The Scarlet Thread (20 page)

“No child would have made any difference,” he said. “This is something in me, Clara. It's always been there. I told you, the war changed me. It changed a lot of people. I have to go away and work it out for myself.”

He left her and closed the bag, snapping it shut. She looked at him, her perfect makeup streaked from her tears.

“They won't let you go,” she said. “Your father and my father. You know what it means when they curse you and cast you out. You know what happens in the old country. It's no different here.”

“I'll take my chances,” Steven said quietly. “If they come, they come. Go home to your mother, Clara. She'll take care of you for tonight. My father will have spoken to your father by now.”

He went out and closed the bedroom door behind him. He left the apartment quickly, hurried down the passage to the elevator. He had dismissed his car and bodyguard. They thought he was staying home for the evening. Outside, he set off down the street to find a taxi.

“He's left his clothes,” Clara said. She had stopped crying.

Aldo Fabrizzi put his arm around her shoulders. “So you see, it was just a fight he had with that old slob Lucca. He'll be back, you'll see.”

“No.” She shook her head, refusing his comfort. “He meant it, Papa. He's gone. I told you, he's gone forever. He's quit the family; he's quit me.”

Her mother tried to help. “An overnight bag means overnight. Maybe a day or two. Men get notions sometimes. He'll work it out.”

Clara ignored her. She meant well, but she was stupid. Clara couldn't tolerate her stupidity at that moment. She needed her father's shrewdness.

“Why hasn't Lucca called you? He's cursed his own son and thrown him out. He has to tell you; he has to make it known to everyone.”

“He hasn't called,” her father stated. “That's a good sign. Now, Clara, sweetheart, calm yourself, eh? Go wash up and we'll have something to eat. You stay with us tonight. Mama's right: men get notions, they act like they're crazy, but then they see sense. Luisa, how about some dinner?”

His wife hurried away to the kitchen. She prepared the meals because Aldo liked her cooking and refused to have a cook in the house. His wife had fuck all else to do, he thought bitterly, with no grandchildren to take up her time.

Aldo looked tenderly at his daughter. He hated to see her desolate. He couldn't bear it when she cried when she was a little girl. It was worse now that she was a woman. How he hated that son of a bitch—he'd never made Clara happy, never given her children. There had been no joy in the last few years. Still, she loved him. If she was right and he had quarreled with his father and walked out, then a joint sentence would be passed on him. Clara would be free to find another, better man. He went out to the kitchen to talk it over with his wife.

“My daughter comes home saying she's been deserted, and what do I do about it? Nothing! What kind of a father am I, eh? I wait for that arsehole Falconi to give me the news that his goddamn son has fucked up, while she sits crying.…” He glared around him, as if Steven or his father were in view.

His wife said, “You think it's true, Aldo? You think he's really left her?”

“I don't know,” he muttered. “I was just talking for her benefit out there, not because I believe it myself, for Christ's sake. I'm going to call Lucca. I'm going to tell him we have Clara here and I want to know what kind of crap we've been given!” He strode to the kitchen phone, where Clara couldn't hear him.

The telephone was answered by Piero. He didn't wait for Aldo to explode. He said, overriding him, “We have a family crisis. A crisis for your family too. My brother—” He managed to pause for emphasis, and his own emotion made it sound very real. “My brother has broken our father's heart.… My father can't talk to you, no. He's upset. He can't talk to anyone.… You say Clara is with you? … Yeah, I'm sure. My father wants a family conference. Tomorrow. He says will you come to the house. No women. Just us, the family. He says can you say nothing to anyone till tomorrow.… Okay.… Believe me, for what he's done I could cut his balls off.… Tomorrow early—ten o'clock.” He forced himself to say, “Give love to Clara from Lucia and the kids,” and then hung up.

Aldo Fabrizzi put the telephone back. His wife looked up at him. “It's true,” he said. “He's screwed up on them too. We don't tell Clara tonight. Let her eat something and get some sleep. I see them tomorrow, and I'll know what to do. I'm going to twist their balls for this, Luisa. No son of a bitch shames Aldo Fabrizzi's daughter!”

