Brooklyn Story (20 page)

“That'll be nice, Mrs. … Pamela,” I said over my shoulder. “Bye.”

Tony and I jumped into the Porsche and I stole a glance at his mother, who remained at the front door. “She loves ya, Sam,” Tony said, and then the car screeched as he pulled away.

“I don't know,” I replied.

“I do. You'll see. She's a great gal.”

The bucket seat embraced me again and it didn't matter to me how his mother felt. It would be nice to get along great with her, but all that really mattered, I thought as Donna Summer belted out a song, was how Tony and I felt about each other.

Put all the other things aside, there's only you and me
Believe in us, we were always meant to be

I looked at Tony as he mastered the powerful machine and I felt again that everything was going to be all right.

Me for you and you for me, 'til eternity

Tony hummed along with the lyrics. “That's not a bad song,” he said as he turned onto Eighteenth Avenue. “We'll hafta find one that's ours.” We'll find everything together, I thought.

Tony cruised through town, waving or nodding to a few people who recognized him at the wheel, and then pulled into the Café Sicily parking lot. Two different men in dark suits standing adjacent to the entrance took note of our arrival before returning to their conversation. “You gonna be long?” I asked as Tony switched the ignition off.

“You're comin' wid me,” he said as he hopped out, and then
he sprang to my side of the Porsche. I swung my door open and he grabbed my hand and helped me out of the car. “I'm takin' ya ta dinner.” Another missed meal at home, I thought, but decided Mom and Grandma would have to get used to a lot of things, as I had to all the time.

The feeling of royalty revisited me as we strolled into the dimly lit restaurant. “Right this way, Tony,” the maítre d' said. He led us past the bar, where a couple more men in dark suits sat on stools, to a table covered in a red-and-white-checkered cloth. The maítre d' pulled a chair out for me and then opened menus in front of us. “The lobster fra diavolo special is excellent tonight,” he said. I felt as if I belonged.

Time always seemed to be suspended whenever I was with Tony, and the next hour passed as if it were only a couple of minutes. We ate and talked and sprinkled our conversation with a few laughs. No one in the busy dining room paid any attention to us; everyone there knew how to mind his own business, I thought. I liked that, and liked the feeling I had in that environment with Tony. Saturday night seemed like a bad dream.

When a noticeable hush came over the room, Tony and I stopped talking and looked around. Our eyes settled, as had everyone's, on the rotund man who had strolled through the swinging kitchen doors. His black suit and tie matched his plastered hair and he smiled at everyone and patted a couple of men on the shoulder as he made his way through the dining room. He seemed to be headed directly for Tony and me.

Tony grabbed his wineglass. “That's Tino Priganti,” he said, and kept his eyes on the boss as he sipped. Tino Priganti's pockmarked face and bulbous nose loomed as he approached.

“I know,” I said as I looked down and shifted in my chair. “I've seen him before.”

The massive man stopped at our table and placed his massive hands on our table. “
Buona sera,
” he said, and turned
toward Tony. “Dis da girl who wuz widya Saturday night?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Priganti,” Tony said. “Samantha.”

“She gotta last name?”

“Bonti.”

“I like that,” Tino said, and slid his meaty fingers under my chin. “Lemme have a look at ya,” he said as he lifted my face gently and locked his eyes on mine.

“She's the best, Mr. Priganti,” Tony said, beaming.

Tino Priganti stood straight, looked at Tony, and slapped a palm on his shoulder. “Ya ain't so bad yaself,” he said, then turned toward me. “Ya boy here is a big earner.” I smiled and Tino locked his eyes on mine. “Ya deserve nuttin' but the best, Tony,” he said. “She looks like a keeper ta me.” Tony beamed as Tino Priganti addressed me again. “Your food okay?” he asked.

“Fantastic, Mr. Priganti,” I said.

A thin smile appeared on Tino's face and he nodded. “I'm glad youse like it,” he said, and squeezed Tony's shoulder while he kept his eyes on me. “I betcha didn' like being sweated in da precinct, huh?” he asked me before breaking into a hearty laugh.

