The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  The younger man, Ruffio, reached into his pocket and pulled out a black cloth, which he now laid on Mario’s work-table. Ruffio unfolded its four corners to reveal an irreverent tangle of jewelry, none of it in boxes—gold watches, various rings, sterling belt buckles, an assortment of chains and bracelets, all mixed together.

  “You see,” said Sergio, “we were inspired by your example here, Mario. We’re willing to cut you in. We just need a man like you to get these stones out of the settings. Melt down the gold and silver, too. You know what I’m talking about, eh? Then, we all make a nice profit,” he said with a broad gesture that included Filomena.

  Very calmly, Mario refolded the four cloth corners back over the stolen loot. “I’m not a fence,” he said firmly.

  Sergio opened his coat to show his gun in a holster. “Get started,” he said.

  “Easy, easy!” Ruffio said in a false voice, as if they’d rehearsed the whole scene.

  Mario, still unruffled, said, “So, you showed me your gun. Then, I and my brothers will show you ours. What good is that? If you were really my father’s sons, you’d remember what he always said: ‘Tough guys die young.’”

  “Yeah, sure, he told us,” Sergio said unconvincingly. “Get to work on the swag.”

  “I tell you, I’m not very good at this.” But to Filomena’s astonishment, Mario switched on his table-lamp, sat down in his chair, and picked up a ring. He studied the piece, held it under his magnifier, then reached for a tool. He began to narrate how a stone must be removed from its setting, but then in mid-sentence he exclaimed, “Ay!” just as his tool made a terrible scratching sound.

  “Hey, watch it!” Sergio exclaimed.

  Mario handed him back the damaged piece with an apologetic shrug. “I’m only a shopkeeper,” he said with feigned helplessness. “You need someone with more talent to do this job.” Filomena was impressed by the convincingly hapless look Mario wore.

  “You can say that again,” Ruffio said in disgust.

  Sergio appeared mistrustful but said impatiently, “We’re wasting our time. Let’s get out of here.” But he gave Mario a look of warning, saying meaningfully, “You can’t let your mama run your life.” He jerked his head at Filomena before returning his gaze to Mario to add, “Women are nice for some things, cooking and making babies. But you and I need to talk business, man to man. And then, we come to a better arrangement.”

  Filomena could not help a gasp of indignation at this obvious slight to Tessa as well as herself. Resolutely, she put on her coat. Mario shrugged into his, then switched off his lamp. They both moved purposefully toward the front door, so the Pericolo brothers, looking annoyed, had to follow. Mario turned out the showroom lights.

  “Good night, gentlemen,” he said firmly, holding the door open to let them out.

  A policeman on his beat strolled by, looked up, and touched the tip of his baton to the tip of his hat at Mario, who nodded back at him. Filomena had seen that policeman collect his Christmas payment from Mario only just yesterday.

  The presence of the police seemed to clinch the evening for the two visitors.

  “We’ll see you again,” Ruffio promised hurriedly.

  “Buon Natale to your family, especially your mother,” Sergio said meaningfully as he sauntered out.

  Mario’s fingers clenched around his keys, and for a moment Filomena thought he might actually strike the man who’d mentioned his mother so insolently. But he paused in his doorway, watching as they disappeared around the corner.

  Filomena, barely waiting until they were gone, spluttered, “Who do they think they are? How dare they come here and insult us all!” Mario didn’t answer, just pulled her back into the shop, pushed the front door closed, and locked it, pulling down the shade. “Aren’t we going home?” Filomena asked anxiously.

  “Not yet,” he said decisively. “I want to bring the strongbox of our jewels to Ma’s safe at home. We’ll take all the money with us, too. The banks aren’t open tomorrow for deposits, and neither is our shop. I don’t want to leave anything valuable here tonight. Let’s call Sal to come and pick us up with the car.”

  Filomena muttered, “The whole shop reeks of their cologne! We all noticed it at the cemetery because it made Pippa sneeze so. But I thought it was the mother who wore it. Such vanity for such unimpressive men!”

  Mario observed, “They are too desperate to be successful businessmen, and too hotheaded to be successful criminals. They were jittery; they must have someone pretty bad chasing them, most likely for money they owe somebody.”

