The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  “Nicole’s teacher wants her to go to a school for gifted girls next term,” Filomena persisted. “Teresa says they’ve been asking you to do that for years. Why haven’t you?”

  Amie said defensively, “Frankie didn’t send Gemma to college! He says it’s a waste of money because daughters only get married and have babies. Why put ideas into Nicole’s head? As it is, she reads too much. Two books a week! I try to stop her, but she goes under the bedcovers with a flashlight. She’ll end up nearsighted, like me.”

  Filomena smoothed the palms of her hands on her skirts, as if to iron out all the wrinkles in their lives. “I suppose it’s normal for mothers to be jealous of our daughters when they outdo us,” she said reflectively. Her own Teresa had a gift for music, just like Mario. And, truth be told, Teresa was closer to her father, being of the same temperament, which sometimes gave Filomena the queer feeling of being an outsider. “But after all, we want our girls to be independent and not to have to rely on men to survive, right?”

  Amie was shocked. “I want my daughter to fall in love and marry. Don’t you want the same for Teresa?”

  “That would be nice—but not if she has to depend on a man,” Filomena said.

  “Is that so? Then why aren’t you sending your daughter to a fancy, expensive school for smart-aleck girls?” Amie demanded, as if she’d just laid down a trump card.

  Filomena said quietly, “Teresa’s grades aren’t quite as good as Nicole’s, but yes, she managed to get in, too, and will enroll there next term. But we had a fight this morning. Teresa says she won’t go to that school unless Nicole does, too. I’d love for our ‘Little Girls’ to be there together. I think Nicole would help Teresa learn. What do you say, Amie? Shall we send our two beautiful daughters to this wonderful school?”

  Amie said in alarm, “I’ve got Vinnie heading into pre-law and Paulie to pre-med. The twins are getting on by the skin of their teeth, thanks to some very good tutors that Petrina found for them. So believe me, it’s taking all the money I’ve got to pay for that!” she said dramatically, exaggerating, and yet convincing herself in the process.

  Filomena said crisply, “Then, as Nicole’s godmother, let me help pay to send Nicole to the best schools, as high as she can go. I discussed it with Mario, and he is fine with the idea. You mustn’t bury this diamond, Amie. Remember when she was born and you asked me to do you this ‘last favor,’ to be her godmother and protect her? Now do me this favor. All right?”

  Filomena had placed her hand firmly atop Amie’s, as if she would never let go until she extracted this promise. “Oh, all right,” Amie said sulkily. “I guess the Little Girls might as well go to the same school. It will save us a fortune in telephone bills!”

  * * *

  From their hiding place in the pantry, Teresa and Nicole squeezed each other’s hands to avoid shrieking with joy that they’d soon be together at the “gifted” school.

  “See, I told you—inside this pantry, you can hear everything they say in my mother’s study,” Teresa whispered. She had Filomena’s eyes, but her pixie face was framed by straight, dark hair, cut short with bangs, which made her look a bit like Christopher Robin in the Winnie-the-Pooh books. “Aunt Lucy was in there earlier, talking to Mom. She said Chris is in big trouble. He got fired from cooking in that restaurant; know why?”

  Nicole shook her head. Teresa whispered gleefully, “Chris was helping some guys use the place to smuggle drugs. The owner caught them and fired them. Uncle Frankie found out, and thrashed Chris and shouted, ‘It’s Cook’s day off, so get your ass in our kitchen and make yourself useful.’ That’s why Chris is making dinner for us tonight.”

  At that moment, the door of the pantry opened, and their big cousin Chris stood right there, looking surprised. “Hello! What are you two movie stars doing in my kitchen?” he said, amused to find them looking wide-eyed. Teresa and Nicole giggled.

  “You hungry, ladies?” he inquired. They nodded, speechless. He was so handsome. “Come on out, let’s see what I’ve got,” he said.

  They followed him in fascination. To be honest, both girls had a little crush on Chris. He was tall and dangerous looking; his strong arms had scary blue tattoos, from being in the navy. He’d come home bearing gifts for them—exotic coins and stamps from the world’s big cities that had magical names, like Cairo and Barcelona and Istanbul. But now he’d gotten fired, for acting like a real gangster.

