Uno scorico di vita

It was 2:45 and Sister Margaret was chatting away at the junior class, which should have been dismissed 15 minutes earlier. Sugar sat tensely on the edge of her seat. Her teeth hurt because her mouth was glued shut. She felt the pain up into her palate and practically into her ears. Her right calf held the weight of her tiny frame while her left buttock was slightly raised from her seat in anticipation of sprinting from the chair. Though her cherished music case rested on the floor, she firmly held its handle in her right hand. Sugar’s brain was telling the nun to just finish-shut up. Panting! On your mark, get ready, set, go. There was a train to catch!

As Sister Margaret rambled on about the ticket competition Sugar mentally reviewed the path she would take to the train station. First, she had to get out of the school. It was late; it was a problem. She’d have to take a chance and sneak out the senior exit in order to catch the 3 o’clock. Otherwise, she’d have to run around the whole complex of buildings.

Usually, Sugar had enough time to leave through the ‘workers’ door (the door designated for those other than seniors) and leisurely walk to the train. However, pin-chin Margaret had stopped in “for just a sec.”

Miss Auditore’, the homeroom teacher, was patiently sitting, listening to pin-chin with her hands demurely folded on her lap. She mechanically nodded like a puppet from one side of the classroom to the other with a wide unconscious smile on her lips.

It was 2: 53; she would have to chance the senior ‘queen bee’ entrance. If she were caught, got a pink slip, she’d have to deal with it later. Her voice lessen was at four at the Ansonia Hotel in Manhattan. If she couldn’t catch the express, she would have to switch trains and take locals all the way down town.

She’d never make it on time. Maestro Polumbo was a professional coach and like many of the other musicians who lived at the historic hotel, his coaching was his livelihood. If you scheduled a lesson-you paid, no matter what.

The rain was smacking at the large classroom windows. The day had lost its April brightness. No hat, no raincoat, only a school blazer.

“Class dismissed,” said pin-chin. Panic! Sugar unclasped her case, felt in the pocket for the $18 check, snapped it shut, then like a cat slid from her seat and ran.

Not breathing, she hoped her deflated lungs would allow her to pass more easily through the horde of chattering girls.

The rough seam of the leather handle carved its way into her palm.

Fumbling for a token from her blazer pocket, she walked, nose-up out of the senior exit.

“Hey, Sugar,” yelled a familiar voice. Defiantly, she continued.

As she splashed through the puddles, the huge clock at the train station came into view. Always slow, it read 3:08. No chance.

Hoping that it looked like rain, she wiped away her tears as she settled on the 3:20 local.

The singing lessons with Maestro were a sacrifice for her parents. Perhaps there would be a miracle today: no one scheduled after her. It had never happened.

She snuggled against the cold metal wall, shivering.

The uniform was a problem. When she was little, no one bothered her because her mom took her down to her lessons. Guys liked to tease girls in uniform.

“Hey, little girl” whispered what was known as a ‘greaser’ who had just taken the spot standing directly in front of her. He winked and smiled as his knee began to rhythmically hit hers with the tilt of the train.

“You want some candy?” he said as he nudged his friend in the ribs and they laughed out loud.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the music in her head.

She left the train before them. Yet she had not gone unscathed. He had managed to get his knees between hers at least twice. However, she had remained calm and dignified, just like mom taught her. As the train hobbled along, she sat with closed eyes, mentality singing the Puccini aria she had so diligently rehearsed.

Sugar wanted to surprise her coach. She had repeatedly concentrated on the most difficult passages. She had practiced while looking in the mirror daring her chin to stiffen or her diaphragm to fall or her tongue to lift from the back of her bottom teeth. She had angrily pointed a finger at the mirror and chided the face for lacking concentration and sometimes-even talent.

Today Maestro would hear the fruits of her labor. She would support her high pianissimo notes with a calculated slow stream of air that started with a strong abdominal hold, which carried her breath to the ‘tippy tippy top of the head’ as Maestro would say. Interpreting from the heart, she would create a jewel!

She went out the wrong exit adding six blocks to her nine-block run. It was pouring. She protected the treasured case under her half-open blazer. She lifted her face to the rain. Her long auburn hair was sopping. She could see the reflection of black mascara rolling down her cheek-she was a martyr.

“Mi dispiace-sorry-only ten minutes left” said Maestro with sincerity.

She stood at the piano vocalizing while drying her face with the ever-present tissues that were kept for fits of hysteria known so well known to sopranos. Half way through the piece, the bell rang. Sugar took her music from the stand, slid it into the case, handed him the check, smiled at Maestro as he shrugged his shoulders "Uno scorico di vita, slice of life” he said.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar

Feeding Baby Tina

The Fanellies lived downstairs in the largest part of our old Victorian house. There was Frank, his wife Anna-Maria, three boys: two older ones, Joey and Carmine and then there was Giorgio, the ten year old. Giorgio was short and fat and looked like an unbaked loaf of Italian bread. Belinda was thirteen, had stringy black hair like her Mother, and was so ugly that my mother told me to pray for her.

