The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts
Page 13
For a split second, the air can be cut with a knife. Just when Giova is about to answer Papa, the doorbell rings. I am grateful for the interruption.
Marcello runs to the door, and a second later we hear a man asking for Papa. Before Marcello can call him, Papa is already on his way to the living room.
“Giova,” I say, in an angry, hushed voice, “Why do you upset him like that?”
“You need to stand up for what you believe in, Carolina.”
“At what cost? At the cost of hurting Pa?” I argue. We don’t finish the conversation because we both realize it’s the constable who has stopped by.
“Rocco,” I hear Papa say, “Come in. Sit down.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, Pietro.”
“No interruption. We’re just finishing. What can I do for you?”
“We have Angelo Marchetti in custody. Can you come to the station?”
By this time, we are all hanging in the doorway between the dining room and living room. Papa’s face is stone.
“I’ll get my coat. Lena, I may be late.”
“We’ll come with you, Pa,” says Giova, and he and Giuseppe grab coats as well.
They are out the door and down the street before Mama and I say anything to each other. Mama couldn’t look more shocked if she had seen Lucifer himself at the door.
“What could have happened, Carolina? What could possibly have happened?”
I don’t need to even try to answer her. There is a second knock at the door, this one more timid. Mama sends Marcello and Lindo upstairs.
Then she checks the peephole and quickly flings the door open. Sara is standing there, bloody and bruised, with marks around her neck. As soon as she sees Mama, she is hysterical.
“Lena! Lena!”
Mama grabs her and holds her a long time. She’s stroking Sara’s hair and trying to calm her down, but it takes a long time.
“Sit here,” says Mama. “Put this blanket around you. You have no coat.” She turns to me. “Carolina—get her a cup of tea.”
Mama sits beside Sara on the couch and holds her hands for a while. I don’t know if they talk or not. When I finally return with the steaming tea, she seems ready to explain what happened. Of course, we both know what happened from looking at her. Obviously, Luca has returned.
“I thought,” she begins, “when he didn’t return in March that he was never coming back. He’s never stayed away this long.”
“We couldn’t be that lucky,” interrupts Mama.
“I was ironing,” continues Sara, “and the screen door opened and slammed shut. There he was in front of me. At first, he wanted dinner, so I went to the kitchen to cook. Then he wanted to know why I wasn’t at work.”
Here she looks down and starts to almost whisper. “I told him about the accident. He looked at my leg, and he was furious. He was screaming at me, calling me an idiot, a good for nothing imbecile who can’t do anything right. Then he punched me in the jaw.” She tries to touch it, to show us where he hit her, and she winces.
“Chip some ice off the block and wrap it in a towel, Carolina,” says Mama. “I’m going to get some water and soap for that cut under your eye, Sara. Drink your tea, for me.”
In the kitchen, Mama and I exchange a glance, and she shakes her head. She looks like she can hardly contain her anger. I know that she is devastated that the monster is back.
After we tend to her face, Sara continues the story. “I was yelling, ‘Stop, Luca. Please stop. You’re hurting me!’ But I knew it was useless because he wanted to hurt me. He wasn’t going to stop. He even started to choke me.”
That explains the marks on her neck. It almost looks like she has a rope burn.
“Angelo has been working the ground for me, planting a little garden. Sometimes he comes after he finishes at the barber shop, but he never knocks on the door. He just works for an hour and goes home. I’ll see him, sometimes, out my window, and I’ll bring him a drink of water. Most times I never even know he is out there. He must have been out there this evening.”
Mama’s face has just registered fear. She puts her hands to her mouth. “What happened, Sara?”
“He ran into the house and caught Luca by surprise. Angelo spun him around and hit him straight in the nose. He must have broken it. Luca doubled over, and then he started to have a nose bleed. He took a knife from his boot and rushed at Angelo. I couldn’t even scream because I was still trying to get air from being choked.”
There is something so unreal about this moment. I hear what Sara is saying, but I can scarcely believe it. Mama and I are two people struck dumb.
