From the Publisher
"The details are just right, and the result is a portrait of a time and a place and a state of mind that has few equals." —Boston Globe
"A poignant look at a life with roots, and how sometimes you have to leave those roots. . . . Merullo has created characters that seem almost too real to be imagined. . . . The telling of their stories is as fresh and real as people from your own childhood.” –The Philadelphia Inquirer
“Merullo has a knack for rendering emotional complexities, paradoxes or impasses in a mere turn of the phrase.” —Chicago Tribune
“What makes In Revere, In Those Days stand out from most other contemporary novels is its graceful prose, its deep and decent characters, and its quiet insistence upon the fundamental dignity of humanity.” —Seattle Times
“In his willowy-tough style, Merullo creates characters as familiar as the man at the corner store, as breathtaking as a winner at the track.” —Boston Magazine
"[This] novel is so true that it has the authenticity of a memoir. It will, I think, be compared—and favorably—to A Separate Peace…. I can't remember the last time I was moved to tears by a novel in the way that I was, at several junctures, with In Revere, In Those Days. It is an extraordinary achievement." —Anita Shreve, author of The Pilot's Wife and The Weight of Water
"Beautiful and shapely.…The rhythm of the chapters beguile.…The sacrament of Italian American family lives in the heart of the words, displayed with perfect clarity and utter humanity.…A pleasure to read, and to read again." —Booklist (starred review)
"A beautiful storytold with the compelling voice of a writer who is willing to approach the enormous question of redemption, and does so with truthfulness and striking decency." —Elizabeth Strout, author of Amy and Isabelle
"Emotionally complex, politically intelligent, beautifully written: Among the best from a novelist in the classic American tradition." —Kirkus (starred review)
"The gifted Merullo tells Anthony's bittersweet coming-of-age story with crafty narrative and a beautifully vivid depiction of the time and place.…Highly recommended." —Library Journal (starred review)
The Barnes & Noble Review
Reminiscent of John Fante's Wait Until Spring, Bandini and William Goldman's The Temple of Gold, Robert Merullo's third novel is the story of a young man's journey through adolescence as he's swept up by tragedy, the overpowering love of his extended family, and his own acute intelligence.
Middle-aged Anthony Benedetto is the narrator who recounts his youth in the coastal town of Revere, Massachusetts, during the early 1960s. Born into a large Italian-American family, "Tonio" grows up amid loving parents and grandparents, as well as a host of eccentric kin. Although their existence is tinged with the travails and melancholy of the "common" life, they are affectionate and hopeful people.
But when Tonio's father and pregnant mother die in a plane crash, the family is thrown into turmoil. Tonio's uncle Peter, a large and powerful man with a weakness for gambling, becomes a paternal figure who's as much a guide through life as an example of what not to become. Tonio's teenage cousin Rosalie, whom he dreams of marrying, soon becomes embittered and filled with self-loathing. As the decade becomes increasingly chaotic she begins a spiraling descent into drugs and abusive relationships despite Tonio's efforts to save her.
In Revere, in Those Days is a moving and poignant novel that reads with the authenticity of autobiography. The depth of Merullo's sentimentality is skillfully realized through a fully developed, ripened narrative voice. Even when detailing sorrow and anguish, the author sidesteps cynicism to give us a compassionate, insightful view of the beauty in the world at large. This is a masterpiece of loss and virtue that will touch you to the core.
