Bellagrand

by Paullina Simons

  Why could she still hear him while her palms squeezed her head in such a vise?

  The following day she was supposed to take Alexander to school, but at six in the morning he and she were all the way over in the North End, at St. Leonard’s. Mass was long over, and yet there she remained in the pew on her knees, her head bent, her hands clasped together.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” Alexander whispered.

  “I’m praying.”

  “I know that. You’ve been kneeling a long time.”

  Why do I suspect it hasn’t been long enough?

  “What do you keep praying for, Mama? We have to go. I’m going to be late again. I was late four times already.”

  I’m praying for you, mio figlio. That’s all I ever pray for now. Only you.

  “Is he talking back?”

  “Who?”

  “God.”

  “I don’t know, caro. I’m trying to listen, but all I keep hearing is you.”

  Alexander thought for a moment. “That’s because Jesus has nowhere else to be,” he whispered, “but I have a math test first period, Mom. We have a really long walk . . .”

  “We’ll take a taxi.”

  She dragged herself up, and took him by the hand.

  “Well? Did he answer you?”

  Her arm around Alexander, she searched Salem Street in vain for a taxi. Her poor faithful Flaminio would’ve taken her to Park Street for free. “Yes,” Gina replied to Alexander. “With his silence, perhaps he did.”

  “It’s good when God is silent?” Alexander looked at his mother as if she weren’t right in the head.

  “Of course, mio bambino. It means things aren’t so bad yet that he must answer you. It means he’s busy taking care of those who need him more.”

  Two

  WEEKS THAT FELT LIKE YEARS passed in leaden silence. The telephone remained disconnected. Gina hoped her sister-in-law would volunteer to take care of the unpaid balance when she discovered she couldn’t get in touch with Alexander. But it didn’t happen. Their standing arrangement simply continued. Every other Friday, Esther drove in from Barrington, picked up the boy after school and took him back with her for the weekend. They didn’t need to speak because they lived together three days out of every fourteen.

  Gina’s self-imposed balloon of denial about all things was soon punctured by a letter she received from James Domarind.

  Dear Mrs. Barrington,

  I have been trying to get in touch with you by telephone for the last three weeks, to no avail. I am writing to you because it is of the utmost importance that you call me immediately and schedule an appointment to come and see me as soon as possible. There are grave complications in your husband’s ongoing legal proceedings that profoundly concern you, and which I must discuss with you at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely,

  James Domarind, Esq.

  PS As a side matter, my secretary informs me that your husband’s last four checks for my retainer, for June, July, August, and September, have been returned by your bank for insufficient funds. I’m sure this is an oversight on his part, but I respectfully request that you please bring payment with you when you arrive for your appointment.

  Gina wished she could close her eyes, wake up, and have it be morning the next day.

  Or perhaps a day farther up the road.

  But how far?

  She couldn’t say.

  No use wishing for that, she decided. Every tomorrow only leads to the end. And that would be upon her soon enough. This felt different from other crises, other problems, other hardships. There was something final about these waning Indian summer days. As if there was no way out.

  Gina did not call Domarind, did not make an appointment to see him. She couldn’t pay him, so what was the point? If they had no money for the telephone bill, Harry’s lawyer was not going to extract a nickel from her purse.

  A few days after the receipt of the hateful letter, on the morning of an unseasonably warm Tuesday, there was a knock on her door. Harry had already gone out; he couldn’t bear to stay with her in their cramped apartment. When she opened the door in her tattered housedress, there stood James Domarind, panting from walking up five flights of stairs. He tipped his hat.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Barrington.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Domarind.” She tried to calm her pounding heart. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “No pleasure in this, Mrs. Barrington. But you haven’t responded to my entreaty for your presence in my office. I had no choice but to call on you in person.”

  “I apologize,” she said. “I have not received any letters from you.”

  Quietly he stood on the landing. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “The last letter I sent, I sent certified. You signed for it yourself. I have your signature in my hands.”

  She stepped out into the stairwell. “Yes, yes, I now recall receiving something.” She held the door almost closed behind her. “But you’re my husband’s lawyer. I passed on the letter to him. I don’t know what he did with it. He’ll be home later this afternoon. Would you like to come back then?”

  Domarind shook his thick, slick head. “It’s you I came to see,” he said. “You’re the one I need to speak to.”

  With reluctance, she allowed him inside, cursing herself for not finding the words to keep him out. She asked him to wait and hurried to change into a rust-colored autumn walking dress with a pleated flare, a drop-down waist, and velvet side ties. She pulled back her hair into a monastic bun. She pinched her cheeks to make them look less ashen.

  She would’ve offered him coffee, but she didn’t have any. She would’ve offered him a baked good, but it had been a long time since she’d made anything sweet, bought anything sweet.

  He must have seen her discomfort, because he took pity on her. “I don’t need anything,” he said. “I didn’t come here to eat. This isn’t a party. You are in trouble, Mrs. Barrington.”

