He forced himself to walk instead of run out of the police station, but to Sal’s amazement, no one tried to stop him.
When Sal reached Costa’s Grocery, Mama was waiting for him just inside the door. Before he could turn the knob, she pushed the door open, knocking into him. She shoved a box of groceries into his arms.
“Don’t say anything until we get inside the car.” Her voice was low.
There was no danger of that. Sal’s lungs ached from running up the street, his heart wild with fear. He tried to read the expression on Mama’s face—her wide-open eyes and tense lower lip—but he’d never seen her like that before.
The car pulled away from the curb, and Sal took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going.”
“Were you planning to talk to the police today?” She didn’t look at him but just kept driving.
“No, Mama. I was going to see Antonina.”
“Is that the truth?” Mama turned her eyes from the road toward him. “My own family has been keeping secrets from me lately.”
“I promise it is.”
“What did that policeman want?” White-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what did he say?” Mama’s voice grew louder.
“He wanted me to go to the station with him, so I did.”
“And what happened?”
Sal’s voice rose. “Nothing.” He cleared his throat.
“Nothing happened?” Mama’s cheeks flushed.
If he told her, would knowing the truth help—or hurt her?
Sal paused and said in a voice barely above a whisper, “They have Papa’s hammer with his initials on it.”
“God, please help us,” Mama begged, as tears streamed down her face.
Chapter 9
Hostages
Sal and Antonina sat in the shade of camellia bushes, grown as tall as trees since Grandma Scaviano planted them along the drive.
“Maybe the police don’t know the tools belong to your Papa.” Antonina placed a gentle hand on Sal’s arm.
A warm spot grew deep in his chest. Antonina tried so hard to make him feel better. Why did he ever tell her about any of this and get her involved? She could’ve enjoyed the summer. She could’ve been sitting in the new movie theater watching Buster Keaton instead of worrying about him and his problems.
Sal sighed. “They may have made out the initials GS on the hammer. You can barely read them, but who knows.”
Antonina’s shoulders slumped. She nodded and then picked up a stick and dragged it through the dirt.
“They must have wanted to see my reaction to the tools being there.” Sal tugged on a dandelion plant. “Otherwise, I don’t see why Officer Kentwood would’ve asked me to go to the police station.”
Antonina looked up. “What was your reaction?”
“I think I looked guilty. I made an excuse about my mama waiting for me and got out of there as fast as I could.”
“But they let you go.” Antonina tossed the stick. “So maybe they know you’re innocent.”
“But not my papa.” Sal shook his head slowly and lay backward into a patch of grass. Clouds gathered overhead. He closed his eyes, and images of carefree times floated behind them. He and Antonina sitting there under the camellias, talking about school and what they wanted to be when they grew up. Or swinging from the oak tree behind the house, on a rope with a board knotted at the bottom.
Screeeeeeeee!
Antonina! Sal bolted upright.
“Let go of me!” She kicked the air as Emilio held her with one arm around the middle and the other under her chin. The heels of Antonina’s shoes made contact with Emilio’s shins as her fingernails dug into his arm. He grunted but held tight.
Angelo swooped down on Sal and yanked him off his feet before he had time to stand and steady himself. He twisted Sal’s right arm behind his back.
Sal winced with pain, unable to kick as Antonina had.
“We’re going to walk to the house now,” Angelo growled. “Quietly.”
Angelo and Emilio shoved Sal and Antonina through the doorway into the kitchen, the screen door slapping shut behind them. Mama screamed. Her wooden bread bowl clattered against the floor. She reached behind her back, searching the tiled counter. A knife rested a few inches outside her reach.
“Find your husband,” Angelo said to Mama. He twisted Sal’s arm until tears flowed from his eyes.
Mama darted across the room to the outside. A thump sounded as she jumped off the end of the porch, a faster route to Papa than taking the steps.
One arm free, Antonina struggled against Emilio’s forearm pressed against her neck until his jacket opened and revealed his gun in a shoulder harness. Antonina followed the direction of Sal’s gaze with her own eyes.