When 11-year-old Anthony Benedetto's parents die in an airplane crash, he is saved by the loving presence of his extended Italian family in this gracefully written coming-of-age novel. Set in the 1960s and moving from Anthony's parents' death through his experiences at an elite prep school, the novel is structured as a memoir and reads like one: long on nostalgia, short on dramatic conflict or credibility. Anthony's transition from smart but damaged kid to successful student at Exeter is too smooth to be compellingly real. Many scenes are predictable, such as when Anthony loses his virginity to an older, caring woman, but the portraits of his relatives and the Boston suburb of Revere are palpably full of life. Anthony's courtly grandparents are painfully aware of the culture they left behind in Italy; Uncle Peter, a boxer lacking the ferocity to be a champion or mob "muscle," is richly drawn. And Anthony's cousin Rosalie is a troubled and ultimately tragic figure who deserves a book of her own. Merullo (Revere Beach Boulevard) is a talented writer with a fine, lyrical ear, and the book is rife with acute observations and powerful (if familiar) themes: loss, recovery, community. Ultimately, the narrative is limited by the elegiac tone; Merullo is content to bask in the glow of nostalgia instead of stoking his imagination into flame. National advertising, New England author tour. (Sept. 17) Forecast: Merullo's previous novels garnered critical praise; his latest will appeal to devotees of memoir and to readers interested in the Italian-American experience. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Roland Merulla's coming-of-age novel has an authenticity that sings from every page, from its vivid description of the working class town of Revere, Massachusetts in the '60s to its portrayal of growing up Italian-American, without the cliches but with all the flavor. Anthony Benedetto is orphaned at age 11 and is raised by his extended family, with significant members, including his grandparents, his Uncle Peter, and his cousin Rosalie, shaping his life and personality. While some plot twists are predictable, they are told in an authentic voice. There are many similarities between the main character and the author, both of whom attended Phillips Exeter Academy and Brown University, and I found that added, rather than distracted, from the story. YA readers will enjoy the idea that a person can rise above his circumstances but still appreciate them. KLIATT Codes: SA-Recommended for senior high school students, advanced students, and adults. 2002, Random House, Vintage Contemporaries, 302p., Ages 15 to adult.
In the Italian American enclave outside of Boston known as Revere, MA, Anthony Benedetto experiences the joy and heartbreak of growing up in the late 1960s with a colorful extended family. Raised by his grandparents after his parents' tragic deaths in a plane crash, the sensitive Anthony learns of the immigrant past of his ghettoized (self-imposed and otherwise) forebears, as he and America are propelled full-throttle into the second half of the 20th century. The gifted Merullo (Revere Beach Boulevard) tells Anthony's bittersweet coming-of-age story with crafty narrative and a beautifully vivid depiction of the time and place. Merullo, like his character, graduated from Exeter and Brown University. At the novel's close, Tonio is set to go off to college in Providence, so we don't know whether he will find the success in adult life that Merullo has found as a novelist and writer for Newsweek and the Boston Globe. But one could place bets on it. Highly recommended for most fiction collections.-David Nudo, New York
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-This '60s and '70s coming-of-age story centers on Anthony Benedetto, who grew up in Revere, a working-class, Italian-American suburb of Boston with a gritty edge. When Tony is orphaned at 10, his family embraces him in a warmth that sometimes weighs heavy. Raised by his grandparents, with his Uncle Pete always at hand, the boy becomes the dutiful son, a superachiever, and a promising artist. As children, Tony and Rosie, Pete's daughter, are inseparable, but when her mother deserts her family, the girl drifts away from Tony, despite his unfailing devotion. Encouraged by Grandpa Dom, supported by Uncle Pete's big win at the racetrack, and with help from his parish priest, Tony gets a scholarship to Exeter. But Rosie is irresistibly drawn into an affair with a budding mobster, and slides into a world of brutality, drugs, and crime. Anthony's adjustment at school is eased by his close friendship with his roommate, who is from the L.A. inner city, and by his skill at ice hockey, which earns him a place on the varsity team. His affair with an older widow briefly consumes him, but graduation culminates in a celebratory street party in Revere, marred only by Grandpa Dom's recent death and Rosie's deliberate absence. Beautifully written, both as omniscient remembrance and in the first person, with visual imagery and dialogue that bring readers from laughter to a lump in the throat, the author's skillful rendering of time, place, ethnic identity, and dialogue evokes Chaim Potok's work.-Molly Connally, Chantilly Regional Library, VA
Read an Excerpt
The story does not take place here in Vermont, but in a small city called Revere, Massachusetts, which lies against the coastline just north of Boston. Three miles by two miles, with a salt marsh along its northern edge and low hills rising like welts in an irregular pattern across its middle, Revere must seem to the outside eye like an uninspiring place. The houses stand very close to each other and close to the street plain, wood-frame houses with chain-link fences or low brick walls surrounding front yards you can walk across in six steps. These days the city has a crowded, urban feeling to it: sirens in the air, lines of automobiles and trucks at the stoplights and intersections, thin streams of weeds in the tar gutters.
