The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Johnny said wryly.

  Somebody should have warned them. But maybe it was his fault, refusing to let the twins come visit him more than once among the sick at the sanitarium, fearing that his boys would catch TB in a place so full of the suffering and the dying. Therefore they hadn’t seen Johnny’s gradual deterioration over time, as Amie had. Now they just stood there, like a pair of stone statues, the kind that people put on pillars in their driveways.

  “Don’t worry, kids,” he said, arms outstretched. “I lost a few pounds but I’m still your old man. I only bend, I don’t break. Come closer, I’ve got a lotta things to tell you.”

  His sons curled up there like two dogs on the beach blanket that Petrina had spread out at Johnny’s feet. Tactfully, she’d gone back to her house to wait for Amie.

  “Look, guys,” Johnny told his sons. “It’s more important to be smart than to be tough. But you can be both, and then you’ll be able to handle anything in this world.”

  They listened politely at first, but as soon as he told them how important it was for them to do better at school, so that they could get into a good prep academy up here, and go on to an important university, and then grow up to become lawyers or doctors or professors, Vinnie and Paulie felt as if they’d somehow been duped into just another lecture about education. Neither of them liked school. What they liked was baseball, and the very way that the ball players moved. They also liked how the local big shots who hung around the taxi stands and the pizza parlors swaggered about in good suits, carrying fat wads of cash held by diamond-and-gold money clips.

  Johnny had always told them it wasn’t classy to show off. But Vinnie and Paulie didn’t have any men at home anymore, and they felt overwhelmed. If they had been bigger, they maybe could have killed the men who shot their grandmother, so that their mother and their aunts and their godmother wouldn’t have cried so much. Their cousins Gemma and Pippa had cried a lot that day, too. That was because the twins hadn’t been there to shoot the bad guys and protect the family. That must never happen again.

  They’d been waiting patiently for Johnny to come back home and tell them how to fight and be the men of the house.

  But their father was a shadow of what he had been before, and all he could talk about was books. Kids who read lots of books and studied hard were the ones who got pummeled by playground bullies. Vinnie and Paulie didn’t want to hear about the world’s great thinkers. They just wanted to grow up strong.

  Johnny could see that his boys were not really listening to him. Here he was, using his precious breath to share with them the secrets of life, the hidden mysteries of the universe, the rules of the game, the way the larger world worked, and what they must do in order to triumph over it all and not end up just a couple of dupes.

  “All right, we’ll talk about this again, later,” Johnny said finally. “I’ll give you some of my books and we’ll read them together, okay, sports?”

  “Okay,” they said glumly, in unison, as the twins so often did. Then Paulie ventured, “But can we play cards first? We know how to play poker now.”

  “Aw, who taught you that?” Johnny demanded. “You ought to learn to play tennis. Never mind. Go inside now, it’s getting colder. I’ll be in, too, in a little while.”

  After they left, he realized that they’d exhausted him. Disheartened him, really, because he knew perfectly well what they were thinking while they were staring at him incredulously with those dark button eyes. Well, it was because they’d been hanging out in the wrong neighborhoods, with the wrong kids.

  Now he knew, more than ever, that he had been right to bring them up here. Next fall, they’d enroll in a good prep school, where they’d meet other kids who weren’t afraid to study. They’d play good clean sports, too, with real playing fields and nice fresh air. Petrina had warned him that there were bad kids up here, too; but at least Johnny’s sons would have a fighting chance in the larger world.

  He’d told Amie all this on the telephone. She’d said they should have a talk after dinner, once the kids were in bed. So Johnny returned his attention to the beautiful sea.

  The wind shifted now, causing a stir in the trees that made a few leaves shake loose, wafting back and forth, taking their leisurely time to flutter to the ground, making a carpet of orange and red and yellow-gold at his feet, as if to hail the return of a king after his long, triumphant journey.

  Johnny closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he dared. This was what he’d craved all his life, without really knowing it. This little beach was just a cove, but it was their cove, private and peaceful. The kind of place where a man could at last hear himself think. He’d buy a boat and take the boys out on the water and go fishing. They’d breathe in this fresh salty sea air every day, not just on brief holidays.

