Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  “My grandfather’s name was Anthony, I mean Antonio.”

  “Half the boys are Rocco and half are Antonio. I’m Antonio.”

  “Well, I had an Uncle Sal who came back and forth from America.”

  “Salvatore Arena?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about this Salvatore.” Antonio looked expectant.

  “Well, he was pretty bad…”

  “What do you mean, ‘bad’?”

  “He was the black sheep. He gambled; he drank…”

  “Salvatore Arena! He was my father’s best friend! Salvatore,” he said, shaking his head. “Sit down. Sit down.”

  Antonio led me back to my table and called for wine.

  “You know, you have family here,” he said. “Salvatore’s two children—Cosmo is a fisherman, and he lives with his sister, Rosa, and her family.”

  “Where’s their house?” I asked, practically standing up.

  “In the Chianalea with all the fishermen. It’s too late to go there now. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and I’ll take you.”

  The next morning, Antonio was waiting outside the restaurant in his car. We drove less than a minute before he pulled over and parked.

  “We have to walk from here. Cars don’t fit in the Chianalea.”

  We wove our way down stone staircases and through narrow streets. Occasionally, I had to flatten myself against a wall to allow a scooter through. In the breaks between the houses, I could see the water. At a large opening between buildings, where five or six boats were drawn up on shore, a man sat repairing a net.

  Antonio called in Italian, “Cosmo! Cosmo! This is your cousin from America.”

  “Che?”

  “Questa è tua cugina.”

  Cosmo walked over, looking confused. Antonio explained that Cosmo’s father and my grandfather were brothers. Cosmo nodded, and I smiled. I saw an older woman walking toward us holding groceries in netted bags. She stared at me for a moment, dropped her bags, and ran over.

  “You’re family. You’re family,” she said repeatedly in Italian while stroking my hands. When Antonio confirmed what she already knew, my cousin Rosa cried and kissed my face.

  “Ciao, I have to get back to the restaurant,” called Antonio, walking off.

  I panicked. “But Antonio, you can’t leave. My Italian is terrible.”

  “You’ll manage; it’s your family,” he answered from farther down the alley.

  I looked at my smiling cousins and understood they needed to feed me.

  For five days, I was fed and feted. There were more cousins, some distant, but all insisted that I eat with them. At these meals, with the little bit of Italian I knew, and lots of drawings, I learned about my grandfather’s life in Scilla. They showed me where my grandfather caught his biggest swordfish, where my great-grandmother Fortunata got her water at the public fountain, pictures of all the Arena brothers and sisters, and old postcards from America.

  On the second day, Rosa took a key off her wall and said we were going to Nonno’s house. She stopped in front of a small building a few doors down and behind her own house.

  “This is where my father, Salvatore, and your grandfather Antonio were born and lived,” explained Rosa.

  I was practically shaking as I entered the vacant house. There was little inside, but it was easy to imagine that nothing had changed since Nonno was born there eighty-three years ago. When I asked why no one lived in the house now, Cosmo, whom I had the easiest time communicating with, explained that there was no water or electricity. He also said something about how they had tried to fix the house after an earthquake, but that the repairs hadn’t lasted.

  On my last day in Scilla, I walked past a stone house that looked like it was built into the foundation of the church above it. We had walked past this house many times, and I had noticed that it seemed older than all the other buildings.

  “This was your great-grandmother Giovanna’s house,” said Rosa.

  I was so focused on my grandfather’s life in Scilla that I hadn’t asked about Big Nanny’s house and family. This house was also vacant, but no one could remember who had the key. Cosmo explained that Big Nanny’s house was one of the oldest houses in the village because it wasn’t destroyed in the same earthquake that had made Nonno’s house uninhabitable.

  “The fisherman’s church above it was ruined—that’s a new church, built in 1910. But your great-grandmother’s house, because it’s built into the cliff, survived. Her parents lived in the house alone after their children went to America. No one has lived here since they died.”

  “What do you know about my great-grandmother?” I asked, my mind instantly going back to the blue sparkling dress in the coffin.

