Brooklyn Story

by Suzanne Corso

  One Friday afternoon when Janice was getting ready to leave the salon, we took a coffee break together. We sat in the back room and chatted while Janice checked her watch a couple of times. “You got an appointment?” I asked.

  “Nah. Richie wants me to be home by now, in case he calls. But you know something? It seems like if I stay here, he’ll call, but if I go home, he won’t. Sometimes I think he has somebody tailin’ me.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” I cracked.

  Janice sighed. “Yeah,” she said, “these guys are tough, aren’t they? But I guess it’s worth it.” Even though she had had some tough times with Richie, it wasn’t often that she sounded unsure about him as she had then.

  “Are you two having more problems?” I asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind telling me.”

  “It didn’t take him long ta get back to his usual ways when he got outta the hospital,” Janice said. “But you know what? With all his shit, I love him, Sam. It’s just that sometimes I get the feelin’ I’m not enough for him.” Janice looked down at her body and then at me. “Do ya think maybe I should lose a few pounds?”

  I reached for her hand. “Stop this,” I said. “You’re a knockout just the way you are. Don’t allow a man to dictate that.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’ know if I knock Richie out any more. Remember I told ya if I caught him cheating, I’d look the other way?”

  “How could I forget that?”

  “Well, I jus’ don’ know anymore. I’m almost twenty-one and I want sumthin’ real,” Janice said, and then paused for a long moment before looking me in the eyes. “It ain’t real if he’s cheatin’, is it?” It wasn’t, I knew, but I didn’t say anything. My best friend had already come to her own conclusion. Janice went on. “It’s the company he keeps besides Vin and Tony. Like those two guys, Sal and Joe. They’re like human trash cans, full of filth, spitting out foulness, and holding on to garbage—the biggest sluts in Bensonhurst. Richie says he never looks at other girls when I’m not there, but I don’ believe ’im anymore.” Janice lowered her head and paused. “Ya know, I thought you and Tone were forever and look what happened. How can I be sure about Richie?”

  “I had no idea you were so upset with him.”

  Janice grabbed her pocketbook and stood up. “Maybe I’m not, really,” she said. “I think I’m about to get my period and I’m just blowin’ off some steam with ya. I mean, what are friends for? Right?”

  I watched as my friend left the salon and headed off down the street. I felt bad for Janice, especially since my life was on course for the river. I felt like I was really coming into my own. My new job was going well and I was writing like crazy. After all, it was the only therapy I had. I sometimes felt it saved me. Grandma and Mr. Wainright were proud of me, and my zest for life was returning. Father Rinaldi had obviously kept his fingers on the grapevine and shared my animation with smiles on the less frequent occasions when I went well out of my way to visit his church. Mom had been right and had done the right thing, I thought. The move had been good for us.

  “Write what you know,” Mr. Wainright always told the class. I knew the boys of Bensonhurst better than anything—their vices, their abusive ways, their constant ego trips—so why not write about them? I knew all too well about rebellion and bad marriages and self-destructive behavior through my mother, and Jewish faith and Jewish cooking and Jewish men through Grandma. I knew quite a bit and had a lot to write about.

  I finished my shift and when I left the salon, I was greeted by the fragrant air and waning sun of a perfect early spring evening. I decided to make the detour to Our Lady of Guadalupe for a fast prayer. I felt I had a lot to be thankful for. When I arrived at the church that never failed to comfort me, I knelt under the large crucifix outside its entrance. When I finished, I made the sign of the cross with my index finger and then continued on to Eighteenth Avenue to catch the bus to the subway that would take me home.

  By the time I arrived home, I was tired and happy after a long day. Fridays and Saturdays were the busiest days in the salon, but they were also the days when the most money could be made. When I moved my key toward the door, I noticed that the mailbox door was wide-open and our mail was strewn across the front porch.

  That’s odd, I thought. I considered the possibility that the mailman had taken off running from a dog and I smiled when I pictured that in my mind. I gathered the scattered mail and checked my watch. It was seven thirty. Grandma went with Mom to a late-afternoon appointment at her doctor’s office and they’ll be getting back soon, I said to myself. Maybe I’ll surprise them and make one of Mom’s favorite dishes—tuna fish casserole with crumbled potato chips on top. My mouth watered in anticipation and I decided that that was what I’d do. I fit the key into the lock and opened the door.

  I dropped my purse and the mail on the floor and stared into the living room with my eyes and mouth wide open. The couch had been slashed, the matching lamps were broken, and the contents of my mother’s storage trunk were strewn on the floor. My grandma’s things that my grandfather had brought home from the war were all over the place. I ran to see if his cuff links were still in the box; they weren’t, they were gone, too. Poor Grandma, those stained gold elephant cuff links were all she had left of his memory.

  I rushed to my bedroom and found my dresser drawers open, my clothing dumped on the floor, and my journal pages torn out and scattered on the bed. I burst into tears and stood there, sobbing, for a few minutes. How had anyone gotten in when the doors and windows were locked? I wondered. And why would someone tear my journals? When I entered my mother’s room, I had my answer. Shattered glass covered the carpet below her window and her clothes were similarly scattered.

