... A NOVEL SET IN LITTLE ITALY, CLEVELAND, OHIO...
. *** COMBATTI PER AMORE*** ***FIGHT FOR LOVE***
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Some of the names and places in this story have been changed. Although those who've lived in Cleveland, and knew and know Little Italy there will, of course, recognize them. This is a fictional account, with fictional events, a product of my imagination; resemblance to living persons is a coincidence. Some real people or real things and/or obvious real events, and/or real places and real names of deceased historical people have been used. Some of the families in this fictional story have Mob connections, but that's no derogatory reflection on anyone or anything, now or in the past. It's just, well, ~ you know, part of the story.
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PROLOGUE: June 1959... John Scalish was of medium height with a head of thick black wavy hair and cold brown eyes. Brown isn't usually thought of as a cold color for eyes, but John Scalish's eyes were the flat cold of the eyes of a dead Lake Erie walleye. He was the ruthless head of the Mayfield Road Mob in the nineteen fifties to the mid nineteen seventies, the primo years of the Cleveland crime families. Scalish's reign was the longest of any Cleveland Mob boss. Anthony Milano was John Scalish's under boss or head caporegieme. John De Marco was his consigliere or counselor. After a fine dinner of antipasto, minestone, veal marsala, spinach and eggplant lasagne and tirimasu, John, Anthony, John DeMarco and the Mob's capos were relaxing in leather easy chairs smoking cigars and finishing drinking the rest of the dinner chianti. It was natural that they should start talking business. Anthony pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He was sweating, profusely. It was too warm in the room and the thick cigar smoke didn't help a bit. But, he was also nervous. He addressed his boss. "Look, John, with respect..." "Yeah, I know, I know" John said,leaning forward, "I think I know exactly what you're going to say." "Things are getting out of hand," Anthony replied. "It's time for some very tight control." John De Marco nodded, "We have plans, big plans..." He raised his eyebrows to John Scalish, who sat back in his chair now. The brown leather chair squeaked a bit. John Scalish drew deeply on his cigar, a specially blended one from Havana's finest manufacturers. A small smile was on his lips. Ollie and Dominic Torrentino, Georgie Sanno, Phil Barille and Nicky and Frankie Mellio were listening carefully. This could be very, very big, of course. They were honored to be part of any meeting with so skilled a boss as the mighty John Scalish. He was fast becoming a legend in mob histories, right up there with the proud men of the New York Gambino, Columbo, Bonanno, Lucchese and the Genovesse families. Imogene Papalardo walked in with a silver tray of shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. John Scalish brushed her hand as she swished by him, her full rump jiggling. Imogene smiled, her long, sultry, green eyes gleaming. She placed a shot glass on the side table next to her boss and poured a measure of bourbon into it, to the glass' rim. "Thanks, Genie honey," John said. Imogene nodded and winked, patting her black bee hive hair style. She went to serve the others their bourbon too. The men raised their glasses, but not until Imogene left. "To what are we drinking?, Nicky asked. He was one of the younger capos, talented, yet still young in years and, naturally, young in his years of being a made man. (A lot of people don't know this, but you can't be a made man, unless you are one hundred percent Italian-American, no Polish, German, or Irish background, whatsoever.) So, Nicky Mellio had a lot to learn. He was way too forward for John De Marco's taste. But, then, John, the consigliere, was, of course, very conservative. It was a major part of his job to be very careful and conservative, to vigorously protect the many interests of his boss. "It will be a very sweet venture," John continued. "Let me explain fully. It will be a clean up operation. It's a clever plan, surely, but, it has a lot of delicate, small parts. They'll all make up the brilliant whole, when they fall into place." The capos nodded; they were intrigued, silent, listening like foxes. The underlings were extremely alert, visibly on edge. John De Marco went on, speaking slowly, choosing his words carefully, as John Scalish looked contented, the little smile still tugging at one corner of his mouth. He licked his lips, took a swallow of his bourbon. PART ONE: CHAPTER 1...
Il cuore vede più lontano della testa. (The heart sees farther than the head.)
--- Old Italian saying.
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July, that same year, 1959...
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“How's it goin’?” It was a standard greeting, but in this case my grinning cousin Fabrizio knew how it would be 'goin'", and it was very inappropriate, considering that my best guy friend Harvey Ferraro had dropped dead of two bullets in the middle of this forehead very early Tuesday morning.
