“Yeah, right,” Katrina said without looking at me.
“How’s school goin’?” I asked.
“What’s it to ya?” Katrina snarled. I gave up and turned around.
“Be nice to my girl, Katrina,” Tony said as he negotiated a turn.
“What for?” she responded. “You’ll have a new one soon enough.” Tony jerked the car to the side of the street and twisted toward his sister with his foot pressed against the brake pedal. “Behave yourself or you’ll be hoofin’ it to Becky’s,” Tony growled. “I mean it.”
Katrina kept her gaze fixed outside the window. “Whatever,” she muttered.
Tony turned around and pulled away. “Sam’s a part of our family now,” he said. Katrina turned her head toward the front.
“We’ll see about that,” she said. “Dad’s too zoned out to care one way or the other, but Mom’ll sure have something to say about it.”
“Mom’s gonna love Sam, Katrina,” Tony said, “and ya can jus’ keep your sour opinions ta yaself.”
I wondered what had caused a bitter disposition in such a young girl. Over time, I felt, we’d grow closer and I’d find out, and maybe then she’d be more receptive to me. Maybe then I could help her.
Katrina’s mentioning their parents led me to thinking about them. Janice had only met them briefly a couple of times when she and Richie stopped by to hook up with Tony. All she had said to me was that Philip Kroon seemed like a lost soul and Pamela was your typical middle-aged Bensonhurst wannabe who died her dark hair blond and wore tight-fitting clothes. I’d see for myself at some point, I reasoned.
Tony pulled up in front of a well-kept two-family house and leaned across me to open my door. Katrina pressed the back of my seat into me, causing me to hunch over almost to my knees, and exited without saying a word. She headed up the walkway and didn’t look back as Tony gunned the motor and took off.
“She’s just a typical teenager dealing with her hormones,” I said.
“Pay her no mind,” Tony said. “She ain’t important.”
I looked at him as he drove on. “She’s your blood, Tone.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said. “What’s important is that you an’ me are together.” Tony glanced at me. “The way it’s supposeta be.”
I gazed through the windshield and squinted in the late-afternoon sunlight as I thought about a lot of things that were supposed to be. I was supposed to have a father in my life and a normal relationship with my mother, be better off than I was, and have an uncomplicated relationship with a boyfriend. But I had none of those, and that was just how it was for me on the Brooklyn side of the bridge. I knew the only thing that was completely in my control was my station in life.
As we drove in silence I revived my glee about Mr. Wainright’s news. I told myself that I could deal with anything at home or with Tony that came my way as long as I kept my feet moving forward toward the other side of the East River span. I looked through my side window and a tight smile came to my face as I contemplated anew that journey for a minute longer.
“So where we headed?” I asked, turning toward Tony once again.
“Sally’s.”
I thought that would be a good place for us to finish our earlier conversation. It had been great to be there with Janice, I thought, but it would be even better with Tony. “I love that place,” I said.
“I’m meetin’ the guys. Ya just get sumthin’ ta eat and keep quiet about what we talked about. Save it for when we’re alone.”
“Sure, Tone,” I said, looking at his profile. “You know I want to make you happy.”
He grinned for the first time that afternoon. His soft side was returning and I melted. “Yeah, well,” Tony said, “I’ve got some ideas ’bout how ya can do that.”
He eased the Cadillac into a vacant space on Eighteenth Avenue and then ignored the meter as he strutted toward the diner. I let myself out and hurried to catch up, slipping an arm around his when I reached his side. Tony thrust the glass door open and headed for the last booth, where Vin Priganti and Richie Sparto were drinking coffee. Tony waited for me to slide into the vacant seat and then plopped beside me.
“Hey,” Tony said to his friends with an extended fist.
“Hey,” they responded in kind, then nodded toward me.
“Hi,” I said.
“How’s things?” Richie asked me. I didn’t have to look toward Tony before replying. “Great,” I said as I thought about Mr. Wainright.
