Tales of Bensonhurst Brooklyn

By Matt Cutugno

Modern day folklore on life in a New York City neighborhood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483532011

Book preview

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Life in the Death of Nonna

People on 79th Street don’t talk about it much but when the timing is right they will. There are different versions of what happened but all start with a beautiful April day; everybody remembers how nice the weather was that day.

Nonna was outside sitting on a folding chair in the driveway. The sun shone off her gray-haired head; she held a hand over her eyes as she looked up and spoke to Claire, her daughter-in-law. The old woman spoke Italian and pigeon English; Claire responded in English. She asked Nonna how her back was feeling. "Mezzo," so-so, was the answer. Nonna asked Claire if she liked the anguilla she cooked the night before. It was good Claire replied though actually eel made her gag.

The 79th Street crowd concurs that kids were playing basketball that morning at the playground next door. They say it was a three-on-three game, though in one re-telling Philip was shooting hoops alone when his destiny met Nonna’s.

All agree though that a small framed, freckle-faced kid was the one who took The Shot. He admitted it, it happened. It wasn’t so much a shot as a heave; he was forty feet from the hoop. Half-court, fooling around, Philip took an impossible attempt at the basket. The shot banged the rim, went wide high, and sailed clear over the backboard. The roundball struck hard on the fence that marked the playground and then bounded farther into Nonna’s property.

As Claire tells it, she had just finished relating to her mother-in-law that Domenic, her husband (Nonna’s beloved only son), would come to Bensonhurst to visit Saturday. The old lady was pleased to hear that. Domenic Fiumefreddo was a good boy, though his position in the community (he owned a car dealership on Staten Island) made it impossible for him to be around as much as she liked.

It was small talk between Claire and Nonna when all of a sudden the basketball shot by Philip, having bounded into the driveway, bounced toward them. Once, twice, it bounced and they watched it. It was startling, neither expected a basketball. And it was annoying. But Nonna’s reaction was unique. She gave a start; tugged once at an ivory pin that held her hair in a bun on the top of her head. She held her other hand to her breast. Then poor Nonna fell off the chair, dead.

People on 79th say it was a heart attack, logical enough. Subsequent newspaper reports mentioned broken vertebrae suffered in the fall. But for sure Dom’s mother died that afternoon in the driveway of her home. One second Nonna was speaking in her horse-voice, waving a hand for emphasis, pulling at a sleeve. Next second she was fallen, silent, gone.

Accounts of the story suggest that the kids playing hoops didn’t know what had happened. A kid said, Nice shot dummy, it went next door.

Yo, Philip, another added, get the ball, man, we got a game here!

It wasn’t until Claire yelled Nonna, Nonna, that anyone knew that the errant heave had such consequences. Claire’s yelling started a chain reaction: the game stopped, a dog barked, people looked out nearby windows, another dog barked, then another barked, neighbors came over, and soon enough was the plaintive siren sound of an ambulance.

They say that when Domenic heard about his mother’s sudden passing he went ballistic. In one version of the story he smacked around the person who told him the news but that’s unlikely. He was a businessman and would know better than to assault people. But he was a powerful man with friends. He demanded to know everything, every moment before, during, and after the death of his saintly mother. He had an eyewitness, his wife, plus the police reports. Soon enough, Domenic learned that sunny day or not, heart attack or broken neck, the old lady was killed by a basketball. The ball was shot by Philip, a half-Italian, half-Irish kid who’d lived in the neighborhood all his young life.

Dom’s first reaction was a desire to have Philip maimed. That was his second reaction too, such was his grief. The person who caused the premature death of the grandmother of his children had to pay a price. He told Claire this and his wife said that such talk was not good and that he should remain calm. But Dom was famous for his stubbornness, molto testardo. He decided that calm was useless. He knew a man at the social club, an old friend.

Nico was there the day Nonna’s son stopped by. The two drank coffee with anisette at a small table at the window looking on 18th Avenue (aka Cristoforo Colombo Boulevard). Nico was a large man with a round face. He wore a gold ring on each pinkie finger that appeared to have been placed two hundred pounds ago; no way those rings were ever coming off. He had an old fashioned pencil mustache and wore glasses that were tinted red. His hairpiece was shabby for a man wearing a thousand dollar suit. He and Dom had gone to high school together, many pounds ago.

So, Domenic, Nico started, I hope you’re not here to talk about the kid shooting hoops. Dom was surprised that Nico knew but then he shouldn’t have been: the president of the social club knew everything. He considered Dom’s surprise.

Your mother was a saint, he said, but life is life and death is death.

I know, Domenic began in a solemn way; he stirred his coffee with a tiny silver spoon. In contrast to his huge friend, Dom was thin enough. But it wasn’t the slimness of a healthy man but rather that of one who abuses his meds.

The grieving son continued, batting his brown eyes. I don’t come here frivolously. I’ve never asked for a favor.

Nico took a sip from his cup, smacked his lips. How old was your blessed mother?

Eighty seven.

Eight seven, God bless. Where was she born?

Napoli.

I had a favorite uncle born in Napoli.

Yes, was all Dom could say.

Can’t trust Neapolitans, except for my uncle and your blessed mother, Nico added. Then he took a pause, he’d learned over the years that pauses were good, the person on the other end of the conversation thought you had a reason for the silence even when you didn’t. And that’s what Domenic thought, letting a long time go by before he queried, So is there any way?

Nico was a gentleman. He