The Edge of Lost (15 page)

23

“
F
ai attenzione,
” Mr. Capello said with clear impatience.

Shan glanced down at the man, still lying under the kitchen sink, his hand outstretched. “Sorry, Pop. What did you need?”

Mr. Capello grumbled. “Pipe wrench.”

Once again Shan had been gazing out the window, past the morning frost, debating how to broach the subject. He sifted through the metal toolbox on the counter and handed over the tool, which Mr. Capello took with a slight snap of his wrist.

“Why do you bother coming today?”

The question wasn’t necessarily rhetorical. A kitchen sink simply needed replacing in the Rigonis’ house over on Laurel Street. Nothing Mr. Capello couldn’t have done on his own. But Shan had insisted on joining, even donned his coveralls—a match to Mr. Capello’s—he just hadn’t brought himself to say why.

“Thought you might want some company.”

“You are not talking. How is this company?”

“Well … I didn’t say I’d be good company.”

Mr. Capello said nothing. He knew this typically wasn’t the case. On most jobs together they would discuss the latest news, from President Coolidge’s policies and rumors of coming strikes, to commentary on political races—less predictable now that women had the vote—and, as always, baseball. More aptly Tony Lazzeri. After Ping Bodie was traded, still a sore point for Mr. Capello, the rookie with the Yankees had become a beacon of hope.

Today, however, Shan’s concerns lay elsewhere. Sure, he was troubled by the risks and realities of Nick’s work, let alone his own predicament after a literal peek behind the curtain. But more than that, he was envious. Not over the riches and glamour, but over the self-sufficiency, the measurable achievements.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally. “Now that I’m nineteen and done with school, maybe I ought to … move out on my own.”

Mr. Capello ceased any movement. Then, in silence, he slowly resumed working on the new drain.

“I could still help the family, of course. I’d just get another job. Maybe find a roommate to split an apartment.” He waited for a reaction. “What do you think?”

“So, you want a different job also.”

Shan was referring to a second one, not a replacement, but now that the suggestion hung there, he couldn’t deny its appeal. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He had mixed feelings about performing for a living, but surely the wages would be higher, with so many customers paying Mr. Capello in trade. The homeowner today, for example, had offered a landscape painting of Genoa’s coastline crafted by his wife. Since Mr. Capello knew an art-collecting winemaker originally from that region, he’d agreed to the deal, planning to exchange the painting for some nice bottles of red.

Mr. Capello again went quiet, his face still obscured by the sink. The day Nick moved out, the culminating argument had revolved around ingratitude. Shan hoped this wouldn’t be viewed the same.

“I don’t mean to seem ungrateful,” he offered. “Everything you’ve done for me, it’s incredible. Honest. I just think it’s time, is all.”

Mr. Capello slid out from under the counter. He rose to his feet with a show of effort and wiped his hands on a rag. He drew a breath, turning to the sink. “You are right. It is time,” he said. As simple as that. Then he went to work installing the faucet.

Shan would have been relieved if not for glimpsing the man’s eyes. The light mist in them sent a wave of guilt over Shan, which logic told him to fight. Mr. Capello had to have seen this day coming. Shan couldn’t live under the wings of the Capellos until he was middle-aged. Not with any amount of pride.

If he saved up, maybe he could start a business. A store of some kind in the city, where every day he would wear a dapper suit with wingtips polished as clean as his nails. And at night, he would stroll home to a wife and children—a boy and a girl who would never fear hunger or abandonment, or worse.

For now, though, he would keep those plans to himself.

With the job almost done, Shan collected tools from the floor of tiny white tiles. He was toweling up spots of water when Mr. Capello spoke in a level tone.

“I hear you have seen Nick.”

The comment caught Shan off guard. “Yeah. I have.”

Mr. Capello’s attention remained on adjusting the spout. “I suppose he had a good reason for not coming to his sister’s party?”

“It was the club—he just couldn’t get away.”

Mr. Capello didn’t reply. He had heard the excuse too many times.

“Nick did say he really wanted to be there,” Shan added, not knowing at first why he was bothering, as Mr. Capello’s show of disappointment wasn’t unusual. Rather, there was something beneath it. Deep down the man needed to know that his oldest son still yearned for his father’s approval.

It was Shan’s suspicion of this that sent out his next words: “He’s really working hard, Pop. You’d be proud.”

Mr. Capello glanced at Shan, taking this in. He gave an almost imperceptible nod before twisting the knobs to run the water. A successful test. The job was done.

Before leaving, they would need to discard the old cast-iron sink and drain, eroded by rust and wear. On opposite sides, they squatted and gripped the sink by its bottom corners. On the count of three, they heaved it up from the floor. They started toward the kitchen door, but after a few steps Mr. Capello dropped down, causing the sink to list.

