Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  “I think there is no doubt that you have a case against the construction company. And although I am quite sure we could not win a case against Brooklyn Union Gas, it would be to our advantage to sue them as well.”

  Giovanna looked at Lucrezia, who motioned with her eyes to ask.

  “What do you mean, signore?”

  “What I mean, signora, is that I believe in all probability that negligence led to your husband’s death, meaning that we can sue the company that is responsible.”

  “Signore, I have little to pay you.”

  “You do not have to pay me anything before the case is settled. I believe you will win your case and you will be compensated. My fee will come from your settlement.”

  Seeing Giovanna’s puzzled look, Lucrezia stepped in. “Signore, we need to start from the beginning.”

  More than an hour later, when Signore DeCegli finished explaining the American legal system and Giovanna’s options, he began asking questions of his own. Changing his tone, he said, “Tell me about Nunzio.”

  “He was my husband,” murmured Giovanna, voice cracking, as if that said it all.

  “Well, did he read and write?”

  “Yes,” answered Giovanna, indignant. “He was a maestro. An engineer.”

  “That will help. My guess is that if your husband had questions about the safety of this project, others did too. After we file, I intend to subpoena the supervisor and other workers.”

  “But they will say what the company wants them to say.”

  “Possibly, but generally I’ve found that Americans take truth in the courts seriously.”

  “What happens now, signore?”

  “You wait while I prepare the case. It may take months. If I need anything I’ll contact you, but don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me for a while.”

  Signore DeCegli walked them downstairs. When the door closed, Lucrezia quipped, “It’s a shame he was just married.”

  “Lucrezia, stop it. I told you I’m not interested.”

  Lucrezia let it go, but she was certain that she saw a flicker of disappointment in her friend’s face.

  FOURTEEN

  “Wake up, Zia! It’s Sunday! Can we go to the cemetery and stop for nuts? Please, Zia?”

  Startled, Giovanna sat up groggily. But before she could answer, Teresa cut in. “No trips today. We’re having company.”

  The children groaned and Giovanna, still sleepy, asked, “Who? The DiFrancos?”

  Teresa was already ensconced in the kitchen. “No. Children, get dressed; I need your help. Giovanna, you will be here for dinner?” It was both a question and a command.

  Giovanna thought Teresa was acting strange but decided to ignore it. “I will be here. Do you need help?”

  “No, no. Concetta will help me. Don’t you have to visit Signora Russo? She told me you were visiting her today.”

  “I do.” It amazed Giovanna how her sister-in-law seemed to know all the business of the neighborhood. Teresa’s body, even in the rare months that she was not pregnant, had become rotund. It was easy to envision Teresa as a bumblebee flitting in and out of the chambers of the hive that was Little Italy.

  “Be back by three.”

  Usually when Teresa was out of sorts, Giovanna looked to Lorenzo for guidance, but Lorenzo had already left to paint bits of Italy in tenement foyers. Teresa busied herself with making the children’s breakfast. After espresso, bread, and cheese, Giovanna left to escape the frenzy and tension.

  Her quick exit brought her to an earlier mass than usual. Only old women, all widows, knelt in the pews. Giovanna wondered if they waited for the sun to rise and then hurried to mass because they had nothing else to anchor their lives. Even though she, too, was alone and dressed in black, she felt like an interloper and was threatened by the women. Nervous, she went to the altar to light a candle, but for the first time she didn’t know for what she prayed.

  It was too early to call on Signora Russo, and she avoided Lucrezia’s house on weekends, when she was more likely to run into her husband, so she walked. Giovanna had grown accustomed to New York, but this morning the streets seemed extremely foreign and uninviting. She yearned for the narrow alleys of the Chianalea and her terrace, where she could sip her espresso and listen to the church bells before going to mass. Having walked all the way to Chinatown, she ended up on the herbalist’s street. Giovanna thought she saw the proprietor inside and took a closer look through the locked door. The door swung open.

  “Quick, quick,” the proprietor motioned.

