Italiano Song
Part Two
By Missy

SERIES: Italiano Song
PART: 2 of 6
RATING: PG (Adult thematic material)
PAIRING(s): L/L; S/C; F/E; some Shirley/Anthony DeFazio
DISTRIBUTION: To LW, Kai, Myself and FG so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine. Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"

Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!
CATEGORY: Romance
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SETTING IN TIMELINE: During "Festival," after part one and just before part two; some alternate material from the established canon for the episodes.
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: What if Laverne's grandmother had taken a shine to Lenny instead of Squiggy during "The Festival"?
NOTES: Basically follows the events and timeline of "The Festival," though using some alternate material.

****

"...And the lady loses again!"

Laverne sucked on her lower lip, anger temporarily marring her features. Her mouth hardened into a flat, pink line as she mentally ran over her finances. Bless her impulsive nature; it won the day, of course.

"Three more balls." She pulled open her purse, pushing through packages of tissue and unspent raffle tickets to find a crisp knot of dollars hidden beneath her mimeographed painting of the Virgin of the Forrest. Laverne slapped her money onto the counter decisively, and the overworked owner of the booth spared her a wary, exhausted grimace before retrieving his wares from an old milk crate. She easily caught each ball as it rolled to her hands in a flurry of worn-out yellow fuzz; their weight felt right and just heavy enough in her palm. Laverne laid her handbag upon the white, flimsy counter, and prepped her pitching arm, eyes lit with determination. Concentrating, she tried to remember being three, when sinking a rubber ball through the middle of a toilet seat was the easiest thing in the world.

Her first throw went wide, striking the ground with a force that echoed in the chatty streets, engineering catcalls and mocking shouts from her former neighbors. Through the suddenly blistering sunlight she could make out their faces, peering from windows, passing by the booths, all of them finding something funny about her sudden inability to throw a ball. Gritting her teeth, Laverne placed a little more English on her second try...and the ball careened off the rim of one of the seats, bouncing sharply against the back of the neck of the booth's vendor. He turned to stare her down, holding his sore neck.

"Aww geez, I'm sorry!" She apologized with sincerity.

"Out! Out of my booth!" He tossed two dollars in her general direction, and she watched them flutter forlornly to the counter before her.

"But I got a toss left!"

"I don't care! Go!"

Laverne was in no mood to argue with the man; besides, she was pretty sure that balloon vendor from the night before was still looking for her, and making too much of a fuss might bring her unwanted attention. "FINE!" she growled, scraping her money off of the counter and spinning around on her heel. Those who had crowded around to watch her pitch knew from experience that an angry Laverne was not a pleasant Laverne, and gave her a wide berth as she stomped up the street. The young DeFazio barely noticed, her anger a consuming passion when directed at no solid target.

Geez, it wasn't like she meant to hit the guy! So what if her aim stank? Laverne had never claimed to be a pitcher - she was a batter and a runner, and she didn't need everyone she had known from infancy on up to tell her that. But being given the Bronx cheer by her old friends was par for the course of what was developing into a truly lousy day. She scowled as dark clouds began to roll in overhead, obscuring the sun and making the mid-day light milky. Even Mother Nature was pooping on her party.

All of the fun Laverne had enjoyed the day before had evaporated last night, when her father had announced his determination to climb the greased pole at the end of the festival Sunday. Visions of Frank falling to the ground clutching his back, of her spending the rest of her life pushing him around in a wheelchair, were lodged behind her eyes. She had tried to talk him out of it over breakfast that morning, using the most practical of her arguments- he had a bad back from the war, he was almost fifty-five, he would only worry Edna and Grandma if he tried such a stunt - but all fell on deaf ears. He knew his physical limitations, but when it came to his mother he lived only to impress her.

