The bishop kisses up to the suburbs. The big houses and fat wallets.” Mr. Tucci, Victoria’s uncle, pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “The dollar sign—that’s what matters.”
The other men outside the smoke shop nodded and grunted. Mr. DeMarco wasn’t there today. Come to think of it, Nella hadn’t seen him there in a long time. She struggled to push the stroller past the men, but the thing had taken so much abuse, its front wheels were out of whack. From behind her came the racket of hammers and drills—they were already gutting the school. A sign outside said FUTURE HOME OF THE HEAVENLY SPA.
“He’s got the church in his sights next,” Mr. Tucci said. “Wait and see.”
“Over my dead body!” said another man. “Four generations of my family got christened, married, and buried out of St. A.”
“Problem is,” said someone else, “nowadays we got way more funerals than baptisms.”
“Hey. Hey, whose side you on?”
“We built this place!” Mr. Tucci jabbed the air with his cigar. “Our families built it with their own hands. Now we’re just doormats. They’re wiping their designer shoes on us.”
“I’ll tell you this. My grandfather’s turning over in his grave about what’s happening here. Back in the sixties, he defended his home. No way he was going to let outsiders come in and . . .” The man spat on the sidewalk.
“You’re a bunch of hotheads. You’re living in the past.”
“The past was better. Turn back the clock.”
That was when Mr. Tucci noticed Nella spinning her wheels. He jumped up to help.
“How’s your nonni?” His cigar breath almost asphyxiated her.
“She’s okay.” And then out came the phrase Nonni always used. “Così così.” So-so. Whatever.
Mr. Tucci maneuvered the stroller around the sidewalk chairs.
“Nobody made sauce like hers, you know that?” He smiled. “The other ladies begged for her recipe, but no way she’d give it to them. I remember her and your poppop dancing at my wedding. Heck, the whole neighborhood danced at my wedding, but your nonni outlasted them all.”
Nonni dancing the night away? Cigar smoke must have damaged the man’s brain.
“Boocha!” cried Vinny, pointing at the sky. “Boocha ganna!”
Mr. Tucci gave him a funny look. “Can’t that kid talk yet?” Putting his face close to Vinny’s, he spoke slowly and much too loudly. “Say airplane. Air-plane.”
Vinny put one hand over his eyes and the other over his nose. “Nabba,” he said. Which clearly meant Please go away, smelly man.
A few days later was the Feast. Once it had been a mostly neighborhood affair, with a Mass in honor of St. A and a block party afterward.
But over the years it had gotten bigger and bigger, till now people came from all over the city and suburbs. For days before, the church kitchen went 24-7, women in hairnets rolling out miles of pasta and stirring gallons of tomato sauce with big paddles. They made thousands of meatballs. Everyone prayed to St. Amphibalus for good weather, no rain.
He listened. That night, after Mass, and the procession with the little brass band, and the recent First Communicants riding on the back of a truck, and the Knights of Columbus marching in their sashes and white gloves, the street filled with people. The grills and fryers fired up, and you could practically eat the air. Sausage and peppers, cavatelli and meatballs, stromboli and gelato. Carnival rides and games in the church parking lot, gambling in the basement, drinking and dancing in a fenced-off square behind Mama Gemma’s.
Nella helped Dad work the sausage-and-peppers stand. When he threw the links on the grill, clouds of smoke rose. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, and his apron was streaked with grease. He clicked the big tongs like castanets, making her smile.
It was almost like before, when he was still her old, trustworthy dad. They worked side by side without talking much, a team, together.
Customers piled up three and four deep. If Clem had been here, Nella would have asked what law of physics explained how so many people could cram into such a small space. Nella got hugs from aunts and cousins who lived out in the boonies now. Two ugly ducklings who thought they were swans glided by—wait, no. It was Victoria and Kimmy. Nella wiped her brow. It was so hot near the grill, her hair was sweat-glued to her forehead. She was sure the pimples on her chin were swelling in the slippery heat.
“What’s it take to get service around this place?” Mr. Ferraro bellowed. Beside him stood his wife and oh no. Please no. Sam. Her face was already so sweaty, blushing was beside the point.
“Look who’s cooking, hon! Is our life insurance paid up?”
Mr. Ferraro was known for being a joker. When Nella was little, she was scared of him, he talked so loud. Sam smiled at Nella and shrugged. She clamped her arms to her sides in a pathetic attempt to conceal her pit sweat.
“Give me three of those babies, Nick, and throw in some Cokes.”
Dad tucked the sausages into rolls, and Nella added the peppers and onions. Mr. Ferraro handed over the money, and Dad made the change. But as he took it, Mr. Ferraro’s smile vanished.
“Hey, big mistake here.” A human megaphone. “I gave you two twenties!”
“Sorry, Bill. It was a twenty and a ten.”
“Hold on. Hold on a gosh-darn, flat-out, Christian minute.” Mr. Ferraro slapped his pocket like somebody was trying to pick it. “I don’t make mistakes when it comes to money!”
Nella could see the ten-dollar bill, lying right on top in the cash box. The other customers grew quiet, tuning in to the drama.
“Looks like it comes down to my word against yours!” Mr. Ferraro’s voice took on a hint of menace.
A long pause. Slowly, Dad pulled out some bills.
“The customer’s always right.”
Mr. Ferraro’s face shone with satisfaction. Nella looked to see what Sam would do, but he had vanished.