The bullet holes were like "snake eyes" of dice, a Mob execution thing made with the grotesque finesse that was sometimes given to traitors, or finks, who ratted, or "spilled the beans" to the wrong persons.
It made me wonder. What in the fucking hell big deal was Harvey mixed up in? It was said he was coming home from Charmaine La Fleur's place at about three a.m., that lousy bleach-blond bimbo. (She always looked like a sausage tied in the middle to me.) My nonna, my Grandma Rosealba had Charmaine pegged from the first moment she saw her, --- "Stupida puttana, a buon mercato, sporca!" Nonnie said. (Yeah, --- "Stupid whore, cheap, dirty!") Even though her Uncle Enzio was a fancy big shot lawyer, she was still a filthy-ass slut.
I'd cried my bitter tears, went to Harvey's funeral; we all did. He was a relation, an import from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn; we had a lot of relations still living there. Harvey was a big, sweet teddy bear of a guy. Harvey and his equally jolly friend Julio Russo were the chubby, cheerful, chummy guys you went to if you were rightly a little scared of the other guys. They were the guys who were sort of comical, but the guys who got those little things done for you that were just a bit questionable, things that were actually small stuff that you really needed, ~ like a truly gorgeous wedding dress that you couldn't afford, a designer dress, or an apartment in a ritzy part of town that was much too pricey and you definitely couldn't afford it, or some discreet digging for info about someone or something you couldn't just go to a private detective for, even if you had the money to hire a private dick, no not even... Harvey and Julio could, would make it smoothly happen for you. Of course, then, you would owe them a favor, a favor that they may never ask for, but a favor, never the less... Yeah, and Harvey and Julio were old-school but subtle; no flashy bang-bang-bang-BANG-BANG stuff. Maybe a garote, which is a length of wire twisted around the throat, or an ice pick in the ear, both very effective, ~ the ice pick, only a bit of blood, the garote, very messy, as the victims bowels let go... Yeah, yeah, yeah, ~ and, I could hardly bear to look at Julio's sad big brown eyes. Howeve would he do what he did, now that his good-buddy Harvey, his gomba, the guy he had practically shared a baby buggy with, was gone forever? Life is SO NOT fair. Yet, it goes on, ~ always. ...Que sera, sera; naturally, Doris Day wasn't Italian, but she sang it good enough. And, I felt there was a deep, DEEP. big thingy going on here. I just felt it in my gut, in my heart, a thingy having to do with Harvey's girlfriend, his disgusting foul slut girlfriend Charmaine. Charmaine’s real name was Linda Lou Grassi. She thought she was this hot and sexy lounge singer, leaning her over-stuffed self against a piano, singing Billy Holiday songs. Lyle Jan who owned half of The Blue Oasis hired her every once in a while, but I think he did it mainly because she was putting out so much for him, cheating, again and again and again, on nice guy Harvey.
We lived in a house on a side street off Mayfield Road, which is also Ohio route three twenty one, and finally becomes Euclid Avenue, traveling west from the eastern suburbs, ending in the heart on good old, a little raunchy downtown Cleveland. Our house was a nice white frame with a good-sized front porch that had a swing on it. It was much like other on houses on Murray Hill. My parents Anna and Joseph Cannizzaro, paid cash for it after they came to America first to New York City, then to Cleveland, from Campania, Italy and also from Mazara del Vallo, in Sicily, or as we say, Sicilia, pronounced "S-chee-ah". But, in our house we spoke regular Italian, rather than Sicilian, which is a whole different language with a different vocabulary and everything. In fact, people who speak regular Italian probably wouldn't be able to understand Sicilian at all, unless they had a lot of contact with native Sicilians. (Many people here in Little Italy were originally from Napoli and the towns around it, Neopolitan stonemasons who made the headstones and statuary for Lakeview Cemetary, and a lot are also from Northern Italy, in a the Alpine region.)
So, our household got to be a matriarchy after my pa’s diabetes became so hard to control. He died in nineteen fifty after he went into a very bad coma and never woke up. Since then, Ma and Nonnie, my maternal grandma, have run our family with a loving hand, but an iron hand in the velvet glove.
