Brooklyn Story

by Suzanne Corso

  The tall, dark-stained courtroom door closed behind me without a sound. I squinted in the glaring fluorescent light of a large chamber with walls and a floor that matched its entry doors. The judge’s raised bench and the jury box were vacant. A low hum wafted through the sparsely filled room as lawyers huddled around massive desks beyond a wood railing and spectators milled about or sat whispering with tilted necks. The prosecutors looked upbeat. I slipped into a seat in the last row and felt as though I were on trial, too, for all of my lies and deceptions—to everyone, including myself—of recent years. I looked at the spectators up front who had played their parts in bringing me to that judgment day.

  The Kroon family occupied the front row as if they were at a funeral. Pamela, Tony’s mother and aging wannabe bombshell with multishaded dyed blond hair, sat erect in a dark, tight-fitting designer pantsuit. Philip, his father, wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt and his head was bowed between his hunched, slight shoulders. Tony’s fourteen-year-old chubby sister, Katrina, bobbed in her seat as if she was enjoying the spectacle. Vin Priganti, known to everyone in Bensonhurst as “the Son” of local mob boss Tino Priganti, fidgeted in a chair behind the Kroons. Vin took occasional beatings from his father’s heavy fists along with the wads of cash he slipped into his son’s hand. Vin ran the crew to which Tony and his friends belonged. Richie Sparto, a crew member and Tony’s best friend, sat alone three rows farther back.

  All of these people lived in the Brooklyn that stifled my dream. None had lifted a hand to help me. None cared if I made it across the bridge that stood a few blocks away from the courthouse. Truth be told, they probably preferred that I never tried or, even better, never thought to do so in the first place. In my own backyard, they were as far from me as the life on the other side of that bridge. They hadn’t seen me come into the courtroom, just as they had never seen who I was.

  The door beyond the jury box opened. All eyes were on Tony’s stoic face as he was led by the bailiff to a chair at the defendant’s table, and he sat down without looking directly at anyone. Although his shoulders no longer stretched the silk material of his custom-tailored suit as they had when I first met him, I couldn’t help thinking that he was still much too good-looking for prison. But for a half-breed wannabe like Tony who honored omerta—the mafia code of silence—that was what he confronted as everyone looked on.

  I sighed, and remembered the days when Tony and I were an inseparable item and everyone on the street knew it. Days of discovery and promise, when I had had those different feelings about everything and when the excitement in Bensonhurst was as high as the girls’ teased hairdos …

  August 1978

  “C’mon, Sam,” Janice said as she reached down and took my hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, rising from the stoop in front of the three-story apartment house where I lived on the top floor with my mother and grandmother. The building on Seventy-third Street was indistinguishable from the dozen others it was connected to on the long block, save for the fire escape that was affixed to the front of the structure instead of the rear and its arched entrance that reminded me of the stained-glass windows at Our Lady of Guadalupe and the Gothic towers of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Like most multifamily residences in Bensonhurst, mine had a postage stamp–sized patch of grass in front, surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence that was tended by the old people, who provided meticulous care. Together with them, I cherished those strips of green and the few narrow-trunk trees, struggling to rise amid the concrete that lived and breathed and changed with the seasons.

  “It’s a beautiful day to be outside,” Janice said.

  “That, and getting away from my mother.”

  “Sumthin’ happen?”

  “Just the usual.” I adjusted my red tube top and low-waist jeans and swept my long, raven hair behind my shoulders with my fingers. “Gave me a load of shit about my hair and what I’m wearin’,” I said. I glanced at the statue of the Blessed Mother that Mrs. Moretti, who lived on the first floor, had set upon the small lawn. Many neighbors and other Bensonhurst faithful did likewise with the icon of their choosing, and I always thought these icons watched over me when I walked by.

  “Forget about it,” Janice said. “Let’s go have some fun.”

