Aberration of Starlight

~ ~ ~

People could grind up light bulbs and sprinkle the glass all over her food. She’d be dying and think she had gas pains. One of the season’s prettiest weddings. St. Rocco’s Church. 1926. Just a girl. The only man who’d ever really kissed her. What was she supposed to do? Before he started losing his hair. Red Moon roadster with the wire-spoke wheels. Tom talked until he foamed at the mouth and was nice and Caesar always with his nose in a book at any kind of an affair, quiet and smoking a pipe. But Tony was the best dancer, full of fun. Extended trip to Washington, Maryland and Virginia. When he wore that beautiful white Borsalino and tropical suit, walking through that ship without getting a drop of grease or oil on him. Just a young girl. He took her aboard that first job of his own and the men looked down at the deck when she climbed the ladder so as not to see up her dress. Good decent men, took their caps off. Why not? her mother said. You’re an American girl. White satin and duchess lace, veil entirely of Irish point lace in cap effect. Angelo as strong as a bull, drank a cup of fresh blood every morning at the slaughterhouse, worshiped the ground she walked on. She could have had any one of the brothers. Tony was the best dresser, snappy, and quick with a dollar. I don’t want any goddamned guinea name for the boy, we’ll call him William. Do I look like a greenhorn? Do I talk like my brother Joe? Joe had a little moustache then and wore snap-brim fedoras. He was a handsome man, but his accent. Trimmed with orange blossoms. Carried white roses and lily of the valley. Caroline Esposito was maid of honor in a gown of Nile-green taffeta with hat to match and carried a bouquet of pink roses. The party for Joe the Ice when he got out of prison. Envelopes with cash thrown in a pillowcase like a wedding reception. She thought he’d been in the hospital. Just a girl. When he came into her class? She must have been seven in the second grade. He was at least ten or eleven. Black eyes and curly hair, boots up to his knees, wore a long cape. Couldn’t speak a word of English. If anyone had told her! After Billy came he asked her to do terrible things. Dirty things, she didn’t know the names of them even. She didn’t even know people could imagine those things. Father Donovan said they were sinful and she had a right as a Catholic wife to refuse. “The animal side.” Katie’s Janet was the flower girl, adorable, and little Ralph Esposito was the ring bearer. All of Irish point lace. Extended trip. And then Margie. Margie. Came into her house like a snake, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Red hair and rotting teeth. Secretary! Down there on Wolcott Street with the rats sitting on her shoulder and her gimpy brother with his dese dose and dems, common shanty Irish trash. She couldn’t fry a goddamned egg without burning it to a crisp and that sneaky little shyster Jew lawyer running around to do the dirty work, Seymour Goldberg. May he burn in hell. Rose Spoto in orchid georgette and Minnie Recco in flesh georgette and Florence Esposito in peach georgette and Florence Recco in maize georgette, all wearing hats to match and carrying tea roses. Trimmed with orange blossoms, extended trip. Irish point lace. What happened? When he saw her in their suite at the Hotel St. George. Alone together. Just a girl. The most beautiful trousseau, the lingerie. House of sin they lived in on Gerritsen Avenue and Avenue T. Mr. and Mrs. Recco. She’d do all the dirty moron things he asked. Now she’s a fat drunk and her gimpy brother’s got ulcers. God is good. Caesar and Tom were both sweet on her. Tony was the best dancer, full of fun. The red Moon. Charlie was too young. He was the best man and the ushers? Frank Lupo, Tom, Anthony Faicco, and Charlie Esposito. The best dresser, snappy. He never paid back the two thousand dollars Poppa loaned him to start the business. Neptune Ship Scaling and Contracting Company, Inc. Without that money he still wouldn’t have a pot to piddle in. When those dagos get on their high horse, her mother said. Too goddamned good to work for a decent American. Your father’s not too goddamned good to work for other people. He worshiped the ground she walked on. Went out for chow mein and came back with little red embroidered slippers. Chinese apples. Bouquets of flowers. In January. Why not? her mother said. You always looked like you stepped out of a bandbox. Where did their kind ever see a girl with your looks and breeding? A blonde. Blue eyes. Those dagos are almost black as niggers. Black greasy hair. Trimmed with orange blossoms. In cap effect. A reception for 150 guests. And dear poor Katie cried, a lot to cry about. So it turned out, God help her. Buddy dying after