Penny from Heaven

  Me-me hands me the list. She knows better than to give it to Pop-pop.

  “Ready to tear up the pea patch, old girl?” Pop-pop asks me as he slaps on his hat.

  “Ready,” I say.

  We start down the block. Pop-pop’s walking pretty good with his cane. I’ve noticed lately that he doesn’t have too much trouble walking when he wants to get cigars. It’s only when Me-me wants him to take out the trash that his old war wound starts acting up.

  “Hello, Mrs. Farro,” Pop-pop calls.

  Pop-pop was the block captain during World War II, so he knows everyone. During air-raid drills he had to go around the neighborhood making sure that people had their curtains drawn and their lights off; otherwise, the Germans and Japanese would know where to bomb us. Mrs. Dubrowski, who lives next door and is kind of eccentric, would never turn her lights off during the drills, no matter how many times Pop-pop tried to reason with her. Pop-pop said he thought that we were going to be bombed to kingdom come because of “that woman.”

  “Your tomatoes are looking well,” he says.

  “It’s all this sun,” Mrs. Farro says. “I think it’s our best harvest since the war.”

  Pop-pop says that during the war food was rationed, and near the end there wasn’t much meat, so people started making burger patties using mashed baked beans and called them Truman-burgers after President Truman. Me-me says that there were butter shortages, so we used margarine. She said it came in white slabs, and to make it look better, you would knead in the yellow-orange coloring it came with. I still don’t know what Germany and Japan had to do with us not having meat and butter. It’s just one more thing I’ll probably never understand, like why my mother doesn’t like my father’s family.

  My father’s family doesn’t talk about the war, but Pop-pop sure does, every chance he gets. Pop-pop’s favorite story is about a friend of his who was a translator. This fella was in college, at Harvard, and the government drafted him and taught him Japanese, and it was his job to interrogate the Japanese prisoners of war in California. The information he got from the prisoners helped the government decide to drop the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. The first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, but after the second bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, the Japanese gave up.

  Pop-pop showed me a photograph of the translator at the surrender of the Japanese at Tokyo Bay. He looks sort of sad. You’d think he’d be happy the war was over, but I guess he wasn’t.

  Sometimes I feel like a translator. Mother is always asking me this or that about my father’s family, and I have to try to figure out what she means, like it’s a different language. Certain things just get her upset. Like when she finds out that the uncles have taken me to Shady Grove Cemetery. I don’t know why this bothers her so much; you’d think she’d be happy I visit my father, but it has the opposite effect. Or if I go to the Catholic church with Nonny, she gets angry even though she doesn’t go to church herself. Or if they give me a fancy present or something like that. There are times when I just wish I knew the language she was speaking.

  “Can we get lunch at the Sweete Shoppe?” I ask Pop-pop. The Sweete Shoppe is a luncheonette that has a full fountain. They make awfully good egg creams and ice cream sundaes.

  “Got to eat, I suppose,” he says, and then mutters, “Reckon any place is safer than your grandmother’s kitchen.”

  The Sweete Shoppe is nearly empty; it’s too early for the lunch rush. There’s a lady with her daughter sitting in a booth and a man sitting at the counter sipping coffee.

  We take seats at the counter, and the waitress comes over to take our order. “What can I get for you?”

  “Hamburger deluxe,” Pop-pop says, and turns to me. “What’ll you have?”

  “A sundae with butter pecan ice cream, please.”

  Pop-pop looks at me. “That’s your whole lunch?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Don’t tell your grandmother,” he says.

  The food arrives and I take a bite of my sundae. It’s delicious. The hot fudge tastes perfect with the butter pecan ice cream.

  I watch Pop-pop as he carefully takes the lettuce and tomato and pickle and onion off the hamburger and sets them on a little plate on the side. He does the same with the fries.

  “Why don’t you just order a plain hamburger?” I ask.

  “I like the deluxe,” he says. “I like knowing I can eat it if I want to.”

