The Edge of Lost (11 page)

17

T
he bell dinged as the trolley approached another stop. Shan had chosen a seat by a rear window to take in the midmorning air, somehow forgetting the fumes and industrial smoke that clung to the city. It was his first outing since recovering. In contrast to the serenity of the house, every sound and movement seemed magnified, almost to an overwhelming level. After his visit to the recruiting station, a nap might be in order.

Mrs. Capello had insisted Lina and Nick help her at the community garden today but would have preferred Shan stay at home. “You must not do too much,” she’d told him with a sigh of worry. It was a far cry from the warnings Nick often received from his father to avoid being viewed as a lazy Italian: “Always we must show pride, that we are good, hardworking Americans.”

This was the reason, no matter the occasion, for shined shoes and tucked shirts and trousers smartly pressed. It also explained Mr. Capello’s constant drive to improve his English by reading the nightly paper and practicing words over and over that were difficult to pronounce. And it was certainly why Nick had been given an ultimatum, as his father saw no purpose in waiting until summer for his son to earn a wage.

“You have two weeks, or I find a job for you,” Mr. Capello had declared during supper the night before. It went without saying that the latter would involve ice deliveries or garbage collection, common work among Italian boys their age. Mrs. Capello concurred, so long as the job wasn’t dangerous and would not interfere with school in the fall.

The trolley rolled to another stop. Outside of a café, a newsie peddled the latest headlines. Another boy across the street polished the shoes of a businessman puffing on a cigar. Despite no demand that Shan do so, it seemed only appropriate for him to seek similar work.

As he contemplated his options, passengers rose to exit before others climbed on. In the midst of the shuffle, Shan noticed a gentleman seated near the front. He was wearing a brimmed hat and reading the paper, like most men on board, but a partial turn of his head revealed Mr. Capello’s profile. An odd surprise.

“I will be working on Staten Island all day,” he’d said to his wife over breakfast. While he did usually wear suits for consultation appointments, he was now traveling in the opposite direction. Suddenly he broke from his reading and glanced around, as if suspicious of being watched.

Shan sank into his seat, cap lowered. Mr. Capello didn’t seem the type to sneak off with another lady. And not when he had such a lovely wife.

After a cautious stretch, Shan stole another peek. Mr. Capello’s attention had returned to his paper. Shan was due to change lines at the next stop. He knew he ought to leave well enough alone, but curiosity won out and he continued to ride until Mr. Capello finally stepped off—in Ozone Park.

What would he be doing in Queens?

The streetcar was about to depart when Shan hustled from his seat and hopped out. At an inconspicuous distance, he followed Mr. Capello into a stream of people toward an entrance of some sort. Chatter and bells grew with each step, a commotion explained by a sign overhead:
Aqueduct Racetrack.

The possibility of Mr. Capello gambling with even a penny was enough to freeze Shan in place. He realized it had done just that when a boisterous man excused himself, bypassing Shan with a woman on his arm. Nearby a uniformed guard eyed the crowd. Shan turned his face away, unsure of rules pertaining to age, and stuck close to the couple as they continued at a snail’s pace through the gate.

The fellow, in a blatant attempt to woo his date, rattled off tidbits about various horses scheduled to race. The gal’s obvious disinterest did nothing to dampen his efforts. Once safely inside, Shan broke away in search of Mr. Capello. Huddles of gamblers, mostly men, dotted the area. Shan wove through clouds of pretention and cigarette smoke. He found relief in the open air of the grandstand, where breaks of sunlight brightened the sky. Attendees talked and laughed and shook hands while awaiting the next race, no different than guests at a church picnic.

Come to think of it, the purpose of Mr. Capello’s visit could be no less moral. He might have come here to simply meet a friend who enjoyed the sport.

Shan had just ruled this the most probable explanation when he turned and found himself face-to-face with Mr. Capello. The man stood there alone. Shock was etched into his features, deepened by a reprimanding look for finding Shan in such a place.

Shan tried to explain. “I … saw you on the trolley …”

There was a paper in Mr. Capello’s hand. It was no longer a newspaper but rather a small white note. The receipt from a bet. Mr. Capello traced Shan’s gaze, and his neck reddened. More from embarrassment, it seemed, than anger.

