Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  We could hear the television and the rest of the family talking inside.

  “We have been told that in minutes Astronaut Neil Armstrong will emerge from the lunar module. But this is what it looked like when they touched down at 4:17 today…”

  I could tell when things were really important because Walter Cronkite’s voice wasn’t perfect. They were replaying the landing. It was a scratchy recording, which made me think it already sounded like history.

  “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed!”

  “Josie, put that disgusting book down and watch this,” Nanny scolded my mother.

  “Shut up, Ma. It’s not disgusting. It’s a bestseller.”

  “Nonno, let’s go inside,” I said to my grandfather.

  “Why? So we can heara them argue?”

  “We can hear them anyway, and I want to see it.”

  I squeezed onto the couch as my sixteen-year-old brother pontificated. “Right now, some guy in Vietnam is getting blown to bits, but we don’t have to see it because they’re landing on the moon.”

  “Michael, where’s your patriotism?” My father was seething.

  I was depressed. My grandfather thought the landing on the moon was a Hollywood movie; my brother thought it was a trick to make people forget about the war; my father only cared about my brother’s hair being too long; my mother was distracted by some book about the Mafia; and my grandmother was mad at my mother for reading the Mafia book. I looked to my little sister to share this moment, but she was crying about her sunburn.

  Walter Cronkite touched his ear. “I believe we are going to hear the president talk to the astronauts.” Soon President Nixon’s voice filled the airwaves. “Neil and Buzz, I am talking to you from the Oval Office…”

  “Eh, itsa Tricky Dick,” kidded Nonno.

  I giggled, but my father shushed me.

  “…As you talk to us from the Sea of Tranquility, it inspires us to redouble our efforts to bring peace and tranquility to earth.”

  My brother scoffed. My father was aggravated and said he and my mother should have gone dancing at the Seashell. My mother didn’t hear any of it because she was absorbed in The Godfather.

  The next day, we camped on the beach with umbrellas, towels, chairs, and coolers—suburban nomads exercising our tribal instincts. Since it was the weekend, there were first cousins, second cousins, pretend cousins, and the numerous gombadas who were all called Aunt or Uncle regardless of whether they were relatives.

  “I’ll take two,” I said to my grandfather. We were playing poker under the fringed umbrella.

  “Due,” replied Nonno, dealing.

  I glowered at the men playing bocce.

  “What, are you blind? Red’s closer!” shouted my cousin.

  “What a bunch of gedrools! Do you believe this, Frankie? These kids can’t take losing to a bunch of old guys,” my father called out to my uncle.

  “Why do they play if all they do is argue?” I asked Nonno.

  “Thatsa part of the game.” Nonno didn’t look up from his hand.

  “Yeah, well I can play better than any of them.”

  “Now you playing poker.”

  I heard my father yell, “Michael, you look like a girl, and you throw like a girl!”

  My mother still had her nose in that book.

  “Josie, they say there’s a character in there that’s got to be Sinatra. You were close with Sinatra’s cousin, what do you think? Was he in with the Mob?” asked one of my aunts.

  Nanny tugged on her bathing cap. “I’m going swimming if you’re going to talk about those people.”

  “Ma, we’re not going to discuss it.” My mother put down her book.

  “I’m going in anyway,” Nanny announced.

  I watched my grandmother dive into a wave. She didn’t swim like the other old ladies, who waded into the ocean and patted their broiling arms with the cold water. Nanny pushed through the whitecaps and swam far out with powerful strokes.

  Nonno saw me watching her and said, “I taught her to swim when she wasa little girl.”

  “I thought you met when she was in high school?”

  “No, one time she came witha your Big Nanny to my home in Italy. She wasa only three years old and had these biga dark eyes.”

  “Josie, what happened to the letters they sent?” My aunt interrupted my mother’s reading again.

  “My father burned them when she couldn’t sleep one night.”

  “What are they talking about, Nonno?”

  “Nothing. You pay attention to everything buta your cards. See! I gotta full house.”

