by Triss Stein
Phyllis looked at me with a challenge. “Erica?” She thought I didn’t know.
“Your story, you can tell.”
“Chrissie, families with active duty servicemen got a flag and could add one blue star for each one. The gold stars were for the ones who were killed, so you prayed never to have any.”
“Okay, I get it. But back to Philomena…?”
“My pop came home, like I said, and he convinced them.”
“How did he?”
“I don’t know exactly. I suppose there was yelling.”
“That’s a great story, Grandma. So she was part of history, doing a whole new thing.”
“Oh, yeah. And I can just, just remember that from later in the war. She showed me her ID card one day, proud as proud. And you know, in the end, my grandparents were proud too. They always denied they had ever objected. And there was an evil eye for anyone from the neighborhood who said a critical word. You know people will always try to be…you know, say the mean thing….”
“Malicious?”
She nodded. “That’s it. And that’s enough for now. A coffee all around, yes? And a slice of cake? Or Chris, do you want gelato?”
“You can get gelato here?” I couldn’t resist. “You always said this was a wilderness.”
“I never did. Never.”
I just looked at her. For a long time.
“Well, maybe. In the beginning. Go. Cut the cake.”
“But wait!” Chris hadn’t closed her computer. “What happened to Philomena after she went to work? I want to know the rest of the story. Maybe I’ll write my whole assignment about her.”
“Later. I’m all talked out now. And after we snack, Cara, I am going to teach you to make Italian roast chicken, very easy. Delizioso. Erica, please take a tray in to Billy and your father. They’re watching TV. Two biscotti and two cups of black coffee. I’ll fix it.”
They were not watching TV. They were napping with the TV as their lullaby. The overheated house, with tightly weatherproofed windows keeping the cold upstate air out, was very conducive to an afternoon nap. They did look like a couple of very large babies. Had they had a hard trip to Home Depot? All that walking up and down the aisles in a store the size of an airplane hangar?
I carefully placed the tray on a table, wondering how the coffee would taste when they woke up. As I turned to leave, I heard the voice on the TV. “Stay tuned to statewide news. Is there a break in the murder of a prominent New York political advisor?”
I turned right back, perched on an easy chair that matched the sofa and munched on a biscotti.
Chapter Five
The voice went on and on, talking about the state legislature’s failure to act. What else was new?
Finally, they showed a photo of Michael Conti, and then a man in uniform, speaking authoritatively for the NYPD. The newsman’s smooth voice picked up again. “As the police department is looking into Conti’s life, they are finding many questions. He had a checkered career that included feuds with prominent people and accusations of graft, unproven, over the years. In his personal life, his divorce took place without much scandal, though his speedy marriage to a much younger woman caused gossip at the time.”
As he spoke, photos flashed on the screen. A younger woman in a ball gown at some gala, escorted by Michael Conti. A photo of him escorting a bride. Nothing recent.
If I was going to use him and his career as a plot line for looking at the changes around the harbor, I should start taking notes and so I wrote until dinner time.
The meal was delicious, as promised—roast chicken and lemon potatoes, accompanied by broccoli salad, at Judy’s insistence. “Billy and I both need to watch our weight these days. We do not need pasta at every dinner.” She smiled cheerfully, but muttered to me, “No matter what my mother thinks.”
Over dinner, Phyllis asked Judy, “Do you remember Aunt Philomena? “
“A little. I was old enough to go to her funeral. I remember the crying.”
“What happened to her?” Chris wanted to know.
“She got sick and died young, right, Ma?”
“Yes, but I always thought there was more to it.” Her mother frowned. “She was such an exciting person to be around when I was little, and then she was sad later. It was after the war…”
Chris, very romantic these days, jumped in. “She loved someone who didn’t come back from the war!”
“But she never said. And we were close. If it was that, why keep it a secret? Most people who lost someone, they were heartbroken but proud.”
Cynical me wondered if he’d come back but not to her. That was a wartime story too.
“Well, did you ask her? Maybe she would have told you when you were a grown-up too.”
“No, I did not. In those days I was too busy raising children to go poking into old stories. And then she was gone.” She shook her head. “So, Chrissie, tomorrow when we go to Mass, we say a prayer for her, too, along with for your dad and your grandma and my dear husband.”
“Mass tomorrow?” That was a shocker.
“Of course Mass. We can go at noon. I know this little one doesn’t like to get up too early.”
Then my dad said, “Phyllis, it would be an honor to escort you lovely ladies to church, if you would allow me?”
Dad? My dad? Who I knew for a fact had not been in any house of worship except for funerals in twenty years. He met my furious expression with a bland smile that meant “We’ll talk later.” For sure we would.
Chris gave me a pleading look. “I thought it would be interesting. And we’d be with the family.”
Judy winked at me. “I’ll go, but Billy sleeps in. He’ll find you some breakfast while we’re out.”
He smiled. “If you like cornflakes, I’m your man.”
After dinner, Billy had put an oldies music program on TV and I mean really oldies, not his youth, but his mother-in-law’s. Next thing I knew, my dad asked Phyllis to dance and they were doing a creditable Lindy, with careful twists and crossovers.