  “But you never do,” I say.

  “What is this? An interrogation?”

  Pop-pop polishes off his hamburger in about four bites and then leans back and burps loudly. I pretend that I don’t know him.

  We pay and go back out and start down the street again. A bunch of men in army uniforms walk by us and enter the VFW hall. Usually on the Fourth of July, all the veterans get dressed up and have a parade. Pop-pop says that after the war ended, there was a big ticker-tape parade in New York City. Now that’s a parade I’d like to have seen.

  Pop-pop stops outside the tobacco shop. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  I sit down on the bench, where another kid is already sitting. His name is Robert and he’s skinny and only in second grade and he’s always sitting out here.

  “Want one?” he asks, showing me a handful of gum balls from his pocket.

  “Thanks,” I say, and take a red one. It’s warm and melting, but I pop it in my mouth anyway.

  “Where’s Frankie?” he asks.

  “At home, I think,” I say. I’m not surprised he knows Frankie. Everyone does. It’s just the kind of boy Frankie is.

  “What’s your father smoke?” I ask.

  “Camels,” he says. “What about yours?”

  “Cigars,” I say. “It’s my grandfather.”

  He nods wisely. “I thought he looked kind of old.”

  A boy named Arthur comes up with his father.

  “Wait here with the other kids, you hear?” his father tells him.

  Arthur sits down next to Robert. We’re like the three monkeys: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil.

  Next to the tobacco shop is a café. There are always old Italian men there, drinking dark coffee that looks like tar served in little cups and reading the Italian-language newspapers. They’re newspapers that are printed in Italian so people can find out what’s going on if they don’t know English. Uncle Nunzio told me that my father used to write for one of these Italian-language newspapers every once in a while, although his main job was writing for a regular English-language newspaper.

  “Buongiorno, signorina,” they call to me.

  “Buongiorno,” I call back.

  “How’s the professor’s little girl today?” one of them asks.

  “Good, thanks,” I say.

  They all loved my father. He used to help them when he was alive, translating and writing letters, because most of them didn’t know English. A lot of them fought for Italy in World War I.

  I’ve always thought it was confusing that Italy was on our side in World War I and on the other side in World War II. It must have been hard for my uncles who fought, because they might have been fighting against their own family. Maybe that’s why they don’t like to talk about the war.

  Stanley Teitelzweig and his older brother, Jack, walk by.

  “Hi, Penny,” Jack says, stopping in front of me.

  “Hi,” I say back, feeling a butterfly tickle in my stomach.

  “Having a good summer?” Jack asks.

  “Sure,” I say shyly. I’ve never really been interested in boys before, unlike some of the other girls at school, but Jack’s different. Something about his curly dark hair and his green eyes. He sure is cute!

  Stanley’s staring at my head.

  “Say, Penny, what happened to your hair?”

  “Uh—uh—uh,” I stammer, “I got it cut.”

  “Boy, you should go to a different place next time,” Stanley says.

  I close my eyes. When I open them, Pop-pop is standing next to Jack.
r />   “These boys bothering you, Penny?” Pop-pop asks with a scowl.

  “Pop-pop,” I say quickly.

  “They look like trouble to me,” he says, and burps loudly.

  “Come on,” Stanley says, grabbing Jack by his arm. “We’re going to be late.”

  As they walk away, Jack looks back at me. I can see the shocked expression on his face from where I’m sitting.

  “I got rid of them pretty good, didn’t I?” Pop-pop says in a pleased voice.

  “You sure did,” I say, and sigh.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nonny’s Underwear

  It’s a hot July day, but it’s nice and cool in Nonny’s basement.

  Frankie and me are helping with the laundry. I feed the wet clothes through the wringer like Me-me taught me. The clothes get squeezed through the rollers, and the water is wrung out of them. Me-me always says to be careful, because you can get your fingers pulled in the wringer if you’re not paying close attention.

  Nonny’s upstairs, arguing with Aunt Gina.

