Penny from Heaven (8 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

No Poking

It’s late, nearly midnight, but I can hear the soft staticky sound of the radio.

I step into my slippers and walk down the hallway to the parlor.

Pop-pop is sitting in his chair next to the radio, ear as close to it as possible, listening intently. Our radio’s big, a Philco. Pop-pop’s nodding like someone’s talking to him, except no one’s there. I stand in the doorway for a moment, watching. He doesn’t notice me.

“Talking to Mickey, Pop-pop?” I ask.

He looks up, startled.

“Are you talking to Mickey?” I ask again, more loudly.

“What else would I be doing?” he barks back, and then rubs his bald head tiredly.

My grandfather thinks that his nephew, Mickey, who was killed in Germany during World War II, sometimes talks to him through the radio static. Pop-pop was heartbroken when Mickey died; he always says that Mickey was like the son he never had. There’s a picture of Mickey in the upstairs hallway wearing his pilot’s uniform, looking all dashing.

Pop-pop started hearing Mickey a few years ago, and at first he was real excited about it, until he told Me-me.

“You keep talking like that and they’ll be sending you to the funny farm,” she told him.

But sometimes he’ll sneak down late at night when everyone’s asleep. He maneuvers the dial back and forth, over static and music and announcers and preachers. The voices are kind of like ghosts, the way they come out of nowhere.

There’s a hiss and Pop-pop’s eyes light up.

“See?” he says excitedly. “There he is!”

All I can hear is static.

“What do you and Mickey talk about?” I ask.

“The war, of course,” he says, and frowns at me. “If it weren’t for all of them hooligans, he’d be alive right now. He’d be sitting right here eating a piece of your grandmother’s apple pie.”

Not if he was lucky, he wouldn’t. Me-me’s pie is mushy and the crust is hard as a rock.

A warbling sound comes over the radio.

“What’s that you say, Mickey?” Pop-pop asks loudly.

I kiss him on the head and say, “I’m going back to bed.”

Me-me is standing at the top of the stairs in her bathrobe.

“He listening to that box again?” she asks.

I nod.

She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand why he can’t get over that boy.”

The next morning when I get to the store, there’s a big commotion.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Aunt Concetta died,” Frankie says with a grin.

I groan. I’m not groaning because Aunt Concetta’s dead. Truth is, I didn’t even know her very well. She’s part of Nonny’s circle of friends, these old Italian women who all wear black and play cards. She’s not a real aunt, and I think she was over ninety, anyway. I groan because it means there’s going to be a funeral. And a wake. And a mass.

Italians do death big. Big wakes. Big funerals. Big parties after, with lots of food. Personally, I’d rather have the party when I’m alive. What’s the point in someone making you a fancy meal after you’re dead? It’s not like you can eat it.

But Frankie’s excited.

“After this, I’ll have fourteen cards!” he says.

What he’s talking about is the little prayer cards you get at the funeral home when someone dies. Frankie collects them just like baseball cards. He calls them Dead Trading Cards. They’re kind of like real trading cards. See, they a have a picture on one side, usually of the Virgin Mary or Jesus or one of the saints, and on the other side they have the statistics—the name of the person who died, birth and death dates, and a little prayer. Frankie’s been collecting them forever, and sometimes he even trades them with other kids. I don’t know about Frankie sometimes.

The evening of the wake, Me-me helps me get dressed.

“Are they expecting a lot of people?” Me-me asks as she irons what I call my funeral dress. It’s black cotton with a white Peter Pan collar. It’s my summer funeral dress. I have a winter funeral dress too, which I got from Uncle Nunzio. Black wool with white piping.

“Probably,” I say. Usually everybody who ever met the dead person once shows up at the funerals for my Italian relatives.

“There,” she says. “That should do nicely.”

I pull the dress over my head and tug it down. It feels a little tight in the chest.

“Me-me,” I say, “look.”

“You’re growing up,” Me-me says. “Take it off and I’ll let out a few stitches.”

A few snips and another ironing and she hands it back to me. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. It doesn’t look quite right.

“Last season for this dress,” Me-me says with a critical eye.

