Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  The boys have carried Papa up one flight and into his bedroom. When I enter, I blurt out, “Has anyone called Exodus?” It must be the sight of my papa in his bed in the middle of the day, something I’ve never seen before, that makes me want all of us together again. Maybe having one of us missing weakens Papa’s resolve. Maybe all of us together could pull him through.

  The bell rings downstairs. Rosemary and Roberto go to let Dr. Goldstein in. Mama is sitting on a footstool at the head of Papa’s bed.

  I take my father’s hand and sit down on the bed next to him. “Papa, are you okay?” I ask him, knowing he is not. “I love you, you know. With all my heart.”

  “Grazie,” he murmurs weakly.

  The doctor asks us to wait outside, but Mama stays put. After a few minutes the doctor joins us in the hallway.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your father is very sick. We’ve known it for some time now.”

  “But his heart . . .” I can barely speak.

  “It’s not his heart. He has cancer. We believe it began in his pancreas, and it has spread to his liver.”

  “Cancer?” I say softly because I don’t believe it.

  “It was diagnosed in November. We’ve known for some time that we’ll be able to do something for his pain, but that’s all.”

  I turn to my brothers in disbelief. “Did any of you know?” They are as shocked as I am.

  My mind goes back to the month of November, to the night that Papa came home from the doctor while we were preparing confetti for the wedding. He and Mama gave us a good report. They said he was healthy. They must have lied so I would have a happy wedding. I begin to cry. Orlando puts his arms around me.

  “Is he in pain?” Roberto asks.

  “Soon we can give him morphine, which we administer through an IV drip. I’ve spoken with your mother, and she’ll arrange for a nurse to come and take care of that.”

  “How long does he have?” Angelo asks.

  “It could be days. Maybe less.”

  We hear a muffled cry from the bottom of the stairs. We look down at Rosemary, who weeps into her hands, feeling the loss as keenly as we do.

  “What can we do?” Orlando asks.

  “Stay with him, be strong for him. That’s all you can do. And I’ll come back and see him whenever I’m needed.”

  I say, “Angelo, call Exodus right away. Roberto, take care of Rosemary. Orlando, go back to the Groceria, keep it open, and make sure everything’s running smoothly. Papa would want that. Okay?” Orlando nods and goes. I stand on the landing for a moment, say a quick prayer pleading with God to save my father, and then go back to my parents’ bedroom.

  I tiptoe in. Mama has not moved. She holds Papa’s hand and looks at him as though the intensity of her gaze could cure him. Papa has gone to sleep. I put my hands on his face and kiss his cheek. I whisper to him, “We’re here, Papa.”

  The boys, Mama, and I take turns sitting with him day and night. I don’t know how many days; we have stopped counting. Sometimes I look at Roberto’s face and know that he feels guilty about his fights with Pop. I’m so ashamed of the night that I told my parents to rot in hell that I beg God to wake Papa up so I can apologize for my terrible behavior. If I could have that moment back, I never would have said those things. I didn’t mean them. And now I know Papa was right about everything. He was right about John Talbot.

  Taking care of Papa becomes the focus of life in our home. It’s been two days since the doctor visited. Papa takes broth and weak tea, and while the morphine dosages are small, they help him sleep. He knows that he is dying, but he is determined to wait until Exodus arrives. We tell him repeatedly that Exodus is on his way, though Orsola will have to stay behind due to her pregnancy. When I talk to Papa, I try to lift his spirits: “Papa, you will have two grandchildren by summertime!” This makes him smile. When he naps, I cry, knowing that he will never see his grandchildren.

  Exodus should be here by tomorrow morning. Papa is weakening; his fight to stay alive is really the fight to see Exodus one last time. Mama is amazing. She doesn’t cry, and at night she still climbs into their bed, and he sleeps in her arms.

  The boys alternate working at the Groceria and being here with Papa. There is none of the usual squabbling or bickering, so I’m surprised when I hear the low tones of a tense conversation at the bottom of the stairs. I look at Mama, who motions for me to see who it is. “Maybe Ex made it sooner!” I tell her. Papa’s eyes open, and he smiles.

