Claudia wiped her hands on a dishtowel, walked over to the table, and smiled at him in that overexuberant, childlike way of hers. “Smells good, don’t it?”
He forced a grin. “Just like Mom’s.”
Claudia twisted the knob on the radio until she found some big band number and turned up the volume.
As he watched her twiddle with the knob to get a better signal, the room spun beneath him. His left hand tightened with a strange numbness. Shaking, he put out his cigarette, flexed his hand until sensation came back into it.
“Why don’t you do me a favor and open a bottle of wine?”
“Putting me to work now,” he said as he moved beside Claudia and ground the corkscrew into the cork, and the same numb sensation gathered in his other hand. He managed to get the bottle open and pulled two glasses from the shelf. He removed the cork with ease and filled each halfway with red wine. And held the corkscrew, turning it against the light above him, imagining jabbing it into the palm of his hand and turning it through skin, flesh, and bone until he could feel again, even pain, just something.
Claudia had shut off the gas and drained the pasta. He returned to his seat and tried to swallow, tried to breathe and just appear normal.
Claudia laid down the plate, a steaming mass of stewed beef chuck, onions, carrots, and a thick, dark gravy spread over paccheri, large tubes of delicate pasta that she’d overcooked, so when he put his fork into it and stirred up the gravy, most of the pasta split apart in a soggy ruin. He leaned over the plate and, in an exaggerated way, sniffed at the steam rising from the food, and gave a pleased sigh, as if he were about to indulge in the best meal any kitchen or cook could offer. Claudia sat on the other side of the table and took a sip from her glass.
“For Mom,” he said as he raised his own glass.
She nodded and her eyes appeared to glisten. “For Mom, and for you to get better.”
They both bowed their heads, silently blessing their meals, the memory of their mother.
The dish was far too soupy, but after his first bite, he was surprised at how good it tasted. The next few mouthfuls, the stewed meat coming apart in his mouth steaming hot, he nodded toward his sister, who watched him eagerly. “Not bad, Claudia. Not bad at all.”
She drank more from her glass. Her face blushed brightly and when she smiled, he saw her teeth were stained with the Chianti.
“I was thinking,” she said, eyes widening, “maybe after dinner we can sit by the piano like we did when we were kids. Remember the holidays, all the cousins over and Mom at the table telling us what to play?”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Why not tonight?”
He began to raise his hand and remind her what had been done to it years ago, but gripped the tablecloth instead.
“You can still play. It’s just like riding a bike, you never forget.”
“I said maybe some other time. Let’s just eat, okay.”
He began to sweat, not just a trickle, but beads moving down his brow with an acidic heat, making his temples glisten. He took a deep breath, dug his fork into the pasta, and ate another mouthful.
An old Gene Lindell song came on the radio. Its carefree refrain sounding much too loud and jubilant in their small, dimly lit kitchen.
“Did you ever hear of Bobby Renza, the singer?” he asked.
Claudia looked up from her meal, smiling at him, exposing her teeth stained with wine—an image that reminded him of Miss Grubb. “Of course I did. He was quite something, a real snake from what I hear. You know Sophie Martino? Lives in the North End.”
He shook his head, poured more wine into their glasses.
“She used to date him. He was big then, just had that song become popular. I didn’t know her too well or anything, but I worked with her cousin at Schrafft’s—you wouldn’t believe the things she’d tell us.”
Claudia’s smile faded. “Remember what Mom used to say about Sicilians?”
“That they had the worst tempers, and never to trust them.”
“Well, he was Sicilian through and through, and he used to hit her. I guess real bad, too. Broke her nose and bruised her up. When he wasn’t the sweet good-looking man wining and dining her, he was accusing her of all kinds of bad things.”
“What made her finally leave him?”
“I guess when he put her in the hospital.” Claudia chewed for a bit, swallowed, and added, “but later I remember hearing that she made it all up because he was carrying on with other women. Somebody even said she got so jealous, she threw herself down the stairs and said Bobby pushed her.”
