Brooklyn Story

by Suzanne Corso

  When I walked into the living room, I saw Tony wedged between Mom and Grandma on the couch. I stifled a laugh. He looked trapped, but he was smiling politely and answering a question and they smiled in return. He really knew how to handle himself, I thought. Tony was the kind of guy, I guessed, who could sweet-talk parents until they stretched the curfew, reassuring them that their daughter would be in good hands. One look at Mom told me that she was being charmed. Thank God her female instincts had overtaken her biases for a change, I thought. Tony looked toward me. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “Ya look real good, Sam.” His head swiveled between Mom and Grandma. “Doesn’t she?” he asked them.

  “My bubelah is one gorgeous girl,” Grandma shouted. “She’s a smart one, too.” Mom just nodded and then Grandma frowned as she stared at the huge cross on Tony’s neck. She so desperately wanted it to be a Jewish star, wanted me to marry a Jewish boy. She had reservations about Italians, Sicilians most of all, and said they were sneaky, stubborn, and control freaks. I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way after what my father had done to her daughter. Though there was plenty of other evidence around us to support her views, I wasn’t inclined to make such sweeping judgments. Tony was different, I felt. He stood up and took my hand. Grandma’s eyes narrowed. “You take good care of her, now.”

  When we got outside, Tony helped me into the passenger seat of his 1972 black and beige Toyota. I knew my family would be watching from the third-floor window and that they’d appreciate seeing me being treated like a lady. This guy would never do to me what Richie had done to Janice, I thought.

  When Tony got in the car I opened my mouth and closed it again. I was dying to say something about Richie but remembered my promise to Janice. Instead, I thought of something casual to say as we drove down the block. “Hey, do they really have dikes in Holland?”

  “Ya mean lesbos?”

  “No, silly. I mean that story about the boy who put his finger in the dike to hold back the water.”

  Tony grinned. “Musta been pretty smelly,” he said.

  “Don’t be so gross, Tony,” I said.

  He laughed for a second and turned serious. “But it ain’t funny,” Tony began. “I ain’t never hangin’ wid no queers.” The veins in his neck bulged as his hands twisted around the steering wheel. “None a my crew would put with that very long.”

  There was silence for a long minute and then I changed the subject. “So what took you so long to get here? I was ready at seven.”

  “Good. I like a woman who listens.”

  “So where were you?”

  Tony looked straight ahead. “I hadda, you know, do some stuff with Vin and Richie,” he said. He jangled the rosary beads that hung from his rearview mirror. All the guys in Bensonhurst had some sort of religious artifact on the mirror or dashboard to protect them. Mom had told me that Saint Christopher was the one who watched over you while you drove, and there were plenty of his likenesses in Bensonhurst cars.

  “What kinda stuff?” I asked.

  “Bizness. I was takin’ care a bizness,” he said.

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Listen, Sam. I’m in business for myself, kinda. Me and the guys.”

  “No kidding. What do you do?”

  “Loan dough to dems that need some, and we’re in the used radio trade, too,” he said.

  “Oh. You some kind of entrepreneur?”

  Tony grinned, sat back, and drove on with one hand as his other arm hung outside his side window. “I knew you were a smart girl,” he said. “That’s exactly what I am. A ontra-pa-noo-er.”

  I looked at his powerful hand on the wheel. “I thought you worked construction,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Union shit. But me an’ the guys have some things on the side.”

  Everyone knew that many Italians, especially those connected to the Mafia, had gumadas, or mistresses. I hoped that business was all that Tony had on the side. I stared at him while he drove and looked forward to another date. “So what movie are we seeing? I love movies. My favorite is West Side Story, especially when Maria sings to Tony. Tony, Tony,” I sang out like a fool, giggling at myself.

  “Oh that,” Tony said. “We’re not goin’ to the movies.”

  “But Mom and Grandma think I’m at the flicks.”

  “What they don’ know won’t hurt ’em,” Tony said.

  “I don’t like lying.”

  “Ya want ’em to think I’m a liar? They’ll never let ya see me again.” Tony glanced at me with a smirk. “But if that’s what ya want, I can turn around and take ya back home so you can be honest.”

