Frank Polizzi - Somewhere in the Stars

At the end of their long journey, the Queen Mary slipped into the New York Harbor and, when Nick and Nathan saw the Statue of Liberty, they burst out in a cheer, “The Grey Ghost” passing the Empire State Building on the right before nudging its king-size hull into the Cunard dock.

If ever there would be a time for Nick to be happy, this was one of those moments. They started off with an early supper at Nick’s aunt’s house in South Brooklyn. Zia Antonina, Gaetano’s sister, had a reputation as a cook only second to his mother’s from what he heard, Nathan’s eyes glistening with the thought of a cena deliziosa, his first in America. Afterwards they celebrated on 52nd Street, hopping from one jazz club to another, the bebop notes syncopating in the air, inside and outside, all night long until they crapped out in their hotel room.

There was still the long train ride home to California, starting with the New York Central’s Pacemaker to Chicago and then the “City of San Francisco” to Oakland. But first, Nick and Nathan had to report to Fort Dix, New Jersey, the following morning and get their physicals, and later on the “Separated from Service” papers, a tedious process they longed for, ending life in the military with its orders, restrictions and ever-present chance of death—il tutto, the whole shebang, il gran finale. Yet some things in the past have a nasty way of lingering, extending their shelf life and for Nick there were things he could not forget, others he did not want to remember or maybe it was a combination of both.

Stockton Street in North Beach looked the same to Nick as he sauntered down the block, a patch of green from Angel Island still rising at the end of the sloping street of attached houses with Victorian touches, though not nearly as detailed as those of Alamo Square. He made a promise to himself that he would not be seen with any sort of limp, the casual rhythm of his stride deflecting attention. A banner hung underneath the bay windows read ‘Welcome Home, Nicky’ and brought a smile to his face, countering a fleeting, dark memory of his father being dragged down those same steps that he was now climbing to a victory party, starting the second he opened the door.

“A toast to figghiu miu, Nicolo ,” Gaetano announced operatically over Caruso’s voice, singing the aria, ‘ Vesti la giubba ’ from Pagliacci on a 78 single, one of a collection that his father gathered over his lifetime in America. Someone turned the music down and Gaetano managed to quiet everyone for a moment. “We are proud of you and wish you bona fortuna. Salute !” A chorus of blessings continued, from Cent’anni to “Cheers.”

Lucia ran up to her son and kissed him on the forehead. She turned to the crowd. “May he marry subito. Eh, we need some bambini in casa mia .” Everyone toasted again and the laughter and conversation bounced off the tin ceiling, the noise carrying over to the backyards of the adjoining houses.

Streamers hung from the living room ceiling and a ‘Benvinutu a Casa Nicolo ’ banner stretched above the couch. The dining room table was set with a linen tablecloth and his mother’s wedding china, which only left its display in a mahogany cabinet during holidays. Nick slumped onto the couch after countless baci e abbracci from family and neighborhood friends. The noise level rose as Nick scanned the room of familiar faces, amused by their animated expressions, but there was something bothering him throughout the festivities. His father pulled Nick up from the sofa and put his wide arm around his son, coaxing him to greet the new arrivals, everyone smiling, laughing, a few crying.

Paul’s family came in later, a moment that he had been dreading, and he was relieved that Ziu Francesco hadn’t shown up. Not that he didn’t admire his uncle who ran a successful, neighborhood business, not that he didn’t love his uncle, no, it was all about Paul. After an emotional greeting with the entire Burgio famigghia, Zia Concetta made no reference to Ziu Francesco’s conspicuous absence. Nick breathed in heavily when the door opened five minutes later and Ziu Francesco entered. The conversations quieted down as Nick’s uncle approached him. He sized his nephew up and down, hugged him, handing over a bottle of his homemade wine. No words were exchanged and Nick preferred it that way.

The chatter and laughter took off again, mixed with the wine and beer and pitchers of Hurricane, a rum cocktail created in New Orleans during the war that Gaetano’s cousin had described to him in a letter. Nick grew to hate it with each taste. It became one of those moments in a movie where all you saw were the lips of people moving but no sound. Nick became disoriented and began to sweat from traces of pain in his leg. The moment he had dreaded was over and there had been no scene at all with his uncle. He still felt empty inside, despite those many nights dreaming of riding his bicycle again along the bay, going over the red bridge and seeing his father sail under it a free man, and maybe even running into Deborah. He wanted to be as happy as all those smiling faces that greeted him like Mamma and Papà. The noise level spiked again to a high volume, just like the sound of a film rushing back to end a scene, the camera focusing in on the main character. Nick was back home.

Later in the evening, after most of the people had left the party, Nathan stopped by. Nick led his friend into the rear garden, holding an open bottle of red wine and two highball glasses.

“Let’s sit on top of the picnic table. We can get a bird’s-eye view of the sky.”

“You haven’t changed, Nick.” Nathan laughed. “Stars and birds. For me, I’ll take people, starting with you, buddy.”

“Have some wine.” Nick poured and handed him a glass, watching his friend drink. “So what do you think?”

“Smells and tastes of southern Italy. Has a homemade quality, but it’s good stuff.” Nathan grabbed the bottle and observed that the label had the type and year, Zinfandel 1944.

“It came all the way from San Francisco.” Nick revealed a set smile. “Paul’s father gave it to me.”

“How’s he holding up?”

“Hard to say what a person feels. Let’s try and enjoy his gift of wine.” Nick poured more wine in both of the glasses and drank all of his. “My cousin, Maria, is getting married next year, you know. What a looker!” Nick drank half his wine and stared at the ground. “My father gave up fishing. He just tends to his garden. My mom is still working as a seamstress.” Nick rubbed his hand over the wine label. “Anyway, a little remembrance.” Nick held up the bottle. “My last time with cuginu Paul at my house.” Nick drank the glass in one gulp and poured another one for himself. “Why do I have all this dang guilt, Nate?”

“We all do. Look at how many died in our tank squadron and we’re still here. Don’t get me started.” He finished his wine. “Hey, buddy. I thought we made a pact in Florence not to talk about the war when we came back.”

“I know, but with you it’s different. At least your cugino Carlo escaped the Nazis.” Nick poured another glass of wine for Nathan and himself. “Paul never got a chance to come home again. And what about our buddy, Al from Roseto?”

“It’s not our fault, Nick.” Nathan took a sip of wine. “But I’ll tell you what else we still have on our chest.” He drank most of the wine. “Rachele and Caterina. They’re alive, God knows somewhere in Italy. It must be over six months since we last saw them.”

“I never think of her anymore.”