Somehow, I didn’t think my prayers would work.

Everybody in the family had dark black hair and I mean black: Except for Marialana their oldest daughter, the college student, who was the only one who ever got sunburned because she had pink skin and blond hair.

I was not yet in school when my mother sat me down one day.

“Oh!” she said with a smile on her face while my grandmother was saying, "vergogna” under her breath to the back of my mother’s head.

Vergogna means shame.

“Oh.” said Mommy and Grandma said “vergogna” again. My mother threw her hands up in the air and then they landed on her hips. She looked at my grandma and gave her what we called a dirty look.

I looked from my mother to grandma and back to Mommy again. What did I do? Of what was I to be ashamed? I sat up straight, ready to take my medicine for whatever crime I had committed.

You didn’t always know until they told you.

“Momma!” Said Mom without looking back at Grandma. “Can you please …?” Just then, we heard Grandpa banging his walking stick on our kitchen ceiling and Grandma went upstairs.

“Well guess what has happened Sugar?” continued Mom.

I hunched my shoulders.

“Marialana is coming back from school!”

I was very young; not quite six, but I knew things. I wasn’t sure what things I knew: but I knew things!

I was trying to figure out how they were gonna blame this on me: Marialana coming home from school!

I sat there in total acceptance, smiling.

“And guess what?” said Mom. “Well, guess, guess!”

Squirming in my chair, my mind was blank. “What Mommy?”

“Marialana is bringing home a surprise!" And she clapped her hands.

Well surprise, surprise! Marialana’s surprise was the Fanellies “vergogna”: a child born out of wedlock. I overheard Grandma say to Mom. “It is a sin, paid for by a sin, paid for by a sin. Tragedia!”

Though Grandma eschewed Marialana and her baby, my mother embraced them especially after Anna-Maria had a life-altering stroke soon after baby Tina was brought home. “Payment for the first sin!” said Grandma.

I had no idea what that meant!

I often went downstairs with Mom to visit Marialana and Tina. Sometimes I was allowed to give her her bottle. My mother sat on the couch with me, held me while Tina slept in my arms and helped me prop the baby’s bottle under her chin when she cried for milk. It felt nice.

By the time I started school, Tina was in a highchair, and I visited her often. Even Grandma had become helpful because Marialana was taking care of her entire family, which included her bedridden mother as well as Tina.

Tina was fun. She had lots of toys and sometimes after school while Marialana cleaned the house and washed cloths she gave me five cents for playing with Tina, changing her diaper and feeding her. Mom taught me how to feed her with her pink plastic spoon. You know, “here comes the choo choo train open up and eat.” She was a real good eater, especially for me. I spent most of my weekends with Tina. I loved her, she became my real live baby doll.

I was especially proud when Tina got chubby because Mommy said that I was doing a good job feeding her. Her cheeks were pink. “See how pink and chunky her cheeks are? Ooh! Look at that chubby little tummy!” Mommy would pinch Tina’s tummy, which I didn’t like because I was afraid that it hurt her.

I wanted to pinch Mommy’s tummy!

As time went by Tina got chubbier and chubbier and I was prouder and prouder.

Then one Saturday afternoon mom asked, “Where are you going?”

She knew where I was going, downstairs! “I’m gonna go play with Tina.”

“She’s not there.”

“Why not? Where is she?”

“Now mind your own business Sugar. Just go off and play now. I have sewing to do and there is dinner to be cooked. Play with your dolls.” Then Mommy had a lightening flash. “Go play with your sister!”

That’s when I knew that something was very very wrong. Yet, I dared not ask any more questions.

I listened for sounds. Mr. Fanelli and the older boys were home. You get used to people. When you live above them, you know who is banging the side door and who is playing a particular piece of music. You even know who is cooking the sauce because people use different herbs and things. I saw Giorgio come home late from playing ball but didn’t know that Belinda was home until I heard Gogo, as we called Giorgio, and Belinda screaming at each other around eight-thirty at night.

No Marialana sounds and no Tina sounds. I cried myself to sleep.

On Monday afternoon, I saw Marialana walking into the house with her brother Joey’s arm around her shoulder. Her head was down and her hair was messy.

I knew that Tina was dead.

“Guess what?” said Mommy when I ran upstairs. She knew that I knew! I could tell in her eyes. She looked guilty! Grandma's head was bent low on her chest. I could tell that she had been crying. She said under her breath, "it's the circle."

“Tina has gone to heaven to rest in God’s arms! Isn’t that wonderful?” said my mother. I just looked at her. For some reason I hated her, I wanted to kill her, and I blamed her for Tina’s death until she said. “You did such a great job of taking care of her, chubby and all, that God decided that you made her so perfect that he wanted her to go be with him in heaven!”

My mother had not killed Tina.I had.

Sometimes I would go downstairs to visit Marialana. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to kill Tina. However, all I did was help Marialana clean the dishes: stuff like that.

One day she said to me, “Do you really want to come down here even though Tina isn’t here anymore?

