The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  Petrina said, “All I have is his name. The last I heard, he was living in Washington, D.C. I don’t have his address. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

  “That’s all I need. I’ll find him,” Mario said bitterly. “Give me his name. And then I’ll find out if you’re just a liar, Petrina, or if this man’s name is really my name.”

  19

  April–May 1944

  The situation with the Pericolos required decisive action, so, the next day, Johnny sent a message to Alonza’s house, and she replied that her sons would meet with Mario at his shop. A date and a time were arranged. Frankie secured weapons.

  “Isn’t there some way we can stop our husbands?” Amie exclaimed.

  “Sure,” Lucy said. “We can go to the police. Short of that, no.”

  At six o’clock on the appointed night, Johnny, Frankie, and Mario calmly ate their dinner together, at Tessa’s table. Then they left the house. They looked so grim that the women didn’t even dare to kiss them goodbye. Amie jumped every time she heard a siren wail outside.

  “What’s the plan, they’re just going to kill them?” Lucy asked Petrina, remembering what a big deal it was to dispose of a body. “What if somebody sees or hears?”

  “They’ll have to pay them off,” Petrina said shortly. She realized that all her life she’d feared exactly this—that her brothers would be forced to cross that line and become mobsters.

  What does that make me, then? she wondered. Were they all doomed, unable to escape fate?

  “What if they shoot back? It’s just not worth it!” Amie cried. “To lose one of our men.”

  Filomena, in utter agony, imagined Mario unlocking the door of the shop he loved, meeting with those awful men. Sergio had shown that he carried a gun. He was known to be violent, vengeful, so dangerous that the U.S. Army didn’t even want him. She imagined a shoot-out, with the unbearable image of sweet Mario falling to the ground, mortally wounded.

  And yet, she heard herself say, “Our men are doing what they think they must, to protect us and our children. We all know that they can’t allow the Pericolos to keep threatening this family forever. Life would be impossible that way.”

  The others nodded but were as startled by her steely tone as by the words she spoke.

  At eight o’clock, the children were sent to bed. At nine, the women assembled in the parlor to halfheartedly listen to the radio. Amie tried to do some needlepoint. Lucy and Petrina nursed their whiskeys. Filomena closed her eyes and prayed to the Madonna.

  “What is taking so long?” Amie cried. “They could be lying in a ditch somewhere. We’d never even know—until it’s too late!”

  At midnight, they heard the car pull up. The men came inside. Filomena counted rapidly—Johnny, Frankie, Mario. They were all here, appearing strangely jocular as they went directly to the sideboard and poured themselves drinks.

  “Well?” Amie demanded. “What happened?”

  Johnny took a long swig. “Absolutely nothing,” he said. The others were incredulous.

  In the unbearable tension, Lucy punched Frankie in the arm. “What’s going on?”

  “Those clowns didn’t show up,” Frankie announced, shrugging out of his coat.

  “And, so . . . ?” Petrina prodded. “Do we have to do this all over again some other night?”

  “Nope. The Pericolo brothers just got themselves arrested,” Johnny announced. Unable to control himself, he guffawed, then had a fit of coughing.

  The women looked on in amazement. “What on earth are you talking about?” Amie demanded. “You think this is funny? I don’t find it funny. What is going on?”

  “Those jerks,” Johnny said, gasping for breath, “had a big fight with Alonza after she ordered them to meet with us. They told their mama they don’t need us anymore, because they found a better fence for their loot—in Hell’s Kitchen. They just walked up to an Irish fence they heard about and acted like big shots. So of course, the fence tells his buddies that some idiots were hanging around their neighborhood, trying to muscle in on their turf.”

  “How do you know this?” Petrina demanded.

  “Because we’ve had some of our guys tailing them all week,” Johnny said. “And we’ve got a contact at this bar where they hang out. So, this afternoon, when the Irish were drinking together and getting more and more pissed off, our guy heard the Irish say that they gotta run those jerks out of their neighborhood, before they attract the cops. So the fence calls up the Pericolos, tells ’em to bring their stuff to be fenced—and the Pericolos walked right into a firestorm in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  Filomena spoke for the first time. “Then—where have you been all night?”

