After school, I stopped at Mrs. Albertini’s house and rang the bell. I’d never done that before. At least, I’d never done it without Mom asking me to drop something off or help with some other chore. This time, I didn’t really have a reason. I just did it.
When Mrs. Albertini opened the door, I braced myself for the killer cleaning products and stale cheese combo stench, but instead, her house smelled like hamburgers and onions. My stomach growled.
“Come in, Danny, come in.” Her flowery dress had short sleeves, large pockets in the front, and a long zipper that went straight down the middle. It was the same kind of dress that all the old ladies in the neighborhood wore. Hers was so big that she could probably fit three other people in there with her.
I thought she would seem surprised or ask me what I was doing there, but instead, she acted as if she’d been expecting me. She even had two slices of Scholly’s chocolate-frosted pound cake already waiting at the kitchen table.
“Do you always put out two plates of cake?” I asked. If Mom were here, she probably would have given me an elbow or her sideways eye to let me know it was a rude question. Maybe it wasn’t the politest thing to say, but I was curious, and it was too late to take it back.
“No,” Mrs. Albertini answered without any further explanation. Then she poured lemonade for me. I sat down in the farting chair by the window and took a sip.
“Thanks,” I said, in case she was annoyed about that last question, but also ’cause I knew I should say it anyway.
“How are you, Danny?” she asked.
“Okay, I guess.”
“That was always the answer my Anthony would give when something was troubling him. Is there anything on your mind?”
I shoved a forkful of cake in my mouth and gulped it down. The wrinkles around Mrs. Albertini’s eyes were all perfectly spaced, kind of like the rings in a tree’s trunk. We’d learned in science class that you could tell how old a tree was based on those rings. I knew that wasn’t true for humans, but I had a feeling Mrs. Albertini’s wrinkles were plenty old. She did remember all those planes and boats disappearing in the Bermuda Triangle, and that happened a really long time ago.
“Did Mr. Albertini work at the factory?” I took another huge bite of cake followed by a swig of lemonade.
“Absolutely,” Mrs. Albertini answered. “He worked there from the day he got out of the army. Just about everyone here did. Still do as a matter of fact. It’s the heart of Croyfield. That and my Anthony’s market, of course.”
“And Scholly’s Bakery,” I said, my mouth still full.
“Yes,” she laughed. “We can’t forget about Scholly’s Bakery.”
“But when Mr. Albertini worked at the factory,” I said, making sure not to put more food in my mouth while talking, “did he—I mean, did his boss . . .”
“What is it, Danny? You don’t have to be shy with me.”
“Well, it’s just . . . when he worked there, did he ever get promoted?”
A huge smile formed across Mrs. Albertini’s lips, pushing the wrinkles around her mouth up toward her ears. “He most certainly did. Worked himself all the way up to head production manager. Not bad for a kid who never finished high school.” Her eyes shifted to a shelf above the sink, where a framed black-and-white photo of a man in an army uniform sat between two fancy plates on stands. Apparently, Mrs. Albertini collected fancy plates too. “We were all so proud of him.” Then she looked me straight in the eyes. “But you need to stay in school. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. As long as she was giving me chocolate-frosted cake, I’d pretty much do whatever she told me to do. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course.” She stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter. “Come. You can help me roll cabbage. It’s Anthony’s favorite, and I promised I’d make some for him.”
“I don’t know how to cook.” I finished the rest of my cake in one bite before walking over to stand next to her.
“I’ll show you. It’s easy.” She pulled over a pan lined with big cabbage leaves, took a spoonful of the chopped-up meat, rice, and onions I’d smelled, and dropped it into the center of one of the leaves. “My mother taught me how to make this when I was your age. It’s easiest if you fold in the short ends first, then roll the long ends.” She demonstrated on the one she’d started, then handed me the spoon. “Go ahead and try.”
I did what she said, but my cabbage tore as soon as I started to roll it. Meat spilled over the edges.
“I’m no good at this,” I groaned.
Mrs. Albertini laughed. “I’ve torn many pieces of cabbage in my day. The trick is not to overstuff. It takes practice to get just the right amount in there, but don’t fret. It will still taste delicious.”
I watched carefully as she rolled the next few pieces. Then she had me try again on the last leaf. I used less filling this time. It still didn’t look right.
“You said you wanted to ask me something else?” Mrs. Albertini said. She filled her teakettle with water and put it on the stove to heat up.
I handed the spoon back to her. “It’s about the factory. Did the other people who worked there get promoted too?”
“Well, I don’t know about everyone.” She took a can of crushed tomatoes out of the cabinet. “But many did. Mind you, they didn’t all rise to senior management. It took Mr. Albertini many years and a lot of hard work to get to that spot. It wasn’t easy, and the factory did have its share of rough patches. There were plenty of years where there weren’t any promotions at all and years where people lost jobs too. But for the most part, the factory has been very good to the people of Croyfield. Even in difficult times.”
I nodded, watching as she opened the can and poured the tomatoes on top of the cabbage rolls.
“Is that what’s worrying you?” she asked. “Is there talk of money troubles at the factory? I still have a few friends down there, although not as many now that Mr. Albertini is gone. But I haven’t heard any rumors of layoffs. Is your father worried about losing his job?”
“No,” I said. “It’s nothing like that. I mean, he hasn’t mentioned anything.”
“Good.” She smiled again, and this time, the wrinkles around her eyes scrunched together like a pack of squiggly worms. She added a bunch of other ingredients to the pan and put it in the oven. “But something’s still troubling you.”
I looked away from Mrs. Albertini and her wrinkles. “My dad’s been working at the factory for twenty years. He’s never gotten a promotion. My sister says it’s ’cause he’s Jewish.”
The kettle on the stove started to smoke and whistle. Mrs. Albertini walked over to it and poured her tea. Then she sat back down at the table and sighed. I joined her.
“Mr. Albertini had hoped to change all that once he made it to senior management,” she said.
“So what my sister said is true?” Nothing could fill the sudden pit in my stomach. Not even another slice of pound cake. “But that’s not fair.”
“You’re right. And Mr. Albertini understood that better than anyone. He even put in a promotion recommendation for your father. He knew it would be difficult, and he was prepared to fight. He wanted so much to improve things.”
“But my dad didn’t get promoted. He’s never gotten promoted. Why couldn’t Mr. Albertini make it happen?”
Mrs. Albertini stood up again. This time, it was to walk over to the sink, where she picked up the photo on the shelf.
“He died,” she said sadly. “My Gino died.”