Brooklyn Story

by Suzanne Corso

  But what about me, her daughter? I thought I was the most precious gift, the gift of life that God had given her. I needed her, too, though sometimes I thought not. Well, it wasn’t until the end that she was telling all the nurses at the hospice how much she loved me and how proud she was of me and my work. My work. She never read a word. What did she know about my writing? It reminded me of when I was ten years old and everyone in my class received an award except me. My mother in all her born craziness swore I was discriminated against because I was poor and the half Jew. And with what I think at the time was bright red hair, she marched right into the classroom the next day wearing skin tight leopard pants and a tube top. She walked right up to the teacher and ripped her a new ass. I got my attendance award the very next day; shiny gold star and all. Who knows what they thought of her, and who cared? That was the one thing she taught me through the years—who cares about what others think of you? I mean, this is the same woman who wouldn’t give me a compliment but seemed to always protect her child, even if it was behind my back and even if she did wear tight leopard pants. She was my mom.

  It brought me back to her dying day when I would sit and watch her moan with tubes in her arms, the endless morphine drip that somehow would try to deaden the horrible cancer pain. I knew her time was nearing. I could actually feel her pain as it washed her soul slowly away. I wanted her to be released from this world, she needed to move on. She needed to go. To become another one of God’s angels.

  Maybe she could help me more from up there, where she could make peace with herself and with me. I knew that every night when I traveled to Calvary Hospice in the Bronx. It was the only place that accepted her, and me for that matter, not having any money to pay for it. At times it became so hard for me. Working all day, then traveling to see her at night.

  The one night I didn’t go was the night she passed. I was devastated. I don’t think she wanted me to say good-bye. That was the night I was busy making funeral plans and filing for Medicaid and Medicare, and to my surprise both accepted her. I had not a bill after she died. Talk about faith and manifesting a miracle! I was free.

  Well, almost.

  After a year of nursing Mom at hospice and giving her a funeral with borrowed money, I was completely alone. I thought burying Grandma was the hardest thing I ever had to do, but by far my mother’s death proved that indeed this would be my worst. She was all I had, besides Grandma. God knows my deadbeat father never stepped up to the plate.

  But even at the end, as she lay in her casket in her red dress, she couldn’t help but discomfort me one more time. A friend from my childhood named Julia showed up at her wake. God, it had been years. Her nickname was Jules in the neighborhood, and she always looked like a drag queen. I later found out that my mom would party with her behind my back, since Jules supplied and Mom couldn’t afford. When she died, Jules placed a small bag of cocaine into her casket along with a joint. Midway through the wake I saw Jules reach into the casket and take a tiny plastic bag out, then she went to the bathroom in the funeral parlor and proceeded to snort a line. The sick bitch. She came back in and placed the plastic bag back into Mom’s casket. Who does that? I just sat there looking without saying a word. My tears suddenly turned to laughter. That was my mom. In a funny way her craziness was what I wanted to remember her as, to cherish; it was all I had. She belonged to me, she was my mother.

  She would always be my crazy Joan.

  I thought about that when I had stopped at the cemetery on the way to the courthouse. If she had only hooked up with a decent man like the pharmacist who cashed her welfare checks, she wouldn’t have been in the ground and I wouldn’t have been standing there. After all, could a man really save you from your fate? But then I thought about how everything happens for a reason, be it fate or God or whatever, and maybe if I hadn’t had the life I’d had, I wouldn’t have had the determination and drive to better myself. That survival instinct.

  I asked Mom once again to accept my flaws as I reconciled with hers. I looked upon the grave where she had been buried with her mother, upon a headstone that had both a cross and a Jewish star engraved upon it. Even in their death they still clashed. Somehow I felt my grandmother standing with me as I made peace with the past and my mother. God knows she tried. She couldn’t help herself, how on earth was she to help me become a woman? That I learned from the cards I was dealt. And I thanked God that Mom and I made some sort of peace while she was on her deathbed.