falling on his back in the high-school gym. A handsome boy and a year later Leonard had a stroke. Her cross. The priest told her she of course couldn’t get a divorce even though he wouldn’t give her any money for the boy and in the middle of the Depression. A good Catholic woman. “Animal side.” And Billy wasn’t allowed in parochial school because he got a Florida divorce that wasn’t recognized anyway. The Mother Superior with a chin on her sharp enough to cut cheese said the first grade was full. May God have mercy on her. The fat hypocrite priests eating their roast beef on Friday! She’d seen it with her own eyes. Thank God her faith was strong. That slut of a tramp did the things he wanted. Taught him a few too, if truth be known. Probably right in the office, she wouldn’t put a thing past the floozy. His white Borsalino. Immaculate. When the bed slats broke and Billy came in with the noise. They were as happy as larks in that little house in Flatbush. Margie came to Billy’s birthday party in a green dress. To match her teeth, her mother said. All smiles and Tony and her were doing God knows what filth. She loaned her a pair of her best black kid gloves to go to her father’s funeral. Never got them back. They can take something you own and get some old witch to put the evil eye on you. Right after that she got those stomach pains so bad she crawled on her hands and knees in agony. They can grind up glass. She thought it was indigestion. Lived on bicarbonate of soda and never a word of complaint out of her. When his mother died he never spoke for a week. No tears. The day of her funeral he collapsed and had to be put to bed. Fiorenza, a tall and silent woman. Then Margie came. Red hair and stains on her dress. Chain-smoked. The old man would never talk to him again. Sat blind under his grapevines and fig trees in the backyard and waited to die. Charlie played the violin. Julius raised his sixteen children behind his shoemaker’s shop. The church does not recognize any kind of divorce, dear. Sitting down to his roast beef, fat hypocrite, North of Ireland convert, the worst kind. An American girl. They looked at the deck, she was in a white summer dress and a straw hat with a navy bow. When he bought the cigar at the Milano with a thousand-dollar bill. “A favor somebody did.” They can grind up glass. Some old Strega with the evil eye. Billy with spaghetti and butter sauce. Three packs of Juicy Fruit. A head all golden curls. Oh God. Fell down the stairs in the new house and three days later his eye was crossed. Orange blossoms. Extended trip. They all worshiped the ground she walked on. Her mother said it was God’s judgment on her for moving so far away. Mother of God! Joe the Ice with his prison pallor, a nice man but a cafone. He would take off his cap to talk to her. Look at the floor. His Borsalino. Joe’s son was born in prison. His wife did the time for him. Morphine or cocaine. Katie made her work like a slave in Jersey City, a charity case. Who could blame her really? Her own rotten life. Leonard sitting staring in his chair and her beautiful Buddy dead at sixteen. One of the season’s prettiest weddings. The Eye and Ear with those goddamned wooden clinic benches for the charity patients. Waiting all day. Those charity wire-frame glasses on his little face. Where was God? A head all golden curls. Your father and I haven’t got no money, her mother said. Where did you get that idea? Your father works hard for his money. You want a fancy doctor? Wish in one hand and you know what you can do in the other. Head all golden curls. Trimmed with orange blossoms. Face to face with her meanness. Angelo drank blood. Strong as a bull. Ripped his shirt open at her wedding and sang opera. Her relatives all shanty Irish gawked at the greaseball. Her father’s relatives drinking their Episcopalian ginger ale. Let that big-shot dago pay for a fancy specialist. She cried and cried. Those wire frames. Margie in the paper with him and some crooked politician. Mr. and Mrs. Recco. Slut and whore. Mouth full of store teeth made her look like a horse. Slut. Whore. Crippled brother called it a “finished basement.” Finished all right. Crawling with rats. Cockroaches. Caroline in Nile green and she got no bed of roses either. The slats broke that Sunday morning. Billy laughing too. Pulled him into bed. Head all golden curls. Veil entirely of Irish point lace. Her mother dying of leukemia that old quack called “weak blood,” gave her sugar pills. And guess who was the chief cook and bottle washer then? Guess. A maid who didn’t get paid. Billy and she moved in so she could be the slave. Katie’s was, oh sure, all right before. Billy’s eye was the judgment of God. Cruel God. Roast beef. Fat Father Donovan. May God help him. “Animal side.” Her