Sal inched his head from side to side, his eyes never leaving Antonina’s face.
Her expression scared him. It was defiant. Same as when she took a whack from Sister Mary Theresa’s ruler rather than snitch on Sal for throwing a pecan at her. The very same face she had when she wouldn’t help Sal get to the shack until she knew the reason why.
He was going to be sick, right there on Mama’s clean kitchen floor. Don’t do it, Antonina—please don’t, Sal begged without saying a word.
Suddenly, Antonina gave a sharp twist to the left and reached for Emilio’s gun.
Boom! Emilio lost his footing, his body crashing into the floor. He lay on his back, still clutching Antonina. Her arms and legs flailed in the air as she tried to break free.
“What’s the matter with you?” Angelo snarled at Emilio.
Emilio loosened his grip on Antonina as he tried to stand back up. Antonina seized her opportunity and scrambled for the door.
“Stop her!” shouted Angelo.
Emilio, still on one knee trying to straighten himself, reached out and grabbed Antonina’s leg. He dragged her back, screaming, her fingernails scraping across the cypress floorboards.
With a loud crack, Uncle Enzo tore open the screen door, hinges and wood giving way, and burst into the kitchen. Mama followed close behind him. Bruno barked like a rabid mongrel from the ground below the porch. Papa had trained him not to come up.
Uncle Enzo’s face was red-hot fury as he lunged at Angelo, who softened his grip on Sal’s arm somewhat.
“No!” Mama’s screamed as Emilio pointed his gun at Antonina’s head.
Uncle Enzo turned toward Mama, and Angelo smacked him across the face with the back of one hand. Angelo’s ring made contact with Uncle Enzo’s nostril and tore it open. In a rage, Uncle Enzo reached for Angelo’s throat. The smell of blood and sweat filled the air around Sal.
“No, please!” Mama begged, covering her face with her hands.
Footsteps pounded across the porch, and Papa appeared in the doorway, his hunting rifle hoisted against his shoulder. “Enzo, stop!”
Uncle Enzo withdrew his hands from Angelo’s throat but snarled and mumbled obscenities as he stepped away.
Papa took aim first at Emilio—who still held the gun on Antonina—then Angelo twisting Sal’s arm, then Emilio again. Emilio’s arm tightened around Antonina’s neck as she stood on her tiptoes to keep from being strangled.
“What do you want, Angelo?” Papa spoke through clenched teeth.
“A thousand dollars.”
Mama gasped. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“Enzo, go get it.” Papa jerked his head in the direction of the small keeping room off the kitchen where they cured sweet potatoes and stored jars of preserves.
Uncle Enzo, holding his handkerchief against his nose, walked out as Mama stared at Papa.
A thousand dollars? Sal had removed the metal cash box from the bottom of the bread cabinet once, when Mama had to clean. The box was small and always locked. He never would’ve guessed how much money it contained. But now they’d be robbed of it all for—for a car! That’s why the crooks were here. They ne
eded money for a car. It might’ve been better if Papa had given them the Model T instead of letting it run out of gas. They would’ve been far from Freedom by now. Or would that have made Papa appear guiltier?
Uncle Enzo returned in less than a minute, his hands filled with cash.
“Count it out loud,” Angelo commanded.
Enzo’s eyes narrowed with hatred, but he counted the bills to a thousand dollars, placing them on the kitchen table.
Papa still held his rifle, aimed at Emilio. “Now, let them go.”
Angelo and Emilio exchanged glances. Angelo released Sal and scooped up the money. Emilio dropped Antonina but swung his gun’s aim wildly about the room as he and Angelo backed out the doorway onto the porch.
Antonina sank to the floor, drawing a deep breath through her mouth. Mama rushed to her.
Sal ran to the window. Bruno bared his teeth and growled at Angelo and Emilio, and then lunged at them as they flew down the steps. Emilio fired a shot at Bruno but tripped and stumbled.
Uncle Enzo ran out the door and jumped off the porch. “I’m gonna kill you! So help me, I’ll find you and kill you!”