  “What are we going to do if they come back?” Filomena demanded. “We can’t have them hanging around us here.”

  “I’ll talk to my brothers. We’ll have to handle this,” Mario agreed.

  Filomena helped him gather their valuables. She did not relax until Sal arrived and they were safely ensconced in the car, and driving off in the frosty night.

  16

  Christmas 1943

  When Filomena and Mario returned home on Christmas Eve, the family was already gathered in the big parlor to decorate the gigantic Christmas tree, which towered over everyone, even the adults. There was a crackling fire in the fireplace, and its mantel was decorated with boughs of balsam and gilded pine cones. Gianni’s favorite chair in the corner was decorated with his best scarf, as if he’d just gotten up to get a newspaper and would soon return. Somehow this was comforting.

  “Come in, and have some Christmas cheer!” young Christopher intoned to Filomena and Mario while standing at the front door, pretending to be the host and imitating Frankie’s swagger, despite the fact that Chris looked like a little drummer boy in his new blue suit.

  Lucy said meaningfully to Frankie, “This boy thinks strutting like a gangster makes him a man. Hmm, I guess he’s seen too many tough guys . . . in the movies!”

  Frankie, who was pouring drinks for the grown-ups at a round table covered with a snowy white lace tablecloth, said to Christopher, “Hey, kid. Tough guys chase fast money, fast cars, fast women—and a fast trip to the cemetery. Got that?”

  Mario grinned as Filomena heard that familiar warning of Gianni’s again tonight. Chris, undeterred, stuck his thumbs in his red holiday suspenders and said, “Got it, pal!”

  “Come over here and I’ll ‘pal’ you,” Frankie said affectionately. “And I’ll tell Saint Nick to take all your Christmas presents back to the North Pole.”

  “Am I getting a baseball bat?” Chris demanded.

  “Depends. Go get me some more ice,” Frankie replied. Chris bounded obediently to the kitchen. Frankie said, “Where’s our pitcher and our shortstop? Vinnie, how’s your pitching arm? Lemme see. Paulie, let’s see how you catch.”

  He tossed a cloth reindeer ornament and watched Paulie catch it. “Attaboy!”

  Lucy observed their camaraderie wistfully. Frankie loved all three boys and had enjoyed picking out their holiday gifts. But she knew he’d like to have a son of his own, no matter how he assured her that they had “enough kids in this family.”

  Amie was watching, too, but she was concerned that her normally rambunctious sons seemed a little subdued, speaking only to each other in low murmurs, and halfheartedly pushing their little trucks across the floor under the tree.

  “I hope the twins aren’t coming down with something,” she fretted to Johnny.

  “Nah,” he said, eyeing his sons as he handed them strands of silver tinsel for the tree, “they’re just used to too many gifts. We spoil them rotten.”

  “Hey!” said Lucy’s daughter, Gemma, who was sitting in a corner counting the contents of a green-and-red holiday envelope. Gemma’s brow was furrowed in earnest confusion. “How come Grandma gave all the boys twice as much money as I got?”

  “Shh, she’ll hear you,” Lucy chided. Catching Filomena’s eye, Lucy told her daughter apologetically, “It’s because they’re boys, honey. Grandma is old-fashioned.”

  “Well, that stinks!” Gemma said disconsolately. “I’m
older than the twins.”

  “Watch your language, little girl,” Frankie commented.

  Lucy confided to Filomena, “Tessa never gives them toys for Christmas. Only money. She says she wants to teach them to be ‘serious.’”

  “Where is Ma?” Mario asked.

  “In her study, where else?” Frankie answered.

  Filomena and Mario went to deposit their treasures from the shop into Tessa’s safe. But in the hallway, they saw a silky-voiced, silky-haired man in a camel-hair coat standing by Tessa’s desk. Mario signaled to Filomena to back up and discreetly wait for the visitor to leave, but not before Filomena saw Tessa hand over an impressive bundle of thickly-filled envelopes to this man, who placed them into a briefcase. “You’ll take it to Strollo tonight, yes, Domenico?” Tessa was saying to the man.