The doorbell rings. I’m expecting Uncle Angelo, but when I open the door I see Cousin Benny standing there, tugging at his tie. I look over his shoulder and see Frankie sitting in the backseat of the car.

“What’s going on? Why are you driving?”

“The baby’s sick, so Aunt Teresa can’t come.”

“What about Uncle Angelo?”

“He’s sick too,” Benny says, but his mouth twitches, which means that Uncle Angelo is probably drunk again. Uncle Angelo gets “sick” a lot.

“Okay,” I say, and turn to look at Me-me, who’s watching me from the hall. “See you later, Me-me.”

“Here,” she says, handing me a white handkerchief. “A young lady should always carry one.”

I sit in the front seat and look back. Frankie’s wearing a suit, too tight, one of Benny’s hand-me-downs from the looks of it. He’s got a contented smile on his face.

“You shouldn’t look so happy,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re going to a wake,” I tell him.

Sometimes I wonder about my father’s funeral. Did a lot of people show up? Did he look real handsome in the casket? Did they play all those sad hymns at the church? I would’ve liked to have heard Bing Crosby singing “Only Forever.”

“Did you go to my father’s funeral?” I ask Benny.

Benny looks over at me. He’s real cute. Kind of a cuter version of Frankie, and less of a troublemaker.

“Yeah. But I was just a kid,” he says.

“What was it like?” I ask.

He grimaces. “It was terrible. Worst funeral I ever been to. Nonny tried to throw herself in the casket, and your mother, your mother . . .” His voice trails off. “Everyone was real torn up. I remember thinking, ‘I never knew grown-ups could cry so much.’ It was just terrible.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“Didn’t he have cancer?” Benny asks.

“I heard he had pneumonia,” I said.

“I heard an anvil fell on him,” Frankie says.

“Shut up, Frankie,” Benny and I both say.

The Riggio Funeral Home is where all the wakes for the family are held. It’s on the same street that Ann Marie Giaquinto lives, and Benny slows the car as we pass her house.

The funeral director, Mr. Riggio, is standing at the door greeting people.

“Hi, Mr. Riggio,” I say. This is the third time we’ve had a funeral this year. The other two were in the spring. A lot of old people die in the spring, at least in my family. I don’t think I’ll ever like Easter.

“Penny,” he says warmly. “You’re looking lovely, sweetheart.”

“Hiya, Mr. Riggio,” Frankie says.

“Frankie,” he says shortly, and frowns. “Everyone’s in the first room, if you want to go pay your respects.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say.

People are lined up out into the hallway. There are rows of chairs and an aisle leading to the front of the room, where an open casket is displayed. There are big fancy bouquets of flowers all around it. Funeral flowers are the worst, especially lilies. They always give me a headache. I don’t know why they have to use the sweetest-smelling flowers to put around a dead person. Frankie says it’s because dead people don’t smell too good, and it helps cover up the scent.

We go inside, and Frankie grabs a bunch of the Aunt Concetta Dead Trading Cards and pockets them like they’re gold. When we finally get up to the coffin, I make myself take a peek, even though I hate looking at dead bodies.

“Not bad,” Frankie says.

He means it as a compliment. Aunt Concetta looks better than she did when she was alive. In fact, she looks like she’s going to sit up and start talking. They’ve put some rouge on her and a bright-red lipstick. She was a big lady, and her cheeks are smooth because of all the fat; there’s hardly a wrinkle. There’s a rosary in her hands.

We kneel in front of the coffin and pretend to pray.

“You gotta kiss her,” he whispers.

“I’m not kissing her,” I whisper back. “You kiss her.”

“What if she moves?”

“She’s dead, Frankie.”

“How do you know for sure? What if she’s just sleeping?”

See, this is Frankie’s big theory. They fix up the corpses so good that he swears they’re really alive, not dead at all. He’s always wanting to touch the bodies to see if they’re really dead.

“We’re holding up the line,” I whisper, glancing back at a grumpy-looking old man who’s glaring at us.

Frankie stands and leans over the coffin.

“Frankie, don’t,” I say. “Remember last time?”

But he just goes ahead and pokes Aunt Concetta in the arm.

“Frankie—”

He gasps. “Look, she moved!”

Behind us, the old man clears his throat loudly.

