Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

“Enlisted in the Army the other day.” Paul punched the palm of his hand. “Set the date.” The bartender wiped down the bar and pretended he wasn’t listening. The next set began and Paul bobbed his head to rhythm of R&B, leaning on the bar with his short, wiry frame.

“You joined up!” Nick raised his voice over the music. “I thought you were going to wait till you got drafted.”

“I was gonna surprise you with the news at the party, but didn’t wanna rain on your parade.”

“Weren’t you supposed to help your father expand the business? Be a partner someday.”

“Look, I wanna show everyone I’m a real American, not some guinea kid who thought Mussolini was a big deal.”

“When you going in?”

“June! Right after I graduate.”

“You’re not going on some school trip, you know.” Paul looked away and Nick wondered how carefully his cousin thought this through. “I’ll buy the next round, cuginu .”

“A double for me. So what are you gonna do?”

“What?”

“You know, Uncle Sam,” Paul shouted.

Nick shrugged and lit up a Lucky Strike, as his cousin downed his double. Paul ordered several more shots for himself, but Nick waved off the bartender, nursing his second shot. About midway through the set, Paul staggered over to the side of the stage so he could get a better view of the drummer. A halo of smoke began to form above Nick’s head, while he pondered Paul’s declaration. Nick had mixed feelings about going to war against Italians. He really couldn’t figure out what he should do. He could hear Negroes in the audience slipping in calls of ‘play it’ to the musicians who added their own riffs. He welcomed the distraction until it wore off and ruminated some more—just wait to be called up and then sort things out. Though Nick admired Paul’s moxie, he wasn’t convinced he should follow him, in anything for that matter. He watched the Negro bartender cheerfully serving drinks, a face that revealed he must have been doing this a long time. When the band was finishing its last number, the bartender came over and asked Nick if he wanted another drink, but he shook his head no.

“What’s the matter, son?” Nick acted like he didn’t hear him. “Worried about your sidekick?”

“Yeah, you know, the war.” Nick took one last drag and rubbed it out in a crowded ashtray. “Could I have a glass of water?”

The bartender poured the water and placed a few ice cubes in it. “Where you from, son?” Nick sipped the water.

“From North Beach.”

“That’s where all the eye-talians live. Where your folks from?”

“Sicily.”

“I’ll bet you have some of those big family dinners every Sunday.”

“How did you know that?”

“I used to live in New Orleans. Plenty of Sicilians there.”

“To tell the truth, I don’t know much about Negroes, except for jazz.” Nick finished off the water. “Do you have family get togethers?”

“Sometimes we have reunions in Louisiana.”

“What do you eat?”

The bartender smiled. “We have some helluva fine parties, let me tell you, with all that great food, that makes your mouth water just thinking about it. You know, one of those southern Bar B Qs.”

“What’s that?”

The bartender laughed. “You sure haven’t been around much, have you, son? It’s when you set a big grill with wood chips or charcoal, smoking and slowcooking pork. And some special, secret sauces to go with it.”

“Oh, I get it but I never had that kind of food.”

“You’ll have to get some real soon.”

“You ever have caponata?”

“Capo what?”

“It is very good. You can trust me. Eggplant, onions, celery, tomatoes, capers, olives.” The bartender scratched his head. “My Mamma makes it.”

“Well, son, if you say your mama cooks it, then I’ll have to try it some time.”

“It’s special—a secret family recipe.”

“I get it.” The bartender smiled broadly. Nick stood up on his toes to see what his cousin was up to. “Son!” Nick glanced back. “You said before that your folks were Sicilian.” He nodded. “I saw some terrible things down south when I was a child.” The bartender swiped the bar with a towel. “Let me tell you, lynching is not a pretty sight.” Nick winced. “But I’m not talkin’ about my people. They went after yours, too. Whether you is black or white, dangling from some danged lamppost is not something you ever want to come across. Watch out for yourself. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

A customer called the bartender away, leaving Nick to sort things out, and when he came back, the bartender poured Nick a shot on the house, something he needed after the warning he just received. He drank it right down.

“The set’s over. You’d better go help your friend. Looks like he’s soused.”

Nick moved a few feet away, turned and called out: “I’ll bring a jar of caponata next time I come here.”

The bartender shook his head. “Go take care of that boy.”

As soon as they stepped outside, a cloudburst soaked their clothes, so now Paul was doubly soused without any awareness of either. The bus was out of the question and Nick got lucky, hailing a lone cab passing by on Sutter Street. The cabbie gave Paul the once-over but let them in because Nick acted halfway normal. They got back late so Nick figured he’d stash his cousin on the floor of his bedroom, so as not to burn up Ziu Francesco, an uncle he admired since he was a kid for turning a fruit stand into a bustling alimentari in the heart of North Beach. Paul leaned on his cousin’s shoulder the whole ride and sleepwalked out of the cab. Nick managed to lug him up the stairs, making it into the room without waking his parents. With many contorted moves, he coaxed Paul into dry boxer shorts and a white sleeveless undershirt and did the same for himself without his usual dexterity. Pellets of rain continued to hit Nick’s window, the sound pinging in his subconscious. It took time for him to relax and fall asleep.

The pounding on the front door sounded so deafening in the dead of night that Nick thought that the San Andreas Fault was splitting. The door hadn’t opened fast enough, so down it crashed as men surged into the house, white profiles in sharp relief to their black fedoras and dark suits. Gaetano had grabbed his son’s old baseball bat from under the bed and raced downstairs, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring.

Nick heard his father yelling, “Get the hella out of here,” while the ornate porcelain lamp smashed into slivers all over the floor. Nick and his mother now stood at the top of the stairs. Madonna!” Lucia screamed. “What are you doin’ to my husband?” His mother crossed herself, while one of the intruders wrestled with Gaetano, both knocking over a table. Nick flung himself down several steps at a time to the bottom but two burly men snagged him. He saw that it was hopeless as a six-foot-four agent flashed his FBI badge and hollered: “We have a Federal Warrant for the arrest of Gaetano Spataro!” Nick couldn’t grasp why his father was being arrested.

Paul spilled out of the bedroom, still groggy from all the alcohol and squinted from the banister. He sidestepped around his aunt, gripping the banister all the way down. “What the hell you doin’?” he slurred to the head agent.

“Get a hold of yourself, young man. We need to take Mr. Spataro in for questioning.”

“What’s my father being charged with?” Nick demanded over the shoulders of the men blocking him.

“Your father’s an enemy alien.” The head agent motioned to several other agents, who ransacked the house for radios, flashlights, cameras and binoculars. His mother looked on in horror, while Paul gaped in confusion. Nick wondered what the hell these men were thinking his family might do with these everyday items. After the search was complete, not one piece of furniture stood in its rightful place. The family trailed the posse out of the house and down the stoop, the rain a filmy mist on their faces as they watched an agent push Gaetano’s head under the roof of the black, Ford sedan.