Nicky threaded his costume through the door and closed the gap between him and Cha Cha quickly, knowing that any delay would be a sign of encouragement. The door did not have a lock, but why would it? Who would want to be locked inside this lady lair?
He hung his uniform on the back of the closet door and lay down on the bed, which nearly collapsed under his weight. His feet hung over the edge on one end, as his head sunk through the pillow to the mattress below on the other. Everything was too soft.
Nicky wanted to get up and get a cigarette, but he feared that if he lit a match in this room, he would blow up Truman Street. Instead he put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and without moving a muscle, let his mind wander to the exquisite beauty of Mamie Confalone. As she walked down the main aisle of the factory and toward him, he longed for her. As he drifted off to sleep, Mamie Confalone reached him at the end of the aisle and pulled him close and kissed him.
*
Minna stood at her kitchen window, peering out at the garage apartment.
“Can you see anything?” Hortense whispered from behind the kitchen door.
“Cha Cha is with Eddie Davanzo.”
“Who’s he?”
“The town cop. Come and look. They can’t see you from here.”
Hortense peeked out through the kitchen curtains. “He’s handsome.”
“A bachelor.”
“What a waste.”
“I don’t know what is wrong with the young ladies in this town. But I think he pines for one girl in particular, and he can’t have her, so he doesn’t settle.”
“Unrequited love. One-sided pain for no one’s gain.” Hortense cackled victoriously. “They’re taking my note!”
“What did it say?”
“It got me out of the dinner tonight. I’m just too tired to put up with the staring.”
“I understand. They can be cold if you’re not one of them.”
“They weren’t cold this afternoon, but they look at me like they’ve never seen a colored person. It makes me feel prickly.”
“I’ve felt that way since the day I moved here.”
“You’re not one of them?”
“I married one of them.”
“So you’re once removed. You’re not Italian?”
“I am, but not from their province, or their town. They like their own. That’s it. I’m Venetian, and therefore an outsider.”
“Judged by your own kind. That is frosty.”
“Do you like all Negroes?”
“Mostly.”
“I’m sure you’re respected in your community because of your position. How many people can say they work for Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“It’s not my job that earns me respect. It’s my standing in my church.”
“That’s important, too. But it’s very rare for a woman to have a position like yours. Mrs. Roosevelt saw something in you.”
“She’s a visionary, only one of her in a million. Franklin and she—well, I can’t speak of them without getting emotional. May he rest in peace.”
“Best president we ever had.”
“I think so. Except perhaps for Abraham Lincoln.”
“He was a good one, too.”
“For my people he was essential.” Hortense put her hand on her heart.
“Do you like to cook?”
“It’s my favorite chore.”
“Mine too.”
“But I do love to garden, too. And you have a lovely garden.”
“I enjoy it. I grow my own tomatoes. Lettuce. Cucumbers. How about you?”
“The same. I also raise okra, chicory. We cook with that.”
“How do you make your tomatoes?”
“I stew them. Have you ever stewed tomatoes?”
“I haven’t.”
“My momma taught me. You take about eight big red tomatoes in season,” Hortense began. “Slice them in triangles, heat some butter in a skillet, two teaspoons of sugar—slice up an onion—let that get glassy. When it does, throw in the tomatoes and stir them up. Sprinkle about a quarter teaspoon of cloves over the tomatoes as they’re cooking. Keep stirring. If you want to make a meal out of it, tear up some bread and throw it in there and stir it all together. You never tasted anything so delicious.”
“Tonight I’m going to make macaroni. Is that all right?”
“As long as you serve it with some fruit of the vine.” Hortense winked.
“I have a bottle or two.”
“Then I am all set. Hallelujah. A little homemade hootch, and I’ll forget all my troubles.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Thank you, Lord!” Hortense went to sit at the counter where Minna prepared the meal. “I always wanted to learn how to make the gravy.”
“You must know some Italians. You don’t call it sauce.”
“The Roosevelts employed some Italians here and there.”
“I’ll show you how to make gravy Venetian style. In this town, they make it Rosetan style, which is fine, it’s tasty.” She whispered, “But mine is better.”
“I believe you. What’s in the Roseto gravy?”
Minna paused for a moment. “It goes like this. Olive oil in the pan, chopped onion, minced garlic, let it get glassy, as you say. Set that aside. Then you prepare the tomatoes. We can them every winter—in summer, we use fresh. One tomato per serving, so a quart of tomatoes serves about four people. When you use the fresh, most of the women like to give the tomatoes a dunk in boiling water and peel them before cooking them into the sauce. Then they strain them into the pan, so no seeds or skin in the gravy—it’s just smooth. You’ll add parsley, basil, and crushed red pepper. Salt and pepper. You let that simmer. Over the macaroni it goes. Add your freshly grated cheese.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the Rosetan marinara. Of course, when they make the big pot of gravy, they add the meat. The meatballs, the sausage, pork, chicken, what have you. For the big pot, double the tomatoes. That’s the pot the family eats out of all week.”
“Right.”
“Do you want to help me make the gravy Venetian style?”
“Sure.”
Hortense watched as Minna methodically gathered the pots and utensils, including paring knives, colander, wooden spoons, slate cutting board, and a large pot to boil the macaroni. She tied a dishtowel around her waist, washed her hands, and filled the pot with water, placing it on the stove to boil and adding salt to the water. From her icebox, she took one carrot and a bunch of celery. From a bin next to it, she retrieved an onion. From the window, she pinched a bunch of basil from the plant in its pot. From a ceramic dish, she chose three cloves of firm garlic.
Minna lifted her largest skillet from the shelf, placed it on the stove, and poured olive oil into the pan. She handed Hortense a paring knife. “Mince the garlic for me. I’ll take care of the onion. I never make company cry.”
Minna placed the onion and garlic in the skillet, turning the heat on low. She stirred the onion and garlic, thoroughly covering them with the olive oil. “Peel and slice the carrot in very thin discs for me.” As Hortense cut the carrot, Minna pulled the outside stalks of the celery away from the bunch until she got to the heart. She pulled the heart stalks out and chopped them finely on the cutting board.
“Why the hearts of celery?” Hortense asked.
“That’s my own choice. The outside stalks make the sauce bitter. Just my opinion.” Minna put the carrot discs and chopped celery hearts into the pan and stirred.