It was Sunday afternoon. My sister Carol was sitting with me at the kitchen table when Fabrizio walked in. Carol was five years older than me at twenty four and widowed from her husband Al Cattaneo who was run over by a big black DeSoto after he went out one Saturday afternoon for a bottle of whiskey. It was supposed to have been an accident. Al was a world class jerk anyway, too stupid to be in the Business or what we call La Famiglia. They didn't want him. And, he didn't treat my sister right. Everybody, I mean, but everybody, knew it, and a man who doesn't treat his family, his wife with respect is not thought of as much of a man. After Al's death, Carol moved back into the family home from a crummy apartment over Lombardi’s, the used appliance and furniture store.
Paulie and Tony were my older brothers, my parents oldest kids, twelve and ten years older than my sister Carol, seventeen and fifteen years older than me. Ma also had another daughter, Rosa, her first child, who died at birth, and Ma and Pa were afraid she'd never have another baby since she'd had such a hard time of it. But, that, obviously, wasn't true. My brother Paulie married Helen Ricci, who was Iggy Barille's niece. Iggy was sort of famous, or infamous, on the Hill, depending on just who you were and how you looked at it.
Carol was busy slathering her hair with that sickeningly sweet and stinky smelling emerald green Debbie Doo-Ette hair setting gel from a big bottle, putting it on rollers with stiff brushes inside them, fixing the rollers with long pink plastic pins to her scalp in her never-ending battle to curl her stubborn hair which was straight as a stick, whereas mine was naturally wavy. Yeah, my sister insisted on forcing her poor hair into every new style invented. (But, sometimes I set my hair on toilet paper rolls to make it go straight.) I made a face at her, put out my tongue. She’d be painting her toenails next thing. two bottles of polish, pink pearl frosted and bright red, emery boards and nail clippers were ready. Some guy who was drunk once told Carol she looked like Gina Lollobrigida, a lie to get into her pants. and she did her best to keep up appearances.
“Jeez, do you always have to do your crummy beautifying here?,” I asked to her. “It’s so rotten unsanitary! I’ll be eating breakfast at this table tomorrow morning, unless we’re out of Cheerios, Carol!” My sister liked them way too much. She ate them for breakfast, lunch, snacks.
Carol ignored me and looked up at Fabrizio. “Hi, Fabrizi-o-o-o!” She actually batted her heavily mascaraed lashes. I was totally disgusted. She really liked Fabrizio’s skinny, snaky looks; I don’t know why. She told me she thought he looked like a dark-haired Bobby Ridell. He didn't. Fabrizio always tried single handedly to keep the hair grease industry in business and, of course, he seemed to me like he should have fangs and squirt poison out of his mouth, definitely one of my least favorites of my multitudes of first cousins. Fabrizio smiled at Carol, kissed her cheek. Then, he trailed his fingers along her shoulder; she was still smiling, --- ick, ick, ick!
“Very bad taste to be so cheerful to me today, Fabrizio,” I said, not even glancing at him.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, little Miss Grouchy Face.” He pulled up the other chair. “And I did hear about Harvey, my sincerest condolences."
“Sure, Fabrizio, sure.” Fabrizio was such a punk. I was trying to concentrate on my beautician school lesson.
It was the long chapter in my text book on perming. I was going to better myself, sick to death of flipping burgers, making fries and huge tubs of cole slaw at my weekday job. I hoped to get a manager’s license and have my own beauty shop someday in the future. I had a lot of cool new ideas for haircuts and styles, especially for straight hair. I didn't like teasing or, otherwise, ratting hair to give it height and volume because it broke the hair; underneath the styling it was just a snarled up mess. And, I hated the D.A., short for "Duck's Ass," which was a popular hair style for guys.
I didn't even like the more feminine curly version of the D.A., which was called a bustle. And, the bubble cut or the poodle cut always looked like a tame old lady style to me. I even preferred the old time pageboy to it. I also liked cute feathery pixie cuts, especially for summer. I thought they focused attention on the eyes, with make up like Audrey Hepburn.
“No-no-no, I truly mean it, Maria,” Fabrizio was saying to me, looking falsely sorrowful. “Harvey Ferraro was really, really great.”
He reached for one of my Baby Ruths. And, I looked up from my book; I swatted his hand away. “None of your sticky paws on my candy!”
