by R. Narvaez
“Children?” he asked quietly, chastened.
“I love them. But I had scarlet fever. I am likely barren.” Her eyes searched his for the impact of truth.
“I’ve been through a lot and I find such intimacy difficult, though I’ve often considered the joys of having my days filled with the same joy of your company that I get even during the worst of our stolen time together.”
“Okay, so being without a guardian, I grant you my personal permission to pursue me as you see fit,” she said, quite a bit more seriously than he had expected.
He was fully flustered. “Oh, Well, I am sorry I won’t be of further trouble. . . . Your permission? Really?”
She nodded. They were still embracing in mutual glow when the conductor cleared his throat loudly to gain Vincent’s attention, to pass over the parcel. Their walk was especially short and their mood light on the way to deliver the parcel to Letter A 247.
After Vince slid the Kraft paper wrapped parcel through the slot and they were on their way toward Eighth Avenue, Heather said, “I’ve meant to ask you for some time. Exactly what is in these packages?”
“Oh well. To be honest, I am not truly certain.”
After listening quietly, she remarked, “That is quite hard to believe. You are not in lack where loyalty is concerned.”
Vince started to wilt and then reversed himself. He had reached that turning point in the life of a man where his reactive threshold stops and his proactive self emerges. “Heather, it is time you met my mother. We will alter our destination to your doorstep. I want you to meet mother, but I also want you to read the letters I’ve received yearly on account of this monthly chore of mine, the letters that brought us together.”
She was quietly pleased that he’d taken some charge of things in the wake of their conversation, “Yes. I’d like to meet your mother. You don’t need to show me these letters. I believe you.” She said it knowing that it would cement his desire to share.
“I want you to know what’s there, so that there is no question in your mind beyond those in my own.” He remarked as they turned onto Eighth Avenue.
* * *
December 5, 1933, the city was alive with in a sudden celebration with spirits. Just after noon, the repeal of Prohibition hit in a Times Extra. By 4:30, when the Pinkerton Agent knocked on the door of Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Morgan, and at length the very pregnant Heather Morgan answered.
“Is your husband about ma’am?” the gent inquired.
“No sir, he is at the fac –” Out of breath, she leaned against the door and then slid down it onto her knees.
“Oh dear, Missus. I’ll get you to the hospital,” the agent growled from behind his moustache.
Later that evening, Vince entered a sickeningly antiseptic hospital room. He found Heather resting quietly with an equally tired infant taking a nursing break.
“Hello there,” he said as he kissed her forehead.
She smiled sleepily. “Vincent, meet your son. I haven’t named him yet, but I was thinking Vincent Michael Morgan, naming him after his father and mine.”
The baby clamped a fist around Vince’s finger. “That’s good. He’s perfect, you did good.”
For the next three years, they tried to get pregnant again, but despite their efforts and many consultations with the doctor, it was simply not to be. Despite his success at work, now leading his father’s company, growing it, and supporting other businesses, and despite their success as parents, still the hunger for another child gnawed at them.
Heather confided in him that for all her love of her son and her husband the thing that might bring her greater joy would be a daughter. It wasn’t her way to want for much, and it hurt Vince deeply that he could not provide for this singular want. They quarreled from time to time regarding his continuing loyalty to pick up and deliver the monthly parcel to A 247 West 42nd Street. His focus on making good on this duty was a source of frustration for her when on occasion he scheduled around the drop instead of trying to accommodate his family.
August 12, 1935, came and went. The delivery made and Vince hurried home to relieve Heather of teething duties with the baby. Twenty-month-old Vinnie’s gums were sore and Vince’s remedy of single malt whiskey was the only medicine that worked. Heather was showing signs of exhaustion since she’d laid off the maid and tightened up their personal budgets to avoid making cuts at the factory.