  “Of course—right now, in fact,” he replied with a bow.

  So, it’s Tessa’s turn to pay tribute, Filomena thought, remembering the name of Strollo. He was the capo who ran Greenwich Village; he’d walked into Gianni’s wake and placed a flower on him. Tessa now poured Domenico a drink in a crystal cordial glass, and she politely drank one herself as they said “Buon Natale.” Then Domenico left, nodding to Mario on his way out.

  “Who is he?” Filomena asked Mario as they moved toward Tessa’s parlor.

  “Pop’s lawyer,” he said quietly. He gave Tessa a kiss and told her, “I need to put a few things in the safe tonight. Didn’t want to leave them in the shop while it’s closed.” He handed her the jewelry sacks and strongbox of cash, which she put in the big safe in her closet. When she re-emerged, Mario said, “The Pericolos are back in town,” and he explained what had happened at the shop. “They talked like they screwed up in Florida.”

  Tessa looked unsurprised. “I had Johnny make inquiries, and his friend in Florida says that those boys are incapable of taking orders from anybody. The Pericolos refused to keep working for our friend down there, and they gambled what they earned, lost more than they had, and borrowed money from someone else, which they must now repay.”

  Tessa glanced at the items on her desk and continued, “I received a Christmas card from their mother, Alonza. It was just an excuse to make more demands.” She picked up the card and read the handwritten message aloud. “She says, Every year at Christmas, Gianni gave us gifts and money. I hope you will do the same, in his memory.” She put the card down. “I have no records of your father ever doing such a thing. But I have arranged to meet with Alonza after Christmas, for tea. She and those boys need a firmer hand. We’ll talk about it with your brothers, before I go to see her.”

  Outside the house, Petrina said to her driver, “Thanks, Charlie,” as she and Pippa alighted from their car, and her chauffeur drove off. Petrina noticed the lawyer Domenico just getting into his own auto, and she waved at him to wait.

  “Pippa, take the presents inside. I’ll be right there,” she said to her daughter.

  Then Petrina hurried down the sidewalk, still slippery from the falling snow, to catch up with the family lawyer. “Can we talk inside your car?” she asked.

  Domenico opened the passenger door for her and she slipped inside. He went around the auto to take his seat, and he turned on the engine to warm it up. He was a handsome man, older than Petrina but younger than her mother. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  Petrina took a deep breath. “Richard just gave me a big Christmas present today. He wanted to surprise me, so he had it delivered to my house early this morning, when I was the only one at home. I thought it was a florist when the bell rang. But no, it was a man to ‘serve’ me with these papers. Does it mean what I think? He wants to divorce me?”

  Domenico took a quick glance at the pages. “Yes,” he said. He paused. “I have to ask you this. Did you do anything—have an affair, neglect your child—?”

  “Me? Of course not!” Petrina said, outraged. She’d expected this man to be professional, but he sounded as old-fashioned as her parents, blaming her, the wife. Indignantly she said, “If anyone’s to blame, it’s Richard. He’s the one having the affair! With a girl who’s twenty-two years old, the daughter of a judge. Richard’s family is behind this, they all want him to divorce me so he can marry her. These two fathers expect him to run for the Senate someday! They say she’s ‘more suitable’ to be a politician’s wife. You can’t be around his family for more than five minutes before they have to let you know that they all came over on the godforsaken Mayflower. All I can say is, that Mayflower must have been some gigantic boat—everybody claims they came on there. Richard used to be more modest and say that his ancestors were all horse thieves. Not anymore! He’s ambitious now. He says it’s not me who’s the problem, it’s just that he can’t have even a hint of criminal connections with a family like mine.”

  Domenico had waited patiently for Petrina to run out of steam. Now he said, “Fine. Then you can accuse him of infidelity. They know this, so I expect they’ll want to make a settlement and keep it as quiet as possible. That may work to your advantage.”

  “But I don’t want a divorce!” Petrina exclaimed. “This is just his mother and sister’s idea. They peck away like hens at both of us. They criticize me and praise her, over and over again, and it gets to him. If we could just get away from his family, be on our own . . .” Her words trailed off at the obvious impossibility of this. Then she said in a small voice, “Nobody’s ever gotten a divorce in my family’s parish. The priest won’t let me take communion.”

