Linda Cardillo - Dancing On Sunday Afternoons (12 page)

My boot heel had become wedged in the space between the ties, clutched by the resin-soaked wood. A chil climbed its frantic way up my back. My hand reached without thought for Giuseppina's medal around my neck.

Then I pul ed at the boot with al my strength and wil , but it wouldn't budge. I tried wriggling my foot as if I were about to dance. I was so distracted, so consumed by my entrapment, that I didn't notice Til y and Pip, who'd already made it to the other side and begun to scramble up the embankment. Suddenly, I heard Pip's voice, but not in the scolding tone she used when I lagged behind and she was nervous about Mol oy's clock.

"Giulia! Giulia!" she shrieked, a knife edge of hysteria, a bow drawn across a tightly strung violin. "The train!

The train!"

I jerked my head up, first in Til y and Pip's direction, then to the left, where Pip was frantical y gesturing. A locomotive was heading toward me from the station. I couldn't see if it was traveling on the middle track.

I grabbed Giuseppina's medal once again as it dangled over the boot, kissed it and rapidly mumbled a prayer.

Then I placed both my hands around my ankle and struggled again to lift the boot free. But it stil wouldn't come loose.

"Untie the boot! Untie the boot!" Pip's hands stabbed the air in a pantomime.

But I didn't want to. My boot! My mother had sent them, exquisite butter-yel ow boots with black trim and laces.

They fit me perfectly, narrow and graceful around the ankles, the leather as soft as the satin bags my sisters and I embroidered to hold our wedding tributes. Those boots were my memento of al that I'd left behind in Italy.

The locomotive was looming; I could feel the tracks starting to heave; I could hear the hiss and clang. My fingers somehow found the ends of the laces and pul ed them loose. I lifted out my foot and hobbled to the other side where Pip and Til y waited, white-faced. I flung myself into the bushes at the edge of the southern slope as the train passed.

CHAPTER 13

The Keys to the Store

Things happen for a reason. My scratched and bleeding face, my lost boot, cost Til y and Pip and me our jobs with Mol oy. Claudio roared for a few days—first at our insanity in crossing the tracks, next for our inability to get to work on time and keep Mol oy happy. Angelina sulked to have us back in the house al day, but I think she was also secretly pleased that my boot had been destroyed. I kept busy, washing and starching the curtains, beating the carpets, emptying the cupboard of al the glassware and dishes and washing everything til it gleamed. The house reeked of ammonia and lemon oil.

By that time, wooed by Claudio's success and his own disaffection with Papa, my uncle Tony had brought his wife, Yolanda, and their son, Peppino, to America. Claudio had found both Tony and Peppino jobs on a construction crew and they lived not far from us in Mount Vernon.

On Sundays they always joined us for dinner, recreating a smal piece of Venticano life. A few weeks after Mol oy fired us, Claudio settled into his Sunday pasta with more than his usual appetite.

"I bought another building," he announced, "down on Fourth. There's a store on the ground floor. The old lady who ran it died last month. Her sons don't want it—it's ful of buttons and thread and dress patterns. What do they know about dressmaking?"

He turned to Til y and Pip and me.

"It's yours. Since you girls can't seem to work for somebody else, work for yourselves. I don't want to hear another Molloy complaining to me. And I don't want you crying to me if you fail. This is the last job I'm gonna dig up for you. Don't let the vendors charge you too much or convince you to buy anything you don't need.

Don't give your customers too much credit. Work hard. I'll check the books once a month."

He threw the keys on the table, finished his wine and left for the Palace.

Til y, Pip and I looked at one another. We were proprietors now, over thread and yarn and buttons and lace.

We were respectable.

Our mother would be proud.

CHAPTER 14

"Divina e Bel a"

Paolo wrote poems. His little nephew, Nino, brought one to me.

