Getting Old Is to Die for (21 page)

THE GIRLS HIT NEW YORK

W
ake up. I'm dying for a cup of coffee."

Ida peers, through one half-closed eye, at her little travel clock on the plain brown-painted bedside table next to her matching brown-painted twin bed. She becomes aware of Sophie, leaning over in preposterous yellow Minnie Mouse pajamas, poking at her.

"It's only seven
A.M.
Are you nuts?" Ida shuts the eye and rolls over to the other side of the bed, puts the blanket over her head, and ignores Sophie. She mumbles, "I didn't dream you were a mouse; you really are wearing those pajamas."

Bella lifts her head up from the cot placed at the foot of both twin beds. "Is it time to get up?"

Ida mutters, "No, go back to sleep. We're on vacation here, remember?"

"But we didn't have any dinner last night," Sophie wails.

"Is it my fault the plane was late and we couldn't find an open restaurant when we got here? So much for the city that never sleeps." With both hands Ida pulls her pillow down over her head.

Frustrated, Sophie goes back to her bed, the other twin, and plops down.

Bella sits up on her cot, yawns and stretches. She is wearing a match to Sophie's mouse pajamas, only in pink. "I could use a cup of coffee, too," she says wistfully. She tries to get up, but flops back down, unable to get off the cot and onto the floor. Sophie comes over and helps her up. "Sleep well, sweetie pie?"

"Not very," says the martyr. "The cot is lumpy. But I don't mind as long as you girls got some rest."

"All right. All right. I'm up already." Ida, wearing white cotton thermals, jumps out of her bed. "Let's throw on some clothes and get a bite to eat."

With that, they are all in motion, not an easy job in the closet-sized room. Each one of them bends to the floor to riffle through her suitcase for an outfit. There is hardly space enough for the three of them to move.

"Where are we, anyway?" Sophie asks.

"We're in the Village, Greenwich Village," tour guide Ida informs them. "It should be fun down here."

"Right," says Sophie. "Besides we don't want to be uptown and accidentally run into Gladdy."

Ida shakes her head unbelievingly. "Yeah, there are only a few million people in the city; we wouldn't want that to happen."

After jockeying for turns in the bathroom and wiggling into their clothes, bumping into one another as they do, they finally leave their hotel room.

The streets are empty. No people anywhere. Sophie is musing. "Bagel and a schmear of cream cheese would be good."

"I'm thinking along the lines of scrambled eggs and onions with a kaiser roll," says Bella, licking her lips.

"Dream on, girls," Ida says. "I don't think we're going to find a Jewish deli in this neighborhood."

Ida points to a banner strung across from one side of the street to the other. It's held together from the top of opposite lampposts. It says, "LITTLE ITALY. WELCOME TO THE FEAST OF SAN GENNARO."

Bella wails, "But nothing is open."

"I guess we're up too early," Ida says with a tone that reprimands. "We could have slept another hour."

As they wander down the narrow cobblestone streets with their turn-of-the-century tenement buildings, they pass one closed store after another, one closed restaurant after another, a series of food carts on the sidewalks and in the gutters, each with huge signs hawking their covered wares: "MANGIA! MANGIA!" "GET YOUR ZEPPOLI HERE!" "EAT HERE! OUR CANNOLI IS THE BEST." "GET YOUR ITALIAN FLAGS HERE!" "GUCCI BAGS FOR SALE, $5.00! WE HAVE THE LARGEST SELECTION OF MADONNAS ANYWHERE."

Sophie's eyes are wide, Bella's mouth is open. Ida laughs. "You told me to pick someplace exotic."

"Oh, well." Sophie sighs. "When in Rome, eat...Roman."

Bella tugs at Sophie's sleeve. "Look, somebody else is here."

They glance over across the street to a huge, imposing church. On the bottom step an elderly woman dressed in black, shabby clothes dozes, her head leaning against the stone. Suddenly, to their surprise, the church door is flung open and a man comes running down the steps, both fists full of money. The old woman's eyes pop open and she jumps up screaming. "Thief! Thief, you rob the poor box!" She grabs at his leg to try to stop him. He easily shrugs her off. She screams in Italian,
"Aiutame! Aiutame!"

He smacks her in the mouth. "Shut up, old fool!"

But she won't. He keeps hitting her, as she keeps screaming, banging her head against the wall.

Ida moves first. She starts running across the street, yelling at the top of her lungs. "Stop it! Leave her alone!"

Sophie and Bella are right on her heels. They are yelling "Help!" over and over again. The thief sees them and runs quickly around the corner. The girls can't possibly keep up with him.

They rush back to the woman, leaning over her, trying to help by wiping blood off her head, saying comforting words to her. Now others arrive, having heard the commotion. Someone shouts, "Call the police! Get an ambulance!"

An authoritative voice clamors, "Let me through, let me through." The owner of the voice is a large man, someone who obviously enjoys his food. His face seems chubby and jolly, though his eyes are hard, as if he's seen the shady side of life. A thin ring of grayish black hair circles his otherwise bald head. He wears an apron over his three-piece black, pin-striped suit.

"Philomena," he says, "are you all right?"