“I don’t know what happened after that. It was too fast. They wrestled, and somehow the knife ended up in Luca’s chest.”
Mama and I gasp at the same time.
“He’s dead, Lena! He’s dead, and Angelo is in jail, and I am to blame. I didn’t know what to do. Angelo told me that he was sorry—sorry! When he saved my life! Then he told me to wait while he walked to the jail. He told Belsido to send the undertaker to my house. What will happen to Angelo, Lena?”
“I don’t know, Sara. But Pietro is with him. And Belsido is fair. He knows what kind of man Luca was. We all know. You cannot blame yourself. This wasn’t your fault.”
Clearly, she is blaming herself because when Mama says this, Sara starts to cry all over again, very hard. I can’t help but think of Zia Izzy and her curse. Is it possible that she really did change Luca’s luck? I shudder to think of it.
“Angelo was there because he was sent by God to protect you today, Sara. He wrestled with the devil, and now we are free of his evil. Luca is responsible for his own death, and we all know it.”
Sara is crying and rocking back and forth. “What if the judge doesn’t see it that way?
“We’ll make him see it that way. You know what happened. Carolina and I see your bruises. There is no one in this town who would blame Angelo.”
Mama sends me upstairs to make sure that the boys wash up for bed. In a little while, I can hear Papa’s voice. Marcello and I eavesdrop at the top of the steps. He’s telling Mama and Sara what he knows. Angelo will be in the constable’s jail until a judge can hear what happened.
Sara buries her head in her hands when she hears this.
“Sara, come on now,” says Papa. “You know Rocco Belsido. He’ll leave the cell door open. We’ll all visit him as much as we want. Rocco isn’t going to treat Angelo like a criminal.”
There’s a famous story about Captain Belsido that we all know. A few years ago, Adriana Trasotti was assaulted and raped by a man who was caught a week later. He was put in the constable’s cell until he could be transferred to the Blawnox jail. One day, Belsido walked into the barbershop where Trasotti was tearfully bemoaning the condition of his daughter. She was still traumatized and would not talk. The other men listened sympathetically. "It’s a tragedy,” said Belsido. “And I don’t trust these American judges to carry out justice, do you?” he asked the men. They all shook their heads and held them low. What would a judge care about the daughter of an immigrant?
“You know,” Belsido told them all on his way out, “my wife is always bothering me to take her to visit her sister. She works hard, my wife. She deserves a break. I think I’ll surprise her and take her there this evening. I’m sure the jail is secure without me.”
It was crystal clear to everyone that Rocco was letting justice takes its own course. The door to the station was left unlocked “by accident,” and Belsido was surprised the next morning to find the prisoner lying dead in a pool of his own blood.
Tonight, Sara will stay with us. Tomorrow morning, Mama will accompany her to her house. Sara says that there are stains on the floor, and I lie awake thinking of Luca, lying in a pool of his own blood. In my mind, his eyes are still open—and still terrible. Mama and Sara will spend the day scrubbing away the blood, scrubbing away all signs of Luca Vassari’s existence.
Dear Diary, May 26, 1926
6
Dear Diary, June 16, 1925 - morning
Everyone in Sharpsburg is talking about Luca’s murder. Murder? That can’t possibly be the right word. Luca’s deserved end. No one—no one—can believe that it came at the hand of Angelo Marchetti, the simple barber with a kind heart and a gentle soul. I don’t know how it wasn’t his body that the undertaker had to recover from Sara’s house. Normally, he would have been no match for Luca. Papa says that Angelo was in a rage—that he heard the screams and saw Luca beating and choking Sara and became so infuriated that it gave him supernatural strength. Of course, Angelo also caught Luca off guard. Luca had no idea that Angelo was anywhere around. Some say Luca had been drinking first, but I think that everyone is trying to add to the story.
Sara has been watching over Nana and Rose. She feels responsible for their welfare. It’s like the poor church mouse trying to care for other mice when she can barely take care of herself. But she spends time with Nana—helps her clean, helps her cook, and helps to care for Rose. It makes Sara feel better, and Nana and Rose need the help.