A week later, another Kraft paper pouch came via Pinkerton Agent. Vince opened the pouch and extracted the inner envelope, which was the usual rough home deckled paper. The stationary was a bit better, refined paper, but still of a very pedestrian and cheap variety. The copperplate hand was a bit more delicate and not quite so neat as it had been over the years. The note read:
Mr. Morgan,
It is long past time for you to understand what this has been about.
Yours,
A
Vince sat down on the corner of the porch and reread the note several times. He rechecked the pouch and envelope. Neither yielded anything more.
* * *
When it came time for September’s drop, he was there in plenty of time. The train backed in and he watched the conductor swing down, place his step, and then assist passengers down from the coach. When he finished, the passengers boarded and departed. There was no parcel after seventeen years.
October 14, 1935, Vince had lunch in the oyster bar and regaled the proprietor with Vinnie’s latest exploits. He left a tip, but the proprietor still refused his payment. He made his way to Platform 44 and stood near the brass rail, and glared at a sign proclaiming, “Wet paint.” After ten years of quiet waiting, the benches glistened of fresh varnish.
Again the train arrived, conductors and passengers disembarked, boarded, and departed without so much as a second glance from the rear conductor. Vince felt a pang of remorse at having come down despite Heather’s protest. He resolved that this would be the final year that he would continue this one point of contention between he and his wife.
On November 11, 1935, Armistice Day, Vince stopped to talk with the young troops waiting for their sergeant to put them on the train. He took a moment and told them about his time in France and they listened with reverence, then kidded him about the horses and water-cooled machine guns. He wondered why he bothered to talk to the kids as he made his way to his bench under the new metal sign that read, “Platform 44.” He wasn’t surprised as the train came and went without incident, and no parcel. He walked out into the November rain and hailed a cab to take him home.
It was a very tearful goodbye as he left the house on December 9, 1935. Heather had again shared her desire for a daughter, and stated her pitiful plea for another child. Vince hustled through Grand Central station and contemplated taking a train somewhere, anywhere away from the pain in his heart.
Today he didn’t stop and chat with anyone. He made his way to Platform 44 just as the train was backing in. He stood there, near the bench where he’d waited on this train for the past seventeen years. He watched as the conductor at the rear of the last coach swung down, and set his step in place.
Vince watched as the conductor straightened his jacket and offered a hand as the door opened and the first passenger stepped down. The young woman’s French Provincial features bore a strong and haunting resemblance to someone from his past. As she turned her head and made eye contact, he had the distinct notion that he was looking at his father’s maternal likeness, though her gait was more feminine and hinted at his mother. But, she was as much none of them, as she was both of them.
She walked up to him and offered an envelope. He took it and turned it over. His name appeared in a frail copperplate hand. He opened it and pulled out a very tattered tintype photograph of himself in his Army uniform.
“You must excuse me,” she said. “I would have come sooner but three months ago my mother Estelle took sick with cancer and passed away just after sending her letter to you – my father. She sent all the money she ever earned
to the Pinkerton Agency to pay for our coming to America. With her dying breath, she asked me to tell you that she was sorry that she had given you a daughter and not a son.”
The young woman’s voice broke and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Father, I hope that you can find a place for me in your house until I can make it on my own.”
A Primal Force
- by Kathleen A. Ryan
THE GRAY-HAIRED MAN shuffled along the smooth Tennessee marble of the majestic Main Concourse of Grand Central Terminal, about to confess a lifetime of sins into a hand-held recorder, as another spring day dawned in the Big Apple.
Candy, a slim teenager with warm brown eyes who’d made her home among the homeless, the one who ensured her elder counterparts kept safe and ate sufficiently, had just sold it to him. Initially, he hesitated about giving her money, fearing she’d spend it on crack, a raging epidemic and the scourge of the city.
“What do I say to those folks who claim I’m enabling you?” he had asked, noticing her parched lips and sunken cheeks.
“Tell ’em you saved me from prostitution, Grandpa Guiseppe,” she said, stuffing the bills into her threadbare jeans. “Besides, this gadget will come in handy – you have so much to tell your newfound family!”
