Tapestry

By Franco Sendero

Los Angeles. 1969. Joe Martello and his teammate, Eddie Beltran, join a crowd of longshoremen at the docks. Eddie engages in a game of dice with a violent drug dealer. While Eddie gambles, Joe is focused on Catalina, the drug dealer’s wife—a beautiful young woman who wears death’s head earrings and has a series of odd markings on her neck. When Eddie loses at the game of chance, Joe is forced to pay the debt. His simple life of college and baseball becomes complicated with beatings, guns, mezcal, hallucinogens, pit bulls, an irresistible and dangerous attraction to Catalina, and a determination to recover his mother’s bequest from the drug dealers, even at the risk of losing his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franco Sendero
• Release date: Dec 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370070756

Franco Sendero

Franco Sendero was born in Italy and raised in New York and California. He immigrated to the United States in 1955. He graduated from UCLA with a BA in English. He has authored the novels Tiller of the Earth, Way to Be, Tapestry, and The Salvation of Salvino Quipal. He brings his unique experiences as a migrant to each of his novels. Prior to being an author he worked as a longshoreman, assembly line worker in an auto factory, life insurance salesman, department store manager, and government employee.

Book preview

1

As the workmen in their soiled and ragged clothes carried his mother’s coffin from the hearse to the edge of the grave, Joe Martello calmly considered in his mind the various ways of killing the funeral director and getting away with it. The little prick had promised his father that the coffin would be placed beside the grave before the mourners arrived. Instead, the hearse arrived late. He glanced at his father, saw the look of deep humiliation, and quickly glanced away. Eddie, his baseball teammate at State, shuffled his feet nervously.

Joe paid no attention to the priest. His eulogy during the funeral mass had been standard issue pap which didn’t fit any aspects of her life. Maybe it was all very symbolic. Very Christian. After all, she possessed a simple, humble faith. So why shouldn’t her coffin be carried by simple workers? The salt of the earth?

When the graveside services ended, Joe walked his father to the limo. They sat together in the back seat. His father stared impassively out the window. Joe knew he was hurting, but the old man would never show it.

Zaniddu never came, said Joe, hoping to distract his father. Probably working.

He’s a big shot now. And his wife could care less about any of his Italian friends. Too good to associate with us.

Joe remembered living briefly in the house of Zaniddu when they arrived from Oluwake, New York. His mother and Zaniddu’s wife never got along. His mother couldn’t wait to get out of there.

He was good to us when we moved out to LA.

Lou Martello shrugged his shoulders. His blue eyes dimmed coldly.

He doesn’t want to be called Zaniddu anymore. All his rich American friends call him Zane. No one calls him Zaniddu.

The limo pulled up to their small house. Inside, the house felt barren, aggrieved by a pathological solitude. The old man had lived by himself while Joe’s mother was being cared for in hospice. Joe opened the back door and looked out into the large yard. The young tomato bushes were secured to wooden stakes. Next to the tomato bushes lay a series of fertilized hollows containing zucchini and eggplants. Lemon and orange trees lined the concrete walls of the yard. The fig tree Joe had purchased for his mother was ready to produce its semi-annual harvest of the plump fruit she relished. Joe remembered how his father laughed at him when he tried to plant the fig by himself.

Those are the hands for scalpels, not shovels. You don’t have a drop of contadino blood in you.

Underneath his mother’s bedroom window, planters full of oregano, parsley, and basil flourished despite his mother’s absence. At the edge of the patio beside twin olive trees was the chair where his father like to sit at night and sip a glass of his homemade wine in the winter or lemonade in the summer. From his throne, he would enthusiastically exhort his mother to enjoy the scent of orange blossoms in the night, and contentedly proclaim his yard ‘nu paradisu. A paradise. His little piece of Italy.

The backyard was his father's refuge. Here he found his true happiness. Neither the smog, nor the heat, nor the growing crime could ever induce his father to leave and surrender the small paradise that made cleaning America’s toilets on the swing shift at Simpson Aerospace palatable. He was fifty-two and never complained.