Well, what about me? Laverne wondered. Her father seemed completely oblivious to his daughter's concearn, as though it weren't her responsibility to watch out for his safety. She considered going over his head and asking her Grandma to discourage him. But Laverne knew that the older woman was inflexible and that if she tried to have a serious conversation with her, the point would be buried in effusive praise or obscured by an Italian language pop quiz. Laverne recognized this weakness in herself, but felt ill-equipped to argue with a woman she so revered. Such debates belonged in the sensitive and delicate hands of women like Shirley.

Not that Shirley was very good at being a delicate, sensitive woman nowadays, Laverne thought tartly. At that very moment, her best friend was staring avidly at some lost treasure at the Met, on the arm of Laverne's cousin Anthony. Laverne smiled to herself at the memory of the slightly panicked look on Anthony's handsome face as Shirley excitedly dragged him into town that morning. The poor boy knew nothing about art at all and he clearly worried about finding himself somehow outclassed intellectually by Shirley. He probably didn't have to worry; Laverne felt that Shirley wasn't very interested in Monet and DaVinci at the moment. More likely, she was trying to squeeze in a few more minutes of flirtation before she explained to Anthony about Carmine. Sooner would be better than later in that case - the "Big Ragoo" had called twice during breakfast, and Miss Feeney had been so preoccupied with fluttering her lashes at Anthony that Laverne had been forced to lie and say that Shirley was 'indisposed'. She had taken a bit of joy in elaborating during his second call that that meant 'in the bathroom'. Despite her offered jocularity, Carmine's voice held a querulous tone of jealousy that made Laverne feel uneasy, as though things were already getting out of hand.

With that thought, Laverne felt a swath of guilt wash over her at her own bitterness. Shirley deserved to have a little fun outside of her relationship with Carmine - as he had done so himself with women like Lucille Lockwash in the past. This vacation would have simply been Shirley's turn to explore other options - if only Carmine hadn't suddenly decided to become the protective boyfriend. At least Shirley wasn't flaunting her attraction to Anthony in Carmine's face, as he had done to her with Lucille and a few other girls. And Shirley, Laverne noticed with wry disaffection, wasn't taking payment for occupying Anthony's Wednesday afternoon.

Laverne realized, deep down, that her piquant feelings in regard to Shirley's relationship with Anthony had little to do with Carmine's feelings and more to do with her own lack of date material. Somehow it was fitting that, even a hundred miles from home, she drew the attention of only the most unsavory types.

It was bad enough that all of the eligible boys in the neighborhood were married and cheating or married and religious or promised to the priesthood - worse, her cousins refused to introduce her to their local, single buddies in a show of protectiveness. After the fireworks the night previous she had lucked into meeting a handsome sailor with dark hair and green eyes -he bought her a hot dog and a soda, and they'd walked toward the ferris wheel at the end of the block. She had tried to discover his name, but had settled for a little necking under a street lamp on San Angelo Boulevard instead. He had been in the middle of asking her to come home to his place when she noticed the dull gleam of a gold band hanging on a chain around his neck. He explained he was engaged - to a girl working in the Peace Corps - and she understood that men had needs. Laverne's palm, unfortunately, was the least-understanding part of her body, and she sincerely hoped that his cheek still smarted.

Just as she reached the block where her grandmother's building loomed, the sky opened up in a sudden downpour. The streets ran with water, hydrating the pavement and the few trees springing up from the concrete and bringing an early end to the day's festivities. Laverne pushed her way through the retreating crowd, finding the steps as thunder rumbled through the air. With a muttered 'aww, geez,' she pulled her cardigan over her head, shielding her hair from the suddenly pounding storm.

The vestibule of her Grandmother's building was dry and still quite warm from the day's sunshine - helpfully, it was also deserted. In the four minutes it took for Laverne to stuff her money back into her purse and strip off her sopping cardigan, Shirley barreled through the heavy double doors, turning quickly and waving at a shadowed, huddled figure taking shelter beneath the flap of a white tent out on the street.