Frankie pokes Aunt Concetta again, harder this time, and the rosary beads shake a little.

Suddenly a strong arm reaches in and grabs Frankie by the scruff of the neck and me by the arm and drags us away. It’s Mr. Riggio, and he’s steaming mad. He hauls us out to the hallway. We’re in for some trouble now!

“What did I tell you last time, Frankie Picarelli?” Mr. Riggio demands. “No poking!”

Frankie squirms in his grasp. “She moved! Honest!”

“You go near another dead body and I’m gonna bury you myself, you got me, sonny boy?” Mr. Riggio says in a hiss.

“Okay! Okay!” Frankie says, pulling away and rubbing his shoulder. “I heard you the first time.”

Mr. Riggio gives Frankie a disgusted look, and me one too, and then stomps off.

“I told you not to,” I say.

“Aw, simmer down. She looked alive!”

I shake my head.

“Listen, you get hit by a car and die, right? Wouldn’t you want me to make sure you were really dead before they buried you?”

“I guess,” I say, looking around. “Where’s Benny?”

“I dunno,” he says.

We wait on chairs for a while, and then the crowd starts to thin out.

Uncle Dominic catches sight of us. “You kids coming back to the house to eat?”

“Benny’s supposed to be driving us,” I say. “I don’t know where he went.”

He nods and says, “I’ll take you. Come on.”

As we drive down the street, Frankie points out the window. “Hey, there’s Benny! And he’s in a brawl!”

Sure enough, Benny is standing outside Ann Marie Giaquinto’s house, and he’s fighting with her husband. Benny’s taken off his suit coat, and his white shirt has blood on it. From his nose, I’m guessing. Looks like Ann Marie’s husband has a pretty good right hook.

“Of all the times,” Uncle Dominic mutters, and pulls over.

Frankie’s leaning out the window and shouting like we’re at a prizefight. “Get ’im, Benny!”

Uncle Dominic’s not a big fella, but he goes right up to the two of them and says in a low voice, “That’s enough of that.”

Ann Marie’s husband rears back, a fist raised like he’s gonna pound Uncle Dominic, but Uncle Dominic just holds his ground. He stares at the fella until he lowers his hand with a curse. Ann Marie is standing at the front door, her face white as she stares at Benny.

“Why’s he breaking it up?” Frankie moans in disbelief. “It was just getting good.”

Uncle Dominic pushes Benny back to our car. The doors open and shut and Uncle Dominic starts the engine. I fish the hankie Me-me gave me out of my handbag and hand it to Benny, who takes it without a word. Guess she’s right about always carrying one after all. Although I don’t think she meant it to be for bloody noses.

“Where’s your car?” Uncle Dominic asks.

“Back at Riggio’s,” Benny spits out.

Everyone’s real quiet for a minute, and then Frankie says, “Hey, Benny, we can come back later with some other fellas and clobber him!”

“What’s the matter with you?” Uncle Dominic asks Frankie.

“He’s no good to her,” Benny says. “He’s no good at all.”

“Nothing you can do about it now,” Uncle Dominic tells him. “What’s done is done.”

“But—” Benny says.

Uncle Dominic shakes his head grimly. “Benny, there’s just some things you can’t change, no matter how much you want to.”

No one says anything else the rest of the ride.

It’s late when I get home. Pop-pop is in the parlor listening to static on the radio. I go in and sit down next to him.

“Me-me in bed?” I ask.

“Went up at eight-thirty. I don’t know how that woman sleeps as much as she does. She’s sleeping her life away, that’s what she’s doing. How was the funeral?”

“A real crowd,” I say.

“Good food?”

I nod. It was.

“Mickey didn’t have a great big funeral. Took too long for his body to get home. We did it real quiet-like. I drank a bottle of whiskey by myself. Mickey loved his whiskey.” Pop-pop squints at me. “You know, you got Mickey’s ears.”

“His ears, huh?”

“He had real nice ears. Didn’t stick out.”

“How ’bout that,” I say, and lean against Pop-pop. “Thanks for the ears, Cousin Mickey.”

The static blares out of the radio, and we listen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Better than Angels

The morning of my birthday is like any other. You would think me turning twelve would at least cause an earthquake, but all that happens is Scarlett O’Hara comes in and tinkles on my rug.

