Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Lovebirds? I need a hand here.” Mama hands a platter to me and a gravy boat to Dante. “Congratulations, Lucia. I’m happy for you. Now help me.” She kisses me on the cheek, then calls the DeMartinos to dinner. As we take our seats, I look out into the backyard. Right now it’s not much of a garden, a small patch of brown grass with a gray marble birdbath in the center. At Christmastime Mama fills the basin with fresh greens and a ceramic baby Jesus in his crib. Today there’s only an inch of black water. I wish Mama had scrubbed it out; it looks creepy. But she makes up for it indoors. She has set a beautiful table with a cluster of small white candles in the center, which Papa lights as we sit down. Even Mrs. DeMartino looks softer in the candlelight. Papa says grace. I help Mama serve the food.

  “Where are your sons tonight?” Mrs. DeMartino asks.

  “They’re unloading a truck at the store,” Papa tells her.

  “We thought it would be nice if it was just us tonight,” I tell her as I smile at Dante, who looks as happy as I have ever seen him.

  “Signore Sartori, are you aware your daughter walks home alone after work?” Mrs. DeMartino ladles gravy onto her meat.

  “I don’t like it, but she’s a grown woman and can walk wherever she pleases.” Papa says this pleasantly as he passes her the bread. “Thank you for the bread, Peter,” he says to my future father-in-law.

  “It’s fresh,” Mrs. DeMartino says.

  As we begin to eat, the chatter is warm and friendly. This is the best part of marrying an Italian boy. There are no surprises. Our families are similar, our traditions are the same, the meal is delicious, and the conversation, peppered with neighborhood news and gossip, is a lot of fun. This could not be going any better.

  “So, should we get down to business?” Dante says. He puts his arm across the back of my chair and looks at me.

  I begin. “I was thinking Saturday, May first, at Our Lady of Pompeii Church—”

  Mrs. DeMartino cuts me off. “No, no, Saint Joseph’s on Sixth Avenue is better.”

  “But it’s not my home parish,” I say politely.

  “It will be. When you come and live with us, you’ll go to our church. It’s tradition.” Mrs. DeMartino looks to my parents for support.

  “I know that, but until I’m married, I live here on Commerce Street, and this is the church I was baptized in, confirmed in, and attend every Sunday. It’s where I met Dante. I know you had a falling-out with the old priest, but that was many years ago—”

  “Father Kilcullen hated the Italians,” Mrs. DeMartino says.

  Mama shrugs. “I thought he was all right.”

  “We’re getting off track. Ma, Pop, it’s Lady of Pompeii,” Dante says firmly.

  Mrs. DeMartino looks at her husband. “I think it’s okay,” he says.

  “So, good. May first. Our Lady of Pompeii.” Dante pats my hand. I don’t know why, but the way he does it irritates me. Dante goes on to tell a long story about the bakery truck getting lost in the Bronx, and how when the truck was returned to them, the driver had eaten his way through a dozen rolls. Mrs. DeMartino laughs too hard at every detail. It occurs to me that I should be laughing at my fiancé’s story, but somehow it doesn’t seem particularly funny to me.

  “I’ll have to get used to the trains on your side of town. Since you live farther east, I’ll have to take the El to get to Thirty-fifth and First, leaving early enough to walk over so I’m at work on time,” I say casually. A deep silence follows; I try to fill it up. “Ruth Kaspian is designing my gown, which should be very convenient, since—”

  Mrs. DeMartino interrupts me. “You’re not going to work at the department store.”

  “I’m sorry?” I pretend I didn’t hear what she said, but the truth is, I can’t believe what she said.

  “No, you’ll be a housewife. You marry my Dante, and you live with us, and you help me at home. We’re giving you the street-level apartment. We put in a new kitchen, and it’s very nice. You’ll be very happy there.”

  “But I have a job.” I look at Dante, who looks down at his food.

  “You can sew from our house,” Mrs. DeMartino says.

  I look at my mother, who blinks at me as if she’s trying to communicate something, but I don’t know what.

