Etched in Sand (25 page)

Immediately I dial Camille.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I know what I wanted, but I expected him to be
open
to a DNA test. He can see that I am a well-adjusted person—I want
nothing
from him, except to know the truth.”

“Gi, he has run from the truth his entire life. He’s right, you survived twenty-eight years without him, and you
don’t
need him now. Let it be. You’ve got so much to be proud of and even more to look forward to. Stop looking back. It’s over. It’s all over. You need to move on.”

Burying rejection is something that’s become one of my strengths . . . and with that I vow never to consider contacting him again.

W
HILE WORKING FOR
the comptroller, I’m constantly interfacing with the most important leaders in New York City, including Mayor Rudy Giuliani and his staff. I look forward to these interactions, not just because they force me to step up and perform at my highest ability . . . but also because the mayor has a young, handsome, stoic-looking aide who’s caught my eye. Like me, Todd Ciaravino takes his work very seriously. The catch? We’re on opposite sides of the political aisle—me, a Democrat who works for a Democrat; and Todd, a Republican who works for a Republican—and our bosses are always pitted against each other in a political war. I watch Todd from afar, taking note that when we do get to chat, he remains aloof and mysterious—he doesn’t see me as the ass-kicking young hotshot I like to think I am. That summer, I spend my weekends with friends in Newport, Rhode Island, and Fire Island—a barrier island that protects Long Island from the Atlantic Ocean. I also plan a trip to Utah to visit Rosie in her new home state after she graduates from Idaho State University.

I arrive with my arms full of gifts and ready for hugs, but from the beginning, our interactions are cool and mechanical. This is characteristic of the handful of visits we’ve had since Cherie, Camille, and I put her on that plane back to Idaho a decade ago, so I arrived bracing for it . . . but that doesn’t make it any easier. I’d exhausted myself with hope, imagining this trip to Utah would be a breakthrough.

Admittedly, part of the ill feeling she’s harboring I brought on myself: During law school and especially after I graduated in May of 1996, my work has been my clearest priority. It’s the one place where I’ve been successful. When I found out I passed the New York State bar examination, I was finally satisfied and able to put all of my energies into advancing my career. In addition to getting laws passed, Alan’s put me in charge of organizing citywide task forces—one of them being a mission to identify leading representatives in the many cultural communities around New York City. When Alan asks me to, I also set up the Immigrant Task Force. “But I’ve never worked on immigration before,” I tell him.

“There’s a lot you’d never tried before you got here, but you always find ways to figure it out.”

Then, in 1997, when a neighbor of Alan’s in Forest Hills calls him, he and his assistant Jack wave their hands fervently for me to come into Alan’s office and he sets his phone on speaker. “Go ahead, Gerry,” he says, mouthing to me:
Listen
.

“I’m getting on a call with the White House at three o’clock,” the woman says. “We’re going over immigration issues, and I need someone who can really help me zero in on the leaders of the different ethnic communities in New York.”

“I have the perfect person for you,” Alan says. “I’m going to send over Regina Calcaterra.”

I fold my arms.
What are you getting me into?

“ ‘Gerry?’ ” I ask both of them. “Who was that?”

“
That
was Geraldine Ferraro,” Alan says.

I sink down in his visitor’s chair. “You want me to help
Geraldine Ferraro
?”

Geraldine Ferraro: the former congresswoman and vice presidential candidate. I call Camille, who tells her kids to holler
Good luck!
in the background. Then I think of calling Rosie to tell her, but am worried she’ll think I’m as absorbed as ever in my work.

Alan tells me that the call at three o’clock Geraldine has is with President Clinton’s New Americans committee. “She’s a big supporter of mine, Regina. All you have to do is fax her a memo, then go down there and walk her through it. Give her all the data she requested. Anything extra you know about these ethnic leaders, include it. We have two hours. I’ll put you in a cab so you can meet her at her office to go over the list.”

“Meet her?” I feel sweat break out of the pores in my scalp. “Alan, I can easily do that over the phone.”