She was wearing a pink robe. It was dirty and she had it stretched across her body with her arms tight against her chest. Her hair and nails were dirty. Her face was red and puffy.

I was very very sorry, but I never did apologize.

Copyright © 2009 m.m.sugar

The Smoke Shop

My maternal grandfather emigrated from Italy. He was granted citizenship in 1938.

I have a picture of him in hunting cloths in his hometown on the southern coast. A rifle hangs from his right arm as he looks down while caressing the face of a dog whose paws lean heavily on his chest. It is an old picture and sometimes I think I see the dog’s tail wag.

He had been a prominent lawyer in Italy. However, he was unable to pass the law exams in New York which led the reticent man to be known for a humble exterior protecting a quiet rage. Grandpa was a man who wore double-breasted suits when he wasn’t hunting upstate.

Grandpa smoked.

I don’t remember too much about him. Two things stand out: our regular visits to his smoke shop and my being forced to kiss him, as he lay dead in his bed.

It was an old bed, very high with multiple down mattresses. My father’s right arm swept me up by my waist and propelled me onto grandpa's body and my cheek was pressed hard against his.

Every Thursday afternoon, I don’t know why it was Thursday, but every Thursday afternoon my mother would say, “I think I hear grandpa coming down the stairs. Oh, no that wasn’t him, because I just heard their door close. Now that’s him!”

Once, in a school play, I had to say, “Wait, I just heard the upstairs door close.”

My mother would help me with my coat or sweater. When you were that young, you had to be helped with outerwear. Grandpa, “Went to rest in God’s arms,” when I was almost seven. Our ritual was of a three to four year duration.

We took a trolley to the smoke shop. I had a favorite seat and I got it every time. It was the seat in the back that was right at the door. Actually, there were no doors on trolleys. I secretly enjoyed the breeze on my legs even in the winter.

The smoke shop was on Arthur Avenue,a famous place in old New York where a man could have his shoes shined and his hat steamed in the front of the shop while in the back his wife picked the chicken for that night’s dinner. Tools, pictures and dresses hung on the sidewalks and you could buy, hot out of the oven, bread filled with meatballs that were cooked in a family size pot and made fresh hourly with new veal, ground beef, basil, garlic, onions, grated parmesan, bread crumbs and pieces of mozzarella.

The smoke shop was dark even on the sunniest days. It had wall-to-wall wood paneling. It stunk because there was a smoking room in the back where men played Briscola, an Italian card game. I remember the anticipation of my eyes burning and was never disappointed.

It was a maze of smoke.

There was a room lined with shelves of boxes. The owner and grandpa went in while I stayed leaning at the doorway pondering the mystery of cigars. The two men stood close to each other while grandpa toyed with his large signet ring. Their bodies shifted, grandpa rested on his walking stick, taller than the owner, he looked down at the man’s face with great respect and near intrigue as the owner alternately spoke and grunted while rolling a large cigar between his thin smacking lips.

Cigars were serious business.

There was a room that I saw just a few times during the ritual between ages three and seven. There were men; sometimes one, two, or three sitting at small tables with large, dry, dirty brown leaves in front of them. One day one of the men looked up at me, smiled, and tipped his knife to his forehead in salutation.

I put my head down and backed away so the closing door would hide what I thought was their secret playground. A place, about which, I never spoke to grandpa.

When the door closed, I leaned against the wall and viewed the other three sections of the smoke shop: where they bought cigars at the counter, the private sanctuary where only one man and the owner could go at one time and the smoking room where the men looked suspiciously at each other and where the only communication I ever observed was the up and down movement of thick eyebrows and smirking moustaches while they played cards.

When grandpa was done, he would come to me without a word, touch the back of my neck, and tug my red braids in the direction of the door.

I am a child. I can see this place. I can see the men's rumpled shirts hanging away from their suspenders exposing large soft bellies. I can see the growth of beard on their faces. In retrospect, I think that some stayed many hours: Perhaps days.

Did they all look at their cigars the way grandpa did? Did they too stand in the private room; run their fingers up and down the various lengths and widths of those dirty brown sticks? When they were in this sacrosanct room, did they smell the length of the cigar with intent and discernment?

Why didn’t grandpa play cards? Why did he leave with the three cigars in his shirt pocket? Why did I never see any money exchange, only quiet talking and nodding heads? Why did he acknowledge the owner and never speak to anyone else?

Emerging out into the world was a relief because I was convinced that the smoke shop was the hell of which grandma always spoke. The trolley ride home was, at all times, crowded. Why did we go at a time when he knew that it would be crowded upon return?

When we got to our stop, I was allowed to go into the candy store and was given a treat by our neighbor Mr. Russo.

Upon the return home my mother repeated her mantra, one which I adopted by pure instinct. She would take a whiff of me. Holding me firmly by the shoulders, first whiff the top of my head, then she would grab and sniff the sleeve of whatever I was wearing and repeat, “That man, that man.” Then, for some unknown reason feel my forehead as though I was feverish and then say, “Oh, now we have to bathe you.”

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar