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Chapter 18: Cousin Alberto

            Angelina gracefully assumed the management of the household. She started in the kitchen.  Once we were addicted to her antipasto and lasagna, she began to refit the kitchen with new appliances.  She moved on to the living room, tossing out the dark, dreary curtains.  She sent the couches out to be recovered.  Debo was given carte blanche to redecorate her bedroom.  The apartment began to lose its air of stagnation. Nothing Angelina did, however, could rid the rooms of Father’s cigar smoke. 

             One day she asked me if I would prefer to be living in my own place.  I almost wept with relief and gratitude.  It was as if the door to a dark jail cell was unlocked, and the light poured in.  So began a new phase of my life.  Angelina helped me find a small studio in the East Village.  I was in my second year of graduate school at Columbia, getting my master’s degree in English.  Walking into my little studio was like stepping into Heaven for me.  It was not quiet; New York City is never quiet; but it was a peaceful and happy place, and my very own.

            Once Angelina had put the household in order, she began accompanying Father to the office.  At this time, Cousin Alberto oversaw all the shipping.  Though in his mid-thirties, Cousin Alberto was as yet unmarried.  He was considered a most eligible bachelor, whose photograph appeared occasionally in New York magazine.  Our paths rarely crossed once I’d moved out, but Angelina saw more and more of Cousin Alberto as she began to learn the administration of Salerno Enterprises.  In her open friendly way, Angelina asked intelligent questions and came up with thoughtful comments and solutions.  Things began to run more smoothly.  The office staff adored her. 

            One day I happened to stop in to say hello.  Angelina had her own desk; she was talking on the telephone, but she waved to me and put up a finger to let me know she’d be only a minute.  I found Father in his office.

            “Father, the whole office seems to be better.  Even Mrs. Romano smiled at me, and she’s never done that before.  Is this all Angelina’s doing?”

            “Sure it is,” he said.  “The woman has an MBA.”  He tapped his temple and winked. “Your father is not a stupid.”

            It was Angelina who first noticed the discrepancies in the accounts.  After the whole mess came to light, and Cousin Alberto was in prison, we who were left realized that Angelina had suspected Cousin Alberto all along.    When I asked her what tipped her off, she laughed and tapped her temple just like Father.

             “Alberto was living far too well, even for the generous salary your father paid him.”

            Looking back now, I’d like to say that I sensed something dishonest in Cousin Alberto, revealed in a sly expression, or an edginess of manner, but it would not be true.   Cousin Alberto was twenty years old when he came to New York to work with Father.  To my seven-year-old eyes, my uncle was a tall man with gold necklaces, a white teeth smile, a big laugh, and lots of dark curly hair, even on his chest.  He treated us children as if we were household pets.  He greeted us, patted us on the head, and then ignored us.  For me, he was only another member of my parents’ social circle, just a more frequent visitor because he was family.

            The social sections of the newspapers showed Cousin Alberto in nightclubs with celebrities, or escorting a famous model to the opening of a Broadway show.  He always looked the same, smiling his wide, confident smile, waving agreeably to his audience.  He truly believed he was untouchable, too smart to get caught.  He didn’t reckon with Angelina.  She was smarter, and in her way, more devious than Cousin Alberto.

            Later, I asked Angelina to tell me about Cousin Alberto’s arrest. 

            “Two policemen came to the office early one morning.  Alberto was lounging at his desk, you know how he does.”  She leaned back in her chair, exuding arrogance, just like Alberto.  I had to laugh.  “He was smoking a cigar and talking on the telephone, loud, in Italian.  One of the cops stepped up and said, “Alberto Salerno?  I have a warrant for your arrest.”  Just like in the movies.  You should have seen Alberto’s face.  His eyebrows lifted up like this.  He was really surprised.  He said, “What did I do?  This is a mistake.”

            “You are Alberto Giovanni Salerno?” the other cop said.   Then he read Alberto his Miranda rights.  When the first cop pulled out handcuffs, Alberto went a little pale.  “Are these necessary?” he said.  “Put out your hands,” the cop said.  Before he got into the elevator, Alberto yelled at Norma his secretary to call his lawyer.  And then he was gone.  In jail.  And good riddance.”  Angelina clapped her hands as if she were brushing away dirt.