He leaned back in his chair. The old red wooden kitchen chair squeaked in protest. “Whoa, touchy, touchy!,” Fabrizio said. I made a rude hand gesture at him and he gave it right back to me with a sneer of his thick lips. Then, he jumped a little in his chair. “Hey, watch it, Carol!” Fabrizio tried to wipe some of the thick green slime of Carol’s hair setting gel off his bare forearm with his fingers.
She giggled. “Oops! So sorry, it’s real drippy stuff!” She smiled, handed him a bunch of the little quilted cotton pads that she always used to remove her nail polish.
Fabrizio took them, wiped his arm more. “Hey, I’m getting hungry. I ain't had no lunch,” he said, flipping the used cotton squares in the waste basket next to the stove and looking at the big pot of pasta sauce slowly bubbling on a back burner. “Nonnie and Aunt Anna make the best sauce on the Hill. They should bottle it and sell it.” That was Fabrizio, forever trying to make a lousy buck.
“You’re always hungry,” Carol said. “Help yourself. There’s some bread Ma j bustaked yesterday in the bread box. She’s still at church with Nonnie.”
“Still?" Fabrizzo got up, got a bowl from the cupboard. He shrugged, "They're real devoted.” Fabrizio opened the bread box. “They go early every morning too, right?”
“Yeah, they’re probably having coffee and jelly donuts in Father Donati's office right now, Nonnie and Ma doing all that praying for Pa’s and Tony’s souls. They’re all thinking Tony’s going to hell, but maybe he'd just have a very long stop over in purgatory,” Carol said.
Fabrizio had the loaf of bread; he tore a big hunk off the bread, put it in the bowl and ladled out some pasta sauce, or as a lot of those with Italian background call it, red sauce. Yeah, Fabrizio loved Nonnie and Ma's cooking, but he'd eat anything. If it wasn't moving he'd eat it.
He told me that when he was in Florida he saw this poor little blue crab, minding it's own, business, scuttling along the beach and, yep, you guessed it, Fabrizio wanted to eat it. He said to his then-girlfriend Nina Gold, "Quick! We oughta get a pot of really, really hot water and drop him in it! I hear that's how you cook crabs."
"You get the hot water!," Nina said. "Better yet leave that ugly old thingy alone! Dammit, Fab, you are such a schmuck!" (I didn't like Nina, but at least she had some sense. She wasn't Fabrizio's girlfriend very long, either.)
Now Fabrizio said, “Yeah, Father Vinnie and Aunt Anna is probably right to worry a bunch. Tony’s mixed up big with those Torrentinos, Barilles and Mellios, and Carlo Cavelli and old John Scalish, who we all know's his real name is John Scalise. Tony should know better than to mess with them guys, them guys is mostly transports from New York."
Fabrizio laughed his high weird hyena laugh. "Maybe he thinks he don’t make near enough at his construction job. That boss of his, Chuck Barbieri, is one fucking cheap ass bastard. It’s a good thing Tony ain't married. He’d have even a God damned harder time making it. I mean with money, naturally. Tony's a very cool cat, always has it made with the beautiful, sexy broads. Shit, he's got all the fucking right words and ways.”
“Watch your mouth, Fabrizio,” I said, “Ma and Nonnie don’t like no swearing or filthy language in this house.”
Fabrizio was shoveling in the bread and sauce, sauce dripping down his chin. “They’re not here, sassy ass.”
Enrico, Nonnie’s big fluffy black cat, named for the famous opera singer tenor Enrico Caruso, strolled into the kitchen. He liked Nonnie’s and Ma's cooking too; Enrico was solid muscle, a fourteen pounder with five toes on each of his front feet. Enrico sprang onto Fabrizio’s shoulder, digging his long claws in to steady himself and eyed the bowl of bread and meaty sauce. Fabrizio yelped when he felt the stabs of Enrico’s claws and jumped up, swatting frantically at the cat. Enrico hissed and leaped to the top of the kitchen cabinets near the ceiling, growling and looking down at Fabrizio with narrowed yellow eyes.
“That cat is the fucking Devil!,” Fabrizio yelled as he rubbed his clawed shoulder.
I gazed up from my book. “What do you expect He's probably a witch too." Fabrizio smirked. "Cat's can be witches? Go on..." "Familiars," I said. "Oh." Yeah, he's a Sicilian's cat, so Enrico knows about vendetta. He remembers every nasty kick you ever gave him since he was a tiny kitten. He hates you.”
