My thanks to the kind folks who bought books in Russian, and to Ira, who purchased a Tallulah Bankhead bio, the only sale in English. Here's an excerpt from the first short story I ever wrote, circa 1980. It takes place in the early '60's. The clip is a few minutes read.
The bus wound its way to the bay, where Vito and his mother descended. He was dancing in anticipation as they awaited the change of the traffic light at Emmons Avenue. Once across, he hurried ahead, despite his mother's protestations. He took hold of the railing at his accustomed place and stood on its cement base, looking out to sea. His mother soon caught up.
"
Papa`!" he suddenly, jubilantly cried, rising on his toes.
"
Dove`?" said his mother skeptically, shielding her eyes from the bright sunshine. "
Io no vedo."
He pointed him out to her. His father stood erect, unshielded, at the wheel of the little boat, in characteristic pose, one that reminded Vito of the portrait of George Washington crossing the Delaware that hung in the library of St. Mary's. His mother chuckled as she recognized her husband through her squint. She seemed amazed that her son's vision was so keen, and lovingly ran a hand across his dark crewcut. He was happy that he had at least one trait that made her proud.
As the boat neared, his father waved, which excited Vito even more. He ran to the dock, his mother shouting at his back. He hurried down the ramp and onto the platform, which swayed in the gentle waters of the bay. The motion made him queasy and afraid, but he refused to show it. His mother remained on the sidewalk, having no desire to get seasick. His father moored the boat, climbed out, bent, and kissed him and playfully rubbed a two-day growth of beard against his face.
The wine barrels standing one behind the other at the back of the boat were filled with porgies and bloodied water. His father had had great luck. Vito stared at the fish a moment, then looked away. Their wide-eyed stillness gave him the creeps. He knew fishing was necessary, but he wanted no part of it. He gagged at the taste of fish, which puzzled his parents, who relished it.
His mother demanded he return to the sidewalk. He refused. She would not let him go for a ride in the boat, so he would not be denied this lesser pleasure. Her fear seemed irrational - his father would not let him drown. He sensed she was not only concerned for his safety but afraid he would be charmed into following in his father's footsteps. He was amazed at how poorly she understood him.
The burly young man from the fish store arrived with handcarts. The men lifted the barrels out of the boat and onto the dock. It seemed a wonder that the little boat hadn't sunk under the weight, that the motor hadn't broken down transporting it. Vito marveled at his father's resourcefulness.
He backed away, as the weight had tilted the dock, which was simply a large floating raft. The men strapped the barrels to the carts and hauled them up the ramp and across the street to the store. Vito hoped he would be as strong someday.
Randazzo, a paunchy, balding middle aged man dressed in a soiled apron, was waiting at the scale. He weighed the loads, smiled, dug deep into a pocket, and withdrew a thick wad of bills. Vito's father extended a hand and Randazzo counted out $70. Vito was thrilled and proud -- $70 in one day! He gazed at his mother, hoping she would be satisfied. She too was smiling, silently. His parents rarely exchanged more than a few words, unless arguing, and somehow that argument had begun and continued without end, silently and verbally. Annoyance was the emotion they showed most. Vito wondered if he were the cause of their hostility.
His father bought him an Italian ice, and they strolled across the street and watched the charter boats come into port. None had been as fortunate as his father. He'd once heard a man say that the captains of some boats followed his father out to sea, knowing they would be rewarded. His father never boasted, and it disappointed Vito. He wanted everyone to know how great the man was.
Vito enjoyed the color, the smiles, the carnival-like atmosphere of the area. There was much to see and hear. He was puzzled momentarily, noting a sign that said: "Sheepshead Bay." In their accents, his parents pronounced it "Sheepeeza Bay," and he'd assumed the area had been named for an Italian. He felt foolish and was glad no one would ever know of his error. He was amazed he hadn't realized it sooner. The sign was old, battered, covered with graffiti. He feared he was stupid.
Here's what the area in question looks like these days. The water is far less polluted. The promenade has been renovated recently. The dock in question would have been just ahead of the pedestrian bridge that spans the bay. At the end of his work day, my dad docked his boat about 50 yards below the bridge, on the left hand side. The area at the bottom is a holocaust memorial, created within the last decade or so. I copied the shot from an old family friend's FB feed. Thank you, Miss Connoli.
