Chapter Three: O Little Town of Bensonhurst
When Irene Malle’s husband left her and Argo in 1972, Argo was starting school in the seventy-year-old P.S. 12 building in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. They lived in an apartment over the Chiffon Bakery on 65th St., and the walk to school was only three blocks, but it was a particularly stressful three blocks for the frail six-year-old.
Argo could read by age five and could write by the time he entered first grade at age seven. His ability with language was not impeded by the fact that he had few playmates and preferred to stay at home with his mother. When the television stopped working and there was no money to have it repaired, Irene encouraged her precocious child to read for entertainment. She taught her son to write the alphabet in block letters, and in little time he was writing his name and hers. But when she sent him to kindergarten at age six, trouble began.
The boys in the Italian working class neighborhood found Argo an easy target, and even the least of the neighborhood boys found bullying him a sure way of raising their esteem among the others. Frequently Argo would come home crying because he was unable to defend himself, and the more he cried, the more he had to tolerate their cruelty. Gary Conn was Argo’s age but much bigger, and he found Argo a particularly attractive punching bag. Compounding the problem was that Gary lived between the bakery and the school.
Kindergarten presented its own problems for Argo who found the basement classroom intolerable. The class was noisy and smelled of stale milk because of the rubberized tablecloths that held the odor long after the numerous accidents, which were daily routines. The teacher would inexplicably place the cartons of milk delivered to her classroom on the radiator until snack time, and by the time it was served to the children it was warm and tasted oddly like the tablecloths.
Much of the school day consisted of drawing with thick crayons on large newsprint replete with chunks of wood splinters. Argo complained to his mother that the crayons were too big for his hand and that the colors were duller than the Crayolas his mother provided at home. Music appreciation seemed to play an inordinate part of the curriculum which provided “instruments” for each child. The music was to be attained by striking two sticks together, banging on metal faced tambourines, blowing on plastic flutes, or striking tin drums with small drumsticks --- all to the tune of whatever the teacher played on the ancient upright piano. The daily cacophony was dizzying.
It was forbidden to teach reading and writing in that 1971 kindergarten, and as Argo could already read and knew how to copy letters of the alphabet, there seemed little value in his attending class. That fact coupled with the assault on Argo’s sensibilities led the six-year-old on some days to walk straight past the school and wander the streets of Bensonhurst.
After a few such truancies, the school officials decided that Argo Malle was “school-phobic” and advised his mother to keep him home until first grade at which time he might mature enough to work and play well with others. This was good news for Argo but not Irene who was forced to leave her child at home alone while she went to work.
Fortunately, Argo was content playing by himself and could be trusted not to answer the door or telephone. Argo’s favorite toy was a set of plastic cowboys and Indians which could be set on plastic horses and which were kept in a shoebox in the hall closet. He also had a cap pistol and holster with which he played in front of the mirror behind his mother’s bedroom door. His G.I. Joe helmet firmly in place, Argo shot his .45 at the enemy in the mirror. When Irene found him scraping the few grains of gunpowder from the roll of caps with the intent of making a “bomb,” the caps were taken away. The gun lay untouched and useless on the floor of the closet until her mother gave it away.
On the first day of first grade, Argo left for school with only a little less trepidation than that of his mother. Within five minutes of having left, Argo met Gary Conn and returned crying. Irene felt that if Argo had had a father to teach him how to fight, things would go better for her son, but she had failed to keep her man from leaving them. Guilt and frustration welled up as she looked down at her crying child, and she screamed at the boy to go back outside and defend himself. When he refused, she grabbed him by the hand and walked him to the school. The teacher marked him late, and the principal assured her that she would speak to the children about bullying. She also suggested that Irene accompany her son back and forth to school for the first week. That would mean that she would be late for work, of course, but something had to be done.
On most days Argo managed to avoid confrontations and got to school and back without incident, but on the days he was attacked, he would come home, using the key that hung around his neck to get back into the apartment. Irene could do nothing about those days, and Argo’s report cards always had his number of days absent circled in red. Being a single mother with a boy like Argo living in a neighborhood like Bensonhurst was not easy.
Fortunately, the landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Machiarolla, lived directly beneath Irene and Argo, and they owned the Chiffon bakery. Their children were grown, and Argo became one of their grandchildren. On many evenings, Argo ate supper with them and on those occasions got to watch TV. The Machiarollas went to bed by 9 and were up at 4, but they were available the rest of the time, and Irene often took advantage of their kindness when she had to work late or when Argo was sick and needed babysitting.
The Machiarolla’s son, Tommy M., lived in a brownstone on 66th Street, two blocks away, with his wife and son Joseph, who was in Argo’s class. Tommy M. was a well-known and respected figure in Bensonhurst, and he had money. Since it was unsure what he did for a living, Irene was virtually certain he was a Mafioso. Given the neighborhood, her suspicion was justified. It also was correct. But Tommy was good to Irene and to his parents, and while his folks were too busy at the bakery on Sunday mornings to go to Mass, Tommy picked up Irene and Argo and drove them to church along with his family. He always had the latest model Cadillac, and for Irene and Argo, it was their only brush with wealth. Tommy, it should be noted, was a major church benefactor at Brooklyn’s largest and most opulent church, Regina Pacis, Queen of Peace.
In fact, Tommy M. was the silent owner of several pizzerias. The stores were staffed by immigrants from Musina, Sicily and managed by Tommy’s associates. He ran things from the back room of the Knights of Columbus storefront on 18th Avenue. From there, Tommy M. laundered the Bonanno Family drug money, ran the entire New York numbers racket, and, on Tuesdays and Thursdays only, doled out favors to local residents who needed help of one type or other. Sometimes the help was a simple cash gift to tide a family over until work could be found. Other times it was a more complicated task like helping an unconnected businessman with a competitor. Sometimes, it was to even a score. The idea of helping neighbors was the brainchild of Lucky Luciano who believed that local good will was good business. In this way, local citizens knew they had nothing to fear and much to gain by living in a neighborhood run by the Mafia, or Cosa Nostra as it was known then.
Tommy’s parents, who emigrated from Musina, did not approve of his activities, and though he continually asked them to sell the bakery and live a more comfortable life under his support, they steadfastly refused. The rotund Cosmo Machiarolla liked to work and was proud of his success, having arrived in America with nothing but his ability as a baker, which he had learned as an apprentice in Sicily. Carmen, his wife, supported her husband despite the prodding from their only child, though her arthritic knee made her retirement imminent.
In the summer of 1968, New York saw civil unrest reach its highest, most violent point. Starting in the black section of northern Brooklyn called Bedford-Stuyvesant and reaching to the southern border at Coney Island, bands of angry blacks swarmed through neighborhoods rioting. All police were called to duty, but still neighborhoods were burned, stores looted, and whites beaten. Everywhere along the path, that is, except for the square mile that was known as Bensonhurst. Even the angry mobs knew enough not to enter that neighborhood, which went about its business as if nothing were the matter.
Bensonhurst was mostly Italian and largely Jewish, and it was 100% white. When the city assigned a black welfare family to a house it had taken over through a government seizure, the house was burned before the family could move in. Despite the redline real estate laws, no Bensonhurst family ever sold a house to a black. In fact, homeowners never had the chance; real estate agents never brought black families to the neighborhood.
It was in the winter of 1970 that Tommy M. received a phone call from Father Gioffi, the pastor of Regina Pacis. The opulent Church had been vandalized, the sacristy violated, and bejeweled crucifixes, candlesticks, and chalices stolen. Newspapers ran front-page stories, and TV crews surrounded the church. Tommy M., a great believer in Lucky Luciano’s dictum that any media coverage was unprofitable and to be avoided, decided that this situation was different and allowed himself to be interviewed by the local ABC-TV affiliate.
“The people of the parish are devastated,” he told the reporter who introduced him only as a devoted parishioner. “Why anyone would violate a church is beyond understanding. I’m sure that whoever did it will realize that this was a big mistake and will return what was taken right away---and just the way everything was---with no damage. There’s no question about that.”
And there was no question. A day later, everything found its way back. No one seemed to know who took the items or why or how they came to be returned, and Bensonhurst returned comfortably to its cherished anonymity. Fr. Gioffi sent a basket of flowers to the home of Tommy M., and the card said only “Thank you.”
While Argo got to go to church every week with Joseph Machiarolla, they were not friends. Argo wasn’t part of the group of families whose fathers worked with Tommy M., and those outside that group were steadfastly avoided. The families were a clan, friendly to others, but from weddings to funerals, baptisms to first Communions, from birthday parties to barbeques, the families of the Bonanno Family socialized only among themselves. Irene was treated a bit differently only out of respect to Cosmo and Carmen; no such distinction reached down to the boys.
