Brooklyn Story (5 page)

“You missed me a few days ago, Father,” I said. “I'll be back soon.”

“Good,” Father Rinaldi said, and he slipped a raffle ticket into my palm. “Now go have some more fun.”

“We will,” Janice said. She took my hand and we melted into the crowd again.

“I guess Tony's not here yet,” Janice said when we reached the corner.

“Maybe you missed him in this wall-to-wall crowd, Janice,” I said.

“Not a chance,” she said. “Believe me.” She took my hand and led me across the street to a coin-toss game booth that was manned by her mother's best friend, Rose Gallo. A tossed nickel, landing and resting in the center of a glass ashtray, would win a stuffed animal like a spotted giraffe, a huge black bear, a lion with a fuzzy mane, or a gangly legged zebra with a yellow bow tied around its neck that hung high up on the side wall. The coin toss was popular and the guys lined up to nab a prize and be a big shot for their girls. We stood behind the boys as they played, Janice in a red halter top and khaki chinos and me in tapered lime green pants and an off-white tank top that covered my modest breasts and tiny waist. I grabbed my hair in my hands and held it off my neck to cool my skin in the heat of a muggy late-summer evening where there wasn't a breeze to be had.

“Ya don' have to show off, Sam, to attract these guys,” Janice teased. “They'll be all over ya anyways.” Janice knew that I took great pride in the mane that framed my brown, almond-shaped eyes and kewpie-doll lips and cascaded down my slim body almost to my hips. I had been told more than once that my hair was just like Cher's, which had made me proud. After all, who had better hair than Cher? I wondered. As if the DJ had heard my thoughts, her voice boomed from the PA system,

Half-breed, that's all I ever heard
Half-breed, how I learned to hate the word

Janice wrapped her arm around my waist as we sang along with Cher with a few others who were doing likewise. As the words I knew so well flowed from my mouth, I thought about how music was a large and constant part of Bensonhurst life for both young and old. Sinatra and Bennett were mainstays for our parents' generation and we didn't look down upon their style as we embraced contemporary artists such as Donna Summer and the Bee Gees. We loved to dance in time with the upbeat tempo of a new sound and we knew every word to every popular song.

Janice let go of my waist when the song ended and stood with her shoulders back and her head high amid the celebratory crowd. She knew how to carry herself in any situation and I just loved her inherent classiness. Janice never exhibited the awkwardness that most young women did; instead, she presented herself with the confidence that I shared but kept to myself for the most part.

Janice's looks matched her sophistication. Her hair was the same color as mine but shorter. Her round, brown eyes looked intelligent, as if she actually stopped to think before she gave an opinion—a rare quality in the passionate, outspoken, and aggressive Brooklyn neighborhood where Janice and I had been born and raised. I knew that she judged herself as too overweight, but I liked my best friend's developed body, with her mature breasts and rounded butt, that got every guy's attention when we walked the streets of Bensonhurst.

Janice had gone steady with Richie Sparto when she was a junior in high school and that continued after she had graduated in June. I had dated a few boys but hadn't gone steady with anyone yet. Even though I had other interests like reading and writing, when groups of girls got together every
now and then, it was all about boys as we spent afternoons or evenings giving ourselves facials, dyeing and teasing our hair, and doing one another's nails. Girls compared boyfriends and talked about other guys—which ones were exciting, which ones were dangerous, who was a nerd, who had brains, who was cheating on whom, and who was the most likely to make a good husband. I always enjoyed those free and easy hours and I was sure all the girls did, especially those like me who had questionable relationship role models and a bickering home. Life could be hard in Bensonhurst, particularly for families that scratched to make the rent each month. I lost myself during those primping sessions and dreamed of luxury and sweet times with the “perfect” man.

The Bonti family's two-bedroom apartment, within walking distance from Janice's, was less than modest. Mom had a small bedroom to herself while Grandma and I shared another. There was one bathroom that had balky plumbing, a tiny living room, and a narrow kitchen. It was there that we huddled around a horrible black Formica dinner table with tubular metal legs to eat and kibbitz next to the stove, on which a pot of tomato sauce and a pot of chicken soup often sat side by side. Over time, cooking aromas infused the kitchen's walls, and although broken furniture was taped and glued rather than replaced, it was home and there was love there. Despite my disadvantages, I did have a place to call home.