Tony reached across me, grabbed two menus, and dropped one in front of me. “I’m not really hungry, Tone,” I said.
“Order sumthin’,” he said as he scanned a menu.
I wished I felt like eating as I viewed the selections that I had seldom had the opportunity to enjoy. “Okay,” I said after a moment. “Just get me a fruit salad.”
Tony closed his menu and slid it past me. “I’m havin’ a burger and fries,” he said, and looked across the table. “Youse eat already?”
“Sally’s holdin’ our order,” Vin Priganti said. “That thing go okay so far?”
Tony clasped his hands and sat back. “Routine,” he said.
Vin glanced at Richie and then faced Tony. “Good,” he said as he slumped against the faux red leather. “You’re movin’ up in my family.”
Tony beamed. I wondered what it was going to take to move up in Tony’s family. Katrina hadn’t been a promising start. “I appreciate that, Vin,” Tony said.
Vin crossed his arms. “Everythin’s fallin’ inta place,” he said. “Meet us at Rocco’s after you’re done.” Tony nodded.
Rocco’s, owned and run by Janice’s father, was one of the neighborhood hangouts. Only for Italians of a certain persuasion, that is. Any nerd or Jew or black person soon found that out upon wandering into the bar. Janice had told me many times of Richie’s carousing there. Tony didn’t seem like much of a drinker to me, and I didn’t know about Vin, but I pictured them puffing their chests in such environments.
“What’s da latest with that DJ?” Richie asked Vin as he chewed on his hamburger after the food had arrived.
“Oh, dat finocchio? Don’ look so good fa him,” Vin scoffed, and the guys laughed.
“I haven’t seen dat faggot lately,” Tony said.
“Don’ matter,” Vin said. “Somone’s gonna do a piece on ’im sooner or later.”
The Brooklyn Boys continued talking as if I weren’t there. I picked at my fruit until they had finished eating and then everyone stopped outside for a moment. The boys tapped closed fists and Tony and I went back to the Cadillac. I jumped in while he pulled a parking ticket from under the wiper blade. He crumpled it and tossed it into the street before sliding in behind the wheel. His scent wafted toward me.
Tony put the key into the ignition and turned to me before he switched it on. “Listen, Sam,” he started, “I don’ wanna make a big deal outta how it hasta be between me an’ you. I jus’ want ya ta do the right thing.” He gazed into my eyes. “Unnerstand?”
“Sure, Tone,” I said. “But I gotta be able to see Janice. It’s not like she doesn’t belong.” Tony turned away, started the car, and held the wheel for a moment. I could see him thinking. “She dates your best friend, doesn’t she?” I said.
Tony switched the radio on and eased the car from the curb. “Ya jus’ gotta know how I feel about ya,” he said with a measured cadence. “I gotta be able ta find ya when I gotta see ya or hear ya voice.”
My eyes lingered on Tony for a moment before I responded. His passion was genuine and I melted once again. It felt good to be close to him. I knew we belonged together and decided we’d just have to get used to each other. Learn to get along like every couple had to. “I’ll give you Janice’s number. If I’m not there, I’ll be home. Okay?”
Tony snapped his chin forward and back. “All right. But dat’s it.”
I reached for his shoulder. “I promise,” I said.
Tony leaned toward me and moved his arm across the b
url console. He rested his hand on my knee and squeezed. “I don’ wanna hafta talk ’bout dis no more,” he said. “Now I gotta drop ya off.”
Tony kept his hand on my leg and I felt his touch through my new jeans as we made the short trip to my apartment. It was just a matter of time, I thought. It had only taken a couple of hours for Tony to calm down and for us to renew our connection. Imagine what a year would do, I asked myself. We would get closer and closer while we distanced ourselves from Bensonhurst. I was sure of that.
Tony put the gearshift in park and left the engine running in front of my home. He leaned his upper body across the console, slipped an arm behind my head, and pulled me to his lips. Dusk was still far off but I didn’t care about any prying neighborhood eyes, even those belonging to my mother. She would have to deal with things just as I had to do all the time, I reasoned.