Dante took a sip of wine but it tasted bitter. His stomach gurgled and turned over.
“Does he have anything to do with Sheila, Dante?”
Dante looked at her.
“They printed her name in the paper just yesterday. She was the one they found on Tenean Beach last week. They all say the Butcher killed her.”
He shook his head. “No, let’s not talk about it.”
Both of his hands went numb with the suddenness of a slammed door. A sharp pressure rang in his ears. His stomach turned and he caught a mouthful of vomit in his throat. He pressed his numb hand over his mouth, stood, and hurried to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him, he fell to his knees and filled the toilet with bile, coffee, and what little of Claudia’s meal he’d managed to get down. He flushed once, flushed twice, but still his body was heaving and there was no air left in his lungs, so that when his retching ended, he rolled to the floor and lay on his back, gasping.
He stared at the clawed, leonine feet of the white porcelain tub and began to feel his senses return to him—cold tile against his face, water dripping from the faucet into the sink, the muted trumpets of an old Glenn Miller number coming from the kitchen radio—and sensed that Claudia had opened the door and was there now, afraid to speak, watching him to make sure he was alive.
“I’ll be okay, just a bug,” he said as he got onto his knees, pulled himself up by the tub, and stood with his eyes shut, feeling the ground sway beneath him. Whatever was happening to him was far from over, he realized. His heart throbbed against his ribs, and it felt as if he were breathing his last breaths through a pinhole. He forced himself to the sink, turned on the cold water, splashed it over his face, taking it into his mouth and working it over his dried husk of a tongue. When he spat the water out, it turned the white sink a brackish brown.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Claudia asked at the doorway.
With a towel pressed to his mouth, he looked at her. He couldn’t see her face, for it seemed distorted by shadow, and he couldn’t tell if she was standing in the bathroom with him or was still in the hallway until he felt her touch his shoulder drenched with sweat.
“You’re boiling over. Let me call a doctor.”
He tried to speak but couldn’t, and he bit down on his tongue, which swelled and choked him, blocking any air from getting in. His eyes rolled up into his skull and he fell back down to the tiled floor. As if from miles away, he heard his sister scream.
SHARP PAINS STABBED at Dante’s gut, waking him, and he turned over the side of the bed and puked into the bucket Claudia had placed there. He looked about and it took him a moment to realize he was in his own bedroom. His mattress was soaked with sweat, and the radiator in the room pinged with pressure, hissing out slight drafts of steam. The thick curtains were drawn against the two windows, and he tried to figure out if it was day or night, and he wondered how long he’d been in the room. A half-full glass of water sat on the nightstand. He reached over and took it, raised it to his parched lips, drinking it all at once.
Dante lay back down in his own sweat and remembered glimpses of Claudia coming and going from his room without a word, leaving a baloney or turkey sandwich or a glass of water, and always locking the door behind her when she left, and he thought with a sense of shame of Claudia bringing him here to his room and pulling off his clothes and dousing him with cold water, trying to
clean him because he’d shit himself, and getting him into clean clothes. And later, Claudia on her hands and knees cleaning the vomit from the floor.
A fucking mess, he thought. How lucky I am to still be alive.
He heard the doorknob rattling. The door opened and Claudia peeked into the room. Seeing him awake, she smiled halfheartedly and entered, walked to a kitchen chair she’d placed on the other side of the bed.
“The doctor says you’ll be okay,” she said. “You could have died, but you didn’t.”
“How long have I been like this?”
“Almost two days. You were real sick, then you slept.” Claudia’s eyes glistened with tears. “The doctor says you’ll be okay,” she repeated, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Cal stopped by to see how you were.”
Dante felt tears of his own, and he reached out his hand, which Claudia grabbed tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You just need to get clean, that’s all, then you’ll be fine.”