  Six months later, Nonno died. The phone call came in the middle of the night, and when I heard my mother wail, I knew what had happened. I spent the rest of the night under my bed shivering and crying. My world was shattered. I wanted desperately to bond with my grandmother in grief. She allowed me to hug her, but it only lasted for a second.

  PART SIX

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK 1908

  TWENTY

  “Frances, please help me,” called Giovanna, trying to lift a crate of cucumbers. With the first payment from Nunzio’s settlement, they were lucky enough to rent a basement at 242 Elizabeth Street, only a block from their apartment. Giovanna was free to work each day with Rocco, and their efforts were paying off.

  There had been a long line at Siena’s Fruit and Vegetables when word swept through the neighborhood that they had broccoli rabe for a good price. It was late in the day, and Giovanna was only now getting to stack some of the fruit and vegetables. Rocco was tending to the horse and cart that enabled him to go to a distributor in Brooklyn for their produce.

  “Frances, Mary, you girls head home with Angelina and put water on for the pasta. I’ll be closing soon.”

  “Sì, Zia,” obeyed Frances, taking Angelina’s hand and bundling her up for the frigid weather.

  “Buon giorno,” greeted a man, tipping his hat to the girls who passed him on the stairs. The man, face covered in black moles, entered the store and looked around.

  “What can I get you?” asked Giovanna.

  “Signora, is your husband here?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll come again then.” He smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

  Lieutenant Petrosino, holding the New York Times, waited outside the commissioner’s office. He paced the anteroom, practicing what he was going to say. He had no problem talking about police business, but when he had to say something personal, he was afraid his English would fail him.

  “Joe! Come on in here. Sorry you had to wait,” called the commissioner, sticking his head out his office door. Commissioner Bingham was as tall and thin as Lieutenant Petrosino was short and squat. His graying hair and perfectly groomed mustache gave him a dapper appeal that conflicted with his authoritarian presence.

  Petrosino remained standing, knowing full well that if he sat down it would only be a matter of minutes before the commissioner was up and circling the room, pounding on his mantel for emphasis, or surveying the street from his second-floor window.

  “Commissioner, I want to thank you,” said Petrosino, pointing to an article in the newspaper.

  “Oh, Joe, don’t be silly, you don’t have to thank me. Those dandies don’t know a thing about police work. I’d like to see those prissy-ass aldermen on the street for even an hour.”

  “Well, even so, my men and I want you to know how important it is to us to have a commissioner who understands that sometimes you have to teach a lesson with your fists.”

  “Don’t you worry, Joe. If they bring it up again, I’ll say the same thing.” With his finger in the air he reenacted his speech. “I am the police commissioner! I am responsible for everything my men do! Petrosino is one of our best detectives. Of course he has to use force now and then!”

  The lieutenant rewarded him with one of his rare smiles. “Bravo!”

  Bingham finally sat down. The office had changed little since Teddy Roosevelt wa
s police commissioner. “So tell me, what’s on your mind, Joe? I know you didn’t come here just to compliment me on my oratory.”

  Petrosino took his seat opposite the massive mahogany desk and waved a stack of papers. “Commissioner, I’ve read this new immigration law, and it wouldn’t get a spider out of its web. We have more Italian ex-cons in New York City than in all of Italy! We have to get the Italian government to help us.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” The commissioner was picking lint off his trousers.

  “They get back in! Remember Don Cascio Ferro, who we exiled after the barrel murder?” Petrosino asked. Bingham nodded. “He’s back! My men found him, and we threw him on the next boat, but not before he rallied the hoodlums here. Commissioner, can’t we go to the president?”

  “Joe, as much as Teddy respects you, this isn’t something he can take on. We’ll have to go it alone. But I want you to know that I’m working on it, and I’ll explain it all to you at the proper time.” Bingham could see Petrosino’s question forming and preempted him. “I promise you that you and I together will smash this band of criminals and anarchists your native land has given us.” Bingham spoke with such drama that Petrosino knew it had been rehearsed and that it signaled the end of the discussion.