Joseph Machiarolla was a bright boy but did not like school and was often without his homework. Because of their last names, Argo and Joseph were often seated together, but Argo was different from the other boys, and Joseph did not like the difference. Argo’s being the teacher’s pet made things even more difficult.
Even in the third grade, Argo was still being bullied by Gary Conn, as well as by some others, but getting to school presented less of a problem since Argo circled Gary’s block on the way to school to keep from being seen. Now even though the classes in the grades were grouped according to ability, and Argo was in the best class, he was far more advanced than the others. Assigned work that the teacher would allow 40 minutes was completed by Argo in five, and reading lessons wherein each student in turn read a paragraph aloud was a particular waste of time for Argo. Mrs. Hanley decided that Argo would be a monitor for the Principal during the reading lessons. Sitting on the bench in the main office outside the Principal’s door would provide Argo the time to read independently, and on the occasion that the Principal needed a note delivered to a classroom, Argo would be the messenger. The situation was ideal for Argo.
It was on a warm day in May and Mrs. Reynolds, the Principal who three years earlier had decided that Argo was too immature for school, left her door open to the outer office to create a breeze. She and her assistant were discussing the letters that were going to be sent to parents of children who would be receiving bad report cards at the end of June unless improvement were shown. Argo heard Joseph Machiarolla’s name as one of the children whose parents would be receiving letters.
“I heard the Principal is sending a letter home to your parents,” Argo told Joseph that afternoon as the teacher was writing on the blackboard.
“What letter?”
“You’re gonna get a bad report card.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your father will,” said Argo with the same uncaring attitude.
Tommy M. chose not to send his child to Catholic school precisely because he knew that the nuns were far more demanding than public school teachers, and he wanted to reduce the chances of having his son run into problems. That Joseph was now causing him a problem in school was unacceptable, and his son was going to bear the brunt of his frustration. Joseph knew that angering his father was always a losing proposition and that school was going require some attention.
Joseph was unquestionably bright, but his short attention span made rote memorization difficult. Spelling and the multiplication table were particular banes. By the end of the third grade it was expected that children learn the multiplication table up to the 10’s, and Joseph on a good day could get only half of them correct.
Mrs. Hanley’s means of teaching and testing students was largely oral, and she would drill the number facts round robin style during arithmetic lessons. Sitting at her desk, she would call a student’s name in a most dreadful tone then give the multipliers. The student called out the answer.
“Joseph Machiarolla,” she intoned. “Seven times eight.”
“Forty-nine?”
“Wrong!” she said putting a mark in a book. “Argo Malle?”
“Fifty-six.”
“Correct.”
These lessons would go on for the approved forty-minutes before she engaged the class in another lesson, often round robin reading, at which time Argo was excused to the Principal’s office as a monitor.
Joseph had to show major improvement if he were to escape his father’s wrath, and while his spelling did improve, he seemed to have a mental block for multiplication facts. Mrs. Hanley made flash cards for Joseph who had to practice with them as extra homework, but the improvement was minimal.
After another week of round robin drills, Mrs. Hanley declared a test for the next day. All books and papers had to be cleared from the desks, which were tables for two with storage under the tabletop. As usual, no whispering was allowed, and anyone caught doing so would receive a demerit and a zero for the test. But Mrs. Hanley’s mistake was in failing to require that pencils be stored, and Argo held on to his.
“Joseph Machiarolla,” she called from her desk. “Six times eight!”
“Forty-eight,” answered Joseph, certain of his answer having read the number written on the table by Argo.
It was an unintended consequence that Argo’s help made him a fast friend of Joseph Machiarolla, but had he planned it, Argo could not have been more fortunate. For one thing, Argo was able to walk directly to school without fear of meeting Gary Conn on the way. No one in the neighborhood bullied or even teased him, and Argo was now to be included in all the games after school and on weekends. The latter turned out to be a mixed blessing, but not being assailed on a regular basis was a boon, and instructive.
Not long after the multiplication test, Argo’s class was dismissed for the day at precisely the same time as Gary Conn’s class burst out of the doors and ran for the street. Gary’s unbound joy at his release was no doubt instrumental in his shoving Argo from behind and sending him headlong to the pavement at the bottom of the school steps. The palms of both hands took the brunt of the fall, and they were scraped raw. The left knee was also scraped as the thin cotton pants offered little protection. Argo began to cry, but when he saw that it was Gary Conn who had bowled him over, he held back his tears.
“Hey, you,” said Joseph Machiarolla running at Gary, grabbing him by his shirt. In his toughest street language, Joseph warned Gary never to touch Argo again and told him that if Argo were ever to be set upon by him or by anyone else, Joseph would hold him responsible. Gary was to be Argo’s protector, and if he failed in that capacity, Joseph would beat him. Gary’s eyes were wide and frightened, and Argo saw for the first time a little boy instead of a little monster. Then, in a flash, Joseph began punching Gary and cursing until a teacher stepped in. Argo had become a protected personage in P.S. 12.
Being a friend of Joseph Machiarolla, as was being a friend of his father, was not always without its downside, however.
After lunch, students were required to take recess in the schoolyard. Boys and girls played dodge ball in the winter, and in the spring and fall, boys played softball and girls had jump rope contests and played potsy. Basketball and handball were always in season, but only boys played them. Argo played only in dodge ball games because all that was required was to avoid being hit by the soft rubber ball. Being rather small and naturally agile, he was good at the game and sometimes he would win by being the only one unhit. Most of the time, however, he watched the others play, choosing to stand close to the teacher on duty. All of the teachers in the school knew Argo or knew about him, and while they should have encouraged him to play with the others more than they did, they found talking with the boy a delight as they served on rotated yard duty.
When school started after Labor Day, Argo was in a different fourth grade class from Joseph, who had been placed in the middle ability class. But that was not the only change. The rule in grades four through six was that all the boys had to participate in all team games. Softball gloves were given to those boys without them, and for forty minutes a day, Argo became a ballplayer.
Team captains were the best two players who got to choose on an alternate basis those players who would be on their respective teams. Argo was always the last chosen, and if there happened to be an uneven number of boys in the pool, the captains would choose odds or evens to determine who would get Argo. The loser got him.
As most of the boys were right-handed and hit naturally to the left side of the diamond, Argo was always assigned to play on the right side and as far from home plate as possible. As every boy had to play, and as there were more than twenty 4th grade boys, outfields usually had six or seven players. The lesser outfielders would play behind the better ones thereby virtually guaranteeing that players like Argo could not hurt the team by a misplay in the field. Their making out at bat was a foregone conclusion, but the sides generally managed to divide evenly the sure outs, and their piddling grounders gave a chance for the star infielders to show their stuff.
Joseph was the second best player in the grade; by far the best player, and opposing captain unless he was absent that day, was Rocco Bandello. Rocco was significantly larger than the other boys, and he batted left-handed, which meant he almost always hit to the right side of the field, and most of those hits were long flies to right field. The typical strategy when “Lefty” got up was to move the lesser players, who were put in right field because left handed batters hardly there. That move suited Argo just fine though the other right fielders complained. It was a good idea in principle, but Lefty usually hit the ball so hard that even the best outfielders could not catch it.
On this day, Argo was on Joseph’s team, and on the two occasions Lefty batted, Joseph switched outfields. Recess was almost over, and Lefty was up with two out and a runner on first base. Joseph, who played shortstop, did not call for the switch. Instead, he left the right side vulnerable to a Lefty blast. Argo thought that since the score was tied, Joseph did not want to waste time by making the switch. He reasoned that the time saved would give his team enough time to bat, at which time Joseph would be up with a good chance to score the winning run.
Argo positioned himself as far as possible from home plate as the fence would allow, and Lefty lofted a towering drive as if on purpose. The ball flew off the bat as if propelled by a rocket launcher, and when it reached its apogee it looked no larger than a marble. Argo froze to the spot and held his glove up more in self-preservation than in an attempt to catch the fly. He closed his eyes only for moment, but that was enough to lose sight of it. His arms straight up as if he were under arrest, Argo for some reason looked at Joseph. Joseph’s eyes were wide and pleading. And then Argo felt the ball hit his glove with a thud. And then he felt it roll down his rigid arm to the ground.
“Here,” called the outfielder closer to the infield, exhorting Argo to pick up the ball quickly and relay it to keep Lefty from rounding the bases. But by the time Argo could retrieve the ball and throw it for the relay, Lefty was around second base. The relay was sufficient only in keeping him at third, but the run scored. The recess whistle ended the game before Joseph could get his “last licks.”