Candy demonstrated how to use the device. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks!” she said, as she skipped away. Guiseppe made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer for his young friend.
Guiseppe spoke into the recorder, addressing his recently discovered great-grandson.
“Antonio, it warms this old man’s heart to know you exist – but it also aches, realizing the magnitude of what I’ve missed.”
To the throngs of commuters and visitors swishing by, the 89-year-old man wearing a tweed coppola probably seemed like a typical New Yorker talking to himself.
He removed the key attached to a chain around his neck and accessed his locker. He shed a few layers no longer needed.
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee lured him straight to his favorite vendor. “Buongiorno, Guiseppe,” the vendor said. “How ’bout a cannoli with your morning cappuccino?”
“Sounds divine.” He leaned his head toward the brilliant sun rays peering through the 75-foot-high arched windows. “Morning makes the day, doesn’t it?”
The vendor nodded. “Each day the sun rises, my friend, it gives us another chance.”
“‘With a rooster, or without a rooster, God will still make the dawn,’ my sainted mother always said.” He attempted to pay, but the vendor just waved his hands and shook his head. “You suggested adding cappuccino to the menu, and your family’s cannoli recipe is our treasure. You are a permanent guest, Guiseppe.”
“Millie Grazie,” he said, bowing his head gracefully.
The elderly, yet muscular man, who could pass for 75, placed his breakfast on a small table and sat to people-watch, one of his favorite pastimes. In between sips and devouring the rich pastry, he talked about events he’d not spoken about in decades.
“What a miracle – between your extensive genealogy research and the newspaper report of the homeless epidemic in the terminal, you found me. After you contacted the terminal, the cops said to prepare for a joyous, life-altering surprise. Discovering family I never knew existed? A dream come true. I bawled like a bambino. Our conversation was the best phone call of my life.”
A patrol officer stopped by to chat. “Hey, Mr. Celebrity. Aren’t you meeting your long-lost relative today?”
“At one p.m. my great-grandson and I will meet under the clock,” he said. A smile spread across his wrinkled face. He shrugged his shoulders. “Where else?” he said with a giggle.
The cop’s smile morphed into a look of puzzlement. “How will you recognize him?”
“My 27-year-old great-grandson, Antonio, will wear a white carnation in his lapel. He saw my picture in the paper, so he already knows what I look like –”
“– one radiant man,” the cop finished his sentence. He wished the old man well, and tipped his hat.
* * *
Guiseppe resumed his task. “I wanted to record thoughts and memories, in case I chicken out later. First, the basics: my parents, Giovanni and Piera Mancuso, and my older brother, Santo, emigrated from Palermo, Sicily, in 1890, and settled into a tiny apartment in an overcrowded tenement building on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy in New York City. I was born on Christmas Day, 1895.”
He stood to return his cappuccino cup to the vendor and decided to take a stroll while recounting his abysmal childhood.
“My parents ran a successful bakery and pastry shop, but that was their downfall. Let me explain. When I was young, bombings in our neighborhood – the work of the Black Hand Society – occurred regularly. These criminals – fellow countrymen, no less – mailed frightening extortion letters, demanding protection money. If letters were ignored, they’d follow up with bombing, kidnapping – even murder.”
Guiseppe passed by the waiting room – or what the terminal population calls the living room – and saw homeless folks snoring away on wooden benches, surrounded by bundles of their worldly possessions and fast-food litter. Others were slumped in telephone booths, resting their heads on bags that doubled as pillows. No one ever called for them – nor did they have anyone to call. Mayor Koch, the terminal police, the Coalition for the Homeless, caring volunteers, the media – are working to devise a solution. It’s hard to believe, in 1985, this difficulty exists.