It’s hard to say how Sara feels. She doesn’t have to live in fear anymore, but I think it has to be conflicting to be joyful over the death of your own husband—not that she seems joyful. I think she is worried to death about Angelo. Papa says the judge will release him as soon as the case is explained to him. In the meantime, the barber shop is closed, and that means no income for Nana. I know that Sara is anxious about that, too. It makes me think of Nicoletta and how frightened she was when there was no money after her husband died. Where were the neighbors then?
Mama and I are taking Mr. Marchetti lunch today, but we aren’t the only ones looking after him. People are in and out of the jail all day, bringing him food and cigarettes, stopping to talk and play cards. Belsido has taken good care of Angelo. Sometimes he even brings Angelo a drink from the still that he keeps in the sewer system, at least that’s what Pa says.
On the way to the jail, Mama and I are overtaken by a very frenzied and excited Zia Izzy.
“Lena! I was just coming to see you!”
“Izzy, we’re on our way to see Angelo. Come with us, and then we’ll all walk back together.”
“What did I tell you, Carolina?” whispers Zia in a solemn hush.
“What did you tell her about what, sorella?”
“Luca Vassari. You don’t think that little man Angelo could have done that on his own, do you?” She’s asking both of us, but looking at me with a knowing raise of her eyebrows.
I don’t know if Zia caused his misfortune, but I am sure that she believes she did.
“Izzy, there was a struggle, and Angelo stabbed him. This one time, I am sure you are not responsible.”
“Oh, are you, Signora Know-It-All? You ask your daughter if Luca hasn’t felt a curse around his neck since the time Carolina was sick with the flu. Am I right, Carolina?” Izzy brings her hand to her throat and gives it a fierce grip to illustrate.
I really would like to stay out of this conversation, so I pretend that I was thinking of something else. “Hmm?”
“Tell me—was she talking to you about la letteratura?” demands Mama.
“No, Mama. Sara had a black eye that day. Zia and I were feeling sorry for her, that’s all.”
“No, that’s not all,” interrupts Zia, shaking her finger back and forth. “I told Carolina that day that I would tolerate Luca no more. Sometimes I am amazed at my own powers.”
It occurs to me that if Zia Izzy can convince all of Sharpsburg to believe she was behind Luca’s death, her reputation will be legendary. She already has half of Sharpsburg afraid of her. This will easily convince the other half, and that is exactly what Zia wants.
Zia takes out her cigarillos and lights one as if to say she needs to ponder that last comment of hers. Today she is feeling as though she is master of our destinies. She is a force to be reckoned with. If Mama knows what is good for her, she’ll just let Zia enjoy the moment.
“Izzy, I am going into this station now, and you may come if you want. But I’m not letting you talk this nonsense to Angelo. Understand me?”
“Then I’ll wait here on the step,” snaps Zia. “I don’t need you to tell me what to say like I’m a puppet.” She takes another drag on her cigarillo, and Mama and I step inside. We’re both relieved that Izzy doesn’t follow us in. I don’t think Mr. Marchetti needs to think he was a pawn in Zia’s master plan.
He sees Mama first. “Lena, Bene Dice.”
“I have lunch for you, Angelo. A little stewed rabbit, a little bread, and some rigatoni. Let me set it up for you.”
“Grazie, grazie, Lena.” Belsido has put a table and two chairs in the cell so that Angelo can sit with his guests. Mama is laying a table cloth over it and setting the silverware.
“Carolina! You, too! You no should come-a here, bambina.” He gives my cheek a little pat, and I see something in his face that I didn’t expect. In spite of all of this pampering, Mr. Marchetti’s face is lined and tired. I bet he hasn’t slept since he came here.
“Lena, you see Mama and Rose? Come stai?” he asks.
“They’re fine, Angelo. I’m taking them a nice dinner, and Sara is staying there all day. She’s taking good care of them. Don’t you worry about a thing. No one will let anything happen to them.”
I can’t stand how pitiful he looks. He nods his head as if to agree, but there are tears in his eyes, and he is tapping his fingers on the table about a hundred times a minute.