  They sat across from each other in the living room. She sat by the window in Harry’s hard chair. Domarind sat on the soft couch. When she needed to turn away from his tough, uncompromising face, which was all the time, she would look to the right and see the Common through a dazzling backdrop of leafy flame. She wondered if today was Harry’s apple crate day. Or was he teasing out the subtle nuances between Leninism and Trotskyism in a ten-thousand-word feature for the Daily Worker? She looked away from the park. She didn’t know where to look, what to do. She stared into her hands.

  “I’ll be brief and I’ll be blunt,” Domarind said, “because you are out of time. Have you heard of the Immigration Act of 1903?”

  “Vaguely, why?”

  “The Immigration Act of 1917?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The Immigration and Sedition Act of 1918?”

  “Mr. Domarind . . .”

  “I will explain.” He produced a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “In 1903, the government stipulated that four classes of undesirables be forbidden entry into the United States. Anarchists, epileptics, beggars, and importers of prostitutes.” He coughed, as if for emphasis. “But anarchists first, Mrs. Barrington.”

  “Mr. Domarind, the law does not apply to me. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re bringing it up. I am not requesting entry into the United States. In case you’re not aware of it, I am already in the United States. Boston, to be specific. Sitting in front of you.”

  He continued. “The 1903 Act was amended in 1917 after all the trouble during the Great War, trouble with which I am aware you’re personally acquainted. Then—and this is the part that concerns you—the law was amended for the third and final time, and came to be called the Immigration Act of 1918. The new law has greatly increased the powers of the Department of Justice and the Department of Immigration to deport any and all undesirables by simple administrative fiat without any due process niceties such as deportation hearings.”
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  “Mr. Domarind, this has nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you, I’m afraid. Under the provisions of the act, all aliens who are either themselves members or are affiliated with any members, organizations, groups, or persons who disseminate, circulate, propagate, print, display, or advocate, among other things, the overthrow of the government of the United States by force, or any other kind of sabotage, can and will be deported.”

  “I am not an alien,” Gina whispered.

  “We’ll get to that. Aside from your damaging affiliation with your husband, who is a vociferous and unrepentant member of the Communist Party of the United States, you yourself retain a paid membership in the Free Society, do you not? You have a lifetime subscription to Mother Earth. These are expenses, Mrs. Barrington, that won’t be easily explained to the Department of Justice once they’ve noted that you cannot pay your telephone or your legal bills.”

  “My husband is full of words,” she said. “He is not full of action. And I will cancel my membership in the Free Society, if it pleases you.” She had forgotten about that. Harry must have been renewing her dues.

  “Too late for that,” said the brisk lawyer. “You know your husband’s record better than I do; I don’t have to review it for you. The number of times he has been arrested for obstructing recruitment stations, for violent assault, for incitement to violence, for disturbing the peace, for endangering a minor—your son—and for advocating the overthrow of our government by any means necessary and establishing a communist dictatorship here in the United States such as they have in the Soviet Union beggars belief.”

  “If you don’t have to review it, then why do you, Mr. Domarind?” said Gina. “And if you’re not up to the job . . .”

  “There isn’t a lawyer in this country who is up to the job, madam. And if there were, you’d have no money to pay for him anyway. You think a public defender will do better for your husband?” Domarind sighed. “Look, the purpose of my visit is not to discuss Harry. It’s about you. You are going to have to wash your hands of him, if you are to save yourself.”

  Gina braced for the coming blow.

  “Because they are going to deport you.”

  She tried to take a deep breath. She couldn’t even manage a shallow one. “That’s not possible. I’m an American citizen.”

  “I’m getting to that,” said Domarind, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his brow, even though it was cool in the room. “You are an American citizen because you married Harold Barrington. Isn’t that correct? Well, your husband was stripped of his citizenship in 1928. So guess what happens to you?”

  “No, he wasn’t. That’s a lie.”

  “Not only is it not a lie, but he himself agreed to it as part of his last plea bargain. You weren’t in court for that particular hearing? I don’t blame you. Been to one, been to them all, I say. Nonetheless, as one of the conditions of his release, your husband’s citizenship was revoked. He told the court he had no desire to be a citizen of any country that oppressed its people like the United States.”

  “He was hot under the collar,” Gina muttered.

  “Perhaps. But did that preclude his understanding of the judge’s order? Because he was clearly told that as a noncitizen, any transgression could get him deported. He and you have been living at the mercy of the Justice Department. So what does he do? Instead of lying low, behaving himself, he has gone on an underground rampage of disseminating, by any and all means available to him, Soviet cables to the CPUSA.”

  “That can’t be, Mr. Domarind.”

  “But it is, Mrs. Barrington. He was told what would happen, and he flipped them off.”

  “It’s a mistake. It’s . . .”

  “I will allow that he didn’t think it through. But he knew what it would mean. He just didn’t know what it would mean for you. Or for your son.” Domarind paused. “Or did he?”

  At the mention of Alexander, it went dark for a moment in the apartment, as if night had fallen in the middle of the morning. Gina may have fainted, sitting up straight and narrow. When she came to, she was slumped in the chair, Domarind was still sitting on the couch, the fired-up trees were outside her window, and Harry was standing in the open doorway, a paper bag in his hands.