Tony smiled. “She handled it like she wuz one a us, Mr. Priganti,” he said.

“Good,” Tino said, and his face went blank as it remained fixed on mine. “If youse do nuttin' wrong, youse got nuttin' ta worry about. Ain't that right Tony.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Priganti.” Tino leaned over and whispered for a minute into Tony's ear. “Yes, sir, Mr. Priganti,” Tony said again when Tino had finished.

Tino patted Tony's shoulder once more and stood straight. He motioned with his hand to a waiter in a crisp white jacket and addressed him when he came over to the table. “His money's no good tonight, Sal,” he said with a nod toward Tony. “It's with me.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Priganti,” the waiter said before taking his leave.

Tino stooped and reached for my hand, and it disappeared when he held it between both of his. Our eyes locked once more. “Looks like a real keeper ta me, Tony,” he said without looking away.

“Think what ya wan' 'bout my mother,” Tony said as he pulled up to my apartment at midnight and left the car running, “but Tino sure as hell liked you.”

He had seemed genuine to me, but then what did I know? I asked myself. Brooklyn Boys all had charm, and the one at the top of the heap would have the most, I reasoned. “I'm sure he likes all the girls,” I said.

“And they all like him,” Tony said. “Whadya think?”

“He seemed nice,” I said, and then I looked up at the living room light that was still on. “What did he whisper to you?” I couldn't stop myself from asking.

Tony stiffened. “Union shit,” he said flatly. “Some black coalition fuckin' wid a window job site in Clinton Hill.” Tony pulled me across the console. “But that don' matter right now. Lemme show ya how no one's as nice as I am,” he said, and he sucked my neck to the sounds of Joni Mitchell:

Help me I think I'm falling in love again
When I get that crazy feeling I know I'm in trouble again …

Abruptly I was interrupted by his voice and a small duffel bag being shoved in my lap. “Listen, can you hold this for me, put it on your fire escape until I ask for it back, don't show anyone.”

Now that piqued my curiosity.

“What is it?”

“Don't ask so many questions, just do it. It's not a big deal,
it's Vin's. I'd rather you keep it for me, okay?” I was hesitant, I had no idea what this could be, yet I took the bag and that was that.

“I gotta go, Tone,” I sighed as I dragged myself away from him, taking the duffel bag with me.

“I know,” he said, “but sumday, you'll never hafta leave.”

I took my heels off outside the apartment door and closed it gently, hiding the duffel bag by my side, but when cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils I knew my precautions were pointless. Mom was wide awake and slumped on the couch behind a huge gift basket on the coffee table that was wrapped in translucent yellow cellophane. I could see two wine bottles encased with straw and all sorts of Italian delicacies that were nestled in shredded green paper.

“So,” Mom snarled, “he's finished with ya for the night?”

“Mom, please,” I said as I dropped my schoolbag onto the tattered area rug, “not now.”

“It's bad enough ya miss dinner”—she ignored my plea—“but no call? What kinda respect is that?” Mom covered her mouth with a fist and coughed.

I looked at her lined, ashen face and shrunken body but opted not to comment about respect. “I just got caught up in things, is all,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You're sorry. I'm sorry what we been tellin' ya all these years hasn't sunk in.”

It wasn't the time to explain to her how different we were, and how much different I was from almost everyone in Bensonhurst. I pointed to the basket. “What's that?” I asked.

“As if you don' know,” Mom harrumphed.

“No, I don't,” I said, and then smiled. “Is it from Tony?”

Mom tore the card from the plastic wrapping and held it in front of her eyes as she read the inscription. “‘With appreciation', it says, and it's signed ‘The Prigantis'.” She looked at me
and her eyes were overflowing with judgment. “What for, you and God only know.”

“Tony musta said something about me and him gettin' serious,” I said, and regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. Revealing my heart to Grandma was never a problem, but it was way too soon to tell Mom how I was starting to feel about Tony. She would just hassle me no end, I knew. It would be better to fill her in much farther down the road, maybe even after I crossed that bridge.