  “Mother Falucci,” Aunt Gina says, her voice loud, “I counted three eggs this morning. I would appreciate it if you’d at least ask me before taking things from my refrigerator.”

  Nonny shouts back in Italian, and Aunt Gina yells, “You know very well how to speak English!”

  “I don’t know how Uncle Paulie stands it. They’re always at each other,” Frankie says, shaking his head.

  Above us, a dish goes flying, and a pair of Aunt Gina–like heels clip-clops out the front door.

  “Sounds like Nonny won,” Frankie says with a small smile.

  I love Nonny. She’s a tough old lady.

  “Remember the kite?” I ask.

  Frankie smirks. “Bobby’s lucky he still has both hands.”

  One time when we were little, we were playing outside in front of Nonny’s with a brand-new kite that the uncles gave us. This older neighborhood bully named Bobby Rocco came along and tried to take the kite from Frankie. But Frankie, being Frankie, wouldn’t let that kite go, even though Bobby Rocco was twice as big as him. They started tussling, and Bobby just smacked Frankie like he was a fly, and poor Frankie fell on the ground.

  Well, Nonny was watching from the front window, and when she saw this, she grabbed up a meat cleaver and came running out, waving it at Bobby. She said that if he ever smacked Frankie again, he wouldn’t have anything to smack with—she’d chop off both his hands herself. He hasn’t bothered Frankie since.

  “So what do you think you’re getting for your birthday?” Frankie asks.

  Every year the uncles get me a big gift. Last year we went to the circus and then for a lobster dinner afterward. The year before that I got a fancy dollhouse. Frankie gets presents from the uncles on his birthday, too, but not as big as mine. The uncles are always trying to make up for my father being dead.

  “I don’t know,” I say, although I’ve been dropping hints about a new bicycle to replace the one Pop-pop ran over.

  “Do you think Uncle Dom would teach me how to drive?” Frankie asks. “I figure of all the uncles, I have the best chance with him.” What he means is Uncle Dominic is strange and does things nobody else does, like live in his car when there’s a perfectly good bedroom in the house.

  “Why do you want to drive?”

  “So I can get a real job—you know, make good money,” he says.

  “Frankie,” I say, “you’re too young.”

  “Hey, Miss Smarty-Pants, I can drive if I want. Joey Fantone is driving already and he’s fourteen,” Frankie says.

  Joey Fantone is almost six feet tall. The coach from the basketball team started talking to him when he was in elementary school.

  “But he looks like he’s eighteen,” I say. “And he’s not supposed to be driving.”

  “You’re saying I don’t look old enough to drive?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.” I look at him more closely. “What’s this all about, anyhow?”

  Frankie looks down. “Pop lost his job again.”

  Uncle Angelo is always losing his job. It probably doesn’t help that he likes to drink whiskey a lot. The other uncles used to give him money and help him out with work, get him jobs and everything, but then there was a big fight and now Uncle Angelo says he doesn’t want “nobody’s handouts.” But I know that Nonny and all the aunts sneak Aunt Teresa money, and Aunt Fulvia lets her get anything she wants from the store for free.

  “When we came home yesterday afternoon, he was on the couch. He said they just fired him for no reason. No reason at all.”

  “Oh, Frankie,” I say, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, Frankie’s face darkens. If there’s one thing Frankie can’t stand, it’s pity.

  We work in silence for a little while, and then I say, “Maybe you should ask Uncle Dominic. You never know.”

  “You’re just saying that,” he says.

  “Yeah, I am,” I say, and laugh, and he cracks a smile and I know we’re okay again.

  Frankie holds up a slinky-looking red satin slip. “Must be Aunt Gina’s,” he says.

  “Sure isn’t Nonny’s,” I say.

  “Hey, you think Nonny has black underwear?” Frankie asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and shrug. “Maybe. Everything else is black.”

  “Ain’t you curious?”

  “Not really.”

  “Come on. She wears black all the time, even in the summer,” Frankie says.