“Happy birthday,” Me-me trills when I go into the kitchen. “I’ve made you banana pancakes.”

“Thanks,” I say as she sets a huge plate in front of me. Unfortunately, the bananas she used weren’t ripe and are hard little lumps in the pancakes.

“How are they?” she asks, beaming.

“Real good,” I say through a mouthful of sour pancake.

When she turns her back, I give the rest of the pancake on my plate to Scarlett O’Hara.

My mother comes into the kitchen and says, “Happy birthday, Bunny!”

She pulls a small box out from behind her back and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say. “Can I open it now?”

“Of course,” she says.

When I unwrap it, I see that it’s a jewelry box. I look up at my mother, who’s smiling at me. I remember her story about how she got a pearl necklace on her twelfth birthday.

“Go on,” she urges me.

I carefully open the lid. Set on a bed of velvet is a ruby necklace. I recognize the ruby at once.

“It’s from my engagement ring,” my mother says. “I had it made into a necklace for you.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Do you like it?” she asks eagerly.

“Sure,” I say.

“Here,” she says. “Let’s put it on you.”

I stand still as she clasps the slender gold chain around my neck. We go to the hall and I look in the mirror, my mother standing behind me, hands on my shoulders.

“You look lovely,” she says. “Just lovely.”

But all I can think is that she just gave my father away.

After breakfast Frankie picks me up, and we bicycle over to the store. Uncle Ralphie’s the only one there and it’s quiet for once.

“Where’s Aunt Fulvia?” Frankie asks.

“Took the baby to her mother’s,” Uncle Ralphie says, and turns to me, handing me a wrapped package. “Here you go, Princess. Happy birthday!”

It’s a pecan log roll, same as every year. He gets one special for me from a friend down south.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and gives me a big hug.

“Where’s my candy?” Frankie asks.

“You? All you’re gonna get is a smack on the head at this rate,” Uncle Ralphie says.

“I was just asking,” Frankie says.

Uncle Ralphie hands us a bag of groceries. “Take this over to your grandmother’s first. She wants to make one of her soups. When you get back, I’ll have you stack a couple of boxes that came in this morning.”

“Okay,” I say.

As we bicycle over, I ask Frankie, “What’d you get me for my birthday?”

“Like I’m gonna get you anything,” he says.

“Aw, come on,” I say. “What did you get me?”

He pulls over and parks the bicycle. He tugs at something in his back pocket and pulls out a worn brown paper bag.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

It’s a crime comic,
Crime Mysteries.

“Neat,” I say. “Thanks.”

“It’s a good one,” he says.

“You read it?”

“What?” he says. “It ain’t gonna hurt it.”

When we get to Nonny’s house, it looks like nobody’s home. Uncle Dominic’s car is empty, and there are no cars in the driveway.

“Where is everybody?” I ask.

“Uncle Paulie and Aunt Gina went to Atlantic City again,” he says. “I don’t know where Uncle Dom is. You know him.”

“I guess,” I say. I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I kind of expected the family to do something special for my birthday.

We go around to the kitchen door and I open it.

“Surprise!”

Everyone’s there—Nonny, Uncle Dominic, Uncle Nunzio, Aunt Rosa, Uncle Paulie, Aunt Gina, Uncle Angelo, Aunt Teresa, Aunt Fulvia, Uncle Sally, and all the rest of them!

Frankie slaps my shoulder, laughing. “Got you!”

Uncle Ralphie walks in the door, still wearing his apron. “Fooled you good, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say, and give him a big hug. “You fooled me, all right. Who’s at the store?”

He waves his hand at me. “Closed.”

“You’re only gonna be twelve once,” Uncle Sally says.

Uncle Paulie pats Frankie on the head. “It was your no-good cousin’s idea to have everyone park down the street to throw you off the scent. A regular criminal mastermind, our Frankie.”

“I’m good!” Frankie protests.

“Yeah, good at sneaking around.” Uncle Paulie lowers his voice. “I better not catch you digging in the yard, you got me?”

“Who said anything about digging?” Frankie says, all innocence.

“It’s time for the birthday girl to blow out her candles,” Aunt Gina declares, carrying in a cake.

