Most Precious Blood

by Vince Sgambati

  MOST PRECIOUS BLOOD

  MOST PRECIOUS BLOOD

  VINCE SGAMBATI

  Copyright © 2018, Vince Sgambati and Guernica Editions Inc.

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Michael Mirolla, editor

  David Moratto, cover and interior design

  Guernica Editions Inc.

  1569 Heritage Way, Oakville, (ON), Canada L6M 2Z7

  2250 Military Road, Tonawanda, N.Y. 14150-6000 U.S.A.

  www.guernicaeditions.com

  Distributors:

  University of Toronto Press Distribution,

  5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto (ON), Canada M3H 5T8

  Gazelle Book Services, White Cross Mills

  High Town, Lancaster LA1 4XS U.K.

  First edition.

  Printed in Canada.

  Legal Deposit—First Quarter

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2017955489

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Sgambati, Vince, author

  Most precious blood / Vince Sgambati. -- First edition.

  (Guernica world editions ; 2)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77183-306-6 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77183-307-3

  (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-77183-308-0 (Kindle)

  I. Title.

  PS3619.G37M67 2018813’.6C2017-906460-6C2017-906461-4

  For Jack & Jesse

  On the Upper East or West Side of Manhattan,

  Lasante’s would be considered

  a gourmet grocery store. Its tin ceiling

  and hanging cast-iron fans seen as retro.

  But at the cross of 91st Avenue and 104th Street

  in Glenhaven, Queens, it was a vestige for the few Italians

  who remained in the neighborhood, and for

  their adult children who drove in from Long Island

  before holidays and special occasions

  to reclaim some remote flavor of ethnicity.

  1

  A babbalucci slithered down a sack of semolina but recoiled its tentacles as Lenny plucked it from the burlap and returned it to its fellow snails. Its ambitious foot left a shimmering memory of one more failed escape. A second plodding fugitive found its way to the sawdust-covered, wood-plank floor and went unnoticed.

  Lenny returned to his book. Sweat dripped from a wax-coated cheese hanging from an iron hook above his head, and he slid the book along the worn Formica counter adjacent pyramids of groceries displayed in the storefront windows, which blocked much of the natural light and made it difficult for Lenny to read the small print.

  “Why did you stay so long?” It was his papa’s voice.

  “Why did you die?” Lenny said.

  “I had no choice,” Papa answered.

  As usual, Lenny nodded, shrugged his shoulders and thought: Neither did I. He often spoke with the dead.

  He closed the book and pushed it aside along with his tired regrets. Lately, he’d finish a chapter and have no recollection of what he had just read. Once he memorized Shakespeare’s sonnets, but that was long ago, before Papa died, and he had to help Mama with the children and the store.

  The front door swung open, and the noise from the crowded avenue followed Lenny’s son into the store. Except for his mother’s green eyes, Frankie was the younger version of Lenny — thick black curly hair, olive complexion, medium height, and solidly built from lifting heavy cases of canned olive oil and plum tomatoes, and from heaving weighty prosciuttos and provolones on and off iron hooks above the store counter and lining the storefront windows.

  Stinking of perspiration and beer, and with his soaked t-shirt wadded up in his right hand, Frankie leaned over the counter and kissed Lenny’s cheek. “Hey, Dad.”

  “What the hell happened to you?” Lenny said.

  “The guys where throwing water balloons.”

  “Smells more like beer balloons.” But Frankie didn’t answer, and Lenny asked him if he had had his fill of Big Vinny’s block party.

  Frankie stretched, rubbed his t-shirt across the sweat on the back of his neck and under his arms. “Yeah, I’ll help you after I wash up.”

  He walked down the right aisle of the store to the breezeway that connected the store to the house, but then stopped and spun around as if someone had grabbed his arm. That’s when he told Lenny about the cabdriver.

  “Holy Crap! I just remembered. This cabdriver tried to ram his way through the block party. Imagine doing something so stupid? But a bunch of the guys went after him. They threw bottles and stuff and scared him off. Can’t imagine being so dumb. Big Vinny’s face got so red I thought he was going to burst an artery.”

