It was if she’d reinvented herself. She was now the widowof a deceased soldier, and the mother of his infant son. She lived far enough from those who’d known Justine Russell, and only she, and not anyone else, would determine her destiny. Her vow to bring down the women who were responsible for the upheaval in her life was no longer a priority. That would come much later. Now her sole focus was raising a son for whom she’d be proud to be his mother.
PART TWO
1960s
THE FAMILIES
LE FAMIGLIE
LAS FAMILIAS
CHAPTER8
Kenneth Russell pressed his ear against the closed door, listening for sounds of movement behind it. His mother had gone into the room more than an hour before, after telling him she wouldn’t be long, but for a twelve-year-old, more than sixty minutes was a lot more thannot long.Then, he heard the distinctive tapping of typewriter keys, and knew his mother was working.
It was as if she had two jobs; she worked Monday through Friday as a clerk in a hospital’s business office and on the weekends typing papers for college students. Justine Russell admitted that the monies she made from her weekend job occasionally equaled or surpassed her weekly hospital salary. It was cash she’d begun saving for what she termed the proverbial rainy day. Kenny didn’t understand what she meant, because it wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough money to buy food or clothing whenever it rained. He only understood after she’d explained that it was like a savings account; the difference was she hadn’t deposited the money in the bank, but it was extra cash on hand in case she needed it for an emergency.
Kenny shifted from one foot to the other. Then he did something he’d been warned never to do. He knocked on the door. The tapping of the keys stopped, and seconds later, the door opened. He experienced a shiver of unease as he stared at a face so much like his own. Folks would say he was a masculine version of his mother. He’d inherited her medium nut-brown complexion, large expressive dark-brown eyes, nose, mouth, and thick hair. His mother had him visit the barbershop every three weeks to keep his hair cropped close to his scalp.
“Whatever it is better be important enough for you to interrupt me when I’m working,” Justine Russell said, frowning at her son.
Kenny’s head bobbed up and down at the same time he sucked in a breath, holding it for several seconds before exhaling. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mom, but I want to know if I can go with Frankie to his grandmother’s house tomorrow afternoon.”
A beat passed before Justine asked, “Where does she live?”
Please don’t let her say no once I tell her where it is.“It’s on Pleasant Avenue.”
Justine’s eyebrows nearly met as a frown flitted over her features. “Pleasant Avenue in East Harlem?” Kenny nodded. “I’ve told you before that I don’t want you going to the East Side.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m not going by myself. Frankie also invited Ray, so there will be three of us.”
Justine shook her head. “I don’t know, Kenny. Other than Frankie and Ray, I know nothing about these people. I’d like to talk to Frankie’s grandmother to get more information from her.”
“She doesn’t speak a lot of English. Whenever Frankie talks to her, it is in Italian.”
“Is there anyone in that house who speaks English?”
“Yes. What if I have Frankie call one of his uncles and then have him call you?”
“Okay, but don’t get your hopes up, because if he doesn’t agree to what I want, then you’re not going.”
Kenny curbed the urge to kiss his mother. He remembered the last time he’d done it, he felt awkward, because all of the boys he knew tended to put some distance between their mothers whenever they attempted to kiss them. Not only had he grown several inches over the summer, and now was taller than his mother, but he was also changing physically. Hair had sprouted under his armpits and pubis. And there were times when his penis became so hard that it was both painful and pleasurable at the same time.
Mr. Morrison, his gym teacher, had taught a class about what to expect during the onset of puberty, and while most of the boys laughed and joked, Kenny had listened intently, because he’d heard stories about boys becoming fathers as young as thirteen and fourteen. He’d grown up without his father, and he had no intention of becoming one unless he was married. There was no doubt that his mother truly loved his father, because even after his death, she’d continued to wear her wedding ring.
Kenny practically ran to the living room to dial Frankie’s number, and when Mrs. D’Allesandro answered, he introduced himself and politely asked to speak to her son. Francis was the oldest of the four D’Allesandro children, and the only boy; he’d complained bitterly that his three sisters refused to get along, and he couldn’t wait to grow up and move out of his house. It was different for Kenny, because as an only child, he didn’t have any siblings to fight with. His other friend Ramon Torres was one of six children who lived in a three-bedroom apartment with his parents and elderly grandmother.
Kenny, Frankie, and Ray had become inseparable once they’d found themselves in the same seventh grade class attheir junior high school. Even if you didn’t see the three together, you rarely saw them alone.
They were in math class when they’d heard the news that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. At first, none of them could understand why teachers and staff were crying until Kenny arrived home and watched the footage on television. His mother had bought the television with the monies she’d earned typing a thesis for a graduate student and a dissertation for a history professor studying for his doctorate. When Kenny asked her how she’d connected with people who wanted to use her services as a typist, she said she’d befriended a patient who had come into the hospital’s business office to settle a bill. When he saw her typing, he said he would post a notice for anyone needing typing services at a college’s student building with her name and telephone number.
When someone contacted Justine by phone inquiring about her typing papers, she’d make arrangements for them to meet her at the New York Public Library’s Bloomingdale Branch. Kenny always sat at a nearby table while his mother discussed her fee and the timeline when she would be able to complete the project. He’d witnessed Justine’s negotiating skills when she asked for a deposit beforehand. Most times, her customers offered to pay whatever she charged upfront, to ensure her promise to deliver what they’d paid for. It was as if Justine Russell became another person when she had to conduct business. She always made eye contact, spoke in a quiet voice, and her face was always expressionless. Aside from purchasing typing and carbon paper, erasers, and ribbons, she was able to make a profit for her time and skills.
“Hi, Kenny.”
Frankie’s voice broke into his musings. “I told my mother about going to your grandmother’s house tomorrow, but she wants to talk to someone about the party. I know you said your Nonna doesn’t speak very good English, so could you have someone talk to her?”
“Hold on. My cousin Tony’s here. I’ll go and get him.”