Unsure what to say, Shan blurted, “I promise not to tell.”

The silence stretched between them until a corner of Mr. Capello’s mouth lifted. It was a ghost of a smile. Only then did Shan comprehend the amusement of the scene, as if a child had been caught sneaking sweets before supper. A grown child, at that.

Just then, a bell rang and the race began. Many in the crowd moved toward the rails. Mr. Capello glanced at the horses, a swift debate in his eyes, then gave a nod toward the track. “Come,” he said.

Shan gladly obliged.

Jockeys in colorful clothes and helmets clung to their horses. They yelled commands and swatted with short black whips. As the animals rounded the first turn, folks became more vocal. Based on Mr. Capello’s murmuring, he had bet on the one marked Number 5. It was three horses behind but making reasonable headway. By the time it reached the second spot, Mr. Capello was moving his hand in short jerks, as if wielding an invisible whip. It appeared to be working when Number 5 caught up to the first horse.

Shan gripped the top rail, swept into the excitement. “Come on, you can do it.” The two horses competed for the win. Their necks bobbed and legs stretched, dirt spraying from their hooves. On the final stint, Number 5 lurched into the lead. Mr. Capello’s encouragement gained momentum. “Let’s go, let’s go!
Andiamo!
”

Though Shan had nothing personally invested, his thrill as Number 5 crossed the finish line verged on electric. He and Mr. Capello simultaneously threw their arms into the air. For that instant, in a strange twist of events, they were united as a team.

When the cheers died down, Mr. Capello led them toward a betting window. In line to collect his winnings, he reviewed a list of horses and odds for the next race.

Soon they reached the clerk, who counted out a calculated sum. “Care to make another bet?”

Mr. Capello proceeded with an air of confidence, this time with his hopes on Dusty Moon. Shan recognized the name. The man in the entry had shared news regarding that horse. Shan wracked his memory, trying to remember, not wanting to be wrong. Then it came to him. “Don’t do it.”

Mr. Capello turned his head, puzzled.

Shan kept his voice low in the event it wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge. “I heard a man say Dusty Moon prefers grass. That he doesn’t run well on dirt tracks.”

Mr. Capello deliberated the information. The men behind them were growing impatient, shifting their stances and narrowing their eyes.

“Well?” the clerk pressed.

Mr. Capello returned to his list and drew out his words, deciding as he spoke. “Instead I will bet on … Wild Shamrock. The Irish, they are lucky, yes?”

The clerk barked a laugh. “Whatever you say, pal.”

Shan remained silent as the bet was finalized.

Once away from the booth, Mr. Capello stopped and held the ticket before Shan’s face. “You must never,” he said, “risk more than you are ready to lose.
Capisci?
”

In this way, the man’s vice still befitted his ethics. More or less.

“Yes, sir,” Shan said.

As the start of the race closed in, Shan’s enthusiasm gave way to apprehension. What if the man with the racing tips was wrong? The newfound pleasantness from Mr. Capello could very well end if Dusty Moon, in fact, took the win. What’s more, he could now lose money on a horse representing Shan’s heritage. Potential for double the blame.

But it was too late to reverse. The horses were lined up at the starting gate.

Spectators again crowded the rails. They raised binoculars and fanned their hats. In a matter of minutes, the race was on.

Along with Mr. Capello, Shan cheered openly for Wild Shamrock, though internally he was also rooting
against
Dusty Moon. A track never seemed so large, nor a competition so fierce. The hooves thumped as wildly as Shan’s pulse. By the final stretch, Dusty Moon and Wild Shamrock were battling two other horses for the lead. Shan was now screaming for Wild Shamrock, feeling as though he were the jockey himself. But then Number 2 tore away as if spurred by a jolt, leaving all his competition behind.

Dusty Moon came in fourth, and Wild Shamrock in second. Shan expected Mr. Capello to be disappointed; instead the man kissed the ticket with gusto. “We win!”

The bet was merely to place, he explained. Apparently his faith in the Irish only went so far.