Janice tugged at her tight slacks as we walked onto the next block. She may have needed to lose a few pounds, but she looked bigger than normal beside my tiny frame. I mean, I couldn't have weighed more than ninety-five pounds, soaking wet. Janice vowed that by the time I graduated, she would lose enough weight to fit into a slinky white dress for my ceremony. But that was three years off, I thought, so what difference did an extra cannoli make right then?

“Look, there's Dara,” Janice said as she pointed to her
classmate Dara Celentro, a voluptuous blonde (from a bottle, of course, where many otherwise dark-haired Bensonhurst women also found the shade they felt attracted and pleased men) with light brown eyes and high, teased hair, and wearing jeans so tight it was a miracle she could walk. The word on the street was that her pants were down more than they were up, so walking wasn't a priority for her. Known as the biggest slut on the block, Dara was dating “the Son,” who was, in three words, tall, dark, and sexy. Not to mention powerful. Dara wouldn't be taking her pants down for anyone else as long as she was with Vin, and no guy would dare mention he had slept with Dara before Vin hooked up with her. For the previous six months, Dara had fallen under Vin's spell, becoming more and more withdrawn and reclusive because he demanded that. Occasional black-and-blue marks on her arms and chest (she swore she tripped or fell down some steps or walked into a door or got hit by an errant baseball) suggested the method Vin used to keep her in line. Everyone knew Dara was being battered, but nobody interfered because of Vin's dad, Tino Priganti. Mom and Grandma made me promise that I would never go with a guy who did not respect me. They also made me promise I would never, ever date a man who was associated with the mob.

I started toward Dara to say hello but Janice held me back. “Not yet,” she said. “You know how Dara flaunts it and I want you to meet Tony on your own.”

“What's the matter?” I asked as we walked on. “Aren't we hot enough?” We laughed and then stopped at a booth that had a large punch bowl filled with deep pink–colored liquid on its counter. Lyrics to a Rolling Stones song wafted through the streets:

Brown Sugar, how come you taste so good? (A-ha)
Brown Sugar, just like a young girl should

Rick Romano, a friend of Janice's dad, ladled the alcoholic concoction into small paper cups, fifty cents a drink. Janice leaned forward, her cleavage a couple of inches above the wood counter. “How about some for us, Mr. Romano?” she asked with a teasing edge to her voice. “We won't tell.”

“She's fourteen,” Mr. Romano said after glancing at me, and after his eyes had traveled from Janice's chest to her eyes.

“Fifteen,” Janice said. “Goin' on sixteen.”

“Still too young,” Mr. Romano said.

“C'mon,” Janice pleaded, batting her eyes. Mr. Romano looked around and then slipped two half-filled cups to Janice. “I don' want no trouble. Youse be cool 'boudit,” he said.

“Are we ever anything but?” Janice said, and giggled as she handed me a cup. “Bottoms up,” she said, and gulped down most of her drink. Janice laughed as I sipped mine and then she finished the last of her punch. She leaned across the counter toward Mr. Romano and tried to talk him out of one more. I wandered back to the coin-toss booth and watched a neighborhood guy named Angelo as he tried to win a zebra for his timid girl. I thought I'd seen them both around but couldn't quite place where or when. Angelo tossed coin after coin that ricocheted off the ashtrays onto the wood floor of the booth. He cursed each time he lost and then pulled another nickel from his pocket. I finished my punch and considered my appetite while I watched.

What I really had a taste for was a Papa Tucci calzone, the best in town, but I didn't have enough money for one. Come to think of it, steamed clams in broth with drawn butter sounded even better. Papa Tucci made that, too. Someday, I thought, when I was a successful author, my friends and I would dine at Mama Leone's in Manhattan—the second location after the one on Coney Island, the famous amusement area that had seen better days—whenever we felt like it, order whatever we wanted, and I would pick up the tab without having to consider how much it was.

