--I don't trust you.
--What do you mean?
--Think about it.
--Yeah?
--You promise, too.
--I see. Insecurity fosters insecurity. I promise.
Oh! Promise me that some day you and I...
Oh! Promise me that some day you and I...
How the hell did the rest of that song go?
Oh! Promise me...
Mary? Why?
--Because you're Sam Scopio, and I'm Mary Dolorosso.
Holy clean explosions, and a shivaree to thee and me! D-O-L-O-R-O-S-S-O. Deathbeat drumroll, please.
He found the night long, wonderfully sleepless, filled with phantasy and wonderment, to some extent about the Dolorosso thing but mostly about the forthcoming meeting.
Several times during the night he assiduously winnowed every bit of a seed of memory he could recall concerning the Dolorosso name. What became clear was that the facts he knew were broad generalizations which he knew well, but had very little detail with which to substantiate their existence, much as some family tragedy about which everyone knew, but of which no one spoke even in guarded moments either to deny shame or pain or whatever. What he did remember was that Germano Scopia, his father, and Rocco Dolorosso, her father, at one time was bosom buddies who eventually became partners in a window washing business. Sam remembered "Uncle" Rocco, a lively happy man who picked him up every time he came to the house always making time for some moments of playfulness. How dim the face. How abruptly he went away, it had to be at least twenty-five years ago. And "Aunt" Lily Dolorosso, who seemed closer to his mother than a sister. He recalled they used to walk arm in arm down the street, always seemed to be huddled together, always involved with one another. How dim her face, too. And then there was the accident, but wasn't the accident that caused the problem, it was something about the accident.
The two men had found a common need to join forces. It was difficult for one man to get a window washing contract for the big buildings in New York City. There was a great deal involved besides graft and negotiations, including assurances demanded by the agents that the work be done, done well, and on time. There was a matter of insurance which both agreed they'd cut from the budget to save money. Better than brothers, they'd insure each other. For a good number of years, they worked hard, prospered, saved money, and shared a vision of buying a duplex three or four floors far up in North Bronx where they could raise their families. They got to the point where they went looking for places. It all ended abruptly.
On this Friday, Rocco informed Germano he would quit work early because he was to renegotiate a new contract with a building agent. He would leave when he had to, and would go home alone where they usually travelled to and from work together, but only if Germano agreed. No question they looked out for one another, but working alone meant taking one's chances. Not another thought! Rocco was to go.
Late in the afternoon, on his way up to the next floor, Germano stopped on the floor assigned to Rocco to see if he was still working, or, if he had gone for the day. Not seeing him, German went about his business, and at the end of the day, went home. He informed Lily that Rocco might be home late because of the meeting. It was after ten o'clock when she called to say Rocco was not yet home. Unquestionably, he'd be home within the hour, they agreed. Probably had to buy a few rounds of drinks. But, that wasn't the case at all. It took several hours to confirm with the building's agent that although he did have an appointment with Rocco, it was never kept. Then, the night watchman at the building where they were working took an interminably long time to inspect the building both inside and outside in the alleys and landings, and report no sign or sighting of anyone except a couple drunks sleeping it off. Germano wasn't satisfied with that. He'd be down himself to take a look.
Germano found Rocco at five-thirty that morning, hanging by his safety harness on one window hook. He had a severe gash on his forehead, and lapsed in and out of consciousness. In those moments, when he came to, he shook and shuddered constantly, terror tearing through him like a blunt corkscrew.
Singlehandedly, Germano lugged Rocco's deadweight up and through the window, an incredible task.
The theory was Rocco was either getting ready to call it quits because it was a hall window, the window had been cleaned, although he had not yet opened it; or, he had unhitched one side of his safety belt preparatory to moving over to do the next window when he slipped, lost his balance, had a stroke, or any other thing. In his fall, his head collided savagely with the side of the building. The concussion knocked him out. Being a hot summer's Friday, the place became deserted early and rapidly; and, unfortunately, the accident happened in the bowels of the building's network deep in an alley where neither Rocco nor his calls were noticed nor heard. In addition, his sounds whited out by the huge running air conditioners on the roofs. Until darkness fell, he opened his eyes to see the ground, fourteen floors away.
