UNCLE DANNY

UNCLE DANNY

           The Astramati had not completely settled into their Brooklyn home when Anna met Demetrio Pagliaro. He had just rented the fourth floor for what Gus called cheap. The tenant did not agree for the following reasons: just below the roof, it angled downward at the back, like the slant above. Thus, a good deal of space was amputated. The heat was transmitted from the roof tar and only partly dissipated by open windows, making summers unbearable. Winters were uncomfortable because the hot water heat had as much difficulty with the climb as the tenant. These objections did not move Gus.

           Demetrio was almost a head shorter than Gus. He looked to be about 30. His light brown hair, cut short, was already thinning. A narrow face and a wide nose were not appealing, his welcoming smile and easy laughter were.            

           Demetrio—shortened to Demì—was a master carpenter who had made the furniture he lugged into his flat. Gus, rather handy at carpentry, was much impressed. Demì liked baroque curves, carved flowers, sculpted faces, and animal heads. All of this was displayed on a chair, a table, a chest, in mahogany.

           “Where the hell did you learn to go that?” Gus asked.

           “Palagorio, where I grew up.”

           “Never heard of it.”

           “It’s a town near Crotone. Maybe you know it as Puhëriu.

           Gus was surprised and thrilled, not having vetted his tenant. He grabbed and shook Dimì’s hand, shouting, “Gjaku shprished!” This translates as scattered blood, referring to the diaspora of Albanians by the advancing Ottoman Turks in tha 15^th Century. Then began an excited dialogue in Italo-Albanian.

           Gus did not lower the rent but did invite Demì down for meals with the family. Cristina’s were sumptuous and brought tears and praise for dishes “as good as my mother’s, pace all’ anima sua.”

           Gus had placed Anna, the eldest daughter, opposite Demì. Cristina, suspecting his motive, gave him one of her warning looks. As usual, he ignored it. Anna looked very much like her mother in pallor, face, and chestnut hair but was somehow softer. She was also heavier, though not unpleasantly so. Life had sharpened and coarsened Cristina’s face as well as her personality.

           “So how did you come to this land of the free?” Gus asked. “Not that we’re so free yet.”

           “I came for work. I learned my trade in Puhëriu, but there was nobody who could afford the furniture I made. And Zot roti?” This is a term of high respect, translating as Lord thou.

           “Please, I’m no Zot! Far from it. Talk to me as an equal. I came because there was not enough bread on the other side. I worked my ass off and, when I finally scraped enough together for a house, I brought my family here to live in it. Paved with gold? Bullshit!”

           “And you took long enough to do it. It’s only when I had Anna write that we were starving that…” Cristina began.

           “Si canta la solita,” Gus finished. (Translation: ‘She’s sing’n the same song.’) “Pay no attention.”

           Demì was a great storyteller and Enna and Ernie never tired of his ‘Zelinda e il Mostro,’ an Italian version of ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ Enna was still young enough to sit on his knee. Ernie, a bit older, would have liked to sit on the other knee but was too embarrassed to ask, and would sit on the floor, eyes upturned. Demì would produce the most frightening roars of the monster.

           “What would you do?” he asked Enna. “Marry the monster?”

           “No!” she said, twisting her head violently.

           “I’d kill him!” Ernie shouted.

           “How would you do that?” Demì asked.

           “With this!” He picked up a convincing wood machine gun Demì had made for him. It had a gear worked with a crank that would sound a clapper. Ernie pointed it at Demì, echoing the clapper with convincing bullet sounds.

           Demì groaned but when Enna saw him dying, she said, “I’ll marry you, I’ll marry you!”

           Anna, doing housework, stood nearby, and listened, entranced, until Cristina warned her away.

           Demì became Danny since gli Americani had problems with the former. Danny regaled the kids, Anna’s listening concealed, with hunting stories. He created a mythical Black Pole, by which he meant Rocky Point in Long Island. Periodically he would bring back venison, which Cristina would cook with grumbles about how tough it was. Everyone else loved it. Ernie would visit Danny’s cramped and too-hot or too-cold aerie, where he stored his rifles in a flamboyant case he had crafted from his usual mahogany. He had sculpted animals on it, some facing out, others springing. He would let the trembling Ernie hold the unloaded weapon.

           “It’s a Carcano M91. They were used in the war. I was lucky to escape it, so I use it to hunt deer.”    

           “I love the smell. What is it?”

           “It’s not the gun, but the oil I use to lubricate it.”

           “Can I go hunting with you?”