Lou Martello walked into the kitchen, carrying what looked like a rolled-up carpet almost as tall as his six foot frame. He carefully braced it against the wall next to the refrigerator. He reached into the cabinet underneath the kitchen counter and removed a gallon bottle of his homemade wine.

Sit. I have to talk to you about your mother.

Joe sat across the table from his father. Lou Martello filled two plain tumblers with wine and pushed one towards Joe. The old man never used stemmed wine glasses. Too effete for his tastes.

It had always been this way. The two of them sitting down after some tragedy or other trying to figure out what to do next. When he was just a kid coming home from the orphanage to visit, his father let him have his first taste of wine. Drinking wine with his father always made Joe happy. Though he wondered now if he was making his father happy. He was certainly a disappointment to the old man, who always wanted a doctor or lawyer for a son. Not a baseball player. His father despised baseball players.

This is good Zin, said Joe as he drank down half the wine.

The old man could only get Zinfandel, Grenache, or Mission grapes from Cucamonga, depending on the whims of the weather and the grape growers. The Zin he was drinking was pretty good. But then it was all good when he got to drink with his father.

Last year I couldn’t get Zin grapes. I have Grenache in the barrel. I hope it’s as good as this.

The religion of the grape was the only one the old man practiced; he rarely went to church. In October, the old man opened the hundred-gallon oak cask and tasted the wine. Then he lovingly transferred the wine into gallon bottles, carefully labeled them with the year of vintage, and stored them in a makeshift wine cellar that looked like a shed but was heavily insulated.

After that was done, he got into his beloved 1964 wide body station wagon, drove to Cucamonga at three am, directed the farm workers to load the wagon with crates of grapes, and drove back to the valley where Joe was waiting. Then Joe helped him fill his makeshift wine press and watched the old man crush the grapes with his feet, running a virtual marathon. The next couple of days he stayed awake all night babysitting his precious wine, making sure it didn’t overheat.

Do you have enough wine? Lou asked him.

Yeah, laughed Joe. I know where there is more if I run out.

Lou pointed to the long roll of fabric.

Your mother left that for you. She stored it behind the baullu, the chest where she kept her stuff. She told me about it before she died. I didn’t even know it was there.

Lou got up from the kitchen table and untied the ligatures of twine that held the roll of carpet together. He unfurled the roll and braced it against the refrigerator. There was barely enough space in the kitchen to contain the unrolled carpet.

Now unrolled, Joe no longer saw a carpet: he saw a large rectangular tapestry embroidered with an intricate series of woven images. He scanned the images left to right and stopped at the image of a young faceless boy wearing a baseball cap.

Where did she get this?

Rosetta made it while she was in the sanitarium. She wasn’t allowed to leave for any reason. She had nothing to do. So she wove this. Her mother taught Rosetta how to weave. She liked to pray and she liked to weave. Lou paused to shake his head. Rosetta could really pray. She prayed too much. She was superstitious. Listened to priests. She was a simple contadina with little education. She didn’t have the experience I have. She knew only the world of the village. Anyhow, this tapestry is the only possession she had she could leave you. When she was in the hospice, she made me promise to give it to you. She said it was very important that you have this. That you would understand it.

Joe studied the series of images embroidered into the tapestry. He was reminded of the Bayeux tapestry in how it told a story. The initial image depicted a young woman and a boy lying on their backs on a field of tall green grasses at the foot of two mountain peaks that rose to the blue sky. Among several drifting clouds, the Virgin Mary rode a donkey led by Joseph, who held a shepherd’s staff. Mary cradled the infant Jesus in her arms. The next image showed the interior of a church that included whitewashed walls, a simple altar, a white marble floor, and rows of empty wooden pews. A burlap bag of spilled coffee beans was next, followed by two columns of blue zig zag lines that dissected the tapestry from top to bottom. In the midst of the zig zag lines was an ugly black ship that belched black smoke from its surreally large smokestack. Beside the zig zag lines was the image of a plain brown bird perched on the branch of an olive tree. Close to its beak, a severed tongue oozed dark red drops of blood that fell to the bottom edge of the tapestry. The ensuing image depicted a woman lying face down on a wheeled metal hospital bed. Her long black hair was disheveled; her back exposed; a sharp knife longer than her body dripped the same blood that dripped from the severed tongue. The Madonna in a bright blue robe hovered protectively over the prostrate woman. Golden rays emanated from her open palms. The final image depicted a boy framed by a casement window. The boy stood in a verdant landscape of trees and low mountains. He was wearing a blue baseball cap with a white B on the front. His face was turned towards the window, but the boy’s face lacked identifiable features.

