Gina pulled the blanket over her body, trying to get warm. She nearly pulled it over her head.
“They’re such cowards.” Harry pounded the bed. “Fucking Green.” William Green had become the new head of the American Federation of Labor after Sam Gompers died.
“Shh!” She didn’t want her son waking up, overhearing. His bedroom was next to theirs. What if, God forbid, he ever started to talk like that? She was teaching him to be a proper Bostonian, always polite.
“Who are they afraid of? Have you been reading the lies they write?” Harry was on his side next to her, drumming on her back, uncovered, but warmed by his convictions. “ ‘We believe in the people’s right to freely choose their government through constitutional means. We oppose revolution of all kind.’ Oh, I’m sure!”
“You don’t think Green means it?” Gina stared at the window. The curtains were drawn. No balcony double doors to open here, no warm night air.
“The AFL is a bunch of mealy-mouthed hypocrites. This country was made by revolution! We wouldn’t have a country right now if brave people back then thought the way Green thinks.”
“Yes,” said Gina, “but maybe now they like their country the way it is.”
“Because they’re cowards.” He kissed her shoulder. “I’m glad we’re talking again, I’m glad you’re in our bed, but don’t side with cowards, Gina.”
“I’m not siding, I’m repeating. The AFL denounces the communist idea. It’s emphatically against violent means to change our government.”
“How can they stand emphatically against anything when they have no spine?” Harry exclaimed. “Invertebrates cannot stand for or against anything.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured into the pillow, the way some people murmur sweet nothings like I love you.
“Oh, being governed by the unenlightened,” he said, covering himself as he sidled up to embrace her. “What a burden.”
Four
THAT SUMMER OF 1926, Rose Hawthorne died. She was seventy-five. Her body was brought up north and was buried with the Hawthornes and the Peabodys in Concord. Gina didn’t attend the funeral. She read about it in the paper, tears falling on the newsprint.
From Rose’s long-dead father in the obituary finally came the counsel Gina had been desperately seeking. “It is but for a moment, comparatively, that anything looks strange or startling—a truth that has the bitter and the sweet in it,” Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote.
Her new life with its unwelcome truth soon began to resemble her old life without any truth in it. The old: a transformed Harry was going to be a doctor and a professor. The new: Harry was not going to be a doctor, nor a professor. The impossible within mere months began to seem so normal as to be banal.
And then there was an actual tempest.
Five
AFTERWARD, MANY SAID that the seeds of the ruin of South Florida had been planted long before. The year to reap them was 1926. There had been rumblings since early 1925, articles that cropped up here and there, editorial pieces warning of the imminent collapse. A boom based on nothing but wild speculation could not continue indefinitely. The market could not sustain itself if the price of the thing being bought and sold had no relation to its intrinsic value. It was as if Herman were speaking from the grave. Anyone could sell you an umbrella in the rain, but you’d be a fool if you bought it for a thousand dollars. That the umbrella was not worth a thousand dollars was obvious to an eejit.
So it was with the housing market in South Florida. The land, except for its proximity to the ocean, had little intrinsic value, and the houses and their attached prices were built not on reality, but literally on sand. There had been a railroad embargo of some kind, a traffic jam that paralyzed the region, and a ship that had capsized, or so Gina had vaguely remembered reading.
In September 1926, she talked to Salvo, and everything was normal, and then a few days later she read about a hurricane, on page seven. Suddenly, reports of the hurricane’s aftermath moved up to page one, after it emerged that Miami had sustained the kind of damage no one had ever seen, except in the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. When Gina called Salvo to make sure he was all right, there was no answer.
“The telephone lines are probably out,” said Harry when he heard. “That happens after a storm. There’s nothing to worry about. Tequesta is a hundred miles north of Miami. Try again tomorrow.”
But there wasn’t a tomorrow. The Boston papers reported frightening details: a hurricane had swept from Miami across the bottom third of Florida to the Gulf of Mexico and Sanibel Island, destroying a swathe of civilization in its wake. The pictures told the story. Where once were houses, now there was driftwood washing out to sea.