  I always have fun with Janice, I thought as we headed toward Eighteenth Avenue and the bustling retail district in the heart of Bensonhurst. Janice and I went to all the new movies and visited the local pastry shops and pizzerias on a regular basis, where we were often served at no charge. I used to think it was because we were two young girls, but I came to understand that there was another reason for the way we were treated. Janice’s father, Rocco Caputo, owned Cue Ball, the pool hall above a row of stores on Eighteenth Avenue, and the bar downstairs named after him. Mr. Caputo was well respected in the community, particularly by those who mattered most—Italians connected with the mob. I never asked my friend for any details about her father’s connections, and she never offered.

  Janice treated me as an equal even though she was three years older and in a different league than I was. She shopped all along the avenue at stores run by women who were connected to mobsters or dated one or wanted to date one. Janice’s boyfriend, Richie, bought her the kinds of things I could only stare at through display windows. She lived in a private corner residence far away from Eighteenth Avenue and the elevated subway line known as the N train on New Keiser Avenue. I loved going to her house and hanging out in her large bedroom with all its frilly appointments. I felt safer there than I did in my own home.

  Janice and I seldom included other girlfriends in our gettogethers. We weren’t standoffish, but we felt most were petty, competitive, and jealous, and we preferred not to bother with them. On occasion, we did go to parties in nice homes or joined the groups who gathered at Outer Skates, the local rink, where macho Italian boys rented skates for the girls. Those times were enjoyable but they paled in comparison to those when Janice and I were alone together. We were at ease with each other, shared everything without reservation, and couldn’t be closer if we had been sisters.

  “How do ya feel about summer bein’ almost over?” Janice asked as we walked.

  “The sooner I get back to school, the sooner I’ll graduate,” I said.

  “Can’t wait to get across that bridge, huh?”

  “Nothing’s changed,” I said.

  Janice turned toward me without breaking stride. “We’ll see about that.”

  We made our way past the well-kept homes all along my quiet block. I couldn’t help thinking that very little had changed in the neighborhood across a few generations. Janice and I knew that, just like in the rest of Bensonhurst, most front doors would be unlocked and they and the windows that were open would remain that way at night. Italians in this neighborhood had nothing to fear because the local mobsters enforced their own code and thieves stayed out of the area. If they knew what was good for them, they plied their trade elsewhere.

  Most residents had no direct involvement with the Mafia, but they knew about everything it did and subscribed on occasion to its services, especially gambling and hot merchandise at can’t-say-no prices. Residents benefited from the Mafia’s unofficial law and order and were grateful for it every day. It protected their families, which were everything to them, and protected their way of life of hard work and simple pleasures.

  Janice and I reached Eighteenth Avenue and Randy Crawford’s “Street Life” played in my mind as we joined the throng strolling on the sidewalks:

  You dress you walk you talk

  You’re who you think you are

  I knew who I was, I thought, and who I was going to be someday. Someone very different from the girl who had to walk past every store because she had no money and lowered her head with shame whenever she saw a proprietor because of a mother who was known for shoplifting and a dissolute life. I cringed as I recalled, as I often did in the retail district, the humiliation of being caught b
y Mr. Conti with a bottle of shampoo that my mother had forced me to slip into my schoolbag. After scowling at my mother, who was standing outside his store, Mr. Conti let me go. He had left it up to Father Rinaldi to chastise me, and my humiliation was soon revisited when the good priest mentioned my sin during our next impromptu chat in his church.

  As Janice and I ambled along the crowded sidewalk, I touched the Blessed Mother pendant ever-present around my neck and thought some more about my mother. Mom never practiced her adopted Catholic faith, and never sent me for formal religious instruction, but she had given the pendant to me when I was six and always made references to Jesus and the importance of faith in Him, especially his Mother. She said even when she’s not around anymore, I will always have a mother. Whether she truly believed or was just rebelling against my Jewish grandmother, I took it to heart from that young age.

