Part 17 (1/2)

Monica looked at Anthony, then at the family, and then at Anthony again. He felt the wetness in his eyes, a tear running down his left cheek. He watched her piece together the snippets of his story, shared over coffee and pillows during their engagement. Her eyes widened, mouth shaping into a small O.

”Your grandfather,” she said.

Anthony nodded, wiping away the tears from both cheeks. There were still a few people getting off the boat.

”The records say he was here. I haven't seen him yet,” he said, gaze roving back across the faces. She punched his shoulder.

”Why didn't you tell me?” Monica stepped in front of him, pressing closer. The lavender of her perfume mixed with the lingering antiseptic scent. She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. ”Talk to me, husband.”

Anthony closed his eyes, listening to the waves, the seagulls. The crowd was thinning; he could pick out individual voices, words in different languages. He took a deep breath, willing the dark despair back down his throat before opening his eyes.

”Talk to me, baby,” she said. ”Let me in your head.”

”It doesn't matter.” Anthony looked past her face, past the sunlight in her hair to the ferry beyond.

”Bulls.h.i.+t.” Anthony's attention snapped back to her. Her cheeks burned red, the light flashed in her eyes. ”It does matter. You brought me here, you chose this for our honeymoon, and you didn't tell me the real reason why.”

It sounded stupid as he said it. ”I thought you would be mad.”

”Jesus,” she whispered, pulling away and turning to look back at the boat. ”I want to hold you and slap you at the same time.”

The few immigrants who remained clutched multilingual handbills promising work while following better dressed men into the city. Anthony slowly reached out to her. When his hand brushed the soft hair on the side of her neck, she tensed, and then leaned back into him.

Her voice was soft. ”This is your grandfather who had the stroke, right?”

”Yeah,” Anthony said. ”I was an idiot, arguing with him over stupid things. Probably sent his blood pressure through the roof. Caused it.”

Monica slid under his arm until she was facing him again. ”Good to know some things don't change,” she said smiling, and kissed his cheek.

Anthony pulled her close and spoke into her hair. ”They're raising the ramp now. I missed him. I only know he was on this ferry, then in the mines two weeks later.” He sighed. ”We only have a few hours left before we have to go.”

Monica kissed him again. ”We can finish the tour. We can just go to that speakeasy, baby, and try to enjoy ourselves.”

Anthony tried to smile as they turned away from the dock. ”This is the past, and I have to concentrate on the present, right?”

The alley outside the club stank of p.i.s.s and nausea. Inside, it was clean and glittering. The jazz quartet's jackets shone silky blue, and waiters brought gin in teacups to the tables. Cigarette smoke hung in a low cloud over the dancing crowd.

”Are you sure it's safe?” Monica asked when the music paused.

”Relax,” Anthony said. ”There's no raid here tonight. They checked that when they made up the itinerary.”

With a musical slide of notes, the trumpet player led the band into another song. A young woman, hair bobbed and hose turned down, danced past their table. Her arms and legs flew in a frantic Charleston.

Monica drank the rest of her gin in a quick motion. ”C'mon baby,” she said, grabbing his hand. ”Let's dance.”

Despite the month of lessons at home, Anthony's limbs did not want to cooperate at first. A live band and a busy dance floor just seemed different from the living room floor and old recordings. But after a few missteps and one slightly mashed foot, he started to feel his body relax into the music. Monica's mouth had broken into a huge grin as their hands flitted from knee to knee.

Then Anthony saw him.

The busboy was clearing a table, as awkward as Anthony had originally felt on the dance floor. Anthony stumbled, his limbs suddenly numb and unresponsive. The earliest pictures of his grandfather had not prepared him for how much the young immigrant would resemble the man he had grown up with. The wood floor banged into Anthony's knee, a sharp spike of pain sweeping aside the rest of his confusion.

”Are you okay?” Monica asked as the band finished the song.

”He's here,” he said, gesturing to the busboy. Monica glanced over while Anthony picked himself up. ”I'm going to talk to the owner.”

A ten dollar bribe and ten minutes later, Anthony watched confusion ripple across his grandfather's face. The stern man he expected was not there. The lines, the weariness from the mines, had not yet appeared. He was just a boy, alone in a new land, summoned away from his new job by a tip for more money than he would make in a week.

”How can I help you?” his grandfather said in his thick accent.

Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but his chest and throat tightened around the words. Monica spoke into his silence. ”Are you Antonio Marinelli?”

His grandfather's eyes widened. ”I am he. Who are you?”

Anthony felt the vibration in his pocket. Monica looked at him a second later; her recall device had vibrated its five-minute warning to her, too. Their vacation was nearly over. Anthony took a large drink from the teacup.

”What are your plans, Mr. Marinelli?” he asked.

His grandfather took a long look at Anthony, and then laughed. ”Plans? I have a room I share with five men, and they say we are lucky! The padroni get me a room, this job, but they want me to work more. They tell to get me to go work in the mines, but . . .” His grandfather sank back in the chair. ”Is it worth it? Perhaps I return to Italy soon instead. America could be a mistake.”

The recall vibrated again. Three minutes. Anthony covered his grandfather's left hand with his own. ”It will be worth it, I swear. All of it.”

His grandfather's eyes narrowed. ”Do you know me?”

Anthony kept his eyes locked with his grandfather. He spoke fast, hoping the man's English could keep up.

”It will be hard. After you leave the mine, when you think you are done with work and children, an ungrateful child will be in your home.”

His grandfather tried to pull back, crossing himself with his free hand. ”Una maledizione!” he whispered.

Anthony held tight. ”No curse. You will think this child is a failure. He will be too stupid to appreciate you. One day, though, he will be successful. He would have made you proud. He will realize how much you meant to him.” His grandfather stopped pulling his arm away, instead leaning toward Anthony. ”But by then, it will be too late to tell you.”

His grandfather lapsed into muttered Italian again for a moment, and then said, ”Are you an angel? A demon?”

”I am no demon, Nonno.” Anthony said. The room began to fade as his recall device pulled him back through the centuries. The music of the band faded, too, sounding less like a live band and more like a record played long ago.

Anthony threw himself on the bed, and then glared back at his grandfather through his bangs. The old man looked small next to the oversized black light posters, his starched white s.h.i.+rt and teeth glowing.

”You cannot go out with them, Anthony. You are grounded. They are bad boys, and you cannot go with them.”

The ancient jazz from his grandfather's record player in the living room was yet another way the old man was behind the times.

”You don't understand! You can't understand. You're not even from this country. You don't get it!”

Anthony stared at his headboard, not wanting to even give his grandfather the satisfaction of eye contact. But out of the corner of his eye, Anthony saw the old man smile a little, his lips curving into the words, ”You're welcome.”