*

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Chapter 16:  Mr. Braithewaite’s Story

            The dream begins the same way as the first in which Teresa is the little girl with the butterscotch pony, only the scene has expanded like a panoramic shot in a movie.  Now, in the curious way of dreams, Teresa is both the little girl in the dream and the observer.  The father is the same lean, blue-eyed man with the loving smile.  He presents her with the pony, only this time he says, “Here you are my darling little bird, my Maggie-pie.  A pony of your very own.” 

            “Oh, Da, she’s lovely,” the girl says, patting the horse’s nose.

            He lifts her up onto the pony’s back and leads her around the grassy yard.  She feels a surge of pure joy from her toes in the stirrups to the dark curls on her head.  Beyond the pasture, Teresa the observer can see a low farmhouse.  Out of the door comes an older man with a shock of gray hair.  He runs toward them across the grass.  As he gets closer, Teresa, who is also Maggie on the pony, can see the man’s face is anguished.  He runs toward them, waving his arms and shouting, “George!  George!” 

            When he is close enough to be heard, the older man calls, “Eliza’s in a bad way!  Her time’s come and she’s bleeding something fierce!  I sent Harry for the doctor!  You’d better hurry!”

            For the girl on the pony, the day’s happiness drains away as if a plug were pulled from the sunlit sky and dark clouds rushed in.  There is a surge of shadows and the scene folds and then reopens at a graveside under a rainy sky.  Three mourners in dark, worn clothing cluster in the mud around the grave where two simple coffins, large and small, become shiny and slick in the rain.  Teresa, as the little Maggie, holds the older man’s hand.  She feels him trembling with sobs.  Her chest is so heavy with loss that she can barely breathe.

             Teresa awakens with tears on her face.  She feels sadder than she has in years, not since the death of her little boy, so many years ago.  The digital clock by the bedside glows 2:48 in red numbers.  Teresa turns on the light.  She wipes her eyes with a tissue and blows her nose. 

            “Whew, this is some painful way to get information, Margaret.” 

            She lies in the bed with moonlight striping the covers, and lets herself remember Marco, her baby boy.  She rarely opens that box of memory, but here in the predawn in a house not her own, she spends time with him, his tiny, perfect fingers, his twisted little legs and feet. 

            “Oh, Marco,” Teresa sighs.  There is something so terrible about tiny white coffins covered in flowers.

            Morning finally comes in shafts of bright sunlight and ecstatic birdsong.  Teresa lies in bed, letting the light glow through her eyelids.  She wishes she were like those birds, able to greet each new day with such a fury of joy.  She fingers the necklace she has worn for almost forty years.  It is a flat, cream-colored spiral, set in beveled gold.  Angelina gave it to Teresa when Marco was born, explaining that the spiral was actually the door of a sea snail.  One could find these delicate spirals in the beach sand of the Costa del Sol, but it took a sharp eye and much searching.  In her travels, Teresa has found a few of these herself, but none as lovely as the one she wears. 

            In less than a quarter of an hour, Teresa is dressed and stepping through the wrought-iron garden gate.  Mr. Braithewaite is there as she’d hoped.  Today he is deadheading a patch of primroses.  The battered brown felt hat is crushed down on his head.  He has his pipe clamped between his teeth; it seems to have gone out.

            “Good morning,” Teresa calls out.  “Do you have a moment to chat?”

            He waves her over without turning around.  “Can’t get up until these are done or I’ll never get down again.  The damp weather aggravates my joints.”

            “Yes, it can do that.  I can help, if you like.”  Teresa squats down beside him, mentally congratulating herself on the decades of yoga that allow her to be limber still.  She begins to nip off the brown, spent flowers, tossing them into the frayed basket.

            “What can you tell me about the Braithewaites who lived here in 1790?” she asks.

            “Let’s see,” Mr. Braithewaite pauses and squints up at the sky as if the answer might be scrolled in the passing clouds.  “John Braithewaite worked the farm with his father, who tried raising dairy cows.  But the land couldn’t support a large dairy operation, so, after John’s father died, he supplemented the farm with wrecking.  They smuggled out the brandy, you know, and tea, keeping whatever else they could use, and selling the rest.”  There is a long pause while Mr. Braithewaite relights his pipe.  “At some point, John joined up with the wreckers who put out false lights.”  Another pause while he puffs and shifts to the left.   Teresa feels disappointed.  This is the same story she heard from Miss Micklewhite.  She was hoping for more details from a member of the family. 