But forty years ago, Revere was a different place. There were amusements and food stands along its curve of sandy beach, making it a sort of slightly less famous Coney Island. And there were still some open lots pocking the narrow streets, blushes of wildness on the tame city skin. Not far from where I lived, a mile west of the beach, was a large tract of undeveloped land we called "the Farms," though nothing had been cultivated there since before the Korean War. For my friends and me, for city kids like us, the Farms was a landscape from a childhood fable: pastures, boulders, half-acre ponds, fallow fields where we turned over stones and planks and pieces of corrugated metal and reached down quick and sure as hunters to take hold of dozing snakes brown, green, black. The snakes would slither and writhe along our bare wrists, and snap their toothless gums against the sides of our fingers, and end up imprisoned in mayonnaise jars with holes banged into the metal tops. We carried them home like bounty from a war with the wilderness, and sold them to younger boys for ten or fifteen cents apiece.
The automobile had not yet quite been elevated to the position of worship it now holds. The streets were freer and quieter. Hidden behind the shingled, painted houses were backyards in the European style, with vegetable gardens given preference over lawns, with fruit trees and grape arbors, and ceramic saints standing watch over a few square feet of flower bed.
Revere is a thoroughly modern place now, a corner of blue-collar America with chain stores and strip malls and yellow buses lined up in front of flat-roofed schools. A hundred new homes have been squeezed onto the Farms, streets cut there, sewer and electric lines brought in. But in some way I have never really understood, the city had a mysterious quality to it in those days, as if it lay outside time, beyond the range of vision of the contemporary American eye. Provincial is a word you might have used to describe it. But provincial means that a community believes itself to be living at the center of the universe, that it refuses to make an idol of the metropolis. Revere was provincial then, in that way. And, I suppose, proud of it.
Even in the days when Jupiter Street was quiet enough for nine uninterrupted innings of a local game called blockball, even then there was an underside to the life we believed we were living. The collection of bad characters known as the underworld, or the mafia, or the mob, had a number of nests in Revere. These people, in my experience, in the experience of almost everyone in the city, had little in common with the fantasy underworld you see these days on movie and television screens. For most of us, the face of the mafia was found in nothing more terrifying than a coterie of local bookmakers' neighbors, family friends, the guy beside you in the pew at nine o'clock Mass men who made their living from the yearning of their neighbors toward some higher, softer life. In this way perhaps they were not so different from modern-day suburban portfolio managers.
The people in our neighborhood did not have executive jobs, did not commute into the city in suits and nice dresses, reading neatly folded copies of the Wall Street Journal, did not have parents and grandparents who had gone to college, and, with one or two exceptions, did not go to college themselves. They rode the subway into offices and warehouses in Boston, or drove their five-year-old Chevies to the factories in Lynn where my father worked, in fact and spent their lives in bland cubicles or hot, loud workrooms, performing the same few tasks again and again as their youth dribbled away. On Fridays they took a dollar from their pay envelope, walked down to the butcher shop on Park Avenue, and had a quiet conversation there with a man we called "Zingy." Zingy would take the money, record the lucky number a wife's birthday, a father's license plate then sell his loyal customer half a pound of mortadella and a package of Lucky Strikes. And the workingman would go home to his cluttered life in his drafty house and fall asleep clutching a tendril of a dream that he might "hit," that "the number" would come in for him and his family that one time, and then all the world's harsher edges would be rubbed smooth.
