An Anonymous Letter from your Neighbors

When I walked into the building, I could have sworn they had been speaking English--but quickly switched to Italian.  Three "women of an age" stood in what passed for the lobby of my new building, sizing me up. I passed them on my way upstairs and singsonged "Hello!" in passing, like I did every day.  Silence.  As soon as I reached the second landing they resumed their conversation.

​I had been warned that it may be difficult to make friends in the building. I was young, pretty, not Italian, and most importantly, not married. I lived alone and had no friends in New York except Georgia, the busybody older actress who had helped me get the apartment.

Next day, when I came down the stairs en route to one of several survival jobs, the three women were standing in the same place. "Good morning!" No response. They watched me pass then dispersed, smirking.

​The short one with the frizzy hair stayed behind.  "'Ey!" she called after me. I turned around. Her friends were gone. "'Ey, listen to me. Listen. Watch your back. You know what I'm sayin'?" 

I didn't. I'd honestly never heard the expression.

​"Watch my--back?"

​"Watch your back", she nodded. "You hear what I'm tellin' ya?"

​"Yes. O.K. Thanks", I said. It seemed like the correct response. She nodded again and went upstairs.

​On the first of every month, the tenants of all the buildings owned by the Stabile family brought their rent payments in person to the Banca Stabile on the corner of Grand and Mulberry.  It had been a working bank, I guessed from the 1930's-era wooden teller windows and deco vault, but as a rental office used once a month, now gathered dust.

​The Stabiles, my landlords, preferred rent be paid in cash. The few times I had shyly slipped a check through the mail slot, I was told my check had been lost and I should come in and pay in person. I knew that meant cash. I counted my bills and knocked on the window of Banca Stabile.

Mrs. Stabile sat in the back at a huge wooden desk, in the semi-dark. She was in her early eighties, small, and fierce. Paying my rent was, for me, scarier than a trip to the principal's office. "Siddown", she said. I did. "You like livin' in this neighborhood?"

​"Sure", I lied.  My mother had always told me that my open face would betray me.

"You like the building? You like your apartment? No complaints?"

​I was paying $225 a month to live in Manhattan, and could barely afford it.  I was completely on my own.  I had to hang on to my apartment. 

​"Of course I do, Mrs. Stabile! I'm very grateful to --"

​"I was just makin' sure. So.  I want to read you something. An anonymous letter from your neighbors."  She pulled a piece of lined paper from an envelope. The writing was in pencil. She put on her specs and read it aloud:  I was a whore, I was a deadbeat, I was stuck up and dirty and drunk, and I was probably diseased from the countless men coming and going from my apartment all hours of the day and night. 

​Gobsmacked is the word.  "Mrs. Stabile", I stammered, "I haven't even had a DATE in years!"

​"I believe you, honey", she chuckled. "I just wanted you to know what they're saying about you behind your back."

​My back?  Watch my BACK!  The bare lightbulb in my tenement kitchen lit right up.

​Later, I asked Georgia the names of the three women in the lobby.  "Anna, Carmela, and Angelina", she said. "Anna lives above you--don't mess with her, she's mean. Carmela is the short one. I like her, she's OK.  And Angelina is the one with the eye makeup and the crazy red hair.  She goes back to Sicily every year for three months, some people say to collect money from her bordellos. She's a madame. Businesswoman. Why?"

I didn't tell her why.  

​Thirty years later,  I'm one of the "women of an age" in the building. No longer young, often unemployed, still single, I continue to relentlessly chirp "Good morning" to people on the stairs. Most are pretty, unmarried, non-Italian, young women. Most do not respond. 

Carmela moved away, probably to Jersey.  Anna still lives above me, and that's yet another story.  Angelina, the businesswoman, got too old for the stairs and spent most of the rest of her life confined to her apartment.  Mr. and Mrs. Stabile died and their grandchildren sold the buildings. The beautiful Banca Stabile is now "The Italian-American Museum", such as it is.

​Not long ago, I was coming back home from an audition when I saw paramedics hauling a shrunken Angelina down the stairs. Her hair was white and her eyes unkohled. Nobody was with her--no friends or family, nobody.  In all our years as neighbors we had never had a conversation. She seemed distressed, confused. "Angelina, what's wrong?" She grabbed my hand and held on.  "I'm no good.  I'm no feel good.  They takin' me now, Bella.  They takin' me." She kissed my hand again and again. "I love you, Bella. Ciao! Ciao, Bella. I love you. I love you."

I watched them put her in the ambulance, and waved goodbye.

​