“He’s fucking dangerous! You should take him to the pound! Never mind. Maybe I’ll just sneak up on him and stuff him in a bag then knock him against a brick wall. That’ll finish him good!”
“Ha, we’re having lamb chops, panacotte and fried rice balls for dinner today, and then seven veils cake for desert. Nonnie was feeling real creative because it's nobody's birthday, her making that super nice and special cake with the hazelnut whipped cream and chocolate mousse between the layers. But, you mess with her cat, her beloved ‘gatto nero’, and not only will you never eat another Sunday dinner here, meaning no stuffed shells, no spinach and eggplant lasagna, no chicken cacciatore, no zabaglione, none of her cannoli with the big shaved curls of chocolate. But, she’ll put the eye on you, the ‘malocchio,’” I said.
"Because I like it! Italian is super cool. And, I do it to annoy you!"
"Well, well, well, so what? I ain’t afraid of Nonnie’s nasty old evil eye! Besides, she wouldn’t do that to her grandson.”
Carol was starting to polish her fingernails. She drawled, “She sure would and you know it. Nonnie’s from way back in the mountains, where lots of things haven't changed much for hundreds and hundreds of years.”
“You think I don’t know where she’s from?,” Fabrizio spat out. Carol didn't answer, just smiled, kittenish. I'll never understand my sister. I think she really liked Fabrizio, but she positively loved baiting him. Maybe, she was frustrated because I think she could have seriously gone for Fabrizio. Ha, too bad, it's illegal to marry your first cousin in Ohio.
“Sometimes I think you forget,” I said, leaning forward a little. “Nonnie just looks like a sweet little old lady. Don’t you be fooled. She’s a good Catholic, but she’s also of the Old Ways. She wears a cimaruta charm around her neck along with her cross.”
“A cimaruta?” Fabrizio had droopy, sleepy eyelids like an old hound. Where he got those in our background, who knows? Nobody else in the family had them.
“Yeah, a cimaruta, cima di ruta, a sprig of rue, the herb rue, a silver charm made too of images of a rose, a hand holding a sword, a flaming heart, a fish, a crescent moon, a snake, an owl, a pretty little flower, a dolphin, a rooster and a key, sometimes a bee, an acorn, a sheaf of wheat, or a horseshoe,” I said.
“You wear a horn charm around your neck. Do you even know what that really is?”
Fabrizio sneered at me. “Sure I do. It’s a sign of fucking strong Italian masculinity!”
"Idiot,” I said, “it’s a cornicello. It looks like a chili pepper, but it’s really to ward off the evil eye, like what Nonnie’s cimaruta does."
(Not like anybody would ever dare to try to put the evil eye on Rosealba Vendemmia. Ha. She was more likely to put the evil eye on them! A lot of people were afraid of Nonnie. Nonnie had slanted golden eyes, truly gold, like a hawk's eyes. She could cut those eyes at you... But, to me, she was always sweet, of course.) "She just likes to wear her cimaruta because it’s so strega.”
"Strega, strega?," Fabrizio said.
I laughed. “Yeah, strega. Stregas are bitching strong in the back country of Italy, and in little towns too."
"Stregas?." Fabrizio repeated.
"Yeah, witches, you fool."
"I ain't afraid of no witches, crazy ass Halloween shit."
"You really are a total numbskull," I said.
"Nonnie never said she was a witch," Fabrizio joshed; he chuckled a little. (Carol was being unusually quiet, but she was rolling her eyes that this conversation.)
“Shut up, Maria, just shut up, shut the fuck up!,” Fabrizio said to me.
Enrico jumped down from the cabinets with a loud thud to the floor. He growled, made a casual swipe at Fabrizio’s skinny ankles as he left the room. I heard Enrico’s wicked long claws catch for a moment in Fabrizio’s black nylon sock.
“I hate you! I hate you, you God damned furry little shit!,” he screamed after him.
Enrico hissed long and loud, opening his mouth to show his razor-sharp fangs. He put his fluffy tail up in the air in the shape of a question mark, his little white butt hole showing as he walked away, as if it was mocking Fabrizio. Enrico was a dignified boy who didn’t tolerate no crap.