Gina couldn’t reach Salvo or Fernando, or Carmela, or their old neighbors Chuck and Karen. The telephones lines are down, Harry kept saying. Don’t worry. You know your brother. Don’t you remember the molasses explosion? We were all frantic for days and he was sleeping it off at his amata’s house. This is just like him, not to contact you. And anyway, he can’t. There is no telephone.
After Gina endured a sleepless week, the telephone at the Tequesta City Hall started working. It was picked up by a harassed staffer who had no information and hung up, but not before saying, “Don’t you know what’s happened? We can’t find nobody.”
Gina did not believe in coincidence. She had been thinking too long and hard about taking Alexander and fleeing to Tequesta to stay with her brother.
What if something terrible had happened? They could have been there, they surely would have been, had Gina left as she had first planned. She saw this as a warning, and a lesson. There but for the grace of God would she and, more important, Alexander have been. It convinced her that she had been right not to walk out on her marriage.
Was she warned, or saved?
And if saved, then for what?
This justification of her choice was trumped by her unyielding anxiety over Salvo’s silence. She was angry at him at first. He knew how worried she would be.
Except . . .
Days turned into weeks, and bodies kept being found in the rubble.
There was still no word from him, of him.
Fernando called. Gina broke down in tears when she picked up the telephone and heard his voice. He had been in the hospital for weeks with a concussion and broken ribs. He still sounded dazed, not at all like his old self. He had no news of Salvo. That was worse than anything.
Gina vaguely remembered the last conversation she had had with her brother. Such a mundane chat, yet how she obsessed over every recalled word, trying to find clues. He said something about driving somewhere. She had a dim recollection of a place . . .
She got out an atlas, found Florida, pored over the towns near Tequesta, Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, Miami.
There it was! Coral Gables! What an odd name. That’s where Salvo had said he was headed. Just south of Miami Beach, across from Key Biscayne.
Gina called the Miami health authorities, the Miami police department, the Miami hospitals. There was no news of him.
Fernando was getting weary of fielding Gina’s numbing questions. Nothing was being accomplished by telephone. Finally in October, she left Alexander and Harry and took a train to Miami to look for her brother. Harry said he would have no problem taking care of his son. If he needed help, Esther was just a telephone call away.
Will you be back for Thanksgiving? Harry asked her when he took her to South Station.
She wanted to say yes. But she didn’t know. She wanted to say she would come back when she found her brother. She couldn’t say that either. What she said was, Yes, God willing.
He rolled his eyes, and that was how they left it.
Alexander had been surprised to find his mother packing.
“Who is Salvo?” he asked, watching her tie her suitcase closed.
She straightened up. “What do you mean, caro? Salvo is my brother. Zio Salvo. You remember him, don’t you?”
Alexande
r shrugged. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Mom,” he said. “I thought, like me, you were an only child.”
“Why would you think that? I’m always talking about Zio Salvo.”
“I thought he was your zio.”
“You don’t remember Salvo?”
“I don’t remember last week.”
“You don’t remember Florida?”
“Mama, I was just a baby then. No, I don’t remember.”
She studied her son as she always did—intensely.
As he always did under her unblinking stare, he rolled his eyes like his father and turned to his own things. She continued to watch him.
What if it wasn’t me God was trying to save? She reached out to touch his black hair, but he had moved away, spread out on her bedroom floor with his toy soldiers. And if the good Lord was saving Alexander, what was he saving him for?
Six
TO GIVE HARRY A break and some time to himself, Esther cared for Alexander every weekend after Gina left for Florida. One Saturday afternoon after she had picked him up at home, where he had been languishing alone, she took his hand and, instead of depositing him into a waiting car with Clarence at the wheel, told him they were going for a walk on the Common.
“The Common? Aunty Esther, I live near the Common. I play there every day.”
“Do you ever see the sights?”
