The Right Thing to Do Read online

  Published by The Feminist Press at The City University of New York

  365 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  www.feministpress.org

  First Feminist Press edition, 1999

  Copyright © 1988 by Josephine Gattuso Hendin

  Afterword copyright © 1999 by Mary Jo Bona

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used, stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission of The Feminist Press at The City University of New York except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Originally published by David R. Godine Publisher, Inc. 1988

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hendin, Josephine.

  The right thing to do / by Josephine Gattuso Hendin; afterword by Mary Jo Bona.–1st paperback ed.

  p cm.

  ISBN 978-1-93693-211-5

  1. Italian Americans–New York (State)–New York Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3558.E49513R541999

  813'.54–dc21

  99-14276

  CIP

  This publication is made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a State Agency. The Feminist Press gratefully acknowledges NYSCA for its support.

  The Feminist Press would also like to thank Joanne Markell and Genevieve Vaughan for their generosity in supporting this publication.

  Printed on acid-free paper by Transcontinental Printing

  0504030201009954321

  It is possession of the good that causes delight whether we are conscious of possessing it actually, or call to mind our previous possession, or hope to possess it in the future.

  Thomas Aquinas

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Afterword: Escaping the Ancestral Threat?

  One

  “Drink your ginger ale, Nino, it’s getting warm,” Laura said, grumpily turning to shake her finger at Maria’s body. “Even dead,” she accused, “you’re giving us trouble.”

  “Can’t you speak to her with some respect, now that she’s gone?” Nino asked.

  “Respect? You could always count on your sister to say the wrong thing. Marrying that bum who left her every time she got pregnant. Six kids, six times she takes him back. A Sicilian woman should have known better. When you try to reason with her, what does she say? What did you say, Maria?” she demanded. “Did you say, ‘Maybe you’ve got a point,’ or ‘I’ve learned my lesson’? No! you said, ‘He really can play the mandolin!’”

  “Will you stop talking to her that way?” Nino pleaded, settling his foot on the worn green hassock in front of him. Since the priest had walked out on them, even the furniture seemed shamed.

  Laura continued. “She had no business telling that Irish priest who came to give the last rites that all religions were the same. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut and let him give her the rites? She knows these young priests have no heart. They don’t give a damn about anything but the book.”

  “She only said that because Elena was in the room. You know she’s a Protestant,” Nino answered weakly. What else could he say? It was bad enough to be dead without having to be an embarrassment on top of it. It wasn’t clear whether Maria would be ashamed or not—that was the trouble. I’m the one who feels it, Nino thought bitterly. It was he who had gotten up in the middle of the night, he who faced the Queens BMT with no coffee and climbed the stairs of the El at Grand Avenue, stairs that stretched above him like Everest: no place for a man with a bad leg. And all for the measly two-stop trip to the end of the line at Ditmars Boulevard, where the night wind was chilly from the river and the stairway down was so shrouded in shadows and so pitted with rusty craters that it gaped like an invitation to fall all the way to another country.

  It was another country, he had realized. The shops on Ditmars, heavily gated and sealed against the night, showed that. What had happened to the neighborhood? The old bakery with good bread and the pastry shop with its dripping rumcake were gone. Now electronics stores with ridiculous names barricaded themselves behind solid metal walls as though they expected to be attacked by foreign troops. Nino had limped, heartbroken over Maria, past the once-neat attached houses. White paint-peels curled into the wind from some; others were eerily stained with mud and graffiti; some houses had aluminum siding that revealed ball-shaped dents under the harsh street lights. The rose arbors that had graced house after house seemed overgrown with climbing vines and weeds. Where the Ristorante Venezia had been, there was a gaudy fast-food place featuring hamburgers with nauseatingly cute names. What could that food taste like, he wondered, trying to blot out his memories of feastlike lunches at the Venezia. He and Maria would talk about the old country while the kids, growing bored, ate and went outside to play catch. They were hard to bear, the thoughts of her: the walks he took with her and the kids along Shore Boulevard, the hours they spent watching the river lap against the gray-brown beach, the pebbles washing back and forth in the current while the kids held throwing contests.

  True, there had been dead fish washed up now and then. But not the way it was after the Con Ed and municipal sewage plants had been built. They had crushed Steinway Creek between them. They’re as bad for the nose as the eyes, Maria had said. But still, the air had been sweet from the grass of Astoria Park; the view of Riker’s Island against the graceful curves of the Hell Gate Bridge was lovely; the concrete mass of Manhattan loomed, huge and miraculous, across the water. And all around you there were the well-kept row houses of people you could understand without even knowing their names. Who could have had better sights, better days? Laura always blamed him for going to Maria every time he took out Gina. You can’t cope with your daughter alone, she used to say, but so what? Gina had her cousins to play with, and Maria was good to talk to. There was a woman who appreciated him, who could really listen. Laura had always resented her. What was he supposed to do, give up his sister?

  “Who ever heard of such a thing?” Laura persisted. “Six children, five Catholics and one Protestant,” she concluded, shaking her head in disgust.

  “Mama was a Protestant,” Nino came back.