Alan looks at me sternly. “Regina,
get in a cab
and go over to meet her. This opportunity will never come again.”

Spring flowers blossom on the trees along the route our taxi takes from our office across from City Hall straight up toward SoHo, to Lafayette Street. Geraldine Ferraro’s office sits on the top floor of a quaint redbrick building with a black awning over her son’s restaurant, Cascabel. As her no-nonsense secretary eyes me from her desk, I begin outwardly perspiring. The harder I focus on controlling my rising nervousness, the harder it exits my pores. I breathe inconspicuously, deeply in and out, and begin counting to calm myself, watching Geraldine through the glass window into her office. Inside the sunny, warm-toned room she moves about assuredly and with grace, her voice rising only once on the phone.

It hits me: meeting Geraldine Ferraro is like meeting Amelia Earhart.

Geraldine is a woman who’s blazed trails in the face of the barriers women in politics—and in society—have faced, paying no mind to the thousands of critics who wanted her to fail. She persevered, believing that fighting and being defeated would be better than not fighting at all; but here she is, right in front of me, wearing a soft peach-toned turtleneck scented with something close to Chanel, pearl earrings, and a smile spread across her perfectly proportioned face. “Regina,” she says. “Please. Come in.”

Finally able to focus on our work, I’ve ceased my sweating episode. After a few minutes of going over the list together, Geraldine leans forward over her desk and asks me: “Regina, would you mind staying and participating in my call?”

“Your call . . . with the White House?”

“Yes. I’m just thinking—you seem much more comfortable discussing the individuals on this list than I am.”

I try to think of some reason I need to run back to the office, then I remember Alan’s words:
This opportunity will never come again.

She directs me away from her desk to the couch in her sitting area, taking a seat across the coffee table in a sturdy armchair. She never strays from the balance between warmth and strength, which is evident when she gently suggests, “You should really do the talking.” Early in the call she introduces me to the White House staff and I follow her lead, finally at ease, picking up the tone of her can-do stoicism. I’m in awe as the folks in Washington defer to her, because it’s understood to everyone in her presence that even without a hint of condescension, Geraldine Ferraro knows more than you do. For the twenty minutes I’m questioned on the roles of the black, South Asian Indian, and Middle Eastern leaders in New York, Gerry offers assuring nods—at one point, even a wink.

After the call, she rests her arms on the chair she’s sitting in across from me. “Regina,” she ponders, “I think I could use your help on something.”

I perk up, pretending I’m not completely spent.

“I’m working on a book about my mother. She was the daughter of an Italian immigrant who made a lot of sacrifices to provide my brother and me a chance to mainstream as Americans.”

Mainstream?!
I want tell her.
I’d say you’ve done more than mainstreamed!
Instead, I politely lean forward with my hands in my lap. “Yes, Ms. Ferraro?”

“Please,” she says. “Call me Gerry.” Gerry speaks about her mother, Antonetta—dropping phrases like
widow after
my father’s death
and
worked as a bead maker in the
South Bronx
. . . but in my head I’m watching a movie reel of Gerry’s many extraordinary achievements: She built a strong family with her husband, John; she rose to become Queens Assistant District Attorney heading up the Sex Crimes Unit. She became a U.S. congresswoman, and in 1984 became the first woman to be nominated as a vice presidential candidate for a major party. I tune back in when she says, “This is where I need you, Regina: I plan to dedicate the last chapter to present-day female immigrants by highlighting the sacrifices they’re making to give their children a chance at opportunities that wouldn’t be available outside of America. You’re so well-versed speaking about present-day immigration. Can you help?”

I nod slowly, in disbelief that
Geraldine Ferraro is asking me to assist her in a book
—any book!—not to mention, it’s about her mother. I float out of her office and, too dazed to hail a cab, I walk the near-mile back to City Hall in my heels. Surely, by the time I arrive there, she’ll have called and said, “Never mind, Regina! I’ve found a bright young scholar to take this on; someone with a sane mother and a normal upbringing!”

When Alan meets me at the office door, indeed he says Gerry has called. “Nice work,” he tells me. “Sounds like you made quite an impression.”