“What sights? The silly flowers?”
“Don’t be fresh. I know you’ve never seen what I’m about to show you.”
“I’m not being fresh. I’m telling the truth, is all.”
“Well, I want you to meet a good friend of mine. His mother is not feeling well, and I have a few books I’d like to give her.”
“I don’t see any books.”
“They’re in the car. I have many, and they’re heavy. You and I will go for a little walk with my friend and then we’ll drive him to his mother’s house. You don’t mind walking, do you? It’s warm.” She tied the outdated bonnet she insisted on wearing below her chin. “For November, this is wonderful. Sixty degrees. Just like Jupiter, right?”
“Where?”
“Never mind.” She patted his shoulder. “We’re not going to get another day like this.”
“Who is your friend?”
“You’ll see.”
On Beacon Street, right in front of the State House, they stood and waited by the wrought-iron gates. Finally, a waving man carrying a package strolled up to them, in a suit and tie and hat, a serious, upright man with dark eyes. “I’m sorry I’m late, Est. Been waiting long?”
“No, just a few minutes.”
They had been waiting a half hour! Alexander squinted up at his aunty, wondering why she was fibbing.
The man and Esther seemed to know each other well. If Alexander hadn’t known they were friends, he would have guessed they were family. His aunt was as familiar with her friend as she was with Alexander. She stood close to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, squeezed his arm, smiled into his face, exchanged a few words, and then bent down to Alexander, whose hand she was still holding.
“Alexander, this is my old friend Ben Shaw.”
“I’m not so old, Esther, speak for yourself.” Ben extended his hand to the boy. Alexander shook it, appraising him. “Very nice to meet you, Alexander.”
“You too, Mr. Shaw.”
“Please don’t call me Mr. Shaw. I’ve known your father and your Aunt Esther almost my whole life. Call me Ben.”
“Don’t, Ben,” said Esther. “We’re trying to teach the boy manners. If he calls you Ben, he’ll start calling his teachers Ben, and then where will we be?”
Ben leaned down to Alexander. “You’re not going to do that, are you?”
Alexander looked into the man’s friendly face and shook his head. “I don’t have any teachers named Ben.”
“Very good! Like your father, indeed.” Smiling, Ben patted his head. “I have something for you. A small gift.” He handed Alexander the shopping bag he carried. “Your aunt told me you like to play war?”
Alexander glanced inside the bag and then quickly looked to his aunt, to check if it was all right to accept gifts from this person.
She nudged him. “Go ahead, darling boy,” she said. “Ben brought you a gift. What do we say when we receive gifts?”
“Thank you,” said Alexander, instantly reaching into the bag. He pulled out a replica hunting knife in a black leather holster with a star on it, and a replica Colt revolver, heavy and silver with the same star on its barrel. “Thank you very much!” The revolver was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. The knife was good, too. But the revolver . . . he spun the cylinder. “Where did you get this?”
“A good friend of ours lives in Texas, and she did us a favor when I asked her to help me get a gift for a boy who enjoys weapons.”
“Tell her thank you very much from me,” Alexander said.
“I will. I wish I could give it to my own children, but I have four girls. They’re not as interested in knives and guns as you.”
“I’m glad you have girls,” Alexander said. “What is this star?”
“That’s the Texas star,” Ben said. “The Lone Star.”
“This gun looks so real,” said Alexander, turning the revolver over in his hands, weighing it. The knife was already tucked under his arm. “Are there any bullets?”
Esther and Ben smiled at him. “It’s not a real gun, Alexander,” Ben said.
“All right. Are there any fake bullets?”
“Alexander,” Esther said, “let’s make a pact. We’ll keep the gifts at my house, and you can play with them when you come to visit me. We don’t want to upset your father.”
Alexander looked sorely disappointed. He was prepared to sleep with the Colt and the knife under his pillow. “I guess, but . . . no, you’re right.” He sighed. “My dad doesn’t like weapons.”
