Brooklyn Story

by Suzanne Corso

  Now that piqued my curiosity.

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t ask so many questions, just do it. It’s not a big deal, it’s Vin’s. I’d rather you keep it for me, okay?” I was hesitant, I had no idea what this could be, yet I took the bag and that was that.

  “I gotta go, Tone,” I sighed as I dragged myself away from him, taking the duffel bag with me.

  “I know,” he said, “but sumday, you’ll never hafta leave.”

  I took my heels off outside the apartment door and closed it gently, hiding the duffel bag by my side, but when cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils I knew my precautions were pointless. Mom was wide awake and slumped on the couch behind a huge gift basket on the coffee table that was wrapped in translucent yellow cellophane. I could see two wine bottles encased with straw and all sorts of Italian delicacies that were nestled in shredded green paper.

  “So,” Mom snarled, “he’s finished with ya for the night?”

  “Mom, please,” I said as I dropped my schoolbag onto the tattered area rug, “not now.”

  “It’s bad enough ya miss dinner”—she ignored my plea—“but no call? What kinda respect is that?” Mom covered her mouth with a fist and coughed.

  I looked at her lined, ashen face and shrunken body but opted not to comment about respect. “I just got caught up in things, is all,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “You’re sorry. I’m sorry what we been tellin’ ya all these years hasn’t sunk in.”

  It wasn’t the time to explain to her how different we were, and how much different I was from almost everyone in Bensonhurst. I pointed to the basket. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “As if you don’ know,” Mom harrumphed.

  “No, I don’t,” I said, and then smiled. “Is it from Tony?”

  Mom tore the card from the plastic wrapping and held it in front of her eyes as she read the inscription. “‘With appreciation’, it says, and it’s signed ‘The Prigantis’.” She looked at me and her eyes were overflowing with judgment. “What for, you and God only know.”

  “Tony musta said something about me and him gettin’ serious,” I said, and regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. Revealing my heart to Grandma was never a problem, but it was way too soon to tell Mom how I was starting to feel about Tony. She would just hassle me no end, I knew. It would be better to fill her in much farther down the road, maybe even after I crossed that bridge.

  Mom raised an eyebrow. “What’s serious is the kinda shit this leads ta.”

  Saturday night returned to my consciousness when she said that. “It’s no big deal,” I said as I took off my jacket, “and now we have some nice treats for Thanksgiving.”

  Why would Tino send me a basket? Who was I kidding, I knew why, but it felt wrong. There was a part of me that felt like a big shot, the girl that everyone talked about, but it still didn’t seem right. Oh well, I guess I would send him a thank-you; that’s what Grandma would do.

  I went into my bedroom, opened the window, and placed the duffel bag in my hiding place under the planter. That’s what Tony asked me to do, so I did it. I hoped that whatever Tony gave me would stay safe out there. I was tempted to look inside but got distracted by Mom’s yelling.

  “I’ll be thankful when I get you away from this neighborhood,” Mom said as she reached for another cigarette.

  She had no idea how far away I intended that to be or what would happen to me before I got there.

  The next few weeks flew by with schoolwork, hours at the bookstore, get-togethers with Janice, pounding away at my typewriter, and sporadic dates with Tony. Most of those included Richie and Janice and Vin and Dara, at either a restaurant or a nightclub. Other than one or two comments about how much their lawyer was costing them, the three guys seemed unaffected by their criminal case, which was proceeding at a snail’s pace. It seemed to consist primarily of postponements and faded into the background. Tony’s references to our life together, at just the right time every other week when my concern peaked, to a house and kids and fine things, kept it there. My worry about him going away for a stretch seemed unwarranted.

  My time alone with Tony was for the most part confined to heated, clawing moments in his Porsche or heavy petting in his bedroom—even when his mother was at home a few times—as Playboy bunnies looked down on us from wall posters. I found it ironic every time I was in Tony’s room that he wouldn’t hear of me hanging photos of rock and movie stars in my room.

