No Peace in the Quiet

Ellis Island, NY 1918

Gregorio tried to pull away from his mother, but her fingers tightened around his until his bones ground together. Tears sprung to his eyes, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of even a whimper.

“Talk!” Mama spoke in Italian so the Immigration Officer wouldn’t understand, although her meaning was pretty clear.

He inched away from her for breathing room. People were packed just as tightly around that officer’s table as they had been on the ship, like anchovies in tins—oily, smelly, and pressed together so he could hardly tell one from the other. But he didn’t talk. He had nothing to say that Mama wanted to hear. Before they crossed the ocean, he told her he didn’t want to leave Italy. Her answers were always the same. Papa was there, more family would come later, and he’d make new friends. The vessel hadn’t left the dock when she’d grown tired of his complaints and told him to be quiet. So, he obeyed. And still wasn’t talking.

The Immigration Officer scrutinized him, then looked up at his mother. “We don’t take no mutes. Get in line over there. He’ll have to go back.”

Perfect! He didn’t even have to open his mouth and was getting exactly what he wanted.

Mama squeezed his hand tighter. With her other hand, she grabbed his ear then twisted. In their native tongue, she said, “You talk right now, or I’ll tan your hide!”

“No!”

“So, the little whelp can speak, eh? You’ve got your hands full with that one, lady. Okay. Anna and George. Welcome to America.”

She released his ear then pointed at his name on their paperwork. “No. Gregorio.”

“No one here is going to call him Greg-or-i-o,” the officer said, taking his time on each of the syllables. “His name is George. Unless you want to go back to Italy?”

So Anna and George were processed into America. They left Ellis Island to find George’s father and start their lives as US citizens.

Vandergrift, PA 1933

George couldn’t remember who had set him up with Teresa. If he could, he’d punch him in the face for it.

Sure, she was a looker. But, God Almighty, she was a shrew. She had been nice enough at first, and she’d been real nice in the backseat of Papa’s car, but since then, well, he just couldn’t stomach her. He felt mighty bad, having ruined her for the next fellow, but there was no way he was sticking with her long-term. He just had to figure out how to end things painlessly. For both of them. It was a shame he didn’t have much flair with words. If he did, he would’ve cut her loose weeks ago.

When she came out of her parents’ house, she said, “You’re late.”

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

He sighed and opened the car door for her.

“You didn’t even kiss me hello.”

“Sorry.” He leaned toward her, but she batted him away.

“Not if I have to ask.”

George was more irritated at being swatted at than at not getting a kiss. He hadn’t wanted one, anyway.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked when he was behind the wheel.

“You mean you don’t have our evening planned?”

He had worked a long day at the foundry and was exhausted. The last thing on his mind was Teresa’s evening entertainment. With her extravagant tastes, he probably couldn’t afford it, anyway. “How about we drive out to the reservoir? We can sit and watch the stars.”

“How economical.” She shifted in the seat so she faced him. “George, we need to talk.”

Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d break up with him. “What about?”

“You remember that night?”

“What night?”

She smacked him again. “That night.”

Oh. “Of course.”

“I’m expecting.”

He heard nothing but the crickets outside and the sound of his pulse banging inside his head. The two combined into a dirge in his mind.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I… yes. Um…”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“This is where you ask me to marry you.”

The dirge grew louder, faster. “Oh, right. Marry me, Teresa.”

She threw her arms around him. “Yes, George. I can have the wedding planned in just a few weeks. You’ll have to ask my parents, obviously, but when you explain the situation, they’ll agree, and…”

He tuned the rest out. As soon as he heard her say yes, the dirge slowed to a stop. It was all he could do to make sure his heart continued beating.

New Kensington, PA 1955

The last of the patrons was gone, the last of the dishes were done, the last of the employees had gone for the night. His son balanced the cash register out front while George opened the back door to toss the garbage in the dumpster. He couldn’t wait to head home for the night. He was beat.

Just as he stepped into the alley, a loud bang sounded. A smattering of someone’s blood pelted his face.

A quick mental inventory told him all his parts were intact. He hadn’t been hit. George spun to duck back inside and check on Gregorio, but someone grabbed the door.

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones taking out the trash tonight.” The voice came from the shadows, then a man holding a gun stepped into the light.

George had seen him before. He wished he hadn’t. Trouble followed that guy like dessert followed dinner.

“I didn’t see anything. Honest.”

Sure he didn’t. He was covered in Louie Feretti’s blood—what wasn’t flowing out of the gaping hole in Feretti’s head and puddling in the alley. Poor Louie. He was a good guy. What had he been mixed up in?

How was George going to suffer because of it?

“George,” the man with the gun said. His grin was slick as olive oil.

“You know me?”

“I make it my business to know everyone in this town. Question is, do you know who I am?”

George shook his head. He would have lied if he had known.