  “Your great-grandmother was my second cousin,” answered Cosmo. These conversations were difficult enough to understand in English, never mind in a foreign language. When Cosmo drew a family tree, I understood. I knew Nonno was related to Big Nanny, but seeing it explained in boxes and lines made sense.

  “There are still stories in Scilla about your great-grandmother. She left before I was born, but because she was a midwife, the tales got passed down.”

  “Who was her first husband again?”

  “Nunzio, my great-uncle. He was killed in a construction accident in New York.”

  The family in Italy seemed much better than the Americans at passing down family history and keeping track of who was who.

  When I tried to leave, I was told I couldn’t. “The Feast of Saint Rocco is only two days away! Cosmo will carry the saint!” exclaimed Rosa.

  I knew it wasn’t negotiable. So for the first time, I left my notebook and questions back with the mermaids and Saint Anthony and swam out into the Strait of Messina.

  PART NINE

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK SEPTEMBER 11, 1909–DECEMBER 8, 1909

  THIRTY-TWO

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1909

  Angelina squirmed as Giovanna took the rags out of her hair. The night before, Giovanna had wrapped Angelina’s wet locks in rags to make perfect ringlets, which now sprung free.

  “Happy birthday, my beautiful big four-year-old girl!” cried Giovanna, taking Angelina and kissing her. “Your Nonna and Nonno won’t believe how much you’ve grown in a year when they see your picture.”

  “Will it hurt my eyes?” asked Angelina.

  “No, not at all. And when we’re done we’ll eat pizza at Lombardi’s, just the two of us.”

  “Mamma, I love you!” exclaimed Angelina, hugging her mother.

  “That’s not all. Tomorrow, your cousins will come for Sunday dinner and we’ll have a party.”

  Angelina practically danced all the way to the photographer’s studio on Grand Street. Her white dress bounced around her, but whenever it was in danger of touching a building or another person, she protectively held her dress close so that it wouldn’t get dirty. The ringlets were nearly gone, but her hair shone.

  Once inside, a kindly man with a waxed mustache stood her on an elaborately carved oak chair. A screen painted with a landscape was the backdrop. Angelina kept fussing with her dress, frustrating the photographer, who was trying to keep her hands still.

  “I think she should hold something,” he mumbled to Giovanna.

  Looking around his studio, he grabbed a flag that he had gotten at a parade. The photographer liked to put American objects in the portraits, knowing they would impress the sitter’s relatives in Italy.

  “Here, Angelina, I want you to hold this flag.”

  It worked. Angelina, statue still, held the little white flag that said ERIN GO BRAGH. Giovanna shuffled behind the photographer’s umbrella as he covered himself with a big black cloak. A muffled voice came from beneath the black fabric.

  “Angelina, don’t move anything, not even your face. Pretend you’re a doll, and look right here at the camera. You’re going to hear a pop and see smoke, but stay still.”

  “Cosí bella, Angelina!” exclaimed Giovanna.

&nb
sp; “Uno, due, tre…”

  THIRTY-THREE

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1909

  The early morning sun streamed through the stained glass, making colored patterns on the pew that Angelina used as stepping-stones for her fingers. Her mother was kneeling, so Angelina’s fingers walked behind her mother’s back to tickle Mary, who sat on the other side. Mary gave her a stern look. Rebuked, Angelina leaned against the pew and clasped her hands in prayer. Squeezing her eyes shut, she whispered, “God, please make this mass over, and bless Mamma, Papa, Mary, Frances, Clement, and everyone who is going to visit me today. It was my birthday yesterday. But I guess you know that. Grazie. Amen.”

  Giovanna stirred a pot on the stove. “Angelina, you’re making me crazy. Only five minutes ago you asked what time it was.”

  “Mamma, that was more than five minutes.”

  “Mary, see if there is something in that room to amuse her.” Giovanna needed Mary and Frances to help with the preparation of the meal; otherwise, she would have sent one of them outside to play with the anxious Angelina.