Tony locked his lips on mine and probed my mouth with his tongue. All reason left me then, and my legs parted slightly. He slid his left hand over my cotton blouse, spread his thumb and pinkie finger, and pressed them into my nipples. The bolt I felt was followed by a much bigger one when that hand slipped between my thighs. I moaned as our lips parted.
Tony buried his face in my hair and his tongue found my ear. I thrust my chest forward and writhed as he licked and probed. When he stopped, I went limp and felt the wetness left behind as his short breaths bathed my ear. He squeezed the V between my legs and then moved his hand to my thigh. “I … tellya …,” he groaned, “ya … don’ know … whatya … do … ta me, Samantha Bonti.” There was no mistaking the closeness between us then and I wanted more. A Chicago tune that emanated from the dashboard echoed the way I felt:
If you leave me now, you’ll take away the very heart of me …
“Do you have to go?” I asked. “It’s Friday.”
Tony pulled away slowly and slumped in his seat with his eyes closed, his blond hair cradled in the headrest. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Seeya later.”
“What time?” I asked.
He opened his eyes and turned his head toward me. “I mean whenever.”
“Oh,” I said, and reached for the door handle. He sat up, grabbed my neck with his strong fingers, pulled me across the console, and held my mouth close to his. “Jus’ one more for the road,” he murmured. I locked my arms around his neck and my lips around his narrow smile.
I never wanted to let go. But the truth is, I was beginning to wonder why …
When I turned sixteen in early October, Tony took me to Angelo’s in Little Italy and gave me a platinum bracelet—he said it would remind us always of the dance club by the same name. A day later, I took a job at a small bookstore on Eighteenth Avenue. Tony didn’t like that and told me he’d give me all the money I needed, but I wanted to help out a little at home and squirrel away a few dollars for my own future.
My life settled into a comfortable routine over the two months that surrounded my birthday. I didn’t mind the time I spent at school, where I received positive reinforcement for my writing efforts, and each day brought me closer to the graduation that would be the last step before taking the first one into Manhattan. I also didn’t mind the hours after school in the bookstore. Its aura of history and creativity and the feel of a volume cradled in my hand never failed to kindle new reveries of my own future. During quiet moments at work, I’d look around and imagine where among the shelves and displays my book would be.
And I didn’t mind, either, the impromptu shopping sprees Tony took me on to the shops on Eighteenth Avenue, and his insistence on my having a standing appointment at Salon D’Belezza, the chicest place in all of Bensonhurst, where Italian women idled away hours to look good for their men. It seemed that Tony took as much pleasure dropping me off there and basking in the admiring glances from the women in every corner as I did from the hours of pampering lavished upon me per his direction.
Other than the couple of times when Tony had made a date in advance, I never knew when I’d see him. He’d show up in his old Toyota or Vin’s car at school or at work once in a while and we’d visit the usual haunts. I felt regal whenever I got into and rode in the Cadillac. But I didn’t mind the beat-up car; Tony was paying his dues like I was. Besides, it made me feel less embarrassed whenever he was in my welfare apartment.
Tony called most days, but most of the time our conversations were brief. More often than not, he had something or other to do with Vin and Richie and I got to see him maybe two or three times a week. We became regulars at Platinum and other clubs, where he showed the new me off to everyone. It was fantastic to belong to his inner circle and to receive attention from people I hardly knew because of the respect they had for Tony. The times we had not only thrilled me, they supplied fresh material about people and places and relationships, and about how life worked in Bensonhurst. I wished I saw Tony more often, but I had plenty of the usual things to fill my time.
First and foremost was my writing. With each pat on the back I got from Mr. Wainright, on top of the unflagging praise from Janice, my confidence increased and the words seemed to flow from me without difficulty. Alone in my apartment one Friday night in mid-November, I sat back at my desk after a couple of hours of work to ponder things. Grandma had dragged Mom to the movies before Tony had called to inform me during another short conversation that we wouldn’t be getting together that evening. We were on for Saturday, however. Tony said he had something to celebrate.