“I’m Eddie DeSilva. This is my partner, Tony Palmeri.” He gestured to a man George hadn’t even noticed. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

“No.” This time he was lying. Like a convict.

“Really? I’d have thought our reputation had grown by now.”

“I don’t talk to many people.”

“You own a very popular restaurant. Isn’t schmoozing part of the package?”

“My wife and kids work out front. I cook.”

“Ah. Well. In any event, I’m sure you know our boss. Pauli Marconi.”

George swallowed. Hard. He wanted so badly to say nothing, but staying silent would only get him shot faster. “I may have heard the name once or twice.”

Eddie laughed. “You’re a cool one. I like you, George. Tell you what I’m gonna do.”

George wiped his palms on his pants. Hopefully Greg stayed inside until this was over.

“I’m gonna use your dumpster to dispose of this mess. In fact, the more trash you have to cover it up, the better. If the cops come asking what you know about Feretti, us, or anything that happened here, you’re going to talk our way out of this. Capisce?”

“Capisco.” He understood perfectly. He’d tell the cops anything so Eddie and Tony would be safe. So George and his family would ultimately be safe.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “I think we’re going to work well together.” He and Tony threw Louie into the dumpster then sauntered down the alley.

George turned to see Greg hiding in the shadows of the kitchen.

He had a long night of explaining ahead of him.

Pittsburgh, PA 1976

“I can’t believe it’s the centennial, Pop. Two hundred years. This country’s seen a lot of changes in that time,” Greg said.

George looked at his son and smiled. “You should have seen it when I got here.”

They continued loading the truck. It was nice having contacts in the Strip District. Other people had to run from store to truck then back, but he had his orders brought out to him. Hopefully Greg kept those relationships going after George retired. Family. Friends. Business associates. Even, God help him, Eddie and Tony.

Doing whatever he had to, saying whatever was necessary, just to keep people happy. And safe. In the dark recesses of George’s mind, he knew Eddie was the reason the food got delivered. He just didn’t acknowledge it aloud. Finally, something he didn’t have to speak of—at least, not until his son took over the restaurant.

“Is it really that different?”

What were they talking about? Oh, the good old days. “In some ways. Phones, cars, TVs. Immigration. But life at home is what you make of it. Things there haven’t changed all that much.”

“And things are still the same after forty-four years? I hope Carey and I can say that when we’re getting close to our golden anniversary.”

“Forty-three.”

“What?”

“We’ve been married forty-three years.”

“No. I’m forty-three. Mom said you got married in thirty-two.”

Uh-oh. “Oh. Huh. I guess I counted wrong. The years all blend together after a while. Truck’s loaded. Let’s go.”

“Pop. What year did you get married?”

“Like your mother said. Thirty-two.”

“Pop. What year?”

George wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief. Since when did simple conversation get you in trouble? Oh right. Since always. Since it made you a citizen of a country you didn’t want to live in, or got you married to a woman you hated, or made you an accessory to a murder that shouldn’t have happened. Now it might cost him his son.

“Thirty-three.”

“What the hell? All these years you’ve been lying to me? Why? Because I’m a bastard? God, Pop… did you even want me?”

“Gregorio, I love you. You’re the most important thing in my life, you and your brother and sisters. Of course I want you.”

“But did you then?”

“Well, it was a surprise to us. We weren’t married yet, so…”

“So, no.”

“Do you know how many children are unplanned yet are loved? Thousands. Probably millions.”

“Do you know how many kids aren’t interested in anything you have to say right now? This one.” He walked away.

“Greg!”

“Leave me alone!”

“I’m your ride home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

Finally someone didn’t want to hear what George had to say. And, while he didn’t have the words to make things better, he actually wanted to talk to his son.

Vandergrift, PA 1999

“Try not to talk, sir.”

The pain in his chest was unbearable. People all around him spoke as they lifted him onto a gurney. A mask covered his face, but it didn’t help his breathing.

His wife huddled in the corner, crying. Greg held her hand. Gina and Marta hugged each other by the door, their husbands behind them. Tommy whispered with the EMTs. The in-laws and the grandchildren hovered. Why was everyone there? Oh, Teresa was throwing him an early eighty-sixth birthday party.

George wouldn’t make it to the millennium. He wasn’t going to see eighty-six. Wasn’t going to see tomorrow’s dawn.

His chest burned red hot, pulsing agony through his limbs to his fingers and toes. His breath rattled as he struggled for air. There wasn’t much time. He had to tell Teresa he didn’t regret any of it. He had to tell Gregorio he was wanted and loved. He had to confess to someone about poor Louie in the dumpster.

He grabbed for his mask, but the EMT stopped him. “No, sir. You need that.”

There wasn’t time. His whole life people made him speak when he didn’t want to. Now he had important things to say, but no one would listen. As he fumbled again for his mask, Teresa put her hand over his.

And he exhaled his last breath, silently.