Crazy Ange

I remember the night little Annie disappeared.  It was one of those hot summer nights when everyone was outside.  Old ladies in black dresses sat on their front porches speaking in Italian about who was sick or who died or who had a baby.  The men sat on the porch steps in white T-shirts, smoking cigarettes and talking about work or baseball.  The children were everywhere, running from yard to yard, playing in the street, running up and down stairs. On those nights I often walked down Magnie Street to Fanetti’s to buy spumoni.  On the way there I would walk by Angelo’s house. 

Angelo, the kids called him Crazy Ange, was always in his front yard, which was fenced-in.  He used to lean on the fence wearing a white T-shirt and baggy pants pulled up high nearly to his chest.  He was in his early twenties but his mother still helped him dress.  She would slick his hair down with Vaseline but stubborn cowlicks would rise in defiance.  Moisture clung thickly to his lower lip that hung down to the middle of his chin.  Mean little children would run by clattering sticks along the fence and yell, “Crazy Ange!” 

Angelo would respond by shaking his hands and tonguing these strange sounds, “ali, ali, ali…” trying to speak with this big wet smile that made his lip plunge even further.  His father would storm out of the house hollering at the children in Italian.  The kids ran away down the street and disappeared between the houses.  But Angelo seemed to enjoy the attention; he ran to the other end of the yard with his wide waddle-like gallop, mimicking the children’s escape.  Sometimes Angelo would try to follow them, but his father would catch him before he went too far.

   I was sitting on the curb in front of Fanetti’s, eating my spumoni when I began hearing the calls for Annie.  At first it was Annie’s mother, Mrs. Testa.  Soon relatives and neighbors echoed the calls for Annie, some near and some farther away, up and down the street, in and around the houses and backyards.   Annie was 5 years old, she had been playing in her yard where, owing to her fragile years, she was sworn to remain.  But the general thought was that with all the children running in and out of the yards, Annie might have taken up with them; caught up in the hot excitement of the evening.

It was getting dark and the calls for Annie increased.  The streetlights came on; the children retreated to their homes.  Mrs. Testa was frantic.  Mr. Testa, always sober and deliberate, had taken off walking down the street with a deliberate step like he knew exactly where Annie was, but he didn’t, it was just his way. 

Mr. Testa walked by Angelo’s house, stopped for a moment and called out to Angelo’s father.  “Mr. Vitalone!”  Mr. Testa didn’t like Mr. Vitalone very much, he was Sicilian, and Testa was Neapolitan.  To Mr. Testa, all Sicilians were criminals; “cutthroats” is how he referred to them.  And he was convinced that Angelo’s condition was the result of some sin his father had committed.  Mr. Vitalone emerged from his front door and stood on the porch.

“I am looking for my daughter Annie,” Testa said, speaking Italian.

“ I hear people calling for her, I haven’t seen her,” Vitalone replied.

“Where is Angelo?”  Testa asked.

Vitalone bristled; he knew what people thought of Angelo.  Angelo was different, he wasn’t like everyone else, and they were afraid.  These foolish Neapolitans were afraid and superstitious; they were peasants.  “Why?”

Testa shrugged and walked on.  Both men knew why he asked about Angelo. Vitalone’s feelings were valid, the people were uneasy about Angelo.  He was an adult now, a large man, with the mind of a five year-old.  He was different, and the neighbors were vigilant and mistrustful. 

Mr. Vitalone turned and walked back into the house, he called for Angelo.  When Angelo didn’t come he checked his bedroom, then he looked in the backyard.  Angelo wasn’t there.  Angelo sometimes walked out of the yard but he would never go far. Although he may have followed some children, his father thought.

 Mr. Vitalone went out to look for Angelo.  He was hesitant to call Angelo’s name, the coincidence with the little girl missing might cause a panic.  If the people panic and find Angelo, God knows what they might do.  It was getting dark and Angelo would be scared.  He could never find his way home in the dark.  Mr. Vitalone was not predisposed to panic, as he possessed a stoicism that did not lend itself to such excess of emotion.  But there was a strange tightness in his stomach, and his breathing revealed a slight nervous tremble as he searched the darkened backyards and empty lots.  

After a while a dim streetlight revealed a shadowy figure moving toward him.  He recognized the wide, unsteady gait as Angelo’s.  He heard him crying.  The trembling in his throat eased, and Mr. Vitalone rushed to meet his son. 

Suddenly Vitalone was startled as a small figure emerged from the shadows behind Angelo.  “Angelo was lost, I helped him.”  A little voice said.

Mr. Vitalone picked Annie up and kissed her forehead.  He held her for a moment with closed eyes.  Mr. Vitalone and Annie brought Angelo home then proceeded to the Testa home.  The Testa family was spent from their ordeal; panic had given way to despair.  But with Annie home safe they broke into tears, and with embraces and toasts of anisette they heralded Mr. Vitalone as their hero.

“No,” Mr. Vitalone confessed, “I think Annie is the hero.”

Annie was admonished for leaving the yard that night, though not too severely.   It was never revealed why she was wandering those backyards and empty lots that hot summer night.  But from then on Vitalone and Testa formed a new, though delicate, respect for each other.