  I awaited my last cross, Tony’s verdict, in the back of the imposing courtroom. “I knew from the moment you were born you were special, and destined for something more than what I had become,” Mom had once said, repeating the words she must have said to others at the nursing home who told me of her praise when I visited. “But I’m so sorry I never gave you the love you deserved. I watched you grow and I envied what you’d become—a beautiful, smart woman. I had wanted that for myself but instead I got pregnant and had you and had to do things I am not proud of to survive. I’m so sorry, Sammy. I always loved you, you were and are my life. Always know that you are a chosen one.” All that was left from my home then was my spirit.

  Amid the courtroom buzz, I hoped my prayers would be answered in Manhattan when the trial was over. The bailiff opened the jury room door and twelve people from Brooklyn took their seats in the jury box. Their faces were somber, and a hush settled over the room.

  “All rise,” the bailiff commanded. “The Honorable Justice Henry Clayton Evans presiding.”

  An austere, white-haired man in a black robe strode into the room and climbed the steps of his platform. He sat, and then everyone present did likewise as the judge whispered to the bailiff. Judge Evans shuffled some papers on his bench, scanned one for a moment with half-spectacles, and then addressed the jury foreman. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  The foreman stood. “We have, Your Honor,” he said, and handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge.

  Tony turned around and smiled thinly when he saw me. He looked like a stranger to me. He had lost twenty pounds, his face was sunken, and his blond hair looked thin around the temples. But I still recognized those blue eyes. The ones that had captured me, the ones I had looked into when I lost my virginity, the ones that had belied who he really was.

  The hands. Oh yes, let’s not forget those. The ones that years earlier had slapped my face in his lawyer’s office, knocking me off the chair because I would not commit purgery on his behalf for his pending case. Blame another and never be accountable.

  The sex drive. That was off the charts. Begging his mother to take me to the correctional facility he was occupying. Feeling guilt-ridden, I went, only to find out that the hour visit had more to do with me locking myself in a bathroom with him, illegally, and jerking him off, which made me sick, but Pamela insisted I’d please her son. I thought for years how stupid I was to do that, and only to get caught by the correctional officer, photographed, and kicked out, as if I were the criminal. My dignity had disappeared and for what? A stolen moment with Tony, who cared more about getting off than about me. Pamela should have serviced him. It would have pleased us both.

  Tony was a man with a troubled soul. And I had my share of troubled souls. I was done. I don’t generally believe our parents can really destroy us, but in Tony’s case they certainly did destroy him.

  He’d called and asked me to be there when the jury gave its verdict. What he didn’t know was that I was there only for myself.

  When Tony turned back around, I looked at my watch. I would make my appointment in Manhattan that afternoon. But if Tony was declared innocent, would he come looking for me? I wondered. Would he understand that he couldn’t do anything to stop me?

  In the courtroom that was as silent as a church, Judge Evans looked at the jury. “In the case of New York versus Anthony Kroon, how do you find the defendant?”

  “Guilty, Your Honor.” The foreman read the counts. “Two counts of murder. One count
of conspiracy. Two counts of felony. One count of drug and money laundering …” The foreman went on and on, his voice slowly fading away inside my head.

  Pamela jumped up, wailed, and then collapsed in her seat. Reporters with microphones and photographers brandishing cameras rushed the railing. I knew the Priganti name would figure prominently in the next day’s Daily News, Post, and all the papers.

  Tony dropped his head into his hands. His lawyer looked embarrassed and he tried to whisper something in his ear. As he placed his hand around Tony’s shoulder, he exposed the cuff on his shirt only to reveal my grandfather’s gold elephant cuff links. There they were. Oh my God! I acually had to rub my eyes to make certain. Stolen from my house that horrible evening. When I thought back to how I had to console poor Grandma. Everything made sense to me now. My journals being ripped apart. My house being robbed. My life being torn to shreds. For what? For this? My coming today to this unforsaken courtroom—this was no mistake, this was fate. The fate that has led me here and the fate that will take me out. Starting now.