  “And you?” Lenny said. Lenny sensed the familiar tightness in his chest and jaw.

  “Me? I stayed out of it. I kind of felt sorry for the guy though. He’s lucky they didn’t catch up with him.”

  More Big Vinny drama, Lenny thought, and reminded his son to stay out of trouble. “One more year, Frankie. Then you’re out of this lousy neighborhood and off to college. Just keep your nose clean. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I know. I know,” Frankie shouted and disappeared into the breezeway. “That’s what I’m gonna do now. Clean my nose and my armpits while I’m at it.”

  Lenny shook his head and sighed. Before him stretched two narrow aisles flanked by shelves groaning with groceries.

  Behind Lenny stood a chrome and glass deli case filled with a few domestic cold cuts, but mostly with imports like capicola and also freshly made cheese like ricotta, which the old timers pronounced gabagool and rigot. At one end of the deli case was an open cooler stocked with juice, soda, milk, and other prepackaged dairy products. At the other end was the checkout counter where longtime customers bragged or complained about their children, gossiped about neighbors, argued about everything, sighed about the past, and shook their heads or clicked their tongues about the present. The future was never discussed.

  Frankie bounced back into the store wearing a clean t-shirt and smelling of cologne. Wet furrows shone where a comb failed to tame his hair. The avenue was busy, but the store remained quiet, just a few customers came and went, buying small items like cigarettes or gum, occasionally some produce or a roll of toilet paper.

  It was dark when Frankie stood at the open doorway, and outside young men with tattooed, beefy arms, bulging from sweat-soaked t-shirts, tossed mats of fireworks onto the burning heap in the middle of the avenue. Their gold chains and pinky rings reflected the fire’s flickering blues and yellows. Ash cans and cherry bombs exploded; flares and rockets careened. Lenny could hear the warnings rise from the feverish spectators to the neighbors leaning out of second or third story windows, above storefronts, or standing on fire escapes. Some adults snatched children away from the inner circle, and older children protested. Lenny had once been one of those adults. The air was thick, hot, and stunk of sulfur. Back when Giuliani was mayor there had been a crackdown on the massive sale of fireworks, but men like Big Vinny were very resourceful. His Fourth of July bash, fireworks and all, took place not three blocks from a police station. Cops patrolled from rooftops and in helicopters, but they never shut down Big Vinny’s party.

  Until the concrete cooled and the scrawnier fledgling thugs swept up the smoldering ash, Lenny postponed closing his store — a ploy to keep Frankie off the streets.

  As he wiped down the already spotless slicing machine, the rotten-egg stink of fireworks became unbearable.

&n
bsp; “Shut the door,” he said, but he didn’t mean for Frankie to step outside first. Slowly, Frankie moved away from Lenny’s view until he disappeared into the crowd.

  One more year, Lenny thought. Just one more year, and you’ll be out of this dead-end neighborhood.

  He pressed his hands against the Formica counter and felt its coolness through his calloused palms while his eyes scanned barrels of olives, baskets of loose beans, legumes, figs, and the basket where another foolish snail began its escape. Behind the barrels and baskets was a tall narrow case with glass shelves where each morning Lenny stacked loaves of semolina bread, and once savored the aroma of the fresh warm bread, especially on cold mornings, but that was when he recited the sonnets from memory and thought work was noble. Now he held his breath while he filled the shelves, for fear he might vomit.

  An explosion dwarfed the sound of the fireworks and rattled the storefront windows. Lenny jumped over the counter, ran out the front door, and shoved his way through the chaos.

  2

  It was the day before Big Vinny’s Fourth of July block party when Frankie and Gennaro, Big Vinny’s youngest son, drove to Old Man Tucci’s place in the Catskills. Cheers and applause greeted them as Gennaro steered his convertible off the curving Catskill road onto Tucci’s rutted driveway, where noise from a television game show blasted through the torn screens in windows propped open with split logs. Tucci’s rusted-out pickup truck was parked under a stand of cedars in front of his rusted-out house. Ragged patches of screen hung from the once screened-in porch, and the boys climbed its three rickety steps and approached the front door, where spiders disappeared behind the rotting doorjamb. Gennaro yelled a string of profanities. He was repulsed by spiders and mice and snakes — anything that scampered or slithered. Frankie laughed.