"Yeah, that cat's a monster," Fabrizio said. "Speaking of monsters, where's the family werewolf Zanne?" "He's in the backyard," I said, and I saw Fabrizo breathe a sigh of relief. Our backyard was fenced, a galvanized five foot tall fence that Zanne could have jumped easily. He had no reason to because Zanne loved Nonnie dearly and wanted to be with her, always and ever. He tolerated me, Carol and Ma. Zanne hated Fabrizio, lifted his lips and rumbled a deep growl whenever he saw him. In fact, all animals really hated Fabrizio. Zanne was my Uncle Carmine's dog, a grizzled black German Shepherd, the biggest German Shepherd I've ever seen. He must have weighed close to one hundred and fifty pounds. He was staying with us, but not too much longer since Uncle Carmine's son, my cousin Caesare, was going to pick him up after he got out of the correctional institute next month. Uncle Carmine was also put away, but in Attica State Prison, sent up with Boss Silvio Vitale and others of his dumb-dumb minions, due for parole, maybe, but, likely not, in seven years. (Carmine was daring, but not talented, and, therefore, not a big shot. Talent is quickly recognized in the Business and dense Carmine just didn't have it. Carmine was a flunky. Ha, while his boss Silvio Vitale had a "suite" in Attica, where he actually had an inmate who was a former chef fix him delicious Italian meals, Carmine ate prison fare, which was barely edible. It was slop made of milk that was only hours away from being spoiled, mixed with bran and gristle-mystery meat, for instance. Silvio Vitale had a "suite" because he knew everybody. John Scalish knew even more everybodys than Silvio Vitale, naturally. John Scalish knew many, many more EVERYBODYS.) Yeah, well, well, even, even if dummy Carmine was eventually paroled, he wouldn't ever be going back to Staten Island to live with his wife Cici. They were legally separated. Cici Niccarelli had fallen hard for handsome, charming Carmine Cannizarro and married him before she truly knew him. She was a good Catholic Jersey girl, a former Las Vegas showgirl, a busty red haired beauty, but with plenty of brains too, and was now working out of her house as an accountant with Caesare living with her since he was, at seventeen, still a minor. Caesare's older sister, naturally, my cousin also, Mary Lou, had left the house two years before and was now working as a typist for Tovalski's Plumbing. Well, about Cici, she was thought to have some side hustles with which ahe also supported herself, in style. She was used to having fine things: a gorgeous chincilla fur coat, fancy Dior shoes, which many called "hooker heels," elegant and classic Chanel suits and perfumes, or "parfums," from Paris. But, Cici told Caesare firmly that he was "outta here" on his eigteenth birthday. Cici dearly loved Zanne and wanted him. She didn't love Caesare and didn't want him, but she did the decent Christian thing and offered him a home till he was an adult. The door opened and Ma and Nonnie came bustling in, almost cluckling, like a cute pair of hens, full of after-church joy. Ma was big, plump, but not really fat, just big. Nonnie was small and bird-like, but I knew she’d worked in the fields in the old country, pulling a plow, as if she was a horse or an ox. I don’t know how old she was and nobody in the family, except Ma, would ever have the colossal nerve to ask such a thing of her. But, she was, maybe, over ninety.
Nonnie was a quiet woman and, in spite of being in the United States for years and years, hardly spoke any English. She just refused to, shut herself off from it, as if it was a low language. Of course, she understood it and could speak it well enough when she really wanted to which was almost never, never, ever, basically.
Nonnie’s back was bent, but she hadn’t yielded, her whole life, not to anybody, not anywhere, and that included Nonno Guido, dead for fifteen years. Ma told me Nonno used to smack Nonnie around plenty when they both were young and Nonnie tolerated it, but then Nonno settled down and became a much better husband.
The only color in Nonnie's wardrobe was plain dull black, black wool, black cotton, or ancient black silk or taffeta with some simple black trim, like black braid or very thin handmade black lace for dress up, like wedding receptions, or for funerals. She was always clucking her tongue about me and Carol. She’d whisper, “Ce vergogna. Dovresti andare in chiesa per il modo in cui tu e tua sorella guardate!”