“Never mind, Nick.” Mr. Ferraro smiled a wide, ugly FART of a smile. “Everybody makes a mistake now and then. Am I right? Am I right? Consider it a donation to the church.” He took his wife’s arm. “Come on, hon.”
Dad quietly clicked his tongs. Open shut, open shut. Then he wiped his brow with his apron and asked the next customer what he could do for him.
Later, Nella stood behind the church, where the rides and games were set up. Bobby and his friend screamed their heads off on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Salvatore won a blow-up baseball bat at the ring toss game and, to Nella’s astonishment, handed it to a girl with sparkly butterfly barrettes.
She peeked into the church basement. No kids allowed. Mom didn’t approve of gambling, but Dad said it was the church’s biggest moneymaker so what could you do. Nella saw men’s hunched backs, heard someone shout and someone groan. She jumped back as a couple of men, looking unhappy, muttering to each other, came up the steps. Moments later, a few more men trudged up, trailing something—anger, frustration—behind them and out into the night.
Nella squeezed sideways through the crowds. She could smell herself—a walking sausage. The lines were long, and once you got your food there was no room to eat it. People jostled and elbowed, and a plate of meatballs launched skyward and splatted onto the street. A little girl dropped her elephant ear and it was immediately trampled. Babies cried. Some guys who stank like they had taken a bath in beer staggered through, laughing, spouting four-letter words.
Invaders, thought Nella. Overhead, the moon looked farther away than usual.
She saw Sam, standing alone, one foot propped against the wall of the social club. Wheeling in the opposite direction, she pushed deeper into the crowd. By the time she made her way to the lit-up bocce court, she was tired and cranky.
“Buona festa, Nella!” Mrs. Manzini called. Her little daughter, dragging her blankie, did an echo. “Buona festa, Nella!”
Nella said it back, but this party didn’t feel happy to her. The bocce players, who always took the game seriously, looked irritable, even more ready to argue than usual. They had the tape measure out, measuring the distance between balls, and everyone was leaning forward, gesturing, offering an opinion.
A bunch of college kids sat on the wall, spooning up gelato. They didn’t know the first thing about bocce. They looked amused, like they were observing zoo animals doing something weird.
Nella’s bad mood got worse.
It was dark now, almost time for the fireworks. Never, ever had Nella missed the fireworks, which she loved. She started back toward the playground, where her family always sat to watch. She’d cuddle Vinny on her lap, put her hands over his ears. Fireworks, she’d tell him, pronouncing the word slowly and distinctly, the way the pediatrician said they should. Gold. Red. Blue.
Was she imagining it, or were there more police here than earlier? She passed one holding a crackling radio. Feeling uneasy, longing for her family, she tried to move faster, but it was gridlock. Whomp! The first firework rose and exploded. All around her people craned their necks, and their faces took on an eerie, red-tinged glow.
Whomp! Whomp! Nella was trapped. The thick air took on that smell that always made her think of guns and war. The explosions rattled her chest. Hazy smoke rose in the streetlights. Across the street, at the bocce courts, voices began to shout. Nella couldn’t see what was happening, and at first she thought it was just the players having an especially loud argument, but now police officers muscled their way through the crowd.
“Coming through, coming through.”
Whomp! Whomp! A girl screamed.
“A fight,” somebody said. “Those damn college kids.”
People pushed one another, trying to see. Jostling, shoving. The air itself felt explosive, and Nella wanted only one thing. To be with her family.
Now, another wave of people shoved her backward up the hill, and she stumbled over the curb and onto the sidewalk. In front of Franny’s, where a SOLD OUT sign was taped to the window, a lunatic pigeon dodged among all the feet. Peering through the crowd, Nella saw a familiar gleam of yellow hair. Angela? But who was she with? An old man who shaded his eyes as if caught in a blinding glare. Like Nella, they were trying to make their way down the hill, away from this. The old man was stooped almost in half, and Angela’s arm was tight around him, like she was all that held him together. Like without her, he’d fly into pieces.
Another firework was launched, and as it burst Nella realized—the man was Angela’s father. That old, sick man was Mr. DeMarco. Red rocket light fell across his face, and on it Nella saw her own fear. Times a thousand.
Where was Anthony? Instinctively, she looked around. Something bad was happening—they needed Anthony!
But then she remembered: Anthony worked at night now.
The hungry mouth of the crowd swallowed them down. Trembling, on the verge of tears, Nella pushed her way forward till she finally reached the playground. There they were, in the same place they sat every year: her parents in their lawn chairs and the boys on the pony blanket at their feet. Nella grabbed Vinny and squeezed him tight.
“Nella.” Her mother took her hand. “Where were you? Are you all right?”
Now I am.
It was a fight between neighborhood boys and outsiders, they heard the next day. Kenny Lombardo was hitting on a college girl and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or a college guy taunted Kenny, calling him a goombah and worse. Or some thugs from the bottom of the hill showed up, just looking for trouble. Friends got involved. Bystanders got involved. Punches got thrown. A nose got broken. Arrests were made.
“Something wasn’t right this year,” said Mom. “There was a bad feeling in the air. I’m glad it’s over, and things can get back to normal.”
But the street was a disaster: trash everywhere, bushes broken and flower beds crushed, like an invading army had marched through. The bad feeling was still in the air. Over didn’t feel like the right word.