Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  I take her hand and sit down next to her. “Are you all right?”

  “I just did one of the most important things I’m ever going to do. And it’s so strange . . .” Rosemary looks out the window, but there is no view, only the brick airshaft of the next building. “It doesn’t feel right to take any credit for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, it happened so fast, they couldn’t give me anything for the pain.”

  “No!”

  “It’s okay, I’m glad they couldn’t put me under. I wanted to see her born. My friends who have babies have told me that one moment they were asleep and the next they were mothers. I didn’t want that. I wanted to see her come into the world with my own eyes.”

  “What was it like?”

  “She came out, arms in the air, like she was reaching for something. The doctor snipped the cord, and the nurse was about to take her away, and I shouted, ‘No! Give me my daughter!’ They’re supposed to check them out first, but I must have scared the nurse because she handed me Maria Grace. And my baby knew me! She nuzzled me immediately. Then the nurse took her away to clean her up.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “A little.” Rosemary smooths the sheets and smiles. “And then I felt . . . I feel . . . redeemed.” If only she had seen the Lancelattis and the Sartoris outside the nursery window, she would know that her wedding day will not be the defining moment of her life. Today is the day that everyone will remember.

  “You’re so calm,” I tell her.

  “You know, it wasn’t what I thought it would be. Not at all. It was as if I was a parachute and Maria Grace was a diver who made it safely to the ground. I got her here, and my job was done.”

  “Your job is far from over,” I say with a laugh.

  “I know. But I also know it’s not my world anymore. It belongs to her.”

  The nurse comes in the door carrying my new niece. “It’s time to feed her,” she says to Rosemary.

  “I’ll be right outside,” I tell my sister-in-law.

  The nurse gives the baby to Rosemary. Maria Grace seems so much smaller than she did in the nursery, her hair much darker and thicker, as if she is wearing a black velvet tam.

  “Do you want to hold her?” Ro asks. “That’s okay, isn’t it?” she says to the nurse.

  “Just for a moment,” the nurse replies.

  Ro leans down and whispers to the bundle, “Meet your aunt Lu,” then hands the baby to me. How warm she is! I hold her like a piece of delicate china.

  “Nice to meet you, Maria Grace. When you get big, we’re going to go to Broadway shows and to get our hair done. We’ll buy lots of fancy shoes and purses and paint our nails rose red!” I whisper. “May God bless you all the days of your long and happy life.” I kiss her and give her back to her mother.

  The smell of the baby’s skin, coupled with the look on Rosemary’s face, content and at peace, makes me cry. This is a moment so rare and beautiful, I cannot hold it. And yet I want to preserve it, because I know that the birth of the first child of my eldest brother is a once-in-a-lifetime event. We go on, I think to myself. We go on and on and on.

  Roberto stays at the hospital with Rosemary. When Mama, Papa, the Lancelattis, and I arrive at home, we can’t believe our eyes. My brothers, who have never set a table nor washed a dish in the sum of their collective lives, have the dining room table set with Mama’s best china. The long white taper candles are lit, and there’s a small centerpiece of pink carnations in a glass bowl. I decide not to rib the boys, because this kind of largesse should be encouraged. Angelo has poured champagne into a series of flutes on Mama’s best silver tray, and he serves each of us a glass.

  “To Maria Grace!” Orlando toasts.

  “May she grow healthy and strong!” Mr. Lancelatti adds. “Cent’anni!”

  Dinner is good fun, with my brothers teasing and playing with Rosemary’s younger brothers. After dessert they go out back in the garden, and Angelo and Exodus toss the younger boys around while Orlando makes up ghost stories to entertain them. Rosemary’s little sister stays behind to help clean up. At the end of a lovely evening, Mrs. Lancelatti calls for my brothers to bring in her boys. They’re taking the train home to Brooklyn, but first they will stop over at Saint Vincent’s and say good night to Rosemary, Roberto, and Maria Grace.

  What a day this has been, I think as I climb the stairs to my room. The five flights, which I usually take at a clip, seem like twice the distance. So much to think about: John Talbot, his mother, the ocean, and now my niece. And tomorrow is Ruth’s wedding! As I change for bed, I glance at the book I was supposed to begin reading today and figure there will be lots of time for that later.