The cake is huge. It’s got pecan icing, and in white piping it says “Happy Birthday, Princess!”

“It’s a rum cake,” Uncle Nunzio says with a wink. “You’re a big girl now.”

Uncle Dominic whistles, and Queenie V trots over. He starts singing “Happy Birthday to You” and Queenie V gets all excited and starts running in circles, her head in the air, yipping and howling along with Uncle Dominic so that it sounds like she’s the one singing! When the dog’s finished, everyone claps and shouts, “Encore!” and she does it again. Uncle Dominic kneels down and gives her a biscuit.

“Gosh, that was something else,” I say, laughing. “Was that what you’ve been trying to teach her all this time?”

Uncle Dominic nods. “I tried to teach her ‘Pennies from Heaven,’ but she couldn’t get the hang of it.”

I lean over to blow out the candles.

“Make a wish,” Uncle Dominic tells me.

But I don’t know what to wish for. I have everything I want.

After we eat the cake, we go into the dining room, where a huge lunch has been laid out. All my favorites: potato croquettes, rice balls, cold stuffed peppers, eggplant, lasagna, and
pastiera
—the whole works.

“Your grandmother’s been cooking for days,” Uncle Paulie says.

“Tesoro mio,”
Nonny says.
“Ti voglio bene.”

I know these words.

“I love you, too, Nonny,” I say back.

Pretty soon everyone’s eating. I’m allowed a thimbleful of Chianti, and between that and the rum cake, I’m feeling giddy.

Frankie whispers into my ear, “I think Uncle Paulie’s onto us. About the backyard and all.”

They pass presents down the long length of the table. Uncle Nunzio and Aunt Rosa give me a fancy satin skirt, and Uncle Angelo and Aunt Teresa give me a brush and comb set, and Aunt Gina and Uncle Paulie give me a pair of black patent Mary Janes.

“Dancing shoes,” Aunt Gina says, grinning.

Nonny gives me a lace collar she’s made, and Uncle Sally gives me five dollars.

“Buy something you want, sweetheart,” he says.

After all this, Uncle Nunzio wheels in a brand-new shiny bicycle with a big red bow. Frankie gives a low whistle.

“We heard your old bicycle had an accident,” Uncle Nunzio says.

“Gosh,” I say, stunned. “That’s a swell bicycle.”

Baby Enrico toddles over to the bicycle and waves at it and says, “Carry you! Carry you!”

Uncle Nunzio lifts him up on the seat, and Enrico gives a big grin and everyone laughs.

“Better watch that kid,” Frankie says under his breath.

“There’s one more present,” someone says, and I look up to see Uncle Dominic standing in the doorway. Naturally, he hasn’t joined us for lunch.

“There’s more?” I ask.

He passes a small envelope down the table. I’m thinking maybe it’s money, but when I look inside, I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

“What is it, doll?” Aunt Gina asks.

“Tickets,” I say slowly, looking up to meet Uncle Dominic’s eyes, “to the Dodgers game tonight!”

“You’re going to the game?” Frankie bursts out.

I look at Uncle Dominic.

“An old pal of mine at the ball club got ’em for me,” he explains.

“Hey, what about me?” Frankie asks. “Did you get me a ticket?”

“This is the Princess’s day,” Uncle Nunzio tells him.

Frankie glowers. “Yeah, well, I better get tickets on my birthday, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I got you a ticket too, Frankie,” Uncle Dominic says, shaking his head.

Frankie’s face brightens. “You hear that, Penny? We’re going to the game!”

Uncle Dominic looks at me and says, “Whaddya say, Princess?”

Uncle Dominic and Frankie wait in the car while I run into the house.

Mother’s standing on a ladder in the middle of the parlor with a garland of crepe paper. There are balloons everywhere, and the dining room table has presents on it.

“Daddy,” she’s saying, “lift the paper higher.”

“What?” Pop-pop asks. “What?”

My mother sees me standing in the doorway and freezes. “Bunny, what are you doing home so early?”

“Um, is this for me?”

“Of course,” she says with a smile. “Although it was supposed to be a surprise.”

“I’m surprised,” I tell her.