  My lips tightened. “No, that’s okay,” I said.

  “Good. You wouldn’t really want to miss goin’ to Platinum, would you?”

  “You’re taking me to Platinum?” I asked, my voice cracking. The thought of being at one of the hottest nightclubs around thrilled me. The Harley ride had been excitement enough for one day, and now this!

  “I was gonna, but if you’d rather be with your mommy, that’s fine with me.”

  “’Course I want to be with you, Tone. I was just surprised, is all.” I paused for a minute. “How’m I gonna get in?”

  Tony reached into his pocket and handed a driver’s license to me.

  “Who’s Priscilla Montiglio?” I asked.

  “That’s you. You’re twenty-two.”

  “I don’t look twenty-two. And she has short hair.”

  “Don’ matter. I know the bouncer. The fake ID is just for show. Ya hand it to ’im when I tell ya.”

  After Tony parked the car, he took my hand and led me past the long line of anxious clubgoers waiting to get in. When I handed the fat bouncer the fake ID, he smirked at Tony and then unhooked the velvet rope. Tony grabbed Priscilla Montiglio’s ID back from the bouncer and tucked it away in his pocket after we entered the club.

  Holding tight on to Tony’s hand, I let my eyes adjust to the lights above the dance floor, the surrounding darkness, and the cigarette smoke, and my ears to the overwhelming din. The place was jumping as a young crowd gyrated on the dance floor. Everyone boogied to “Love Machine” by the Miracles:

  (I, I,) I’m just a love machine

  And I won’t work for nobody but you

  Boys in tight pants and nylon shirts that were half unbuttoned undulated to the music with girls whose breasts bulged out of short halter tops. I wondered how they danced in the high-heeled platforms they wore. I would topple over, I decided, and was glad I wore low wedge sandals.

  Tony guided me past the bar and along the dance floor to a restaurant area. A hand went up at one of the tables along the dance floor. Tony smiled and nodded toward Richie and Vin. We made our way to their table and sat down. In front of a club that was so alive, I felt like a queen again.

  Dara sat slumped beside Vin. I smiled at her and eyed the large-breasted girl sitting next to Richie who had a grin plastered on her face. “Meet my cousin Gloria,” Richie said to me. “Gloria, this is Samantha.”

  I nodded to her and wondered at the same time. If she was Richie’s cousin, then why was he practically sitting on top of her? Kissing cousins was more like it, I concluded. If I had despised Richie for beating up on Janice, I detested him now. His flaunting another girl made me feel sick to my stomach and I looked at Tony with a narrow smile. This was my first visit to Platinum and I wanted to have fun, but guilt gnawed at me. How could I enjoy myself when my loyalties were to Janice? I decided to make the best of it. What could I do about it, anyway?

  Tony poured a glass of pink champagne for me from a pretty bottle. I tasted it and wow! I could get used to that, I said to myself. I felt good. Despite my reservations, I thought it was time for me to have a little fun. “So,” I said after another sip, “I hear you guys are in the radio business.”

  Vin chuckled. I didn’t know what was so funny. “Yeah,” he said, and glanced at Tony. “Well, we don’ exactly buy. We kinda sell. Ain’t that right, Tony?”

  Richie
exploded in a guffaw and he spilled some beer on his lap. I frowned as Gloria, his so-called cousin, patted him dry, her napkin lingering on his crotch. I thought of Janice, depressed and alone. Richie’s delight irritated me beyond belief. I would have enjoyed seeing him drown in a vat of beer right then. Good thing I knew better than to open my mouth again, about radios or cousins or best friends.

  Dara excused herself to powder her nose and I took a moment to study Vin Priganti. Everyone knew about the Prig-anti family, who oversaw underworld activity in Brooklyn. Tino, Vin’s father, had squashed all rivals years before and had risen to the top of an empire built on gambling, theft, loan-sharking, and prostitution. Sicilian through and through, Vin’s family lived by the rigid code brought over from the old country.