I thought about that in front of my old Smith-Corona. Our special occasions, other than my birthday, had revolved around something in his life such as a nice score or a pat on the back from Vin. I hadn’t celebrated once with Tony my hard-fought advancement in writing. When I did bring it up every couple of weeks, he didn’t probe or show joy. He did, however, remind me about his friend in publishing a couple of times. I didn’t press him for more information about that and I was reluctant to toot my own horn, so I remained content to savor my progress within whenever I was with him.
Although I most wanted to share my writing passion with Tony, I was blessed to have others who took almost as much pleasure in my advancing steps as I did. Grandma was right behind Janice and Mr. Wainright with support, and often gave me a gentle pat on my behind with her words of encouragement. Father Rinaldi always mentioned my blossoming career when we sat in the pew together. I suspected he received regular updates about it from Mr. Wainright when he dropped by for a Saturday confession. I had been an observer at baptisms and First Holy Communions when I chanced upon them at Our Lady of Guadalupe, and although my interest in the Catholic faith kept growing, formal rites such as confession remained beyond my personal experience; my sins, I thought, would be voiced through my writing.
I didn’t know if I’d ever be baptized but I did know I’d maintain my connection to the Blessed Mother. That’s what I found in Father Rinaldi’s church every time I was there, and I intended to keep Her with me always. Father Rinaldi never failed to direct his gaze at the statue of my patron saint at some point during our conversations. The Blessed Mother’s hand in my life, I knew, was as real and as close to me as the ones of those dear to me who touched me in my daily life.
I looked at the half-filled page in my typewriter. My dating series had progressed to my satisfaction and had fed my writing passion, with all manner of topics from what to wear and what to say, to what to think and what to feel. But the words on the paper that night were only for my book. They were about the other passion in my life, the one that blossomed every time I was in Tony’s arms. My body’s responses to his attentions were the physical representation of the stirring I had in my soul. I was a writer, I knew, but I was also a young woman and Tony helped me to know what that felt like.
Sexual contact was a part of every date I had had with him, from a couple of minutes kissing to prolonged petting. I was grateful that Tony hadn’t forced the issue of consummation with me and let me set some boundaries. There were a lot of things I wanted him to leave behind, but his respect wasn’t o
ne of them. Nor was the softness that his deference bespoke. That’s what gave me hope that he was the type of guy who belonged with me on the other side of the river. His business and his irregular hours would be a thing of the past then.
As I gathered my thoughts to write some more that night, I couldn’t help but sense the feeling of accomplishment growing inside me, and I marveled about how I had felt differently about some things in only a few short months. My attachment to Tony made my distance from my mother easier to take, and I was more tolerant of her shortcomings. Maybe she sensed my growing independence and its inevitability, too, I thought. And my new life had made me recognize how old my grandma was and how much more I should cherish my time with her. Serious writers always confronted mortality head-on; it was part of the bleeding they had to do, Mr. Wainright had told me. I knew my time with Grandma wouldn’t last forever and I vowed to get as much of it on the page as I could.
I had different feelings about writing, too. The satisfaction with my work and the acknowledgment of its merit I received from people who mattered became more important than the material things my career might provide. I had had some fancy meals and expensive gifts bestowed on me by Tony, but they never seemed to mean as much to me as my work did.
I hovered over my typewriter and then thought about the feelings that had remained the same as time went on. Father Rinaldi would never be other than what he was, pure as the halo around the Blessed Mother. And Janice was a constant throughout. We caught up all the time on the phone, and met at Sally’s or huddled on her bedspread. Janice and I shared the latest developments and the giggles and hugs that always accompanied them. She took great pleasure in my blossoming as a woman and I didn’t know what I’d do without her in my life. Grandma, Mr. Wainright, and Father Rinaldi were wonderful, but it was only with Janice that I could reveal intimate details of my throes of passion, and only she could read the words describing the stirrings within me that Tony engendered.
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