She climbs down off the ladder. “Maybe you should go out and come back in a few hours. Act surprised.”

“Look,” I say, waving the Dodgers tickets. “Tickets to the Dodgers game tonight. Uncle Dominic got ’em for me.”

She goes still. “Did he?”

Outside, Frankie leans on the horn.

“Me-me made a special dinner,” my mother says. “And a cake, too.”

“Please,” I say. “Please.”

My mother glances at Uncle Dominic’s car idling at the curb. Some emotion flits across her face, and she closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them, she seems resigned.

“Very well,” she says. “You can go.”

I fling myself at her and give her a big hug.

“Thank you!” I say. “This is the best present ever!”

She smiles a little sadly. “We’ll eat your cake for breakfast.”

“For breakfast,” I promise.

Even though I’ve lived not far from New York City my whole life, I’ve never actually been. Mother’s always said that the city isn’t safe, which must mean it’s pretty exciting.

Uncle Dominic drives us through the city so we can see the sights. It’s incredible! The buildings are so tall that I have to crane my neck to see the tops of them. We drive by Radio City Music Hall and Grand Central Station and the Empire State Building and finally downtown over the bridge into Brooklyn.

The Dodgers are playing at their home ballpark, Ebbets Field. It takes a while, but we finally find a parking spot and follow the crowd. Everybody’s talking and cheering. There’s such a feeling of excitement in the air, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It seems like the whole city is going to the game.

A couple of boys are talking to a policeman at the gate.

“You gotta let us in,” one of the boys is saying. “Look, our buddy here got crippled by polio. He ain’t got nothing to look forward to but baseball.”

“Yeah,” the crippled boy says, waving a crutch. “I ain’t got nothing but Dem Bums now.”

The policeman studies the crippled boy and shakes his head and says, “Aw, go on in. You’re breaking my heart.”

The kids grin at each other and slide through the gate.

“I’m gonna have to try that sometime,” Frankie says, impressed. “Just need to find a crippled kid.”

We go into the rotunda. I’ve heard a lot about this rotunda. It’s one thing to hear it described but another to see it with your own eyes. The rotunda is marble decorated with baseball stitching. There are gilded ticket windows, and the lights are shaped like baseballs held up by baseball bats.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Wait until you see this,” Uncle Dominic says, and I follow him through a gate.

My eyes go wide in shock as I get my first look at Ebbets Field. The diamond is a brilliant green, and there are signs all along the walls by the scoreboard.

Frankie’s looking at a sign. “What’s that mean? ‘Hit Sign, Win Suit.’”

“That’s Abe Stark, kid,” a fella next to us says. “Any ballplayer who hits that sign gets a free suit. Abe Stark’s got a shop on Pitkin Avenue.”

“Bet I could hit that sign,” Frankie says, sizing it up.

“See that?” Uncle Dominic says, pointing at a big sign for Schaefer beer on top of the right-center-field scoreboard. “The
H
will light up for a hit and the
E
for an error,” he says.

I’m expecting we’ll be sitting way up high, which is where it seems like most of the people are going, but Uncle Dominic just heads straight to the front row along the first-base line, right above the dugout for the Dodgers. We’re so close to the field, we can almost reach out and touch the ballplayers.

Then Uncle Dominic slides down the row and sits down.

“We’re sitting here?” I ask, astonished.

Uncle Dominic nods.

Frankie leans over the front rail. “Hey! That’s Jackie Robinson! He’s right there! Hey, Jackie!” he hollers.

They’re all there—Pee Wee Reese and Duke Snider and Gil Hodges and Roy Campanella!

The organist, Gladys Gooding, bangs out “Follow the Dodgers” and the game gets under way. It feels more like a carnival than a ball game. There’s so much to look at and hear. Men hawking hot dogs and cold beer chant, “Getcha cold one now, heah dey are, cold as da Nawt Pole.” The Brooklyn Dodgers Sym-phony Band plays “Three Blind Mice” when the umpires come out, and a funny woman sitting in the bleachers named Hilda Chester rings her cowbell and shouts, “Eatcha heart out, ya bum!”

We sit in the best seats in the house, and I don’t even have to look up at the sky to know that this is better than anything the angels can offer.