She’d shake her head as we passed telling us we were so shameful, that we should go to church in penance for what we wore, our suggestive clothes. We wore big men's white shirts half unbuttoned from the bottom up and then tied around our midriffs, right under our bras, and new jeans wrung out and put on wet, without panties, so they'd form to us and be skin-tight. But now, Nonnie smiled her sweet gap-toothed smile, her old eyes lighting up, and she nodded, starting to make a delicious dinner with Ma.
As she passed my chair she touched my cheek with her cool, thin, gnarled fingers. She asked me how I was doing. “Come stai oggi, mia cara nipotina?” I leaned into her hand. I was proud to be her favorite grandchild. Of course, she had great grandchildren too.
“Meravigliosa, cara Nonnie,” I said. (I’m great, dear Granny.)
Nonnie got her immaculate crisp white apron from it’s hook, tying it around her slender waist. She began to hum a folksong from her native Campania. Fabrizio continued eating his bread and sauce. Carol painted her fingernails bright red with Revlon's "Fire And Ice".
“Benedetta domenica, Fabrizio. Come sta tua mamma, mia cara figlia Gianna?,” Nonnie asked. (Blessed Sunday, Fabrizio. How’s your mama, my dear daughter Gianna?)
“Yeah, Nonnie,” Fabrizio replied, not looking at her. He closed his eyes and licked his fingers of the last bit of Ma’s wonderful sauce, not answering her question.
Nonnie frowned. Fabrizio’s Italian was practically nonexistent and he was being really, really rude. Fabrizio always said he wanted to be modern and American. He considered Nonnie to be a revolting old woman, an ancient, impossible square; he’d told me often enough. He never got it through his lunkhead that you could be American and Italian both at the same time, an Italian-American.
“Stupido idiota, ingrato, putrido disonore, pomodoro marcio dalla nostra buona vite!... Chi avrebbe mai creduto che avesse sangue italiano e fosse della nostra famiglia?” Nonnie had turned her back and was mumbling that no one would ever believe that ungrateful, disgraceful, idiotic Fabrizio had Italian blood and was of our family.
Ma smiled and patted Nonnie’s shoulder. “Lo so, Mamma, lo so.” (I know, Mamma, I know.) Ma didn't much like Fabrizio either. But, if he stayed long enough today she'd sure set another plate at the dinner table for him. Family was family.
"Si, Anna," Nonnie replied, and began making a spinach, olive, onion, tomato and sweet red pepper salad with anchovies. There would be fresh avocado and olive oil dressing too, I figured.
Fabrizio saw her with the anchovies and snickered, "None of those nasty salty little fishies, now, Nonnie!" He leaned far back in the chair again, until it was teetering on two legs. It would serve him right if the legs broke and he fell.
"Porcellino culo viscido," Nonnie grumbled. (Piglet's slimey asshole.)
I thought I saw the corners of her mouth go up the tiniest bit. I think she liked it that Fabrizio probably would have no idea what she'd just said, if he was even paying attention. She picked up a chunk of Romano and looked like she was going to throw it at his head, but that would have been a waste of good hard cheese if it hit his greasy hair. Nonnie shrugged, put the cheese down on the cutting board.
Then, she suddenly staggered. I jumped up quickly to support her, my arm around her waist. I looked into her eyes, concerned. "NONNIE!"
She waved me away, shaking her head. "Non sono io. È un omicidio, e presto. Vengono sempre in tre. Solo poche strade più in là, qui vicino. " ("It's not me. It's a murder, and soon. They always come in threes. Only a few streets away, near here.') Her eyes looked sad and creepily distant. But, she straightened her old backbone, sighed, went back to her cooking.
My stomach did a sickening flop. Dammit. Nonnie's visions were really scary and they were always true. I was still standing beside her. No use asking more. I knew that was all she'd talk about the vision. Carol looked alarmed.
"Nonnie's alright," I told her.
Carol's Italian wasn't as good as mine. "What's this about? Something bad's going to happen, soon?"
"Yeah, yeah, but nothing to concern our family. It will be okay, even so." I totally hoped it would be.
"Good, good," Carol said, "I was a little bit worried there."
I nodded. Fabrizio, the oaf, was oblivious to all this, naturally. He was humming Elvis' "Jailhouse Rock". I was surprised Fabrizio didn't walk dragging his knuckles.
--- Copyright by Antoinette Beard/Sorelle Sucere 2021.
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