A Matter of Love in da Bronx (16 page)

--That's crazy.

--Don't you want to? Really? Believe me, this is our last chance. I won't ask again. I don't go where I'm not wanted... Vito's headed this way!

--Oh! God! All right! Yes. Tomorrow night. Eden Farms. Across from the...you know...

--The movies?

--The photographer's studio. Six o'clock.

--Promise.

--Promise.

--See ya.

--Hey! You!

--Yeah?

--I don't trust you.

--What do you mean?

--Think about it.

--Yeah?

--You promise, too.

--I see. Insecurity fosters insecurity. I promise.

Oh! Promise me that some day you and I...

Oh! Promise me that some day you and I...

How the hell did the rest of that song go?

Oh! Promise me...

Mary? Why?

--Because you're Sam Scopio, and I'm Mary Dolorosso.

Holy clean explosions, and a shivaree to thee and me! D-O-L-O-R-O-S-S-O. Deathbeat drumroll, please.

He found the night long, wonderfully sleepless, filled with phantasy and wonderment, to some extent about the Dolorosso thing but mostly about the forthcoming meeting.

Several times during the night he assiduously winnowed every bit of a seed of memory he could recall concerning the Dolorosso name. What became clear was that the facts he knew were broad generalizations which he knew well, but had very little detail with which to substantiate their existence, much as some family tragedy about which everyone knew, but of which no one spoke even in guarded moments either to deny shame or pain or whatever. What he did remember was that Germano Scopia, his father, and Rocco Dolorosso, her father, at one time was bosom buddies who eventually became partners in a window washing business. Sam remembered "Uncle" Rocco, a lively happy man who picked him up every time he came to the house always making time for some moments of playfulness. How dim the face. How abruptly he went away, it had to be at least twenty-five years ago. And "Aunt" Lily Dolorosso, who seemed closer to his mother than a sister. He recalled they used to walk arm in arm down the street, always seemed to be huddled together, always involved with one another. How dim her face, too. And then there was the accident, but wasn't the accident that caused the problem, it was something
about
the accident.

The two men had found a common need to join forces. It was difficult for one man to get a window washing contract for the big buildings in New York City. There was a great deal involved besides graft and negotiations, including assurances demanded by the agents that the work be done, done well, and on time. There was a matter of insurance which both agreed they'd cut from the budget to save money. Better than brothers, they'd insure each other. For a good number of years, they worked hard, prospered, saved money, and shared a vision of buying a duplex three or four floors far up in North Bronx where they could raise their families. They got to the point where they went looking for places. It all ended abruptly.

On this Friday, Rocco informed Germano he would quit work early because he was to renegotiate a new contract with a building agent. He would leave when he had to, and would go home alone where they usually travelled to and from work together, but only if Germano agreed. No question they looked out for one another, but working alone meant taking one's chances. Not another thought! Rocco was to go.

Late in the afternoon, on his way up to the next floor, Germano stopped on the floor assigned to Rocco to see if he was still working, or, if he had gone for the day. Not seeing him, German went about his business, and at the end of the day, went home. He informed Lily that Rocco might be home late because of the meeting. It was after ten o'clock when she called to say Rocco was not yet home. Unquestionably, he'd be home within the hour, they agreed. Probably had to buy a few rounds of drinks. But, that wasn't the case at all. It took several hours to confirm with the building's agent that although he did have an appointment with Rocco, it was never kept. Then, the night watchman at the building where they were working took an interminably long time to inspect the building both inside and outside in the alleys and landings, and report no sign or sighting of anyone except a couple drunks sleeping it off. Germano wasn't satisfied with that. He'd be down himself to take a look.

Germano found Rocco at five-thirty that morning, hanging by his safety harness on one window hook. He had a severe gash on his forehead, and lapsed in and out of consciousness. In those moments, when he came to, he shook and shuddered constantly, terror tearing through him like a blunt corkscrew.

Singlehandedly, Germano lugged Rocco's deadweight up and through the window, an incredible task.

