Elizabeth Street (11 page)

“A brother and plenty of calluses,” answered the inspector.

Giovanna walked into the swarm of people in front of the staircases. At each staircase was yet another uniformed man, the kind who spoke all the languages, checking their documents. Out of curiosity, Giovanna went to the staircase marked
NEW YORK OUTSIDES
. The inspector looked at her paper and said in Italian, “No, signora, a woman alone must be picked up. You take that staircase and meet your brother.”

“Where does this one go?”

“To the ferry that takes you to New York.”

“And that one?” Giovanna asked, pointing to the third staircase.

“That is for people taking the railroads. A ferry takes them to the trains in Hoboken.”

Now Giovanna understood all the tears of farewell—people from the same village were splitting up to join relatives or friends in different parts of the country. With no one to say good-bye to, she descended the staircase.

She entered yet another large room with benches around the perimeter. An iron fence from ceiling to floor divided the room. Giovanna couldn’t get to the gate, but she knew those on the other side were here to pick up their friends and family. Was Lorenzo really that close? Another guard told her to take a seat until her number was called. A teenage girl holding a photograph of a young man sat next to her. Giovanna wasn’t normally so nosy, or so friendly, but she wanted to hear her own voice again.

“Is that who is meeting you?”

“Sì, signora. It is my uncle’s nephew. We are to be married.”

“Do you know him?”

“Only from this picture. But I think he’s handsome, don’t you, signora?”

Giovanna nodded.

“What if he doesn’t like me, signora? What if he sends me back on the boat?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued nervously. “My mother told me not to worry, that he used all his money for this ticket and will have no choice, but my sister’s friend, she traveled all the way to l’America and her fiancé wouldn’t take her. She was sent back. She never married. She’s all alone.” The young woman seemed to look at Giovanna for the first time and, noticing her black dress, said, “Oh, I’m sorry, signora.”

Giovanna patted the girl’s leg. “He will like you.”

Hours later, Giovanna was half asleep when she heard number twenty-seven called. Snapping out of her stupor, Giovanna went to the guard who had her trunk at his feet. She helped him open it and he did a cursory inspection of her meager, worn belongings. He motioned for her to go to the door of the gate and hand her papers to the guard. The gate guard announced Giovanna’s name to the crowd. How could he be heard over the din? But she saw the head of someone fighting to get through. When he reached the first few rows of people clinging to the bars of the gate, she could see that it was Lorenzo. While the guard checked Lorenzo’s identification against Giovanna’s papers, Giovanna and Lorenzo locked eyes, saying nothing. The guard noticed the uncommon silence and questioned Giovanna. “You sure this is your brother?”

“Yes, he is my brother,” answered Giovanna. That recognition was all she needed to collapse into Lorenzo’s arms.

Lorenzo and Giovanna walked up and down the rows of stone markers in the Queens cemetery.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” lamented Lorenzo.

Row upon row of stone markers lay imbedded in the ground, most with only numbers chiseled on them. Giovanna’s heart tightened. How could Nunzio be buried in such an anonymous, sprawling place? Her Nunzio, with hair that could be fiery red or golden, who could touch a building and recite its history, who could make her laugh and dream, how could her Nunzio be buried in foreign soil beneath a number?

“I found it,” called Lorenzo from two rows over.

Giovanna’s feet rooted to where she stood. Her brother came, took her by the arm, and led her to the stone that was numbered 304.

“Giovanna, I’m sorry, but when we make more money, we will get a proper stone marker with his name—a big one. They don’t put a photo on the stone in this country, but the carver could make a boat. No, it’s better a building, maybe the triangle building.” Lorenzo babbled over the silence until he realized he should retreat.

First, Giovanna brushed the dirt off the stone. With her finger, she traced the outline of the new grass. There was nothing else to fuss with, nothing to arrange. All of a sudden she understood the reason for vases and candles in the cemeteries in Italy. It gave you something to do, a connection, a way to take care of the dead.

Left only with her prayers, she knelt at Nunzio’s head, kissing her fingers and touching them to the ground repeatedly. When that wasn’t enough, she laid her palms flat to the ground while she beseeched Nunzio to guide her and tell her how to live. The cold anonymous ground gave her no answers, and she collapsed forward on top of the grave. From afar, Lorenzo wondered if he should go to her, but not knowing how to comfort her, he turned away. Giovanna lay on top of Nunzio’s grave, letting the wails and sobs that she had locked deep inside escape. Lorenzo sat behind a tree for fear that someone would question why he wasn’t helping her, but he knew that this was a passage she must go through alone. He picked up a small branch, took out his penknife, and scraped at the stick.