By the time Angelo had dropped a couple of dollars in nickels with no results, he had gotten so agitated that Rose Gallo asked him to leave. “You're drunk, Angelo,” she said. “What would your mother say? She worked hard all her life. Go run a hose over your head and come back when you're sober enough to see straight.”

Angelo stared at her for a moment as his face turned deep red. “What the fuck did you say to me?” he thundered.

His girlfriend grabbed his arm. “C'mon, baby,” she whispered. “Let's just go.”

Angelo shoved her with both hands and sent her stumbling backward to the sidewalk. A man rushed to pick her up. “Look what you did, you asshole,” he said.

Angelo got in the man's face. “Mind your own business,” he gritted. The man let go of the girl and clenched his fists. I had seen this kind of thing many times before in school and in the neighborhood. It always started with something trivial and always ended in bruised egos and bodies.

“Break it up, you two,” a strong voice that came from behind them commanded. A tall, blond, muscular young man appeared, clutched one of their arms with his massive hands, and separated the two would-be combatants. He stood with legs planted in his tight-fitting Adidas jogging outfit, looked from one to the other, and then whispered something that only they could hear. After hesitating, the two men shook hands for a moment without much enthusiasm. “Now go take a walk,” the blond man said to Angelo. Angelo grabbed his girlfriend and took off down the block muttering to himself.

I felt as though my breath had been taken from me the moment I saw that dashing young man. It was out of a movie. He had a look, a way, an aura. He was Steve McQueen, only live and in person. I stared in awe at this blond hero who had just broken up a confrontation with a simple whisper. What had he said to these men, I wondered, and who was he, anyway?

Janice hurried to my side and squeezed my elbow. “See what I mean?” she cooed with excitement. “Didn't I tell ya? Was I lyin' about this guy, or what?”

“That's Tony
Kroon
?” I asked.

“Kroon,” Janice said. “Better not get his name wrong. That'll really piss him off. I mean it.”

“I won't,” I said quietly. Ever, I added to myself as I looked Tony Kroon over. He was well built and slim with soft, blond hair—no grease—and a pair of deep blue eyes that could stop traffic. Or at least a street fight or two. His arms were long and muscled, his hands were wide with thick fingers, and his waist was thin. Tony Kroon would definitely be my choice for the Hunk of the Year award.

“What's with the blond hair?” I whispered to Janice.

“I already told ya. His Dad is Dutch. His mom is Italian. He came out pretty good, don'tya think? Imagine running your fingers through that hair!”

“Mm-hmm,” I agreed, mesmerized by this uncommonly good-looking man with the unwavering self-confidence. As if this were all a dream, Hot Chocolate sang out on the PA system,

I believe in miracles,
Where you from, you sexy thing?

No one was supposed to be that handsome, I thought. And he was a half-breed like I was, I thought, and wondered how that got in his way and made his life chaotic at times, like it did mine. He'd already had to move to a new neighborhood because of his nationality, I remembered.

My own household had been hopelessly divided since my Jewish mother had converted to Catholicism to rebel against my grandmother, as she had by taking an Italian-Catholic husband and giving me a Christian name. The problem was, although my father was never religious and didn't live with us,
and Mom wasn't observant, either, my Christian upbringing had made Grandma Ruth clutch her Star of David around her neck and pray in Hebrew—for the rest of her life. My mother wore the crucifix. Sometimes I would wear both to keep the peace, along with my Blessed Mother.

The battle was on each and every day.

Maybe Janice was right, I thought. Maybe Tony and I
were
meant for each other. I was going to find out about that real soon, as the blond young man with the glowing aura swaggered toward where Janice and I were standing.

“Howya doin'?” Tony asked Janice after eying me up and down.

“Good, Tone. Real good.” Janice was almost stuttering. “We saw what ya did. Pretty impressive.”

“Ah, it was nuttin'.”

“But ya was so cool, Tony,” Janice said. She couldn't stop fawning over him, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. “Right, Sam?” Janice asked. I just nodded.

Tony gave the expression “drop-dead gorgeous” a whole new meaning. I really could understand how a girl could forget herself, even a girl who was going steady with a guy she said she loved. Tony looked at me with probing eyes as Janice made the introductions. “Tony, this is my best friend, Samantha Bonti. Sam, Tony Kroon.”