American Ace

  So, I was there when three high-schoolish girls

  took a booth at the height of the lunch hour,

  and ordered three side salads and iced tea.

  I poured their waters and one of the blondes

  asked if she could get gluten-free croutons.

  I tried to guess what her background could be:

  Scotch Irish? Scandinavian? Polish?

  The third girl was brunette, really pretty.

  Italian, maybe, or Greek. Olive skinned.

  The blondes were cute, too, in a different way.

  I couldn’t wait for my driver’s license!

  I turned away, but heard giggling whispers:

  He’s hot! Tall, dark, and handsome: Just my type!

  I brought their food and lingered, ignoring

  the disapproval of harder workers.

  As I topped off their water glasses again,

  the other blonde, with Atlantic blue eyes,

  admired my pinkie ring. Is it real gold?

  I smiled, nodded. As I turned away

  I heard a whisper: Italians love their bling!

  The X-Factor

  The next time I could get behind the wheel

  the trees in the city were past blooming

  and grown-up birds were parenting their young.

  Dad guided me onto the interstate.

  Okay, he said. You drive; I’ll navigate.

  I felt the engine’s power, the road’s rhythm,

  the beckoning of the endless distance,

  the beginnings promised somewhere out there

  as time raced to the past under our tires.

  The van was full of comfortable silence.

  Once in a while the glint on my finger

  reminded me to wonder who I was.

  One-quarter of me was American:

  Did that take me back to the Mayflower?

  The ancestors I knew were innocent

  of the white guilt of Indian slayers

  and slave owners. Did this new grandfather

  connect me differently to history?

  I glanced at Dad. It must be worse for him,

  to go from being 100 percent

  to being half-American X-factor.

  I signaled and moved to the passing lane

  in front of a Harley I hadn’t seen.

  The biker swerved, and gave me the finger.

  Baklava

  He was going at least eighty, Dad said.

  With no helmet! Wherethehell are the cops

  when you want them? He had a lot of nerve!

  I was too shaken up to say a word.

  Some minutes passed in silence. Then Dad said,

  Let’s get off here. I need to stretch my legs.

  We pulled up in a farm stand parking lot

  that announced fresh fruit pies and vegetables.

  Another family was debating

  whether they wanted a peach or an apple pie.

  The saleswoman (was she the farmer’s wife?)

  was brown. A blue hijab covered her hair.

  The apple pies are all homemade, she said,

  with twinkling dark-lashed eyes. I made them all,

  and I guarantee all are delicious!

  A boy (seven, I guessed, and freckled) asked,

  Do they have apple pies where you come from?

  She smiled. In Harrisburg? They certainly do!

  And, even better, they have baklava!

  It sells out faster than the apple pies.

  Next time you stop, I’ll give you a free taste.

  You’ll love it! They bought peach, and drove away.

  We bought apple. Dad promised we’d come back

  to buy baklava for the restaurant.

  Unknown DNA

  It was Mom and Dad’s regular Date Night:

  Theresa and I ordered a pizza

  and set up the schedule for the remote.

  She had it first, but she wanted to talk.

  Mr. Wisniewski, my science teacher,

  says that if you’re adopted, you should know

  your birth parents’ medical histories.

  There are all kinds of problems you can have

  if there’s something wrong with your chromosomes.

  What if our new grandfather had bad genes

  and passed us some inherited disease?

  Are you scared of his unknown DNA?

  I told her I’d inherited a strong

  craving to drink the warm blood of infants,

  but since there were no infants in the house,

  I’d settle for the blood of a twelve-year-old.

  I lunged. She fought back with sofa pillows,

  giggling her head off. When we settled down

  I told her not to worry: Nonna’s genes,

  combined with all the Ryan and Malone

  chromosomes, should provide a strong defense

  against everything but stupidity.

  She said, I hope! But wouldn’t you want to know

  if you’re going to be totally bald?

  The Stink Eye

  We didn’t drive as much when school started:

  It was hard to synchronize our schedules.

  But we made weekly Saturday morning drives

  through neighborhoods, on interstates, in malls,

  behind slow tractors pulling loads of hay

  on little narrow winding country roads . . .

  sometimes not talking, just bobbing our heads.

  Once, driving aimlessly in the city,

  I turned onto an empty dead-end street

  of keep-out buildings with boarded windows.

  I was performing a three-point U-turn

  when three black dudes my age turned the corner.

  Two were Will Smith–ish brown, about my height;

  the third taller, more Derek Jeter–ish.