  Tony shoved him away as the bailiff approached the defendant’s table. He took his thick necklace that held a glorified gold medallion of an engraved face of Christ. Something he wore the day we met, amongst the cross which still hung on his neck with pride as he ripped it off and threw it onto the cold wooden desk. He bitterly stared into the eyes of the twelve jurors who’d decided his fate, and he knew all too well where he was headed. Twenty-five years to life.

  Tony was guilty of everything, I thought, including stealing four years of my life. Mom’s instincts about him had been proven right, after all, I thought. It wasn’t her bitterness toward men in general or her envy of my having a relationship that had been responsible for her harping. I was sorry I hadn’t seen that through the cigarette haze and her gruff exterior. It was true that I was better than she was in some ways, but it had also been true that I had been worse, too, when it counted most. I had gotten pregnant at a younger age than she had, and hadn’t gone to term as she had done, to give someone a chance at life.

  I should have listened to my first instincts; I tormented myself as I rose from my seat. I had seen firsthand some of the things that everybody in the neighborhood knew went on. From my first white lie and the subsequent black ones that had come all too easily, to Tony’s brutality at the skating rink and in Platinum, the signs were as plain to see as were the good things that Father Rinaldi had mentioned time and time again. I frowned when I thought about how I should have run from Janice’s bedroom that day when her bruised face made me sick to my stomach. I should have run and not look back until I was standing on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Maybe I wasn’t better than anyone, I considered. Maybe I was just different from everybody and from a mother who maybe had done the best she could with the awful cards that had been dealt to her. And maybe I was no better than Tony, either; I shuddered as I rose from my seat. I was guilty, too, I knew. On all counts, I concluded, as the bill of particulars ran through my mind.

  Guilty of letting him.

  Guilty of compromising my integrity.

  Guilty of lies, silence, and deliberate blindness to the truth.

  Guilty of not heeding Father Rinaldi’s guidance.

  Guilty of sin … and of taking a life.

  I started to swoon, but the Blessed Mother came to me and I was buttressed by the strength that had enabled Her to endure the humble birth of Her Son and to witness His brutal death. I remembered again God’s forgiveness, which Father Rinaldi had told me never to forget, and I vowed to atone for all of my transgressions and to never stray so far again.

  When the bailiff clamped the handcuffs on Tony’s wrists, he turned around and spotted me again, as if there were no one else in the room but the two of us. There was a long moment when, from far across the room between the surrounding chaos, our eyes finally met for the last time … and I slipped out the door.

  I emerged from the courthouse into the sunshine. My life was spread before me and nothing would stop me. I picked up my pace and when I reached the subway, I sprang down the staircase. I slid the bracelets off my wrist and startled a homeless man when I tossed them to him. Everything except my rosary, Grandma’s ring, my books, and my typewriter would be left behind, I knew. The flashy cars, clothes, and jewelry and the trappings in the Kroon house on Christmas that had wowed me weren’t what was real. What was real was what was in my heart and on the pages in the handbag I carried.

  I squeezed into a crowded train that was headed for the real world. As I stood holding a metal pole that still shined after years of wear and tear, I thought about how someone endures. I knew, but it’s what’s inside a person that matters most of all, I realized. The sound of the doors closing was music to my ears, the screech of wheels on the rails below a ballad that sang my praises. I swayed with the shifting train, and thought of Grandma as the car I was in headed to Manhattan.

  “Go, bubelah,” I heard her say. “Go.”

  The one thing I know is that I am a survivor and was extremely determined to have my story told. I began writing it down at the tender age of seventeen and before I knew it I had over three hundred pages of “Life.” Twenty-one years and over twenty-one drafts later, here I am today with a book deal that I dreamed of as a child growing up in Brooklyn. My mental and physical abuse, my financial hardship, my day-to-day struggle. It was by far some of the best things that have happened to me because it gave me the sense of urgency daily, to live to get out. This dysfunctional life allowed me to dream, to swallow as much faith as I could and to believe that hope is a good thing, it can never die unless you allow it to, and in my world hope was all I had. I knew in my heart that my story was worth hearing because there are so many young girls and women living similar lives that don’t understand it’s possible to free themselves. That the strength comes from within, and that they are equipped with the strength they need at birth. No one or no man can take that away from you! It’s just circumstance and environment that shape our lives along the way and with enough negative influence it’s easy to lose sight of what’s good and bad. It is difficult to work the process and enjoy the fruit of your labor when all you see and hear are negative, derogatory remarks and responses, as well as fists that come out at you from all different angles. Then, miraculously you see a light. For me it was a Bridge. The lights of the Brooklyn Bridge, my entrée to freedom. A way out. However, I did not get out alone, although for most of my journey I felt that I was … all alone.