“Jesus,” Shan said, pulling backward. He managed to bring the sink to the floor without its slamming into the tiles. Mr. Capello was on one knee, a hand pressed to his ribs.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

It was more than a strained muscle. The man’s breathing sounded labored.

“Pop … Pop, what is it?” Shan moved closer. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mr. Capello’s skin had gone pale. Sweat beaded along his hairline.

Shan looked around, seeking help. The homeowner’s wife had run to the bakery. There was no phone in sight.

“I’ll fetch a doctor.” He started to rise, but Mr. Capello held his arm.

“No,” he rasped, “I am okay.”

“Pop, I swear I’ll be right back.”

Mr. Capello wouldn’t release his grip. He took a deep, steadying breath and let it out, meeting Shan’s gaze with resolve. “I do
not
need a doctor.”

Shan had almost forgotten. Here was a man who’d endured countless visits to the hospital, all to help a boy with a heart that couldn’t be saved.

“I lift up too fast. It makes me dizzy. That is all. Already I am better.”

Mr. Capello was indeed regaining his color. Nonetheless, it was startling to see him weaken so quickly and without warning. Shan hoped to God it wasn’t the news of his intent to move out that had caused the problem. “I’ll get you some water.”

He filled a glass and knelt to deliver it. “You know Ma’s gonna say she was right about you working too hard.” A light remark, but also true.

“This is why,” Mr. Capello said after a sip, “you will not tell her.”

24

A
iry snowflakes floated through the borough, a peaceful contrast to the inquisition at home. Shan and Mr. Capello had only just arrived in the entry when Mrs. Capello narrowed her eyes. She was bundled in her coat and scarf.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked her husband. “Are you sick?”

Mr. Capello turned away and stored his hat on a wall hook. “I am just tired.”

“Your cheeks, they are pink.”

“It is cold outside,” he said, hanging up his overcoat. Shan did the same without a word.

She touched her husband’s forehead with the back of her hand and appeared satisfied by his temperature, but not his answer. “Did you eat?”

“Yes,” he insisted. “I ate. We ate.”

“Then, what is it?”

“
Basta, basta
.” He waved her off and shuffled toward the stairs. “You are like an old hen, pecking, pecking.”

Her gaze cut to Shan, who promptly grasped for a diversion. He gestured to her coat. “Were you going somewhere?”

She studied him, suspicious. “The market.”

“I can go. You stay and relax.” He grabbed his coat and put it right back on. “What do you need me to buy?”

Though with lingering reservations, she produced her shopping list. Shan accepted, and sidestepping an investigation, he headed out the door.

With the store just five blocks away, he decided not to drive and soon regretted the choice. The sidewalks were slick and grimy with slush, and the afternoon air had sharpened with a chill. A roadster swooshed past, leaving tracks that would freeze overnight.

He kept the collar of his overcoat hiked around his ears, his face lowered against the wind. Puffy white breaths rose from his mouth to the brim of his hat. He almost passed the market before realizing he’d arrived.

A bell on the door jingled when he stepped into Carducci’s Market. An array of cans, jars, and boxes lined the walls of shelves and two aisles in the center of the room. The air smelled of oak from clustered barrels full of various grains.

Behind the long wooden counter stood the owner in his black apron, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled to his elbows. He handed a woman a large paper sack and thanked her for coming in.

“Tommy,” he declared, eyes alight, “
come stai?
”

“Bene, grazie.
How about you, Mr. Carducci? You look well.”

The man flexed an arm, as lean as his wrinkled face. “Fifty pushups a day now. Soon I will be strong as an ox.”

Shan smiled. “In that case, I’d better arm wrestle you soon, or I won’t stand a chance.”

“Ahh. You think you have a chance?”

“You know … sad to say, probably not.”

They both laughed.

Mr. Carducci said, “You are here to do your mama’s shopping?”

Shan retrieved her scrawled list from his pocket, held it up in reply.

“
Va bene
. You have any trouble, you come ask.”

Shan nodded and Mr. Carducci picked up a pencil. He leaned over to scribble in a ledger, humming a tune to himself.

The store offered ample protection from the cold, yet Shan would feel more comfortable after returning home and confirming that Mr. Capello had fully recovered. Grabbing a woven basket, Shan began at the top of the list.

Flour, salt, yeast …

He gathered the items, zipping from one area to the next. It helped when he became the lone customer in the store. For his final item, he squatted before the olives and set down the basket. Unsure which of two types Mrs. Capello would want, he grabbed both jars, hoping Mr. Carducci would know.

Behind him, the door jingled with a new arrival.