He tried to form words to console her, but couldn’t. He gripped her hand even tighter, shut his eyes, and in the darkness saw the brief glimmers of fire flame before sleep pulled him under once again.
36
_________________________
Locke-Ober, Boston
AT WHITE-CLOTHED DINNER tables before the mayor’s podium sat various city officials: the chief of police, the fire marshal, businessmen, civic leaders, a rabbi, ministers, and Catholic clergy from Wards 8 and 9. Cal spotted Sister Bridget among a group of nuns from, he presumed, the Catholic charities in the city to which the congressman had been so kind. When she turned in Cal’s direction, her face stiffened, but he couldn’t be sure she’d seen him at all. She nodded at whatever the nun on her left was saying but otherwise glanced out at the vast ballroom, the lights from the chandelier glinting in her eyes. Some of the sisters chatted amiably, and now and again laughed. They appeared taken with the congenial, upbeat mood of the moment, and the drink and food and music were fast flowing, creating a contagion of goodwill and exuberance—all of it suggesting how the coming times might be, that things could only be looking up for Boston.
On the dance floor three couples held each other close in a slow dance, pink and blue globes of light swirling over the polished hardwood, and everything seemed to sway to the sounds of the Marv Reynolds Band. A small party of guests dressed in tuxedos sat at the bar and were attempting to sing over the music of the band, swaying, waiting for the bartender to take notice of them. It was the Boston College fight song, and Dante and Cal were forced to listen.
For Boston, for Boston,
We sing our proud refrain!
For Boston, for Boston,
’Tis Wisdom’s earthly fane.
For here men are men
And their hearts are true,
And the towers on the Heights
Reach to Heav’ns own blue.
For Boston, for Boston,
Till the echoes ring again!
The men raised their voices as they approached the song’s last refrain, and in response Cal banged the bar with his fist.
The lights came up a notch and then dimmed. Marv Reynolds signaled for the band to wind down the last song of the set as former mayor James Michael Curley crossed the stage parquet and stepped up to the podium. He was a short, bluff man who had once been in shape but now hefted a generous beer belly. A cigar smoldered in his right hand. He began talking before the band had completed its final song, so it was difficult to understand what he was saying, but Dante was quite sure he’d taken a poke at the Teamsters, his opponent in the upcoming mayoral race, and the Temperance League of Greater Boston. When he was done, he swept back his short arm and the stage spotlight fell on Congressman Foley. It followed him from his chair to the stage, where he shook hands with both the former and the current mayors and then stepped behind the podium. The crowd applauded and the congressman beamed a wide smile and raised a thankful hand to the audience, who eventually stilled. Dante looked to Cal and Cal raised his eyebrows.
“My friends, my fellow Bostonians,” he said, and his voice carried throughout the room, a resonant baritone, his words perfectly paced and emphasized for effect. “Our city is at a grave crossroad, one where we find ourselves losing ground in manufacturing, medicine, and education—once the mainstays of this great commonwealth. We find ourselves beset and besieged by crime and vice. At night our streets are no longer safe to walk. During the day our parks are mostly empty. Our families—parents and their children, the rich future of our city—leave in droves, out to the suburbs or to other cities in other states, because they believe we have forgotten them, that we have turned our backs, and it is true. Many elected officials of this state and this nation have turned their backs on them, the very class of people that once made this city great.
“But where does such vice come from?” Foley asked, and spread his hands wide. “Where do we begin—how do we begin to create a change and to build for a different type of future, a future where all of our citizens have opportunity and the possibility to succeed? Well, right here, right outside our front door. On the streets that hide and shelter vice, that allow vice to spread unchecked like some infestation—because, yes, that is what it is, an infestation that we must eradicate. Did past generations filled with immigrant struggle work so hard so that we, their sons and daughters, might merely bow down in defeat to such forces? Do we not care about our city anymore, about its crimes and the types we let control us and determine our future? No!”