Mom raised an eyebrow. “What's serious is the kinda shit this leads ta.”

Saturday night returned to my consciousness when she said that. “It's no big deal,” I said as I took off my jacket, “and now we have some nice treats for Thanksgiving.”

Why would Tino send me a basket? Who was I kidding, I knew why, but it felt wrong. There was a part of me that felt like a big shot, the girl that everyone talked about, but it still didn't seem right. Oh well, I guess I would send him a thank-you; that's what Grandma would do.

I went into my bedroom, opened the window, and placed the duffel bag in my hiding place under the planter. That's what Tony asked me to do, so I did it. I hoped that whatever Tony gave me would stay safe out there. I was tempted to look inside but got distracted by Mom's yelling.

“I'll be thankful when I get you away from this neighborhood,” Mom said as she reached for another cigarette.

She had no idea how far away I intended that to be or what would happen to me before I got there.

The next few weeks flew by with schoolwork, hours at the bookstore, get-togethers with Janice, pounding away at my typewriter, and sporadic dates with Tony. Most of those included Richie and Janice and Vin and Dara, at either a restaurant or a nightclub. Other than one or two comments about how much their lawyer was costing them, the three guys seemed unaffected by their criminal case, which was proceeding at a snail's pace. It seemed to consist primarily of postponements and faded into the background. Tony's references to our life together, at just the right time every other week when my concern peaked, to a house and kids and fine things, kept it there. My worry about him going away for a stretch seemed unwarranted.

My time alone with Tony was for the most part confined to heated, clawing moments in his Porsche or heavy petting in his bedroom—even when his mother was at home a few times—as Playboy bunnies looked down on us from wall posters. I found it ironic every time I was in Tony's room that he wouldn't hear of me hanging photos of rock and movie stars in my room.

With each makeout session, I came closer to the point of no return. I had no illusions that Tony wasn't very experienced with sexual consummation; not only did he know exactly what he was doing as his hands and mouth traversed my body, but
the knowing glances and smiles he got from the guys and so many women told me plain as day that I was far from his first conquest. I marveled at his restraint, at his not forcing the issue with me. It could only mean, I reasoned, that he held me in high regard, that what we had was, indeed, special. I knew that when I crossed the line and went all the way with him, that would be special, too.

On Christmas morning, I sat on a brown, tattered armchair in my apartment and looked forward to that moment. My eyes rested on the worn, faded emerald green area rug at my feet, and I focused on a darker border thread that twisted with another and seemed to go on without end. I'm looking forward to an entire life with Tony, I said to myself. I couldn't wait to see him later that afternoon.

I hadn't been with him on Thanksgiving; he had said he had to do something with Vin but that he didn't know exactly when it would be, and he didn't want to leave me stranded at his house or drop me back at mine after a short time together. I had been disappointed, but at least Mom and Grandma were happy to have me to themselves for a change.

It had turned out to be a pleasant holiday. Mom was in rare form and managed to get through an entire day without any of her usual sarcasm or vitriol. It was both a surprise and a relief not to feel like I had to walk on eggshells around her. Spontaneous smiles and laughter punctuated the kind of girl talk that had been all too lacking in our home. For once, we were just three women sharing an attachment and a good time.

A miniature Christmas tree, what I called a Charlie Brown tree because it was so small and had only a few stray red balls and no tinsel on it, stood humbly on the faux mantelpiece in the Bonti living room beside a brass menorah in full flame. That prized possession of Grandma's had been in the family for years, and she was in the habit of lighting all the candles each night after the Christmas tree arrived—accentuating the
battle between the two religions that had remained after my father left when Mom was eight months pregnant with me. I recalled how Grandma always harped on the fact that I was born a Jew because I came out of a Jewish vagina, and how the religious conflict that had become Mom's badge was something Grandma grieved over almost every day. On Christmas, I hoped that peace would prevail as it had on Thanksgiving.