           “I’d love to take you, but we would have to get permission from your father.”

           Father readily gave permission, but Mother raised strenuous objections.

           “How will he grow up if he doesn’t go out into the world?” Gus asked.

           “Does he have to go out with guns and risk his life?” Cristina barked.

           “I will make sure there is no risk, Signora. The main lesson is how to use a gun safely. I will guarantee to keep him safe.”

           “If you don’t, Demetrio, I will slit your throat.”

           Danny set up a target against the brick wall of a garage marking the end of the backyard. He carefully delayed firing the first shot with a course on gun safety that drove Ernie to distraction. Then the firing began, drawing flocks of neighbors and the police. They were eventually convinced that all was in order. Ernie became a fairly creditable marksman after two more days of trials.

           Several more of Cristina’s guerrilla attacks were fought off by Gus and Ernie set off for the Black Pole in a car Danny had borrowed from a friend. It seemed to Ernie that it took hours to get to Black Pole. Ernie was disappointed by the Rocky Point sign. Then they walked forever, thought Ernie, to a special tree.

           “Why this tree?” Ernie wondered.

           “Look up, That’s a tree stand. That’s where we wait for the deer to come by.”

           Ernie looked up, worried. “Don’t we sneak around looking for them?”

           “Don’t worry, It’s safe. I built it. You’ll be tied in a harness so you can’t fall.”

           Ernie learned the fine points of human scents, the importance of the wind direction, the need to keep quiet. Some hours dragged on before a fawn appeared followed by a doe. Ernie aimed. Danny signaled him to lower the rifle.

           “Why?” Ernie protested.

           “The doe will make more deer. Besides, it’s cruel to kill the mother.”

           Ernie snarled, startling the deer. They disappeared.

           “You must not make a sound.”

           Danny pointed. A buck moved slowly in the direction of the departing doe. Ernie fired, downing the buck. He was elated. Then came the butchering of the deer, which appalled Ernie. He learned much anatomy that day at the cost of several bouts of vomiting. They packed the meat in the readied bag and headed home. Cristina embraced a reluctant Ernie but bristled at the pile of meat.

           “What am I supposed to do with that?”

           Gus interrupted congratulating Ernie on his kill and said, “Keep what you want. I’ll give the rest to the Scarfatti and the Toscanelli.”

           Anna’s welcoming smile was broader for Danny than for Ernie. She had shared her mother’s worries for them both.

           At dinner that night, made special by fresh venison, the eyes of Anna and Danny, avoiding each other, spoke most clearly.

           “I don’t feel hungry,” Ernie lied, seeing the kill and the butchering yet again.

           After a meal or two, Anna and Danny began feeling more comfortable speaking to each other. Gus was pleased, Cristina less so. No one would have been good enough for her daughter. The couple—now a couple—began short walks together. Cristina chaperoned at first but was shooed away by Gus. Not that they would have done anything to shock a chaperone.

           Danny sold an armoire to a wealthy Manhattan family and bought a splendid ring in the diamond district. He bought it from Chaim Feldmann, a very good friend.

           “Who is the lucky lady?”

           “Her name is Anna.” He pulled an engagement photo.

           “Ah! Zaftig!” Seeing Danny’s confusion, he said, “A Rubens, a Titian.” He saw the need to translate. “Lovely. Mazel tov! She will make you happy, Kenahora!”

           Danny had produced a masterpiece in mahogany that had won the heart of Chaim’s Rachel.

           “Look, my friend, I owe you for making me happy with my Ruchele. “I have just the one.” He pulled out a ring with a large diamond in a Baroque setting. “It’s a three-carat,” he whispered. I’ve been saving it for you.” He named a price that was well within what Danny was paid for the armoire plus a significant leftover. “Don’t tell Ephraim.” He pointed to his brother, dealing with another customer.

           Danny was full of thanks, which Chaim refused. He sped to Brooklyn, where he presented it to Anna on bended knee. Anna, who would have accepted him with a glass imitation, raised him up with a kiss. It fit perfectly. She showed it to dazzled eyes even including Cristina, whose comment was, “It can’t be real.”

           “No?” Gus asked. “Let me have that mirror. Anna, let me have your hand.” He streaked the diamond across the glass and showed the deep cut to Cristina. “Convinced?”

           The banns were posted at St. Lucy’s on Kent Ave. The wedding was held at the same church, the reception in the basement. Tables were piled with produce and flowers from backyards. Meats smoked and cured by Gus and friends were on display. There were hills of green tomatoes and Sarde Salate fetched from under the weight of stones in huge crocks.