  “I don’t take in sewing. That’s not what I do. I’m a seamstress at B. Altman’s in the Custom Department. I’ve been there for six years, and someday I hope to run the department, if I’m lucky and they choose me. Am I expected to resign?” I look around the table, but no one is looking at me. I pat Dante’s hand, but not as gently. “Dante?”

  “Honey, we’ll talk about this later,” he says in an authoritative tone I’ve never heard before.

  “Why? We can talk about this now. I don’t believe your mother should be misled. I intend to keep working.” I remember my grandmother telling me the story of her betrothal and marriage, arranged by her parents in Italy. There was no mention of love or romance, only obligation and duty. Chores! Take in sewing? Not in 1950! Not in New York City! Claudia DeMartino is crazy if she thinks I’m going to put up hems at a pittance for the women on Avenue A. No, thank you!

  The only sound in the room is my father wrestling to remove the cork from another bottle of Chianti. The tiny squeaks fill up the silence. “Let’s not talk about work and jobs. Let’s iron out the details of the wedding,” Papa says nicely.

  Mrs. DeMartino ignores him. “What about when you have a baby?” She puts her fork down and lines it up next to the knife and spoon.

  “We’ll be happy when that happens,” I tell her. Who isn’t happy to have a baby?

  “I am not raising your children while you’re off at the store!” Mrs. DeMartino bellows.

  “Who is asking you to?” my mother wants to know. Evidently Mama intends that I make nice with Mrs. DeMartino; she, however, can fight with her. Mama takes a deep breath and speaks slowly. “Claudia, my daughter is a career girl. That doesn’t mean she can’t take care of a home.” She looks at me. “That doesn’t mean she won’t take care of a home. These are skills she has had from an early age. She cooks, she irons, she cleans. She has been a full partner helping me here at home.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” I say.

  “She has been trained.” Mama pushes her plate aside and smoothes her napkin. “But she isn’t like me, and she isn’t like you. I have tried to make her realize that a woman has enough to do at home without running to a job. In time, I believe she will come to understand this and make the necessary adjustments in her life.”

  “This is all well and good if that is her intention,” Mrs. DeMartino fires back. “But this is not your daughter’s intention! If she works, then she is not home, and if she is not home, then who takes care of the children?” Mrs. DeMartino slides her chair back and angles it toward my mother. “You see my point, don’t you?”

  “That is not your business. Or mine. That is their business.” My mother points to Dante and me.

  “Mama, I think Mrs. DeMartino has a point.”

  “See there. She knows! She knows that it’s not right for a woman to work when she has children at home.”

  “Mrs. DeMartino, I didn’t say that. And that’s not what I mean. Let me be clear.” But I don’t feel clear. I feel overwhelmed. Claudia DeMartino is a nightmare, like Mama said, and she will only get worse. “Let me explain.”

  “I wish you would,” Mama says, wearily resting her face on her hand.

  “I was hoping to take things one step at a time. To be married for a while, and then discuss the possibility of children—”

  “Possibility? You spit in the face of God with talk like that. God sends babies when He sends babies, not when you want Him to send babies. You can’t tell God when to send you a baby!” The tip of Mrs. DeMartino’s nose turns bright pink as her eyes fill with tears. “I don’t understand you. Do you love my son?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Then how can you put him after your job at a department store? It doesn�
�t make any sense. A man needs to know that his wife puts him in first place. Otherwise she does not deserve him.”

  “Mrs. DeMartino, I know it wasn’t that long ago that marriages were arranged—” Dante kicks me under the table. I see why. His parents’ faces drain of all color. They must have had an arranged marriage. No wonder she sees me as a selfish modern girl. Compared to her, I am. “And that was a system that worked—”

  “System? What system?” Mr. DeMartino speaks up.

  “But things have changed. We want to determine our future. We want a partnership, not a dictatorship.”

  “I am not a dictator!” Mr. DeMartino slams his hand on the table. The silverware jumps off the tablecloth with a jolt. “I am the head of my household! I am the leader! The man is the leader!”

