Mainstream?! I want tell her. I’d say you’ve done more than mainstreamed! Instead, I politely lean forward with my hands in my lap. “Yes, Ms. Ferraro?”
“Please,” she says. “Call me Gerry.” Gerry speaks about her mother, Antonetta—dropping phrases like widow after my father’s death and worked as a bead maker in the South Bronx . . . but in my head I’m watching a movie reel of Gerry’s many extraordinary achievements: She built a strong family with her husband, John; she rose to become Queens Assistant District Attorney heading up the Sex Crimes Unit. She became a U.S. congresswoman, and in 1984 became the first woman to be nominated as a vice presidential candidate for a major party. I tune back in when she says, “This is where I need you, Regina: I plan to dedicate the last chapter to present-day female immigrants by highlighting the sacrifices they’re making to give their children a chance at opportunities that wouldn’t be available outside of America. You’re so well-versed speaking about present-day immigration. Can you help?”
I nod slowly, in disbelief that Geraldine Ferraro is asking me to assist her in a book—any book!—not to mention, it’s about her mother. I float out of her office and, too dazed to hail a cab, I walk the near-mile back to City Hall in my heels. Surely, by the time I arrive there, she’ll have called and said, “Never mind, Regina! I’ve found a bright young scholar to take this on; someone with a sane mother and a normal upbringing!”
When Alan meets me at the office door, indeed he says Gerry has called. “Nice work,” he tells me. “Sounds like you made quite an impression.”
Instantly the work is a comfort, the familiar feeling of being busy giving me a sense of structure and security. When I graduated law school a year ago, I had more free time on my hands than I’ve ever had in my life—the first time I’ve just had one full-time job without waitressing, attending law school, or working on political campaigns on the side. For the next six weeks I spend my nights up to my elbows in the immigration research, feeling soothed by the work, and finally producing a summary and outline based on my vision for Gerry’s last chapter. I return to her office and hand over my file, which she accepts with a kind smile.
Then, a week later, she calls. “Regina, do you mind coming down to my office again?”
My stomach sinks. My heart pounds. I slide from flats into the heels under my desk and hail a cab, directing him to Lafayette Street.
“I’ve decided that since this book is to be about my mother, that it should begin and end with my mother.” Gerry’s tone and face are kind, but matter-of-fact. “I’m no longer going to use the content you provided.”
I nod, trying to swallow the lump of tears building up in my throat. I knew that, eventually, this is how it would end. “Look, Gerry, I’m just grateful for the chance to have worked with you.”
“Well, not so fast,” she says. “I still need your help. I’m writing a story about an Italian immigrant, but I’m also finding that I need to tell the story against the backdrop of the Italian immigration movement and the progression of Italians into American society. That piece, I don’t have. I need your experience on immigration.”
“Gerry, see . . . the problem is that I am only familiar with current immigration patterns—not stories from the past. Plus, even though, yes, I am Italian”—in my work I always need to finesse this next point—“I’m not fully aware of my heritage. I’m afraid I just can’t be useful at this point.”
Her face grows firmer, subtly frustrated at my resistance. “Yes, Regina, actually you can. It’s going to take some research on your part, but I’m confident you’re up to it. In fact, I’m so confident that I would like to pay you for your research,” she says.
“Oh, Gerry.” It comes out halfhearted, almost a plea to be cut loose. What if I let her down? “Please,” I tell her. “Your confidence in me and the opportunity to work on something so deeply personal to you is payment enough.”
That night before I go home, I stop at the New York Public Library. I scan the microfiche and take out every book I can find on Ellis Island and Italian immigrants in New York, including The Madonna of 115th Street and Beyond the Melting Pot.
My contribution to Gerry’s memoir, Framing a Life, puts solid punctuation on this era of my work for the city. I’ve far exceeded my own expectations . . . and it’s time to move on. With Alan kicking around the idea of running for mayor in the 2001 election, I’m hesitant to stay with him the four years until then. It’s a danger to be out of law school five years without ever having practiced. My law degree is my single most worthy credential, and also my safety net—even if other opportunities aren’t available, there are always jobs in law . . .
. . . but only if I start using it.
While eagerly waiting for the release of Gerry’s book, I begin to look for a job where I can actually use my law degree and also make a higher income. I know this means leaving New York City politics. I’m thirty years old, living with roommates in my third Manhattan apartment. I’ve spent my whole life sharing cramped, compromised spaces that don’t feel like mine; and most of all, I need to begin making enough money to stop deferring payment on my law school loans. The public sector could never pay me enough for rent, living expenses, and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of law school loan debt.
When I can force myself not to get wistful for a connection with Rosie, even my family situation has grown well adjusted and normal. Camille and Frank now have Frankie, Maria, and Michael, and Cherie and her new husband have Johnathan and Matthew—all of whom I couldn’t love any more if they were my own. I spend my holidays with them and they join me in the city for Christmas or to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. On weekends, I carve out time to see friends, movies, and Broadway shows. Nicer days are spent in Central Park, running or Rollerblading. Sundays are my favorite: I drink coffee in bed and read several papers from cover to cover.