  Roberto comes up the stairs, followed by an older man whom I’ve never seen before. “Lucia, this is our uncle Enzo.”

  Roberto steps aside. At first I extend my hands as one would to a stranger, but when I look into his eyes and see my father, I throw myself into his arms. The two men are so alike. The broad shoulders and delicate hands, the large head and curly salt-and-pepper hair, the paunch, not enough to require a diet but enough to consider one from time to time. “I’m so happy to meet you. Thank you for coming to see Papa,” I tell him.

  “I came as soon as I heard.” Even his voice reminds me of my father, when he was healthy and strong.

  I take Uncle Enzo into my parents’ room. Mama stands when she sees him, and for the first time in three days, she begins to cry. Her sobs awaken Papa. I don’t think he initially believes that his brother is here. Not until Uncle Enzo kneels next to the bed and takes him into his arms. Papa looks so small. He makes a sound, a deep moan, as if he has finally released a sadness that he has been carrying since before I was born.

  I motion to Mama that we should give them some privacy. I put my arm around her and lead her out of the room. Before I close the door, I look at the two of them, two boys who came such a long way to fulfill a dream. Years of estrangement and hard feelings fall away as my uncle holds my father.

  Angelo gives up his room for Uncle Enzo. The nurse comes and tells us Papa’s system is starting to shut down but that he has a strong heart. She wants to increase the morphine dosage. Mama explains to Papa that more morphine will ease his pain. Papa shakes his head decisively. Mama assumes he doesn’t want to go to sleep until Exodus arrives, so she tells the nurse to keep the medication level where it is.

  None of us can sleep. We stay in Papa’s room, and when we need a break, we go down into the living room, where Rosemary has made sandwiches and cookies and there is always a fresh pot of coffee. What a Sartori she has turned out to be. My brother Roberto is a lucky man to have such a splendid wife.

  We’re all relieved when the front door opens and Exodus bolts in. “Where is he?” Exodus drops his bags and runs up the stairs. We follow behind him and pile into Mama and Papa’s room, as we used to do every Sunday morning before church. Mama would make us come to their room to see if there were shoes to be polished or hair to be slicked down with a touch of pomade. Uncle Enzo is on one side of Papa, and Mama is on the other. Exodus hesitates when he sees Uncle Enzo, trying to make sense of the situation. Uncle Enzo gets up and steps away. Exodus puts his hand on our uncle’s back and then moves in and kneels next to Papa. “Pop, I’m here. Can you hear me?” Papa hasn’t opened his eyes since last night. “Squeeze my hand, Pop. It’s Ex. I’m here. I made it. I made it.” Papa must squeeze my brother’s hand, because Exodus yells, “That’s it, Pop! Squeeze my hand! Good!”

  Mama runs her hand through Papa’s thick, curly hair. Then she pulls her handkerchief from her pocket. Papa’s eyes are closed, and a tear rolls down his nose and off his cheek. As Mama gently wipes it away, I hear her say, “He’s gone.” Her eyes never leave his face. “My love is gone.”

  When the funeral home comes to take Papa away, the boys insist that Mama, Rosemary, and I stay in the living room until he’s in the hearse. Uncle Enzo stays with the boys. It’s as if he has been a part of our lives all along.

  “Mama, when did you call Uncle Enzo?” I ask.

  “I didn’t call him.”

  “I called him,” Rosemary says softly. “I couldn’t bear for Papa to go
without saying good-bye to his only brother. I hope it was all right.”

  Mama embraces Rosemary. “It was exactly right.”

  In the weeks after Papa’s death, our family came together as never before, and we found out what Antonio Sartori meant to people in Greenwich Village. Over the years Papa would come home with funny stories about customers; sad stories about families who needed food, which he’d send over; or poignant stories about what it was like to be an old-fashioned grocer in a modern world. The only frozen item Papa allowed in the store was the ice to lay the fresh fish on.