He stopped himself from slamming the kitchen door. Wiping the rage off his face, he went back to Clara. “We'll eat soon,” he said soothingly. “Let's take some wine together first, eh? And you smile for your Papa, will you?” He reached over and patted her hand. It felt cold.

“I'll try,” she promised. “Maybe you're right. Maybe he just blew his top and he'll come back when he's cooled off.”

“Maybe,” her father agreed. “Now you drink this—put some color back in the cheeks. And don't worry. Leave everything to me.”

The flight was called. Angela got up, with Charlie beside her. She had discreetly searched the terminal, watching the doors until the very last minute. But after hearing the boarding call, she lost hope. They joined the line of passengers and proceeded onto the aircraft. They were settled in their seats, hand luggage stowed away.

Charlie saw his mother's white face and said, “Don't worry, Mum. You're not scared of flying, are you?” She hadn't minded the trip out. In fact, she'd been as excited about it as he was. He dug into his pocket. “Here you are—have a candy. I bought some specially. They're jolly good. And by the way …”

“Yes?” she said, willing herself to smile at him.

“It's been the most super holiday,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

“I'm so glad, darling,” Angela said. The candy bar was soft and sticky in its wrapper. “I'll keep it for later,” she told him.

She opened the book she'd bought for the journey and tried to make sense of the first page. It could have been Chinese. There were tears stinging her eyes, blurring the print. She mustn't let her son see. She was reminded of another journey, so long ago, on the hospital ship with her unborn child, and the agony that tore at her heart. It was no less this time. She felt her son tugging at her sleeve.

“Mum! Mum, look! There's Mr. Falconi. Gosh, he's on our plane!”

He was astonished by his mother's behavior. The book fell on the floor and she was up in her seat, twisted around to look as Mr. Falconi came down the aisle toward her. And then pushing past Charlie, not even waiting till he got up.

And there was Mr. Falconi, blocking the aisle for the latecomers behind him, saying to his mother, as he held both her hands, “I thought I was going to miss it.”

And his mother smiling and out of breath, as if something wonderful had happened, like winning the lottery or inheriting a fortune. “I thought … I thought you'd missed it too.”

Then he was ushered away up to the front by the stewardess. Charlie bent down and picked up the book. His mother had trodden on it in her haste. Her high heel had scored right across the sickly-looking heroine on the front cover.

“I don't want that, darling,” she said.

She was flushed and laughing at him, and he said, “Mum, did you know he was going to be on the same plane?”

“No, no, I didn't. But I was praying he would be!” And she linked her arm through his and squeezed it hard. “I'll tell you all about it,” she said. “I promise.”

The light came on, instructing passengers to put out all cigarettes and fasten their seat belts. The engines gained power, filling the cabin with a roar of thrusting energy as the plane began to taxi forward.

In a few minutes they were airborne, and the panorama of New York glittered below them out of the cabin window. Charlie leaned across to stare out.

Then he sat back as the steep climb began. “You're keen on him too, aren't you, Mum?” he said.

“Yes, darling, I am. Is that all right with you?”

“It's great,” he said, and grinned at her. “I like him a lot. If you don't want that candy bar, can I have it?”

Piero turned from the window, letting the lace curtain drift back into place. “They're here,” he said to his father.

“How many?”

“Aldo and that kike lawyer of his. Two of his people beside the driver.”

“Let them in,” Lucca Falconi said. He went to his favorite chair and sat down. The garden wasn't an appropriate place for this meeting. He was in mourning for a lost son. The gloomy sitting room was just right. There was Chianti on the table. A big silver box of cigars. He looked like a man who had suffered a heavy blow. He looked like a man who was grieving. All this was true, but he must also look like a man who hated his own son, who had banished him from his life and forbidden his name to be spoken. Aldo Fabrizzi would not be easily fooled. He had brought his lawyer to talk terms for Clara. Lucca got up heavily, as if he had grown suddenly older, and shook hands with Fabrizzi.

“You know Joe Hyman? I brought him along to speak for my daughter.” Fabrizzi's eyes were like arrow slits in a stone wall.