Of course, in Revere and elsewhere, one of the things that has changed in the last forty years is that the government has taken over Zingy's job. Now people walk down to a corner store and print out their lucky number on a blue-edged lottery form, and carry away the receipt (something that, after certain highly publicized arrests, Zingy stopped offering). But they go to sleep holding tight to the same dream. Only now, a portion of the profits goes to the state, to be spent by bureaucrats and politicians, whereas in earlier times the money went from the bookies upward or, more accurately, downward”to a handful of violent, sly men in smoky private clubs, to be spent on jewelry for their girlfriends and vacations in Las Vegas.
The bookmakers were the mob's menial laborers, though, and didn't have exotic girlfriends or take exotic trips. Without exception, the ones I knew were affable, modest men who had stumbled into their profession by accident, or taken it up as a second job, the way someone else might put in a few hours delivering lost airport luggage or standing the night watch at an office building. But they were part of the fabric of Revere, too.
Occasionally, the uglier side of that fabric was turned to the light. In the 1960s there was a turf war going on in Greater Boston among different factions of the underworld the Irish, the Jews, the various bands of Italians. This was closer to the movie version, to that brutal, hateful way of life modern moviegoers seem so attracted to as if it isn't quite real and could never affect them. We would be listening to the news in our kitchen at breakfast and hear that a body had been found in a nearby city, or in Revere, a mile or two miles away: in the trunk of a car, on a street corner, behind a liquor store. Shot once in the back of the head, never any witnesses. Whenever these reports were broadcast, my mother would turn the radio off. I remember her bare freckled arm reaching up to the windowsill and twisting the nickel-sized black dial on the transistor radio, as though she might keep that aspect of Revere from my father and me, and maybe from herself as well. As if protecting us from life's unpleasant truths was as simple as slicing away the mealy sections of an overripe cantaloupe and bringing to the table only the juicy golden heart of it. "That's not Revere," she would say. As if she were insisting, That is not cantaloupe; that part we scrape into the metal bowl and carry out to the garbage pail.
I understand why she did that. Like most of the people in Revere, she and my father went about their lives in a straightforward, honest fashion, and didn't much appreciate the fact that the Boston newspapers and TV stations gave so much attention to the mafia, and so little to the ordinary heroism of the household, the factory, and the street. I've inherited some of my parents' attitudes. I don't much appreciate the fact that, to this day, the Italian-American way of life has been reduced to a television cliché: thugs with pinkie rings slurping spaghetti and talking tough. My story has nothing to do with that cliché. Almost nothing.
But the mob was a part of Revere in those days; it's pointless to deny that. The Martoglios shouting at each other at the top of Hancock Street when I delivered the Revere Journal on Wednesday afternoons was part of Revere. The dog track, the horse track, the hard guys and losers in the bars behind the beach, the crooked deals worked out near City Hall, the lusts, hatreds, feuds, petty boasts it was all as much a part of that place as the neighbor who shoveled away the snow the city plow had left at the bottom of your driveway on the night of a storm, when you were off visiting your mother or sister or friend in the hospital; or the happy shouts of young families on the amusement rides; or my grandparents neighbor Rafaelo Losco, who once, in the middle of a conversation with my mother, when I was five or six years old, broke from his cherry tree a yard-long branch heavy with ripe fruit, and handed it across the back fence to me.
Though I sometimes want to, I cannot paint a place, or a family, or a life my place, my family, my life in the pretty hues of cheap jewelry. I can't give only one-half of the truth here, because what I want to say to my daughter is not: Life is a sweet cantaloupe, honey; smile and be glad, eat. But: Life can be bitter and unfair and mean, and most people rise part of the way above that, and some people transcend it completely and have enough strength left over to reach out a hand to someone else, light to light, goodness to good, and I grew up among people like that not in sentimental novels or on the movie screen, but in fact. They were imperfect people, who struggled to see the decency and hope in each other, and if I can be like them, even partly like them, I will, and so should you. A road across the territory between too extremes, a middle way that's what I want to offer her. Between denial on the one hand and despair on the other, between sappiness and cynicism. A plain road, across good land.