  Giovanna understood that he didn’t want to get caught selling on a Sunday. “No, no, I go,” she answered.

  “No, no, show you,” replied the proprietor, waving her to the back of the store.

  A wooden crate covered in Chinese characters was half unpacked.

  “Good!” he exclaimed, taking a paper package from the crate. He carefully unfolded the paper to reveal what looked like a sea urchin.

  He gripped one of the urchin’s spines. “Good,” he said, and then mimed pain.

  Giovanna tried not to laugh when he contorted his face and moaned. He was very dramatic. Swallowing her smile, she shrugged her shoulders to indicate “How?” She half expected him to puncture her skin with it; she had learned about how the Chinese stuck needles into people. Instead, he went to the counter and ground the spine into a rough powder, and then added glycerin. Taking a small spoon, he showed her the proper amount and pointed to his mouth. Giovanna put a tiny bit on her finger and touched it to her tongue. At once she could tell that it had the power and qualities of an opiate.

  “Good? Good?” the proprietor asked.

  “Sì. Yes.”

  Giovanna doubted she would use it without knowing more, but in return for the kindness, she opened her purse to get a coin to purchase one of the exotic crustaceans.

  “No. No. Sunday.” Smiling, he waved her money away and rewrapped the urchin, putting it in her hand.

  With her purse back in her bodice, and a strange Chinese sea urchin in her skirt pocket, Giovanna walked back up Mott Street, this time feeling more at home.

  Her visit took longer than expected. Signora Russo was in her eighth month, and Giovanna was worried that this big baby, who was breech, was not going to turn. She decided to try performing a version—an external method to turn the baby. Taking out her stethoscope, a gift from Lucrezia, she had Signora Russo lie on her back and bend her knees. The hardest part of this procedure for Giovanna was being chatty, keeping the mother relaxed and distracted. With one hand on the baby’s head and another on its culo, Giovanna gently turned the baby to the right. When there was no movement, she tried twisting the body to the left, and this time the baby turned a little. Waiting, chatting, and checking the baby’s heartbeat between each movement, Giovanna slowly turned the baby to a transverse position. Signora Russo was starting to get nervous and feel pain, so Giovanna let her rest, holding the baby’s head and culo in its new position for fear it would gravitate back to breech. “Even for babies, change must come slowly,” she explained.

  The woman’s mother soon entered the apartment and provided the distraction Giovanna needed to continue. Twenty minutes later, the baby was in position.

  “Signora, please stay and have supper with us,” invited the mother, who was preparing their Sunday meal. The woman’s kindness reminded Giovanna that she needed to head home.

  “No, thank you, I must go. Signora, stay on your feet for the next hour. Go for a walk, let the baby settle, and send for me if you feel anything out of the ordinary.”

  Teresa knew it was Giovanna coming up the stairs because no one else took the stairs in twos. She always wondered how Giovanna managed to do that in a long skirt. It seemed hard enough to get up the steep stairs without tripping on your hem.

  Giovanna burst through the door, making apologies. “I’m sorry, my visit went longer than I thought.” Her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence because she found herself face to face w
ith a row of strangers. Almost at attention, there in front of her stood a man nervously holding his hat in his hand, with three children in their Sunday best lined up next to him.

  “Buon giorno,” mouthed Giovanna, but she was looking at Lorenzo for an explanation.

  “Giovanna,” said Lorenzo with more than usual flourish, “this is our friend Rocco Siena, from Scilla.”

  “Oh, piacere,” said Giovanna, thinking the man’s recent arrival to America explained this awkward formality. More relaxed, she added, “Welcome to America.”

  Two of the children giggled.

  “Quiet! No, no, signora, we have been here a long time,” interjected the stranger. “In fact, all my children were born in New York. I will introduce them.” As if to make his point, he said all his children’s names in English. “This is Clement, he’s twelve, Frances is eight, and little Mary is four.”

  All the children gave her a big grin when their names were said.

  “Well, let’s sit,” said Teresa. “You children can play in the hall or on the stoop. But don’t go far, we’ll eat soon.”