She reaches her hand out to him, and abruptly falls unconscious.

Over hot delicious cappuccinos and hard Italian rolls and butter, the girls are officially thanked for saving Philomena Pasquale's life by this man, who introduces himself. "I am Don Giovanni, father to all, of Mulberry Street. This is my Ristorante Firenze. We specialize in the best gnocchi in all of New York City and opera every evening at nine."

The girls look around and mumble their appreciation. The cafe is small, but intimate. The walls are hung with pastoral pictures of the old country. The tables are covered with brighter-than-white starched tablecloths. Each table has an empty round wine bottle tied with raffia string and a candle stuck in it. The Muzak is playing the theme from
The Godfather.

Ida asks about the old lady. Don Giovanni shrugs. "Philomena Pasquale, eighty-eight years of age. She lives here in Little Italy all her life, since 1919."

Ida can't resist asking, "Why was she sleeping on the church steps? Is she a homeless person?"

Don Giovanni puffs his huge chest out. "Never! In Little Italy, we take care of our own. Philomena--how do you say it--she is a bit eccentric? Her whole family lives here, but in 1963, there is a big family fight and she moves out on them. She has anger of them all. She refuses to live with them, so she sleeps in front of the church in good weather and in the vestibule in bad. This is to shame them in front of everybody. The street provides her with blankets and much food."

Bella is impressed. "Since 1963? Wow! That must have been some fight."

The front door opens with a jingle of the overhead bell.

The police have arrived.

One is big and brawny, the other shorter but also brawny. They both have black hair and olive skin. They are both Italians and Don Giovanni knows them. Waiters rush over and immediately bring the cops tiny demitasse cups of espresso.

"So, what happened here, Don G?" asks the bigger one, whom Don G. refers to as Sal, as he takes dainty sips of his espresso.

"The poor-box robber finally hit our street. We watch for him day and night, but with the festival keeping us so busy, he caught us off guard. He finally hit our church and poor Philomena was in his way and he beat her up."

"No!" says Rocco, the other cop, crossing himself, shocked.

The Don nods. "She's at St. Vincent's. If it wasn't for these nice lady tourists here, she'd be at Pasquale's Funeral Home."

The girls perk up at the name. "That's her brother, Gino," the Don explains.

The two cops turn to the girls.

The one known as Rocco asks, "You get a good look at the perp?"

Sophie's shoulders go up proudly. "You bet we did! Right, girls?"

Ida and Bella nod in unison.

The little notebooks come out, poised to write.

Sophie says, "Tall, maybe six feet, maybe three hundred pounds, limps, wearing a baseball cap says Mets. But with black hair showing through the little hole in the back of the cap."

Rocco and Sal are impressed. "Nice detail," Sal says.

Bella pokes Sophie gently on her arm. "That's not what I saw."

Now all eyes are on her.

She explains in her usual whispery way. "He was a little heavy, but not much. He didn't limp; he just had a funny walk." She imitates Charlie Chaplin. "He had a backpack on his back. It had a picture of a skateboard on it."

They all stare at her in disbelief.

Ida's arms cross her chest. "Gladdy would be so ashamed. You aren't even close." She faces the three men with great assurance. "I got it right. Thin, maybe about twenty, dirty blond hair.
No hat
." She glares at the girls. "
No backpack
. What robbery were you watching?" Back to the cops: "Wearing jeans and sneakers."

There is a silence in the room. Don Giovanni throws up his hands in disgust. Rocco manages a smile. "Perhaps you ladies might come down to the station and look through mug shots? At your convenience, of course."

"Don't worry, we will," says Sophie, looking defiantly at Ida.

33

FAMILY PLOTS

J
ack sits with folded arms, letting them all get it off their chests. His daughter, Lisa, keeps filling the coffee cups and the kids' paper cups of orange juice. They couldn't meet at Emily and Alan's place in case Gladdy came back early. Lisa was delighted to take her turn entertaining, giving Emily and Alan a chance to see where they live, only a few shorts blocks away. Their apartments are somewhat similar; buildings built before the war still had very large rooms with high ceilings and fine moldings. Whereas Emily and Alan's place was traditional in decor, Lisa and Dan had gone in for very modern furnishings. Both couples, however, wear the traditional Sunday stay-at-home-relaxing wear, jeans and cotton tops.

The two families are seated around the huge chrome and glass Berman dining room table, having a guilty brunch. Everyone has an aggravated point of view. All because of Jack.

"I can't believe I'm avoiding my own mother!" Emily moans. "We're stuffing ourselves here and I left her all alone on a Sunday morning to fend for herself. Do you know how weird that will seem to her?"

"Honey, what else can we do?" That from hubby Alan. "We're kind of in a holding pattern."

And the kids won't be left out. Patrick puts his two cents in. "And you can't even trust your own kids to keep a secret. We had to run out of the house like a bunch of chickens, wearing all our gear."

"Yeah!" Lindsay agrees with her brother. "We're not babies."

"I was afraid you'd slip," says Emily. "I didn't even ask about my aunt Evvie. Her own sister."

Jack's side of the family takes their turn, Lisa first: "Dad, don't just sit there. What should we do?"