Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [42]
Giovanna calmly sent Domenico back out, ordering him to wait on the doctor’s stoop. She closed the door behind him and turned to her sister-in-law. “Teresa, this baby is not going to wait for the doctor. Do you want me to help you?”
Having birthed three babies, Teresa knew Giovanna was right and managed to nod yes before the next contraction.
Two hours later, Domenico burst through the door with a panting American doctor who had been dragged through the streets. The apartment was quiet; Teresa was feeding her newborn, and Giovanna was scrubbing sheets.
“Why do you women all have to deliver at the same time?” groused the doctor. He pulled the blanket from the baby and gave her a quick once-over.
Giovanna didn’t stop washing but kept an eye on the doctor. She didn’t understand what he was saying, but she followed his actions.
“She’s little but looks healthy. Let’s take a look at you.” He motioned Domenico into the hall and examined Teresa. “No rips, but the baby was small.” He called over to Giovanna, “Did you deliver this baby?”
Giovanna shrugged apologetically. “Non parlo inglese.”
The doctor opened the door and called Domenico into the room. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing to Giovanna.
“My aunt.”
“Did she deliver the child?”
“Of course.”
“Ask her if she’s a midwife.”
“She is.”
“Then why did you get me?”
“Mamma told me to.” Domenico looked at the doctor like the man was an idiot.
“I’ll never understand you people,” he muttered. Turning to Domenico, he said, “Tell your aunt to go see the midwife Lucrezia LaManna at 247 MacDougal Street. She needs help. There are not enough people to deliver all these Italian babies.”
“Okay. Do I tell Mamma anything?”
“Yes”—he snapped his bag shut—“tell her not to have any more children.” The doctor left and with him went the stale smell of scotch.
Giovanna waited outside the fence at Brooklyn Union Gas. It was near quitting time, and she watched the men gather their tools and tin lunch boxes. A whistle blew and sweat-stained workers streamed out of the gate; Giovanna stopped the first Italian face she saw.
“Signore, do you know Nunzio Pontillo?”
“No.” He turned quickly to another man. “Hey, is there a Nunzio Pontillo on this job?”
“No, no,” protested Giovanna. “He was working here. My husband. He was killed on the job, almost a year ago. I want to find someone who worked with him.”
The man sighed sympathetically. “I’m sorry, signora. Most of us are a new crew they brought in to line the tank.”
Giovanna noticed another man who had stopped walking but hung back. For a moment they stared at each other. “And you, signore, do your remember my husband, Nunzio?”
The first man spun around to see whom Giovanna was talking to and exclaimed, “Oh, Nospeakada! He was here when the accident happened. I think he’s the only one left.”
“Did you know Nunzio?” Giovanna repeated.
“Signora, he hasn’t spoken since the accident.”
Giovanna didn’t avert her gaze from Nospeakada. “Can you please help me?”
The other man noticed a foreman at the gate staring. “Signora, he can lose his job. It’s no coincidence that the only guy left on the job is mute. It’s best we all go.”
“Here’s my address.” Giovanna pressed a scrap of paper into Nospeakada’s hand. “Please, if you find your voice, I would like to talk.”
The other man had already walked away and was motioning for Nospeakada to join him. Nospeakada glanced back at both Giovanna and the foreman and left.
With so many hours on her hands, she walked from Brooklyn back to the Lower East Side. It became apparent that here in America you would have to find beauty in different things, but she had a hard time getting past the filth.