Peter Gold, the frustrated pitcher, second-guessed Joseph about why he didn’t make the switch. Why would anyone leave Argo in right field with Lefty up and the game on the line? Argo heard Joseph tell him that he wanted to give Argo a chance. Argo, despite the embarrassing horror, had his first friend.
l
During the summer vacation that year, Argo was invited to spend part of it at the Machiarolla’s summer cottage in the Poconos. It was a faux log cabin with all of the modern conveniences except for a television as there was no reception in that area. There was a deep pond nearby which was called the swimming hole, and the boys used tire inner tubes to float and have naval wars. Argo had to learn to swim to keep from drowning. In the early summer, the adults seldom went in beyond getting their feet wet because of the cold, but the boys enjoyed it and came out when they began to shiver and Gloria Machiarolla called them in.
Gloria was tall and fine-boned with leonine bleached hair. As in the other families, the women stayed home with the children and spent a large part of their time keeping themselves as attractive as they could for their husbands. At this, Gloria excelled and Tommy M. swelled. They had met at New Utrecht High School, and while her parents, the Rispoli's, were successful in keeping her from getting involved with him during high school, when she was eighteen and began to work in the City, which Brooklynites called Manhattan, there was not much they could do. It was a huge wedding, and Tommy’s best man was Joe Bonanno’s nephew, Vito.
Outside their cottage was a strawberry patch enclosed by a thin wire fence to keep the deer from decimating the crop, but that didn’t stop the crows and robins from getting at them. Tommy M. gave both boys slingshots to drive the birds away, and the boys spent a great deal of time shooting at the birds that fearlessly swooped down and stole the highly prized berries. The ammunition was any stone near where the boys stood, and after a time, gravel from the driveway. Over time their aim improved, but they really had little chance of hitting a bird, and the damage to the strawberries from being pelted by the stones seemed to Tommy M. to outweigh any advantage of deterring birds. Of course, it did keep the kids occupied.
Joseph’s patience waned before Argo’s, and Joseph suggested they see who could shoot a stone farther. Joseph was the usual winner until Argo decided to add to the length of the rubber bands on his slingshot. When Joseph saw Argo’s stones fly so much farther, he went inside the house to get more rubber bands.
That was when Argo decided to try his luck at hitting a robin, eyeing its next catch from a low branch over the strawberry patch. Argo took aim between the slingshot’s vee and let the stone fly. It was a direct hit, knocking the bird far off the branch and to the ground outside the patch. He ran to the bird which he could see twitching in pain as he approached. It went motionless just as Argo got to it.
It was the first time Argo had seen anything die, and while he wanted to pick it up, he was afraid to touch it. He saw its gray, lifeless eyes, and he knew it was because of what he had done that the helpless and beautiful bird lay dead. It took a long while before he could begin to cry, and when he did, slingshot in hand and tears rolling down his face, Argo ran to the house.
“Mommy, Argo’s crying,” called Joseph to his mother who came running down the stairs.
“What happened?” she yelled. Tommy M. followed her.
“I don’t know; he’s just crying,” answered Joseph looking at his friend standing head down in the kitchen.
Gloria held Argo’s heaving little body close to her and kissed the tears from his eyes.
“It’s good what you did,” said Tommy M. suppressing laughter at the tenderhearted boy. “That’s what men do; we protect ourselves and what’s ours. Come on, let’s see it,” he said walking to the door. “We’ll leave it right in the garden; that’ll keep the others out.” Gloria directed the reluctant Argo to follow the other two to the scene of the crime.
“I’m gonna get me one,” said Joseph as he raced ahead of his father to see the kill.
“You hit it from there?” asked Tommy M. standing over the bird and looking back at Argo who had stopped at the spot from which the boys shot. “That was some shot, kid.” Tommy M. picked up the bird and threw it in the middle of the strawberry patch. “This way the other birds get to see what happens when they go for our strawberries.”
Argo let the slingshot fall from his hand and started back to the house.
“No, no,” called Tommy M., “You guys gotta keep watch. Other birds might not notice the dead one. You gotta protect that patch.” Argo picked up his slingshot. “That’s it,” he said encouragingly, “you gotta be tough.” Tommy M. knew then that Argo was not the boy his son was, and the difference pleased him.
Back on watch, the boys shot stones at various targets waiting for any sign of a bird. The boys soon tired of waiting, and went swimming, but after dark, Argo went back, flashlight in hand, to the strawberry patch while Joseph was getting his bath. He picked up the dead bird by the tail as if touching the body would transfer its death. Holding it at arm’s length, Argo walked to the gravel driveway where he carved out a small hole, dropped the bird in, and covered it with the surrounding gravel. No one noticed it was missing from the patch, even when it was time to pick the ripe fruit where the bird had lain.
l
The New York Diocese offered catechism lessons to Catholic public school students. After the nine o’clock Sunday mass and on Wednesdays at two o’clock, these children studied for their first Communion and Confirmation. It was necessary for Catholic schools to release their pupils early on Wednesday afternoon to provide classroom space and teachers for public school pupils. Regina Pacis provided catechisms and the nuns to educate the faithful in their religion. Jewish children attended Hebrew school, shule, after school in preparation for their bar mitzvahs.
At Regina Pacis it was decided that the same teacher would provide instruction to the same children as they advanced through the grades, and Argo and Joseph were taught by Sister Mary Esther, a young nun trained in Indiana by the Sisters of Mercy. Unlike her strict colleagues, Sister Mary Esther showed more affection to the children than was expected, and as a result was more popular among her students than she was among her peers. She also stood a head taller than the other nuns, was thin, had blond hair, blue eyes, and a snow-white complexion.
It was not long before she took a particular liking to Argo, her cutest and most remarkable first grader. She was captivated not only by his ability to read, but by his sensitivity to and understanding of the lessons of the bible stories. When he reached the fifth grade, Mary Esther thought her precocious find would make a perfect altar boy even though only Catholic school students had ever been selected. There would be additional training involved since the prayers had to be recited in Latin, and that would require her time which she was unsure the principal would allow. When she finally asked if it would be possible to make an exception in Argo’s case, the Principal, Father Grande, insisted on meeting the boy himself before deciding.
“Sister Mary Esther says you want to be an altar boy; is that so?” asked the old school master from above his reading glasses.
“Yes,” answered Argo.
“Say, yes, Father,” corrected Sister Mary Esther.
“Yes, Father.”
“And why?” pursued the priest.
“Sister thinks I should.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think so, too.”
“And why do you think so?” Father Grande was not smiling.
“I think God wants me to,” said Argo looking at Sister to see if he had given the right answer.
“You are aware, young man, that you will have to study after three o’clock, and once you learn the prayers and responsibilities of an altar boy you will have to serve when you are called, not only on Sunday morning.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Are you prepared to give him the time?” he asked the nun.
“Yes, Father,” she replied stroking Argo’s head lightly.
Father Grande turned to Argo. “Well it seems you are blessed in more ways than one. Say a prayer of thanks to the Blessed Virgin for having Sister Mary Esther as your teacher.”
“Yes, Father,” said Argo looking down at his shoes.
Sister Mary Esther’s alabaster skin flushed with pride.
One other of her students, Benito Musso, was attending altar boy training in the mornings with boys from other classes, and Sister Mary Esther introduced him to Argo. She thought Argo could use a model and a like-minded friend since Joseph Machiarolla, his friend from public school, would do nothing for Argo’s religious life. She was certain that both Benny and Argo could one day be priests, and in this, each would be a good influence on the other.
Three times a week after school Argo met her in her classroom to learn the Latin prayers, the first one being “The Confiteor,” an avowal of the main tenets of the Catholic Church. For fifth graders, the lessons were merely memorizations of the Latin prayer to be recited at Mass at the appropriate time along with the priest. For Argo, it was more. He wanted to know what the words meant in both English and Latin. It was not sufficient to say that he believed in “the communion of saints,” he wanted to know what was that communion. When Sister Mary Esther asked Father Sullivan, who taught the altar boy classes, if Argo’s questions were unusual, she learned that no other boys at any age ever asked for an explanation of the prayers. Even Benny Musso, Father Sullivan’s favorite and brightest, was content to learn the prayers by rote and wait to be told what they meant as they got old enough to understand. Sullivan thought that perhaps Argo’s questions rose from his being given private instruction making it easier for the boy to ask than if he were in a classroom with others. Mary Esther knew different, and after Sullivan met Argo, he did, too.
It was at a communion breakfast that Father Sullivan first saw the little boy with the big head of curly, black hair. Argo was shorter and thinner than the other boys his age, and shier. Except for his eyes which darted everywhere with hummingbird agility, Argo remained mostly motionless. He did not smile even when the other boys laughed, and he spoke only when spoken to. The exception was with Benny. Occasionally, he would lean over to his friend and say something, and Benny would give long answers as if by way of explanation.