  The front door was ajar so, after Gennaro finished swearing and scratching at his arms, he stuck his head into the foyer and yelled: “Mr. Tucci ... it’s me ... Gennaro DiCico.” No answer.

  Entering the house was a risky venture given that Tucci was never too far from his loaded shotgun, but the boys inched their way through the open door and foyer, and then into the living room where Tucci snored in his green, Naugahyde recliner — more foam stuffing than Naugahyde. Next to the recliner, on a braided rug, Tucci’s old bulldog, Meatball, harmonized with Tucci.

  “Door number four!” yelled a couple with orange complexions and Hawaiian shirts.

  “Fuck me,” Gennaro whispered. “If that didn’t wake him, he must be dead.”

  Meatball opened his eyes, looked at the boys, but after one or two feeble wags of his tail, he went back to sleep.

  Gennaro lifted an envelope from a table cluttered with mail and magazines, scribbled a note, and placed it on Tucci’s lap along with five dollars.

  “Come on,” Gennaro whispered to Frankie, “we’ll check in with him later.” The orange couple on television won matching snowmobiles but looked disappointed.

  Back on the porch, Gennaro swatted at cobwebs and tripped over a rubber boot while Frankie chuckled. It was hot for early July, and Frankie was glad to be out of the city, despite Gennaro’s complaints about spiders and cobwebs. Had they been in Glenhaven, Gennaro would bitch about the heat. He just liked to complain.

  When Frankie was little, he and Lenny made regular Sunday trips to Tucci’s, driving 130 miles from Queens to Purling where Rocco Tucci owned 60 acres of woods, including a 20-foot waterfall and swimming hole. They often brought Gennaro and sometimes Lena, Gennaro’s younger sister. Lena was Frankie’s age, and Gennaro was two years older. On occasion the older DiCico brothers, Michael and Jimmy, joined in the summer excursions to Tucci’s, but Big Vinny rarely went along.

  As Frankie and Gennaro walked the pine-needle path to the waterfall, Frankie imagined the sound of his father’s footsteps behind them and the image of his father carrying the Sunday New York Times, a six pack of cream sodas, and several eggplant or sausage and pepper sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper — one sandwich Lenny would have left at the house for Tucci. Back then, Frankie’s Grandma Filomena worked in the store so Lenny and he and whichever DiCico kids joined them could leave before the Major Deegan became congested with traffic.

  The meld of balsam and humus must have spurred Frankie’s memories of childhood visits to Tucci’s, but as he and Gennaro approached the swimming hole, and Gennaro stripped off his jeans and t-shirt, childhood memories vanished.

  Gennaro climbed the moss-covered rocks to the crest of the waterfall. Centuries of erosion had carved and polished the rocks beneath the cascading water into a slide that stopped about six feet above the swimming hole. The limbs of hemlocks, white pines, and a few scraggly balsams reached out from shady spaces towards Gennaro, who beckoned Frankie with his outstretched muscular arms. “Veni qua, Francesco!” he shouted above the fortissimo of crashing water.

  Frankie removed the camcorder from his backpack, adjusted the zoom to capture the full length of the falls, and then focused on Gennaro, who lived to be admired, and Frankie was more than willing to oblige.

  Gennaro jumped — a bronze V piercing the rainbow-colored cataract. He drew up his knees and locked his fingers around his shins, cannonballed the final six feet, and splashed into the water. In seconds, he emerged like a young Neptune and bellowed: “Mother of God, this is liquid ice.”

  Camcorder off and returned to his backpack, Frankie whipped off his t-shirt and jeans. Not a bronze Adonis — like Gennaro — chiseled from hours of curls, bench presses, and crunches in the neighborhood gym. Frankie’s was the brawn of a working boy on the cusp of manhood.