A cold sweat soaked Joe’s body. When he was a little boy, he always wore a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. Was he the boy represented in the image? If so, why was his face unrecognizable? And why did she leave him this tapestry? He had no desire to resurrect the memories of his fucked-up childhood. He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

Okay. I’ll put it up in my room in the dorm.

You don’t have to if it embarrasses you. Just keep it safe.

Joe looked at his father. He knew that his father suspected that he had always been ashamed of his parents, of his past.

Okay.

Are you going to work tomorrow?

I’m going to Long Beach tomorrow night with Eddie. Joe tried to keep his voice from cracking. Mom would understand that.

His father nodded in agreement.

What can you do? You have the opportunity to get a degree. Make your mother proud of you.

Before Eddie and I go down there, I am going to the funeral home to complain to the funeral director about the way they handled the casket.

His father slammed his fist on the table.

That was an infamia! I didn’t know enough people who could be pallbearers. He assured us that he would take care of that. He lied to us.

It was disrespectful. Maybe I’ll complain to the manager.

Don’t do anything stupid. You’re twenty-one years old. The flower of youth. Study! Enjoy college. You know, when I was twenty, I was sent to Abyssinia. I spent the remainder of my youth at war, or as a prisoner of war. I don’t want that to happen to you. Vietnam is just like Abyssinia. The huts, the peasants, the bombing. A look of anguish crossed his father’s face. I hoped that by coming to America, you would never have to go through what I had to in the war. We came so you could have an education. If something happened to you…

Don’t worry, dad. Sometimes, though, I feel obligated to fight for my country. Like it is something expected of me.

This war is a mistake. It’s not about defending America. It’s about something else.

Joe didn’t like talking politics with his father. His father didn’t understand American ways. He changed the subject.

I worry about you with mom gone. Maybe I’ll come back and stay with you.

Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I took care of your mother all my life. And I have survived worse.

2

Born to Be Wild blared through the Eddie’s beloved eight track stereo. Eddie sang along when the chorus came around. Joe loved to ride in Eddie’s bright red sedan. Eddie kept the interior spotless. The wide vinyl bucket seats were comfortable. Unlike the cramped, spartan interior of his compact car there was room to stretch out, even though the car had a big steering wheel and a bracket shifter on the console.

Thanks for driving, Eddie.

No problem. The beast will take us to Wilmington in style. That compact of yours is too small for my bones. Frankly, it’s too small for your bones.

Eduardo Beltran was 6’4" of solid muscle. Two inches taller than Joe and not as slender. He played center field for State; Joe played left field. He had a stronger arm and a bigger bat than Joe. He wasn’t the speedball on the base paths that Joe was, but he could run down fly balls no one else could catch. Eddie was carrying the team this year. Not that it helped State’s standings. Still, the Cards and the Giants scouts were dangling a minor league contract in front of him. He just had to keep up his stats and keep his nose clean.

By contrast, Joe’s career was going in the opposite direction. He was mired in a hitting slump of epic proportions. His manager had warned him he was going to take him out of the starting lineup unless he started hitting.

Joe had always dreamed of playing pro ball since he first learned of the Brooklyn Dodgers when he was just a kid in the orphanage. The Brooklyn Dodgers were his childhood heroes. He had done well enough to earn a partial scholarship, but at the more elite level of college ball, he was beginning to realize he didn’t possess major league skills. He was striking out at State. He had all the tools. Speed. A strong arm. But he couldn’t hit the fucking curve ball anymore. Not at this level anyhow. The thought depressed him. Made him angry. What would he do if he couldn’t play ball? His father kept singing the same song: study to be a doctor or a lawyer. Why else had they come to America? How else could he redeem the sacrifices his mother and father had made for him?