One Sunday morning close to the holidays in 1997, I’m in bed reading the paper when the phone rings. Expecting to hear Camille’s voice on the other end, I pick it up. “Hey.”
“Regina, I have some mail here for you.”
“Addie?” She usually only calls on holidays and birthdays . . . but her voice sounds curious, or startled; somehow strained, trying to hold back.
“Okay, well just send it to me. It’s probably junk.”
“I don’t think it’s junk . . . in fact, I think you may want me to open it now. It’s from a Julia Accerbi—it looks like a Christmas card.”
“Well, open it!” I tell her. “What are we waiting for?” I hear the envelope rip open, then Addie begins laughing. “Regina, you won’t believe this: Her Christmas card is from the Eastern Paralyzed Veterans Association.”
“Are you kidding?” I laugh. The EPVA’s main source of revenue was through selling greeting cards. “She probably paid part of my salary while I was there!”
“Now that’s irony,” Addie says, giggling. “Okay, she writes—are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“ ‘To Regina,’ then the printed message reads, ‘With the old wish that is ever new—Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, too!’ ”
“Anything else?”
“Yes—my goodness. She signed ‘Love, Aunt Julia.’ ”
“Aunt Julia? Addie . . . are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. I’ll pop it in the mail to you today, you can look at it yourself.”
Both when I was sixteen and twenty-eight, I wrote to Paul at Julia and Frank’s house, and neither time did I get a response from them, only from Paul. So why now, after never having contact with me, is she suddenly showing interest? Maybe something happened to Paul that she wants me to know about. Or maybe she just wants me to know the truth. Aunt Julia. How do I suddenly have an aunt Julia?
“Regina,” Addie interrupts, “are you there? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Will you just send it to me? I’ll call you in a few weeks for Christmas.”
Everything about the card is both
intriguing and odd, but there are two points that stand out in particular: First, it was sent to Addie’s home—my old foster home—where I haven’t resided for close to a decade. Anyone with a shred of knowledge about my life would know that. Second, how did she not mention her husband, my supposed uncle? I dial Camille, the only other person on earth who could know what this means to me.
“What do you think this is about?” I ask her.
“I have no idea,” she says thoughtfully. “Do you think Paul died? Or maybe this woman is sick and she wants to tell you something before she gets worse. Whatever it means . . . tread carefully, sweetie. I know you’re excited, but this could take you to a place that you’ve already moved past. You could end up really hurting.”
It’s too late: I’m totally sucked in. “It’s not like I went and opened the door, Camille. She did. There’s something going on that I need to know. How about this: I’ll write her back, rather than call her.”
“Don’t mention Paul until she does—let her bring him up. And don’t question why she signed the card ‘Aunt.’ ”
“But why?”
“Because you may scare her away. Just let her know how well you’re doing and give her your new address and phone number.”
“Oh, come on, Camille. Why don’t I just call her, instead?”
“Because, Gi, when you’re not getting truthful answers, you can be a little . . . abrasive.”
“Ha!” She knows me too well. “I like to think of it as assertive . . . but you’re right.”
“Just write her first. Take it slow.”
“Okay.”
By the time Julia’s card arrives several days later, matching Addie’s description to the dotting of her i’s, I’ve already worked on several drafts of a letter to her, which I’m planning to fold inside a Christmas card. Although there’s so much I want to know, I keep my message simple: My work’s going well, I’ve adapted to be happy, normal, and successful. I know better than to ask the big questions: why she signed it Aunt, why she sent it to my foster home, why her husband’s name wasn’t listed in the card, and why she’s writing me now.
A month later, I receive a letter back from Julia, this time sent to my Manhattan address:
January 1998
Dear Regina,
Received your card and was so glad to hear from you. I often think of you and your sisters. Regina, any time you want to come to visit me, you know you can. I knew that you had to get my card because it did not come back.
I’m so glad you made something of yourself. I’m so happy for you. I don’t know if I told you that your uncle Frank died. It’s been pretty hard for me since he’s gone. I do wish you and your sisters would come to see me. Let me know ahead of time and I would make a meal for you all.
How are your sisters doing? Did any of them get married? Regina, I’m so happy for you. I know life was not easy for any of you girls. There’s so much we could talk about. Lots of luck in your job. I hear from Pauly every so often. He’s still in Florida.
Please come see me. I’ve been having a little trouble with my heart. When you reach a certain age everything falls apart. Good luck again and please get in touch with me. Take care.
Love,
Aunt Julia
I reread the letter several times, too experienced in disappointment to hope I’m seeing it all correctly. She referred so casually to Paul; she explained why Frank’s name wasn’t on the card . . . but how does she know my sisters? Why is she so plainly signing the card Aunt Julia and referring to her husband as Uncle Frank? The letter’s postmarked from Long Island . . . why is she just now getting in touch with me when, minus my three years at college upstate, the farthest I’ve ever lived from her is ninety minutes away in Manhattan?
I call Camille and read the letter out loud. “So, come on! What do you think?”
She pauses, then cautiously puts this forth: “Maybe we stayed with her when we were kids.”
“Camille, I have zero recollection of staying with this woman. Julia: Does that sound even vaguely familiar to you?”