"Bye, Anthony! Have a good day!" She followed him up the street with her eyes, then leaned back against the door, running her fingers through her soaking wet pixie cut, a fatigued and yet rapturous look in her eyes.

Laverne studied Shirley for a minute - her ladylike best friend sported a bright pink sundress, speckled with a white swiss dot pattern, a tiny white purse emblazoned with a large pink fabric flower, and open-toed white sandals. While her appearance was one of a cultured and delicate young woman, Laverne also noted the bright sparkle in her eyes - a definite, marked difference between Shirley's usual shy reservation and a woman just beginning to find her own power.

"Have fun?" Laverne teased.

"Oh yes, yes..." Shirley murmured, her voice vague and dreamy.

"Shirl, I though you were lettin' Anthony down easy!"

"I am! I did! I don't know!" Shirley began to blubber. "I started to tell him about Carmine on the way back from the museum, but then he told me I was as beautiful as a Bottacelli! So I kissed him on the cheek to thank him, and then..."

"He went for the gums." Laverne stated, trying to keep humor from her voice.

"What am I going to do? If Carmine finds out, he'll kill Anthony!"

"Anthony can take care of himself," Laverne shrugged. "He used to box, too."

Shirley sniffled, and Laverne wrapped her arms around the tiny brunette's shoulders. "It ain't that bad, Shirl. I won't tell Carmine, and I talked Lenny into giving me the film with that picture of you two kissing on it, so if he tries to say anything there's no proof."

"You did?! That's so nice!" The word 'nice' caught in Shirley's throat and was lost in a hiccup.

"You're my best friend, Shirl; there ain't much I won't do for you."

Shirley rested her head against Laverne's shoulder for a moment.

"If you want, I'll even tell Anthony you got a boyfriend. If I ain't allowed to have fun, neither is he."

"No, Laverne. I'm the one who initiated things with Anthony, and it's my responsibility to let him go. Don't worry; I have the poise, grace and dignity to maintain a platonic social relationship between us."

"He makes ya think of Carmine, doesn't he?"

"Right down to his yummy chest."

The two girls climbed to Mrs. DeFazio's apartment in silence, dripping water up the stairwells as they went. A mouth-watering odor wafted down the final set of steps, perking up their end of the journey.

"My grandma's making wedding soup!" Laverne called enthusiastically down to the landing, where Shirley - who had given up on trying to ascend in her tractionless, wet sandals and was in the middle of pulling them off- stood. "Come on, you're gonna love it!" Laverne broke into a run, pushing open her grandmother's unlocked door...

...to find Mrs. DeFazio and Lenny, watching each other with scrutiny over a hand of playing cards.

"Gin!" Called Mrs. Defazio, her tone merry.

Lenny pouted, dropping his hand onto the table. "Shoot! Ya beat me again!" He gathered the scattered jacks and queens and began to deal them. "Double 're nothing!"

"Very good. But I warn you, Leonardo; my tutor was the great gambling master Stavros Aachimer! And who was your tutor?"

"Squiggy!"

"Ante up, child."

"GRANDMA," Laverne shouted.

The older woman looked up from her cards, clearly startled. "Bambina! When did you come in?"

"I've been standin' here for two minutes!" The door opened behind her, admitting Shirley, who passed her in one unbroken stride. "Shirl, ain't I been standin' here for two minutes?"

"Hello, Mrs. DeFazio," Shirley waved as she headed to the spare bedroom, ignoring Laverne's complaints. "Excuse me, I need to change; I'm afraid I'm soaked through."

Lenny bit his palm.

"Leonardo, are you well?"

"Yeah, Mrs. DeFazio. I just do that when I like something."

"Yeah, LIKE something," Laverne retorted shortly, her tone making Lenny shrink in his seat. "Grandma, do you want me to start dinner?"

"Not yet; there are things I need from the grocer. Are you hungry?" Laverne nodded. "Poor bambina; change your sweater and take some soup."