The theory was Rocco was either getting ready to call it quits because it was a hall window, the window had been cleaned, although he had not yet opened it; or, he had unhitched one side of his safety belt preparatory to moving over to do the next window when he slipped, lost his balance, had a stroke, or any other thing. In his fall, his head collided savagely with the side of the building. The concussion knocked him out. Being a hot summer's Friday, the place became deserted early and rapidly; and, unfortunately, the accident happened in the bowels of the building's network deep in an alley where neither Rocco nor his calls were noticed nor heard. In addition, his sounds whited out by the huge running air conditioners on the roofs. Until darkness fell, he opened his eyes to see the ground, fourteen floors away.

His doctor wanted to release him from the hospital in two days. Inexplicably Rocco fought it. Seven days later, he was discharged, a wheelchair going home with him. And, Good Lord! He was still in it at the christening!

So, Rocco Dolorosso never went back to work. Rocco blamed the accident, and his hours of agony on Germano Scopia. The two men had not spoken since. In the row Germano quit the window washing business, Rocco forbade Lily to see Concetta. For many months it caused both women to have their eyes fill with tears at unexpected moments.

Sam wondered about many things involving the two families, but most of all, he was now anxious more than ever to know the exact and whole truth.

Best of everything, he understood why Mary's face haunted him. He remembered it from a long time ago. Strange how he'd forgotten all about her for so long, to have lived within two miles of each other and never to have met before this week. Ah! Destiny! How nice a package you provide.

Though he dwelled on these aspects several times during the night, the forefront of his thoughts was filled with the exultation of perfect reveries, wonderful thoughts.

Tomorrow night, for the very first time in his whole life, he had a date! He shunted aside anything to do with Dolorosso, and concentrated on the face and form who might just as well be called Louisa Golczek, although he caught waftages of sleep uttering, Mary!...Mary!...Mary!

The strangest aspect this night of the journey of the spaceship of his mind plying a barrage of outer orbit balcoscenic flashes was the unexplained, totally unnoticed jettison of more than two decades of self-defensive impedimenta. All such reasonings, all such excuses no longer applied. The basis for their very existence atomized by the materialization of a Scopio-Dolorosso assignation. Vanished! Were all his favorite photographic self-deprecations. Gone! The unappealing social pictures he drew, and redrew of himself. Flown! Were the justifications for his solitary existence. From being a near bit of an atom he exploded into a full-fledged feeling fellow equal to any man's emotions. But, not without the concern such approbation was due. Every beat, flash of a scene, kiss, caress, glance ended with a smothering doubt: --What if she doesn't show up! Bring back the garbage! No! He wouldn't allow himself that for a fraction of a splitsecondream understanding he wanted not to mar indulging himself in wishdreaming, the solitudinal's bliss. Had Mary not rejected him three times, he might've answered the question of whether or not she'd appear, but the heartsqueezepress had been turned down far too tight to allow him to consider the consequences of yet another turn of the screw. He knew. Squishsplattered out of him would be the will to live. How revolting a thought when the world went well, how welcoming when joy's juices dried up. With every imaginative flash ending with the possibility of her non-appearance, each one started with her moving expectantly towards him in the gathering dusk of Eden Farms.--How delighted I am you could come! No! You're prompt! Prompt! As royalty! Shall we stroll a bit? I didn't take the stretch limousine. I thought it would be too ostentatious. And, yes! If you don't mind, would you be kind enough to accept these small symbols of my appreciation: blue roses, Shangaleone parfum, and an emerald pendant for your birthday. Ah! Your favorites, I knew! It's no trick to recognize a distinctive, sophisticated style. It makes me happy that you're impressed. That was the intention... --How would she know of the roses, parfum and pendant if she doesn't show up! She wouldn't know how much I thought of her! Of what form my adoration took! How could she know to think well of me? Forget it! You're never going to see her again ever, and besides you'll be in a burying box by Friday! Better make it Monday in case she reconsiders...