  “Let’s grab a bite at Sally’s,” Janice said as she took my hand and led me across the avenue to the local coffee shop. A Greek establishment that was accepted in an Italian neighborhood because of its specialty, Sally’s offered fountain items and served the finest coffee, feta cheese salads, hummus with pita, and other Greek selections, and the best fried chicken sandwich for miles around.

  We squeezed past diners exiting the narrow restaurant and headed for the row of booths beyond a line of stainless steel counter stools with red leather cushions where customers faced glass displays showcasing donuts, pies, and Greek pastries. Janice and I giggled as we always did when our heels clicked on the worn black and white ceramic tiles, and then we slipped into a booth across from each other on leather that matched the stools.

  Janice grabbed two menus that were propped up by the condiments and handed one to me. “Order whatever you want,” she said as she started to scan the offerings that made my mouth water. “My treat.” Janice almost always paid the way no matter what we did, and she never made me feel embarrassed whenever she did so. But I always squirmed at such times.

  “I have some money, Jan,” I said.

  “No ya don’t,” she said. She was right, of course. Any time I had three dollars in my pocket—which wasn’t often—I felt rich.

  “I will,” I replied, “as soon as I turn sixteen and get that job in the bookstore.”

  “Then you’ll be saving for college,” Janice said, and looked up. “You can pick up the tab at those fancy places in Manhattan you’ll be taking me to when you’re a big shot.” There was never any doubt in her words when she referred to the dream that I had always shared with her.

  “I’ll just have a Coke and some fries,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” Janice said, and she opened my menu. “I’m starved, and I’m not goin’ to eat alone.” I knew that there would be no point arguing with my best friend once she had made up her mind. And what I really wanted, anyway, was some of Sally’s moussaka. “Besides,” Janice added, “we have a lot to talk about.”

  “That guy you mentioned?”

  “I had to check it out first with Richie. He’s okay with it and Tony’s available.”

  I repeated the lie that had escaped my lips when Janice first hinted at an introduction a few weeks before. “I already told you I wasn’t interested.”

  “Your mouth says no but your eyes and budding breasts say something else,” Janice said with a knowing grin. There was no point arguing with her about that, either. “But let’s order first. Then we’ll discuss your raging hormones and that Italian passion that’s just screamin’ to get out.”

  After Grandma, Janice knew me best. Despite my yearning to leave Brooklyn, I had the other, insistent yearnings that any young girl had. And I knew I would have to live in Bensonhurst for some time before I was able to move on. The possibility of having a boyfriend excited me.

  Janice placed our order with the waitress and then excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. She went as often to fuss with her makeup as she did to relieve herself and I never had a problem filling the time she was away with my own thoughts. When she left, my mother’s experiences when she was my age weighed upon me. Mom had been sexually active, had gotten pregnant several times, and had undergone abortions. But she had never confided in me about such things; Grandma did, when I was old enough and had to hear them—for my own good, Grandma always said.

  “I don’t know,” I said to Janice when she returned. “Maybe I can’t handle a relationship on top of schoolwork and dealing with everything else at home.”

  “Who’s kiddin’ who, Sam? You’re dyin’ for a boyfriend. Besides, ya need a love interest for that book you’re writin’.” Although I had had a couple of boyfriends, there hadn’t been anything serious and I hadn’t progressed much beyond kissing and holding hands. Anything more serious than that was confined to the imaginings of a fertile mind.

  “That can wait,” I offered.

  “Bullshit. I’ve read your journals.” Janice was the only person who had read everything I’d written. And she asked regularly if I had anything new to share with her. She never looked down upon my thoughts or my striving, and any criticism she offered was heartfelt. She was generous with sharing her own feelings and experiences and never resented when they informed my writing. Grandma was the tower of the bridge I needed on this side of the East River; Janice was the one closest to Manhattan.

  “Okay, it’s your party,” I said as the waitress delivered our food. “I’m listening.”

