Chapter 11
Kenny felt overwhelmed when seated at a long table with so many people.
There were sixteen, including himself, when he’d been instructed to sit on Frankie’s grandmother’s left.
There was something about the elderly woman he liked.
Perhaps it was because he didn’t have a grandmother that he felt drawn to her.
Nonna sat at the head of the table, with her eldest son Francis at the opposite end facing her.
Kenny shared a slight smile with Frankie’s youngest sister Carolina, who had inherited her mother’s bright red curly hair, brown eyes, and freckles.
Everyone’s gaze was on Father Morelli, waiting for the young, newly ordained priest from the local parish to begin the benediction, when a stocky man entered the dining room.
There was something off-putting about him, and it wasn’t because of his all-black attire, but rather the fact that he had one brown and one blue eye.
A frown appeared between his strangely colored eyes when he met Kenny’s.
“I spend eight years in the joint eating with niggers, and now I have to share a table with one,” he spat out angrily. His outburst was followed by a chorus of gasps.
Frankie Delano stood up. “Abbastanza, Pasquale!”
“Enough, Frankie Delano. It will never be enough for me. You promised to take care of me, your cousin, when I went to the joint, but not once did I hear a word from you. Yet, you sit here like the fucking pope, holding court for niggers, spics, and half-wop and half-micks’ kids, while your own Italian flesh and blood rotted in a jail cell for eight stinking years! ”
A rush of color darkened Frank’s face even more than it normally was. “You come here and disrespect my home, my mother, brother, his wife and children, and their friends, and Father Morelli, and you want me to feel sorry for you?”
“No! Pasquale shouted. “I just want you to make up for what I lost when I got locked up. My wife and kids had to go on welfare.”
Giovanni D’Allesandro and Anthony Esposito rose at the same time.
“Sit down, Gio. I’ll handle this,” the police detective said, in a soft voice that was barely audible.
“Either you walk out of here now, or I’ll call some of the boys at the station house and have them lock you up.
And you know what that will do to your probation.
You’ll be violated, and you will have to serve out the rest of your sentence. ”
“Fuck all of yous!” Pasquale screamed. “Especially you, Frankie Delano! I will get you back if it’s the last thing I do. You will pay for what you did to me.” Turning on his heel, he walked out. He slammed the door so hard, the sound reverberated throughout the first floor.
Kenny, who had been holding his breath, was finally able to draw a normal one when the man Frankie’s uncle called Pasquale left. Although he’d directed his anger at Frankie Delano, Kenny had also become an object of his rage, because he was Black.
Nonna placed her hand over his. “Do not worry about him. He is a little crazy in the head,” she said in accented English.
Kenny smiled at the elderly woman, hoping to ease her distress when the tears filled her eyes. “It’s okay, Nonna.”
He’d told her it was okay when it wasn’t; not when he was constantly bombarded with news about the country’s racial unrest. Although Pasquale had referred to him as a nigger, Kenny understood that most of his anger was directed at Frankie’s uncle, and he wondered what he had promised to do after Pasquale was sent to prison.
Kenny glanced across the table and saw Frankie staring down at the tablecloth.
He wasn’t sure if his friend had been embarrassed by his cousin’s outburst or because his mother was crying.
Tears were streaming down Kathleen’s face as her husband attempted to comfort her.
“I can’t believe that SOB came here to ruin our Sunday family get-together,” Gio mumbled under his breath.
“We must pray for him,” Father Morelli said, in a quiet voice.
“Pasquale needs more than prayer, Father,” Frankie Delano countered.
“What he needs to learn is respect. Respect for himself and for the family. We invite everyone over the first Sunday of the month to stay connected, and this asino decides to show up and ruin it because he’s feeling sorry for himself.
He committed a crime, got caught, and was sent to prison.
That should’ve been the end of it. But he wants to blame everyone but himself.
” A beat passed as he looked at everyone sitting around the table.
“As of today, Pasquale Festa is no longer welcomed here. Father Morelli, will you please say the benediction?”
The tension in the dining room dissipated after the priest finished his prayer and dishes were passed around the table.
Kenny filled his plate with sausage and peppers, lasagna Bolognese, linguine with garlic and oil, and a meatball.
He stared at Nonna when she scooped a spoonful of something covered with melted cheese and placed it on his plate.