Sullivan walked to the two boys who were seated at the far end of the long table in the basement dining room.
“Hello, Argo,” said the priest holding out his hand for a shake. Argo’s little hand felt like a chicken wing.
“Hello, Father,” said Argo easing his fingers from the meaty vise.
“Sister said that you are her best student. You were perfect on your prayers test.”
“I’m her only one.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan with a laugh. “You’re the only public school student here. How come you’re not in Catholic school?”
“My mother said we don’t have the money.”
“Well not everyone pays, you know.”
Argo had not known that. “My friends go to public school.”
“Well you have friends here, too.” Sullivan placed his hand on Benny’s shoulder.
Argo remained silent.
“He’s friends with the Machiarolla’s,” said Benny.
“Tommy Machiarolla?” asked the priest taken somewhat by surprise.
“Joseph’s friend. Tommy M.’s son.”
“Yes. They’re a fine family. Well, Argo, I’ll see you at practice next week. And I’ll see you, Benny, right after breakfast.” Sullivan stroked the boy’s neck tenderly and walked on.
Father Sullivan was the youngest priest on the staff and it was thought that he should be assigned the lion’s share of work with the parish youth. He coached basketball, having played in college, moderated the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine for parish teens, and trained the altar boys. In the three years of his tenure at the parish, the big redhead was considered a success, and what he seemed to lack in piety he made up for in dedication. He and Mary Esther were particularly friendly, and Mary Esther attributed it to their youth and particular love of children.
There were the beginnings of rumors that Father Sullivan was perhaps too fond of the boys, often touching them at times when it seemed uncalled for. Mary Esther resented the chatter of some of the other nuns and defended him by pointing out that there had been no complaints and suggesting that his basketball experience at St. Francis College explained the “touchy-feely” approach he took with the boys. Basketball was, after all, a contact sport, and at the games she saw, the boys were constantly patting and hugging each other.
As much as Sullivan liked Benny, he seemed to have an aversion to Argo, and by the time the boys reached the eighth grade, Argo was merely tolerated by the big priest. In truth, the boys had become close friends, and when given the chance, Benny, who had grown head and shoulders over Argo, chose to spend his time with him. Sullivan made Benny a “manager” for the older boys on the basketball team, and that helped separate the two friends. When Benny got to ninth grade he would qualify to play on the team, and coach Sullivan expected him to make the team if for no other reason than his size.
It was in late spring before high school that Argo was to meet Benny to join the 8th grade bus trip to the Metropolitan Museum. There had been a two o’clock basketball practice during Released Time that Wednesday, and after class, Argo went to the locker room to meet Benny. Some of the boys were still showering, but most were getting dressed to go home. Argo sat on the bench by the door to the locker room and waited for Benny who was still showering. Soon all the boys but Benny seemed to have left, so Argo walked toward the shower room to see what was keeping him.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” said the voice of Father Sullivan. Argo stopped. “I meant that you should be proud. You’re only thirteen and look at you.”
Argo called out, “Benny?”
“Yeah.”
Argo passed a few rows of lockers and saw him toweling off. Father Sullivan was sitting on a bench in front of Benny.
“Hi, Argo,” said the priest looking up at him over his shoulder.
“Hi, Father.”
“I’ll be ready in a second,” said Benny.
“Well, I hope we don’t miss the bus,” said Argo looking at his watch.
“You won’t,” said Sullivan getting up. “I’ll tell them you’re on your way.” Without looking back he said to Benny, “See you, kid.” Benny did not answer.
“My question is,” said Argo as he watched Benny dress in double time, “how come you’re always on time for the start of practice and always late after it?”
“If you were a coach you’d know,” answered Benny. Then his round face lit up and he added, “But since you’re a runt you’ll never find out.”
“Ooh, a basketball manager. I wish I knew what it was like to be in charge of four basketballs and a load of sweaty towels,” said Argo in mock awe of his friend.
“Jealousy:” answered Benny, “a cardinal vice.”
“Stupidity: a worse one,” answered Argo, his eyes gleaming.
As bright as Benny was, he did have some trouble in math and science, and Argo was there to help. Being in public school was an advantage in science because they had working labs. Regina Pacis’ science program was largely textbook, and the difference was palpable.
Argo was placed in the Special Progress program for the city’s brightest children. It combined the three junior high school years, grades seven through nine, into two, in effect eliminating eighth grade. Argo, then, was in the ninth grade while Benny was in the eighth, but nothing was made of the difference. Those distinctions seemed more important to the adults than to the boys, and to Argo it meant only that he could escape public school a year earlier. Junior high school and high school were particularly onerous for Argo, but it was not only the institutions that were painful, it was the time in his life that he watched his mother slowly die.
There was little to be done for Irene Malle who had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. NYU Medical Center had led the nation in fighting the disease, and a successful chemotherapy program had been developed, but the success was spotty and not everyone responded positively. After Irene had lost her hair, she began losing much of the use of her right arm and leg, and while she was able to continue working as a cleaning lady, her pain was increasing and with it the difficulty of getting to work every day. On some days, after she saw Argo off to school, she lay in bed moaning. She would always try to be up and about when Argo got home at three, but on some days even that was too much. Fortunately, the law firm for which she cleaned was most charitable and allowed her frequent days off without a fuss. Nevertheless, Irene knew it would only be a matter of time that she would be a helpless burden to her son.
Seeing his mother become more frail and knowing that she would soon die despite the hope held out by the doctors was particularly difficult for her sensitive son. Argo worked part time at the bakery cleaning and running errands for Cosmo and Carmela, and his hours increased when Carmela retired because of her own worsening arthritis.
While Argo was intellectually more advanced than others his age, he was not particularly more developed emotionally. His difficult situation forced him to take on more responsibility than his friends, but the responsibility was manifest in what he had to do, not what he felt. He had become sullen and more introverted than he had been before his mother’s affliction, and he withdraw more than usual when frustrated. When his mother fell in the bathroom and he could not lift her up, he cursed his small body, blaming God for not making him stronger.
At confession, Argo told the priest of his intemperance.
“You must never blame God for things,” intoned the confessor. “God has plans for all of us, and it is our job to accept them because it is God’s will. ‘God’s will be done.’ You must thank God from the bottom of your heart for all the good he has given you. You must ask him for the grace to accept His divine will, to be strong for your mother, and to honor the Lord above all else.” The priest paused. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Argo whispered.
“In the end, my son, the Lord is all we have,” said the priest as much to himself as to the boy. “Now pray to the Lord to forgive you. Say ten Our Fathers and five Hail Mary’s for your sins and make a good Act of Contrition.”
If, for Argo, the aptly named Shallow Junior High School on 16th Avenue and 65th Street was situated on the first ring of Dante’s inferno, New Utrecht High School sat several levels below. At least at Shallow, he was in the same class as the other S.P. students who stayed together all day. At Utrecht, students moved on their own and were not segregated by ability except in the major subjects. That meant that at lunch, in the gymnasium, in homeroom, and in art, music, and shop; Argo was in with all of the kids. And, because he had skipped the eighth grade, he was a year younger than the other boys and a head shorter. Sadly Joseph Machiarolla, still in the eighth grade at Shallow, could not help him.
Passing between classes was particularly odious to Argo who saw his fellow pupils as cattle running in all directions without the benefit of herding cowboys. Jostling was de rigueur, but having his books pulled from under his arm and then being trampled as he stooped to pick them up was as vexing as it was dangerous. He understood why girls carried their books in both arms in front of the their chests.
Worse than the halls was the lunchroom. Aside from the noise and foul odor, Argo could not tolerate watching his schoolmates eat. Those who purchased lunch seemed to have particular difficulty with soup and spaghetti, which often dripped from their mouths and onto the trays and tables. Few used napkins to clean their faces or the messes they had made. Those who brown bagged it almost always brought a piece of fruit along with a sandwich, and the peels and cores would often find their way on the floor or on occasion in someone’s lap. Fortunately, it was not long before Argo found a way out of the bovine comedy.
Some department chairmen needed help with books and supplies and would give service credit to those who spent a free or study period as aides. Argo’s 10th grade English teacher, Miss Tasman, was the department chair and agreed to let him spend his lunch period in her office. Argo ate his sandwich in the outer office and served as Miss Tasman’s aide for his three years of high school. The Tasmanian Devil, as she was known, was the strictest of the teachers in the school and naturally took a liking to Argo who was most diligent and a prize student. It was she who was most instrumental in getting him accepted to Columbia, her alma mater, and while Argo ultimately chose Rutgers, he appreciated her efforts in guiding his college applications. It was, however, for the rescue from the lunchroom that Argo would be eternally grateful.