  “Commissioner, I knew I could count on you. And you should know that even with all its loopholes, I’ll use this new law to get rid of all the blackmailing schifosi we can.”

  Petrosino turned toward the door, and the commissioner patted him on the back. “That’s right, Joe. We’ll get your shevosee, and the world will know about it.”

  Siena’s Fruit and Vegetables was a basement store, which meant that Rocco often saw his customers’ feet before he saw their faces. He could tell the man now walking down the stairs was not coming to buy figs or any other produce by the artificial swagger to his steps. The bell rang as the door opened. Rocco continued to stack zucchinis, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a man looking around the room.

  “You’ve got a really nice store here, Signore Siena. You don’t want anything to happen to it. After all, you know how rough this neighborhood can be,” said the man, who had black moles on his face.

  Rocco didn’t say anything, but his motions became louder. He threw a sack of potatoes onto the counter.

  “Didn’t I see you after the bombing of Paparo’s store? What a shame, and less than a block from here,” jeered the moled man.

  Rocco slammed a crate to the floor.

  “But for only fifty dollars a week, we’ll make sure you stay safe.”

  “Disgraziato! Get out of here before I kill you with my own hands!” Rocco shouted.

  “Signore,” the moled man tipped his hat, “I will return.”

  It took only a week for the man with the moles to return. This time, he ignored Rocco and addressed Giovanna. “Signora, possibly you’re not aware that we offered your husband protection for a small fee. It is a wise business investment.”

  “How dare you speak to my wife! Out!” Rocco’s face contorted in rage.

  The man backed out of the store, but his demeanor changed. “Signore, remember that the hard heads of the Calabresi can be broken. Good day, signora.”

  “Rocco, what was that about?”

  “Niente.”

  “Answer me, Rocco.”

  “It’s a lazy mafioso who wants money to ‘protect’ us. Don’t you have to get home?”

  “Mary won’t be home for another half hour, but I’m leaving,” said Giovanna indignantly, gathering up Angelina. “I want to know if he returns. This is our store, Rocco.”

  As soon as they entered the apartment, Angelina began banging on the piano that was Giovanna’s only indulgence from the first payment of Nunzio’s money. Mary and Frances were both taking lessons, and although they played poorly, it still brought Giovanna great pleasure to hear music in her home. The dough that she had made that morning had risen, and she punched it down with more force than usual and formed it into two loaves, placing them on the stone marked SIENA.

  “Angelina, why don’t you go upstairs and see if Carmela is home?”

  “Sì, Mamma,” chirped Angelina, going out the door.

  Giovanna leaned backwards out the open door, hands covered in dough, watching Angelina walk upstairs and knock on the neighbor’s door. Limonata opened the door in an apron. The past two years had changed her from a wisp of a girl into a weathered woman with dyed blond hair who copied American fashions. Limonata’s “husband” never materialized, and she survived on handouts from various boyfriends and from whatever Giovanna sent over.

  “Limonata, can Angelina stay by you while I get dinner made?” Giovanna called.

  “Of course! Come, Angelina.”

  “I’ll have fresh bread later.”

  “Grazie, Giovanna—you’re too kind,” Limonata said, going back into her apartment.

  Without Angelina’s banging, Giovanna weighed the options. Later that night, she encouraged Rocco to pay them the money. “You saw Paparo’s store. Do you want that to be us?”

  “Loro brutti puzzolenti mafiosi!”

  “All the curses in the world won’t make them go away.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “How? You can’t be there every hour! So don’t pay the fifty dollars, but pay him something.”

  It was overcast. Giovanna scanned the skies on the short walk to the store, deciding how much produce to place outside in the early spring air. Angelina clung to her hand. At nearly three, Angelina walked everywhere, but had a hard time keeping up with her mother’s long strides.

  Giovanna fished in her dress pocket for the store key. The bell clanged loudly when she opened the door.