  Giovanna couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable her brother and sister-in-law were with their own friend.

  “Signore Siena, I don’t know any Sienas in Scilla,” commented Giovanna, attempting to make conversation.

  “Sì, signora, there are not many Sienas in Scilla. My wife, bless her soul, had much family in Scilla. She was a Bellantoni.”

  “Oh, of course, the Bellantonis,” replied Giovanna.

  Lorenzo cut in, “His wife was Angelina, daughter of Vincenzo and Mattia.”

  “Yes. Mamma knew them. They lived in San Giorgio, yes?”

  “Sì,” answered Rocco this time, “so did the Sienas. But we were sailors and often away.” After an awkward pause, he said, “Your brother tells me you are a widow.”

  His question raised her worst suspicions, and she answered indignantly, “Yes, I was married to Nunzio Pontillo.”

  Lorenzo immediately started in on the sales pitch. “Giovanna, Rocco was given a medal by King Victor Emmanuel!”

  Her reaction was to shoot Lorenzo a stony stare.

  “He saved the king from drowning when their ship went down! Show her the medal, Rocco!” exhorted Lorenzo.

  Giovanna politely looked at the medal only because the man was so embarrassed at being forced to produce it. A bronze disc nearly filled the man’s palm, which was shaking slightly.

  “Why were you on the king’s ship?”

  “I was a merchant mariner…”

  Again, Lorenzo cut in enthusiastically. “The king wanted him to be in his Roman guard.”

  “And why didn’t you?” questioned Giovanna skeptically.

  “Because I wanted to start a new life in America with my family.”

  Teresa could see that Giovanna remained unimpressed and decided the best tactic was to keep things moving. “Lorenzo, call the children for dinner. Everything’s ready.”

  Giovanna stood, as did Rocco. She did not need to work at avoiding his eyes because she was a head taller than him. Rocco’s hair was wiry and going gray, as was his mustache, and although he was lean, his muscles were thick and gave him a stocky appearance. His laborer’s hands looked enormous in proportion to his body. And now these big hands fumbled nervously as he tried to stuff the medal back in his pocket.

  The commotion in the hall signaled the children’s return. Unlike the adults, they were not having problems socializing, although Domenico was acting the tough guy because Clement was a working boy, and with his calluses came street status.

  Even with the children’s chatter, the awkwardness didn’t go away. Giovanna was silently fuming. If Lorenzo and Teresa wanted her out of the house, why didn’t they just tell her?

  Teresa was the first to speak. “Rocco, who cares for little Mary?”

  “Frances, of course. When Mary is old enough for school, Frances will work.”

  “I thought all children in America went to school,” said Giovanna dryly.

  “What does a daughter need to go to school for? America or no America?”

  Giovanna wanted to hate him for this comment, but it seemed genuinely ignorant and not mean-spirited.

  “And your son?”

  “He’s a big boy. We’re in America to make money.”

  “Rocco and his family live in that new apartment building at 202 Elizabeth Street,” bragged Teresa.

  Giovanna knew the building; she had delivered a baby there. It was what they were calling “new law” tenements. They had more light, but the major improvement was that they each had their own toilet instead of a shared toilet in the hall.

  Unimpressed, Giovanna changed the subject. “When did your wife, Angelina, pass, signore?”

  “In childbirth, with Mary.”

  Her professional curiosity piqued, Giovanna only stopped herself from asking further questions when she caught Teresa’s scolding look.

  It was Lorenzo’s turn to try to keep the conversation going. “Isn’t it strange, Giovanna, we did not know Rocco in Scilla, but here in America, in this big city, we meet. Luigi and Pasqualina DiFranco introduced us.”

  With that, Giovanna knew that Teresa and her bosom buddy, Pasqualina, had dreamt up this scheme. Teresa believed in keeping her enemies close, so when she found out that Lorenzo had once loved Pasqualina, she made Pasqualina her friend and confidant.

