New York - The Novel

enlist. His father was not sure it was a good idea, but Giuseppe had told him: “We’re Italians, Papa. Still outsiders. We have to show that Italians are good Americans, like anyone else. And as I’m the oldest son, it should be me.”
    Salvatore always remembered the day that his big brother had come back safely, and walked down Mulberry Street in his uniform, getting smiles and congratulations from their neighbors, and even a friendly nod from an Irish policeman who happened to be passing. And perhaps that was the moment when Salvatore truly became American, as he proudly watched his brother who, by his service, had already led the way.
    It was soon after his return that Giuseppe had decided to join a group of his comrades-in-arms who were going to work on the Long Island Rail Road. And it was not a year before one of his workmates introduced him to a nice young Italian girl. Her family lived on Long Island, out near Valley Stream, but what really impressed the Carusos was that Giuseppe told them: “Her family have land.”
    Not much, to be sure, but you didn’t need a huge farm to grow vegetables. Plenty of other Italians were setting up as small Long Island farmers now. One enterprising family named Broccoli, who grew the vegetable of that name, had contracts to supply some of the finest restaurants in New York.
    The girl’s family made a modest living. Better yet, as she had no brothers, Giuseppe and she would take over the farm one day from her parents, in the old-fashioned way. And the Caruso family would be back where it belonged, farming the land.
    The wedding was a traditional affair, just like a village wedding back home. Within a year, Giovanni and Concetta Caruso had moved out to Long Island. They couldn’t afford to retire, but Giuseppe had found some easier work for both of them. For the first time in the twenty and more years since she’d come to America, Concetta Caruso looked contented. Maria went with them to Long Island, and soon found work in a local store.
    So that just left Salvatore, Angelo and Uncle Luigi in the city.
    And Paolo, of course. Not that you ever saw him. A few months after Anna’s death, he’d given up shining boots. He told the family he was working for a man who owned property in Greenwich Village. Salvatore went to the place once, and found an office where several Italian menwere keeping books. When he said he was looking for his brother Paolo, they told him Paolo was out, and didn’t encourage him to wait. That was all Salvatore ever discovered. Each week Paolo would put money on the kitchen table for their mother, but she only took it reluctantly; if he offered her presents, she always refused them. As time went on, Paolo and she hardly spoke, and in the end he announced that he’d found another place to live.
    Every few months, however—usually when Salvatore was alone some-where—Paolo would suddenly appear. He was always sharply dressed. He’d smile and embrace Salvatore, and they’d chat and maybe eat something together. But there seemed to be a hardness about Paolo now; Salvatore could imagine him becoming cold, and threatening. Their old comradeship was gone. Before departing, Paolo always left money with Salvatore for their parents.
    Salvatore and Angelo had discussed going out to live on Long Island, but they soon agreed that neither of them wanted to. So they rearranged the family lodgings so that Uncle Luigi could move in with them too, and with three men working hard and splitting the rent, they could all put a little money aside each week. Uncle Luigi, who pocketed his tips and consumed almost nothing beyond the leftovers he ate in the restaurant, must have accumulated quite a lot of savings, Salvatore suspected, though his uncle’s finances were always a mystery. Once, when he asked Uncle Luigi what he did with his money, his uncle told him: “I invest it.” And when Salvatore asked him how he decided what to invest in, Uncle Luigi answered: “I pray to St. Anthony.” Salvatore never knew if he was serious about this or not.
    Salvatore never forgot what Anna had said. He always looked out for Angelo, and he really didn’t mind. He loved his little brother. After Anna’s death, he’d started showing him the world. When the Carusos first arrived in New York, the subway system would take them up as far as Harlem; but in the two decades that followed, it was extended up into the Bronx, across to Brooklyn and far into Queens. The fare was