mother allowed it to happen. Jealous of their happiness, their house, Billy, everything. “Oh, what a little house.” Waited on hand and foot. “Good riddance to the wop.” Extended trip. Then all of a sudden. What happened? She didn’t even know the words for the things he asked her to do. Margie with her green teeth, her Judas smile. She prayed, God forgive me, but make her die. Make her die, God. He is good. Mr. and Mrs. Recco of Gerritsen Avenue. Time wounds all heels. The night she went into labor they were at the Follies. What happened? Red silk slippers. Bouquets and boxes of chocolate. Coming out of the hold of that ship like he just stepped out of a bandbox. Her mother beat Katie with a wooden slat and a belt because they stopped in the ice-cream parlor for a cone. Afraid she’d get stains on her dress that Katie, the poor girl, had to launder and then iron with the flatiron on the coal stove, oh God. Dresses with starch and hundreds of pleats. Saw them out the window, laughing and eating their ice cream. A wooden slat, the belt whistling and then the crack. A charity case. Her mother made eyes at Tony. God help her if it wasn’t true. “Good riddance” to the dago guinea greaseball wop. Jealous of her happiness. Her father silent behind his News or Mirror. Oh, Poppa, you never said a word! You should have gone and talked to Tony about that chippy. The red Moon outside the door. Full of fun and quick with a dollar. When she gave her the black kid gloves she stroked them and smelled the leather. Shanty ignorant Irish pig with her dyed red hair. Snake coming to Billy’s fourth birthday party. And Tony drove her home. Oh yes. Oh yes, of course he did. Place crawling with rats as long as your arm. Duke Ellington at the Cotton Club. When she went into labor. That Jew shyster Seymour telling her a Florida divorce was “perfectly legal.” What happened? The boy asked for his father. “Why are we in cousin Katie’s?” One bath a week if you were lucky and by God clean the tub and floor on your hands and knees. For boiled spare ribs and cabbage. Beans and lamb that was nothing but a mass of fat. Caesar would blush and stare at his book. She could have had. They worshiped. White roses and lily of the valley and for a minute she couldn’t recognize her own strangely sad face in the wedding pictures. No wonder. A lot of water under the bridge. Chinese slippers and flowers, orange blossoms and white roses and lily of the valley and then those green teeth and red hair. The rats would sit on your shoulder they were so bold. Take the greasy food right out of your mouth. What happened? That girl on the rock in the field, was it so long ago, was it possible? And sitting under the trellis crocheting? Julius wrote love letters to Rose every day and away for just a week. Florrie Recco saying, “Oh, Marie, oh, Margie!” Maize georgette and tea roses. Prettiest wedding. Katie scrubbing the kitchen floor even on Sundays, God help Billy if he didn’t walk on the newspapers. Her mother’s giggling and making eyes at Tony. The Milano every Sunday with the boy’s Juicy Fruit. Him in the highchair. Giggling. Wearing all her rings and her pearls. God knows she couldn’t take them to the grave. Squeezed into her corset so she could hardly breathe. Giggling, her gold tooth flashing at Tony. Poppa behind his Mirror. Works hard all day. The bride was given away by her father. Orange blossoms. Red slippers from Yung’s. And in all the snow. Katie can’t be blamed, poor dear Katie. Slave and maid and laundress and pot-walloper all rolled in one. Took her off the streets after her mother died. Beating her black and blue if she opened her mouth. “My daughter,” her mother said. “Peaches and cream.” Her pale-yellow dress starched, hundreds of pleats, yellow socks and hair ribbons, cunning little white shoes. Katie’s hands and arms all burns from the flatiron. Margie with that crooked shanty Irish bog-trotter in the paper. Mr. and Mrs. Recco at a dinner given in Mr. Recco’s honor by his employees. Her store teeth. Rats and her gimpy brother. That little Jew bastard Seymour. “Perfectly legal, Marie.” Tony so broke he buttoned his coat like a woman so nobody could see it was all frayed. Came in late from Erie Basin and the Navy Yard but all smiles. Cut the top off his tomato and scooped the meat out with bits of buttered crust. Secretary! “A dollar down and a dollar when you catch me,” her mother said about his new Packard. But she rode in it all right, all right, every Sunday. Filled her face at the Milano. “A specialist? Do you think your poor father’s made of money?” Behind the Mirror. Oh God. A long cape, just off the boat, couldn’t speak a word of English. An extended trip after which they will reside in Bay Ridge. Just a boy, his tall boots, working like a man.