His doctor wanted to release him from the hospital in two days. Inexplicably Rocco fought it. Seven days later, he was discharged, a wheelchair going home with him. And, Good Lord! He was still in it at the christening!
So, Rocco Dolorosso never went back to work. Rocco blamed the accident, and his hours of agony on Germano Scopia. The two men had not spoken since. In the row Germano quit the window washing business, Rocco forbade Lily to see Concetta. For many months it caused both women to have their eyes fill with tears at unexpected moments.
Sam wondered about many things involving the two families, but most of all, he was now anxious more than ever to know the exact and whole truth.
Best of everything, he understood why Mary's face haunted him. He remembered it from a long time ago. Strange how he'd forgotten all about her for so long, to have lived within two miles of each other and never to have met before this week. Ah! Destiny! How nice a package you provide.
Though he dwelled on these aspects several times during the night, the forefront of his thoughts was filled with the exultation of perfect reveries, wonderful thoughts.
Tomorrow night, for the very first time in his whole life, he had a date! He shunted aside anything to do with Dolorosso, and concentrated on the face and form who might just as well be called Louisa Golczek, although he caught waftages of sleep uttering, Mary!...Mary!...Mary!
The strangest aspect this night of the journey of the spaceship of his mind plying a barrage of outer orbit balcoscenic flashes was the unexplained, totally unnoticed jettison of more than two decades of self-defensive impedimenta. All such reasonings, all such excuses no longer applied. The basis for their very existence atomized by the materialization of a Scopio-Dolorosso assignation. Vanished! Were all his favorite photographic self-deprecations. Gone! The unappealing social pictures he drew, and redrew of himself. Flown! Were the justifications for his solitary existence. From being a near bit of an atom he exploded into a full-fledged feeling fellow equal to any man's emotions. But, not without the concern such approbation was due. Every beat, flash of a scene, kiss, caress, glance ended with a smothering doubt: --What if she doesn't show up! Bring back the garbage! No! He wouldn't allow himself that for a fraction of a splitsecondream understanding he wanted not to mar indulging himself in wishdreaming, the solitudinal’s bliss. Had Mary not rejected him three times, he might've answered the question of whether or not she'd appear, but the heartsqueezepress had been turned down far too tight to allow him to consider the consequences of yet another turn of the screw. He knew. Squishsplattered out of him would be the will to live. How revolting a thought when the world went well, how welcoming when joy's juices dried up. With every imaginative flash ending with the possibility of her non-appearance, each one started with her moving expectantly towards him in the gathering dusk of Eden Farms.--How delighted I am you could come! No! You're prompt! Prompt! As royalty! Shall we stroll a bit? I didn't take the stretch limousine. I thought it would be too ostentatious. And, yes! If you don't mind, would you be kind enough to accept these small sym
bols of my appreciation: blue roses, Shangaleone parfum, and an emerald pendant for your birthday. Ah! Your favorites, I knew! It's no trick to recognize a distinctive, sophisticated style. It makes me happy that you're impressed. That was the intention... --How would she know of the roses, parfum and pendant if she doesn't show up! She wouldn't know how much I thought of her! Of what form my adoration took! How could she know to think well of me? Forget it! You're never going to see her again ever, and besides you'll be in a burying box by Friday! Better make it Monday in case she reconsiders...