Laverne strolled into the kitchen - audible over the sound of cards being dealt was the sound of her sweater sliding down the laundry chute. After a moment of silence, she whined, "the soup's gone!"

"What? I made enough for six people!" She smiled and winked at Lenny. "Leonardo and I must have finished the entire pot! He has such a healthy appetite!"

Laverne slammed her way into the sitting room; her eyes fixed on Lenny. He cowered before bravely holding out his still-wrapped meal and saying, "you want some of my sandwich, Laverne?"

"Is it something disgusting?"

He shook his head. "Sausage."

She peered at him curiously before gingerly taking it. Carefully, she unclasped the wax paper, then took a tiny bite...which became a large bite. "This' real good!"

"Bambina! Chew with your mouth closed."

"Sorry, Grandma."

Lenny turned back to their card game. "Got any twelve's?" Mrs. DeFazio set the cards before him. "A full house?!"

Mrs. DeFazio scooped the cards up and began to pack them back into their cardboard home as Lenny whined his protest. "Now, I start dinner! Laverne, would you mind going to the market for me?"

Laverne gulped down the rest of the sandwich enthusiastically. "Course not."

"Would you take Leonardo with you?"

"Len! Are you botherin' my grandma?"

"Not at all!" Mrs. DeFazio retorted, before Lenny could defend himself.

"Then why do ya want me to take him with me?"

Laverne's grandmother seized Lenny's hands, almost pulling him across the table. "These hands are big and strong! See how they might help you carry large bags?"

Laverne released an aggravated sigh. "Whattya need?"

"A dozen zucchinis, two dozen tomatoes, and a wedge of parm."

"Gee, I ain't weak, Grandma! I can get that for ya alone!"

"Laverne, may I see you in the kitchen?"

The granddaughter followed her grandmother's doddering progress to privacy. Once they were alone, Laverne noted the shrewd expression on the older woman's face and understood herself in trouble.

"Uh...belle notta, grandma?"

"Speaking Italian won't help you this time, Bambina."

Laverne's stance shriveled a bit as she asked, "whatt'd I do wrong?"

"Do not think I have no trust in you, child. But if I let you go to the market alone, you would not come back until past dinner...and probably with a hickey on your neck."

Horror streaked Laverne's features. "Grandma!"

"Do not think me an old fool, Laverne."

"I didn't..."

"Do not think that I cannot hear what our neighbors say when you aren't here! Do you want your father to know that you spent last night necking with Paulo Feccunucci, a married man? The whole neighborhood talks already! You may behave any way you wish in your Milwaukee, but in my New York you have a family's reputation to live up to!"

Laverne's eyes bugged out, and she couldn't stop herself from gasping. For all of the aggression her Grandmother had just shown, her next sentence was simultaneously tentative and reproachful.

"Bella Laverne," she sighed, stroking Laverne's cheekbone. "You must be careful with your love. These boys, they are beautiful in the face, but rotten at the heart."

"I try to be," Laverne noted, her tone wounded and breathless. "But I never know which ones are rotten unless I try -" her cheeks flamed, and she spun from her Grandmother's touch and turned toward the range. "That's a pound of tomatoes, right?"

She understood, but did not add to Laverne's humiliation with further questions. "You will hurry back from the market, no?"

"Uh-huh," she turned to kiss her Grandma's cheek, then began to move toward the door. Suddenly, she paused and turned to face the older woman one more. "Grandma...what I did with Squiggy didn't fool ya, did he?"

"Not for one second."

"Who told on me?" she pouted.

"An honorable, kind, wise man...with large hands."

Laverne's pout became a frown as she shoved through the kitchen door. In an instant, her eyes were locked upon Lenny and she knew all.

"You ready?" Lenny smiled.

"I'm gonna kill you," she hissed in return.

He kept a noticeable distance from her throughout their long, rainy walk to the Mulberry Street market.

To Part 1
To Part 3