  With each makeout session, I came closer to the point of no return. I had no illusions that Tony wasn’t very experienced with sexual consummation; not only did he know exactly what he was doing as his hands and mouth traversed my body, but the knowing glances and smiles he got from the guys and so many women told me plain as day that I was far from his first conquest. I marveled at his restraint, at his not forcing the issue with me. It could only mean, I reasoned, that he held me in high regard, that what we had was, indeed, special. I knew that when I crossed the line and went all the way with him, that would be special, too.

  On Christmas morning, I sat on a brown, tattered armchair in my apartment and looked forward to that moment. My eyes rested on the worn, faded emerald green area rug at my feet, and I focused on a darker border thread that twisted with another and seemed to go on without end. I’m looking forward to an entire life with Tony, I said to myself. I couldn’t wait to see him later that afternoon.

  I hadn’t been with him on Thanksgiving; he had said he had to do something with Vin but that he didn’t know exactly when it would be, and he didn’t want to leave me stranded at his house or drop me back at mine after a short time together. I had been disappointed, but at least Mom and Grandma were happy to have me to themselves for a change.

  It had turned out to be a pleasant holiday. Mom was in rare form and managed to get through an entire day without any of her usual sarcasm or vitriol. It was both a surprise and a relief not to feel like I had to walk on eggshells around her. Spontaneous smiles and laughter punctuated the kind of girl talk that had been all too lacking in our home. For once, we were just three women sharing an attachment and a good time.

  A miniature Christmas tree, what I called a Charlie Brown tree because it was so small and had only a few stray red balls and no tinsel on it, stood humbly on the faux mantelpiece in the Bonti living room beside a brass menorah in full flame. That prized possession of Grandma’s had been in the family for years, and she was in the habit of lighting all the candles each night after the Christmas tree arrived—accentuating the battle between the two religions that had remained after my father left when Mom was eight months pregnant with me. I recalled how Grandma always harped on the fact that I was born a Jew because I came out of a Jewish vagina, and how the religious conflict that had become Mom’s badge was something Grandma grieved over almost every day. On Christmas, I hoped that peace would prevail as it had on Thanksgiving.

  As I stared at the flickering lights on the Christmas tree and the menorah ablaze, I wished as I had many times before that Mom and I had had a more normal life. But she had continued on her path of self-destruction ever since I was a toddler. When things had gotten worse for us financially, her destructive habits had gotten even worse and then her health deteriorated, too. She had even resorted to taking things out of Grandma’s jewelry box and pawning them. I recalled the time when she made me shoplift that expensive shampoo and conditioner she loved at the drugstore. I was only twelve at the time. Then of course it escalated into shirts and pants and anything else she would want off the avenue, until we got caught. No charges were ever filed. By thirteen I would have been getting charged for theft. Thank God she had the sense to stop. Once again she returned to the church with a vengence to repent for what she made me do as well as for herself. I often wondered why she couldn’t just get a job, but she claimed she was way too sick to work, the welfare was fine, and I had to deal with it. I had always had other plans.

  I knew Mom had been ill for a lon
g time, but I felt that her lack of positive energy and her negative attitude were what kept her from getting well. No wonder she hadn’t had any stable men and drifted from one lowlife to another, I thought. I swore I would not wind up with any man just for the hell of it and I would make my own money as a writer. I would never give up. Besides Tony, that was all I had, a dream, my dream.

  I glanced at the book in my lap, Understanding Shakespeare, which I’d picked up in the library but with which I was not making a great deal of headway. My mother was of no help with such things, of course, so I had read and reread the lyrical phrases to myself, enjoying the swell of the phrases, trying to understand the words, while Mom sat on the couch and smoked a cigarette. I was distracted watching my mother pull the smoke into her mouth and send it back out in perfect white rings that traveled across the room, lost their shapes, and disappeared. Didn’t she know how bad smoking was for her? I always asked myself. It just never seemed to matter to her. Almost every morning since I was about fourteen she had spit up horrible mucus that was bloody sometimes. How could she do that to herself? I wondered. My poor grandma and I just never knew what to do about Mom’s behavior. Every year that passed I knew that her demons were getting to her more and more. Sometimes I felt as though it wasn’t her, my beautiful mother from my birth, but rather a beaten-down, worn-out woman who didn’t care about anything, never mind her health.