Sal headed toward the door.
“Sal, where are you going?” Mama reached for him but Sal was too fast.
“I need to see if Bruno’s okay.”
“He’s okay, Sal.” Uncle Enzo came back inside. “Those pigs are almost at the road already.” Blood dripped down his lips and off his chin. He collapsed into a chair at the table.
For the next few seconds, the only sound was the breathing of those who remained in the kitchen.
Mama was the first to speak. “Hiram.” Her voice quivered. “It’s all right.”
Sal hadn’t heard Hiram come into the house through the keeping room. He stood just inside the kitchen, his skinny fingers gripping the wooden bat he and Sal used to play baseball.
Seated on the floor, Antonina coughed and stroked the fingers of one hand across her throat. Hiram chipped a piece of ice from the icebox, wrapped it in a rag, and handed it to Mama, who placed it on the red welt forming on Antonina’s neck.
Sal sat down on the floor next to Antonina and held her hand. Antonina fussed and said she didn’t need it. The ice rag or his hand?
“Don’t worry.” Antonina spoke to no one in particular. “I won’t tell anyone what happened.”
Papa eyes clouded with concern. “We can’t ask you to keep this from your father and mother.” His voice was tender. “That wouldn’t be right.”
“You’re not asking me, Mr. Scaviano.” Antonina looked him straight in the eye. “Besides, I’m fine.” She squeezed Sal’s wrist.
“Oww.” Sal was sore from his shoulder down to his hand.
“Here, you need this more than I do.” Antonina moved the ice rag from her neck to Sal’s arm.
“Let me see, son.” Papa lifted and felt Sal’s arm like when he checked one of the mule’s legs after it tripped in a hole. “It’ll hurt more tomorrow, but I think you’ll be all right in a few days.”
Antonina’s welt turned into a bruise and darkened.
“What about Antonina?” Sal asked. “Look at her neck.”
Antonina rose from the floor and crossed into the next room to view herself in the mirror. “It’s not that bad,” she said when she returned, “especially after getting clobbered with the rope swing.” She winked at Sal and grinned at Mama and Papa.
“Have it your way, Antonina.” Papa pulled keys from his pocket. “Sal and Hiram will take you home in the truck.”
Uncle Enzo remained in his chair, still pressing his handkerchief against his nose.
Mama went to him. “Let’s go see Doctor Cardarella. I think you need some stitches.”
On the ride into town, Antonina sat in the truck between Hiram and Sal. Silence filled the cabin. Sal held tight to Antonina’s hand with his good hand, and she let him.
When they pulled up in front of Labato’s Restaurant, the sign next to the door screamed its message: “Whites Only.” The red letters sprang to life, jumping off the painted rectangle of wood toward Sal.
“I’ll wait here.” Hiram squinted and averted his gaze.
For the first time, it embarrassed Sal that Hiram, willing to risk his own safety for all of them, saw the sign, too.
Chapter 10
No Right Answer
That night, Uncle Enzo lay asleep in his bed, facing Sal’s. Sal sat upright, propped against the pillow that softened his iron headboard.
He couldn’t help but stare at Uncle Enzo’s nose. Black thread held together swollen red and purple flesh. It created a face that Sal wouldn’t have immediately recognized if he hadn’t seen the attack and resulting injury himself.
Uncle Enzo’s eyes popped open as though awakening from a bad dream. “Are you all right, Sal?” His voice was thick.
“My elbow is sore and my shoulder is bruised,” Sal admitted. “Does your nose hurt?”
“A lot.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as Angelo’s going to be.” Uncle Enzo closed his eyes again and drifted off.
Images of a fight ending with Uncle Enzo dead flitted across Sal’s mind. His breathing picked up speed.
Instead of seeking revenge, Uncle Enzo should just let this alone. The gang was going to use Papa’s money to buy a car and travel far away from Freedom, if the Scavianos were lucky. Maybe then they would be safe with no one watching them anymore. Or maybe someone would be watching if one of Freedom’s policemen was on the take like Angelo said. Sal’s back tensed against his pillow.