  Both girls were normally obedient, studious creatures. So they felt a vicarious thrill around Chris, who wasn’t afraid of anything, even breaking the rules. He didn’t look at all penitent about getting bawled out by his parents. In fact, he looked quite cheerful as he sauntered over to the oven. The girls watched, enthralled, while he hauled out a big tray of tiny cupcakes with a sticky honey glaze, which smelled heavenly.

  “Here, have a honey cake, but don’t tell your mothers that I gave you sweets before dinner,” he said conspiratorially. “You can eat here. I’m going to take a break.” He stepped out to the backyard, lit a cigarette, folded his arms, and sat there smoking contentedly. The girls gobbled up their treats, then scurried up to Teresa’s room.

  Chris was halfway through his cigarette when he heard a low whistle from the other side of the garden wall. A moment later, a busboy he knew hopped over the wall. “New shipment coming in tonight,” the man said.

  Chris shook his head. “Can’t do it. My father’s onto me. He’d skin me alive.”

  The busboy, a squat fellow with a round face, looked incredulous. “Know how much you and I could make on this haul alone?” he demanded.

  Chris said ruefully, “I don’t want to know. I’m out of the business. And, do me a favor? Don’t come here again. The Godmothers might sic the dogs on you.”

  Of course, there were no dogs. There had never been any dogs. But the busboy didn’t know that. The Godmothers still had a reputation; that story about Filomena’s knife-throwing had been exaggerated into a stiletto she’d plunged into the neck of a debtor. People believed it, because Aunt Filomena’s face said she’d do it again if she had to.

  The busboy hopped back over the wall with far less cheer. Chris shrugged. Restaurants were good conduits for moving illicit merchandise quickly, hidden amid barrels of fish or produce or beer. When Chris had succumbed to temptation he’d made a tidy profit, until his boss found out, and wouldn’t you know it, Frankie once had a silent stake in that very tavern, until he sold it to the current owner. So of course the owner had gone straight to Frankie to demand a payoff for not reporting Chris to the cops. Frankie had paid him, then stormed home, grabbed Chris by his hair—his hair, for God’s sake—and hauled him to his knees, forcing him to swear to Lucy that he’d never do it again.

  Chris intended to keep his promise. Frankie had always been a good father to him, having risked a lot to get him back from Eddie, a beast of a man whose name still made Chris shudder. On the boat home from London, when Frankie had broken the news that Eddie was dead, Chris didn’t even ask how or why. He’d only said, Good. That devil belonged in hell.

  For a long while, Chris had been on good behavior, glad to be home. But now the walls were starting to close in on him. Normal life seemed too slow, too somnolent. A real man had to roll the dice, take risks, if he wanted to make something of himself. Chris had waited all his life to become old enough, like Johnny and Frankie and Mario, who in their heyday had attracted the respect and admiration of men and women alike. Hell, the men in this family had practically owned this town when they were his age. Chris was twenty-three already. Time would simply march on without him, if he let it.

  When the family sat down to dinner that evening, Petrina announced her engagement to Doug. Amid everyone’s exclamations of joy, Amie boasted, “I’ve already met him! He’s so handsome, he looks like that actor from High Noon, Gary Cooper.”

  “Yeah, Doug’s a good guy,” Petrina said in a warm voice that revealed just how much she cared for him. Filomena found this touching and gave her a h
ug.

  Mario, who was still a bit reserved with Petrina, had been warned by Filomena that something like this was imminent, so, when she nudged him now, he gallantly opened a bottle of champagne. They all clinked to Petrina’s happiness. Teresa and Nicole watched, wide-eyed, for the sophisticated Aunt Petrina was blushing like a girl.

  “Congratulations, Godmother,” Teresa said rather formally.

  “Thank you, darling,” Petrina said, taking a quick sip.

  Frankie glanced around, frowning. “Hey, where are the other kids?” he asked.

  “The twins went out to get some ‘fresh air,’ but Mom told them to be home by eight sharp,” Nicole volunteered about her brothers.

  “And where are the Big Girls?” Frankie demanded.

  “Pippa has a performance tonight, and there’s some black-tie gala dinner afterwards, so she invited Gemma to attend,” Petrina said, too happy to notice the storm clouds gathering. “So, they won’t be eating dinner with us.”