  A shaft of warm sunlight fell on him, feeling momentarily like summertime again. How incredible it was to see the wide-open blue sky. You could just sit here all day and watch the sun come up on that side there, and go down on this side here.

  “Beautiful,” Johnny said. He was just starting to doze when he heard a whisper in his ear, and then felt a new warmth, as if a hand had pressed his shoulder affectionately, making him suddenly feel truly healed and bathed in love.

  Johnny turned his head and opened his eyes. “Pop?” he said, surprised.

  Amie had finally emerged from the kitchen and was halfway across the lawn, on her way to fetch him for dinner, when she saw Johnny suddenly slump to one side; and as she rushed to him, she heard his last, soft sigh.

  28

  Early 1945

  Everyone said that this new year simply had to be better than the last one. Surely the war couldn’t go on much longer, but basic supplies at home—canned goods, gasoline, tires, even shoes—were still in tight supply, and a man named Joe Valachi was turning a tidy profit as a black marketeer.

  One bright snowy morning the doorbell rang, and a telegram courier handed Filomena an envelope. Her heart lurched in her chest as she tore open the notice, read the first line, then sagged against the door, oblivious to the cold, with tears in her eyes.

  Petrina had followed her, and now caught Filomena by the elbows and led her back inside to the sofa. “What is it? Mario?” Petrina cried in dread.

  Filomena stammered, “He’s been wounded. I—I—couldn’t read the rest.”

  Petrina snatched up the telegram, which had drifted to the floor. She scanned it quickly, then said, “It’s all right. It’s a leg wound. They’re sending him to a hospital in London. This doesn’t say much, but it sounds like he’s going to be all right. He needs time to recover, but at least he’ll be discharged from his service.” She hugged Filomena. “Don’t you see? It means he’ll be coming home.”

  The maid had entered the room carrying baby Teresa, so Petrina took the child from her and plopped her in Filomena’s lap. The warmth of her little daughter snuggling close against her belly allowed Filomena to let out a sigh of relief, as if life were flooding back into her own body.

  “Your papa is coming home!” she whispered. Little Teresa sensed Filomena’s joy and clapped her chubby hands, and gave her mother soft, wet kisses. Filomena could not believe how quickly this sweet creature was learning to grow up. When Teresa gave her first real smile, when she started to coo instead of cry, when she first sat up, and then began to crawl, and when each look of enlightenment crossed the child’s face as she comprehended the magnitude of every achievement—all this made Filomena’s heart expand with pride, love, and yet, the dread of having to one day release this sweet soul out into the noisy, pushy, treacherous world.

  When Filomena looked up, she saw that Petrina’s elegant brow was furrowed and she seemed preoccupied. “What’s on your mind?” Filomena asked.

  Petrina hadn’t realized how much her face was revealing. Holding out her pinkie finger so that baby Teresa could grab it with her little fist, Petrina said carefully, “Look, I don’t know what this means, but Amie says that
Strollo has been showing up at her bar in the mornings. He always goes to the same corner table in the shadows, drinking his espresso and reading his newspaper—and other men come to him to talk business. Amie’s too terrified to eavesdrop, which is wise. That man has animal instincts, so he’d know if she was spying on him.”

  Filomena asked thoughtfully, “Is he watching her or the gambling operation?”

  Petrina shook her head. “Amie doesn’t think he’s there to keep an eye on us. He just holds meetings with his men, then leaves. It doesn’t take long. Johnny once told me that’s what the capos and Bosses do. They hold court in one place for a while, then move on to another place, so that their enemies—and the police—can never be sure where to find them. I told her to just keep on doing business as usual but watch out.”

  “Good advice,” Filomena agreed, then observed, “Amie’s been so quiet lately. I thought it was because of Johnny. Does she need any help at the bar?”

  “I don’t think so. She just misses him so much,” Petrina said, adding with emotion, “so do I.”