Instantly the work is a comfort, the familiar feeling of being busy giving me a sense of structure and security. When I graduated law school a year ago, I had more free time on my hands than I’ve ever had in my life—the first time I’ve just had one full-time job without waitressing, attending law school, or working on political campaigns on the side. For the next six weeks I spend my nights up to my elbows in the immigration research, feeling soothed by the work, and finally producing a summary and outline based on my vision for Gerry’s last chapter. I return to her office and hand over my file, which she accepts with a kind smile.

Then, a week later, she calls. “Regina, do you mind coming down to my office again?”

My stomach sinks. My heart pounds. I slide from flats into the heels under my desk and hail a cab, directing him to Lafayette Street.

“I’ve decided that since this book is to be about my mother, that it should begin and end with my mother.” Gerry’s tone and face are kind, but matter-of-fact. “I’m no longer going to use the content you provided.”

I nod, trying to swallow the lump of tears building up in my throat. I knew that, eventually, this is how it would end. “Look, Gerry, I’m just grateful for the chance to have worked with you.”

“Well, not so fast,” she says. “I still need your help. I’m writing a story about an Italian immigrant, but I’m also finding that I need to tell the story against the backdrop of the Italian immigration movement and the progression of Italians into American society. That piece, I don’t have. I need your experience on immigration.”

“Gerry, see . . . the problem is that I am only familiar with current immigration patterns—not stories from the past. Plus, even though, yes, I am Italian”—in my work I always need to finesse this next point—“I’m not fully aware of my heritage. I’m afraid I just can’t be useful at this point.”

Her face grows firmer, subtly frustrated at my resistance. “Yes, Regina, actually you can. It’s going to take some research on your part, but I’m confident you’re up to it. In fact, I’m so confident that I would like to pay you for your research,” she says.

“Oh, Gerry.” It comes out halfhearted, almost a plea to be cut loose. What if I let her down? “Please,” I tell her. “Your confidence in me and the opportunity to work on something so deeply personal to you is payment enough.”

That night before I go home, I stop at the New York Public Library. I scan the microfiche and take out every book I can find on Ellis Island and Italian immigrants in New York, including
The Madonna of 115th Street
and
Beyond the Melting Pot
.

My contribution to Gerry’s memoir,
Framing a Life
, puts solid punctuation on this era of my work for the city. I’ve far exceeded my own expectations . . . and it’s time to move on. With Alan kicking around the idea of running for mayor in the 2001 election, I’m hesitant to stay with him the four years until then. It’s a danger to be out of law school five years without ever having practiced. My law degree is my single most worthy credential, and also my safety net—even if other opportunities aren’t available, there are always jobs in law . . .

. . . but only if I start using it.

While eagerly waiting for the release of Gerry’s book, I begin to look for a job where I can actually use my law degree and also make a higher income. I know this means leaving New York City politics. I’m thirty years old, living with roommates in my third Manhattan apartment. I’ve spent my whole life sharing cramped, compromised spaces that don’t feel like mine; and most of all, I need to begin making enough money to stop deferring payment on my law school loans. The public sector could never pay me enough for rent, living expenses, and a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of law school loan debt.

When I can force myself not to get wistful for a connection with Rosie, even my family situation has grown well adjusted and normal. Camille and Frank now have Frankie, Maria, and Michael, and Cherie and her new husband have Johnathan and Matthew—all of whom I couldn’t love any more if they were my own. I spend my holidays with them and they join me in the city for Christmas or to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. On weekends, I carve out time to see friends, movies, and Broadway shows. Nicer days are spent in Central Park, running or Rollerblading. Sundays are my favorite: I drink coffee in bed and read several papers from cover to cover.

One Sunday morning close to the holidays in 1997, I’m in bed reading the paper when the phone rings. Expecting to hear Camille’s voice on the other end, I pick it up. “Hey.”

“Regina, I have some mail here for you.”

“Addie?” She usually only calls on holidays and birthdays . . . but her voice sounds curious, or startled; somehow strained, trying to hold back.