Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [87]
That night, Giovanna wrote to Rocco telling him that she and Angelina would return to New York City within the month. But she also wrote that her return was based on the understanding that with the next payment from Nunzio’s settlement, they would move away from Elizabeth Street.
TWENTY-FOUR
Antonio climbed into bed after the long Christmas weekend. Christmas had fallen on a Friday this year, and for three long days he had not gone fishing.
It had been a particularly large Christmas dinner. His family had been joined by Zia Concetta and Zio Domenico, and his neighbors, the Cubellis, who had just returned from l’America. Antonio’s father, Giuseppe, would punctuate Signore Cubelli’s sentences with “Did you hear that?” every time he described the horrors they had to endure in l’America. Much to his father’s displeasure, in the two months since Giovanna and Angelina had returned to New York, twelve-year-old Antonio never missed an opportunity to voice his determination to go to l’America.
“Did you see my Zia Giovanna in l’America?” Antonio asked Signore Cubelli.
“L’America is big, Antonio!” chided the signore. “We were in a place called Pennsylvania. I worked from morning till night in a factory, never seeing the sun. The padrone would take our wages and put them in a bank. He said that our money would grow. I should have known not to believe something so stupid! Vegetables grow! Fungus grows! When the factory closed, so did the bank—with all our money in it!”
“Did you hear that, Antonio?” shouted Giuseppe.
“Giuseppe, let the boy eat,” reprimanded Fortunata, protecting her son. She knew her husband’s admonishments about l’America to be futile. Theirs was destined to be a divided family. There were few men left in Scilla for her daughters to marry, and it was only a matter of time before they received marriage inquiries from friends and family who had already immigrated to America. As for her sons, she knew the older boys, Orazio and Raffaele, would stay in Scilla; they already had their own families and boats. But she speculated that her younger sons, Salvatore, Franco, and especially Antonio, would be lured to the shores of l’America by the torch-wielding siren.
Twisting and turning on the straw mattress he shared with Salvatore and Franco, Antonio reached out and grabbed his cap given to him by Zia Giovanna. It was of fine wool, but most impressive was the hat’s silky lining. Fantasizing about his future in America and the fine suit he would wear, he fell asleep.
A hand shook Antonio’s shoulder. Even without light, he could tell his parents were up earlier than usual. It meant that they were rowing the women to Messina for work before going fishing and that his father was anxious to cast his nets after three days of rest. He heard his nephew crying to be fed, and Antonio watched his mother and sister-in-law shush him. They were waiting to feed the baby on the boat since the combination of milk and the lull of the gentle waves would put him back to sleep.
After dressing quickly, he headed outside to help his father. His older brothers, Orazio and Raffaele, were readying the boat that they shared next to their father’s slightly larger skiff. His brothers’ wives climbed onboard, babies at their breasts.
The men worked in silence. Only the sound of the chains unwinding from the great spools and releasing the boats into the sea cut into the predawn darkness. The chill of the December morning increased the family’s efficiency, and soon the two boats set off on a particularly placid sea just before five in the morning.
Giuseppe’s boat was full. Antonio, his older brother Salvatore, and his younger brother, Franco, had gone fishing with their father from the time that each of them turned six years old. Today, even the boys’ two older sisters were aboard. Fortunata thought that the wealthy woman in Messina would have even more work for them after the Christmas holiday.
“I’ll row,” said Giuseppe, uncharacteristically, to his sons. Antonio noticed that his father kept looking around as if a storm