This bounty was gathered into sandwiches made with freshly baked bread. Cristina and her daughters produced industrial quantities of sweets whose recipes were translations of Albanian into Calabrese. Gus supplied a red wine of his own making which had to be cut by an equal dose of cream soda. The only import was the rice that bombarded the newlyweds on their way out of St. Lucy’s. After the reception, the married Pagliaro’s were bundled into the same borrowed Model T that had brought back the remains of Ernie’s buck. It was tuned and brought to a high polish by the owner, a proud friend of Danny’s. The honeymoon was in Spring Washington DC complete with cherry blossoms.

           Anna’s periods stopped in July and the pregnancy went well until the due date in April. There were no bouts of nausea; weight was stable. Cristina gave too many orders which Anna followed exactly. Then labor pains began. Cristina insisted on acting as midwife, but Gus

called Giovanna, an experienced one.

           “I have a terrible headache!” Anna said. Giovanna found a rapid pulse. With her ear on the tense abdomen, she could hear fetal heart sounds. She examined her vagina. “I feel the baby coming,” she said. “Push!”

           “I can’t see!” Anna screamed.

           Dr. Brancati was called for. He was tall and thin with an abrupt manner. A pince-nez held his nose. He removed it to use his ophthalmoscope. He saw hemorrhages. Her blood pressure was 190/110. He confirmed that the uterus was dilated, and labor was progressing. He drew some blood and took a urine sample. He drew Danny and Anna’s parents aside.

           “I’m afraid she has Eclampsia, a very serious complication of childbirth.”

           “What? Why?” Danny pleaded, clutching at Brancati’s coat.

           “What causes it is not known. It affects the brain, the kidneys. I took a blood sample and I’ll test her urine. Her blood pressure is very high. I’ll do what I can to lower it. I’ll give her an injection of magnesium, which sometimes helps. Giovanna, do what you can to deliver the baby. I’ll be back soon.”

           Giovanna encouraged. Anna screamed with labor pains. Giovanna sent everyone out. “It’s coming!” she encouraged. She delivered a boy and cut the cord. He did not breathe. She tried clearing his throat without effect. She could hear no heart sounds. She covered the stillborn.

           Anna screamed, “My head! My head!” Her back arched and violent contractions of her limbs began.

           “Get Dr. Brancati!” Giovanna shouted.

           Brancati was seeing patients in his office a block away. He arrived quickly, as the seizure was subsiding. He gave tongue depressors, tape, and gauze to Giovanna.

           “Pad this and put it between her teeth. I think she will have more seizures.” He gave her an injection of phenobarbital. “This may help with the seizures,” he told the frantic family.

           Giovanna directed him to the baby. He confirmed the stillbirth. “I’m so sorry,” he told Danny.

           Anna seized again. Giovanna was ready with the padded tongue blade.

           Brancati checked her blood pressure. “It’s still much too high. I’ll give her another injection. Her blood and urine tests show that her kidneys have been damaged. I’m afraid you’ll have to prepare for the worst.”

           The worst came very soon. Her wake was in the ground floor living room, dressed in her wedding gown. Photographs were taken and treasured. Cristina, joined by Arbëresh friends and relatives began ritual keening, as was the custom dating from medieval Albania. It was a sort of song telling the life of the deceased accompanied by wailing. Cristina tore at her hair and face and would have continued had she not been restrained by Gus. Danny sat silently with a face of stone. Anna was buried in St. Charles Cemetery on Long Island. All wore black for a year. Cristina would wear black for the rest of her life. Danny retreated to work and no longer joined the family for dinner. He no longer told stories and took no more hunting trips.

           Cristina blamed Danny. “I tried to keep them apart and you kept pushing them together,”

           “Ah, now I understand what happened. It was Demì’s fault. If she’d married someone you chose, she would not be dead. I have enough pain from my daughter’s death. I don’t need you to twist the knife with your twisted ideas. Demì is hurting. He’s your son-in-law as well as mine. Have pity on us, you damn fool!” He shouted at Cristina. He turned and headed for the cellar.

           She said nothing but walked to the stairs and called, “Demì…bir im… Demì.” Bir im means my son.

           He ran down. “Mamma, are you all right?”

           “Yes. Nga ketu.” It means come here.

           They embraced and kissed, shedding tears. Cristina kept repeating bir im. He began coming to dinner. He began accepting requests for Zelinda e il Mostro. It was not long before he gave in to Ernie’s pleas for another trip to the Black Pole.