But Joe didn’t have any real interest in pursuing a medical or legal career. And he had never done very well in school. Not that any of his teachers ever gave a rat’s ass. Still, he had been a fuck up all his life. An obedient fuck up. But a fuck up through and through. He didn’t want to disappoint his father, so he felt a lot of guilt. The only option left was the military. Vietnam

As they neared the freeway, Joe saw the funeral home on the right side of the road near the on-ramp.

Ed, before we get on the freeway, we need to make a stop at the funeral home.

What for? We don’t want to get to the docks late. What if they call our numbers and we’re not there? That’s a long trip and a waste of gas for nothing.

I won’t be long. I just want to complain to the funeral director about how they treated my mom’s casket.

That was pretty fucked up, man. Eddie turned to look at Joe. Sorry about that. Why didn’t you ask me to be a pallbearer? I would have done it. Brought some of my brothers from the barrio. None of them speak Italian, but so what?

Joe laughed along with Eddie.

My father has his own ideas. The funeral director promised us that the casket would be placed by the graveside before any of the mourners arrived. Didn’t happen.

Traffic is really fucked up in L.A. It’s always screwing everyone’s plans.

There is the mortuary, pointed Joe. Pull into the lot.

Eddie parked the car in one of the slots near the entrance. Joe reached into the back seat and retrieved his baling hook.

It wasn’t the traffic, said Joe. Mind coming in and waiting for me in the lobby?

What do you need the baling hook for? Eddie stared into his left fielder’s eyes. Que la chingada, man! I don’t want to be an accessory.

Joe opened the door and walked towards the entrance. He heard the car door slam and knew Eddie was behind him.

Just cover me, said Joe. Pretend we’re in a game.

Joe! Man, wait up. Don’t be a pendejo. We got a game in a couple of days.

Joe walked in. The receptionist greeted him as usual.

I need to see Mr. Cartwright, he told her as he walked by her to the funeral director’s office.

You can’t go in there, shouted the receptionist.

Joe ignored her. He pushed the door open. Cartwright was by himself. He was seated behind his desk, wearing his sharp three-piece suit. His rat eyes showed surprise when Joe walked in, and then fear when he saw Joe holding the baling hook by the blade. He was too late backing away. Joe hit him across the head with the hard metal handle. Cartwright screamed.

Call the police! Call the police!

Joe hit him again. Cartwright fell to the floor. He covered his head and rolled into a fetal position. Joe grasped the baling hook with both hands and pressed it hard against Cartwright’s neck. Cartwright struggled to breathe. His face turned red.

Don’t ever disrespect my family again. Joe let go for a moment. You hear me?

What the fuck I do?

You made a promise you didn’t keep, cocksucker.

He pressed the baling hook harder against Cartwright’s neck. Blood from the blow to the scalp trickled down the funeral director’s neck.

Go to the cops, and I’m going to come back with more than a baling hook. Get it?

I get it! I get it!

Joe let up on the baling hook and stood over Cartwright. The funeral director raised himself and leaned against the wall. His hands shielded his neck.

Shit! It wasn’t my fault. It was the traffic.

You should have accounted for that. We paid you enough money.

Joe walked back to the lobby. Eddie had his hand pressed against the phone. The receptionist was quiet and pale.

Let’s go, said Joe.

Eddie followed him to the car. They got in and drove away.

Think he’ll call the cops?

No.

Did you hurt him bad?

He’s lucky I didn’t stick the hook in his eye.

Shit, Joe! The hitting slump has really fucked with your mind. Man, I hope you start getting some hits soon. With the bat, I mean.

3

They arrived at the Long Beach docks at dusk. Workers had already started to crowd in the lot where the longshoremen’s dispatch hall was located. Poor working class men with families. Blacks, Filipinos, Asians, Mexicans, Whites. These men were considered casual labor. Their role was to provide support when there were insufficient full time longshoremen to get the job done. They each carried an ID card with a number on it. If their number was called, they worked. Not all would be called in one night. Usually thirty or forty. Some nights they didn’t call any numbers. Most of the cargo bound for ‘Nam went through Long Beach or L.A. harbors. And with the war heating up, there had been plenty of work lately.

Three things were needed to work