a short story

Mr. Cappolla’s Horse: Part 1

Mr. Cappolla came down the street every Wednesday late morning in a horse-drawn pickup truck shouting in his own Italian a litany of fresh fruits and vegetables that he picked out on the docks of the lower west side of Manhatten .

Suddenly they came to gather.Flying out of their doors, pennies in their hand like starlings frightened by a summer storm, women in black sweaters worn lightly over their shoulders . There was a sudden wave of bobbing heads surrounding the old, red truck:,kerchiefs and curlers ,white hair in buns held tight with a crochet hook or knitting needle ,faces new just beginning, faces old near their end. Each bargained in her own dialect. The American women let their hands speak.

At this gathering at the well a special language was spoken and somehow all these women understood each other as they caught up with the news—and scandals—of the neighborhood.. No man dare break this holy covenant. Only children could enter.Cars waited patiently to pass until the gathering ended. Then , as if by some silent signal,the women suddenly broke the circle to fly quickly back to their nest

a short story: part II

Mr. Cappolla’s Horse: Part II:

It was a hot summer day in late August. Just when the “starlings” broke their circle, the horse bolted, broke away from the truck, and foaming at the mouth headed down the street. Suddenly, he stopped in front of the Marino house, where the two Marino boys were sitting high on the stoop throwing spit balls. The horse climbed the stairs two by two snorting fire, and the two boys jumped into the alley way screaming to the back door. The horse followed. Suddenly, the horse was seen coming out the opposite alley with old Mrs. Marino in hot pursuit, waving her tomato stained white apron, and shouting Neapolitan curses that would make a sailor blush. Mamma put her hands over my ears as we watched from across the street. We had all taken high ground on our stoops.

Mrs. Marino followed that poor animal into the middle of the street screaming in a crying voice. She was protecting “her own.” Actually. Mrs. Marino who was about 82 had made that run around her house many times. It seems that Mr. Marino, who was near 90, would get the “urge’, from time to time, and like the horse old lady Marino bolted out the back kitchen door with Mr. Marino shouting “words of love,” loud enough to wake the dead. Mamma covered my ears again. By the way, he never caught her.

Later that evening they found Mr. Cappolla’s horse lying on the trolley track under the El on Westchester Avenue. He had broken his leg. They shot him. Someone said the horse was crying. I couldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t know that horses cried too.