“Shall we walk a bit?” Ben said. “Or should we play with your new toys?”
“Do you want to play?” Alexander asked eagerly. “You can have the knife.”
“You want me to bring a knife to a gunfight?” Ben tutted. “That’s not going to end well for me.”
“Well, that depends,” Alexander said. “How good are you with a knife?”
Ben laughed. “Good point. But let’s walk instead. Maybe we’ll play later, if we have time.”
They started strolling down the path on the Boston Common that ran alongside Beacon Street, Alexander jumping and skipping between the adults. “Teddy is going to be so jealous, he’ll die!” Alexander exclaimed, not taking his eyes off the revolver.
“Maybe you can let him have the knife when you play.”
“Nah, never,” said Alexander. “He won’t give it back.” He studied Ben. “What do you do, Mr. Shaw?” he asked. “Are you a soldier?”
“I am not, no,” said Ben.
“Alexander, Ben is an engineer for the United States Army Corps.”
“Not anymore, Esther. Now I just teach.”
“Yes, at Harvard. Ben built the Panama Canal!” Esther exclaimed.
“Esther!” Ben shook his head. “Your aunt is prone to exaggeration.”
Alexander did not know his aunty to be prone to this.
“I didn’t build it,” Ben continued. “I did help dig it.”
“Don’t listen to him, Alexander. He designed it, planned it, fought for it, built it. His name is written in historical lights.”
“Esther!”
“You work for the Army, Mr. Shaw? Are you sure you’re not a soldier?”
“No,” said Ben, “but I’m related to a soldier. Does that count?”
“Oh, yes!” Alexander paused. “Are we . . . related?” he asked wistfully. He wanted to be related to a soldier.
“We might as well be.” Ben smiled. “Your father and I used to be very good friends when we were just a little older than you. For many years we were friends.”
“What about now?”
“I haven’t
seen him in a few years.”
“He was home this morning. Then he had to go out.”
“Where did he go?”
“To the university, I think. Or the library. He’s writing songs for an operetta,” Alexander said. “That means a short opera, and it’s called ‘The Last Revolution.’ He is also studying to be a doctor. He doesn’t like weapons, but he is studying Greek wars. Do you know about them?”
“Not very much.” Ben smiled. “Your father always liked books more than anyone I know. He is very smart. Do you like books?”
“Hmm.” Alexander didn’t want to lie. “I like playing more.”
“Well, who doesn’t?”
“My dad,” Alexander replied. “He likes books more. Though sometimes he likes baseball. Do you know my mother, too?”
Esther knocked into him, apologizing for her carelessness.
“Yes,” Ben said tersely. “I also knew your mother. How is she?”
“She is good. But there was a hurricane and her brother is missing. I didn’t know she had a brother. She went to find him, I think.”
Esther looked down at Alexander in dismay. “Alexander, you don’t remember your Uncle Salvo?”
“No, Aunty Esther. Mama asked me that. I was little.”
“Ah. And now?”
“Now I’m big,” said the seven-year-old boy. “Where are we going?”
“Ben wants to show you a memorial to his uncle.”
“Who is your uncle?”
“My Uncle Robert was a colonel in Ulysses Grant’s army during the Civil War. You said you liked soldiers. I thought you might like to learn a little bit about my uncle.”
Alexander became doubly excited. He loved stories about soldiers. He didn’t hear enough of them at home. Out of the hundreds of books they owned, the only two he could find about soldiers were The Red Badge of Courage, which Alexander liked very much, and The Man Without a Country, which his mother told him his father had loved when he was a young man. Alexander read that book, but with puzzlement. Because his father had liked it, he tried to like it, but there was nothing about the story he found remotely appealing. If he was perfectly honest about it, it was gloomy and not a good soldier story at all—most of all because it was about a sour-cabbage-bucket of a man named Philip Nolan who didn’t want to be a soldier! Who didn’t even want to be an American. Alexander couldn’t understand why his father would like that book.
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