About to rise, Shan heard a man yell, as sharp as a bark: “Open the register—now!”

Shan dropped even lower. Twisting around with caution, he peeked past the aisle and the blockade of barrels. Two men stood at the counter with fedoras pulled low and black handkerchiefs hiding all but their eyes. The heavyset one pointed a pistol at Mr. Carducci’s forehead. “I said, ‘Open it!’ Are you deaf?”

The taller guy, slimmer but still solid, held a gun in a more casual manner, as if toting a gin fizz. “Come on, old man, you heard him.” He had the baritone pitch of a barbershop singer. “We don’t wanna hurt you.”

The stocky thug tossed a small canvas bag onto the counter. “Give us the dough. Every last cent.”

Shan tried not to move, not even to breathe. His pulse raced as Mr. Carducci stuffed the bag with cash from the register, his poor hands trembling. What else could anyone do? Only in picture shows did heroes save the day. Read any paper; when it came to robberies, the fellows trying to be noble were the ones who got themselves and others killed. These hoodlums just wanted the money—Shan hoped.

“Now for the safe,” the tall one said. “Where is it?”

Mr. Carducci shook his head. “This is everything.”

“You wouldn’t be lying to us, would you?”

“No. We have no safe—”

The hefty one swung his pistol, backhanding Mr. Carducci, who stumbled onto the floor.

Shan could hear his own heartbeat pounding against his skull. He wanted to step in. He wanted to help. Suddenly, over to the left, a door started to open. Mr. Carducci’s grandson, Henry, peeked out with an inquisitive look. The five-year-old had descended from the Carduccis’ home upstairs, likely lured by the shouting.

In a panic, Shan gave a jerk of his head, a signal for the kid to go back up. When Henry didn’t respond, Shan made upward motions with his hands, forgetting his jars until one fell. It landed with a thud and rolled over the floor.

“Hey!” one of the guys boomed, and Henry vanished behind the door.

Shan held on to his remaining jar, his only defense, while being yanked up by the collar. He was thrown face forward into a wall of shelves. The right side of his forehead hit the outer frame. Boxes tumbled over him, knocking off his hat. His arms flew up in a reflex to cover his head, and his second jar slipped and shattered. Disoriented, he went to turn around but a shove to his chest pushed him back.

“You stay right there, you stupid son of a bitch.” Cold metal pressed into Shan’s neck. It was the pistol, held sideways by the stocky thug. His breath smelled of onions and cigarettes. “Whaddya think you’re doin’? Waiting for the chance to pounce? That it?”

Shan stiffly shook his head, evading eye contact. He didn’t want to appear to be memorizing the guy’s eyes in the event of a lineup.

“Who the hell you think you are, huh? Who?”

Shan choked out the words: “I’m … Tommy Capello.”

The guy needled the gun harder. “Think I give a shit who you are?”

Shan squeezed his eyes closed, this time knowing not to answer. He remained quiet and heard a voice, dropped low, muffled. Too faint to hear. He risked taking a look and found the tall one whispering to his partner. The pistol was lowered onto Shan’s collarbone, but a pudgy finger hovered over the trigger.

When the conversation ended, the stocky one gave Shan’s face a once-over. He took a step back and raised his hands shoulder high, along with his weapon. “My apologies, all right? Didn’t realize.”

Shan nodded because it seemed he should.

The tall one swiveled back to Mr. Carducci, now upright with blood trickling from his mouth. “Next time, you have the safe ready for us, old man.” Then he grabbed the bag of cash as the stocky thug peeked outside. Deciding the coast was clear, they charged out the door and into the snow.

Right then, Shan became aware of the quaking in his knees.

“Nonno?”
A meek voice drifted from the doorway by Shan. Henry had dared to return. “Are the bad men gone?”

But Mr. Carducci didn’t respond. He looked out of sorts from the strike to his head.

“Mr. Carducci,” Shan said. “Are you okay?”

The man turned toward Shan, then spotted his grandson. “Upstairs—go.
Pronto!
”

Henry scampered up the steps, leaving the door ajar. In mindless movements, Mr. Carducci closed the empty register.

Shan hoped the shop did indeed have extra funds stored in a safe. “Do you want me to stay? I’d be glad to talk to the cops if that’ll help.”

At this, Mr. Carducci’s eyes shot up. “No. No police.”

“But—they robbed you.”

Mr. Carducci shook his head, adamant, his gaze looming heavily before looking away. “We have no robbery here,” he murmured.

Bewildered, Shan stepped forward, crunching glass beneath his shoe. He had forgotten about the jar. “Could I at least help clean up?” A puddle of olive brine spread further over the floor. “Mr. Carducci?”

“Please,” the man said with sudden firmness. “Just go.”