It was one or two hours later when Lorenzo noticed that Giovanna’s cries had tapered off to exhausted whimpers. He walked to where she lay on top of the grave and lifted her into a sitting position. Taking the corner of his jacket, Lorenzo wiped the mud and tears from her face, and, sitting beside her, he planted the stick, now a slender crucifix, in front of the stone. This gesture reminded Giovanna that she, too, had brought offerings.

The first time she had walked into Lorenzo’s airless, dark apartment, she had looked for signs of Nunzio. Finding none, she had asked Lorenzo if he had any of Nunzio’s things. Lorenzo had produced a small box and explained that the clothes and tools had been given to those in need. Giovanna had taken the box to the farthest corner of the apartment and turned her back to the others while gently lifting out each object, starting with Nunzio’s cap. She had cradled his cap and then run his razor blade across her own skin, using it to cut the string holding a package of her letters. At the bottom of the box there had been two of the mustasole cookies that Giovanna had made Nunzio for his voyage. They had remained wrapped in the fabric of her wedding dress. The
G
and the
N
had been chipped but were still entwined, and the swordfish was missing part of its fin. Giovanna had remembered that she had made a third cookie, a crucifix. She had smiled, and the smile had turned into a big, throaty roar when she realized Nunzio had eaten the cross. “Ah, Nunzio,” she had laughed aloud, “I will say your prayers.”

The sight of this new woman laughing at their dead uncle’s things had frightened Lorenzo’s children. They hadn’t known what to make of her and of the urgency with which she hugged them. They had loved their uncle and understood that this was his wife, and their papa’s sister, but she had seemed sad and strange. Their mother, too, had seemed uneasy in her presence.

Now at the cemetery, Giovanna took the two mustasole cookies from the pocket of her skirt. She had also brought two of the ancient coins that they had played with as children and a lock of her own hair cut with Nunzio’s razor. She had thought she would leave these relics at his stone, but she feared they would blow away, leaving her husband anonymous once again. Instead, she laid them on the ground and dug four small holes while Lorenzo searched for a rock to help scrape at the dirt. When the holes were dug, Giovanna buried each talisman with a prayer and a promise.

Covering the swordfish with dirt, she said a prayer to Saint Rocco and vowed to Nunzio to watch over all that he loved in Scilla. She took the coins and dropped them into the second hole. She told Nunzio that if there was justice to seek in his death, she would pursue it, and she prayed to Saint Joseph to guide her efforts. Her tears began flowing down her cheeks once again when she buried the
G
and
N
cookies wrapped in her wedding dress. Her prayer and promise became one as she vowed to Nunzio and Saint Valentine that she would never love another as she loved Nunzio.

The chestnut curl of her hair was tied with a thread, and Giovanna held it tight before putting it in the dirt. This was the hardest promise to make, and she prayed to Saint Anne, the patron saint of laboring mothers, for help. Lorenzo, seeing her silence and concentration, tipped his hat and walked away. With Lorenzo gone, Giovanna took the hair and pressed it into the ground with both hands and vowed to Nunzio Pontillo what she knew he would want the most—that she would go on living.

Life in the Costa household settled into a routine. Giovanna helped Teresa, who was in the fifth month of a difficult pregnancy, with the housework and children. Domenico and Concetta were in school, and the baby who was born before Nunzio died was now toddling around. After a month, Giovanna mentioned to Lorenzo that she would try to find work as a seamstress or take in piecework, but Lorenzo asked that she continue to help Teresa until the baby was born.

Teresa encouraged Lorenzo to let Giovanna find a job, because in truth she was not comfortable with her around. It was not because Giovanna was not helpful; in fact, Teresa thought Giovanna was too helpful. Teresa came up to Giovanna’s chest, so she felt diminished even before Giovanna did anything. And when Giovanna did something, in Teresa’s mind, she always did it better than Teresa did. Giovanna could lift and carry double what Teresa could, but it was how quickly and efficiently Giovanna accomplished everything that intimidated Teresa. Teresa still did the cooking—she would not relinquish her kitchen—but even when Giovanna remarked that a dish was delicious or asked how something was made, Teresa felt threatened.

