By Joe Giordano
On a humid Brooklyn Saturday in July, the sweet bouquet of honeysuckle blossoms competed with grilling sausage and peppers. Sitting in a lawn chair at an outdoor table under the shade of a floppy umbrella, my Great-uncle Ralph evaluated me with clear brown eyes. Well into his nineties, wiry, with a full head of white wavy hair, his beard stubble had sandpapered my cheek when he kissed me in greeting.
“They’re almost done,” I said poking chubby pork links with a long fork. A pan of sautéing onions and peppers also sizzled over orange-glowing charcoal.
He sipped his red wine and said in a philosophical tone. “Lately, I drink more.”
“It’s good for you.”
“I’m at an age that if the shop tells me a red will be better next year, I don’t buy it.”
I tried to sound supportive. “Doctor Sprandio says your heart is strong.
Shrugging, he searched for an Italian station on his antique radio, tuning to a crackling Domenico Modugno singing “Volare.” His mood turned reflective.
I filled chunks of crusty Italian bread with sliced sausage, peppers, and onions and gave each of us a hero.
His brown-spotted hand, veined like a tobacco leaf, snapped off the radio but he didn’t eat. Instead, he leaned back.
“When I was eighteen,” he began, “your Great-great-uncle Nunzio sponsored my emigration to the States. He owned a small fishing boat in San Francisco. A kind man, he instructed me at sea for just a few months when he suffered a heart attack and died.”
He’d never spoken to me about his history before, and I put down my sandwich.
“He left me his boat, an incredible gesture. I found myself with the means to earn an independent living, and my emotions were bittersweet. He’d treated me like a son, and I mourned his death, but I also felt elated over his bequest.
“Understandable,” I said.
He flashed an ironic smile. “Unfortunately, the year was 1942. WWII raged and Italians were classified as enemy aliens. San Francisco was a strategic port, and Italian fishermen had to leave. A couple of Federal agents confiscated the boat, and I was taken into custody and deported to an internment camp in Texas.”
I sat frozen by the revelation.
“Texas. Hot as Mount Etna without the Mediterranean view.” He scoffed. “And the food.” He scrunched up his face before taking a gulp of wine, presumably to blot away the memory.
“How did you get to New York?”
“Upon my release, I learned the boat had been wrecked. A cousin in New York recommended me to a boss, and I became a numbers runner for a Little Italy mob.” He hefted his hero. “I rose to become a capo.” He shrugged self-consciously. “Bosses get their hands dirty.”
A Mafia thug! I maintained a poker face. His peering brown eyes indicated he tried to read my thoughts. What did he want from me? Acceptance?
His gaze held me. “If you had the means to change your destiny, would you take it?”
I should have said “yes,” but remained silent.
He grunted, then bit into his hero. “Delizioso,” he said, his eyes no longer meeting mine.
Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife Jane now live in Texas. Joe’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah, and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember. His novels include, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, and the Anthony Provati thriller series: Appointment with ISIL, Drone Strike, and The Art of Revenge. Visit Joe’s website at https://joe-giordano.com/
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