  For some reason, Grandma’s room had been left undisturbed, but I checked the jewelry box that was on her dresser. One of the few things with any value in the house—Grandma’s wedding ring with its diamond chips that were worth little but meant so much to her—was still there. I thanked God for that and, after I had finished a fast survey, for the fact that the only thing that seemed to be missing was a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. Was it a homeless person who was hungry? I wondered. If it was, why would he ransack some areas and leave others alone, and tear my journals apart? Why hadn’t he taken Grandma’s ring? I couldn’t help but recall the nights I would look out of my bedroom window and see the local boys breaking into the storefronts or into cars. Petty crimes, but this was way too personal for me.

  I called the police and then shuffled back to my room. I grabbed my stomach and sat on the floor, sickened by the idea of a stranger who might have read my most intimate thoughts before ripping the pages apart. What kind of person would do such a thing, and why? I racked my mind. And then I panicked when I thought about my work in progress. I reached under the area rug where I hid a small brass key and bolted to the metal box that I kept stashed under the tall steam radiator. My book was my toll for Manhattan and I felt certain that when I finished, I would make it to the other side. My heart raced as I fumbled with the key. I exhaled when I looked inside—my manuscript was still there, as was the diamond heart bracelet that Tony had given me.

  I waited for the police in the living room, sobbing again as I clutched my manuscript to my chest. What would I have done if it were missing? I fretted. I pushed the thought out of my mind but it was immediately replaced by another. What would the break-in do to my mother? Despite my doubts before the move, she had been doing better in our new place, but with her fragile mind, I thought the incident might send her on a drug and drinking binge and back to bed. I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath, pulling myself together to face the cops.

  “You shoulda called us from a neighbor’s phone, Miss, as soon as you opened the door,” said the older of the two uniformed officers when they arrived. “Whoever it was mighta still been inside.”

  “I wasn’t thinking, Officer,” I said.

  “Let’s have a look around,” he said. We ended up back
in the living room after a quick pass through the apartment. “So you say nothin’s missing?” the older cop asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, and then I remembered the orange juice. “Other than maybe some juice.” The cops glanced at each other with slight smiles. The older one turned to me. “Looks like some random mischief here,” he said. “Kids.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Happens all the time.”

  “What about drug addicts?”

  “I doubt it. If it was, anythin’ an’ everythin’ that could be sold, for any amount, would have been taken outta here,” the cop said, and then he pointed. “Like that old TV there, or the portable radio in the kitchen, not to mention your typewriter and Grandma’s ring.”

  I looked up at the cop’s lined face. “Do you think you’ll catch whoever did this?”

  The cops glanced at each other again and then at me with tight lips. “With nothing stolen, there’s not a lot to go on. Probably not much anyone can do about it,” the older cop said.

  I had a different idea about what could be done, and as soon as they had left I summoned the nerve to make a phone call and then braced myself to speak to Tony. I prayed that Pamela wouldn’t answer the ring.

  “Yo,” Tony said.

  “T-Tony?” I hadn’t been prepared for the old feelings that stirred in me.

  “Sam? Is that you?”

  “Yeah … it’s me. Am I botherin’ ya?”

  “Nah. I’m busy, but that’s okay.”

  Even though I was bursting to get to the reason for my call, I tried to make some small talk to break the ice. “What’s new?”

  “Nuttin’.”

  “Jeez, Tone. We haven’t talked in months. Somethin’ must be new.”

  “Sure,” he said, “a lot’s new.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Nuttin’.” That was going nowhere, so I decided to get to the point.

  “Listen, I need to talk to ya. We had some trouble here and I wanted you to check into it—that is, if you feel like it.”

  “Like I said, I’m pretty busy with work and all.”

  “The cops just left,” I said.

  “Cops? Why were rats at your house?”

  “Somethin’ awful. Our place got broken into.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “What did they make off with?”

  “Nothing. We have nothing. That’s what’s so weird.”

  “Ya got lucky, then. So what do ya wan’ me ta do aboudit?”

  “I thought you could look into it for me. You know everybody and maybe you could find somethin’ out for me.”

  “People break into houses all the time, Sam. Petty shit. Not much anyone can do.”

  I didn’t mention that the cops had said the same thing. I had been hoping for more from Tony, and then the conversation with Janice about how we gave Tony and Richie the right to control our lives popped into my head. I regretted making the call. “Well, I shouldn’ta bothered ya, Tony. Sorry.”

  “Don’ be. I’m just glad you’re okay, Sam. Now I gotta go do sumthin’ with my mom.”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “See ya,” he said, and we hung up.

  When I got to the salon after school the following Wednesday, I found out that Janice hadn’t shown up for work and hadn’t called in. I telephoned her and when I got the machine I left a message to call me right away.

  It wasn’t like Janice to disappear, I knew. She was too responsible and it just wasn’t her way. I felt it had to be something serious with her family … or with Richie. I wanted to leave right away and go to her house but the salon was busy. I couldn’t leave them doubly short-staffed if I wanted to keep the job that was helping me to save money for a new life. I pushed thoughts of Janice to the back of my mind and forced myself to focus on my work.