When Irene Malle’s husband left her and Argo in 1972, Argo was starting school in the seventy-year-old P.S. 12 building in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. They lived in an apartment over the Chiffon Bakery on 65th St., and the walk to school was only three blocks, but it was a particularly stressful three blocks for the frail six-year-old.
Argo could read by age five and could write by the time he entered first grade at age seven. His ability with language was not impeded by the fact that he had few playmates and preferred to stay at home with his mother. When the television stopped working and there was no money to have it repaired, Irene encouraged her precocious child to read for entertainment. She taught her son to write the alphabet in block letters, and in little time he was writing his name and hers. But when she sent him to kindergarten at age six, trouble began.
The boys in the Italian working class neighborhood found Argo an easy target, and even the least of the neighborhood boys found bullying him a sure way of raising their esteem among the others. Frequently Argo would come home crying because he was unable to defend himself, and the more he cried, the more he had to tolerate their cruelty. Gary Conn was Argo’s age but much bigger, and he found Argo a particularly attractive punching bag. Compounding the problem was that Gary lived between the bakery and the school.
Kindergarten presented its own problems for Argo who found the basement classroom intolerable. The class was noisy and smelled of stale milk because of the rubberized tablecloths that held the odor long after the numerous accidents, which were daily routines. The teacher would inexplicably place the cartons of milk delivered to her classroom on the radiator until snack time, and by the time it was served to the children it was warm and tasted oddly like the tablecloths.
Much of the school day consisted of drawing with thick crayons on large newsprint replete with chunks of wood splinters. Argo complained to his mother that the crayons were too big for his hand and that the colors were duller than the Crayolas his mother provided at home. Music appreciation seemed to play an inordinate part of the curriculum which provided “instruments” for each child. The music was to be attained by striking two sticks together, banging on metal faced tambourines, blowing on plastic flutes, or striking tin drums with small drumsticks --- all to the tune of whatever the teacher played on the ancient upright piano. The daily cacophony was dizzying.
It was forbidden to teach reading and writing in that 1971 kindergarten, and as Argo could already read and knew how to copy letters of the alphabet, there seemed little value in his attending class. That fact coupled with the assault on Argo’s sensibilities led the six-year-old on some days to walk straight past the school and wander the streets of Bensonhurst.
After a few such truancies, the school officials decided that Argo Malle was “school-phobic” and advised his mother to keep him home until first grade at which time he might mature enough to work and play well with others. This was good news for Argo but not Irene who was forced to leave her child at home alone while she went to work.
Fortunately, Argo was content playing by himself and could be trusted not to answer the door or telephone. Argo’s favorite toy was a set of plastic cowboys and Indians which could be set on plastic horses and which were kept in a shoebox in the hall closet. He also had a cap pistol and holster with which he played in front of the mirror behind his mother’s bedroom door. His G.I. Joe helmet firmly in place, Argo shot his .45 at the enemy in the mirror. When Irene found him scraping the few grains of gunpowder from the roll of caps with the intent of making a “bomb,” the caps were taken away. The gun lay untouched and useless on the floor of the closet until her mother gave it away.
On the first day of first grade, Argo left for school with only a little less trepidation than that of his mother. Within five minutes of having left, Argo met Gary Conn and returned crying. Irene felt that if Argo had had a father to teach him how to fight, things would go better for her son, but she had failed to keep her man from leaving them. Guilt and frustration welled up as she looked down at her crying child, and she screamed at the boy to go back outside and defend himself. When he refused, she grabbed him by the hand and walked him to the school. The teacher marked him late, and the principal assured her that she would speak to the children about bullying. She also suggested that Irene accompany her son back and forth to school for the first week. That would mean that she would be late for work, of course, but something had to be done.
On most days Argo managed to avoid confrontations and got to school and back without incident, but on the days he was attacked, he would come home, using the key that hung around his neck to get back into the apartment. Irene could do nothing about those days, and Argo’s report cards always had his number of days absent circled in red. Being a single mother with a boy like Argo living in a neighborhood like Bensonhurst was not easy.
Fortunately, the landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Machiarolla, lived directly beneath Irene and Argo, and they owned the Chiffon bakery. Their children were grown, and Argo became one of their grandchildren. On many evenings, Argo ate supper with them and on those occasions got to watch TV. The Machiarollas went to bed by 9 and were up at 4, but they were available the rest of the time, and Irene often took advantage of their kindness when she had to work late or when Argo was sick and needed babysitting.
The Machiarolla’s son, Tommy M., lived in a brownstone on 66th Street, two blocks away, with his wife and son Joseph, who was in Argo’s class. Tommy M. was a well-known and respected figure in Bensonhurst, and he had money. Since it was unsure what he did for a living, Irene was virtually certain he was a Mafioso. Given the neighborhood, her suspicion was justified. It also was correct. But Tommy was good to Irene and to his parents, and while his folks were too busy at the bakery on Sunday mornings to go to Mass, Tommy picked up Irene and Argo and drove them to church along with his family. He always had the latest model Cadillac, and for Irene and Argo, it was their only brush with wealth. Tommy, it should be noted, was a major church benefactor at Brooklyn’s largest and most opulent church, Regina Pacis, Queen of Peace.
In fact, Tommy M. was the silent owner of several pizzerias. The stores were staffed by immigrants from Musina, Sicily and managed by Tommy’s associates. He ran things from the back room of the Knights of Columbus storefront on 18th Avenue. From there, Tommy M. laundered the Bonanno Family drug money, ran the entire New York numbers racket, and, on Tuesdays and Thursdays only, doled out favors to local residents who needed help of one type or other. Sometimes the help was a simple cash gift to tide a family over until work could be found. Other times it was a more complicated task like helping an unconnected businessman with a competitor. Sometimes, it was to even a score. The idea of helping neighbors was the brainchild of Lucky Luciano who believed that local good will was good business. In this way, local citizens knew they had nothing to fear and much to gain by living in a neighborhood run by the Mafia, or Cosa Nostra as it was known then.
Tommy’s parents, who emigrated from Musina, did not approve of his activities, and though he continually asked them to sell the bakery and live a more comfortable life under his support, they steadfastly refused. The rotund Cosmo Machiarolla liked to work and was proud of his success, having arrived in America with nothing but his ability as a baker, which he had learned as an apprentice in Sicily. Carmen, his wife, supported her husband despite the prodding from their only child, though her arthritic knee made her retirement imminent.
In the summer of 1968, New York saw civil unrest reach its highest, most violent point. Starting in the black section of northern Brooklyn called Bedford-Stuyvesant and reaching to the southern border at Coney Island, bands of angry blacks swarmed through neighborhoods rioting. All police were called to duty, but still neighborhoods were burned, stores looted, and whites beaten. Everywhere along the path, that is, except for the square mile that was known as Bensonhurst. Even the angry mobs knew enough not to enter that neighborhood, which went about its business as if nothing were the matter.
Bensonhurst was mostly Italian and largely Jewish, and it was 100% white. When the city assigned a black welfare family to a house it had taken over through a government seizure, the house was burned before the family could move in. Despite the redline real estate laws, no Bensonhurst family ever sold a house to a black. In fact, homeowners never had the chance; real estate agents never brought black families to the neighborhood.
It was in the winter of 1970 that Tommy M. received a phone call from Father Gioffi, the pastor of Regina Pacis. The opulent Church had been vandalized, the sacristy violated, and bejeweled crucifixes, candlesticks, and chalices stolen. Newspapers ran front-page stories, and TV crews surrounded the church. Tommy M., a great believer in Lucky Luciano’s dictum that any media coverage was unprofitable and to be avoided, decided that this situation was different and allowed himself to be interviewed by the local ABC-TV affiliate.
“The people of the parish are devastated,” he told the reporter who introduced him only as a devoted parishioner. “Why anyone would violate a church is beyond understanding. I’m sure that whoever did it will realize that this was a big mistake and will return what was taken right away---and just the way everything was---with no damage. There’s no question about that.”
And there was no question. A day later, everything found its way back. No one seemed to know who took the items or why or how they came to be returned, and Bensonhurst returned comfortably to its cherished anonymity. Fr. Gioffi sent a basket of flowers to the home of Tommy M., and the card said only “Thank you.”
While Argo got to go to church every week with Joseph Machiarolla, they were not friends. Argo wasn’t part of the group of families whose fathers worked with Tommy M., and those outside that group were steadfastly avoided. The families were a clan, friendly to others, but from weddings to funerals, baptisms to first Communions, from birthday parties to barbeques, the families of the Bonanno Family socialized only among themselves. Irene was treated a bit differently only out of respect to Cosmo and Carmen; no such distinction reached down to the boys.