  I climb into bed and turn off the lamp, and the room fills with the streetlight’s yellow haze. I think about Sylvia O’Keefe at Creedmore and how happy she was to see her only son. When Ruth and I have a fitting for a young debutante who is plain, with a so-so figure, we notice that the clothes can’t make her beautiful; only her inner light can. When people are filled to the brim with love, they are their most beautiful.

  Before I go to sleep, I pray for baby Maria Grace, that life will bring her all she desires, that she will grow strong and tall and have big dreams. And then I thank God for sending me a niece. After all these years, it will be nice to have another girl around to help with the dishes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After the most exciting Saturday of my life, I not only managed to stay awake through Ruth’s wedding, I threw myself into the hoopla. I was pulled into the inner circle for the hora, a traditional Jewish dance, and I danced with Ruth and Harvey’s cousins and Delmarr more times than I could count.

  It was a little lonely at work for the next week. I told myself it was because Ruth was away on her honeymoon, but the truth is, I was disappointed that John didn’t call.

  On Ruth’s first day back, she catches me checking the Hub’s telephone message board one time too many.

  “He hasn’t called, Lu. Relax.”

  “I can’t. I miss him.”

  “Oh, please. What do you miss, exactly? You had one date, a car ride to visit his mother. For Godsakes, why don’t you skip the courtship and go directly to marriage? That’s how I’ll be spending my dreadfully dull Saturday. We just got back from the honeymoon, and we’re already ‘spending time with Mother.’ ”

  “Lucia, Ruth, come here for a second,” Delmarr calls from the fitting room.

  When we get there, Ruth lets out a low whistle. For once she is impressed. “Where did you get the loot?” she says as she circles around a rolling rack hung with three gowns, each a confection in white.

  “Paris.”

  “I’ll say.” Ruth nods in approval.

  I gently lift one of the hangers off the rack. The gown is as light as whipped cream but structured as if an architect had a hand in it. Two dainty silk straps hold up a straight sheath of white satin with a subtle pattern of Medici bumblebees. A row of tiny gold and white silk butterflies is daintily sewn up the right seam of the skirt to the waist. Anchoring the left strap is a larger version of the butterfly. I have to know the artist behind this masterpiece. “Who made this?”

  “Spies.” Delmarr laughs. “Hilda had a sketch artist attending the shows with her, and this is a version of a Pierre Balmain. He’s starting a ready-to-wear line, so Hilda didn’t feel bad pinching the concept. She also pinched one of Balmain’s top seamstresses to make the prototype.”

  “She’s ruthless!” I hold the dress up to my body before the mirror. “Nothing could ever go wrong for a girl wearing this dress.”

  “You’ll find out. Try it on.” Delmarr smiles.

  “Can I?”

  “Come on, I’ll help.” Ruth takes the dress, and I follow her behind the dressing screen. I unzip my skirt and step out of it.

  “No slip,” Delmarr says, turning his back on the screen as he lights a cigarette.

  “Delmarr,” Ruth calls, “I can’t believe the
construction. The zipper is hidden under the arm, right in the seam. And it’s the tiniest zipper I’ve ever seen!”

  Ruth helps me step into the dress, which floats over my hips and falls to my ankles in one smooth drape. I lift my arm as Ruth zips me in. I close my eyes, twisting gently from side to side, and feel the garment on my body. This is a fitting technique taught to us by Hilda Beast, who said once a woman is in her dress, she shouldn’t feel it on her body. If a dress is designed and constructed properly, it should either mold to the woman’s figure or stand away from it without pulling, binding, or tugging at any seam.

  “I can’t come out,” I shout to Delmarr.

  “Why? Doesn’t it fit?”

  “No, it fits so well, I feel like I’m not wearing anything.”

  “Love the French!” Delmarr laughs. “That’s the idea.”

  Ruth pushes me out. Delmarr is waiting by the model box and helps me onto it. Ruth grabs a pair of size-seven pumps we keep on hand for fittings and holds the shoes while I step into them.

  “I like to think I’m good, but I ain’t this good.” Delmarr squints at me in the mirror. I look at myself, but I don’t see me, I see a girl transformed by the perfect dress. I hold my arms down at my sides and study my reflection.