  Mario looked at Filomena a bit apologetically. “When the Pericolos didn’t show up at the jewelry store, we had Sal drive us to the Irish hangout. We laid low in the parked car, just waiting to hear from our contact and watching. And what a show that turned out to be.”

  Frankie broke in. “Imagine those dumb-asses in a fight—even with a bunch of drunks? They all smashed up the bar, and while we’re sitting outside there, some lady walks by and sees the whole fracas and shouts for a cop. We hightailed it out. But our spy stayed in the bar. He said that when the cops came, the fence points to the Pericolos and says, ‘These guys tried to coerce me into fencing their loot, but hey, I’m just an honest jeweler.’ The Pericolos denied it. So the cops go out and find the goddamned jewels in the trunk of the Pericolos’ car, which, by the way, was a stolen car!”

  Frankie collapsed into laughter, having to lean on Johnny’s shoulder for support. Mario, who’d been circumspect until now, allowed himself a rueful grin. Lucy and Amie exchanged an uneasy look. Petrina threw up her hands. Filomena understood that the brothers were simply releasing all the pent-up energy that they no longer needed tonight.

  “So,” Johnny said with a wry shake of his head, “our best-laid plans were called off. From what our contacts at the police station told us, the Pericolo brothers, with their previous arrest records, are going to jail for a long time.”

  “I’m still sorry we didn’t get a chance to kill them,” Frankie admitted. “For Ma’s sake.”

  “No, this is better,” Mario said. “She would have preferred that the Pericolos end up in jail, rather than have us get mixed up in murder.”

  At the mention of Tessa, the men grew quiet and poured themselves another drink. Finally, they turned off the lights and everyone went to bed. For the first time that week, Filomena fell asleep instantly.

  Not long afterwards, Mario located the man that Petrina claimed was his father and telephoned him. When Mario got off the phone, he looked visibly calmer.

  “This man says Petrina is telling the truth about everything,” Mario told Filomena. “Bobby—I mean, Roberto—is a general in the army now. He was very kind. He asked if Petrina is well these days. Then he invited me to come meet him in Washington, on Monday.”

  “Don’t you want me to go with you?” she asked softly.

  Mario shook his head. “I have to do this alone. Petrina offered to come, too. I just don’t want any women around. I hope you understand.”

  “All right,” Filomena said worriedly, taking his hand. “Try not to expect too much from this man, Mario. You are still you, no matter what happened in the past.”

  “I know,” he said quietly, still looking vulnerable.

  So that weekend, she helped him pack his suitcase. Then, on Monday, just as she was giving Mario his breakfast, there was a knock at the door.

  The adults had gotten into the habit of having a quick breakfast together in Tessa’s parlor, after the children had been fed and Sal had taken them to school. Only Petrina was missing; she had brought Pippa back to Rye, so that the girl could finish her school term.

  It was just the postman at the door. “For Mario,” he said, looking stricken, as if he recognized the kind of envelope he was delivering. He tipped his hat and departed quickly.

  Mario tore it open and th
en laughed without mirth. “Perfect,” he said, throwing it on the table. Filomena picked it up.

  “What is it?” she asked, afraid to read it from the look on his face.

  “My draft notice,” he announced.

  “But—you are married,” she said in panic. “They’re not supposed to draft you!”

  “We don’t have kids,” Mario said. “I don’t know, maybe that’s why.”

  “It’s a mistake,” Frankie said quickly. “You’ve got to straighten it out, that’s all.”

  “That’s not so easy to do,” Johnny warned. “We tried it for Sal’s kid, remember?”

  “Mario, you said this Roberto guy’s kind of a big noise in the military, right? See if he can fix this draft notice for you,” Frankie suggested.

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” Mario said, shrugging. “Maybe he can advise me.”