  “I swear, Sam,” Janice began, “Richie and his friends are so cool. Not like the nerds.” I didn’t think nerds were all that bad; their lives didn’t revolve around the goings-on in Bensonhurst. I kept that to myself as my best friend continued. “An’ lemme tell ya, Sam, Tony’s a real hunk!”

  “There are a lot of hunks around,” I said.

  “Not like him.”

  “What if I don’t like him?”

  “Oh, you’ll like ’im, all right. He’s the perfect guy for ya.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I asked as we started to eat.

  “Becuz ya have a lot in common with ’im.”

  “I also have a lot of writing to do and places to go. I don’t know anyone around here who shares those.”

  “I don’ mean that. Tony isn’t pure Italian. His family useta live in the neighborhood but they had a hard time fittin’ in,” Janice said.

  “I know how the greaseballs are, but my family never felt we had to leave Bensonhurst.”

  “It’s diff’rent for guys. Ya know, how they carry on about blood and loyalty and all. How a man has ta make a livin’.”

  I thought about how mixed parentage was looked down upon where we lived. Prejudice about ethnicity and race was just beneath the surface for certain Italians who exposed it in ugly displays of their supposed superiority. A Black man walking in Bensonhurst was enough instigation for many of them to glower or give voice to their contempt. Such bigotry often came as a shock to the innocent, myself included. Giorgio at Davinci’s Pizza had taken a liking to me after I started going there when I was twelve. He used to give me slices and wanted his son to date me when we started high school. When they found out I was half Jewish, the freebies stopped and his son gave me the cold shoulder. Tony and I would have something to share right from the start, I thought, and that might be a good thing. “What else can you tell me about him?” I asked.

  “The guy’s pretty exotic, Sam. I’d date him myself if I wasn’t so tight wid Richie. Just wait ’til ya see ’im.”

  “What makes you think he’ll like me? I’m no Farrah Fawcett, you know.”

  “Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Janice asked. “You’re a knockout, Sam. Your hair alone is enough to captivate him.”

  For as long as I could remember, my hair that reached below my waist had always been my prized asset, which everyone knew. When Janice said that, I couldn’t help remembering when my mother, in a fit of anger, had cut my hair above my shoulders when I was nine and permed it, to teach me a lesson about who was in charge in her household. But after su
ch battles, I often thought about how my mother had tried to show me love by bringing little things to me—notwithstanding how she had acquired them—and with her halting attempts with words, and her heavy-handed decisions meant to keep me from suffering a fate similar to hers. Janice wouldn’t be the only one I’d treat to some good times in Manhattan someday, I thought; I looked forward to improving Mom and Grandma’s lot at the first opportunity.

  “What if Tony likes short hair?” I asked.

  “I don’t know any Italians who do.”

  “Maybe it’s the Dutch part,” I chuckled.

  “Well, we’re gonna find out real soon what he likes.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything yet, Jan.”

  “Look. I’ve arranged the perfect setup,” Janice said. “Everybody will be at the feast next week and we’ll bump into him there. If ya don’ like him we’ll just walk off together.”

  “You sure Richie won’t mind not being with you?”

  “Trust me, he won’t. He spends more time with Tony now than he does with me,” Janice said as the busboy cleared our plates. She looked toward the front counter. “Now we’re gonna have some coffee and baklava.”

  “Since it’s your treat,” I kidded. Janice always went first class and I couldn’t wait to bite into the walnut puff pastry. All I got at home—and it was once in a blue moon—was prepackaged Entenmann’s from the Key Food supermarket. Grandma swore by that baker—“He’s a Jew,” she had said more than once.

  “So how old is he?” I continued.

  “Twenty. Same as Richie,” Janice said. I frowned. “That’s not old, Sam. My mom is ten years younger than my dad. They get along great. Besides, ya don’ care for guys your age, anyways.”

  “Maybe I just haven’t found the right one.”