August 30 3:15 /lc

She wrote yesterday: Aunt M. passed away  {the day M gave birth] . She didn't know her own children at the end.

She's the one in the belly in the story.

There were twelve years between Grandma and her.  They had the bottom floor of the house. By then the house was crowded, Grandma told you.

Boss Carney had gotten an extra shipment in. There was no room at the speak. Put it in our basement, Great Grandpa said.

She was 5 months pregnant with the 11th child.

Not on my life she said. Where is he she said. Him with his delusions of grandeur.

She marched across the street to the speak. He was singing there. He had a beautiful high clear tenor. He sang for the judges down on Court Street.

She chased him home. Grandma came home from Coney Island  with the youngest three. All the way down the block they could see the crowd in front of the house.

They were in the front window. Shade up.  He had on his white shirt, red suspenders. She was waiting on M then. Big as a house. She held the butcher knife high. He had her by the wrist.  Go on he said. Go on.

She did love him so. He had terrible problems with the breathing. She put Caruso on the wind-up. Rolled up datura and strontium leaves for him to smoke. It eased the asthma.

She moved through the crowd. Pretended as if she didn't live there. Go on he said.

But ya know she went berserk. You don't know how it is. They don't tell you but it's a blessing. He'd been blackballed for starting up about asbestos in the shipyard. They didn't know scientifically what it was but they were all getting sick. He fell in with Carney.  That was the wrong crowd. Mama said our side always had a screw loose for the pretty boys. He had delusions of grandeur, he had big plans. She'd tell us blame the tripe in white sauce on that.

I never told M that story until we were 50 years old and drunk one night on Bloody Marys.

It's strange how you  remember a day. How you can be standing in your body and not be there.