Chris was open-mouthed. A Jerry Lee Lewis medley inspired Billy to grab Judy and cut a few steps too. Chris and I looked at each other, laughed, and I pulled her off the chair and showed her the basic moves.
We all collapsed, laughing, and…true confession? I did a little singing along and clapping to the rest of the program. Even Chris joined in, torn between her scorn for the boring music and her desire to be part of the fun.
Before bed, Phyllis gave Chris a big hug, saying, “I used to wonder about you as a baby. Where did your blondeness come from? Not your mom or dad. But now I see my Jeff in you. Your height and your smile is him all over.”
I often thought that too, always with a pang.
“Actually, now that you’re taller, you remind me of Philomena. Put you in a head scarf and red lipstick and you’d see what I mean.”
Chris giggled
“She’s athletic too, on the girls’ basketball team. You know she got that from Jeff, not me, the klutz.” I was ignoring the subtext of “Wondered where you came from.” Perhaps she had not meant it as a subtle slur. Perhaps.
I cornered Dad when we finally went upstairs to bed.
“Church?” My voice was a fierce whisper. “You are going to church? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“No, no, it’s fine. I figure I can throw a little kindness at her.”
“Kindness? Come on! You’re being charming. To Phyllis!”
“Because being older doesn’t mean she’s lost all her feelings. She’s lonely.”
“Lonely? She is surrounded by her nearest and dearest, all of whom she rules with an iron hand.”
He shook his head. “She likes to feel young again. That’s all it is. Besides you’re forgetting something?”
“Yes?”
“Every nice th
ing I do rebounds to her liking you better.” He smiled at my expression. “Yeah, never thought of that, did you?”
The next morning the blessedly silent house seemed to belong to me. I could do some work. Learn more about the deceased Michael Conti.
Diligent searching online produced frustratingly little. And why did I care, anyway? Didn’t know him. Didn’t like him at the meeting. Did not have a single connection.
Except that I had stood next his dying body and I had not forgotten that. Probably I never would.
That mattered more than the intersection of his career and my dissertation, but still, there was an intersection. I felt sure that if I could get his complete story, it would spark helpful insights. I had to do it, quickly, or abandon this chapter entirely, according to my advisor.
When I picked my head up from the screen two hours later, I had a whole lot of questions. And the harder it got, the more I wanted to dig up some answers.
Being a historian is not entirely different from being a detective, I thought, and not for the first time.
Someone must know more and I knew precisely who that might be. My buddy Leary, a long-retired reporter, crabby, ill, and bored, who would scoff at the word “buddy,” but who knew everything there was to know about old Brooklyn. I would have to drop by soon after our return.
Giving up on my search, I responsibly checked my e-mail and my phone messages at home.
There was another voicemail from the annoying mystery caller again. “Can we make a date for Thursday, after you get back? I would be very grateful. Anywhere you want to meet. Happy to take you to lunch or dinner.” Long pause. “Please.”
What did this woman want from me? As if I don’t have enough demands on my time. On my life. I punched the Reply button, harder than necessary and told her I would be at the Brooklyn Public Library, central building, Thursday. She could meet me at four o’clock, in front at the adjoining entrance to Prospect Park.
I’d meet her outdoors, in a well-populated public place, Grand Army Plaza, the splendid, not to say pompous, entrance to Prospect Park. I didn’t want to be trapped in a restaurant with someone I’d never met, for a meeting I didn’t want, for a reason I didn’t even know.
The churchgoers came home, the roast that had been sending its tempting odors through the house was whisked onto the table, and there was a real Sunday dinner. Certainly not a tradition in my own secular but Jewish family. This was Italian-style, with a pasta course and then a meat course. Followed by a nap, I hoped.
Phyllis commanded Chris back to the living room to select what she wanted to take home and I had an inspiration.
“Phyllis, did your family ever know a Michael Conti? Or have dealings with him? Does that ring any bells? It could be a Navy Yard connection?”
“I have no idea. I mean, I do remember Contis, it’s not an unusual name, but I don’t know if it was that one. Why do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to understand his career for my work.”
“Mom, isn’t that the guy who was killed?”
“Killed?” Phyllis stepped back. “Killed? So not just curious?”
I was stuck with telling tell the whole story then.
“You need to be more careful,” Phyllis scolded. “You’re a mother. You have a child who needs you.”
Chris caught my eye. She was smothering laughter. “Yes, Mom! You need to be more careful. I am your child, you know.” She shook a finger at me and then we both laughed.
Phyllis shot us a look filled with exasperation but when all Chris’ material was packed up, Phyllis said to me, “I want you to take that little trunk with the flowers. A loan, not forever.” She was pointing to the enameled chest that looked like Italian pottery, bright flowers on a black background.
I must have looked as puzzled as I felt.
“It’s Aunt Philomena’s Navy Yard trunk.” She was impatient with me. “We found it. You take it. Maybe it will be useful. Who knows? You might find that Michael Conti in there!”
“Oh. Thank you. I…” I didn’t know what to say. It could be a treasure, or it could be one more item to clutter up my house.