  They dove into the swimming hole, and like two young tigers they roared and splashed, slammed into each other, wrestled, ignored each other’s not-so-flaccid dicks, and swam toward the bank, mounted the slippery rocks, slid down the waterfall, and crashed into the swimming hole, over and over as if they had spent their lives in captivity and were almost but not quite free.

  Eventually, Mr. Tucci hobbled down the path, leaning on his quad canes as if he were clawing his way to the falls. He appeared ancient. Time, loss, and regret had eroded his energy the way the falls had eroded the rocks. Years ago, had he declined a neighbor’s offer to drive his family to church, he might now be watching his own grandchildren swim rather than Frankie and Gennaro. When Vincenzo Lasante, Frankie’s grandfather, had first met Rocco Tucci, there was also a Mrs. Tucci and two young children, and every August, Vincenzo, his wife Filomena, Lenny, and his siblings drove to Purling for a three-day holiday — the Lasante family’s annual vacation, and, except for funerals and weddings, the only days that the grocery store was closed. Back then there was a small bungalow adjacent the Tucci’s house where the Lasantes stayed. Frankie never saw it, but Lenny spoke of it so often that Frankie could imagine its white clapboards, green trim and shutters, the smell of lilacs that once framed its front porch, and hear his father, aunts, and uncle share scary stories while they dared not fall asleep.

  In June of 1969, when Vicenzo Lasante called Rocco Tucci to confirm what had become a routine reservation, he learned that during the winter Mrs. Tucci and the children were returning from church in a neighbor’s car when it skidded off the road, rolled over a steep embankment, and all of the passengers were killed. Tucci usually drove his family to church and waited for them in his car until Mass was over. That Sunday, a neighbor had offered to save him the trip and the hour wait in a cold car.

  Filomena never returned to Purling, but Vincenzo visited that summer and every summer until his own premature death. He took day trips, not to leave Filomena home alone overnight, and she sent along a box packed with home-cooked meals and baked goods. Frankie learned of this from Lenny’s stories. He also knew that Gennaro’s Grandpa Giacomo often joined Grandpa Vincenzo. They took turns driving Vincenzo’s old black Buick with red Naugahyde bench seats and packed with Lasante and DiCico children piled on each other’s laps. There were photographs in the Lasante photo albums of the old Buick crammed with many ch
ildren leaning out of the open windows and making faces into the camera.

  Tucci finally waved to the boys.

  “That you, Frankie Lasante?” he hollered.

  “Yeah, Mr. Tucci. It’s me and Gennaro DiCico,” Frankie said, but he knew the old man couldn’t hear him above the roar of the falls.

  Tucci shook his head and flicked his wrist as if he were swatting at black flies. “You come visit before you go,” he yelled, and hobbled back to his house.

  Early evening, the sunlight abandoned the lush understory of ferns, wild rhododendron, jack-in-the-pulpit, and the few lingering trilliums, and it shone above the orange bark of scotch pines and the wispy branches of hemlocks and dawdled in the canopies of pale green pin oaks and sugar maples. A disgruntled chipmunk scolded a pair of impudent chickadees, and again Frankie recalled past trips with his father when Lenny guilted and bribed Gennaro and him to take hikes through the woods.

  “Okay, boys, enough swimming, and on the way home we’ll stop for ice cream,” was Lenny’s most persuasive carrot, and he’d slip a small naturalist guide book out from the hip pocket of his khaki pants, while Gennaro and Frankie begrudgingly followed him into the cool of giant white pines, where the boys turned fallen branches into weapons and conquered imaginary villains, but mostly they dragged their feet through the cushion of pine needles and yawned. Frankie’s yawns were spurious, a pretense to save face before Gennaro, to disguise that he actually enjoyed the woodland adventures, just as he enjoyed museums, libraries, concerts, plays, and most anything that he did with his father, though he would have never admitted this since Gennaro had very rigid rules about what boys liked and didn’t like. Naming woodland wildflowers was definitely not for boys.

  Gennaro yelled over the music blasting through his headphones: “Let’s go visit with Tucci!” He sat up. His skin glowed bronze and his close-cropped, curly, dirty blond hair was flecked with summer gold. Frankie turned away to conceal the rise in his boxers.