  Frankie gave Lucy a significant nod. Lucy took this cue. “Petrina, love,” she said worriedly, “Pippa’s been taking Gemma out dancing at uptown nightclubs with that glamorous crowd of hers. We’re concerned. Our lass is only nineteen, you know.”

  Petrina was insulted by the implication that her hardworking daughter, Pippa, was a bad influence. But she replied lightly, “Oh, the Big Girls are just husband-hunting. I imagine you approve of that, Frankie dear.”

  Teresa said to Nicole, “I hate the way they call Pippa and Gemma the Big Girls. It means, no matter how old we get, they’ll always call you and me the Little Girls.”

  Nicole was glad when her brothers arrived to break the tension. She was proud of them; at eighteen, Vinnie and Paulie were handsome and strong, and, although diligent at school, they were somewhat rebellious looking, in a dashing sort of way. They breezed into the dining room like a gust of fresh air. Frankie eyed them suspiciously as they took their seats.

  “Hey,” said Vinnie, “who’s the big fat guy in the neighborhood? Man, I never saw a guy so fat. He could hardly walk. He waddled like a bear.” He leaned from side to side to illustrate.

  “That fatso had to be three hundred pounds,” Paulie agreed. At the others’ baffled look he added, “He was with a man he called Strollo. They were just outside the pool hall.”

  The adults looked up swiftly at the name of Strollo. Frankie, feeling responsible for disciplining the boys in the absence of Johnny, gave his nephews a sharp look. “What the hell were you two doing down at the pool hall?”

  “Aw, c’mon, Uncle Frankie,” Vinnie said as Petrina passed him the antipasto plate. “We just wanted to unwind after studying for exams.”

  “Listen, you mugs. You are not going to disgrace the memory of your father by flunking out. So you don’t ‘unwind’ until your exams are done, you got that? And even then”—Frankie pointed a finger at them—“the only pool I want to see you in is a swimming pool. I mean it, boys. You won’t impress the girls if you can’t dive and swim as well as the Harvard crowd. There are plenty of places to practice, with all those country clubs and sailing clubs and beach clubs all up and down the Long Island Sound. Petrina’s a member. She’ll let you in, right?”

  Petrina nodded. The boys looked suitably chastened. “Okay, Uncle Frankie,” Paulie said, then he added wickedly, “but we’re sleeping over here in the guesthouse tonight. So, can we interest you and Mario and Chris in a friendly little card game?”

  “I’m in,” Chris said as he carried in a huge dinner platter of roasted beef and potatoes, and string beans dressed with walnuts and vinaigrette. He placed it at the center of the table. “But first, come on, everybody, buon appetito.”

  The festivities lasted until midnight. Even Frankie admitted that the meal had been magnificently cooked by Chris, and nobody wanted the celebratory evening to end. Nicole and Teresa sulked when they were sent to bed at ten. Lucy insisted on staying up until Pippa and Gemma returned, so she told the men, “Deal me in.” Petrina played, too, but Amie watched, crocheting. Filomena sat back and sipped a fine after-dinner liqueur that she had made herself, from wine and herbs and violets.

  Just after midnight, they heard the front door open and then slam shut loudly. Everyone glanced up when Pippa and Gemma burst in the door, flushed with excitement, looking stunning in evening gowns, fur-trimmed wraps, and gloves.

  “The return of the prodigal Big Girls,” Frankie said disapprovingly.

  “How pretty they are. Like two long-stemmed roses,” Petrina murmured to Lucy. “My daughter looks like Audrey Hepburn, and yours is like Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Never mind us! Did you hear the big news?” Pippa demanded breathlessly, flinging herself into a chair. “Frank Costello’s been shot!” Amid a chorus of questions, she explained, “Well, he was out having dinner at Chandler’s Restaurant, and then he made the rounds of the clubs to see his wife and some friends.”

  “Were you there in some club when it happened?” Lucy asked, horrified.

  “No,” Gemma said excitedly, taking off her evening wrap. “He got shot in the lobby of that fancy building he lives in on Central Park West! We didn’t find out till we were driving home and went past the place, and we saw the crowd and the cops out in front. That nice building—you know, what’s it called?”