  “She doesn’t count. Spitting at the Bishop of Palermo instead of kissing his ring doesn’t make you a Protestant.”

  “She did it because the Church never did anything to help . . . ,” Nino said, his voice trailing into hopelessness.

  “Did it help the poor that she spit? Did it make the Church any different? No Neapolitan would have spit, let me tell you. She had to leave town because no one would marry her after that. Now no one will bury her daughter,” she concluded triumphantly. “‘Well,’” she went on, mimicking the Irish priest, “‘since you believe that, you’re not in need of the rites of the Holy Roman Church,’ and he snaps his book shut. Damn him to hell.” She could still hear her grandmother, almost patient in her bitterness, tell of the Irish priests who made the Italians say Mass in the basement while they kept the chapel to themselves. Here in Astoria at the end of the BMT it should have been different. But she could imagine the nuns, heavy in layers of swirling habits, standing like black bats at the door of the graceful gray church, their rosaries and crucifixes wound about them like garrison belts.

  Everywhere they had gone, the priest’s words seemed to follow them. They had walked Astoria, all morning, all afternoon, hobbling past the thre
e-story brick buildings on Grand Avenue, where neatly kept stores displayed engagement rings and watches like holy relics and fruit stands with sawdust floors spilled baskets of peaches and tomatoes onto the sidewalk. The air was laced with rich smells, the odor of provolone cheese in summer, of hot bread, of sweet basil softening the exhaust fumes. But the priest’s words seemed to cut, to flatten out every bit of life. At every church they came to, everyone asked the same question: Why didn’t the priest from her parish give her the rites? No matter what they answered, they kept getting sent back to the Irishman. They all stuck together, these priests, like doctors in a malpractice suit.

  Nino tapped his cane against the floor. “I should go out to try some more churches,” he said.

  “There aren’t any more around here,” Laura pointed out, her hand waving over all of the Ditmars Fountains development houses, where Maria had rented a small apartment. The buildings did seem to huddle together, dark, wine-colored brick walk-ups five stories high, fringed with tattered bushes. Here and there the meager lawns were graced by grape arbors, fig trees, tiny vegetable gardens planted by tenants who could never see the point of grass, of growing what couldn’t be eaten.

  “It’s not so easy to make it up and down five flights of stairs,” Nino said. “We’ll wait until the others get here. Anyway,” his voice softened, “she shouldn’t be left alone now.” He sat back in his chair, fingering his glass of ginger ale. “She was so good,” he said, mostly to himself. “So gentle.”

  “Who?” Laura asked.

  “My sister. Maria. Who else?” Nino answered. “She loved music. She knew it was near the end, but she wanted to go out listening to Puccini.”

  “That’s all she ever did, even before she was ready to leave,” Laura persisted. “She listened to Madame Butterfly and got pregnant.” Her anger was gone, but still she continued. “She didn’t even have the ambition to think of dying like an American, in a hospital.”

  Nino limped over to Maria’s record table and began thumbing through her worn albums. The maple console that housed the phonograph had three legs and a prop made of three Queens Yellow Pages. Nino lingered over Madame Butterfly and Turandot. He flipped past La Bohème, muttering. “One melody doesn’t make an opera. I never agreed with you about Puccini,” he said to Maria. He frowned at how new the cover of Nabucco looked. He had bought it for her years ago.

  “She wouldn’t like that,” Laura said. “Why don’t you play something she likes?”

  “The more you hear, the more you appreciate the better things,” Nino said patiently, putting the record on. He limped to the scarred wooden rocker with flowers painted on it, their stems intertwined, and sat down heavily. It was a sunny room, bright in the late afternoon sun. On the windowsill was a flowerpot stained with a crusted white powder that seemed to have worked its way through the pot wall from the plant itself. The plant boasted two shriveled buds; its leaves had turned silvery gray from dehydration. How long had Maria been too far gone to water it?

  Nino rocked to the music. Maria’s crochet work was everywhere in the room; the rose pattern she had liked had been worked into doilies that covered all the surfaces. The table next to him had one covering its scratched glass top. The scratches almost blended into the lacework. Had she thought of that? One of the legs had been fixed with wood putty, but never stained. Half-finished, Nino sighed, struggling to hear the music over the sound of the El. He strained to make out the details of an oil painting done by Angelo, Maria’s youngest son. It was filled with greens and blues, but it wasn’t clear whether it was a field or the ocean. No waves, Nino concluded; it must be the country.

  The table next to the chair was cluttered with pictures. There was Freddie in a Marine uniform, a powerful, good-looking boy. Next to him was a plasticized letter, describing his heroism before he was killed in action in Vietnam. Nino sighed. He had died like a man, Freddie. Maria had been through a lot; he trembled, remembering that Freddie was only nineteen when he died. There were pictures of almost everyone: Laura and he stood, serious, unsmiling, on their wedding day. What a figure she had in those days! There was one of him with his brother Aldo’s son, Vinnie. He looked at the picture closely. Vinnie was about fifteen; his boyish face grinned from under the beak of a New York Yankees baseball cap. I gave him that cap, Nino remembered. It was after Aldo died and Vinnie adopted me as a father. That must be thirty years ago.

