Doña Carmen Dreams of San Vito

It won’t be long now before I meet my Maker. Still, I’m happy to look at the candle flickering on my night table. My daughters think I lit it for Saint Lazarus, but they don’t know my secret— I burn it for my congressman Vito Marcantonio, my San Vito. No one, not even my husband, Santos—a good man who died too young — helped me the way Vito did. After Santos died, the Parks Department tried to deny me Santos’ pension. Vito cut through the red tape and made sure I got it. And when I couldn’t pay the rent, and the marshals put my furniture on the sidewalk, Vito came with men to put my furniture back, and organized a rent party so I had money to give the landlord. And how many times did Vito reach into his own pockets so my kids could have a bite to eat? Most of all, I thank him for saving my son, Carlito, when Italians threatened to kill him for raping one of their sisters. The truth is, this “sister” had a crush on Carlito! With Vito’s help, we smuggled my son on a plane wearing a woman’s wig so he could hide out in Puerto Rico until Vito straightened things out in New York. If there was any justice in this world, San Vito would have worn the cardinal’s robes and not that hypocrite Spellman.