  Angelina ran to her favorite spot behind the counter and picked up a folded piece of paper that was on the floor. “Mamma, who made this drawing?”

  Giovanna snatched it from her and looked.

  “Beware. Give the money or everything will be destroyed. La Mano Nera.”

  Beneath the words was the imprint of a thick hand in black ink.

  “What does it say, Mamma?”

  “Niente, niente.” The bottom few feet of Rocco’s horse and carriage were visible through the window. Giovanna panicked and stuffed the paper down her dress.

  Looking into Angelina’s face, she instructed, “This is nothing. Go help your papa.”

  Her heart pounding, she watched Rocco through the window lift the crates of fruit off the cart while Angelina picked up the pieces that fell along the way. Giovanna still looked shocked when he entered.

  “Cos’è successo?” asked Rocco, confused. His wife never stood still or looked frightened.

  Giovanna didn’t have the strength to hide the letter. She took it from her dress and handed it to him.

  The drawings were for the benefit of illiterates like Rocco, whose face turned purple. He slammed the paper and his fist onto the counter.

  “What have you decided?” asked Lucrezia, handing back the letter to Giovanna.

  “I want to pay something.”

  “And Rocco?”

  “He says he will sleep in the store—he threatens to kill him with his own hands.”

  “See, if you were still a midwife you wouldn’t be blackhanded, because they would know you had no money.” Lucrezia’s stab at levity failed, so she continued. “What about bringing the letter to Petrosino?”

  “You saw what happened to Paparo’s store! They brought the letter to Petrosino. Besides, Petrosino may be Italian, but he’s still the police. Rocco would never allow it.”

  “What about DeCegli?”

  “For what reason? So he can negotiate the payment?”

  “Do you want me to talk to my husband?”

  “No! Lucrezia, please say nothing. Forget I told you!”

  It was possible the thief was smarter than Giovanna thought, because the next time that he visited, only Giovanna was in the store. Rocco had sworn to spend every minute in the shop, but Giov
anna knew that was unlikely for a man who had spent his entire life outside.

  “Signora, is your husband here?”

  “No.” Giovanna used her foot to feel under the counter for the wood pole that Rocco had spiked with nails.

  He turned to go. “Let him know I was here, I have business with him.”

  “You want money from him.”

  The man turned back around. Giovanna could tell he wasn’t comfortable dealing with a woman, but the mention of money was too strong a lure.

  “How much do you want?”

  “Fifty dollars a week for protection.”

  “That’s too much. We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “But, signora, I see your business. It’s a good business. Surely you want to protect that.”

  “We can pay ten dollars.”

  “For you, signora, I will take the ten dollars. And when your business gets stronger, you’ll want more protection.”

  He stood there staring, and Giovanna realized the stronzo wanted the money now. She grabbed ten dollars from the cash box and put it on the counter.

  Taking the money, the thug said, “Today is Friday. I’ll see you next Friday, signora.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Lorenzo noticed that Rocco had not said one word throughout the entire Sunday dinner. His comments were always rare, but usually he at least complimented Teresa on her meal. Giovanna and Rocco had not exchanged words or glances, but that, too, wasn’t out of the ordinary.

  “How are piano lessons going?” Lorenzo asked the girls.

  His stepnieces answered excitedly, but he barely heard them. Instead, he studied his sister.

  Giovanna did not notice Lorenzo’s scrutiny because she was focused on avoiding eye contact with her husband. Rocco still had not spoken to Giovanna. On Friday, when he counted the money at the end of the day, Giovanna was forced to tell him about the payment. Rocco hadn’t known where to direct his rage. One minute he was yelling at Giovanna, the next he was cursing the lazy schifosi. He swung his spiked wood at the invisible enemy. Giovanna had let him rant and didn’t debate the issue. But after having spent her first day since the letter arrived not looking over her shoulder or jumping at every sound, she also knew that on the following Friday she fully intended to pay the thief another ten dollars.