  With no real family growing up to ever call my own, except Mom and Grandma. My friends have filled me with such joy and hope throughout my years I now have a chance to tell them just how much. Here are some of the most important people that held my hand and took me over. For that I am eternally grateful.

  Maureen Regan, thank you so for getting me my first book deal. So ironic that I worked as a temp over twenty years ago at Simon & Schuster and what I wanted more than anything was to be published by them, and now I’m living the dream. I have met some magical people there. Mitchell Ivers, my amazing, honest editor. The coolest publishers on the planet, Louise Burke and Jen Bergstrom. You three are a genuine and brilliant group. And of course, Jessica Webb, who never says no. I could not have asked for a better beginning. Jennifer Robinson and Kristin Dwyer of publicity. Felice Javit who made legal pleasurable. Lisa Litwack for a kick ass cover and Esther Paradelo for design. And of course the entire sales force at Simon & Schuster—by far the best in the business.

  Anthony Corso, thank you for stopping me on the street that day. My life was in complete disarray until you came in. I will always appreciate and love who you are and your love for me. (Softspot). Cynthia Savino my loyal, valued friend. Thank you for always understanding me, when others did not. Marie Seaquist, you are a trusted friend. Gump loves you. Marta Alen, my surprising Spanish sister. Our days at Trinity Church and Archangel Michael by our side to guide us, will never be replaced. I thank you so. Who do we bother? Franco D
’Alessandro and Michael Casieri, my gay, fierce brothers. You have both helped me so much with your constant love, support and laughter. No words! Extra crispy! Ginda! D! Your Auntie Mame loves you! Patty Cleary, oh chardonnay you are a friend indeed. For my dear friends Olympia Dukakis, Lorraine Bracco, Armand Assante, and of course Craig DiBona for believing in this story, my story, and guiding me through the years it took to finally get it out there. You were more helpful than you know. See you on the SET!

  The biggest blessing of my life to date, my daughter Samantha Rose, I did it right with that one. Samantha is the real gift in the scheme of it all. I have stopped the generational abuse when she was born; you will never know what its like to have a man ever tell you what to do! And learn from your mom’s mishaps. Go forth and become the woman you are chosen to be, may this book be your bible to that knowledge.

  Of course to all of the people back in Brooklyn. I have never forgotten any of you for one moment. You were always in my head and my heart and my words. I truly do pray that you are all doing well and are at peace with your lives. My life has been nothing short of a miraculous journey. As it unfolded I was presented with some other individuals who took me through to the next phase of each step of my life, and certainly had a hand in this story, either in its conception days, its writing days, its completion days and its afterlife! To those people who shall remain nameless; Gratitude 143td.

  Brooklyn Story

  SUZANNE CORSO

  INTRODUCTION

  Brooklyn Story is the engaging coming-of-age story about Samantha Bonti, a teenage girl growing up in 1970s Brooklyn. An aspiring writer with dreams to someday leave her Bensonhurst community and dysfunctional home life for a new life in Manhattan, Samantha struggles to stay true to herself when she begins a relationship with Anthony Kroon, a “Brooklyn Boy” trying to break into the Brooklyn mafia scene. The devilishly handsome Tony sweeps Samantha off her feet—and into his world of violence, lies, and crime. As her relationship with Tony grows increasingly volatile, Samantha struggles to stay true to her beliefs until her writing can finally pull her across the East River and away from her tumultuous past.