  Under one arm he held a basketball.

  Dad sat up straighter, and took a deep breath.

  I put the car into reverse again,

  again in drive, reverse again, then drive.

  My U-turn added three or four more points.

  It was embarrassing. And the black dudes

  were laughing. But no one gave the stink eye.

  Dad raised his hand as I stepped on the gas.

  At the corner, I looked in the mirror.

  They were executing a passing drill.

  Suo Marte

  We agreed to stop at Uncle Father Joe’s,

  which was only a couple of blocks away.

  His midday Mass was probably ending,

  and he always likes to make lunch for us.

  As he boiled water and sliced tomatoes,

  Uncle Father Joe asked Dad about the ring.

  This is just the most amazing story,

  Tony. Did Papa treat you differently?

  Dad said, I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years

  that Papa wasn’t my natural dad.

  He called me “my beloved firstborn son.”

  He often told me he was proud of me.

  Uncle Father Joe said, And he WAS, too!

  Let’s see the ring, Connor. I took it off.

  It left a white line around my finger.

  The Forcean, he read. 1940.

  Suo Marte. The initials MS. Josten.

  He gave it back. “Suo Marte”: Latin:

  “By our own strength.” I sure wonder who he was.

  This is a mystery for Sherlock Holmes!

  Sit. Bless our meal, and us to Thy service.

  Mangiamo! Salad and carbonara:

  I wolfed them down, inwardly promis
ing

  that I would learn what the ring had to teach.

  Dead-End Clue

  For a couple of weeks, I studied it closely,

  from every angle. I memorized its wear,

  the depth of the engraving, each digit.

  Inside, the word Josten, the initials.

  My teachers must have thought I was obsessed.

  Kids started teasing, calling me “Gollum.”

  My homies, Zach and Jonah, knew about

  the mystery, so they cut me some slack.

  But this cute girl, Amy, kept suggesting

  I should give her my ring for safekeeping:

  She’d wear it on a chain around her neck,

  and keep it away from the Dark Powers.

  One Date Night, after pizza, Theresa

  and I googled Josten and Forcean for hours.

  The Powers were definitely not with us:

  Josten’s a brand name; Forcean, a dead end.

  We were so glum when Mom and Dad got home—

  feeding our faces microwave popcorn

  and drinking blueberry yogurt smoothies—

  that Mom asked what was wrong. When we told her,

  she said, A good research librarian

  can guide you like thread through a labyrinth.

  She said she’d take us to the library.

  The Mystery Ring

  Between classes, Amy kept showing up

  near my locker, as if by accident,

  blushing, dimpled, offering to keep my ring.

  I think, in her mind, what she really meant

  was we were starting a relationship.

  Did I say she’s cute? She’s adorable.

  But why was she drawn to me by the ring?

  I started to feel like it had power:

  It set me off, made me somehow different,

  even though its meaning was still hidden.

  I told her I couldn’t give up my ring,

  but I’d like to hang out with her sometime.

  And thus began a beautiful friendship:

  She came with me to the college library.

  We talked to the research librarian,

  then walked around the beautiful campus

  until Mom picked us up and drove us home.

  Three Saturdays led to the same dead ends,

  but made Amy part of the family.

  We were a new Bianchini couple,

  brought together by “The Mystery Ring.”

  Finally, Jake, the research librarian,

  pursued The Forcean to Google Books.

  And then things started getting interesting.

  The Forcean

  Jake thought the ring might be related to

  an unauthored book called The Forcean,

  which was published in 1939.

  The New York Public Library owned one:

  He could order it through interlibrary loan.

  He showed us a description of the book.

  One hundred and twenty-seven pages.

  Amy squealed, in a small library voice.

  Jake grinned, then typed into his computer.

  He said, They’ll lend it to the library;

  you’ll have to read it here, in our Rare Books

  Department. We’ll have it here next Friday.

  Theresa bounced up and down in her seat

  as Amy and I described the breakthrough.

  Mom smiled at me in the rearview mirror.

  Oh, you guys, she said, isn’t this thrilling?

  What if Ace IS connected to this book?

  What if he was an aspiring writer?

  I know a couple of famous American poets

  were military pilots during the war.

  Let’s hope this isn’t another dead end.

  In the backseat, my fingers and Amy’s

  interwoven pulsed like two hearts conjoined.

  I knew The Forcean wasn’t a dead end.