            Mr. Braithewaite continues, “His son, George, was Margaret’s father.  I suppose you’ve heard about Margaret from Miss Micklewhite.  George had been a partner in the farming and the wrecking, but he balked at joining the false lighters.  Said it was one thing to pick up cargo from foundered ships, another to be the cause of the wreck.  He packed up his family: his wife Mary, Margaret, and their infant son, and moved to Somerset.”

            “But I heard that Margaret’s mother died in childbirth,” Teresa says, surprised.  “And I thought her mother’s name was Eliza.”

            Mr. Braithewaite turns abruptly to squint at Teresa, almost scowling.  “Who told you that?”

            “Uh, I–I don’t remember,” Teresa stammers.  “Someone who was a guest here, perhaps.”  Why would two such conflicting versions exist? she wonders. 

            Mr. Braithewaite says, “I don’t know anything about that.  The family moved away, that’s the story handed down to my forebears.  And now, Ms. Salerno, you’ll excuse me.  I’m due to meet with my solicitor at ten.” He creaks slowly to standing.

            Teresa stands up as well, brushing soil from her jeans.  “About how old would Margaret have been when her family left Devonshire?” 

            “Hmmm…around ten years old, I should think.  Ta.”  He moves off down the path, leaving Teresa with more questions than before the conversation began.

*

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Chapter 15:  Angelina

            Teresa pushes back from the desk and peers out the window.  It is still raining; drops trickle down the panes in silver streaks.  Running her fingers through her salt and pepper bob, Teresa remembers that day, the day Angelina came into their lives.  Of course, Teresa was furious at first.  Mother was dead less than a year.  It soon became obvious that Angelina was no new acquaintance of Father’s.  The newlyweds were far too comfortable with each other, and their conversation overflowed with references to mutual friends and experiences that seemed to span years in Italy.  Teresa wanted to hate Angelina, wanted to pounce on innumerable faults and reprehensible qualities, but she could find none.  Angelina was just like her name, a little angel.  What she saw in Father was a mystery. 

            Angelina enchanted the twins within a week of her arrival.  Both Debo and Dolly were at home until school started.  Angelina asked them to show her New York.  Each evening the trio came bursting into the apartment in high spirits, shouting phrases in Italian. 

            A rueful smile is on Teresa’s lips as she recalls her own hostile behavior.  She maintained loyalty to Mother for a month or two, but Angelina won her over in the end.  She was, Teresa thinks, the most patient, generous, and loving person any of us children had ever known.  She was lighthearted, funny, and fun.  Angelina even smoothed out some of Father’s hard edges.

            Rubbing her eyes with her fingertips, Teresa realizes that she’s been at the computer for hours.  The battery needs charging.  She opens the desk drawer to get out the charger.  It isn’t there, so Teresa goes downstairs to see if she left it in her carrying case.  While she is in the living room, she opens the front door.  Clouds are high, backlit by the full moon.  There are puddles on the paths, but the rain has almost stopped.  Everything smells fresh and earthy and fragrant.  She breathes in deeply several times, decides to leave the door open for some clean air. 

            Upstairs again, Teresa sees that the mug that held her tea is lying on its side.  The cold tea has trickled into the open desk drawer soaking some of her tourist pamphlets.  She picks up the dripping papers and drops them into the trashcan.  Underneath the papers, the thin wood of the bottom of the drawer is wet and beginning to warp.  Teresa gets a bunch of paper towels from the kitchen.  She blots up as much of the wetness as she can and leaves the drawer open to dry. 

            “If you knocked over the tea, Margaret, I can tell you I don’t appreciate it.  You could have damaged my computer, not to mention this antique desk,” Teresa says into the room’s shadows.  “I told you I’d do the writing, but you have to do your part and get me some information, too.”  She goes back to the kitchen with the mug and a handful of wet paper towels.  “I’m glad there’s no one here to witness me talking to a dead woman,” Teresa mutters.

            She tosses out the towels and rinses the mug in the sink.  “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve conversed with a ghost,” Teresa says.

            She remembers when Father’s spirit appeared to her after he died.  It was always preceded by the scent of cigar smoke.  To this day, cigar smoke makes Teresa snap into a state of alertness and anxiety, even though Father’s ghost hasn’t been around for decades.

            Teresa stands for a few minutes in the open doorway, taking in the moonlit path and the scents of the wet earth and foliage.  She thinks she can hear the sea.  She closes the door and then checks the electric meter and appliances.  It has become her habit since the first night’s misadventures.  In the bedroom, Teresa opens the window halfway before sliding into bed.  In the early morning, she has another dream.