  Mr. DeMartino looks as though he may have a heart attack, so I take a deep breath and turn to Dante. He loves me and would take me under any circumstances. Looking at him, I realize that I love him, too, but I want things my way. If I join this family, it will be a disaster. I won’t put my dreams behind those of my husband, mother-in-law, and father-in-law. And why should I? I make my own living. I have always known that if I walked out of my parents’ home, I could get my own apartment and live a good life. I stay here because I love my room with the window overlooking Commerce Street. And I love my mother and father, and until I marry, I want to be with them. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” The words tumble out of my mouth so quickly, I don’t know where they came from.

  “What do you mean?” Dante is stunned.

  This is one moment when I wish I didn’t have to be honest, but I look at his face and know that I cannot lie. “I can’t marry you. I’m sorry. I just can’t.” I begin to cry, then swallow hard to stop.

  “Lucia, don’t say that.” Dante looks devastated. “We’ll do whatever you want. You can work, I don’t care.”

  “You say that, but you don’t mean it. Once we’re married and I’m living in your parents’ home, they will have total say over our lives. I was kidding myself to think that we would marry and I would move into your parents’ house and keep my job and keep my life.” The buttons on the bodice of my dress feel like carpet tacks punched into my chest. “I’m very good at what I do. I got a raise today. A raise!”

  “What is wrong with you?” Mrs. DeMartino demands. “Look at my son. He is a duke! How could you throw him off for nothing, for a job?” She says “job” like it’s the filthiest word in the world. “How could you do that?” She stands and holds the wall behind her as though without it, she would fall.

  “I’m not doing anything. This is how I feel.” The tears are making my face itch. Papa gives me his handkerchief.

  “You should feel ashamed! That’s what you should feel!”

  “Basta, Claudia, basta. Can’t you see Lucia is upset?” Papa says quietly.

  “You do not have control of your home, signore,” she says to Papa. Mama looks at Papa and almost starts to laugh; no one speaks to Papa in this manner. Then Mrs. DeMartino turns to me.

  “Lucia Sartori, you are young now, and all the boys pursue you. You! The great beauty of Greenwich Village! All I ever heard was ‘Lucia Sartori. Bellissima! You won’t believe the face when you see it. Every good Italian son would give his eyes to marry such a girl.’ But you won’t be a good wife! You are stubborn!” Mrs. DeMartino shouts.

  My father stands and faces Mrs. DeMartino. He says calmly, “No one says a word against my daughter in this house.”

  I look at my mother, who shakes her head from side to side.

  “Get the ring!” Mrs. DeMartino says to her son.

  “You want the ring?” I say in disbelief.

  “You don’t want Dante, you don’t want the ring.” Mrs. DeMartino extends her hand and holds it there steadily, waiting for me to drop the ring into it.

  I look at Dante, who turns to his mother. “Mama. Please.”

  “She,” Claudia DeMartino sneers, “loves her job more than she loves you.”

  “That’s not true,” Dante says softly.

  “You may have the ring.” I twist it off my finger and turn to Dante. “I thought this was yours?” Then I turn to his mother. “Or does it belong to you?”

  “It belongs to me.” Mr. DeMartino stands and takes the ring. “I bought it.”

  Mr. and Mrs. DeMartino head for the foyer and grab their coats.

  “Lucia, this is crazy,” Dante pleads with me. “Talk to me.”

  “Oh, Dante.” I know I should reassure him, put myself in the path of his parents’ exit, and beg their forgiveness. I’d like to throw my arms around Dante and tell him that we can go away, elope, come home, get our own apartment, and start anew. How did this dinner party derail? How did such a wonderful day turn into this?

  “Lucia? I’ll call you later.” Dante follows his parents out the front door. Once they’re gone, I feel sick to my stomach.

  Exodus comes in the front door, followed by Angelo, Orlando, and Roberto. “We’re here for dessert,” Exodus announces. “Where are they going?”

  “Home,” Mama says weakly.

  “They seemed angry,” Angelo says.

  “Mrs. DeMartino stomped the sidewalk so hard it looked like she was putting out cigarettes all the way to her car,” Orlando chimes in.

  “What did you say?” Roberto asks me.

  “I told them I was going to keep working, and they didn’t like it, and Mr. DeMartino took the ring back.”

  Exodus shrugs. “I told you they were dolts.”

  “Do you want us to go after him? We could beat him up,” Orlando offers.