Waiters bearing drinks moved from table to table, replenishing wine and liquor. One of them knocked over a glass, but the echo of its clanging upon the table made few heads turn. The majority of the crowd remained transfixed by the congressman.
“I stand up here with many of the city’s finest citizens, dedicated to making this city again the place it once was, to wiping out crime, to cleaning the streets of vice, to making this city a shining jewel once again, and I ask you for your support. If I am elected senator, I will use my power in Washington to ensure we are not forgotten any longer, that the nation does not turn its back on us. With federal funding and private backing we can rebuild this city, we can rebuild those depressed neighborhoods that have for so long blighted the landscape of Boston, that have caused us to stagnate.”
Cal sipped his drink and gritted his teeth. He knew what neighborhoods Foley was talking about, had seen his notion of “redevelopment” firsthand. He doubted any in the room knew people who lived in Scollay or the West End, or cared what would happen to them in the congressman’s plans for the future.
“With new developments we can revitalize the economy; we can create new jobs and new opportunities—as a city we will thrive again! And the rest of our nation will turn their eyes to Massachusetts and look at us as we once were, the Cradle of Liberty, the Athens of America, Boston, the City on a Hill!”
Congressman Foley thumped the lectern. Chairs scraped as diners stood and applauded. Foley’s cheeks shone bright with passion, and it seemed as if he might be on the verge of tears.
The Boston College boys shouted from the bar and smashed a bottle. Marv Reynolds struck up the band, and they launched into a sweeping number that punctuated Congressman Foley’s walk beneath the tracking spotlight from the podium and back down off the stage, among the diners, and amid handshakes, hugs, and cheers, to his own table, where the spotlight finally dissolved.
Dante was at Cal’s shoulder. “Do you believe this shit? He couldn’t have planned it better,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And I doubt we will again, that is, unless he plans to run for president.”
“You think now’s the time to talk to him?”
“I think our timing stinks, and it’s a lousy idea to do it here, of all places, but I don’t think we have a choice.”
CONGRESSMAN FOLEY HAD just put his knife and fork to the pork loin and roasted potatoes, served to him steaming on a gold-rimmed plate,
when he caught sight of them at the bar looking his way. He hadn’t seen Cal or Dante for years, but it was as if the old neighborhood remained stamped upon their brows. Cal’s face appeared to be scraped raw by the cold and by drink. Yet despite this, he had a youthful and cocky demeanor about him, in the way Foley remembered Cal from before the war and his boxing days down at the L Street Bathhouse. At his side, Dante looked awful. He could have passed as an advertisement for a communist soup kitchen, with his thorny five o’clock shadow and his threadbare black-gray wardrobe: Dante the proletarian, a silhouette cut from the fabric of a moonless night.
He watched them as they strode between tables, staring at the diners, and them in their hats and coats—a bold statement itself in a place like this. He glanced about the room and a thought spilled and settled into his mind that they were here to see him, and with a slight sense of shame tightening his throat, he realized that he would have to greet them. He took a bite of pork, but he was no longer hungry. He returned his knife and fork to the white table linen, gulped down a generous mouthful from his cocktail. He’d already had three drinks, and that didn’t include the two during his lunch meeting with Senator Gibbons. If he was going to continue to drink, he decided, he might as well meet Cal and Dante head-on; no sense in prolonging the inevitable.
The man sitting next to him was a union representative who started talking nonsense in his ear about one of the North Shore pols taking money off the top and paying his mistress with free rent for her and her bastard kid. Foley half listened to the man, didn’t really give two shits, and kept his eyes on Cal and Dante as they approached.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, holding a hand up to the union rep, silencing him mid-sentence as Cal and Dante stopped before the table. The story about the pol’s mistress and triple time for city workers plowing the streets on Sundays had mercilessly merged together. “Got to take a walk down memory lane for a bit.” He knocked back the rest of the drink, the ice clinking against his front teeth.
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