“Gi, maybe this is the place I remember that had the willow tree and all the kids.”
“When?”
“When you were really little.”
“Maybe Cookie and Paul were just deadbeats, and so Julia and Frank took us in—”
“Gi, it’s possible that this Accerbi is no relation to Paul.”
“But she mentioned Paul . . . and why is she calling herself my aunt?”
“We probably just called them aunt and uncle, and that’s how she’s signing her letters. Plenty of our foster parents did that. That is the only logical explanation—Gi, please don’t get your hopes up.”
I pause. “She wrote her number in the card. I’m going to call her and go out there.”
“How will you get there?” Camille asked.
“I’ll rent a car in Manhattan and drive.” Ninety minutes is nothing after waiting thirty-one years for answers. “Then I’ll come to see you afterward and fill you in on what happened. Unless, of course,” I prod gently, “you want to join me?”
Camille sighs, considering what to do for my sake, but already I know her decision. She has no desire to revisit our past and has worked hard to create a new existence with Frank and their kids. Once in awhile I can get her to join me on my melancholy drives to Saint James Elementary School, Cordwood Beach, or the Saint James General Store. I try to remember how we frolicked at these places, how they provided our only space to be carefree kids, but Camille remembers what an older sister would: the turbulence, the abuse, the starving, and the heartache. We were a hapless group of savvy street-smart kids trying to build a home out of nothing; and just because I may get some answers about my past doesn’t make Camille excited to go there, too. “You go,” she finally says. “With three kids, I have enough going on. She wrote to you—go see her. Then come here afterward.”
“Okay. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you, too, bug.” She pauses. “Regina?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember what I said: Please be careful.”
12
A Child at Any Age
Winter 1998 to 2003
SITTING IN THE parked rental car, I turn up the heat and rest back to absorb the details of the panorama in front of me. The weeping willow in the front yard is the first thing that catches me; its huge, sad branches swaying in the early February chill. My eyes wander to the chain-linked fence encasing the property when a memory comes rushing at me: I’m tiny, standing on the inside of the fence, giggling madly as a boy much bigger stretches his fingers through the metal triangles and tries to tickle my belly.
Shifting my gaze to the garden, I fix on a statue of the Virgin Mary sheltered by a ceramic clamshell. Vibrant flowers bursting in pink, orange, and yellow surround her—a contrast to the brown lawn and bushes that are dry and barren from the winter. I take in the breadth of the house; how ordinary it is: yellow shingles and weathered wooden shutters with nailed-in plastic cutout images of horses and buggies. I notice the cracked cement of the driveway; the neglected trees and bushes that are years overdue for trimming.
I exit the car and cross the street slowly, ignoring my nervousness in order to open the chain-linked gate and walk the broken path to the front door. This close to the flower beds, I see that the clusters of silky color are artificial bouquets stuck upright in the frosted soil. I step toward the front door—protected by an exterior storm door framed with Police Youth League and Jesus and Mary decals. Jesus’ face is plastered on stickers representing every phase of his life, and as I move to open the storm door, the inner door suddenly opens. A woman shrunken by age appears. She’s wearing a flowered knee-length day dress, slippers, and a tightly sprayed white bouffant. “Regina?” she asks.
“Yes. Hello, Julia.”
She opens the door and moves to me on the porch. I stay still while, with wide eyes, she examines me—first my hair, then my face and my clothes . . . then finally my hand
as she takes it in hers. Suddenly, her small frame opens, her arms stretching in an invitation for me to walk into them for a hug. I freeze: it’s almost too much to take in. By the look on her face, it’ll be devastating for her if I refuse, so I fix my arms around her in a political hug—a guarded non-embrace. For a moment we remain this way—Julia, breathing me in; and me, telling myself it’s safe to soften to her affection. Finally, she moves away but keeps a gentle hold on the sleeve of my coat. “Go on, dear,” she says. “Please, make yourself at home.”
Passing through the front door to the living room, I look in at the worn carpeted steps leading to the second floor. It’s as if I’m outside of myself, watching a movie of this moment: I recognize all of this place. I know what lies up those stairs—three bedrooms and a yellow bathroom. My eyes move toward the dining area with its oval table and the plastic-covered chair they used to sit me in, propped up on phone books and pillows so I could reach the table. If I walk through the dining room, I’ll find the kitchen, with a yellow and brown linoleum floor, a small stove tucked in the corner, and the large window above the sink where I used to bathe. I’ll also find the door to the fenced backyard whose knob was always too high for me to reach, and the interior stairs that lead down to a carpeted basement with two small couches that I remember well: That’s where my sisters and I used to sleep at night.
Julia escorts me into the kitchen: still yellow and brown. “I baked you crumb cake,” she says. “Would you like a slice? Some baked ziti?”
“I’d love some crumb cake, please,” I tell her. This moment is surreal; awkward, yet so familiar.
“You look like him, you know.”
I pause for a beat. Would she refer to my father so plainly?
“You look like Pauly. When your grandmother held you, she told Pauly that you looked just like him when he was a baby. I think you still do! Those Accerbi features. He’s your father, you know. You said the crumb cake, right?”
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