She put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “All this talk about the old days got me to thinking about Aunt Philomena. I’m so sure there was a story but I was too little to know what it was. I’d hear her name but if I walked into the room the grownups stopped talking.” She patted my shoulder. “I had a dream about this trunk last night so I know it’s the right thing. I want you to try to find out about her. What really happened.”
But, I thought. But. I already had work to do. I had Michael Conti’s story to track down, and it was a stretching my advisor’s patience even to say that was work. Philomena’s couldn’t be stretched at all. And I had no idea where to start either.
And then I remembered that Dad had said he was trying to create a little goodwill and how it would help me. And Chris. I womaned up.
“Of course I can try. No promises, but I’ll try.”
“You’re a good girl.” She patted me again and turned away to Chris.
That was the nicest thing I ever heard her say. That Jeff loved me had never been enough for her. I needed to sit down. I needed some of Billy’s high-test espresso. And cookies.
I peeked into the trunk. The inside was enameled too, and painted with flowers, and it was filled to its curved top. I found a stack of clippings in an envelope and below that, some group photos at meetings, with scribbled identification on the back. She didn’t always bother with a list of names, just a date, and a fruit salad of letters. I assumed they were abbreviations for organizations. Ah, yes, here was one that said “Work Procurement Committee.” And that woman in the front row, the only woman, was Philomena.
Phyllis confirmed it. “See how pretty she was. And how nice she looked in those 1950s suits. And with a stylish hat, of course! A career gal, that’s what they called them then. That man next to her is my granddad, her father. He kept the mustache just to be contrary. Italian men mostly shaved them off by then. No one wanted to be taken for a Mustache Pete.” She sighed. “So long ago.” Then she snapped back into the here and now. “Erica, so when you look at this, after you go home, you call me if you have questions. You can always mail me a photo if you need me to see it, right?”
“Grandma!” Chris said. “I told you. We can send you a picture through Aunt Judy’s e-mail. Try to remember which century we are in!”
“Ha! Ha! I let my grandchildren do that for me, and I’ll stay in the twentieth, where I belong.”
At last it was time to make sandwiches for the road and pack up. The little trunk was lined up in the front hall along with our suitcases, our car supplies, and our coats. Hugs, good-byes, and promises to be in touch. A firm promise from Phyllis, with a decisive nod. “I’m doing it. Billy will put me on a plane. Easy-peasy. Why not?”
My dad elbowed her. “Why not? I’ll take you out and we’ll paint the town.”
I was pretty sure Dad had not painted the town since his fortieth birthday, and I had never seen Phyllis do it at all. And why had no one discussed this plan with me?
But when Chris replied, “I’m holding you to it, Grandma,” it was too late to protest.
Not that I didn’t try, once we were in the car.
“You do remember that it is my house and I end up being the hostess?”
“But Mom. We have enough room. She can have the guest bed in my room.” She looked shocked that I might protest. “We have it all planned.”
“You planning to introduce her to the wonderful Jared?”
“Oh, Mom, please!” She turned away from me, cocooned in a blanket. “I am going to sleep now.”
Phyllis in my house? Dear lord.
We drove through the cold, quiet night, past the darkness of empty fields broken up in flashes of brightly lit up rest stops, and passing big green e
xit signs to small, obscure towns. Painted Post, Horseheads, Bath, Hornell.
Chris and I dozed. Dad’s tuneless humming was not loud enough to keep us awake. At one point, I woke up with an idea rattling around my mind. A memory. I remembered something else about the murder I had witnessed. That was a shock. I would I have to talk to someone at NYPD again.
We came home and unloaded quietly on the eerily silent street. Chris mumbled, “Going to bed. I’ll take my bags up tomorrow, okay?” In a few minutes, though, I heard her on her phone, catching up. I wondered what could be left to talk about, since she’d been connected part of every day we were away, including this one. I reminded myself how, for a teenager, constant connection, by whatever means, tells your young self you are still here, still you, still known, still wanted.
Being an adult, I could wait. I’d wake up early and talk to Joe in the morning. And my friends. And someone at NYPD.
Chapter Six
It wasn’t so early. Pale late-fall sun was streaming into my window. Chris seemed to have risen before me, which never, ever happens, and was out. Or her bags had come upstairs by magic. One or the other.
I wandered around my house in a fog, took my own bags upstairs, unpacked the easy way: everything went into the hamper.
I made a large pot of coffee and drank a large amount of it. Did a few mindless physical chores, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. I started the laundry. I cruised the kitchen, making a list of what to replenish. I plotted how I could get Chris to do the shopping.
I finally found the text message she had sent me.
B’fast out with Mel + all. Sleep tite.
She’d included a snoring emoticon. Nervy kid. I clumsily replied by text.
Food shop on way home. Call for list.
After the coffee finally kicked in, I had to sit down at my desk and get serious. Read e-mail. Done. Hmm. HR appointment on my next working day. Put in calendar and wonder what that’s about. Done. Re-read outline for next chapter. “Impact of Navy Yard Closing on Surrounding Neighborhood.” Done. (Note to self—this was a controversial moment in Brooklyn. Why does it sound so boring?) I would spend the whole next day at the local history collection at the main building of the public library.