  But

  We all agreed that Dad should be the first

  to see the book. We couldn’t go Friday:

  The mayor planned a dinner for his supporters

  at Mama Lucia’s. So, on Saturday,

  we’d drive: to campus, around, then to lunch.

  You know how time slows down when you’re watching,

  like watched water takes forever to boil?

  The week was like ketchup at the bottom

  of a bottle. Friday was molasses.

  The dinner’s four courses, dominated

  by speeches, toasts, and kisses next to cheeks,

  lasted past Mama Lucia’s closing time.

  Saturday morning, sleepy, out of sorts,

  we set out early, to parallel park

  on the business street next to the college

  before we headed up to see the book.

  Dad seemed too tired to talk, except about

  turning the wheel, braking, and backing up.

  After a while we parked on the campus

  and walked across the quad to the library.

  We found Jake in the Rare Books Department,

  waiting. He said, It’s a college yearbook!

  It’s for Wilberforce University!

  But Wilberforce is an HBCU.

  Historically Black Colleges

  and Universities

  Jake explained: An HBCU’s a black

  college or university, from back

  in the old days of segregated schools.

  Dad took the book and sat down heavily.

  He seemed to have had the wind knocked from his sails.

  I sat beside him. He turned the pages.

  THE CLASS OF 1939 PRESENTS . . .

  Wilberforce, Ohio . . . Big brick buildings.

  The president in wire-rimmed spectacles,

  a distinguished pinstripe suit, a small mustache.

  Faculty. Administrators. Clubs.

  The Forcean staff. The graduating class.

  Their names and nicknames, their activities,

  their favorite quotes, and black-and-white photos

  of young, earnest-looking college students

  who would graduate into a world at war.

  Fraternities, sororities, sports teams.

  “Miss Wilberforce”: brown, pretty, a cute grin.

  “Miss Classic”: ivory and elegant.

  Collages of miniature snapshots,

  stiff, uniformed groups of ROTC cadets.

  And everyone in every photograph

  was African American. Was black.

  We read the ads. And then Dad closed the book.

  A Hundred What-ifs

  Well, I’ll be damned, Dad said. He tried to stand,

  but something happened: He got his foot caught

  between chair leg and table leg, I guess.

  Anyway, he fell suddenly in a heap,

  with a loud OOF! Jake and I helped him up

  and sat him down again. He was so pale,

  his sideburns and eyebrows looked black again.

  My father may have been a colored man?!

  We could see the book again the following week,

  with new questions. For now, we shook Jake’s hand

  and thanked him. Then we hiked across the quad.

  When we got to the van, Dad was panting.

  Talk about “lost in thought.” I turned the key

  and pulled into traffic unconsciously,

  my mind going a hundred directions

  of what-ifs and this means. The first what-if

  was what if this is just a red herring?

  What if Forcean’s really something else,

 
and the Wilberforce yearbook is irrelevant?

  My second what-if was what if it’s right,

  and Nonna’s love was African American?

  So Dad’s biracial? Will this change our lives?

  Dad’s eyes were closed. He was kind of snoring

  when we pulled up at Uncle Father Joe’s.

  What Families Are For

  Four guys were in the rectory driveway

  making good use of the basketball hoop.

  Dad opened the passenger door and couldn’t stand.

  One of the guys cried, Oh, my God! A stroke!

  Just like my Moms! He need a ambulance!

  I ran around the car, but he caught Dad.

  Dad stayed overnight, “for observation.”

  I waited with Mom, Theresa, Amy,

  most of the uncles, some aunts and cousins:

  Bianchinis there for Bianchinis,

  illustrating what families are for.

  That guy—his name is Antwan—stayed with us.

  My half brother, Carlo, and I exchanged

  some texts. He said they were praying for Dad.

  Then the earth settled back on its axis:

  Dad was okay! It was a false alarm!

  But they would monitor his blood pressure.

  He didn’t talk much, after he got home.

  He hadn’t had a stroke, but he had had

  a glimpse beyond. All of us had had that.

  It makes you think, when somebody you love

  looks Death in its steel eye. It makes you think.

  Dad said, Listen. This wasn’t caused by shock.

  It was years of cannolis and that hike!

  Googling Wilberforce

  We spent our evenings googling. Wilberforce

  led us to William Wilberforce, a great

  British orator/abolitionist.

  Amazing grace and philanthropic zeal

  made Wilberforce champion chimney sweeps,

  single mothers, orphans, and juvenile

  delinquents, made him condemn cruelty

  to animals. But he primarily