  It seemed as though his life was there, in these framed pictures, placed at random without meaning or order unless his memory could provide it. There was a photo of Maria at sixteen, her beautiful face looking directly into the camera. There he was with his daughter, Gina. She was about four years old, wearing a bonnet and holding a catcher’s mitt he had given her. What a lousy catcher she was! The ball was always hitting her in the face—she had no idea of distances. She wasn’t a quitter, though. She would keep trying. Then there was one of her at the Astoria pool with Angelo. She was holding a medal she had won in a city swimming contest. That was the year she stopped eating. The more spaghetti he ate, he thought sourly, the more she took up swimming and starving. He had to admit she could swim, but what did it take to swim?

  Then he saw Gina had given Maria her yearbook picture. “To Aunt Maria with all my love,” she had written in the corner. His copy had said, “To Dad with all my love.” He frowned. They couldn’t both be true! She had really liked Maria. What a combination—his happy-go-lucky sister and his calculating daughter. She had liked Maria for the wrong reasons. She thought Maria didn’t care about things that were important to him. It made him more determined to bury Maria correctly. He looked at Gina’s portrait. She was looking directly into the camera, lips without a smile, as though she alone had a sense of the seriousness of life. Her hair was brushed back from her face and fell in loose waves to her shoulders. She wore a simple dark blouse with a wide V neck that exposed her shoulders. It was striking, austere. The features were delicate, shapely, but what drew him was her eyes and the clear expression in them. She was out to take everything on, that’s what those eyes said, Nino thought. Large, dark, almond-shaped, intense, full of will. That was the worst—the confidence, the determination. It was no way for a young girl to look.

  Next to the table there was a straw basket, woven in the shape of a duck, painted green with an orange beak. The tag, MADE IN CHINA, was still attached. The duck was filled with cards. He opened one, idly trying to get his mind off Gina. “In Loving Memory,” it said in fancy red writing. “Our Lady of Blessed Peace Church certifies that Giovanni Cabotini”—a blank space had been filled in with the name of Maria’s husband, in neat blue ink—“has been enrolled as a Member in the Purgatorial Society of Our Lady of Blessed Peace for one year and as such will share in the masses celebrated on behalf of its members at Our Lady of Blessed Peace Church.” Mass cards, he saw, thumbing through them, in all sizes, from different churches. The church charged ten dollars for tiny ones, but better ones that were certified and bound in dark blue or green plastic, with gold-tooled designs, could be bought for five dollars from the lady who ran the local liquor store. Who better to understand the need to organize for repentant sinners! He saw that Maria had bought a card from her. He read through all of them. Giovanni had been a member of fourteen purgatorial societies. He had needed a lot of prayer; he had gotten it. Now his year was long since up. Where was he now?

  Funny that Maria had saved all the cards from his funeral. But, after all, that only proved his point: she cared about things like that. Her kind of faith was hard to keep up. It had taken a lot of blows: the time when her daughter-in-law who taught in a Catholic school was fired when she asked for maternity leave. Maria had screamed, “No birth control, no abortion, and no time off for your babies when you have them! Where is their decency?” Yet it had come to nothing, like his attempts to get her buried. You harden yourself to the Church’s hypocrisy, inhumanity, Nino thought, rocking with the mournful music, and then all of a sudden it hits. Gina would get the wrong idea
from it. He had to bury Maria the right way.

  There it was, he thought, losing himself in the music, his favorite part. There was nothing like this. Verdi knew what he was doing. There were the Jews, helpless, captives of King Nebuchadnezzar. No luck, those people. No better than slaves. Still, Nino thought, they were not really enslaved because they never considered where they were their real place. It was just the location of a temporary ordeal, like life itself. They were really living in the soul, the someplace else, the dreamland they would one day reach. There was the chorus: Va pensiero . . . He hummed along with it, Fly, my thoughts, on golden wings to the fatherland . . . my beautiful but lost fatherland. . . . It was in the middle of the chorus that Vinnie came in with Maria’s youngest son.

  “Turn off that record,” Vinnie said to Angelo. Shocked at the sight of his mother, Angelo obeyed, and remained by the phonograph. “Oh, Maria,” Vinnie sighed, settling her blanket around her. He sat next to her on the bright green Castro convertible sofa she had bought on sale.

  “How did it happen?” Vinnie asked.

  “She just felt weak. She called her neighbor and her neighbor called me,” Nino said. When he finished telling them how the priest refused her rites and how he and Laura had gone to Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Saint Joseph’s, Mount Carmel, and the Church of the Holy Rosary, no one said a word.

  “We could keep trying other churches,” Angelo said. “I have my car.” He had trouble looking at his mother.

  “It won’t work,” Vinnie said. “Once they refuse, they keep refusing. Let’s take her home to my place. Mulberry Street isn’t Astoria. We can call Father Romano and tell him she died visiting me.”

  “Tony Romano,” Nino said. “I never thought of him. He would understand.”

  “He’ll understand better if you don’t explain,” Vinnie said. Nino nodded. “But how will we get her out, down all these stairs, without anybody seeing us?”