Nothing bothered Teresa more, however, than seeing Giovanna help the children at the table in the evenings with their letters—and watching them teach Giovanna English. One evening when Lorenzo was out at the cafe, Giovanna asked Teresa to join them, saying, “Come, Teresa, we’ll learn together.” Teresa pretended to be too busy and brushed them off with a terse, “I don’t have time for that.”

For his part, Lorenzo was oblivious to his wife’s discomfort. He was glad to have his sister with him; it eased his homesickness and allowed him more freedom, because he worried less about his wife’s precarious pregnancy with Giovanna around.

But Giovanna saw that Teresa needed her privacy, and on her fourth Sunday in America, she decided to leave her alone to prepare the meal. The children watched Giovanna dress in hopes that even though Zio Nunzio was gone, they could still have a Sunday adventure; eventually, little Concetta worked up the nerve to ask Giovanna where she was going. When Giovanna answered that she was going to the cemetery, the children were only slightly disappointed. They knew the outing would at least involve a trolley ride, so they enthusiastically asked to join her, heads rotating from their mother to their aunt for approval. Giovanna waited for Teresa to answer first. Moved by this respect accorded her and by the children’s longing, Teresa reluctantly said yes. The children ran for their Sunday clothes, because leaving the neighborhood meant dressing their best. Giovanna waited by the door in her black dress and head scarf while Teresa nursed her toddler in the awkward silence.

Giovanna only had the memory of her trip to the graveyard with Lorenzo to go on, but she was certain she could retrace their route. Out of their mother’s gaze, the children were more comfortable talking to their aunt and rambled on about their walks with Nunzio, and they were rewarded with Giovanna’s rapt attention. From high in the El heading east, the children turned in their seats and pointed out buildings to Giovanna. Giovanna was so enthralled that she missed their stop and didn’t realize it until the train pulled out of the station. She nudged Domenico to ask another passenger for directions and smiled at Domenico with pride when he sat back down. He was a bright boy, lean and tall.

Following the passenger’s directions, they got off at the next stop and waited for the No. 5 trolley. The area was desolate, making Giovanna anxious. When the trolley appeared, Giovanna grabbed the children’s hands and whisked them onboard and into their seats with great relief. The conductor came toward them. Giovanna opened her purse that was hidden in the folds of her dress and for the first time confronted the strange American money that Lorenzo had put there. Domenico, seeing her bewilderment, pointed out the coins she needed to give to the conductor.

The horses trudged up the street, pulling the car along the tracks. The street was lined with factories and construction sites, which explained the area’s desolation on a Sunday. Ahead of her, Giovanna caught sight of a strange building taking shape. The frame appeared to be round. She squinted, the trolley drew closer, and her pulse quickened. There was no mistaking the stucture. It looked like a gigantic pasta pot.

Giovanna pushed to the opposite side of the trolley to get a better look. A long stretch of the road was fenced in, and near the gate to the site she could see a sign. Sounding out the words, Giovanna nearly collapsed.
BROOKLYN UNION GAS COMPANY
. She had to stop herself from leaping off the trolley—and she would have had the children not been with her.

Falling back into her seat, she tried to breathe normally. She had asked Lorenzo to take her to the gas tanks, but he said that he didn’t know exactly where the site was because he had picked up Nunzio’s body from the coroner’s office. The children pestered her for an explanation, and she told them through controlled breaths that this was where their uncle had been working when he was killed. Domenico and Concetta had been told how Zio Nunzio had died, but seeing the site prompted questions about the accident that Giovanna couldn’t answer. Questions that she too began to ask.

“Basta, Giovanna! What for? Nunzio is with God. Nothing will change that!” blurted Lorenzo in exasperation.

Giovanna peppered Lorenzo with questions, trying to learn every detail she could about Nunzio’s death. How did he find out about the accident? What did he do next? Who was at the coroner’s office?

Lorenzo would protest, and she would pause only to repeat the question a few moments later. Defeated, he began giving her one-word answers. Lorenzo watched the determination and concentration on Giovanna’s face as she recorded his answers, and he finally understood. He cursed his stupidity for not recognizing sooner how desperately Giovanna needed to do this. She sat before him writing, but in his mind he saw Giovanna in control, delivering babies, and generally being her fearless self. Giovanna couldn’t allow Nunzio, or herself for that matter, to be a victim. Understanding that this exercise was fundamental to his sister’s survival, Lorenzo became a more cooperative player.

It was hours before Giovanna ran out of questions, but Lorenzo’s answers simply raised more questions. Her desire to keep going was strong. She knew in her heart that she had started something she would finish, whether or not it was the right thing to do.