The Black Madonna by Louisa Ermelino

the window and imagined that she was going away somewhere, somewhere nice. She expected that the train would pass out of this city and into the country and she thought that she might open the window and smell the fresh air.
    There was an old woman sitting next to her who asked where she was going, and Teresa showed her the envelope with the address on it. “Get off at Fordham Road,” she said, and asked Teresa for the stamps. Without hesitating, Teresa tore them off the envelope and gave them to her. Without the stamps, the envelope looked ugly and unimportant.
    The train came into Fordham Road and Teresa got off and waited on the wooden platform until it pulled away. The old woman waved through the window, the stamps in her hand, and Teresa waved back. She looked down at the remnant of the envelope she held. It was nothing, she thought, dirty paper, and after she had studied the address written on the back of it until she could close her eyes and still see it, she tore the envelope into small pieces and threw them into one of the square metal garbage containers that hung under the gum dispensers.
    Down all the steps to the street, she thought about finding Nicky’s father. She slowed her pace. She thought about going back up the stairs on the other side and taking the train down to Spring Street and forgetting about him but then she was in the street and her mind cleared. She had been taking care of herself and Nicky for a long time. When she found the dirty rotten sonofabitch . . . She closed her eyes then cast them up to heaven and asked the Madonna that he die spitting blood. She imagined him, his face no longer handsome, red spittle dried on his lips, and she felt better. She would know what to do when she found him. She trusted herself.
    This neighborhood was similar to her own, she noticed. There were faces like her own; she knew the language and the sounds on the street. It was no Park Avenue. She walked slowly, watching for the numbers on the buildings.
    Outside a doorway, where a group of men sat on kitchen chairs, she stopped. They were talking, smoking, watching the street. One man ground out his cigar. It was an Italian stogie, a guinea stinker. She could smell it from where she stood. She watched him pull off the burnt end with his fingers and chew the stub.
    â€œSignori,”
she said, standing at a respectful distance. The man chewing the cigar stub raised his hat to her.
    â€œI’m looking,” she said, “for Angelo Sabatini.”
    â€œSabatini? Angelo?” The man scratched his head before he replaced his hat. “You mean Angie Kiwi? . . . The sailor?” Nicky’s mother clenched her hands into fists, her nails dug into her palms.
    â€œMaybe,” she said. “He’s a merchant seaman?”
    â€œYeah, Angie Kiwi . . . I don’t know why they call him that. Who remembers these things?”
    â€œThere’s a bar he hung out in,” another man said. He was leaning against the building, his legs crossed at the ankles. “A sailor’s joint, the Kiwi. Maybe that’s how he got the name.”
    â€œFunny name.”
    â€œYeah, must come from someplace them sailors go. They go some crazy places . . .”
    Nicky’s mother shifted her weight. Her feet hurt. “He’s lived here long?” she said, her voice low, friendly.
    â€œLong enough, yeah. He married a girl from around here. Ain’t that right,Vinny?”
    â€œYeah, he’s married to Damiano’s daughter Cynthia.”
    â€œDamiano the undertaker?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhere’d she get that name? I never heard nobody with that name.”
    â€œIt’s Celestina, but you know. They all want to be up-to-date today so she calls herself Cynthia.”
    â€œWhat a name . . . Cynthia.” The old man with the cigar butt sighed and spat out some black juice and coughed. He turned to the man sitting next to him, who was dozing in the sun.