across to him and hit him in the face, a good solid blow. He gave her a push that sent her staggering against the kitchen table.
The Le Cinglatas were aghast. There would be too much trouble now. They stepped between mother and son.
“Ahhh.” Lucia Santa gave a long hiss of satisfaction. “A son strikes his mother.
Animale! Bestial Sfachim! Figlio de puttana!
Thank God your father is dead. Thank God he does not see his son beating his own mother for the sake of strangers.”
Larry’s face had five red stripes, but he was no longer angry. He said sullenly, “Ah, Ma, I just pushed you away. Cut it out.” He felt guilty, conscience-stricken, to see tears of humiliation in his mother’s eyes.
Lucia Santa turned to the Le Cinglatas. “This is your pleasure, eh? Good. My son can stay here. But let me tell you this. My son will be in my house tonight. Or I will be in the police station. He is underage. I will send him to reform school and you people to prison. Selling wine and whisky is one thing, but here in America they protect children. As you said, Signora, we are not in Italy.” She spoke to her son. “And you, stay with your friends. I wouldn’t want your company in the street. Stay, enjoy yourself. But, dear son of mine, I warn you, sleep in my house tonight. Or big as you are I’ll put you away.” She made a dignified exit.
Walking home, she thought, Ah, that’s how people make their fortunes. Money comes before everything. But what scum they are. What animals. And yet when they have money they dare look everyone in the eye.
That night, after the children had been put to bed, Octavia and the mother sat drinking coffee at the great round kitchen table. There was no sign of Larry. Octavia was a little frightened at her mother’s determination to put Larry in reform school. She would not be able to go to work the next day. They would both have to go to the police station to swear out a summons. Octavia had never thought her mother could be so cruel and hard or so contemptuous of extra money earned by Larry at the Le Cinglatas’.
A knock on the door startled them, and Octavia went to open it. A tall, dark, good-looking man, dressed in a suit as beautiful as a movie star’s, smiled at her. He asked in perfect Italian, “Is this the home of Signora Corbo?” Then he added, “I am from the Le Cinglatas, their lawyer; they asked me to see you.”
Octavia brought him a cup of coffee. Friend or enemy, a guest was offered something to drink.
“Now,” the young man said. “Signora Corbo, you are foolish to get so upset about your son. Everyone is bootlegging. It is not something wrong. The President himself has his little drink. And are you so rich you can’t use a few dollars?”
“Mr. Lawyer,” the mother said, “I don’t care how or what you say.” The young man was observing her intently, not taking offense. She went on. “My son sleeps in the house of his mother, his brothers, his sisters. Until he has a wife. That, or off he goes to reform school to enjoy his pleasure. At eighteen let him leave and I will not be his mother. But until he is of age I have no choice. None of my children will be pimps or jailbirds or murderers.”
The young man was staring hard into her face. Then he said briskly, “Good. We understand each other. But perfectly, Signora. Now listen to me. On no account go to the police. I promise you that tomorrow without fail your son will be here. This trouble will not trouble you again. Now, that’s well said, is it not?”
“Tonight,” Lucia Santa said.
“Eh,” the young man replied. “I’m disappointed in you. Jesus Christ could not make your son come home tonight. You, a mother, with your experience of life—you must understand his pride. He thinks himself a man. Let him have this little victory.”
The mother was pleased and flattered and recognized the truth. She nodded assent.
The young man rose quickly and said, “
Buona sera,
Signora.” He bowed his head
The Le Cinglatas were aghast. There would be too much trouble now. They stepped between mother and son.
“Ahhh.” Lucia Santa gave a long hiss of satisfaction. “A son strikes his mother.
Animale! Bestial Sfachim! Figlio de puttana!
Thank God your father is dead. Thank God he does not see his son beating his own mother for the sake of strangers.”
Larry’s face had five red stripes, but he was no longer angry. He said sullenly, “Ah, Ma, I just pushed you away. Cut it out.” He felt guilty, conscience-stricken, to see tears of humiliation in his mother’s eyes.
Lucia Santa turned to the Le Cinglatas. “This is your pleasure, eh? Good. My son can stay here. But let me tell you this. My son will be in my house tonight. Or I will be in the police station. He is underage. I will send him to reform school and you people to prison. Selling wine and whisky is one thing, but here in America they protect children. As you said, Signora, we are not in Italy.” She spoke to her son. “And you, stay with your friends. I wouldn’t want your company in the street. Stay, enjoy yourself. But, dear son of mine, I warn you, sleep in my house tonight. Or big as you are I’ll put you away.” She made a dignified exit.
Walking home, she thought, Ah, that’s how people make their fortunes. Money comes before everything. But what scum they are. What animals. And yet when they have money they dare look everyone in the eye.
That night, after the children had been put to bed, Octavia and the mother sat drinking coffee at the great round kitchen table. There was no sign of Larry. Octavia was a little frightened at her mother’s determination to put Larry in reform school. She would not be able to go to work the next day. They would both have to go to the police station to swear out a summons. Octavia had never thought her mother could be so cruel and hard or so contemptuous of extra money earned by Larry at the Le Cinglatas’.
A knock on the door startled them, and Octavia went to open it. A tall, dark, good-looking man, dressed in a suit as beautiful as a movie star’s, smiled at her. He asked in perfect Italian, “Is this the home of Signora Corbo?” Then he added, “I am from the Le Cinglatas, their lawyer; they asked me to see you.”
Octavia brought him a cup of coffee. Friend or enemy, a guest was offered something to drink.
“Now,” the young man said. “Signora Corbo, you are foolish to get so upset about your son. Everyone is bootlegging. It is not something wrong. The President himself has his little drink. And are you so rich you can’t use a few dollars?”
“Mr. Lawyer,” the mother said, “I don’t care how or what you say.” The young man was observing her intently, not taking offense. She went on. “My son sleeps in the house of his mother, his brothers, his sisters. Until he has a wife. That, or off he goes to reform school to enjoy his pleasure. At eighteen let him leave and I will not be his mother. But until he is of age I have no choice. None of my children will be pimps or jailbirds or murderers.”
The young man was staring hard into her face. Then he said briskly, “Good. We understand each other. But perfectly, Signora. Now listen to me. On no account go to the police. I promise you that tomorrow without fail your son will be here. This trouble will not trouble you again. Now, that’s well said, is it not?”
“Tonight,” Lucia Santa said.
“Eh,” the young man replied. “I’m disappointed in you. Jesus Christ could not make your son come home tonight. You, a mother, with your experience of life—you must understand his pride. He thinks himself a man. Let him have this little victory.”
The mother was pleased and flattered and recognized the truth. She nodded assent.
The young man rose quickly and said, “
Buona sera,
Signora.” He bowed his head
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