For years it sat atop my grandfather’s dresser in his Bronx house on East 236th Street, haunting and a bit of a misfit: The crucifix is elaborate, essentially a story, chockablock with symbols of Christ’s hours of passion and torment, while its deeply reserved possessor — I called him “Grapes” — was not known for displays of religiosity or sermons (except for those directed at the street urchins making too much noise). Make no mistake: He was a good man who went to church. But he was overtly religious about one thing: the New York Mets.
And yet he had this ornate crucifix, and it fascinated the little boy. Half a century later, it still does. Why did he have it? Displayed next to an ancient photo of his mother and another of his sisters, it seemed to have already been around for a long time. No one is sure of its origin (no one ever asked!), so we guessed that it might have been a wedding present, or maybe even the crucifix of his own parents, Italian immigrants who came to lower Manhattan and then the Bronx to raise ten children.
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