either. That’s why I didn’t bring him to court today, in case it came out. I was afraid you would ask about me and Amadeo, but you didn’t. Thank you for that.”
“There was no need to, because you told the story so well.” Mary’s attention returned to Will, watching him. He did look so much like the way she had imagined Amadeo, now that she could see him uncovered by grease. And he fixed things – old trucks and evidently, cash registers. Will must have inherited his grandfather’s mechanical ability and his movie-star looks. Mary turned to Mrs. Nyquist. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I guess so. I guess I will.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Mary said gently, then she thought of something. “Helen, you know what? If Amadeo has a living heir, which he does in Will, then that heir is entitled to inherit Amadeo’s estate. I’m talking about the money that flowed from the original patent for the hatch.” Mary leaned forward on the cushy shell-pink chair. “You understand? The money that’s been going to Justin Saracone all these years will now go to Will.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, uncomprehending, and Mary felt a rush of excitement.
“Helen, before today, Amadeo’s estate was worthless. You thought you were coming back here for a murder trial, but the hearing was about who gets the royalties for the hatch Amadeo invented.” Mary touched her arm. She couldn’t help it, she had to make contact with something. “The answer, thanks to you, is Will.”
“My goodness!” Mrs. Nyquist blinked. “Is it enough to pay for the U?”
“It’s enough to
“Oh, my Lord!”
Mary beamed, feeling good all the way to her very soul. And then, though she couldn’t tell if it was the champagne, the piano music, or the truth, she could have sworn that she heard a soft voice whispering.
Si.
Fifty
“Ma, what goes in next?” Mary asked, from over the big, dented pot of brewing tomato sauce. Beads of sweat popped on her forehead. Steam melted her contact lenses. The Panasonic radio on the counter played
“Garlic, Maria!” Her mother called from her seat at the kitchen table, where she was nestled like a baby bird in the pink folds of her chenille bathrobe. Mary’s father sat next to her, in his Sunday undershirt and Bermuda shorts. They didn’t try to help, because Mary had threatened litigation and now had the juice to deliver. Not only had she gotten her preliminary injunction, but Justin Saracone had been charged with conspiracy in Frank Cavuto’s murder when Chico turned state’s evidence. And in the process, Mary had become a major business getter at Rosato amp; Associates, with new cases coming in every day from three different parishes.
“The basil gets too bitter if you put it in early,” her father said, and next to Mary, Judy stirred spaghetti in another big, dented pot.
“Didn’t they teach you anything in law school, girl? You embarrass the profession!”
“You know you want me,” Mary said, smiling. She grabbed a chipped china coffee cup, dumped in the chopped garlic, then stirred it up. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so happy. Her mother’s operation had been a complete success and she was cancer-free. Keisha had recovered, too, and was engaged to marry Bill. And Premenstrual Tom had turned out to be harmless, but still completely annoying, so Mary had given him the cell phone number of a certain brown-eyed reporter at the
“Ready, here!” Judy yelled. “We have spaghetti ignition!”
“Now basil ignition!” Mary sprinkled in the cheery green strips.
“Only a minute, Mare, with the basil,” her father said, and her mother nodded in agreement, blessing the entire operation.
“Okay, lift off!” Mary and Judy sprung into motion as a team. Judy poured the boiling spaghetti into the colander, and Mary ladled the gravy onto the bare plates, mysteriously priming them for maximum spaghetti reception. It was a rookie kitchen dance, but in no time the table was complete with four plates of fresh spaghetti and homemade gravy, set in front of three hungry people, Mary’s parents and Judy.
Mary was the last one to sit down because, for the first time, she was the one wielding the wooden spoon. She waited a minute, savoring the sight of the three people she loved so much, happy, whole, and about to be well-fed. And she sent up a silent prayer of thanks, for when it counted the most, all of the saints had come through for her.
Even St. Valentine.
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
“Where do you get your ideas?” It’s the most common question people ask authors, and my answer for
My paternal grandparents, Giuseppe and Mary Scottoline, were compelled to register as “enemy aliens” on February 27, 1942, although they had lived in Philadelphia for thirty years and violated no laws. My grandfather was a laborer and my grandmother a housewife; he was illiterate in both Italian and English, though she had been a schoolteacher in Italy and was literate in Italian. They raised four children: three girls and then a boy – my father, Frank. Ironically, at the same time that Giuseppe and Mary were being registered as enemies of the country, their son, Frank – my father – was serving in the United States Air Force. I learned their story only recently, when my father gave me their alien registration cards shortly before his death. (I include a copy of their registration cards at the end of this book.) I am forever indebted to my father, and to my grandparents, for this novel, and, of course, for much else.
By way of historical background, at the outbreak of World War II, President Roosevelt signed into law a series of presidential orders that identified all Italian-born Americans as “enemy aliens.” The presidential orders compelled Italian-Americans to register as enemy aliens, and some 600,000 registered. The orders also authorized their arrest by the FBI and relocation to internment camps. As a result, more than 10,000 Italian-Americans were evacuated from their homes and places of business, and sent to internment camps around the country.
The major internment sites for Italian-Americans were Fort George Meade in Maryland, Camp McAlester in Oklahoma, Fort Sam Houston in Texas, and Camp Forrest in Tennessee. Italian-Americans were also sent to Fort Missoula, Montana, and any one of the forty-five other internment camps used by the Immigration and Naturalization Service and the Provost Marshal General’s Office.
Some of the Italians interned were visitors to the United States, such as waiters working at the World’s Fair in New York or sailors on visiting cruise ships, but many were Italian-Americans who had lived in the United States for decades without violating any laws or without giving the government any factual basis for designating them as enemies. Some were editors of Italian newspapers, bankers, or other professionals. Many had adult children serving in the United States military, fighting against Axis nations, including Mussolini’s Italy.
Italian-Americans on the West Coast were greatly affected, because its enforcing general, Lieutenant General John DeWitt of the Western Defense Command, was so vigorous in his enforcement of the presidential orders. In addition, the government believed that the coasts of the United States were especially vulnerable to communication with the enemy. Italian-Americans were registered as enemy aliens en masse and as many as 52,000 Italian- Americans on the West Coast had their daily travels confined to “exclusionary zones” and were subject to dusk-to- dawn curfews. For example, the father of baseball great Joe DiMaggio was not permitted to visit his son’s restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf because it lay outside his exclusionary zone. Fishermen and sailors were particularly targeted for this reason. Many were no longer allowed to work as fishermen, and in some instances had