“It’s eggplant parmigiana,” she said.
“I’ve never eaten eggplant.” Kenny had admitted not eating it, because not only did his mother not cook it, but it was a vegetable that was as foreign to him as artichokes.
“Taste it. It’s very good.”
Picking up his fork, he took a small portion and popped it into his mouth. It literally melted on his tongue. “Wow. That’s good.” He took another bite. “This is really delicious.”
“You want to know how to make it?” Nonna asked.
Although he’d never had any interest in cooking because his mother cooked for him every day, his learning to cook something she’d never eaten before would definitely surprise Justine Russell.
“Yes.”
Nonna patted his hand again. “Then I will teach you. Ask your mama if you can come here, and I will teach you all about Italian food.”
Kenny smiled. He liked pizza, spaghetti, and meatballs, but that was the extent of his knowledge of Italian food.
Accompanying Frankie to his grandmother’s home had exposed him to foods he was unfamiliar with, because it was his first time eating olives, pepperoncini peppers, and marinated artichoke.
Even though he would ask his mother, Kenny knew she wouldn’t approve of him going to East Harlem. At least not alone or on public transportation. “I promise to ask her.”
“Buono, now eat up.”
It wasn’t until he sampled small portions of linguini with garlic and oil, asparagus with pecorino romano, baked ziti, and Nonna’s spaghetti and meatballs that Kenny knew for certain he wanted to learn to cook Italian dishes.
The sauce, called gravy, was different from his mother’s because it wasn’t as sweet.
Despite the tartness, it was the garlic that made the marinara not only flavorful but delicious.
It was the same with the tender meatballs seasoned with garlic and cheese.
He’d found himself mimicking everyone when he tore off pieces of homemade bread to sop up the remaining sauce on the plate.
His first trip across town, despite the intrusion of Pasquale Festa, was one he would remember all his life.
Kenny didn’t want to believe dessert would follow a meal that had left him unable to swallow another morsel of food.
It was coffee with panna cotta, anise and orange biscotti, cannoli, and tiramisu.
Once he sampled the affogato—espresso poured over a scoop of gelato—Kenny knew he would never eat ice cream again.
He managed to unbuckle his belt under the table and loosen it, because he felt as if he were going to burst. When he glanced over at Ray, he knew his friend was experiencing the same. Both had eaten too much.
Dinner ended when the women cleared the table and took platters and dishes into the kitchen. They’d made quick work of filling containers with leftovers and placing them in shopping bags. Kenny wasn’t certain what his bag contained, but whatever it was, he knew it would be something he’d enjoy.
He met Ray’s eyes and smiled when his friend showed him his bag. It was obvious the Torres family would get to sample some Italian food, too. Frankie Delano had volunteered to drive Kenny and Ray home, while Frankie would go back with his parents and sisters.
He approached them when they were prepared to leave. “Ray, I’m going to drop you off first before I drive Kenny home.”
He led them outdoors to his car parked in front of the brownstone.
Kenny sat on the rear seat of the car—it had seen better days, and he wondered why Frankie’s uncle, who’d professed to being a businessman, drove what he thought of as a jalopy.
Most businessmen, even if they weren’t that successful, drove nice cars, if only to enhance their image.
Frankie Delano dropped Ray off, waited until he disappeared into his building, then executed a U-turn and drove four blocks, parked along Central Park West, and walked with Kenny to his apartment building.
Kenny stopped in front of his stoop. “Thank you for driving me home.”
“I’d like to come up and ask your mother if it’s okay with her if I can pick you up and take you to my mother’s house for cooking lessons.” He almost laughed when he saw the boy’s jaw drop, his mouth gaping. “You do remember talking to her about learning to cook Italian food.”
Kenny lowered his eyes. “Yes, but I didn’t think she was that serious.”
“My mother never says anything she doesn’t mean to say.”
“Okay. I live on the second floor.”
Frank followed Kenny up the staircase to his apartment.
The building was old, but clean. The lingering scent of disinfectant and pine lingered in the air.
A business associate who had cultivated a connection with a member of the city council told him that certain neighborhoods along the West Side were slated to undergo urban renewal.
And that meant residents would be forced to relocate, many into public housing.
Kenny unlocked the door and walked in. “Mom, I’m home.”