The crooks might be part of a bigger organization from the north, or even closer, in New Orleans. Just like the ones in those newspaper stories. Would Papa even consider going to the police now? If he did go, how could he be sure of talking to an honest cop? He could still be blamed for everything, too. And if he didn’t go, should Sal go by himself and tell the truth? He’d never acted against his father’s wishes before, never broken a promise to him—at least not about anything more serious than coming home on time or helping Mama with chores. He was supposed to honor his father and mother but also wasn’t supposed to lie, and that meant not withholding the truth either, didn’t it? Faced with two decisions that were both wrong, what should he do?
Instead of things getting better, they were getting much worse. Sal slid away from the headboard and lay down, smashing his pillow over his face.
Chapter 11
Legacy
A sheet of white paper trembled in Papa’s weathered brown hands. He stood behind his chair at the kitchen table and stared at the object he held as though he’d never seen such a thing before. “The university wants to see me about the strawberry.”
Mama’s eyes and mouth opened wide. “How wonderful!” She turned to Sal. “Would you please turn off that radio?”
Sal silenced Ted Lewis and his band playing Just Around the Corner and edged closer to his father. The stationery was imprinted with the name of the state’s oldest university.
“What does the letter say?” Mama placed a hand on Papa’s arm.
“We are interested in the strawberry variety you have developed and would like to extend an invitation to visit our Department of Horticulture.” Papa read aloud, stumbling only once over the last word. He placed the letter on the table and smoothed the folds with calloused fingers.
“That’s good, right, Papa?” His father didn’t seem very happy about the news.
Papa didn’t raise his head but blinked a few times. Sal shrugged and returned to his seat and his vegetable soup.
Mama laid her hand over Papa’s. “What’s wrong, Gianni?”
Papa raised his eyes to hers. “They won’t be interested anymore, once they find out I might be a suspect in an attempted bank robbery.” He pulled out his chair and sat.
“Do you see any police around here?” Mama waved her arms to encompass the whole room.
“No, but you said yourself that Sal saw my tools at the police station. It�
��s just a matter of time, Rosa.” Acceptance and defeat edged his voice.
“Okay, so what are we supposed to do? Stop living?” Mama’s voice rose.
Now they were arguing about good news? Sal put down his spoon.
“Of course not.” Papa sighed, rubbing his eyes and moving his hand up his forehead and through his hair to the back of his head.
Sal got up from the table. He walked to the cabinet nearby and opened a drawer.
“Gianni, this has been your dream.” Mama spoke almost in a whisper. “Do you want to just wait here until you’re arrested, instead of trying to get your name—our name—on this strawberry?”
“Papa, why did Grandpa and Grandma Scaviano come to America?” Sal stood between his parents, holding a tattered photograph.
Both Mama and Papa’s heads jerked in Sal’s direction.
The lines on Papa’s face softened. He took a deep breath and accepted the photograph from Sal’s hands. The faded image showed an elderly Italian couple in peasants’ clothing. “They wanted a better life for themselves and their children than they had in Sicily—and for you, too, even though they didn’t know you yet.”
“What was wrong with their old life?” Sal had heard the story so many times he couldn’t count the number, but he needed Papa to tell it again.
“Greedy men in their town forced people to pay them for being allowed to work or operate their businesses. And those men lured boys in need of money—your age and younger—into their criminal activities.”
Paolo. Poor Paolo. If only they’d escaped sooner.
“What happened after they brought you to America?” Sal asked.
“Some of those same kinds of people from the old country were here, too, expecting payment. They called it protection, but it was really protection from them. And there were other people—people who didn’t like Italians, even though your grandparents and lots of others had become American citizens.” Papa’s eyes darkened with memories from his childhood. “They burned our grocery stores and tried to scare us from getting jobs at the factories. So, Grandpa and Grandma joined a group of Italians from Sicily and other parts of Italy who found a place where land was cheap and nobody would stop them from farming.” Papa handed the photograph back to Sal and gently cupped the back of his head.
The Other Side of Freedom Page 5