“Come in; take some wine. Piero, you pour, will you? Mr. Hyman, you'll have a glass?”

“Thank you, but I don't drink alcohol this early.”

“It's not alcohol,” Lucca said sharply. “It's wine.” He turned away. He hated Jews. He hated Poles and the Irish too. He looked at Aldo Fabrizzi and said, “We have trouble, my friend.” He spoke in the dialect. He wondered if Hyman understood. Probably, since he worked for Fabrizzi, he would know Italian. But not the dialect.

“You have trouble, and so does my daughter,” Fabrizzi agreed. “Is he sick in his head?”

“I don't know,” Lucca answered. “Better if he was. There are doctors, clinics, for that kind of trouble.”

“Then why?” The question came out like spilled gravel. “Why has he left Clara and betrayed his family? Betrayed you and me both.”

It was Piero who answered. They had rehearsed the scene together, and he came in on cue. “Because he's a yellow shit! Because ever since someone took a shot at him last year, he's been peeing in his pants.”

He stopped as his father held up his hand. “You speak when I tell you, Piero. You have a big mouth. He's still your brother.”

“He's no brother of mine,” Piero insisted. “And no son of yours either!” He gulped down a glass of wine and glared at Aldo and the Jewish lawyer. Piero had a reputation for violence. He was believed, he could see that. He sat down. He'd played his part for the moment.

Lucca said, “Maybe Piero is right. He talked about enemies. He said to me here in this room, ‘I've had enough of the business. I want out. I've had enough of the family.' I reminded him. I told him what he owed to me, to our traditions. To Clara. What kind of a life will you give her? I asked him, and he stands there and says, ‘I'm going alone.'

“I ordered him, Aldo. I pleaded, I begged. I never thought I'd live to see such disrespect from my own son. I gave him everything. You know how much I loved him. He was my eldest boy. I did everything for him. And he spits in my face and says he doesn't want it. He doesn't want what I've made for him.”

Aldo said nothing for a time. Then he shifted in his seat and said simply, “I feel for you, my friend. But you have a good boy left. Me, I have only my Clara, and her heart is breaking. It's a dishonor, you know that.”

“I know it,” Lucca agreed. “Those were my last words before I cursed him as his father. You've dishonored both families; that's what I said. You're a coward and a traitor. You've no balls, and you're not my son.” A tear glinted in his eye, and he let it drop onto his cheek. “Ask what you want, Aldo. I'll pay the price of his dishonor to you and to Clara.”

“Where has he gone?”

They had been waiting for that question. “He wouldn't say,” Piero answered. “He wouldn't tell Papa. He knows what's coming to him. There ain't no pisshole where he can hide after this!”

Aldo said quietly, “You're looking for him?”

“The word has been passed,” Lucca Falconi said. “He'll be found. I think he's gone West. But we'll hear. It'll take time, that's all. When we find him, I'll do what has to be done.”

“You'll need a good man,” Aldo said. He glanced at his lawyer. “He may have no balls now, but he had them plenty in the war. We take care of him together, Lucca. That way, our interests are safe. And Clara holds her head up again. You talked about a price.”

“It's only what's due to her.” Lucca nodded. “And to you. I will provide for Clara.”

Aldo signified his satisfaction. He grunted. “You're a man of honor,” he said. “But first we have to talk about the business. Who's taking over from
him?
” He wouldn't lower himself to mention Steven by name.

“Piero,” Lucca answered. “And there's a cousin in Florida who's a good man with figures. They'll take care of everything together. I'm sending for the cousin. You will meet him; I know you'll think he's a good choice. Tino Spoletto, my uncle's sister's grandson. He's done good work in Florida.”

“When does he get here?” Aldo asked. He had never heard of the Spolettos before now. An idea was being born as he spoke. A very small, unformed idea, but growing. If the Falconis were bringing in relatives that distant, then they weren't as strong on the administrative side as they made out. And Piero was a muscleman. Twenty years ago he'd have been running protection rackets from the street. He'd never have seen the inside of that plush uptown office.

Lucca was answering. “Two weeks. He has to move his wife and family; find a place to live.”