By late afternoon, from a combination of luck, calculations, and more overheard tips, Mr. Capello had won far more than he’d lost. The grandest time, however, came from the exchanges between races as they rested in the stands.

Mr. Capello spoke about weighing the odds, tempered by trusting your gut. By way of example, he cited the brave feats of Christopher Columbus—“Cristoforo Colombo,” more accurately—which led him to list great contributions from other Italians over the centuries: from the Roman Empire and the pope to Dante and Michelangelo.

Still, his zeal was no stronger than when he landed on the subject of baseball, the feats of “Ping” Bodie in particular. The Yankee centerfielder was said to be one of the most feared sluggers in the game, his skills naturally owing to his Italian descent.

“He was born Francesco Pezzolo,” Mr. Capello said. “And do you know what I hear? Last week he challenged an ostrich to a duel of eating.”

Surely the man’s accent had altered the correct word. “An
ostrich?
” Shan repeated.

“Eleven bowls of macaroni, and only Ping is standing. This is how you know he is a true Italian.” The accomplishment was delivered with such reverence that Shan aimed for a straight face, but a laugh slipped out.

Thankfully Mr. Capello also chuckled, adding, “Even before going to the Yankees, always he is Tomasso’s favorite.”

There was his name again. Tomasso Capello.

Variants of it had saved Shan on more than one occasion. And yet, while he’d learned a good deal about how the boy had died, he knew nothing of how Tomasso had lived.

Mr. Capello’s lingering smile suggested an opportunity to ask.

“What was he like?” Shan ventured gently. “Your son, that is.”

Like a plummeting pop-up, the man’s face shut down. He appeared to have briefly forgotten that his son was gone, but now remembered.

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”

The day was going so well. Shan cursed himself for ruining it all.

Mr. Capello gazed distantly toward the track. He inhaled as if to speak, surely to announce it was time to leave. Instead, he gave an answer. “He was a kind boy … always curious.” The words carried a hint of a rasp. “He had questions, so many questions. He wants to know why this, why that, Papa. How does this work, Papa.” Mr. Capello shook his head, softening from images Shan couldn’t see. “Every day he would make me laugh. He was a good boy, my Tomasso. A very good boy.”

Shan was tempted to touch the man’s shoulder, yet feared he might overstep. He simply offered, “I miss my parents too. My mam especially.”

Mr. Capello absorbed this, an admission Shan rarely voiced, then he gave a look of understanding. Shan sensed the start of a tenuous bond as they sat in quiet—a moment soon broken by the boom of a lady’s voice.

“Signore! Signore Capello!”

Mr. Capello hesitated, shifting gears, before coming to his feet. He pinned on a smile. “Signora Allegri.”

“
Che cosa fai?
” The woman appeared in her sixties and somewhat plump. Her facial features differed from how Shan pictured Italians, with her fair skin, blue eyes, and blond curls straying from her cloche.

“How nice to see you.” Mr. Capello exchanged a peck on each cheek.

“My husband is over there, placing a bet.” She wriggled her gloved fingers toward the entry area. “He will be so pleased to find you. We have heard you are back, but we have not seen your family at Mass.”

“Yes … we have been busy. With work and children. Settling in.”

“
Si, si.
Of course.” She nodded, though Shan could see she didn’t entirely believe the reasons. After all, not all immigrants strove to leave their pasts in another country. For some, Shan realized, the past lay just across the river.

“And who is this?” The woman noticed Shan seated in the background but looked uncertain. “You are … the oldest son?”

Shan slowly rose, not knowing how to respond. He barely had a chance to shake his head when the woman gasped and clasped her hands together.

“You are the one we hear of. The small one, who is doing so well after going to Italia.” She made the sign of the cross before holding Shan’s face in awe. Her hands were like a baker’s, strong from shaping dough. “My goodness, has it been so many years? You have grown so tall.”

She turned back to Mr. Capello. “It is a miracle. A gift of God, no?”

The man’s mouth moved in a subtle twitch, as if choosing between answers.

Perhaps it was the common ground he’d found with Shan, and the suggestion that Tomasso had brought them together. Maybe it was the hope flickering in the signora’s eyes, or because, quite plainly, it was easier to agree.