American Ace (2 page)

W
e've practiced entering the interstate,

changing lanes, speeding up and slowing down,

the turn signal, left turn against traffic.

I always feel like I'm driving around

two thousand pounds' worth of potential death.

Dad says he's glad to know I feel that way:

He says it shows I'm wise beyond my years.

We've been trying to drive an hour a week.

Depends on our responsibilities.

It's worked itself into a nice routine:

We listen to the radio, and talk

about whatever thoughts enter our minds.

It's funny to think about identity,

Dad said.
Now I wonder how much of us

we inherit, and how much we create.

I see so much of your mother in you,

so much of Carlo's grandfather in him.

I used to love hearing I was like my dad.

Now I see that was just learned behavior.

I feel sort of like an adopted child

must feel, when he finds out he's adopted:

like he doesn't know anymore whose child

he is, like he doesn't know who he is.

And it's all because of the letter Nonna left.

T
he Bianchinis closed the restaurant

on the anniversary of Nonna Lucia's death.

They held an over-the-top Bianchini feast

that evening. White tablecloths and everything.

Digital photos projected on a screen:

Lucia with two sons, then three, then four,

her face orbited by children's faces,

her beatific grief when Genaro died.

Uncles and aunts toasted the memory

of the woman who made them who they are.

I sat at the table of first cousins,

knowing Dad was going to break the bubble.

He clinked his glass during the spumoni.

Expecting a speech, everyone fell still.

He cleared his throat and said,
Mama left me

a ring, a pilot's wings, and a letter

saying Genaro wasn't my father.

My dad wasn't my dad. My family

is only half mine. You're my half siblings.

My dad was an American, named Ace,

a man she loved with all her heart, who died.

Her letter didn't tell me his last name.

But my own last name is a deception.

I'm half Italian. I'm your half brother.

I
f someone had dropped the proverbial pin,

it would have sounded like a Chinese gong.

The Bianchinis rebooted Mama,

the girl before them, as a girl in love.

You could almost hear the noises their minds made.

They rebooted their papa, Genaro,

who worked long hours in the factory,

gray and stooped, with a beautiful young wife

and five children in whom he found much joy.

Then Aunt Kitty confessed she was a little shocked,

. . .
but I'm glad to know Mama had a Grand Romance!

Tony, nothing makes you less my brother!

There were a lot of hugs among them.

And confusion at the children's tables.

One cousin asked,
Half of Uncle Tony

is our uncle? So what about the rest?

Then Uncle Father Joe said,
In God's eyes

all humankind is one big family.

Let us be grateful for the love we share.

Tony, I wouldn't be me without you:

You're as much Bianchini as I am!

There were a lot more hugs. There were wiped tears.

I wiped a few. Some were because I knew

one-fourth of ME was now an enigma.

M
om patted Dad's hand on the steering wheel.

See? I told you they'd all feel as I do.

It's so romantic to be a love child!

I wish we knew who this American was.

Dad felt his parents had made him live a lie,

that their kept secret was a betrayal.

To think,
he said,
whenever they looked at me,

what they saw was my secret history.

He wouldn't share the letter, but he said

Nonna wrote he was the fruit of great love,

that Genaro's love had saved them both from shame,

and that his fathers would be proud of him.

In July, Italy won the World Cup.

Mama Lucia's Home Cooking was wild

with Asti Spumante, blaring music,

il Tricolore,
men shouting
Viva!

A conga line danced out on the sidewalk.

Some dancers were part of my family,

some were Italian people we all knew,

some were neighbors. All of them were happy.

The next day I drove Dad on country roads,

the interstate, and the lot at the mall.

After lunch he reached into his pocket

and put a gold class ring on the place mat.

I
t's too small for me. Can you get it on?

It fit the pinkie finger of my left hand

like it was made for me. I pretended

I couldn't get it off, then snarled and said,

You're mine at last, my Precious!
and Dad smiled.

It's yours, then, Connor. Your grandfather's ring.

Maybe it's a clue to the mystery

of our inherited identity.

I said,
Mortal, beware of the power

of heirlooms from the vampires' royal line!

I gave Dad a bloodthirsty, fangy grin.

Then I told him I'd use its power for good.

Hard to describe how the ring grew on me.

I looked at it hundreds of times a day,

admiring its rectangular logo

and the Latin phrase etched into the gold.

After some days, it belonged to my hand

as inevitably as my knuckles and nails.

It was PART of me. I understood what Ace

was saying when he gave Nonna this ring,

how much he loved the beautiful Italian girl

he probably talked to like “Michelle, ma belle,”

that McCartney/Lennon song on
Rubber Soul.

My Nonna. She loved him for sixty-five years.