Abed, thinking, Mary was more absorbed at first with criticizing her own appearance, based mostly on the aspect that if she'd known she was going to see Sam, she would've prepared in a much different way. Hairstyle, make up, clothes were done, re-done and re-done endlessly, because she didn't have to settle on any decision. Even so, she agreed she was beautiful, chic, although in these imaginings she never saw herself, only him. Sam Scopia! She should've known! She should've known! They'd been looking for each other for all these years! It could've been no one else! Destiny! Destiny! How his lips formed when he told her his name. How hurt he appeared when she sent him away, understandable now, but so surprising then. She understood better, too, that she was very defensive not because she thought he was a married man, as much as it was her concern that he represented the symbol of her shame for going to a pornographic film! What other reason would he have to be there if not to show her up to the world as a voluptuary? She cringed at the thought of all the fingers pointing at her like so many daggers. The sign hung around her neck would read “Mary Hotflesh.” Sexkettle. But, in the mirror she held up before herself, she was the little girl who cried out during the parade that the empress wore no clothes. Why should she deny her sensuality because her family raised her in the darkest of ages concerning normal human bodily functions? The ignorance had been smeared onto her, too, and she was suffering from trained response. In a long, roundabout way, Sam Scopia was the victim of a piece of it. Through destiny! He reappeared! She could correct her error. And she would do it, too. She'd explain what a frightened petty mind had directed her actions. Destiny! Destiny! Yes! How he'd sought out the wrong name to find the right person. Destiny! What more homage can a Mandatary pay but fulfill your command? Appropriately made up and dressed, of course. In addition, such an injunction balmed her conscience concerning Vito Cidrugli. He was involved with her life, peripherally, to please her parents. He was to them the epitome of the ideal son-in-law, a propertied man. He ran a bakery. To Mary, he always smelled of yeast and malt. It was the one moment of freedom she was allowed, when he came to get her for a Sunday afternoon walk, to Bronx Park, usually, or the movies, or a dinner date. She wouldn't let him kiss her, so after a long while passed; he got up the nerve to ask her the reason. She was prepared with an apocryphal answer:--Because every time I return home after being with you, when my father asks if you made any advances, if you kissed me, I would have to say `yes,' and that would make him think less of you; perhaps even make me stop seeing you. Do you want that? Little did he know her father's real attitude was more like why she didn't in the least give him a cheap feel! Whatever, Vito rose to the occasion, satisfied to kiss her hand, which wouldn't be improper, but rather a dignified, respectful, if not the European salutation found more than awkward in America. Well, naturally, father wouldn't have to be told about that. The point was that so much was made of so little that she had a twinge of disloyalty towards Vito because she was going to see someone else. --Gilda...? She thought better of it. She knew what Gilda would say about any guilt feelings concerning Vito. --Auntie! Don't be a silly ass! The autodialectical review effectively and emphatically settled the matter of Vito Cidrugli. The viewscreen of her mind was immediately usurped with a more compelling concern: the actual meeting with Sam. Interestingly enough, she dwelled not at all on whether or not Sam would show up, but whether she would make it! It wasn't a question of whether or not she wanted to keep the appointment, but derived solely from the consideration that something might prevent her from being at Eden Farms the following day. Nothing specific. Not even an inkling. A mere fretting nursed by the languid pulsing of her bedmate's self-indulgent ministrations which used to ease her to sleep, but now served as a transport from one thought to another. Make a note! How and where to contact Sam? The upholstery shop, yes, but where else? Not his home, wherever that was, certainly, unless there was a code, or a third party! Good! Next, Louisa must promise to meet Sam at Eden Farms in case she's hit by a cab crossing the street, or something. Couldn't do--even if she was dead--to have him think she'd stand him up.

Next? Is he single? Get entangled with a cheating man?

Next? Where does he live? If he's single, does he have his own apartment? Oh! Lord! What if he asks me up there, and we're alone, just the two of us. Would he try anything? Would I let him? Even the first time? He'd better not dare! But, suppose, like me, he lives with his parents? Oh! Damn! Double damn-damn!

Next? I wonder if he likes me.

Next? A lot or a little?

Lord! Every single night, Gilda! I wonder if that's the way we're all supposed to be?