  Filomena walked him to the door. He looked so serious, so susceptible, that she was moved to kiss him and hold him close. “I love you very much,” she murmured.

  “Ti amo anch’io,” he answered, kissing her again.

  After he was gone, Filomena brooded over how she had failed to do the one thing Tessa had told her she must. She wasn’t pregnant yet. Perhaps if she was, Mario would have an easier time dealing with that draft notice. She hoped that Frankie was right and that Mario’s father would help him.

  But when Mario returned from Washington, Filomena had her first big fight with him. He came in late at night, smelling of trains, cigar smoke, and leather. Filomena heard him moving about, so she came downstairs in her robe and slippers. He took off his coat and hat and methodically placed them on the hooks in the vestibule.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “There is veal stew; I can heat it up.”

  “Something warm to eat would be good,” Mario said, following her to the dining room and pouring himself, and her, a glass of red wine. They sat together at the enormous table, which had seemed so reassuringly permanent when Filomena first saw it, as if the furnishings, and this family, could never be uprooted. Now the two big chairs at either end of the table were always empty. Nobody wanted to take the places of Tessa and Gianni.

  “How did it go?” she asked gently.

  “This man Roberto—my father—he’s a good man,” Mario said haltingly as he ate. “He told me how much he’d loved my—I mean, Petrina.” Mario looked pained, as if he still could not bear to think of Petrina as anything but his sister.

  “They call him Bobby, just like Petrina said. Anyway, he built a whole career around the service,” Mario explained. “He wears his uniform with pride. He trains men for battle, and he says that this terrible world war must be won, or our children will have hell for a future, if Hitler is victorious. Bobby has provided well for his own family; he and his wife have two daughters, and both of their husbands are in the war now.”

  Filomena, sensing that she would not like what was coming, asked, “Will he help you explain to the draft board that you have a wife, and will soon have a baby? You know we will someday soon, Mario.”

  Mario drank some wine before he spoke. “Filomena,” he said gently. “I see now that I can’t turn my back on this war. I’ve decided I want to follow my father’s example, do my duty, serve my country, just as he did.”

  Filomena felt a mounting sense of panic. Was she doomed always to be abandoned by people who claimed they loved her? First, her parents. Then even Rosamaria had abandoned her, because of this crazy idea of coming to America, which had caused them to go to Naples that awful day, and which had driven Filomena to flee here, to this man, who was now going to abandon her for his pride. So her answer came out as anger instead of love.

  “Don’t lie to yourself,” she said harshly. “You just want to run away from your troubles, your family, and leave me to fend for myself, because you think you no longer care for us.”

  “That’s not true! I only want to stand on my own two feet. Filomena, that night in Hell’s Kitchen, sitting there in a dark car, staking out the bar and ready to kill the Pericolos—that’s the first time in my life I ever felt like a gangster.”

  Filomena fell silent. Then she said, “So you’ll leave me alone here, in this dangerous town?”

  “You won’t be unprotected. I know that my brothers will look after you like a sister,” Mario said quickly. “Until I get back from the war.”

  “If you get back!” she shouted. “If you don’t get your head blown off! And if you come back in one piece—and not all crippled or blind or God knows what!”

  “I will come back in one piece, and meanwhile, you will get my soldier’s pay,” Mario said firmly. “You’ll have honest money that you’ll never have to be ashamed of.”

  “And what of your shop?” she demanded. “You don’t care anymore? Maybe you won’t care about me anymore, either!”

  “That shop of mine was where all our troubles began,” Mario said bitterly. “I was fooling myself. I thought I could have independence while staying right here in my own backyard, where Petrina and my big brothers could catch me if I stumbled.” He paused. “Brothers! They aren’t even that. Apparently, they are my uncles!”

  “Stop it. It’s only words,” Filomena said sharply. “Men’s words, men’s rigid ideas. Who cares which one of the loving women who raised you is named ‘Mama’? Who cares if the boys that grew up with you and loved you are not ‘officially’ called your brothers?”