Joseph Machiarolla was a bright boy but did not like school and was often without his homework. Because of their last names, Argo and Joseph were often seated together, but Argo was different from the other boys, and Joseph did not like the difference. Argo’s being the teacher’s pet made things even more difficult.
Even in the third grade, Argo was still being bullied by Gary Conn, as well as by some others, but getting to school presented less of a problem since Argo circled Gary’s block on the way to school to keep from being seen. Now even though the classes in the grades were grouped according to ability, and Argo was in the best class, he was far more advanced than the others. Assigned work that the teacher would allow 40 minutes was completed by Argo in five, and reading lessons wherein each student in turn read a paragraph aloud was a particular waste of time for Argo. Mrs. Hanley decided that Argo would be a monitor for the Principal during the reading lessons. Sitting on the bench in the main office outside the Principal’s door would provide Argo the time to read independently, and on the occasion that the Principal needed a note delivered to a classroom, Argo would be the messenger. The situation was ideal for Argo.
It was on a warm day in May and Mrs. Reynolds, the Principal who three years earlier had decided that Argo was too immature for school, left her door open to the outer office to create a breeze. She and her assistant were discussing the letters that were going to be sent to parents of children who would be receiving bad report cards at the end of June unless improvement were shown. Argo heard Joseph Machiarolla’s name as one of the children whose parents would be receiving letters.
“I heard the Principal is sending a letter home to your parents,” Argo told Joseph that afternoon as the teacher was writing on the blackboard.
“What letter?”
“You’re gonna get a bad report card.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your father will,” said Argo with the same uncaring attitude.
Tommy M. chose not to send his child to Catholic school precisely because he knew that the nuns were far more demanding than public school teachers, and he wanted to reduce the chances of having his son run into problems. That Joseph was now causing him a problem in school was unacceptable, and his son was going to bear the brunt of his frustration. Joseph knew that angering his father was always a losing proposition and that school was going require some attention.
Joseph was unquestionably bright, but his short attention span made rote memorization difficult. Spelling and the multiplication table were particular banes. By the end of the third grade it was expected that children learn the multiplication table up to the 10’s, and Joseph on a good day could get only half of them correct.
Mrs. Hanley’s means of teaching and testing students was largely oral, and she would drill the number facts round robin style during arithmetic lessons. Sitting at her desk, she would call a student’s name in a most dreadful tone then give the multipliers. The student called out the answer.
“Joseph Machiarolla,” she intoned. “Seven times eight.”
“Forty-nine?”
“Wrong!” she said putting a mark in a book. “Argo Malle?”
“Fifty-six.”
“Correct.”
These lessons would go on for the approved forty-minutes before she engaged the class in another lesson, often round robin reading, at which time Argo was excused to the Principal’s office as a monitor.
Joseph had to show major improvement if he were to escape his father’s wrath, and while his spelling did improve, he seemed to have a mental block for multiplication facts. Mrs. Hanley made flash cards for Joseph who had to practice with them as extra homework, but the improvement was minimal.
After another week of round robin drills, Mrs. Hanley declared a test for the next day. All books and papers had to be cleared from the desks, which were tables for two with storage under the tabletop. As usual, no whispering was allowed, and anyone caught doing so would receive a demerit and a zero for the test. But Mrs. Hanley’s mistake was in failing to require that pencils be stored, and Argo held on to his.
“Joseph Machiarolla,” she called from her desk. “Six times eight!”
“Forty-eight,” answered Joseph, certain of his answer having read the number written on the table by Argo.
It was an unintended consequence that Argo’s help made him a fast friend of Joseph Machiarolla, but had he planned it, Argo could not have been more fortunate. For one thing, Argo was able to walk directly to school without fear of meeting Gary Conn on the way. No one in the neighborhood bullied or even teased him, and Argo was now to be included in all the games after school and on weekends. The latter turned out to be a mixed blessing, but not being assailed on a regular basis was a boon, and instructive.
Not long after the multiplication test, Argo’s class was dismissed for the day at precisely the same time as Gary Conn’s class burst out of the doors and ran for the street. Gary’s unbound joy at his release was no doubt instrumental in his shoving Argo from behind and sending him headlong to the pavement at the bottom of the school steps. The palms of both hands took the brunt of the fall, and they were scraped raw. The left knee was also scraped as the thin cotton pants offered little protection. Argo began to cry, but when he saw that it was Gary Conn who had bowled him over, he held back his tears.
“Hey, you,” said Joseph Machiarolla running at Gary, grabbing him by his shirt. In his toughest street language, Joseph warned Gary never to touch Argo again and told him that if Argo were ever to be set upon by him or by anyone else, Joseph would hold him responsible. Gary was to be Argo’s protector, and if he failed in that capacity, Joseph would beat him. Gary’s eyes were wide and frightened, and Argo saw for the first time a little boy instead of a little monster. Then, in a flash, Joseph began punching Gary and cursing until a teacher stepped in. Argo had become a protected personage in P.S. 12.
Being a friend of Joseph Machiarolla, as was being a friend of his father, was not always without its downside, however.
After lunch, students were required to take recess in the schoolyard. Boys and girls played dodge ball in the winter, and in the spring and fall, boys played softball and girls had jump rope contests and played potsy. Basketball and handball were always in season, but only boys played them. Argo played only in dodge ball games because all that was required was to avoid being hit by the soft rubber ball. Being rather small and naturally agile, he was good at the game and sometimes he would win by being the only one unhit. Most of the time, however, he watched the others play, choosing to stand close to the teacher on duty. All of the teachers in the school knew Argo or knew about him, and while they should have encouraged him to play with the others more than they did, they found talking with the boy a delight as they served on rotated yard duty.
When school started after Labor Day, Argo was in a different fourth grade class from Joseph, who had been placed in the middle ability class. But that was not the only change. The rule in grades four through six was that all the boys had to participate in all team games. Softball gloves were given to those boys without them, and for forty minutes a day, Argo became a ballplayer.
Team captains were the best two players who got to choose on an alternate basis those players who would be on their respective teams. Argo was always the last chosen, and if there happened to be an uneven number of boys in the pool, the captains would choose odds or evens to determine who would get Argo. The loser got him.
As most of the boys were right-handed and hit naturally to the left side of the diamond, Argo was always assigned to play on the right side and as far from home plate as possible. As every boy had to play, and as there were more than twenty 4th grade boys, outfields usually had six or seven players. The lesser outfielders would play behind the better ones thereby virtually guaranteeing that players like Argo could not hurt the team by a misplay in the field. Their making out at bat was a foregone conclusion, but the sides generally managed to divide evenly the sure outs, and their piddling grounders gave a chance for the star infielders to show their stuff.
Joseph was the second best player in the grade; by far the best player, and opposing captain unless he was absent that day, was Rocco Bandello. Rocco was significantly larger than the other boys, and he batted left-handed, which meant he almost always hit to the right side of the field, and most of those hits were long flies to right field. The typical strategy when “Lefty” got up was to move the lesser players, who were put in right field because left handed batters hardly there. That move suited Argo just fine though the other right fielders complained. It was a good idea in principle, but Lefty usually hit the ball so hard that even the best outfielders could not catch it.
On this day, Argo was on Joseph’s team, and on the two occasions Lefty batted, Joseph switched outfields. Recess was almost over, and Lefty was up with two out and a runner on first base. Joseph, who played shortstop, did not call for the switch. Instead, he left the right side vulnerable to a Lefty blast. Argo thought that since the score was tied, Joseph did not want to waste time by making the switch. He reasoned that the time saved would give his team enough time to bat, at which time Joseph would be up with a good chance to score the winning run.
Argo positioned himself as far as possible from home plate as the fence would allow, and Lefty lofted a towering drive as if on purpose. The ball flew off the bat as if propelled by a rocket launcher, and when it reached its apogee it looked no larger than a marble. Argo froze to the spot and held his glove up more in self-preservation than in an attempt to catch the fly. He closed his eyes only for moment, but that was enough to lose sight of it. His arms straight up as if he were under arrest, Argo for some reason looked at Joseph. Joseph’s eyes were wide and pleading. And then Argo felt the ball hit his glove with a thud. And then he felt it roll down his rigid arm to the ground.
“Here,” called the outfielder closer to the infield, exhorting Argo to pick up the ball quickly and relay it to keep Lefty from rounding the bases. But by the time Argo could retrieve the ball and throw it for the relay, Lefty was around second base. The relay was sufficient only in keeping him at third, but the run scored. The recess whistle ended the game before Joseph could get his “last licks.”