“I’m going to visit Rose this afternoon, Mr. Marchetti. I promised her we would go for a walk.”
“Thank you. Such a good girl. Thank you. She-sa no come here, okay? I no want her to worry. She-sa no understand.”
“We won’t come here. Don’t worry.” I wonder if he is tormented because he killed Luca or because—even in the constable’s cell—he has lost his freedom. At night, Belsido locks that cell door, and he goes home. The jail is dark, and Mr. Marchetti is there alone, on a cot, behind bars. He is unable to be with his family, unable to walk outside, unable to go to work. And the worst part is, he doesn’t know for how long. I am terrified to think that days could turn to weeks, and weeks could turn to years. And if that would happen, Mr. Marchetti would be transferred to the county jail where he wouldn’t be treated so well.
Mama talks to him while he eats his lunch, and I can tell she is disappointed that he doesn’t have much appetite.
“Maybe this isn’t as good as your mama’s rabbit?”
“No, no, Lena. That-sa nice-sa food. My stomach, she-sa sick, that’s all.”
“God knows what happened that day, Angelo. He knows that you probably saved Sara’s life that day. Don’t you second guess yourself, and don’t you get a stomach ulcer over this. What’s done is done. The memory of that day is buried with Vassari. You have a daughter to stay strong for, so you eat a little more.”
I feel so sorry for him. Marcello, Lindo, Giova—we’ve all been in the position of being forced to eat Mama’s food when we didn’t think we could take another bite. We always whine
and put up a fuss. I can see that Mr. Marchetti is forcing himself out of politeness to choke down small bites.
“Mama, I’m going to check on Zia,” I said. “Goodbye, Mr. Marchetti.”
“Tell Rosie I come home soon, yes?”
I nod my head and run out before he can see the tears in my eyes.
“Zia?” She’s smoking another cigarillo and is lost in thought.
“Ready to go?”
“Mama is still in there.”
“She’s wrong, you know. Luca was cursed. I know because I was the one to curse him.”
“I remember.”
“Last Christmas, your mama said ‘no’ to the spells. You have six months to think it over. I could pass this gift to you. But it has to take place on Christmas Eve.”
“I’ll think about it, Zia. I will. But tell me something.”
“Tell you what?”
“Can you free Angelo with your spells?” If she can, I will be happy to give her my answer right now.
“I can curse the jailer and the judge.”
“You can’t help him to get out?”
“I can’t get him out. But I can help him with revenge, with the mal occhio.”
When Mama finally comes out, she is crying and can’t talk for a moment. Mr. Marchetti’s sorrow and anxiety took us both by surprise. We walk home in silence for a while, and to her credit, Zia keeps quiet.
“Mama,” I finally speak up, “he will get out soon, won’t he?”
“I think so,” says Mama.
What she answers isn’t important. I knew what she would say to me. How she said it told me everything. Mama is worried, too—I can tell from her voice. Now my fears are confirmed. When we approach our street, Mama and Zia go on to our house. I stop in front of the Marchetti’s, take a deep breath, and force myself to smile as I knock on the door to pick up Rose.
Dear Diary, June 16, 1926 - evening
This is the first time that I have thought about the true nature of this offer. Is it the power for Izzy to create her own justice—or is it her own response to injustice? I think her spells come down to two things—the power to ward off ailments and the power to wreak vengeance. I think the power to ward off fevers and disease is worth having. And I think Izzy has some knowledge of herbs and medicines. But the power to wreak vengeance—don’t we all have that? We have knife fights and bombs and arson and even—if you are Mano Nero—cutting off fingers. I wanted to know more. I thought that Izzy’s powers could change the world. I thought they were true magic. Today, they seem very ordinary and very small. Democracy and anarchy and mafia justice—they all seem small to me. My poetry book from Sister has a poem by Emily Bronte. I didn’t think much of it before, but today it has new meaning for me: “Vain are the thousand creeds That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds Or idle froth amid the boundless main.” I wonder what made her write this. Did she feel the way that I feel—that man is his own mortal enemy?