  “Oh, Lucia” is all Ruth can say.

  “Hold this moment, Miss Sartori.” Delmarr stands on one side of me, and Ruth is on the other. “This is youth. Your star is high in the sky. You may never be this beautiful again. Enjoy it.” He winks at me.

  “I wish I had somewhere to go in this number,” I say to the mirror.

  “You do. I’m taking Nancy Smith to the cotillion at the Plaza. Her brother is in town, and he needs a date.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “Gee, I’d come,” Ruth says, “but I’m playing canasta with Harvey’s parents, and after that we’re going for seventeen-cent hamburgers at White Tower. Yippee!”

  “Sorry you’re busy, Ruth.” Delmarr turns to me. “You need shoes, stockings, a clutch. You and Ruth go borrowing.”

  Ruth and I spend our lunch hour going from department to department, currying favors from Delmarr’s connections. The managers are happy to loan to Delmarr because he sends our customers to them for accessories. In the Evening Shoe Department, Ruth picks a white closed-toe mule covered in peau de soie with seed pearls on the vamp. We find an ornate Indian clutch of embroidered tone-on-tone shantung, and over-the-elbow evening gloves with tiny opal buttons from wrist to elbow. I’m so busy, I hardly give a thought to John Talbot, though I do wish he could see me in this dress.

  I leave work early to have my hair put up for the gala. On the way home I go to Saint Vincent’s to see Maria Grace, but she and her mother are both napping. I stop at the florist and pick up a gardenia for my hair. My escort will probably bring me a flower, but a girl can never have too many.

  Christopher Smith picks me up promptly at seven-thirty. I find out his life story between the Village and Fifty-ninth and Fifth. He’s an engineer, graduated from Princeton, left college for two years to serve in the navy (even though his father could have procured a deferment, Christopher felt strongly about serving), and now he’s working for his father’s company, an iron-ore mining firm. Blond, tall, and blue-eyed, Christopher is a typical Upper East Side son of privilege. But he is gracious and warm, with a good sense of humor. This will be a terrific evening. “I’m going to be honest,” Christopher begins. “The girls on fix-ups, at least in my experience, never live up to the description beforehand. You’re beautiful.”

  I thank him. In this one instance, I believe the dress is doing all the work. I’m lucky to be wearing it.

  The town car pulls up at the main entrance of the Plaza. As we walk up the stairway to the Grand Ballroom, it’s as if high society is announcing the coming of spring. The ladies are dressed in pale silks, neutral tones of beige, shell pink, and butter yellow. So far, mine is the only white gown (leave it to Balmain to create a trend instead of following one). Christopher seems to know everyone in the outer reception area. A few girls run up and say hello, warmly to him, politely to me. I’m certain they’re wondering what he’s doing with me. I may look the part, but they know I am not one of them. Society types are one family, and each member is known. Anyone new sticks out like a red shoe with a green gown.

  While the society girls have not changed, the young men have. In the wake of World War II, walls have come down. Customs and rituals normally reserved for the select few of a certain lineage have become more inclusive. The line between uptown and downtown blurred as men returned home from the service with young brides from around the world. Ten years ago, a Catholic girl like me wouldn’t have been welcome at the Plaza Hotel, and Christopher would never have agreed to take me. The war changed all that. The uptown boys matured from carefree dandies to sober thinkers. The downtown boys, having fought for their new country, were respected and not treated like second-class citizens. I hold my head high as Christopher leads me into the ballroom. After all, I am the sister of four veterans and the daughter of a successful Manhattan businessman. I belong wherever I want to go and can accept the invitation of anyone who wants to take me.

  The superb Vincent Lopez Orchestra is playing as we cross the dance floor to our table. Garlands of daisies and cherry blossoms hang from the ceiling like ribbons. Hand-painted murals of country gardens stand out against the room’s ornate gold molding. The tables are set with crisp white linens, and the centerpieces are goldfish bowls with actual fish swimming in them. Ruth won’t believe it.

  Delmarr waves to me from across the dance floor and makes his way through the crowd. “Christopher, nice to see you again,” he says as they shake hands. Then he turns to me. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a wonderland,” I tell him as he gives me a twirl.