  Local people heard all the stories about the mobsters in their midst and talked in hushed tones about how Tino kept his two sons in line the same way he controlled his hired muscle—with the back of his hand and the barrel of his gun. Everyone feared him enough to do anything he asked. Vin’s older brother, Joe, however, would not be following in his father’s footsteps. Sensitive and less ambitious than Vin, Joe had a stooped posture and a retiring nature that were unsuitable for leading a crime family, and he would never take over the reins. Vin, a strong, silent type who didn’t have a conscience and wasn’t afraid to take action, was the favored son. He would take over for Tino when the time came. His cohorts knew it, and that gave Vin special status in the neighborhood. Everyone jumped at his command, too.

  Dara wobbled back and almost fell onto Vin when she took her seat. She looked around the table. “Where’s my drink, Vin?”

  Vin handed her a Coke. “Ya had enough already. Drink this and shuddup.”

  “Who the hell da ya think ya are?” Dara slurred. She pushed the drink away and it toppled onto the table. Vin rose without saying a word, clamped a hand around her arm, and pulled her out of the nightclub while she kicked at him from behind.

  “Shit,” said Richie. “She’s a real loose cannon, that one. Wonder why he keeps her?”

  “That ain’t all that’s loose about Dara,” Tony said, and the Brooklyn Boys guffawed.

  I felt sorry for the girl. Sure, Dara might be a pain in the ass and hard to like, but the guys didn’t have to treat her like that. Tony tapped my shoulder and motioned toward the animated bodies under a rotating, spotlit globe. B. J. Thomas sang out,

  I’m hooked on a feelin’, high on believin’

  That you’re in love with me.

  I slid onto the wood floor and danced with Tony, self-conscious at first. When we got into a groove, everyone in the packed crowd disappeared as Tony and I just looked at each other. Thoughts of Janice and Dara faded away as the song played on:

  I got it bad for you girl, but I don’t need a cure.

  Keep it up girl, yeah you turn me on.

  I closed my eyes and my mind floated to a place beyond the night.

  At two in the morning, I closed the door to my apartment without making a sound, took off my sandals, and tiptoed into my home without turning on a light. I thanked God that Mom wasn’t semiawake in one of her hazes on the living room couch. She sure as hell would have picked up where she had left off Sunday morning about my no-good boyfriend, I thought, and at that hour, her wrath would have no doubt been doubled. I made my way down the hall with the aid of the glimmer coming from a streetlamp and eased into my bedroom.

  I hardly breathed as I undressed and then slipped into bed, worried that my pounding heart could be heard around the room. My head hit the pillow and I closed my eyes.

  “Did you have fun, Samelah?” Grandma punctured the silence in a subdued voice that nonetheless sounded as loud as usual to me in our dark, still room. I caught my breath and rolled over to face her. “Yes, Grandma. A lot.”

  “I can see your smile in your voice. That makes my heart feel good.”

  “Sorry it’s so late,” I said.

  “That’s okay, as long as you’re home safe.”

  “I wish Mom would feel that way.”

  “She doesn’t have to know what time you got in.”

  “What if she heard me?” I worried.

  “I’ll tell her it was midnight. She drank a bottle of Thunderbird before she went to bed and won’t know the difference.”

  “Thanks, Gram.”

  “So? What about your date?”

  I propped my head on my arm. “Tony’s the best, Grandma. Took me to Platinum,” I gushed, and then regretted my slip.

  “At your age?”

  “It’s no big deal, Grandma.”

  “You’re not supposed to be in the clubs, Sam. You didn’t have any alcohol, did you?”

  “Of course not,” I said without hesitation. “We just danced and talked a lot.”

  “He’s a nice boy?”

  “You saw for yourself on Sunday.”

  “I didn’t spend much time with him. He seemed all right for an Italian.”

  “Half,” I reminded her. “And you’ll be seeing a lot more of him soon.”

  “You like him a lot, huh, Samelah?”

  “Tony’s a real catch, Grandma. All the girls drool over him. But he only looks at me.”

  “Did he get fresh with you?”

  I paused a moment. “He’s a gentleman, Gram.”