  I knew that when she saw me with Tony all she could see was a reflection of herself with my father and her countless beatings. She didn’t want that for me and no matter how much I reassured her, she never trusted it and sometimes I didn’t either.

  It was the first Christmas since Mom had converted to Catholicism that we Bontis were not cooking dinner in our small kitchen. Pamela had made good on her promise and had invited us to spend the holiday at her house. Mom and Grandma had agreed and decided to have a breakfast of cheese blintzes and applesauce and then exchange presents in the living room before we left for the Kroon residence.

  When Grandma walked into the living room, she wrinkled her nose. “Put that out, willya?” she said to her daughter. “It’s one thing if you want to keep smoking and kill yourself, but Sam has a good long life ahead of her. She needs a working pair of lungs.”

  Mom rolled her eyes, took two long pulls on her Marlboro, coughed, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. I put my book down and got up to hug Grandma. “Merry Christmas, Grandma,” I said.

  “Same to you, honey,” she said, and then frowned at the Christmas tree. “Even if it is about things I don’t believe in.” She smiled beatifically at the menorah before nodding her head and sitting beside her daughter.

  “Let’s just open our gifts, Ma,” Mom said. She’d heard it all before, over and over again. “Then I need a little nap before the party.”

  “Here,” I said as I picked up a large package. “Let’s start with this. It’s from Tony for all of us.” I placed the present on their laps.

  “It’s so heavy,” Grandma said.

  I giggled and set the gift on the floor as I knelt in front of them and opened it myself. Inside the professionally wrapped department store box was a red and black Oriental rug, a runner that would fit perfectly in the short entrance hall. I was delighted when I saw my grandmother smiling.

  “Isn’t it beautiful, Mom?” I asked.

  Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Why would Tony give us a rug?” she scoffed. I pursed my lips. It looks like she’s going to be her usual bitter self, I thought, instead of the pleasant, regular person she had been a month before. Mom poked the box away with her foot. “What does he think, that we can’t afford one ourselves?”

  “We can’t,” Grandma said.

  “Well, we can’t keep it,” Mom said.

  Leave it to her to have an attitude about a rug she knew damn well she couldn’t afford. I steamed. “Why not, Mom?” I barked. “I think it’s a wonderful gift. Of course we’ll keep it.”

  “Don’ get fuckin’ loud with me,” Mom said.

  “Hey, no swearing,” Grandma chided. “It’s a holiday.”

  Mom screwed her face. “Yeah, but not your holiday.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Grandma said. “At least he remembered us.”

  “I remembered you, too,” I said. I jumped up and grabbed two small square gifts, nudged Mom and Grandma apart, and snuggled into the space between them. “Make room for Santa,” I said with a big smile. I handed a box to my mother. “This is for you, Mom,” I said, and pecked her cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Oh, Sam, it’s wrapped so pretty!” Mom said, and pulled the paper off the black velvet box. She opened the lid, looked down, and took the beautiful silver cross into her hand. “It’s so beautiful,” Mom said. She thought for a second and then her face darkened as she looked at me. “Tony gave ya the money for this, didn’t he?” I said nothing as my head and shoulders slumped.

  “The boy’s serious about her,” Grandma jumped in. “He’s courting her.”

  “Courting, my ass,” Mom said. “That’s how her father started with me.” I fought back tears, got up, and ran out of the living room.

  Grandma found me on my bed, crying. She sat beside me and gave me a hug. “Why is she so mean to me?” I asked through my tears. “Tony is a nice guy.”

  She took a hand-embroidered handkerchief out of her housecoat pocket and wiped my eyes. Then Grandma held it on my nose and said, “Blow.” I did as I was told and forced a smile.

