Sister Tee and I walked up through Chinatown together, slow and dizzy. She stopped us in front of the Church of the Transfiguration.
She said: Look up.
There was a statue in the steeple, an old man, chipped white marble.
She said: Saint John Bosco.
I said: Well where were you today, Saint Bosco?
She said: Oh he was there.
She crossed herself and I would have laughed but today was no day for disrespect.
Finny’s was open later. Funny how it opens and closes as it pleases. No one said a thing. I saw half the force in there I swear. Everyone needed a drink. The saddest day I’ve ever seen in New York City.
The anarchists, police were saying. Justice tomorrow, I thought. Tonight let’s just sleep.
I got home a few minutes ago and Rosie said Louis was driving me to work in the morning.
Mazie’s Diary, September 17, 1920
I rose at dawn and snuck out of my own home. I’d be damned if I didn’t take that train with the rest of New York City today. I wondered if I’d be the only one riding, but sure enough, stop after stop, people got on. All dressed in dark colors, dark skirts, dark blouses, dark suits, dark hats. Their finest and saddest. The whole train hovered with gloom.
At Flatbush, a man boarded, hauling a crate of apples. They were small and bright green. I nodded at the man and he nodded at me. He was small too, short, with a dark, swirling mustache. An Italian I thought.
He said: I picked these in New Jersey yesterday. I was out of town all day. I missed everything because I was picking apples.
I said: Better to miss it.
He said: It’s not the kind of thing you want to see but it’s not the kind of thing you want to miss neither.
I said: I saw it. Believe you me.
He said: It just made me want to fight someone, anyone. Wished I could have helped.
I said: I know it.
He said: Hey, you want an apple?
I said: There’s nothing more on this earth I want than one of those apples.
He handed me one. He asked a lady sitting next to me if she wanted one too, and then another, and then another. Soon enough all his apples were gone. We all sat there eating them, our shiny green rewards for being alive. The train rocked us back and forth like we were babies. You couldn’t hear nothing but the sound of people crunching on apples. It wasn’t like we forgot the day before. It was just that those were some damn good apples.
Elio Ferrante
This city, as imperfect as it is, knows how to come together when things get rough.
Mazie’s Diary, September 18, 1920
Louis drove me to the city this morning. Just because, said Rosie. Just because.
Louis said: You don’t go any farther downtown today, you hear me. It’s none of our business.
I said: It was working stiffs, just like me. Those are the people standing in my line, Louis.
He said: We ain’t losing any more family members this year, Mazie.
Mazie’s Diary, October 2, 1920
Rosie’s on me about Louis driving me to work again every day. She wants me to go from cage to cage to cage. No way, no how. The train’s the only time I have to myself.
Down on the floor scrubbing and she’s calling out orders. That woman makes more rules on her knees than most kings do on thrones.
I said: I’m taking the train goddammit.
Rosie turned her back on me and started scrubbing again. But that didn’t mean she agreed with me.
Mazie’s Diary, October 3, 1920
Louis dropped by again, more money in the safe. I’ve been daydreaming about stealing it, not all of it, just enough. What’s mine is yours, sis — he tells me that all the time. I could take it and go. But would I even know what to do if I ran? Where would I go? To White City to find Jeanie? I’d just end up working in another ticket booth. From one cage to another.
Mazie’s Diary, October 4, 1920
I forgot about the Captain coming to town. How could I forget? I did, though. But there he was, at the cage. In his uniform.
I said: I forgot to wear red, sir.
He said: You’re beautiful no matter what, miss.
He could bend me in two, that’s how fragile I am these days. I’m made of paper, fold me at the edges.
We walked up the Bowery.
He said: It’s cleaned up since the last time I was here.
I said: There’s no more booze.
He said: There’s always booze.
He pulled a flask from his pocket. Then he turned us down Hester Street, toward the park there. His hand on my elbow. He whispered something in my ear about loving my elbow and I nearly loathed him.
We sat in the park quietly. A gent and a lady, passing a flask back and forth.
He said: They take it away, it only makes you want it more.
I said: Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.
I looked down at the ground, suddenly humbled. I had this feeling the whole time that seeing him was going to humble me.
A police officer turned a block up. The Captain slid the flask in his coat pocket, fast and easy. Like a thief on the street.
He said: What do you want to do on a night like tonight?
What I really wanted to do was get on the train with him to Coney Island so he could meet Rosie and Louis. Let’s sit together on the train and be like people in love. Let’s sit together in my kitchen with my family. Let’s be like those other people.
He didn’t wait for me to answer. He turned and kissed me, fingertips in my hair, wicked little pleasure points.
He said: What about that, beautiful? Do you want to do that?
My desire for him humbled me most of all. I went with him to his hotel. It was clean and quiet. In his room he kissed me at the door. Wretched and perfect. Oh he smelled like a man and I could have howled at the moon.
He said: I can’t believe we’ll have all night.
I watched as he undressed. He watched as I undressed.
I made him give me more of the flask and I drank it and he drank it till it was done. We spilled it on each other some too. We sipped it off each other’s flesh. I got down on my knees. He said my name and told me I was beautiful as I sucked. Then we were on the bed. Then, at last, I howled at the moon.
It went on like that for a while. I’m raw today. Each step I take reminds me of him.
I’d love him if I could. But he’s got a whole life out there, flying free wherever he likes, and I know nothing about what he does with his time. Except that I do know, I think. And I ain’t a part of it.
Mazie’s Diary, October 5, 1920
In my dream I tell him about the baby and he turns his back to me and I throw my arms around him and he says why are you telling me this now and I say I just thought you should know and he says what’s the point of knowing and I say I’m just letting you know there was something there and now it’s gone and he says I wish you hadn’t told me I could have lived my whole life not knowing and I said me too and he said it would have been fine now I have to carry it with me forever and I say me too me too me too.
Mazie’s Diary, October 8, 1920
Louis and me stood on the front porch and stared down at the ocean. Summer’s gone, it’s over. Nothing left to grasp at.
Louis said: You don’t want to spend a little time with your old pal Louis?
I said: I don’t want to be driven.
He said: I’ll buy a new car, fresh off the lot. Your pick. And it’ll be in your name.