  “Can I put my dress on, Mamma?” pleaded Angelina.

  “No, it’s too early. It’s at least two more hours before anyone will arrive.”

  “Come on, Angelina. Take a look at this,” encouraged Mary, showing her one of her schoolbooks. It was not often that Mary let her touch her books, and Angelina jumped at the opportunity.

  Giovanna peered over her stomach and down at her swollen feet. She would have to remember to sit down as much as possible. Sprinkling the table with more flour, she leaned into the dough, which was nearly up to her elbows, when there was a knock at the door.

  “Frances, please.”

  Frances opened the door to their neighbor Limonata and her daughter.

  “Ciao, Giovanna. I hear you are already so busy. I’m taking Carmela for a walk. Do you want me to take Angelina with us?”

  Giovanna looked at Limonata with surprise. It was not like Limonata to take a walk or to make such an offer. She was even wearing Sunday clothes and a hat. Maybe things were looking up for her.

  When Giovanna didn’t answer right away, Limonata stammered, “We’ll go for a banana. I know you love bananas, right, Angelina?”

  “Yes! Yes! Can I go, Mamma, please?”

  Giovanna noticed that Carmela had not let go of her mother’s hand nor looked up from the floor.

  “Carmela, are you feeling well?” Giovanna asked.

  “Oh, she’s fine,” answered Limonata, before Carmela could open her mouth.

  “Please, Mamma, can I go?”

  Giovanna looked at Angelina’s excited face and silently chastised herself. Where was this reluctance coming from? Only minutes ago, she couldn’t get Angelina out from beneath her feet, and now her neighbor was offering to take her for a walk.

  “We’ll just go for an hour,” said Limonata.

  “Mamma, should I put on my dress?”

  Giovanna hesitated and said, “Don’t change now. When you get back.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go,” mumbled Limonata, taking Angelina’s hand.

  “Wait,” said Giovanna. “Angelina, give Mamma a kiss.” Angelina jumped up and her mother bent down. “Please, Limonata, only an hour. All our family is coming for her party, and she’ll need to change.”

  Limonata led the girls to the stairs. “No problem, just a walk and a banana.”

  Seeing Limonata’s smile, Giovanna felt guilty for her initial hesitation and called down the stairs after them. “Limonata, if you and Carmela would like to join us, you’re welcome for dinner.”

  Limonata didn’t turn around but said, “Grazie, sì, sì.”

  “We’re walking far, signora!”

  “We’re going to my brother. He always has a banana.”

  “You can get a banana on Mott Street.”

  “But today is Sunday.”

  “Oh.” Angelina seemed to take notice of the silent Carmela’s clothes for the first time. “Carmela, you have so many things on, aren’t you hot?”

  Before she could answer, Limonata did. “She has a cough, she must stay warm. See, here we are already.”

  A tall, skinny man with a droopy eye was waiting in front of a butcher store on Delancey Street. “Angelina, this is my brother.” Angelina didn’t see a banana and looked around his back in case he was hiding it. Noticing her looking, Limonata said, “He’s going to take you to get the banana.”

  “But I have to get home for my party!”

  “Oh, not far,” mumbled Limonata.

  The man took Angelina’s hand, and she pulled it away, clinging to Limonata.

  “No, no, Angelina, you go with my brother.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I have to go to the dentist to have my tooth pulled. He’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t want the banana. I want to go home.”

  “Come on, I’ll take you home,” said the brother.

  Limonata was already halfway down the block with Carmela racing to catch up, so Angelina reluctantly took the outstretched hand of this man.

  Angelina shouted to Limonata, “Can Carmela come with us?”

  Limonata didn’t look back or answer, and when Carmela turned around, she yanked her daughter’s arm forward.

  “Come on, kid. I’ll get you the banana and take you home on the train.”

  “The train?” This sounded good to Angelina. She couldn’t walk any farther and wanted to get home soon.

  “Forza,” ordered the man.