  Time dragged as I painted the nails of the carefree women on my schedule. They must have known that my mind wasn’t on the brushes in my hand because I had to redo my work more than once. I was relieved when closing time mercifully arrived four hours later. I couldn’t wait to get home and get some news about my best friend. After I bolted out the door and started hurrying down the street, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  “Yo, Sam.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I stopped and turned around and my stomach fluttered. Tony, wearing a powder blue T-shirt and black jeans, stood with his arms crossed. My heart raced. The dick, I said to myself. He just had to wear blue, didn’t he? It had always made his eyes more vivid and they came back to life that day. I noticed that his hair was darker—gelled back, just like a real Italian, I thought, and that turned me off somewhat. What had happened to his soft hair that had always set him apart from the other guys? “What are you doin’ here?” I asked.

  “I wanna talk ta ya.”

  “You didn’t care much about talkin’ when I called last week.”

  “I was busy, Sam. You shouldn’ta expected me to drop everythin’ when you call outta nowhere.”

  “I shoulda known better,” I said, and looked away. “Let’s just forget it, Tony.”

  “No, it’s all right. I was jus’ taken by surprise, is all.”

  I faced him. “Listen. I can’t talk now,” I said, and started to turn away. “I gotta go do somethin’.”

  “Wait, baby,” he said as he grabbed my arm and moved closer. “I ain’t gonna bite.” I crossed my arms. Damn! I said to myself. What is it with us Brooklyn Girls? I chastised myself. I couldn’t deny that he looked good, even with his gelled-up hair. “I did some thinkin’,” Tony continued, “about ya gettin’ broke inta and all. I bet it was your neighbors.”

  “That’s real dumb, Tony,” I said. “They’re harmless old people and keep to themselves. They even brought us some cannolis when we moved in.”

  “Old people do weird shit. Look at my mom—she took a cruise to Italy to go look for her dead ancestors.” A devilish grin spread on his face. “Which means I got the house to myself for a while.”

  Was he coming on to me, I wondered, after months without any contact at all? Without even an attempt at an apology? No calls, no gifts? Nothing? I regretted again making that call after the break-in. I had opened the door, I guess. But it was just like him to go after what he wanted with no consideration for my feelings or for how badly he’d treated me. I tapped my foot. “What are you doin’ here?” I asked. “Really.”

  All hints of playfulness disappeared from his face and he gazed into my eyes. “I’m dyin’ without ya, Sam.”

  “I told ya we were over, Tone.”

  “We’re never over,” he said through clenched teeth. “We were meant for each other right from the start.”

  I recalled in an instant the early days on Eighteenth Avenue, the Santa Rosalia feast where we had met and the good times we’d had after that. Were they really real, I wondered, and were they gone forever? And then I thought about the other, hurtful things that had happened. They were real enough, I knew. I fought back the tears I didn’t want him to see. “I can’t be with someone who messes around all the time,” I said. Once you eat the poison, I thought, you crave it forever.

  “I’ve changed, Sam. I mean it.” I wanted to believe him but doubted that enough time had passed for that to happen.

  “It’s too soon, Tone,” I said.

  “Okay, then we’ll start slow. How ’bout a pizza?” I was worried about Janice and couldn’t deal with anything else right then.

  “Not now. I gotta get home,” I said, and started to turn away from him again. He jumped next to me and put his arm around my waist. I inhaled his familiar scent—the poison that I had craved. My resolve slipped. Damn! I said to myself once more.

  “Hey, Sam, let’s make a run for it!” Tony shouted. He took off and I ran after him without hesitating. What was I doing? I asked myself as I struggled to catch up. We were like a couple of carefree kids in a playground, cavorting and laughing like a genuine couple, and it sure felt good. But it felt wrong, too.


  When Tony got to the end of the block, he stopped and turned to face me. I ran to him with a big smile on my face and a bigger question in my heart. He caught me in his arms and we looked at each other with happy eyes. “Sam,” he said, “I got a present for ya.” He reached into his jeans pocket and slipped something that sparkled into my hand.

  I stared down at three white diamonds set in a platinum ring embedded with diamond chips. “This has to be worth a fortune,” I said. “Was this off a truck, too?”

  Tony glared at first but then smiled and made light of it. “Bizness has been good lately,” he said, and then lowered his eyes. “I got no one to share my success with,” he said.

  “No lipstick buddies?” I cracked.

  “Not a one,” he said as he looked up at me. That sounded genuine to me. He’d never show up in Father Rinaldi’s confessional, I knew, but maybe he had been doing penance in my absence, I thought. “I keep tellin’ ya,” Tony continued, “that lipstick belonged to somebody I don’ know.” How could I believe him? As I looked down at this ring I wondered who suffered at his hand for him to get it. As reluctant as I was, I still believed him.

  I felt that Tony was better than the typical Brooklyn guys. They were more crude and more ignorant, not to mention less attractive. But then Tony’s dashboard slammed into my consciousness as it had my face and I thought differently. “This is too expensive,” I said. I handed the ring back to him.