  “We’re going back out,” Domenico announced, as the children piled their plates in the washtub.

  With the children out of the room and more wine in him, Rocco turned his focus to Giovanna. “Lorenzo tells me you are a levatrice,” said Rocco.

  “Sì.”

  “Working with Signora LaManna.”

  “Sì.”

  “She is a good woman.”

  “Sì.” He was trying so hard, Giovanna softened a little. “Did she deliver your children?”

  “Yes, but not Mary. My wife was already too sick by then and was in the hospital.”

  “Let’s have our fruit,” said Teresa.

  “I have to go. I must visit a patient,” interrupted Giovanna.

  “You said you only had to see Signora Russo today!” Teresa protested.

  “Well, this is sudden,” replied Giovanna, grabbing her shawl.

  “Signora, before you go,” Rocco stepped forward, “can I ask you if next Sunday we can walk together?”

  Unable to meet his expectant gaze, Giovanna instead looked over his head to Lorenzo’s downcast eyes and Teresa’s reddened face. She would have said or done anything to get out of the house at that moment. “Va bene, signore. But only if there are no babies to deliver.”

  She flew down the stairs, praying that Signora Russo would go into labor next Sunday, and almost tripped over Mary, who was sitting on the stoop.

  “Signora, where are you going?” asked Mary, getting out of her way.

  “I must see someone.”

  “Will you come visit us, signora?”

  Giovanna was taken off guard and reached down to pat the child’s head.

  “Have you calmed down yet?” asked Lucrezia, pouring Giovanna another glass of wine.

  “I have every right to be angry.”

  “Yes, you do,” nodded Lucrezia, who had artfully defused Giovanna’s rage by calmly agreeing with everything she said.

  “He said you delivered two of the children.”

  “I did.”

  “What do you know about this family?”

  “She was a good woman. He’s a good man, hardworking, simple, but good.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  “There isn’t much more to tell.” There was a pause, before Lucrezia continued. “Are you considering this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  Giovanna looked at Lucrezia in shock.

  “You told me you wanted children. You wanted to bring your own babies into this world.”

  “Yes, but not with just anyone!”r />
  “Giovanna, do you believe you will ever love someone as you loved Nunzio?”

  “I will never find another Nunzio. There is not another Nunzio,” answered Giovanna indignantly.

  “That’s my point. If you want children, you only need to find a good man. And I don’t need to remind you that at thirty-one, in all probability it will not be a young man without children.”

  “I don’t believe you’re encouraging me to do this!”

  “I am not. I’m simply reviewing the facts and stripping the situation of your brother and sister-in-law’s deceit so you can see it for what it is—an option. You can choose not to take this option, but you should not dismiss it out of anger.”

  While she recognized the wisdom in Lucrezia’s words, she had a fiery confrontation with Lorenzo when she returned home.

  “You are too young to be a widow! It is my job to take care of you!” Lorenzo yelled.

  “Taking care of me is getting rid of me?”

  “I want you to be happy, but you are as stubborn as a mule. If I had told you about this meeting, you would have never agreed to it!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, exactly. Please, Giovanna, you could live with me forever, but will that be living? I heard your promise at Nunzio’s grave.”

  Giovanna looked at Teresa cowering in the back room. She wasn’t so sure about the living with him forever part, but at that moment she started to forgive her brother.

  FIFTEEN

  Her prayers for Signora Russo were unanswered. The next Sunday, Giovanna dressed for her walk with Rocco. Teresa tried to encourage her not to wear black, and even offered her Sunday feathered hat, but Giovanna dismissed Teresa with an angry look. For an entire week there had been no banging pots or heavy sighs; Teresa practically tiptoed around her sister-in-law. While Giovanna had forgiven her brother, she had not forgiven Teresa. In actuality, Giovanna was grateful that Teresa had given her a solid reason to stop trying to be her friend.

  “What do you think of him, Zia?” Domenico asked Giovanna, who was lacing her shoes. Not waiting for her reply, Domenico offered, “I like his son. The little girl is spoiled though.”