Abed, thinking, Mary was more absorbed at first with criticizing her own appearance, based mostly on the aspect that if she'd known she was going to see Sam, she would've prepared in a much different way. Hairstyle, make up, clothes were done, re-done and re-done endlessly, because she didn't have to settle on any decision. Even so, she agreed she was beautiful, chic, although in these imaginings she never saw herself, only him. Sam Scopia! She should've known! She should've known! They’d been looking for each other for all these years! It could've been no one else! Destiny! Destiny! How his lips formed when he told her his name. How hurt he appeared when she sent him away, understandable now, but so surprising then. She understood better, too, that she was very defensive not because she thought he was a married man, as much as it was her concern that he represented the symbol of her shame for going to a pornographic film! What other reason would he have to be there if not to show her up to the world as a voluptuary? She cringed at the thought of all the fingers pointing at her like so many daggers. The sign hung around her neck would read “Mary Hotflesh.” Sexkettle. But, in the mirror she held up before herself, she was the little girl who cried out during the parade that the empress wore no clothes. Why should she deny her sensuality because her family raised her in the darkest of ages concerning normal human bodily functions? The ignorance had been smeared onto her, too, and she was suffering from trained response. In a long, roundabout way, Sam Scopia was the victim of a piece of it. Through destiny! He reappeared! She could correct her error. And she would do it, too. She’d explain what a frightened petty mind had directed her actions. Destiny! Destiny! Yes! How he'd sought out the wrong name to find the right person. Destiny! What more homage can a Mandatary pay but fulfill your command? Appropriately made up and dressed, of course. In addition, such an injunction balmed her conscience concerning Vito Cidrugli. He was involved with her life, peripherally, to please her parents. He was to them the epitome of the ideal son-in-law, a propertied man. He ran a bakery. To Mary, he always smelled of yeast and malt. It was the one moment of freedom she was allowed, when he came to get her for a Sunday afternoon walk, to Bronx Park, usually, or the movies, or a dinner date. She wouldn't let him kiss her, so after a long while passed; he got up the nerve to ask her the reason. She was prepared with an apocryphal answer:--Because every time I return home after being with you, when my father asks if you made any advances, if you kissed me, I would have to say `yes,' and that would make him think less of you; perhaps even make me stop seeing you. Do you want that? Little did he know her father’s real attitude was more like why she didn't in the least give him a cheap feel! Whatever, Vito rose to the occasion, satisfied to kiss her hand, which wouldn't be improper, but rather a dignified, respectful, if not the European salutation found more than awkward in America. Well, naturally, father wouldn't have to be told about that. The point was that so much was made of so little that she had a twinge of disloyalty towards Vito because she was going to see someone else. --Gilda...? She thought better of it. She knew what Gilda would say about any guilt feelings concerning Vito. --Auntie! Don't be a silly ass! The autodialectical review effectively and emphatically settled the matter of Vito Cidrugli. The viewscreen of her mind was immediately usurped with a more compelling concern: the actual meeting with Sam. Interestingly enough, she dwelled not at all on whether or not Sam would show up, but whether she would make it! It wasn't a question of whether or not she wanted to keep the appointment, but derived solely from the consideration that something might prevent her from being at Eden Farms the following day. Nothing specific. Not even an inkling. A mere fretting nursed by the languid pulsing of her bedmate's self-indulgent ministrations which used to ease her to sleep, but now served as a transport from one thought to another. Make a note! How and where to contact Sam? The upholstery shop, yes, but where else? Not his home, wherever that was, certainly, unless there was a code, or a third party! Good! Next, Louisa must promise to meet Sam at Eden Farms in case she's hit by a cab crossing the street, or something. Couldn't do--even if she was dead--to have him think she'd stand him up.
Next? Is he single? Get entangled with a cheating man?
Next? Where does he live? If he's single, does he have his own apartment? Oh! Lord! What if he asks me up there, and we're alone, just the two of us. Would he try anything? Would I let him? Even the first time? He'd better not dare! But, suppose, like me, he lives with his parents? Oh! Damn! Double damn-damn!
Next? I wonder if he likes me.
Next? A lot or a little?
Lord! Every single night, Gilda! I wonder if that's the way we're all supposed to be?
Next? If I get to see him tomorrow night, then probably never again!
Next? What do I wear...?
Too much! Too much! A cigarette? Or do a Gilda?