Guiseppe continued his tale. “These scoundrels preyed upon Sicilian immigrants, familiar with omerta – the code of silence – and took advantage of their inherent distrust of authorities. Many chose to pay the extortionists without notifying the police. Witnesses, who could barely speak English, refused to cooperate, resulting in criminals being set free.”
Heading towards the men’s room, Guiseppe ran into the janitor.
“Congratulations on your imminent well-deserved retirement, Juan. You will be missed by your terminal familia.”
“If it wasn’t for you, Guiseppe, I wouldn’t be here to enjoy this joyous occasion. You saved my life.”
“God placed me in the right place at the right time – and luckily, I had read all about Dr. Heimlich’s Maneuver.”
* * *
Guiseppe headed towards the marbled nooks and crannies of the terminal to escape the multitude of tourists, including the ones pointing at him. They must have seen the article.
“My father’s long work days in the bakery began before dawn. At night, he’d teach my brother and I the art of scherma di stiletto siciliano – the Sicilian school of stiletto fighting. Our father – a passionate, loyal family man, understood how life could be brutal and violent. He trained us to defend ourselves.”
As he walked past the Oyster Bar restaurant, a waiter spotted him and pointed toward the take-out area. Guiseppe met him there. The waiter said, “Here’s some hot oyster stew and a warm garlic breadstick. I gotta get back – the lunch crowd’s starting early. Mangia, my famous friend!”
Guiseppe thanked him. He sat at a bench, placing the bag aside. “My father received a frightening letter from the Black Hand, demanding a large sum of money. They described brutal consequences of ignoring their demands or even worse – telling the police.
“My father met with a fellow countryman, Joseph Petrosino, a brave detective sergeant of the New York City Police, who dedicated his career to imprison or deport the Black Handers. They devised a plan, but before they were able to implement it, our tenement was bombed. My father was killed, as well as my precious baby sister. My mother was maimed, lost her sight, and soon died from a broken heart.”
Guiseppe wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.
“My father’s early warnings about explosives and dynamite still haunt me to this day. He said it was marketed as ‘Hercules Powder’ and ‘Neptune Powder’ – as if it was a primal force stolen from the gods.
“Talk about primal force – after losing my family, my soul was filled with grief
, anger, and despair.”
He pressed pause.
Guiseppe’s appetite suddenly waned; his mouth felt parched. He ambled to the ornate water fountain, a marble basin attached to the cream-colored Botticino marble wall. The cool water soothed his dry throat. He looked above to admire the sculpted oak leaves and acorns, just above this luxurious fountain, which he drank from daily.
A hollow-eyed beggar sat on the ground, shaking a ceramic cup filled with coins. Guiseppe handed him the bag. “Enjoy this warm food – you need your strength.”
“A million thanks,” the beggar said. “God Bless you.”
Refreshed and determined, Guiseppe continued his saga. He paced back and forth. “Petrosino became Detective Lieutenant and headed the Italian Squad. Vowing to identify and capture the criminals responsible for murdering our family, he took us under his wing. Santo and I, fluent in several dialects, insisted we help. He allowed us to work undercover, provided we continued our studies, kept healthy, and went to church.”
In 1909, this courageous man traveled to Sicily to obtain the records of 700 criminals. According to U.S. law, if those brigands were in the U.S. for less than three years, they could be deported. Tragically, Petrosino was assassinated in Sicily.”
He retrieved his wallet. His hands trembled as he removed frayed two photos: one of his beloved family at his sister’s joyous christening; and one of Lieutenant Petrosino – the derby-hatted, stout powerhouse of a man, packed into a five-foot, three-inch frame – flanked by the Mancuso brothers. Gazing at loved ones, his eyes welled.
Guiseppe exhaled, realizing the pain of losing loved ones remains just below the surface – as raw and piercing as the day it happened – if you allowed yourself to go there.
He spotted a man in ragged clothes, poking through a trash can with a broken umbrella. Dozens strode past him, as if he was invisible.
He rested to compose himself.