The Black Madonna by Louisa Ermelino Page A

“Ain’t that right?” he said, nudging him with his elbow. “Angie Kiwi’s married to Celestina Damiano? The one with the big earrings?”
    His friend opened his eyes, brushed aside a fly that had landed on the top of his very large ear. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “They live over there”—and he pointed across the street—“on the top floor. Celestina, she’s always complaining about the stairs.”
    â€œHer name’s Cynthia,” the man leaning against the building said.
    â€œWell, I call her Celestina. I ain’t up-to-date like some people.”
    â€œYou can call her what you want, but Angie Kiwi’s not there.” This from a fourth man, young and handsome. He looked at Teresa, his eyes careful. It was what he did with women.
    â€œWell, that figures. Sailors are never home. My mother always said they made good husbands. ‘And if you’re lucky,’ she used to say, ‘they die young and leave a pension.’”
    â€œWhat does your mother know? Your father drove an elevator.”
    â€œThat don’t mean she didn’t have dreams.”
    â€œAngie Kiwi’s in the hospital,” the young man said. He lit a cigarette that he took from a silver case.
    â€œNo . . . what are you telling me?” the old man chewing the cigar said.
    â€œIt’s his ticker. They brought him in a few days ago.”
    â€œHow do you like that? Guy survives all them years going all over the place, makes it through the war, finally gets home, and bang, his ticker goes.”
    â€œAin’t that always the way?”
    â€œBut it got him off the ships.”
    â€œNah, that was a fugazy. Celestina’s brother made a connection in the union. Angie Kiwi put in a disability claim, said he hurt his back, and the brother pushed it through. They can’t prove nothing about your back. It’s the best way to go. Worst thing, you carry a cane a few years till they settle. My brother-in-law got ten gees, moved to Florida.”
    â€œYou’re right, I remember. Angie Kiwi told my brother Charlie he had to stay flat on his back all the way from Singapore to make the story stick. Told him it almost wasn’t worth it, missing all them slanty-eyes on the way home. Said when them girls heard Angie Kiwi wasn’t coming back, they cried for days.”
    â€œHe’s full of shit,” the young man said.
    The man standing against the building laughed. The old man chewing the cigar stub spat out tobacco juice. The young man checked his shoes.
    The old one swatting flies raised his hand. “Shut up,” he said. “The lady, she don’t want to hear you.” He tipped back his chair and tipped his hat to Nicky’s mother. “
Scusate, signora
. . .” he said, extending his hand.
    â€œNiente,”
Teresa said. She smiled a little bit. She had wanted them to forget she was there. She felt the young man’s eyes on her and she swayed slightly, rocking back and forth on the heels of her shoes. She wasn’t used to going long distances in shoes with such high heels, such delicate soles, but her feet had stopped hurting. She couldn’t feel anything but the flush of triumph and revenge.
    Angelo Sabatini, her husband, who had another wife, another name . . . Angie Kiwi, they called him up here, who made girls from halfway around the world cry, was lying in the hospital with a bad heart. She said a sudden prayer to the Virgin that he should not get off so easily. Not a heart attack, she begged. He should die in agony, but, she added, not before she found him, not before she told him the way things were.
    The men had forgotten her again. She waited and listened, but they were discussing a bocce game now, and someone named Gianni Michalini’s accident. She stepped forward. “Poor Angelo,” she said softly. “Do you know where he is? What hospital?”
    They all looked up, as though