Perhaps in this cold and lightless city I had lost my bearings. I did not know which way to turn toward the sun and so I revolved as if on the carousel that came to Venticano every August, dragged in nieces in a wagon pul ed by four massive horses and assembled in the piazza before us eager and curious children. It spun us around and around until we were dizzy with glee and abandon and the delicious fear that if we let go of our painted horses we’d be thrown off over the edge of the cliff to which the piazza clung. That was how I felt at that moment with Paolo—dizzy with the fear that I was about to be hurled into the unknown.

  And just as I was about to fly out of control, engulfed by my pain, Paolo caught me. He reached out his arms—

  his confusion and hesitancy wiped away in an instant of recognition and understanding—and pul ed me toward him. My tears and my blood mingled on his starched white shirtfront.

  There, within the circle of his arms, I stayed.

  CHAPTER 18

  Yolanda’s House

  “You’ve done a good job in my absence, Paolo,” Flora said when she returned to the kitchen with the baby in her arms. “Not only has the bleeding slowed down, you’ve actual y brought a smile to Giulia s face.”

  Paolo and I abruptly pul ed away from each other, away from warmth, from the sound of his heart beating beneath my ear, from the threshold we had apparently just crossed. I looked into his eyes and saw my own reflection.

  “I think I can bandage that now, Giulia.” She handed the baby to Paolo, who nuzzled her bel y and then balanced her on his knee while Flora wrapped a strip of torn toweling around my forehead. When she was satisfied with her work, she knelt in front of me, took my hands in hers, and spoke to me intently.

  “Giulia, I told you when Paolo brought you here that I would not willingly let you return to Claudio’s tonight. I mean that. But I don’t think it’s wise for you to spend the night here. I am not your family. Perhaps th
ey’ll understand if you don’t go back, but I know they won’t understand if you stay here. They won’t trust me if they suspect even a fraction of what I saw a minute ago between you and Paolo. They’ll think I’m offering you a haven for lovemaking.

  “I’m sorry if this is embarrassing you. But you both know that’s what they’ll think. And Claudio could come storming up here demanding you back. We must find another place for you, safe, with family. Is there anyone we can turn to?”

  Who in my family would shelter me against Claudio? Til y had hidden herself in the back room. Pip, when she heard what had happened, would purse her lips in a thin line and think I got what I deserved for being Roberto’s girl. My cousin Peppino, who did Claudio’s errands, fetched him his morning coffee? His father Tony, Papa’s younger brother? Maybe. He admired Claudio’s shrewdness, his success in making a life for himself in America. That was why Uncle Tony came here in the first place, awakened by Claudio’s success, tempted to create his own out from under Papa’s shadow. But Claudio had become another Papa. Peppino worked for Claudio, not for his father. Perhaps Uncle Tony was the right choice, in fact, my only choice.

  Flora bundled up the baby, and she and I set off for Tony’s apartment. Paolo left with us but then turned off to his own pursuits. It was best that he not be with us, that he not be the one standing between my brother and me.

  Zi’Yolanda opened the door with a shriek.

  “Giulia! Giulia! What has happened to you? Did you fal in the street? Come in, come in. And who is this with you? Ah, yes, Flora. God bless you for bringing our Giulia…but isn’t Angelina at home? Why didn’t you go home, sweetheart? Wasn’t Til y with you? Oh, my God, oh, my God.