I saw Nino almost every day, on the Avenue when I went down to do the marketing. He was so funny. A skinny little fel ow, ful of energy, always running, playing. His mother, Paolo's sister Flora, kept him very clean, his clothes always wel mended. The first time he saw me, he cal ed out, "Bel issima!" and clutched his heart and fel in a swoon at my feet. He won me over. I couldn't resist him. After that, he fol owed me around from shop to shop, carrying my basket, offering his advice on the quality of the vegetables, babbling about his American teacher at the No. 10 School. He was learning English. He showed off his new words like a new toy.

I often bought him a peppermint at Artuso's.

"I'll tel Zio Paolo I saw you today," he said whenever we parted on the corner—Flora didn't al ow him to leave the block. "He'll be jealous. He'll wish he could be me, walking by your side and making you laugh."

I always laughed in spite of myself and shooed him back to his games. He started to bring me little presents. A flower plucked from the vacant lot across from the school; a drawing he'd sketched on the back of an envelope; a piece of his mother's coconut cake neatly wrapped in a cloth. Then one day, he greeted me with a careful y folded sheet of blue notepaper.

Al this time, he'd been as if an emissary from his uncle. "Zio Paolo did this, and Zio Paolo did that..." Paolo's name and deeds were never far from Nino's lips.

I didn't have time on the street to read what Nino had given me, so I took it home and opened it in the kitchen.

On the blue notepaper were words written in Paolo's strong and elegant hand. I recognized the handwriting from the papers Claudio sometimes brought home. It was a poem, entitled "Divina e Bel a."

I was so lost in thought this morning. I could not take another step but Found myself rooted, waiting, Hoping that Giulia would pass by And bestow upon me The dazzling beam of her smile. But my Beauty does not show herself! Thoughts of her crowd out al else, Throng around me with doubts. Perhaps she feels nothing of what I feel for her? I swear, if I do not see her My heart wil shatter.

I folded the note and placed it inside my blouse. I didn't tel my sisters, and I didn't tease Paolo. I was afraid Nino had stolen the poem. Paolo certainly hadn't asked him to give it to me. The next day, when I saw Nino, I gave it back, scolding him that he must replace it in Paolo's papers undisturbed, that he had no right to let me have it.

Paolo's poem set off such confusion in my head. I was flattered by the intensity of his feelings for me. But I was unused to men who hid their emotions behind words written in silence and locked away in a drawer. I preferred to be whirled around a dance floor, to feel Roberto's desire for me in the press of his hand on my back. But I was beginning to see that, except for those moments on the dance floor, Roberto and I had little else to share with each other.

I returned the blue notepaper to Nino, but I didn't forget the poem. I kept the words enclosed in my heart.

CHAPTER 15

The Christening

On a Sunday in February, my friend Antonietta christened her firstborn, a little boy she had named Natale.

Half the neighborhood turned out for the celebration. Her husband, Giacomo DiDonato, was wel known in Mount Vernon. People didn't ignore his invitations. Not even the police ignored this event, although it was hard to believe they'd been invited by Giacomo. But they were there, standing outside Our Lady of Victory during the Mass and later, more of them, down the block near the hal . Somebody must have warned them that there might be trouble, that there were those in both Giacomo's and Antonietta's families who would've preferred that such a cause for celebration never come to pass.

People were lined up outside the hal waiting to get in, clutching their envelopes, their medals, their blessings for the baby boy. The priest had done his work in the church, but now the old women with powers were ready to add their voices, murmur their spel s that would protect the boy in ways the Irish priest couldn't even imagine.

It had snowed on Thursday and it was frigid, but stil people waited, smal bursts of conversation or the brittle tinkling of gold charms dangling from gloved fingers piercing the February air. The police had built a fire in an ash can on the corner of Fifth and Prospect to warm themselves, scowling over the flames at the bad luck of drawing such a duty.

Antonietta's brothers were also outside—having a smoke, watching the line of well-wishers, watching the police. My Roberto was there—the one they cal ed the Scarecrow, the one with whom I'd been keeping company.

What happened next was unclear, ful of the scum of rumor, self-deception, self-aggrandizement.The newspapers, based on police reports, gave one account. Eyewitnesses—the aunts and cousins, the countrymen on both sides who were standing in the line—gave other versions, each containing some elements that coincided, some of their own embroidery. Antonietta's family remained silent.