  “The Majestic,” Filomena said, exchanging a look with Petrina, recalling the man who’d given them free champagne at the Copacabana—and, years later, invited them to his penthouse. She could not imagine bullets flying in that beautiful art deco lobby. But now she understood the dream she’d had this morning. The bombs exploding, the stones of a building just like the Majestic tumbling into rubble. It had already begun.

  “Holy cow! Is Costello dead?” Frankie demanded in disbelief.

  “I don’t know. They took him to Roosevelt Hospital. They say he gave the cabdriver a five-dollar bill for a forty-five-cent fare!” Pippa replied.

  “But who shot him?” Lucy demanded.

  Pippa said significantly, “Nobody knows for sure. But the doorman at the Majestic said the gunman was a fat guy who charged into the lobby and said, ‘This one’s for you, Frank,’ popped him, and just waddled out into some car that was waiting for him. The reporters are already calling the shooter ‘the Fat Man’ and ‘the Waddler.’ But Mr. Costello told the police he ‘didn’t see a thing.’ Isn’t that odd?”

  Vinnie looked at Paulie, who said meaningfully, “The Waddler. Strollo’s friend!”

  “Does this mean that Strollo wants Costello dead?” Amie said worriedly.

  “He wouldn’t make a move like that without the backing of somebody bigger. You can bet Vito Genovese is behind it,” Frankie muttered, glancing at Mario.

  “Why?” Chris asked, intrigued. “Isn’t Costello a bigger man around town?”

  “Genovese always thought he should have succeeded Lucky Luciano, instead of Costello,” Frankie explained. “He’s never been happy just being Costello’s underboss.”

  Filomena shivered. She’d seen Vito Genovese on the street only once, but that was enough. His hooded eyes had a cold-blooded, calculating stare, as still as a poised snake. It was said that he’d killed a man just so he could marry the dead man’s wife.

  “It’s the narcotics,” Mario said quietly. “It’s changing things. Some Bosses are getting into it big-time, but Costello wants nothing to do with it. The politicians don’t like it, and Costello knows he’d lose political influence. Especially now, with that new act of Congress—the jail penalties for drug trafficking are stiffer than the other rackets.”

  Frankie, glancing meaningfully at Chris, said, “Right. Which means only the boneheads can’t resist the profits. It’s not like bootlegging and gambling. Narcotics is a dirtier business. They’re even peddling this stuff in playgrounds, to get kids addicted.”

  “It’s terrible, what heroin does to people,” Lucy said, troubled. “I’ve seen addicts in the emergency room. They waste away till they’re like nothing human in the end.” />
  “You see?” Amie said to her twin boys. “This is what comes of hanging out at pool halls.” Unexpectedly, she turned to Chris. “As for you,” she said severely, “I am your godmother, so you must listen. You are handsome and not too dumb. It’s time you settle down, find a girl to have children of your own to worry about. You’re a good cook, so come work for me, in my restaurant in Mamaroneck. You’ll learn everything I know about the business—but if your foot slips once, you’re out on your heel.”

  Lucy gave a start but did not know what to say. Things between her and Amie had gone from an uneasy truce to something familial again, but they were not quite as close as before. Amie had kept her word and moved to Westchester, leaving her city apartment to Lucy’s children. In turn, Lucy had given up the house she owned in Mamaroneck to Amie, who quickly found tenants for it. It worked perfectly because Frankie—unlike his brother Johnny—was a pure city boy and hated the suburbs. Thus, Lucy’s family was exposed to Amie only in small doses.

  And even when they saw each other on such occasions as Christmas, Lucy had, at first, watched her husband and Amie closely, alert for any sparks flying between them, any covert yearning, any exchange of something complicit, or telltale sign of remembered passion. But there was none. And Frankie was just as amorous with Lucy as he’d always been. It seemed the past was done. Everyone wanted family life to go back to what it had been before the war.

  Yet now, the prospect of Amie’s taking Lucy’s son to the suburbs evoked her old mistrust. But Chris was undeniably skirting serious trouble in the city. Maybe he truly needed to get out.

  Chris smiled winningly. “Sure, Godmother Amie,” he said. “I could use the dough.”

  “As for you, young lady,” Frankie said severely to Gemma, “no more supper parties or nightclubs.” When she protested, Frankie said firmly, “Basta. These are dangerous times!”