  “Good. Can’t have some greaseball botherin’ my granddaughter.”

  “None of those guys would think of coming near me as long as I’m with Tony.”

  “You shouldn’t be anywhere that kind hangs out.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said, but questioned whether I could do that any better than Janice could. I decided that Tony wasn’t Richie, and I wouldn’t have to cross that particular bridge.

  “It would be better if you didn’t run into them at all,” Grandma continued.

  “Oh, Grandma, they’re all over Brooklyn.”

  “Not in the temples,” Grandma said, her voice slightly raised. I knew her lips would be pressed together.

  “If I met a nice Jewish boy, I’d go out with him.”

  “I wonder,” Grandma sighed. I doubted what I’d said, too. Jewish boys tended to be nerds, and although I shared some things with that neighborhood group, the pull of being a part of the in crowd was too strong. And I belonged with Tony, I felt deep inside. I knew that I would continue to keep my writing to myself for the most part while I explored the exciting avenues that Jewish boys never traveled.

  Grandma’s bedsprings squeaked as she shifted her position. “There would be nothing to wonder about if you had gone to shul like I wanted. Instead, your mother sent you to public school and filled your head with Christianity nonsense.”

  “That’s just a different path to the same God, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Well, some paths are better than others,” she grunted.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I placated her. I reclined on the bed once again. “’Night, Grandma,” I said.

  “Good night, sweetheart,” Grandma said. “I love you,” she added after a prolonged exhale.

  “Me, too,” I said as I slipped a hand under my pillow. I clutched the rosary I always kept there and drifted off to sleep.

  I awoke late Labor Day morning refreshed and full of energy. Grandma was already up as usual, and I sprang out of bed to join her in the kitchen. I was relieved to find that Mom wasn’t there to interrogate me but then I worried about her. “Mom’s not up yet?” I asked Grandma.

  “No.”

  “I hope she’s okay,” I said.

  “She’s fine. Snoring away when I looked in on her. Let me fix you something, Samelah.”

  “I’m starved, Gram. And then I have a lot of writing to catch up on.”

  “I’ll keep your mother occupied when she gets up so you can concentrate on your work.”

  “That’d be great. I don’t plan on coming out of my room for a while,” I said, and smiled the whole time Grandma fussed with my breakfast.

  The words poured out o
f my mind as I sat at my desk, and my fingers had a hard time keeping up on the typewriter. Pages filled with fresh thoughts about my mother, about Janice and Richie, and, most of all, about Tony piled up next to my portable Smith-Corona. His musk energized me and our budding relationship informed everything I wrote.

  Although Mom’s experience with my father had been awful, I wondered if she had ever felt about him the way I felt about my new boyfriend. Or if she had ever had anyone else that caused her stomach to turn flips like mine did when I even thought about seeing him, let alone actually being with him. I wondered, too, what Mom’s hopes were before she was swallowed up by circumstances—some of which, I knew, could have been avoided if she had been strong enough to resist. Mom had never even hinted about any of her hopes, so I could only guess what they might have been. I never considered the possibility that she had never had any, even after she’d scoff at me, “You’re a dreamer, Sam,” when I’d share mine. I’d felt that it was her frustration talking at those times. Her encouragements to seek a better life, though infrequent and further apart as time went on, reflected how she really felt, I had decided, and I vowed to remember them more than anything else she said or did. As I typed, I imagined how horrible it must have been for Mom to have her hopes beaten out of her by my father.

  I wrote about that as I had before and explored what it was that made someone stand for that. As Janice had. Was her need for acceptance so great that she would suffer physical abuse, along with mental torment, for it? It didn’t have to be that way, I knew. Janice was well-off and she wasn’t unappealing. She had other options. And yet she stayed with Richie and feared losing him. It didn’t make sense, but that was how it was in Bensonhurst and I wrote about it.

  And I wrote about Tony. About the excitement of discovery, of motorcycles and champagne and dancing in his arms. And about his kisses that lingered still in my mouth. Exploration and sharing, along with interest in and attention to the other person, was what a real relationship was all about and my mind formed the words that came alive on the page.