  “It’s a tradition, you know. Mourning clothes. Because of my father. Grandpa, too, I guess.”

  “Have I got an idea!” he says, a note of excitement in his voice. “We case her room.”

  “Why don’t you just ask her?” I say.

  “Nah, let’s spy on her,” he says.

  “Frankie . . .”

  “Well?” he demands, a bulldog expression on his face. “You gonna help or what?”

  Maybe because I want to know too, or maybe because Frankie is my best friend, my cousin, and I’d do just about anything to make him stop thinking about how his father will never be any good, I say what he wants to hear.

  I say, “Sure.”

  Nonny gives us lunch in the dining room. It’s ricotta-ball soup, which is really good. Nonny looks pleased when Frankie and me ask for seconds. There’s nothing she likes better than feeding people.

  The telephone rings. Since Aunt Gina’s out, Nonny picks it up and listens for a minute and then says, “Nobody home. Good-bye.”

  Frankie shakes his head. Nonny always does this if the person on the other end doesn’t speak Italian. She’s scared to talk on the phone.

  After lunch Nonny goes upstairs. She takes her bath in the afternoon, and then a nap, and Frankie figures that this is the perfect time to look in her room. We pretend to play cards, but when we hear the water start running, Frankie nods to me.

  “Go,” he whispers.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” I say.

  I creep upstairs, pausing outside the bathroom to make sure that Nonny’s in there. I can hear her humming, a soft song that sounds sort of familiar, like something you would sing to a baby. I hurry down the hall to her bedroom. I feel like I’m breaking the law by going in there; it’s just not something you do.

  The room is filled with large pieces of heavy, dark furniture, and there’s a crucifix hanging over the bed. In the corner is a washstand with a pitcher that I know she brought over from Italy, the only thing that survived the trip. The pitcher has been cracked and glued back together, and I can’t help but think it reminds me of Nonny: small but tough enough to leave a whole world behind.

  There’s a big four-drawer dresser, and I open the top drawer, the drawer where most people keep their socks. And sure enough, there are rolled-up balls of black stockings and neat stacks of black lace handkerchiefs. The next drawer down has black sweaters and blouses, but no underwear. The next one down has men’s clothes, tidy piles of trousers and button-up shirts with carefully mended collars
. With a start, I realize that they must have belonged to my grandfather. I don’t know very much about Grandpa, except that he played the mandolin. He died before I was born. Frankie says he heard Grandpa had some sort of fit and just keeled over. I wonder how long Nonny’s had his clothes in here, and then I wonder how come it’s always Frankie who’s coming up with these schemes and always me who’s doing them.

  Finally, I open the bottom drawer, and lying right on top is something that’s black and silky and I think I’ve hit pay dirt. Only it’s just a silk kerchief, not underwear, but when I move it, I find something else.

  It’s a photograph of Nonny holding a fat, round pudgy baby dressed in a white gown on her lap. I turn over the photograph and see that someone’s written “Alfredo.” It’s my father! They must have still been in Italy; they didn’t come over until my father was two. All the other kids were born here.

  Nonny is young in the photograph—her hair hasn’t turned white yet, and her skin is smooth, like porcelain. The photographer has caught the exact moment when she’s looking down at the baby and not at the camera, and the expression on her face is one of such happiness, such joy, that I just stare at it. She looks like the happiest mother in the whole world.

  Underneath the photograph is a black photo album, and I open it. It’s filled with newspaper clippings—articles written by my father. It looks like Nonny kept everything he ever wrote. Most of the articles are in English, but a few are in Italian. I start reading the articles, and it’s like he’s in the room with me, I can hear his voice so clearly in my head.

  This looks to be a close election with—

  The bathroom door opens and closes, and there’s the soft pad of footsteps making their way down the hall. I put the album back and shut the drawer just in time. Nonny opens the door wearing her bathrobe, which is black, naturally.

  “Penny?” she says, surprised.

  “Uh, hi, Nonny,” I say.