  “Me too,” Filomena admitted. At the burial ceremony, Johnny had been laid to rest in the mausoleum, right next to his parents. Filomena had kept her gaze averted from the other alcoves allotted for Mario and Frankie when their time came, and she’d caught Lucy doing the same thing. They’d exchanged a brief look of understanding; neither one wanted to think that her husband would be the next brother to be laid to rest here.

  The snow was falling lightly today. Petrina, glancing out the window, saw Lucy coming up the front walk and went to the door to let her in. Lucy looked cheery for the first time in weeks, her cheeks flushed from the cold and from excitement, as she paused on the front stoop to stomp the snow off her boots and to wave goodbye to the man who had driven her here.

  “Was that our lawyer?” Petrina asked. “Why didn’t you invite him in?”

  “Domenico’s got another appointment,” Lucy said breathlessly. “But oh, I’m sorry you weren’t at the courthouse today! Lordy, I have to say that he handled it beautifully. Well, after all, we had our star witnesses. You should have seen Fred and Gloria. They did a great job. After they gave their testimony, I just wanted to cheer!”

  Lucy had thrown her coat on a peg in the cloakroom and tugged off her boots. Now she hurried into the parlor so that Filomena could hear, too—about Fred the janitor and Gloria the seamstress, who’d appeared before a judge to testify about the strange “nun” in the apartment building on the day that the false evidence against Frankie was planted in his office.

  “The fake nun’s name is Millie,” Lucy said, dropping into a chair. “She gave evidence today, and so did the police. See, this whole thing happened in stages. Before today’s hearing, Domenico took depositions from our witnesses, then a judge issued a warrant for Millie’s arrest. When the police picked her up, she spilled the beans on Alonza, because the girl didn’t want to take all the blame. She said it was Alonza’s idea for Millie to dress like a nun and plant that swag. Sergio told her to go to Frankie’s office on a Sunday when he wouldn’t be there.”

  “So, then what happened?” Petrina asked, enthralled.

  “The police went to Staten Island to arrest Alonza. She didn’t go gently. She kicked and screamed like a banshee. The cops told her it would go easier if she confessed, so she did.” Lucy paused. “You know Alonza’s had a heart condition, ever since she had that attack last year, remember? Well, after they questioned her, she just collapsed at the precinct. She was dead before they even got her to the hospital.”

  “I shouldn’t feel sorry for her, but I do,” Filomena said quietly. They were silent awhile longer. Petrina had brought Lucy a cup of English tea, and she gulped it now.

  Then Lucy took a deep breath and said, “So the judge reviewed all this today, and the upshot is, he dropped all the charges against Frankie. It means—it means—” To Lucy’s own surprise, her voice faltered and she had to gulp for breath.

  “It means Frankie can come home now,” Petrina said with feeling.

  “Yes!” Lucy said tremulously. “Domenico will tell Sal, so he can try to get word to Frankie. The last time they made contact, Frankie told Sal he thought he had a lead on Chris.” Lucy stopped talking, choked with emotion, unable to allow herself to voice any more of her hope for the boy’s return.

  “Wonderful! I’ll send a telegram to Mario,” Filomena said. She handed little Teresa to Petrina, then rose, removed the crocheted shawl she was wearing, and draped it around Lucy’s shoulders, for she was trembling. Lucy looked up, startled and touched by this gesture.

  “Thanks, darlin’. Did Gloria make this shawl?” she asked. Filomena nodded. Lucy said, “I’d like to help our witnesses. I talked to them. Fred still wants to stay put in his janitor’s apartment; it reminds him of his wife, he won’t ever leave it. But Gloria says she ‘wouldn’t mind’ moving into a better apartment. We have a vacancy, but of course the rent is higher than she could possibly pay. I think we should let her have it at her old rate. All right with you?”

  “Of course,” Petrina said, and Filomena nodded. When baby Teresa cooed her approval, it made Lucy’s heart feel so full of hope for the future, for the first real time in months.