  “Boys,” my mother says in her warning tone.

  “Well, he made my sister cry.”

  “No, your sister made him cry,” Papa says, pouring himself a glass of wine.

  “Did they eat?” Roberto wants to know.

  “They ate. But there’s plenty left.” Mama motions for the boys to sit.

  My brothers take their seats as though nothing has happened, as though I didn’t just return my diamond ring and defy Mrs. DeMartino and change the course of my life. “You’re going to eat?” I ask.

  “What else are we gonna do?” Roberto asks through a mouthful of DeMartino dinner rolls. “Starve because the DeMartinos are idiots?”

  I watch in disbelief, as though I am watching a strange family through their front window on Commerce Street. When you come from a big family, it’s almost as if you’re one person, each brother or sister an aspect of you, like an octopus with tentacles that move in different directions but are always part of the whole. Roberto is the oldest, so he’s the leader; Angelo, second, is the peacemaker; Orlando is the middle child, so he is the dreamer; Exodus is the wild card, the free spirit, unpredictable. And then there’s me: I’m the baby, I will always be the baby, no matter how much white is in my hair. Because I am a girl, I am my mother’s helper and also the maid. Every shirt at this table is pressed by me on my Saturdays off. My brothers work at the market, and until they marry or I marry, I serve them.

  Mama pulls plates from the dish server behind her and passes them out to the boys. Orlando loads bracciole onto his plate. “I can’t believe you wasted all this good meat on the DeMartinos,” he says. He is tall and thin but the biggest eater in the family. His angular face looks like an intellectual’s. He has soft, dark eyes, and there is a gentleness to him.

  “He’ll come back,” Roberto says definitively.

  “I don’t think so,” Papa says softly.

  “Aw, Pop. It’s a lovers’ spat. Everybody has those,” Angelo adds, winking at me.

  “And if he doesn’t come back, I wouldn’t cry,” Exodus says, filling his plate. “Look, men are like fish. You want a husband? You go out where there’s lots of them, you throw out a line with some bait, and you reel him in. You check him out, and when he isn’t the best, you throw him back. Throw Dante DeMartino back. You can do better.”

  “He’s a good catch,” Mama corrects him.


  “No, no, we are the catches in Greenwich Village,” Exodus insists. “Every girl in town wants to marry us. And why do you think we’re prizes? I’ll tell you why. Pop owns his own business and this building, and we all work in it. People see dollar signs. They see the nice home that Mama makes, and the lightbulb goes off in their heads, and they think, All that could be mine.”

  “That’s not a very trusting way to live in the world,” Angelo tells him.

  “He’s right. And you,” Roberto says, shaking his fork at me, “better accept it.”

  “Sis, don’t listen to him. We aren’t good judges of what love is all about. None of us is married,” Angelo says.

  “Because you have it too good at home!” Our mother comes to life. “The problem with this family is that you’re all selfish. Nobody bends.” She points at me.

  “Why should I bend, Mama? Bend to achieve what? To leave your home and go fifteen blocks east and do for Claudia DeMartino what I do for you—only if I go there, I have to quit my job? What would be the point of that?”

  “Then don’t ever get married. I should’ve been made out of rubber, the amount of bending I’ve had to do around here.”

  “I gave you a hard life?” Papa looks at Mama.

  “Not easy,” my mother fires back.

  “See? You’ve been spared, Lucia. From a life of . . . well, this!” Angelo smiles.

  “It’s fine by me if Lucia never marries. I like the way she does laundry.” Roberto winks at me. My brothers laugh.

  “You know what? You’re not funny. Maybe you should do the dishes and my laundry once in a while.”

  “Whoa, whoa, you’re taking things too far. We don’t want you to be unhappy, Looch. We’re just protecting the family treasure.” Exodus pours himself a glass of wine.

  “I am not the family treasure! But you, you’re a pack of gorillas, the way you act! Everything is funny to you, isn’t it?”

  “Ma, the Caterina curse has kicked in,” Roberto says.

  “Shut up!” Mama says to him.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask him. I look to our mother, who withers my brother Roberto with a stare. “What’s a Caterina curse?”