  Domenico patted her hand awkwardly. “As your lawyer, and as your friend, I advise you not to try to force a man who no longer wishes to be your husband to stay with you. From what you have told me of Richard’s family, they would not have gone ahead with these documents unless they were prepared to fight—and win. I will read this more closely and handle it for you. But you must help me. I want you to write down everything you can about whatever wrongs your husband has done you. If there is evidence of his affair, I want whatever you’ve got—receipts for gifts he gave this girl he’s seeing, for example. Let me know if you have any influential friends who might testify against your husband, give evidence of his bad behavior—and your good behavior. Give me anything that makes him look bad, anything that might embarrass him if it were made public.”

  Petrina whispered, “But I don’t hate him. Richard and I—it’s not like we were ever enemies.”

  “You are now,” Domenico said bluntly. “Put aside your heartache and treat it like business. You are in the business of protecting yourself and your daughter financially. Collect all the evidence you have. I don’t expect to have to use it in court. But if they know we have it, they might be more inclined to be—more reasonable.”

  When Petrina entered the parlor, she saw that her daughter had caused a small commotion. After depositing several packages under the tree, Pippa had shrugged out of her coat and danced around in her green velvet dress, showing off her new pink satin ballet shoes that were specially built to make it possible for her to dance en pointe. All the children were impressed with the sound the toe shoes made on the wooden floor.

  “I never heard the Sugar Plum Fairy clomp onstage like that,” Gemma said.

  “That’s because the orchestra drowns her out,” Pippa informed her haughtily.

  Then she turned to her male cousins and announced, “My father took me to his club and taught me how to shoot skeet.” At their blank looks she said, “Don’t you know?” She mimed the shooting process while saying, “You tell a servant to ‘pull’ and he releases a kind of little cannon that fires a round clay target up into the air, and you have to shoot it to bits. It’s called a clay pigeon.”

  “That’s dumb,” Christopher said. “Why would you shoot a piece of clay?”

  “So you don’t kill real birds, dumbo yourself,” Pippa retorted.

  “I’d rather shoot bears,” Chris replied, shrugging.

  “I’d rather shoot Richard,” Petrina grumbled under her breath. Aloud she said to th
e maid, “Don’t bother to set a plate for my husband, Donna, he’s celebrating Christmas at home with his folks.” The maid was carrying a tray of filled champagne glasses. Petrina picked up one gratefully and took a deep gulp.

  “Stop yakking, folks, and pitch in,” Johnny said to everyone. “Otherwise we won’t get this tree trimmed before midnight, and Saint Nick will fly right by us.”

  Filomena had noticed instantly that Petrina appeared distressed, even though she looked like a Renaissance queen in her deep-red velvet dress and a stunning necklace of gold fan-shaped objects that were like the rays of the sun, emanating from beneath her beautiful but troubled-looking face. Petrina’s mouth looked sad, despite its cheerful, cherry-colored lipstick. Her gaze swept the room and settled on Filomena, who was standing arm-in-arm with Mario, her head on his shoulder.

  Petrina said spitefully, “Mario, isn’t your wife drinking? Or does she just like to watch? She watches everything, you know.”

  “Pull in those claws, kitty cat,” Frankie said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m tired from the traffic. I need to freshen up,” Petrina said abruptly, finishing her drink. As if refusing to go all the way to the guesthouse, she stalked up the stairs to the bedroom that had once been hers but now belonged to Filomena and Mario.

  Mario pulled his wife aside and said in a low voice, “Petrina can be a pain, but she’s only trying to hide the fact that she’s got a soft heart. And she’s brave. I’ll tell you a secret which you must keep between us. Once, when I was a kid, there was a shooting of a Big Boss in a restaurant on Coney Island. We were there. Bullets were flying. Know what she did? She threw herself on top of me. She would have taken a bullet for me. That’s Petrina.”

  Filomena murmured, “I understand. Did you tell your brothers that the Pericolos came to our shop today?” Mario nodded. “What do they think?” she asked.