  “That’s what I like to see,” Grandma said. “You got a smile that could stop traffic. Now where’s my gift?”

  I was still clutching the second box. I straightened the orange bow and handed it over. “Happy Chanukah,” I said.

  Grandma opened the gift and saw a silver Star of David on a thin silver chain. “Just what I wanted,” she said. “Now help me put it on.”

  I clasped the chain around Grandma’s craggy neck. “Do you really like it?” I asked.

  “Oh bubelah, it’s so pretty. Your old granny never had anything so nice.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “I would never lie to my little Sammy.”

  “It’s just so hard, Gram. You get a star, Mom gets a cross, and I get all the tsuris when you two are fighting about religion.”

  “Faith isn’t something to get aggravated about, Sammy.”

  I thought of the Blessed Mother and knew Grandma was right. “Faith is a good thing, Grandma, but I also believe in myself. In case you want to know, I didn’t get the money from Tony. I saved some of my pay and I paid for the gifts myself.”

  “Why didn’t you tell your mother that?”

  I blew my nose again. “’Cause she’d never believe me.”

  “Your mom knows you’re no liar,” Grandma said. She caressed my forehead and stroked my hair. “Do you want your gift now or should we wait?” she asked.

  My face brightened. “Now, please,” I said.

  Grandma went to her side of the room, opened the middle drawer of her dresser, and took out a large package that she gave to me. I sat up, opened the box, and beamed when I saw a classic trilogy by Robert Louis Stevenson that she had bought for me.

  “Now, no more crying,” Grandma said. “That was my last clean hankie. You’d better shower and get dressed while your mother rests. We have a party to go to at your nice boyfriend’s house, right?”

  I smiled. “Right.”

  “Good. What are you wearing?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Grandma kissed my forehead, left our room, and left me alone with my thoughts. I was nervous, but it had nothing to do with my mother or what I was about to wear. It was all about Tony’s mother and the rest of his family. I hardly knew Pamela and Philip, Katrina hadn’t wanted any part of me, and I’d never met any of his other relatives. I prayed we would all get along and that my family wouldn’t embarrass me. Most of all, I didn’t want to embarrass myself.

  I thought about why I was so afraid of the Kroons as I took my time
in the bathroom and got dressed for the party. They were not pure-blooded Italians any more than the Bontis were, but they had so much more money and lived a hell of a lot better than my family did. Tony had reassured me that his mother would make my family feel welcome but I was not convinced, especially when I thought about how loud my grandmother talked and recalled that Janice had told me that Richie said Pamela did not like Jews.

  I put on a wool skirt that wasn’t too short and matched it with a sweater that my mother had bought for me at Filene’s Basement. I pulled the sweater down to make sure it covered my waist and turned to see how it looked from behind before I rejoined Mom and Grandma in the living room. We headed out the door to a waiting cab—a rare convenience but one I had treated us to that day.

  My anxiety increased when we arrived at the Kroon home and found it decked out like a Hallmark Christmas card. Large, humanlike statues on the front lawn evoked a Charles Dickens tale. Hundreds of tiny white lights lined the walkway to the front door and climbed the front steps, while a multitude of red and green bows surrounded the windows. When we entered their home, my oh my! It was like a fairy tale.

  The tree almost touched the ceiling and filled an entire corner of the living room where it stood. It was decorated so meticulously, so perfectly, and an abundance of gifts beneath it covered the plush pile carpet. They were all professionally wrapped with silver-speckled red and green bows. Mouthwatering aromas of ham, roasted turkey, freshly baked bread, and steaming lasagna—without which no Bensonhurst Christmas was complete—finished off the perfect holiday scene. How could they afford it all? I asked myself.

  I placed my gifts among the others under the tree. I had wrapped them in newspaper and had fashioned bows from swatches from Grandma’s old red housecoat. All in all, they looked pretty damn creative, I thought, but it sure showed off my lack of funds. And although the gifts inside were humble, I felt guilty that I had spent more money on the Kroon family than I had on my own.