  “You’re the prettiest girl here,” Delmarr says as he looks around the dance floor. He leans in to a small cluster of people talking, then takes a girl’s hand and turns her toward us. “Nancy, come and meet Lucia.” Nancy Smith is the feminine version of her brother, long and lanky, with sky-blue eyes beautifully complemented by her pale gray gown.

  “Nice to meet you. Thank you for taking a charity case tonight,” she says to me, flashing a dazzling smile at her brother.

  “It’s my pleasure—” I begin, but Nancy is whisked away by another couple.

  “You have fun!” she calls over her shoulder.

  Delmarr whispers in my ear, “Her divorce was just made final. This is her first night without the ex. It’s like I’m chasing a runaway train.”

  “Lucia, I’d like you to meet some of my pals from Princeton.” Christopher puts his arm around my waist. Standing behind him is a group of immaculate young gentlemen, the kind I see in group photos on the society pages. Christopher introduces me to each young man, and they pay me compliments on my dress and hair.

  “Are you a princess?” one of them asks.

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “Your dress has the Medici family symbol in the fabric.”

  “You’re sharp,” I tell him. “Do you know what the bumblebee means in Italy?” He shakes his head. “Royalty.”

  “Did you graduate from Vassar?” another of the young men asks me.

  “No, I didn’t go to college. I went to Katie Gibbs Secretarial School and then got a job as a seamstress at B. Altman’s,” I say with pride.

  “Oh, to find an old-fashioned girl who likes to sew,” one of the fellows says kindly.

  “Back off. She’s mine until midnight,” Christopher says as he leads me out onto the dance floor. He’s a very smooth dancer. I could get used to a life like this, I think as he pulls me closer. When I look over his shoulder, I am surprised to see John Talbot. In his arms is Amanda Parker, the society deb of the moment. As the music changes, John lifts her by the waist, then kisses her as he kissed me outside my house less than one week ago. The picture stings so, I close my eyes. When I open them, she’s still draped on him l
ike fox trim on velvet. The monologue in my head begins: he’s not really your beau, well, he did take you for a drive; you have met his mother, but you have no stake, no promise from him; you hardly know him. But then I remember his kiss. Isn’t a kiss a promise? A show of intent?

  “Are you all right?” Christopher asks.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. Then I decide to turn this buggy around. I am not going to be any man’s throwaway girl. John Talbot needs to know I’m not some nobody who’s pretty but unconnected. “Christopher? Do you know Amanda Parker?”

  “Sure.”

  “I would love to meet her.”

  Christopher leads me across the dance floor to Amanda and John. When John sees me coming toward them, he stares at me in disbelief, as though this is a dream and I’m emerging from a Scottish mist with a battalion of poor townsfolk behind me seeking justice. He blanches when he realizes it’s really me and I’m really coming to talk to him.

  “Amanda, I’d like you to meet my date this evening. This is Lucia Sartori,” Christopher says.

  Amanda dips her head down and smiles at me, brushing the shiny flip of her curls behind her ear. This pose, the very same one captured on the society pages, is meant to make her dark patrician beauty into something more vulnerable, when it is clear that she is anything but. Amanda introduces John, and then she and Christopher tease each other a bit, but I keep my eyes steadily on John Talbot, who still can’t look at me.

  “John?”

  “Yes?” At last his eyes meet mine, then he looks me up and down, not in a cheap way but in admiration.

  “It’s good to see you again,” I say.

  Christopher takes my arm and excuses us, and we go for drinks. I am tempted to turn to see if John Talbot is watching me, but I don’t. It wouldn’t do any good. He’s taken. I should have known that he couldn’t possibly be available. As angry as I am, I also understand him. He aspires to be a part of this world, too. But what he doesn’t know is that the best he and I can do is pass through it on someone else’s arm.

  As soon as I’m home, I call Ruth and tell her about the dance. She listens thoughtfully to everything I say and decides that I’m overreacting about the kiss John planted on Amanda Parker. I disagree, and when I hang up, I think about that kiss again and again. Each time I replay it in my mind, it drives me further and further away from the idea of John Talbot. “It’s over,” I say to myself, aloud, as if the intonation will make it official. I get ready for bed, wishing I hadn’t gone to the cotillion at all. I see John’s face and wish I had never met him.