  “Where’s the birthday girl?” asked Teresa, bursting through the door with her three little ones, as the older children, including Domenico, squeezed around her to get in the tenement.

  “Our neighbor Limonata took her for a walk, but they’re late. I asked her to be home long before now.”

  “She probably couldn’t get them out of the park,” said Teresa, setting down a package and a tray of stuffed calamari, her specialty.

  Lorenzo eventually made it up the stairs. “Ciao, sorella mia!” He took a look at Giovanna and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “What’s the matter? She’s seven months pregnant and cooking in the heat,” answered Teresa.

  Lorenzo squinted at Giovanna who replied, “No, nothing. I’m just upset that Angelina isn’t back yet.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be upstairs any minute.”

  Angelina looked at the tall, dark, thin man buying the tickets for the El. He didn’t look at all like Limonata, who was short and pale. Turning away from the kiosk, he shouted in a thick Sicilian accent, “Come on, kid,” over the roar of an approaching train.

  The train was practically empty. After sitting down, Angelina moved a seat away from Limonata’s brother. “This train will take us to Elizabeth Street?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Angelina stared out the window. In a few minutes they were heading over the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “This isn’t the way to my house. This is the way to Coney Island.” Angelina stood up from her seat. “We’re going the wrong way!”

  The only two other people on the train looked up at the little girl. The man pulled her back into her seat.

  “This is another way. You don’t know this way. Sit down.” He looked at the people and smiled, relieved to hear that they were speaking English. They smiled back. When the train pulled to a stop, Angelina jumped back up.

  The man took her arm and pulled her into the seat with a forced smile on his face. He said through gritted teeth, “Stay in this seat.” His voice was tough, his grip firm, and his droopy eye looked even more frightening from below.

  Angelina began to cry, and when the doors to the train closed at the stop, her cry turned into a wail.

  The two other passengers stared once again, and the man smiled and shrugged, trying to communicate, “What’s a father to do?” This time the passengers didn’t smile back but turned away.

  “Look, stop crying. We’ll get off soon and I’ll get you the damn b
anana.”

  “I don’t want a banana. I want to go home!”

  With the passenger’s eyes upon them, the man turned to Angelina and, using a sweet tone of voice, said, “If you say another word, or cry again, you’ll never go home.”

  The table was piled with meatballs, lasagna, stuffed calamari, eggplant parmigiana, olives, and artichokes. A large number four cut from paper hung from the ceiling. The adults sat around the table, silent. Giovanna stormed out and went upstairs to bang on Limonata’s door. Rocco called to her, “Giovanna, you knocked ten minutes ago. We would hear them come home!” Giovanna, wringing her hands on her apron, walked back downstairs into the apartment. Rocco looked at his wife and said, “Okay, everyone, let’s eat. Call the children. When she gets home, she’ll eat.”

  Lorenzo quietly obeyed, taking a plate and filling it with food. Soon the apartment was noisy again as the children bounded up the stairs and hungrily dove on the table. Teresa helped them fix their plates while Giovanna remained in the hall watching the door.

  “We’re getting off,” growled the man, grabbing Angelina’s hand. He no longer pretended to be nice—the other two passengers had left the train, and they were alone. She noticed they were leaving the train before she could see Coney Island, but after they had passed most of the houses. Angelina bit her lip. She was trying so hard not to cry; she wanted to go home.

  “Where are we going?”

  The man didn’t even bother to answer her anymore.

  “I can’t walk so fast,” she pleaded, wiping her eyes on her shoulders so he wouldn’t see the tears.

  “Are the signora and Carmela going to be here?”

  “Yeah. Keep walking.”

  At the base of the stairs to the El there was open space in every direction. The man pulled her down the one paved street. Every few hundred feet, a house or store faced the road. That road led to another with even fewer buildings. Two buildings faced each other—a ramshackle wooden house and a small brick office with a sign in the window. The man led her to the door of the house and knocked. A short man answered and hurried them into a small room with a black stove in the middle of the floor. Two women and four children, all smaller than Angelina, stared at her.