Wouldn’t be surprised if that mockie fixed it up with some crooked judge to have it say he was born here. On the Fourth of July. Ziegfeld Follies when she went into labor. Worked as a scaler when he was twelve when it was an art. All done by hand hanging from a scaffold. Full of fun. Angelo sang “Ciel’ la lun’.” Goddamned greaseball, Uncle Mark said, and Uncle Michael, Kitty and Mary Caffrey agreed. Cups of warm blood. Tom foaming at the mouth telling a story. Joe had a moustache. Orange blossoms and they were fresh. Down in Miami Beach with the tramp with her green teeth. “Match her dress.” Not even a card for Christmas. Not a cent. Not a word. May God damn them both. Bought Billy a game in Woolworth’s where you shot little brown celluloid beans into the eyes and mouth of some grinning gawm. And then he got a scarf and a pair of mittens from her mother and father from Namm’s. And Christmas dinner, don’t forget Christmas dinner! One year a little tin pig that marched around the floor beating a tin drum until he fell over. And another scarf, even cheaper, another pair of mittens, cheaper, cheaper. His white Borsalino. Miami Beach. Not a card. Not a word. Down there with his floozy doing every filthy thing. Mr. and Mrs. Recco. It is all, believe me, Marie, “perfectly legal.” Couldn’t get fifteen dollars a week for the both of them. Katie’s. Charity case. Still has the burn scars from that damn iron. Those pleats, my God. Eight dollars a week at the steam table at Bickford’s. Left Billy every morning with a dime for lunch and told him not to talk to strangers or go with people who said his father wanted to see him. Evil eye. Margie with the kid gloves and she never saw them again. Crawled around on her hands and knees with ‘the pain. That old horse’s ass of a quack gave her sugar pills. A handsome little boy with dark eyes and curly hair. Long cape and boots. Katie’s Arthur decorating the tree with blue balls and icicles and blue lights. All day long, the little snob of a peacock. His fiancée, bucktoothed schoolteacher, her chest so big she could hardly stand up straight. Beautiful Buddy dead and Leonard sitting like a stick and little Janet running wild. “Wash the tub!” White satin and duchess lace, what became of it all. She wanted a daughter too. Thank God it didn’t happen. God is good. Things she didn’t know the words for. That bimbo invented half of them if the truth were known. Showed him how. And poor Minnie Recco left at the church two years later by some dumb Polack with clothes that would blind you and big enough to fit Finn MacCool. Fiorenza died, tall and dignified. He collapsed. Miami Beach. Orange blossoms and an extended trip. “When you leave New York you is just campin’ out.” Who was that barber with the long Russian cigarettes? Sweet on Katie but Leonard still alive if you can call it that. Driving a trolley for fifteen years for the Public Service, then the stroke nearly killed him. Bad teeth. Sat in a rocking chair all day long and Katie waited on him hand and foot. Poor girl could hardly read and write and no wonder. Washing and ironing and scrubbing and cleaning and shopping and cooking. “She should get down on her knees and thank God she’s got someone to give her a roof over her head and three meals a day.” Her father silent behind his newspaper. Given away. They never saw anybody like you. An American girl. Blond and blue-eyed. They’re black as niggers, look where they are, right next to Africa. Billy told her Mommy and Daddy broke the bed and she wouldn’t say a word to her for a month, filled with rage. With envy, if truth were told, God forgive her. Her father tried to help, pitiful. On the hottest nights he would give her a glass of beer when her mother went to the bathroom. Only if he had a “good pint.” She caught him once and he had no peace for a week. Gave her away. Irish point lace. In cap effect. She was a stunning bride, even the photographer said so and he’d seen hundreds. White roses and lily of the valley. Red Moon with wire-spoke wheels. Red silk slippers. When he took her in his arms in the dim light of the hotel room. Flowers in January. Let the big-shot dago success pay for a big-shot kike specialist. What actually happened?