  “I guess I care. But no matter what, I’m doing this for you, for us, for our children,” Mario said, looking troubled now.

  “Don’t try to tell me you’re going off to kill people for me and our children!” Filomena shouted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get yourself killed for my sake.”

  He took her by the shoulders. “I promise, I’ll come back. And when I return, I’ll get paid properly, don’t you see? I can build an honest life that our children will never be ashamed of.”

  They quarreled more, each trying to convince the other. Then they both apologized, and made up, and made love, and cried in each other’s arms. The next day, nobody could talk Mario out of his plans, not his brothers, not Petrina, not Filomena.

  Before he left her again, Mario told Filomena that it was her choice to close the jewelry store or not; Johnny and Frankie would help her, either way. He paused. “One more thing. Do you know where Mama kept her book? Can you get it, if you need to?”

  Startled, Filomena said, “Her ledger? Yes, I do.”

  “The others may ask you about it,” Mario said. “If they do, you tell them that I said it’s your book now. I have written a letter, saying so. Here it is—but don’t give it to them, unless they ask you for Ma’s book.” He handed her a sealed envelope. “She trusted only you to work on her book. So it’s yours now. You do with it as you see fit.”

  He went to the closet, reached for a shoebox, and withdrew something wrapped in shoe-shine cloth. It was a gun. He showed her how to use it, and how to keep it safe when it was not in use. He said steadily, “It was for me to use on the Pericolos. It can’t be traced, which is good. So, just keep it in the shop to protect yourself. If you need to, get close, and aim straight.”

  Mario left home the next day.

  20

  May 1944

  One Sunday afternoon, when Amie’s twins were at the movies with their cousins, she found Johnny still lying in bed, listening to the radio, his cigarette poised on an ashtray, only half-smoked. She sat beside him, snuggling close, and as she began kissing him, she felt not only her own arousal but his. And yet, he gently but maddeningly pushed her away.

  “Whoa, girl,” he chided. “Kids will be home soon. Don’t make trouble, now.”

  “It’s a double feature, and Frankie’s taking them out for pizza afterwards,” Amie murmured. “I’m not making trouble. But maybe we’ll make a sweet little baby. Don’t you want me to have a little girl to dress up in pretty clothes, like Lucy and Petrina do?”

  “Sorry, babe. I’m too tired.”


  Amie decided it was time to have a little talk with her husband.

  “Johnny, it’s been a long while since we’ve made love,” she said bluntly.

  “Ah, c’mon, not that long,” he said, staring out the window. “Aren’t you sick of me, anyway?” he teased.

  Amie was all the more irritated by this useless denial of his. “It has so been a long time,” she persevered, “but maybe it’s you who’s sick of me!”

  She hadn’t intended to let her voice end in a pathetic wail, but it did. Johnny turned to her in astonishment, then raised himself on an elbow and said soothingly, “Aw, honey, of course I’m not sick of you! I’m just plain old sick, that’s all.”

  “And don’t hide behind that flu of yours,” she retorted, refusing to be mollified. “Either go to the doctor or shut up about it!”

  He was silent a moment, then said more roughly, “It’s not flu, okay?”

  “Then what is it?” Amie demanded.

  Johnny sat up completely now and threw back his covers. “Just forget about it,” he said brusquely. Amie sat up, too, and reached a hand up to his forehead.

  “You don’t have a fever,” she said accusingly.

  “No, I don’t. I’m just coughing up blood again, that’s all!” he exclaimed. “Are you happy now?”

  Amie looked at him in astonishment. “Coughing blood? What do you mean, again?” He had been coughing all winter, it was true, but she hadn’t seen blood and she assumed it was the flu that was going around. “Johnny, answer me!” she demanded.

  “Forget it,” he said shortly, reaching for the smoldering cigarette.

  “Stop that!” she exclaimed, snatching it away. “You answer me, right now. I’m your wife. I have a right to know.”

  He stared at her a long time, then said in a rush, “It’s the TB again. I had it as a kid. I beat it, a long time ago. Now it’s back, I guess.”