  The three of them eyed each other. Gina tried to collect herself. Harry shut the door. “Why are you here?” he said. “Why are you upsetting my wife? I told you last week, I’ll pay you soon.”

  Domarind stood up. “I don’t believe you. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I’ve been telling you for three years to consider how your actions will inevitably affect your family. You refused to listen. And you haven’t been truthful with your wife. She doesn’t even know what’s been happening.”

  “Get out.”

  “I heard it straight from the DA four days ago: you are going to be deported. I told you what would happen if you broke the law one more time. You ignored me. As always.”

  “I said get out.”

  “The United States is about to latch its doors.” Domarind turned his attention to Gina. “Either Italy or the Soviet Union, Mrs. Barrington. But I’ll tell you right now, Italy is not as welcoming as it used to be. Mussolini has cracked down on all anarchists living in his country, and when I say cracked down, I don’t mean cracked down like our friendly justice system cracks down, giving your husband twelve chances, thirteen, and then three more. Oh no. Mussolini is putting the anarchists against the wall and shooting them in the town square. Just read the papers. Trust me, even if you could, you don’t want to go to Italy.”

  “I’m not an anarchist,” said Gina.

  “Domarind, get out,” said Harry. “There will be a deportation hearing.”

  “I wish just once, Harry, you would pay mind to someone other than yourself. I told you, the DA told you, the judge told you, there are no deportation hearings for you. A court-ordered signature is all that’s required. And if you will forgive me, as of today, I am going to respectfully bow out as your legal counsel.”

  “You are the legal enemy, that’s why. You’ve never helped me.”

  “That’s right,” said Domarind. “It’s all my fault. Well, blah blah. The only thing J. Edgar hears is that you continue to actively support the Soviet Union against the United States. In your book it’s freedom. In his it’s treason. And on this one, he has the last word, not you. So pack your bags.” Domarind turned to Gina. “Gina,” he said imploringly, “you’ve got one chance to save your son. Leave him with his aunt—”

  “Domarind! Get the fuck out!”

  “You heard my husband—out!” Gina yelled. “Get out, get out, get out!”

  She pushed him with her hands, shoved him across the apartment, out onto the landing, and slammed the door so hard behind him that the wooden jamb splintered and broke.

  Panting, she turned to Harry.

  Three

  SHE SAID NOTHING. The pit of black dread made her mute. And he was never one for words, not unless someone was being oppressed. He took two sandwiches and a canister of soup out of the paper bag he’d been holding. “I got this from Trinity Church,” he said, as if they had just finished playing cards. “They were giving it away.”

  “Nice to know you can count on the Church in time of trouble.”

  “This isn’t a time of trouble, my darling,” said Harry. “This is a time of opportunity.”

  She watched him from across the room. “Why didn’t you tell me you renounced your citizenship?” she said quietly. She put her hands on her chest. Something was wrong with her. She couldn’t get out a full breath without pain.

  “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said. “Look at how you get. That’s why I don’t tell you half of what’s going on. You get so anxious, and most of the time everything works out.”

  “Is this going to work out?”

  He wasn’t stressed. He was joyous, animated. “Gia,” he said, comin
g around the dining table to get close to her. “Don’t misconstrue what life is offering us. It’s not closing a door. It’s opening our future.”

  “Harry, did you know we faced deportation if there was one more charge against you? Have you known this since last year?” Known and rolled on anyway, pulpits, pamphlets, promises?

  “I knew they were threatening it,” he said, nonchalantly. “Now listen to me . . .” Catching her by the hand, he wrapped his arm around her waist, as if they were dancing. “Come with me.” Kissing the inside of her wrist, he pulled her toward the open bedroom door.

  She yanked away. “Have you gone insane? There is no peace inside me.”

  “You’re wrong, there’s always peace inside,” he whispered, trying to catch her mouth in a kiss, but settling for her wrists and palms. “I know this for a fact. Even when there is a squall outside. Like now.”

  Unseduced, she pulled away. When he reached for her again, she feinted this way, that. He took one step forward, she took two steps back.

  “Did you know you were putting our family into this kind of danger, and did it anyway?”

  He lowered his arms to his sides. They stood without speaking.

  “Well, they finally heard you, Philip Nolan,” Gina said. “My dear man without a country. You’ve been wishing to never hear of the United States again. Now they’re about to see to it.”

  Harry chewed his lip, rolled his head from side to side. “If we want, I have a man who can fix it. Fix it better than Domarind.”

  “Who will pay this man?”

  “Maybe Esther. You don’t think she’ll pay to keep Alexander here?”

  Gina raised her chin. “Still falling back on your father’s money,” she said with scorn. “Nothing is ever real, even this, because you think there will always be a way out.”

  “That’s just the thing, though!” He lurched forward. “I don’t want a way out. I want a way in.” His hands flew toward the window. “To the Soviet Union.”

  “You’re delusional.” Blood had drained from her white hands.

  “It’s my strongest desire. You know that. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”