There was one element that recurred in al accounts—that the origin of the afternoon's events was a conversation in the line questioning the paternity of the child. It was Antonietta's brothers who overheard the provocative comments. And it was Roberto, as oldest, who led them to avenge the besmirched honor of their sister.

Fists let loose. Women screamed. Crucifixes and medals of Saint Anthony were hurled into the snow. The throng surged as if caught in a maelstrom. The police, roused from their resentful apathy, descended with truncheons at the ready. Words, shouts, the quickening ripple of danger, like an animal beating its hoof on the ground to warn its herd, reached those inside. People rushed out into the snow, to defend, to witness.

Antonietta, faltering and confused, clutched the baby, paralyzed by what had happened to her celebration until her mother grabbed them both—as well as the white satin bag fil ed with the gifts of wel -wishers—and led them to a smal room that led onto the al ey. I myself stood in the doorway as people rushed in one direction or another.

The Scarecrow was at the center of the confrontation, his towering height an easy target for the cops, who were making their way toward him. And then it happened. A uniformed arm reached around from behind, encircling Roberto's neck. The cop's other hand then covered Roberto's face, trying to pul him back.

Suddenly, the hand flew away, blood pumping, spewing al those surrounding Roberto. The arm around Roberto's neck released its hold as the cop sought to stem his own blood. Roberto ducked and disappeared.

But not before he turned his head—his mouth a twisted, carmine slash—and spit out a finger.

The smel of blood sent another tremor through the crowd. As abruptly as they had converged upon the fight—

the men compel ed to defend the honor of one family or another, the young boys driven simply to partake in the frenzy, the old women bound by ancient oaths to fling their curses—they now scattered, flying from the fringes in al directions.

An ambulance and police wagons began to arrive, bel s furiously sending out yet another warning to those stil engaged in the melee, police reinforcements pouring out of the wagons onto the street to subdue the violence of the mob with a violence of their own.

In contrast to the fury and confusion outside, a hol ow and desolate silence had seeped into the hal . Without an audience, the musicians had long since ceased their rondos and bal ads.

The floor, only minutes before fil ed with knots of chatting neighbors and romping children, was now strewn with remnants of food half-eaten, coats forgotten in the madness to join the brawl, a shoe lost in the press of the curious. The last of the mothers had shepherded her children out the same door through which Antonietta had been led to safety. My own family had al left before the fight, but I'd stayed behind to enjoy the waning moments of the party, to listen to the music, hoping to dance one last time with Roberto.

Earlier in the day, I'd darted about from one group to the next, a playful sprite. First dancing with the children, then whispering playfully into the ear of Roberto. I had felt as if a scherzo played in my head.

But the liveliness and joy that had animated me were drained from my body. I was alone; I was not safe. I backed away from the front door, feeling stricken. I thought the hal was empty. Then I heard the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs two at a time and a voice cal ing my name. My head jerked toward the voice, my eyes charged with terror. It was Paolo. I felt a fleeting relief wash over me, but then my attention was immediately drawn back to the door by renewed wailing and screams. In a few seconds, the cops would be inside.

Paolo reached me and reached out for me, taking my trembling body into his arms and guiding me toward the al ey door. I knew only that I had to get out of there, away from the fighting, away from the cops. I was terrified of what would happen if someone told them I was Roberto's girl.

The al ey was stil clear, and Paolo hurried us over the hard-packed snow, throwing his coat over my shoulders because we hadn't had time to search for mine. It wasn't far to Claudio's house—just a couple of blocks over on Sixth. But the way was rutted and slippery, slowing our silent progress.

Halfway there, I stopped, twisting my body away from his side. I grabbed the rough bark of a tree for support, bent into the road and began to retch.

Paolo held me from behind, brushing away the stray curls that had fal en into my face. At first, I resisted his help, pushing his hand away; but then, overwhelmed by my heaving, I submitted.

I even al owed him to wipe my mouth when, spent and exhausted, I lifted my head and leaned against the tree, eyes closed against the demons I'd seen that afternoon.