CHAPTER 9
STILLHUNTING THE stillhunter. Sam had the advantage in this stalk of keeping his date with Mary, he thought. The chessplayer planning, reviewing his opening gambit. The general plotting a sterile battle map. He took lunchtime to hustle to Eden Farms to collect an overview, to plot and counterplan. Strategy dryfieldtrial. The sensation of overpumping bloodvessels in his throat and chest caused an exaltation that made him feel he was walking on the tips of his shoes. At these times, he could barely swallow, his throat so constricted with emotion, afraid he'd reach outer burstlimit, constraining himself forcefully. The conception of meeting a woman so dishubris, so portentous an event in his life he reacted in all manners of strange, unrecognizable ways, most noticeably talking out loud to himself. Some of it gibberish, ending most of the time with the announcement of his disbelief, such as, JesusChristAlmightyI'llbeadirtyrotten-sonofabitch- ifIdon'thaveadateIdon'tbelieveit! Just can't b-e-l-i-e-v-e it! Holyshit repeated dozens of times. So unmindful was he of his behavior a passing total stranger asked him who was winning the argument. It fazed him not. His life was plucked out of a black hole! What care for insignificancies? All this based on rock-solid optimum optimism one moment; degrading despair the next. The whole idea behind casing out the locale of the rendezvous was a whole and wide harrowed field of hurt. It was one thing for one's anima to be caught with pants down; it was another to deliberately bare one's ass in public. The distinction was apparent to the streetwise, a synonym for sledgehammeredhard experience. Redundancy was of no value to Sam. He just wasn't going to take any chances of standing in the photographer's doorway looking every inch the part of someone who was grossly stoodup. --I can't believe you'd let yourself in to be such an asshole, I can't believe it! This said as one word. Nevertheless, he had to believe it because he recounted other experiences born of exuberance, buried in disaster, exhumed through ingenuousness. He didn't like appearing on anyone's menu as chicken fricassee. He'd be no victim of a foul plot, if he could help it, the main purpose of this dry run. Erringly, he walked to the photographer's shop. Casually, he inspected the photos: a wedding--snazzy, big do, mousy groom, balleating bride. Portraits on the other side, seductees praying hands' to chins; grey-haired Bronx Bogomile, glasses, book, pipe, potbelly; leering Yalie. Sam took a stand by the entranceway reconnoitering the sweep before him. He wanted to isolate a position that would guard the approach, and, at the same time, be a casual spot from which he could suddenly appear without raising suspicions of his ultra-precautious demeanor. From his vantage, he checked the environs minutely. He scanned again, this time noting possible posts. A third review cut his options to six. --General Scopia! For tonig
ht's operation, we will select one primary and two alternate stations! --I just can't believe it's going to happen! It's not going to happen, you jerk. She won't show up! Make your plan, or you're going to look like an asshole waiting for someone who's not going to show up! On with the plan. He'd walk the perimeter of the field, try each location, then make his choices; go back to work, and wait. He decided his first choice would be just beyond the furthest bus stop, down to the right of the photographer's studio where he could watch her approach from any direction. Once Mary got to the entranceway, he'd make his move to meet her, and not before. He knew he was supposed to be there first, to wait for her, but he couldn't, he had a ten-gallon can of pain waiting to spring a leak at the next rejection. He was almost all set.
On the way back to the shop, he made a stop at a florist. --A blue rose? A black iris, yes! A blue rose, no. You want I should do a spray job? No, not for this lady, that's not what he had in mind.
What he had in mind for the remainder of the afternoon was a barrage of questions and likely answered hashed and rehashed. There was the matter of the Scopia-Dolorosso to-do. Could peace be made? With just about fifty words exchanged between them, how did he know whether or not she was completely wrong for him? Or him for her? And where would the wedding take place? Well, really, now, he had to admit, it was premature, no? But what if she put the arm on him to get married? He heard that was the prime objective of any single girl's relationship, even in the fog of women's independence. Silly ass to think like that, but...what the hell, dreams came cheap. Then came the "what if..." phase. What if she didn't want to see him any more? What if she said she'd meet him just to keep him out of harm's way at the christening? What if she was just a thrillseeker, obligated to a husband or someone, and thought it would be a lark to see Sam Scopia, just a fling? What the hell, if she was caught, she could always point to him, and say, “What? Him? Does he look like a television soap star?” She'd be declared innocent in a whit of a split spit. What if she was some chimera who doted on the imperfect: hydrocephalics, tri-and quadriplegics, engaudemented bodies, uneasthetic disublimities? How revolting. How nicer to think of appropriate activities immediately following the meeting. --How'd you like to do a couple strings a bowling? Shithead. How'd you like to get strung up by your thumbs for such a stupid idea? Now think! She's tired from work, what makes you think the idea of a marathon around Bronx Park will set her on fire? More like a movie! Oh! Dummy! A movie is when you don't have anything to say! Like a camp activity thing. But, Sam, you turn taciturn on me, and I'll set your hair afire! So, the day's seconds lumbered by.
A Matter of Love in da Bronx Page 13