I
work at Mama Lucia's once in a while.

It makes people happy, and gives me some cash.

There's always a job to do in a restaurant:

for those who can't cook, there are always plates to wash.

So, I was there when three high-schoolish girls

took a booth at the height of the lunch hour,

and ordered three side salads and iced tea.

I poured their waters and one of the blondes

asked if she could get gluten-free croutons.

I tried to guess what her background could be:

Scotch Irish? Scandinavian? Polish?

The third girl was brunette, really pretty.

Italian, maybe, or Greek. Olive skinned.

The blondes were cute, too, in a different way.

I couldn't wait for my driver's license!

I turned away, but heard giggling whispers:

He's hot! Tall, dark, and handsome: Just my type!

I brought their food and lingered, ignoring

the disapproval of harder workers.

As I topped off their water glasses again,

the other blonde, with Atlantic blue eyes,

admired my pinkie ring.
Is it real gold?

I smiled, nodded. As I turned away

I heard a whisper:
Italians love their bling!

T
he next time I could get behind the wheel

the trees in the city were past blooming

and grown-up birds were parenting their young.

Dad guided me onto the interstate.

Okay,
he said.
You drive; I'll navigate.

I felt the engine's power, the road's rhythm,

the beckoning of the endless distance,

the beginnings promised somewhere out there

as time raced to the past under our tires.

The van was full of comfortable silence.

Once in a while the glint on my finger

reminded me to wonder who I was.

One-quarter of me was American:

Did that take me back to the
Mayflower
?

The ancestors I knew were innocent

of the white guilt of Indian slayers

and slave owners. Did this new grandfather

connect me differently to history?

I glanced at Dad. It must be worse for him,

to go from being 100 percent

to being half-American X-factor.

I signaled and moved to the passing lane

in front of a Harley I hadn't seen.

The biker swerved, and gave me the finger.

H
e was going at least eighty,
Dad said.

With no helmet! Wherethehell are the cops

when you want them? He had a lot of nerve!

I was too shaken up to say a word.

Some minutes passed in silence. Then Dad said,

Let's get off here. I need to stretch my legs.

We pulled up in a farm stand parking lot

that announced fresh fruit pies and vegetables.

Another family was debating

whether they wanted a peach or an apple pie.

The saleswoman (was she the farmer's wife?)

was brown. A blue hijab covered her hair.

T
he apple pies are all homemade,
she said,

with twinkling dark-lashed eyes.
I made them all,

and I guarantee all are delicious!

A boy (seven, I guessed, and freckled) asked,

Do they have apple pies where you come from?

She smiled.
In Harrisburg? They certainly do!

And, even better, they have baklava!

It sells out faster than the apple pies.

Next time you stop, I'll give you a free taste.

You'll love it!
They bought peach, and drove away.

We bought apple. Dad promised we'd come back

to buy baklava for the restaurant.

I
t was Mom and Dad's regular Date Night:

Theresa and I ordered a pizza

and set up the schedule for the remote.

She had it first, but she wanted to talk.

Mr. Wisniewski, my science teacher,

says that if you're adopted, you should know

your birth parents' medical histories.

There are all kinds of problems you can have

if there's something wrong with your chromosomes.

What if our new grandfather had bad genes

and passed us some inherited disease?

Are you scared of his unknown DNA?

I told her I'd inherited a strong

craving to drink the warm blood of infants,

but since there were no infants in the house,

I'd settle for the blood of a twelve-year-old.

I lunged. She fought back with sofa pillows,

giggling her head off. When we settled down

I told her not to worry: Nonna's genes,

combined with all the Ryan and Malone

chromosomes, should provide a strong defense

against everything but stupidity.

She said,
I hope! But wouldn't you want to know

if you're going to be totally bald?

W
e didn't drive as much when school started:

It was hard to synchronize our schedules.

But we made weekly Saturday morning drives

through neighborhoods, on interstates, in malls,

behind slow tractors pulling loads of hay

on little narrow winding country roads . . .

sometimes not talking, just bobbing our heads.

Once, driving aimlessly in the city,

I turned onto an empty dead-end street

of keep-out buildings with boarded windows.

I was performing a three-point U-turn

when three black dudes my age turned the corner.

Two were Will Smith–ish brown, about my height;

the third taller, more Derek Jeter–ish.

Under one arm he held a basketball.

Dad sat up straighter, and took a deep breath.

I put the car into reverse again,

again in drive, reverse again, then drive.

My U-turn added three or four more points.

It was embarrassing. And the black dudes

were laughing. But no one gave the stink eye.

Dad raised his hand as I stepped on the gas.

At the corner, I looked in the mirror.

They were executing a passing drill.