Peter Gold, the frustrated pitcher, second-guessed Joseph about why he didn’t make the switch. Why would anyone leave Argo in right field with Lefty up and the game on the line? Argo heard Joseph tell him that he wanted to give Argo a chance. Argo, despite the embarrassing horror, had his first friend.
l
During the summer vacation that year, Argo was invited to spend part of it at the Machiarolla’s summer cottage in the Poconos. It was a faux log cabin with all of the modern conveniences except for a television as there was no reception in that area. There was a deep pond nearby which was called the swimming hole, and the boys used tire inner tubes to float and have naval wars. Argo had to learn to swim to keep from drowning. In the early summer, the adults seldom went in beyond getting their feet wet because of the cold, but the boys enjoyed it and came out when they began to shiver and Gloria Machiarolla called them in.
Gloria was tall and fine-boned with leonine bleached hair. As in the other families, the women stayed home with the children and spent a large part of their time keeping themselves as attractive as they could for their husbands. At this, Gloria excelled and Tommy M. swelled. They had met at New Utrecht High School, and while her parents, the Rispoli's, were successful in keeping her from getting involved with him during high school, when she was eighteen and began to work in the City, which Brooklynites called Manhattan, there was not much they could do. It was a huge wedding, and Tommy’s best man was Joe Bonanno’s nephew, Vito.
Outside their cottage was a strawberry patch enclosed by a thin wire fence to keep the deer from decimating the crop, but that didn’t stop the crows and robins from getting at them. Tommy M. gave both boys slingshots to drive the birds away, and the boys spent a great deal of time shooting at the birds that fearlessly swooped down and stole the highly prized berries. The ammunition was any stone near where the boys stood, and after a time, gravel from the driveway. Over time their aim improved, but they really had little chance of hitting a bird, and the damage to the strawberries from being pelted by the stones seemed to Tommy M. to outweigh any advantage of deterring birds. Of course, it did keep the kids occupied.
Joseph’s patience waned before Argo’s, and Joseph suggested they see who could shoot a stone farther. Joseph was the usual winner until Argo decided to add to the length of the rubber bands on his slingshot. When Joseph saw Argo’s stones fly so much farther, he went inside the house to get more rubber bands.
That was when Argo decided to try his luck at hitting a robin, eyeing its next catch from a low branch over the strawberry patch. Argo took aim between the slingshot’s vee and let the stone fly. It was a direct hit, knocking the bird far off the branch and to the ground outside the patch. He ran to the bird which he could see twitching in pain as he approached. It went motionless just as Argo got to it.
It was the first time Argo had seen anything die, and while he wanted to pick it up, he was afraid to touch it. He saw its gray, lifeless eyes, and he knew it was because of what he had done that the helpless and beautiful bird lay dead. It took a long while before he could begin to cry, and when he did, slingshot in hand and tears rolling down his face, Argo ran to the house.
“Mommy, Argo’s crying,” called Joseph to his mother who came running down the stairs.
“What happened?” she yelled. Tommy M. followed her.
“I don’t know; he’s just crying,” answered Joseph looking at his friend standing head down in the kitchen.
Gloria held Argo’s heaving little body close to her and kissed the tears from his eyes.
“It’s good what you did,” said Tommy M. suppressing laughter at the tenderhearted boy. “That’s what men do; we protect ourselves and what’s ours. Come on, let’s see it,” he said walking to the door. “We’ll leave it right in the garden; that’ll keep the others out.” Gloria directed the reluctant Argo to follow the other two to the scene of the crime.
“I’m gonna get me one,” said Joseph as he raced ahead of his father to see the kill.
“You hit it from there?” asked Tommy M. standing over the bird and looking back at Argo who had stopped at the spot from which the boys shot. “That was some shot, kid.” Tommy M. picked up the bird and threw it in the middle of the strawberry patch. “This way the other birds get to see what happens when they go for our strawberries.”
Argo let the slingshot fall from his hand and started back to the house.
“No, no,” called Tommy M., “You guys gotta keep watch. Other birds might not notice the dead one. You gotta protect that patch.” Argo picked up his slingshot. “That’s it,” he said encouragingly, “you gotta be tough.” Tommy M. knew then that Argo was not the boy his son was, and the difference pleased him.
Back on watch, the boys shot stones at various targets waiting for any sign of a bird. The boys soon tired of waiting, and went swimming, but after dark, Argo went back, flashlight in hand, to the strawberry patch while Joseph was getting his bath. He picked up the dead bird by the tail as if touching the body would transfer its death. Holding it at arm’s length, Argo walked to the gravel driveway where he carved out a small hole, dropped the bird in, and covered it with the surrounding gravel. No one noticed it was missing from the patch, even when it was time to pick the ripe fruit where the bird had lain.
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The New York Diocese offered catechism lessons to Catholic public school students. After the nine o’clock Sunday mass and on Wednesdays at two o’clock, these children studied for their first Communion and Confirmation. It was necessary for Catholic schools to release their pupils early on Wednesday afternoon to provide classroom space and teachers for public school pupils. Regina Pacis provided catechisms and the nuns to educate the faithful in their religion. Jewish children attended Hebrew school, shule, after school in preparation for their bar mitzvahs.
At Regina Pacis it was decided that the same teacher would provide instruction to the same children as they advanced through the grades, and Argo and Joseph were taught by Sister Mary Esther, a young nun trained in Indiana by the Sisters of Mercy. Unlike her strict colleagues, Sister Mary Esther showed more affection to the children than was expected, and as a result was more popular among her students than she was among her peers. She also stood a head taller than the other nuns, was thin, had blond hair, blue eyes, and a snow-white complexion.
It was not long before she took a particular liking to Argo, her cutest and most remarkable first grader. She was captivated not only by his ability to read, but by his sensitivity to and understanding of the lessons of the bible stories. When he reached the fifth grade, Mary Esther thought her precocious find would make a perfect altar boy even though only Catholic school students had ever been selected. There would be additional training involved since the prayers had to be recited in Latin, and that would require her time which she was unsure the principal would allow. When she finally asked if it would be possible to make an exception in Argo’s case, the Principal, Father Grande, insisted on meeting the boy himself before deciding.
“Sister Mary Esther says you want to be an altar boy; is that so?” asked the old school master from above his reading glasses.
“Yes,” answered Argo.
“Say, yes, Father,” corrected Sister Mary Esther.
“Yes, Father.”
“And why?” pursued the priest.
“Sister thinks I should.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think so, too.”
“And why do you think so?” Father Grande was not smiling.
“I think God wants me to,” said Argo looking at Sister to see if he had given the right answer.
“You are aware, young man, that you will have to study after three o’clock, and once you learn the prayers and responsibilities of an altar boy you will have to serve when you are called, not only on Sunday morning.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Are you prepared to give him the time?” he asked the nun.
“Yes, Father,” she replied stroking Argo’s head lightly.
Father Grande turned to Argo. “Well it seems you are blessed in more ways than one. Say a prayer of thanks to the Blessed Virgin for having Sister Mary Esther as your teacher.”
“Yes, Father,” said Argo looking down at his shoes.
Sister Mary Esther’s alabaster skin flushed with pride.
One other of her students, Benito Musso, was attending altar boy training in the mornings with boys from other classes, and Sister Mary Esther introduced him to Argo. She thought Argo could use a model and a like-minded friend since Joseph Machiarolla, his friend from public school, would do nothing for Argo’s religious life. She was certain that both Benny and Argo could one day be priests, and in this, each would be a good influence on the other.
Three times a week after school Argo met her in her classroom to learn the Latin prayers, the first one being “The Confiteor,” an avowal of the main tenets of the Catholic Church. For fifth graders, the lessons were merely memorizations of the Latin prayer to be recited at Mass at the appropriate time along with the priest. For Argo, it was more. He wanted to know what the words meant in both English and Latin. It was not sufficient to say that he believed in “the communion of saints,” he wanted to know what was that communion. When Sister Mary Esther asked Father Sullivan, who taught the altar boy classes, if Argo’s questions were unusual, she learned that no other boys at any age ever asked for an explanation of the prayers. Even Benny Musso, Father Sullivan’s favorite and brightest, was content to learn the prayers by rote and wait to be told what they meant as they got old enough to understand. Sullivan thought that perhaps Argo’s questions rose from his being given private instruction making it easier for the boy to ask than if he were in a classroom with others. Mary Esther knew different, and after Sullivan met Argo, he did, too.
It was at a communion breakfast that Father Sullivan first saw the little boy with the big head of curly, black hair. Argo was shorter and thinner than the other boys his age, and shier. Except for his eyes which darted everywhere with hummingbird agility, Argo remained mostly motionless. He did not smile even when the other boys laughed, and he spoke only when spoken to. The exception was with Benny. Occasionally, he would lean over to his friend and say something, and Benny would give long answers as if by way of explanation.