  A few weeks later, Amie went out alone, early. She had gotten into the habit of going to the first Mass of the day, twice a week. She actually preferred these weekday Masses to the Sunday service, because they were quieter, shorter, restful, and consoling. Most of the time, she was in the company of only a few elderly ladies in their black dresses, scattered among the largely empty pews, silently praying their rosaries. The new young priest, who seemed barely awake himself at this early hour, usually kept his sermons short.

  Amie always sat in the back row, praying to Johnny for forgiveness and guidance, as if he were her patron saint. I’m doing what you asked, Johnny. I’m taking our boys out of the city soon. I plan to enroll them in a prep school near our new house, this autumn. That gives me the summer to find a buyer for our bar. If I pick the right buyer, he can take over all the betting and gambling if he wants to, and that will keep the Bosses happy. You told me I could close up the business after Christmas, and the Godmothers agree, so I’m really going to do it, this year, and I hope you don’t mind. I wish you’d send me a sign that it’s all okay with you.

  She didn’t pray to Johnny about Frankie’s baby that she was carrying, which she planned to give up to Lucy. She figured that Johnny’s soul either knew about it—in which case nothing had to be said—or he didn’t know, and she needn’t bother him about it. Surely heaven bestowed magnanimity on the souls who entered it.

  Amie left the church in a contemplative mood, walking down the quiet streets. When she approached the bar, she saw that a small light had been left on. But the bar was closed at this hour. She frowned. These days, she worked here only three times a week, to keep a sharp eye on the books. Otherwise she left the daily running of the place to the bartender. But anyone who worked for her knew enough to turn off all the lights before closing up. This one could have been burning all night, driving up the electric bill.

  As she drew nearer, she saw that the back door was slightly ajar. It was much too early for even the first of the morning deliveries. Had someone failed to lock up properly last night, too? Maybe it had blown open, then. Or else, one of her employees might have been using the place for something nefarious, or maybe a thief had broken in.

  Amie supposed that she should call the police, but the last thing she wanted was cops asking what business she was running in that back office. Maybe the bartender was merely contending with somebody they had to pay off, doing it after hours. She would normally call Sal, but he was driving Petrina back to the suburbs today with some furniture and supplies for the houses, so he wouldn’t be available to help just yet. Amie could telephone Filomena, or Lucy at the hospital, and ask them what to do.

  But perhaps she still had Johnny on her mind today, and maybe he had heard her prayers, because sudde
nly she recalled the day her husband had asked her to look out for his business—and she’d said that she wasn’t as clever as Petrina, or as tough as Lucy, or as brave as Filomena—and Johnny’s reply now strengthened her resolve again: You’re smarter and stronger than you think. She moved forward and peered inside.

  It was silent inside the bar. Tentatively she ventured farther in, but then she froze at the sound of men’s voices, coming closer now. She ducked quickly into the ladies’ room and waited, terrified. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a caged bird, and she held her breath to keep from gasping in panic. Strange men were walking back and forth right past this door, muttering in tough voices. She could only make out snatches of their conversation as they passed the restrooms again and again:

  Does it look secure? Can anyone see? No slip-ups. Did you test it? Yes, I got everything, clear as a bell . . . Nothing beats hearing those wiseguys in their own words . . . best wiretaps yet. Strollo comes here every day, always that table . . . Barman says to give the keys back to him the minute we’re done here . . . Some dumb housewife owns this place, believe that? Same family as that old lady who was gunned down in the street around here . . . bet she was selling narcotics.

  Amie listened, paralyzed, until she finally heard their footsteps fade away as they walked out and locked the door. Still she waited, just in case they returned. But the silence was unbroken.

  She emerged cautiously from the ladies’ room, tiptoed to a smaller front window, and peered out one of the slats of the blinds. She saw two strange men in drab-looking suits, who crossed the street and went into a parked white van that remained there, unmoving, yet keeping its engine running.

  A few minutes later, she saw her own bartender appear on the street, glance around nervously, then go right up to the passenger side of the van and hold out his hand, while one of the “suits” deposited something there. Was it a payoff? Or the key to the bar that she’d heard them talk about returning? One thing was obvious: here was a traitor, who’d given strangers a chance to enter her place and illegally wiretap it.