mentality left over from the old country: She was responsible for her children and had to see each one of them established with husbands, wives, professions, homes of their own, before she could think of doing something for herself. When she was sixty-five, she finally accepted his proposal and went to live with him on his dairy farm outside of Torrington, Connecticut. Pop Rossi was the only grandfather any of Cesarina’s grandchildren knew, and we loved him dearly, as did all four of her children.
A fter my father’s death, my mother saw no light at the end of the tunnel—the future held no prospects—not then anyway. I couldn’t talk to her friends, sister, or brothers about her drinking and the stress I felt; they had their own lives, children, jobs, and troubles. I would not have told them in any case. And I never said a word to my friends, ever. We all complained about our mothers, but I didn’t know how to complain about my situation—so alien from the typical bitching a teenager does.
The solution for an escape came about rather surprisingly. My mother’s younger brother, to whom she was close, had left his wife for another woman. I went to live with my aunt Val, who was to become his ex-wife, and my cousin, who was a few years younger than me. They lived at 158th Street and Riverside Drive in Harlem. Val was originally from Seattle and had been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. She was a beautiful, willowy blonde, and sang in a full, clear soprano. She and my father, who had a baritone voice like Ezio Pinza’s, would sing together at family gatherings in the days when things weren’t so bad. They sang everything from show tunes to opera, as the other grown-ups argued politics and the kids drank the wine left in the bottom of the adults’ glasses. That was a long time ago.
I found a job as a clerk at the Book-of-the-Month Club way downtown on Hudson Street—my introduction to the nine-to-five world. I worked in a big classroomlike space with rows of women sitting at typewriters with earphones on. All day long they typed letters dictated to them over a machine called a Dictaphone. There was a supervisor who sat at a big desk in the front, where the teacher in a classroom would be.
My job was to collect the finished letters with addressed envelopes and add whatever inserts were necessary. These letters would be put in a big basket to be picked up by the mail clerk. My desk was at the head of the classroom opposite the supervisor/teacher’s desk. Next to me was a tall gray metal closet filled with pamphlets and folders advertising the books offered by the club. I taped to the closet doors, outside and in, Book-of-the-Month Club advertisements that had reproductions of paintings or photographs I liked.
The women typists, who were creeping up in age and had been working at the company for years, thought I was very daring and warned me that the higher-ups would disapprove. They wanted to help me learn the ropes and offered to teach me to type. I was like a pet for them, and I relished the attention. I would make drawings, and they would tape them to their desks. The place was looking less austere.
One day the supervisor told me with some reluctance that I had to take down the pictures, or at least the ones on the outside of the closet, and then keep the doors closed. I agreed, but after a while I stopped closing the closet doors. Nothing more was ever said. One of the women told me to forget learning to type (I had never even considered it; filing was much easier) and go to art school instead.
It was a long commute to my job by subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, but it was easier than the tedious subway and bus trip from Queens. Weekends in the Village—which didn’t involve coming home to my mother’s rages or to her profound, low-voiced soliloquies—were also a lot more bearable. I think my mother was relieved to see me go. She needed to be by herself and sort
A fter my father’s death, my mother saw no light at the end of the tunnel—the future held no prospects—not then anyway. I couldn’t talk to her friends, sister, or brothers about her drinking and the stress I felt; they had their own lives, children, jobs, and troubles. I would not have told them in any case. And I never said a word to my friends, ever. We all complained about our mothers, but I didn’t know how to complain about my situation—so alien from the typical bitching a teenager does.
The solution for an escape came about rather surprisingly. My mother’s younger brother, to whom she was close, had left his wife for another woman. I went to live with my aunt Val, who was to become his ex-wife, and my cousin, who was a few years younger than me. They lived at 158th Street and Riverside Drive in Harlem. Val was originally from Seattle and had been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. She was a beautiful, willowy blonde, and sang in a full, clear soprano. She and my father, who had a baritone voice like Ezio Pinza’s, would sing together at family gatherings in the days when things weren’t so bad. They sang everything from show tunes to opera, as the other grown-ups argued politics and the kids drank the wine left in the bottom of the adults’ glasses. That was a long time ago.
I found a job as a clerk at the Book-of-the-Month Club way downtown on Hudson Street—my introduction to the nine-to-five world. I worked in a big classroomlike space with rows of women sitting at typewriters with earphones on. All day long they typed letters dictated to them over a machine called a Dictaphone. There was a supervisor who sat at a big desk in the front, where the teacher in a classroom would be.
My job was to collect the finished letters with addressed envelopes and add whatever inserts were necessary. These letters would be put in a big basket to be picked up by the mail clerk. My desk was at the head of the classroom opposite the supervisor/teacher’s desk. Next to me was a tall gray metal closet filled with pamphlets and folders advertising the books offered by the club. I taped to the closet doors, outside and in, Book-of-the-Month Club advertisements that had reproductions of paintings or photographs I liked.
The women typists, who were creeping up in age and had been working at the company for years, thought I was very daring and warned me that the higher-ups would disapprove. They wanted to help me learn the ropes and offered to teach me to type. I was like a pet for them, and I relished the attention. I would make drawings, and they would tape them to their desks. The place was looking less austere.
One day the supervisor told me with some reluctance that I had to take down the pictures, or at least the ones on the outside of the closet, and then keep the doors closed. I agreed, but after a while I stopped closing the closet doors. Nothing more was ever said. One of the women told me to forget learning to type (I had never even considered it; filing was much easier) and go to art school instead.
It was a long commute to my job by subway from one end of Manhattan to the other, but it was easier than the tedious subway and bus trip from Queens. Weekends in the Village—which didn’t involve coming home to my mother’s rages or to her profound, low-voiced soliloquies—were also a lot more bearable. I think my mother was relieved to see me go. She needed to be by herself and sort
Similar Books