Sullivan walked to the two boys who were seated at the far end of the long table in the basement dining room.
“Hello, Argo,” said the priest holding out his hand for a shake. Argo’s little hand felt like a chicken wing.
“Hello, Father,” said Argo easing his fingers from the meaty vise.
“Sister said that you are her best student. You were perfect on your prayers test.”
“I’m her only one.”
“Yes,” said Sullivan with a laugh. “You’re the only public school student here. How come you’re not in Catholic school?”
“My mother said we don’t have the money.”
“Well not everyone pays, you know.”
Argo had not known that. “My friends go to public school.”
“Well you have friends here, too.” Sullivan placed his hand on Benny’s shoulder.
Argo remained silent.
“He’s friends with the Machiarolla’s,” said Benny.
“Tommy Machiarolla?” asked the priest taken somewhat by surprise.
“Joseph’s friend. Tommy M.’s son.”
“Yes. They’re a fine family. Well, Argo, I’ll see you at practice next week. And I’ll see you, Benny, right after breakfast.” Sullivan stroked the boy’s neck tenderly and walked on.
Father Sullivan was the youngest priest on the staff and it was thought that he should be assigned the lion’s share of work with the parish youth. He coached basketball, having played in college, moderated the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine for parish teens, and trained the altar boys. In the three years of his tenure at the parish, the big redhead was considered a success, and what he seemed to lack in piety he made up for in dedication. He and Mary Esther were particularly friendly, and Mary Esther attributed it to their youth and particular love of children.
There were the beginnings of rumors that Father Sullivan was perhaps too fond of the boys, often touching them at times when it seemed uncalled for. Mary Esther resented the chatter of some of the other nuns and defended him by pointing out that there had been no complaints and suggesting that his basketball experience at St. Francis College explained the “touchy-feely” approach he took with the boys. Basketball was, after all, a contact sport, and at the games she saw, the boys were constantly patting and hugging each other.
As much as Sullivan liked Benny, he seemed to have an aversion to Argo, and by the time the boys reached the eighth grade, Argo was merely tolerated by the big priest. In truth, the boys had become close friends, and when given the chance, Benny, who had grown head and shoulders over Argo, chose to spend his time with him. Sullivan made Benny a “manager” for the older boys on the basketball team, and that helped separate the two friends. When Benny got to ninth grade he would qualify to play on the team, and coach Sullivan expected him to make the team if for no other reason than his size.
It was in late spring before high school that Argo was to meet Benny to join the 8th grade bus trip to the Metropolitan Museum. There had been a two o’clock basketball practice during Released Time that Wednesday, and after class, Argo went to the locker room to meet Benny. Some of the boys were still showering, but most were getting dressed to go home. Argo sat on the bench by the door to the locker room and waited for Benny who was still showering. Soon all the boys but Benny seemed to have left, so Argo walked toward the shower room to see what was keeping him.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” said the voice of Father Sullivan. Argo stopped. “I meant that you should be proud. You’re only thirteen and look at you.”
Argo called out, “Benny?”
“Yeah.”
Argo passed a few rows of lockers and saw him toweling off. Father Sullivan was sitting on a bench in front of Benny.
“Hi, Argo,” said the priest looking up at him over his shoulder.
“Hi, Father.”
“I’ll be ready in a second,” said Benny.
“Well, I hope we don’t miss the bus,” said Argo looking at his watch.
“You won’t,” said Sullivan getting up. “I’ll tell them you’re on your way.” Without looking back he said to Benny, “See you, kid.” Benny did not answer.
“My question is,” said Argo as he watched Benny dress in double time, “how come you’re always on time for the start of practice and always late after it?”
“If you were a coach you’d know,” answered Benny. Then his round face lit up and he added, “But since you’re a runt you’ll never find out.”
“Ooh, a basketball manager. I wish I knew what it was like to be in charge of four basketballs and a load of sweaty towels,” said Argo in mock awe of his friend.
“Jealousy:” answered Benny, “a cardinal vice.”
“Stupidity: a worse one,” answered Argo, his eyes gleaming.
As bright as Benny was, he did have some trouble in math and science, and Argo was there to help. Being in public school was an advantage in science because they had working labs. Regina Pacis’ science program was largely textbook, and the difference was palpable.
Argo was placed in the Special Progress program for the city’s brightest children. It combined the three junior high school years, grades seven through nine, into two, in effect eliminating eighth grade. Argo, then, was in the ninth grade while Benny was in the eighth, but nothing was made of the difference. Those distinctions seemed more important to the adults than to the boys, and to Argo it meant only that he could escape public school a year earlier. Junior high school and high school were particularly onerous for Argo, but it was not only the institutions that were painful, it was the time in his life that he watched his mother slowly die.
There was little to be done for Irene Malle who had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. NYU Medical Center had led the nation in fighting the disease, and a successful chemotherapy program had been developed, but the success was spotty and not everyone responded positively. After Irene had lost her hair, she began losing much of the use of her right arm and leg, and while she was able to continue working as a cleaning lady, her pain was increasing and with it the difficulty of getting to work every day. On some days, after she saw Argo off to school, she lay in bed moaning. She would always try to be up and about when Argo got home at three, but on some days even that was too much. Fortunately, the law firm for which she cleaned was most charitable and allowed her frequent days off without a fuss. Nevertheless, Irene knew it would only be a matter of time that she would be a helpless burden to her son.
Seeing his mother become more frail and knowing that she would soon die despite the hope held out by the doctors was particularly difficult for her sensitive son. Argo worked part time at the bakery cleaning and running errands for Cosmo and Carmela, and his hours increased when Carmela retired because of her own worsening arthritis.
While Argo was intellectually more advanced than others his age, he was not particularly more developed emotionally. His difficult situation forced him to take on more responsibility than his friends, but the responsibility was manifest in what he had to do, not what he felt. He had become sullen and more introverted than he had been before his mother’s affliction, and he withdraw more than usual when frustrated. When his mother fell in the bathroom and he could not lift her up, he cursed his small body, blaming God for not making him stronger.
At confession, Argo told the priest of his intemperance.
“You must never blame God for things,” intoned the confessor. “God has plans for all of us, and it is our job to accept them because it is God’s will. ‘God’s will be done.’ You must thank God from the bottom of your heart for all the good he has given you. You must ask him for the grace to accept His divine will, to be strong for your mother, and to honor the Lord above all else.” The priest paused. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Argo whispered.
“In the end, my son, the Lord is all we have,” said the priest as much to himself as to the boy. “Now pray to the Lord to forgive you. Say ten Our Fathers and five Hail Mary’s for your sins and make a good Act of Contrition.”
If, for Argo, the aptly named Shallow Junior High School on 16th Avenue and 65th Street was situated on the first ring of Dante’s inferno, New Utrecht High School sat several levels below. At least at Shallow, he was in the same class as the other S.P. students who stayed together all day. At Utrecht, students moved on their own and were not segregated by ability except in the major subjects. That meant that at lunch, in the gymnasium, in homeroom, and in art, music, and shop; Argo was in with all of the kids. And, because he had skipped the eighth grade, he was a year younger than the other boys and a head shorter. Sadly Joseph Machiarolla, still in the eighth grade at Shallow, could not help him.
Passing between classes was particularly odious to Argo who saw his fellow pupils as cattle running in all directions without the benefit of herding cowboys. Jostling was de rigueur, but having his books pulled from under his arm and then being trampled as he stooped to pick them up was as vexing as it was dangerous. He understood why girls carried their books in both arms in front of the their chests.
Worse than the halls was the lunchroom. Aside from the noise and foul odor, Argo could not tolerate watching his schoolmates eat. Those who purchased lunch seemed to have particular difficulty with soup and spaghetti, which often dripped from their mouths and onto the trays and tables. Few used napkins to clean their faces or the messes they had made. Those who brown bagged it almost always brought a piece of fruit along with a sandwich, and the peels and cores would often find their way on the floor or on occasion in someone’s lap. Fortunately, it was not long before Argo found a way out of the bovine comedy.
Some department chairmen needed help with books and supplies and would give service credit to those who spent a free or study period as aides. Argo’s 10th grade English teacher, Miss Tasman, was the department chair and agreed to let him spend his lunch period in her office. Argo ate his sandwich in the outer office and served as Miss Tasman’s aide for his three years of high school. The Tasmanian Devil, as she was known, was the strictest of the teachers in the school and naturally took a liking to Argo who was most diligent and a prize student. It was she who was most instrumental in getting him accepted to Columbia, her alma mater, and while Argo ultimately chose Rutgers, he appreciated her efforts in guiding his college applications. It was, however, for the rescue from the lunchroom that Argo would be eternally grateful.
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