  I always thought I was like my mother’s people, but when Papa died, I saw how much I am like him. He was a perfectionist. “To you, they are a crate of oranges; to me, they are a sculpture!” he’d say as he stacked oranges into a glorious pyramid with waxy leaves in the spaces between. He made topiaries out of pasta boxes and ceiling treatments out of dried herbs. The ropes around the casings of salamis were works of art, knotted a certain way and at a certain length so the customers could see what a delicacy they were buying. I have the same feeling about sewing. Perfection was my problem and the customer’s right—after all, she was paying. Papa felt the same way.

  We had one strange request during Papa’s funeral. When we called Domenic to tell him of Papa’s passing, he was devastated, but then he asked us a favor. He wanted us to take a photograph of Papa in the casket. When Mama heard, she said absolutely not. But I told the funeral director, who agreed to take the picture, and I sent it off to Cousin Domenic without telling Mama.

  Uncle Enzo comes back to the city to visit and to see if there’s anything we need. We put on a big dinner for him. Rosemary is hoping that someday the families can reunite. She’s working on it. Mama is happy to see Uncle Enzo, but she hasn’t quite warmed up to the idea of seeing Zia Caterina. We’re not going to push her. Mama will let us know when she’s ready, and then we’ll go for the full-blown reunion.

  After the dishes are cleared, I ask Uncle Enzo to come into the kitchen. I say, “Do you remember the curse Zia Caterina put on me before I was born?”

  “Oh, she didn’t mean it!”

  “I’m sure she didn’t,” I say. Clearly, he is as upset by the memory as Mama was when Roberto confessed the family secret last fall. “Still, what exactly did she say?”

  “She said she wanted you to be beautiful but unlucky in love.”

  “Well, Zio, you can tell her that the curse worked out fine.”

  “Lucia, she didn’t mean it. Caterina has a temper. I’ve lived with it for forty years. She curses everything: the priests, you, me, the cow. Everything.”

  “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.” I embrace him. “Once a curse comes true, it’s over.” I look my uncle in the eye. “It’s over. Right?”

  “Sì, sì, finito, finito.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Antonio Giuseppe Sartori II was born on June 1, 1952. Mama wept when Rosemary told her the baby’s name. And there’s nothing like a new baby in the house to alleviate grief. He’s a good baby, with a sweet temperament.

  About a month later Delmarr invites me to lunch as a thank-you for getting him through the final bridal season of the Custom Department. He takes me to the cafeteria at Saks Fifth Avenue, partly as a joke but mostly because the food is delicious.

  “Kid, you’ve had one helluva year.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I shake my head slowly. “The worst was losing Papa.”

  “The Talbot fiasco was terrible, too. I still blame myself a bit for that. I’m sorry I introduced you. I’m sorry I couldn’t see him for what he was. I should have done a better job of protecting you,” Delmarr says sadly.

  “It’s not your fault. Let me tell you how I know it’s not your fault.”

  “Okay.”

  “And after all that happened . . . I still love him.” Delmarr is the only person in the world I could admit this to, and I am relieved to finally say it out loud.

  “Why, Lucia? Why do you still love him?” Delmarr says tenderly.

  “Why does anybody love anybody who has hurt them? Because there’s always hope. Papa didn’t talk to his brother for thirty years. At the end of his life, his brother came to see him, and they forgave each other. All my life, there was this impossible family burden we were hauling around, and then in the final moments, Papa got the best gift of all: his brother’s forgiveness. I know that’s why he went like an angel.”

  “I don’t think Talbot’s going like an angel.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I have a proposition for you,” Delmarr says.

  “You know I’m a nice girl,” I halfheartedly tease.

  “Yeah, my loss, kid. Anyhow, I got a new job, and I want you to come with me.”

  “I knew Claire McCardell would hire you!” This news is a huge relief. I won’t have to leave behind everything familiar if I can continue to work with Delmarr.

  “No, I’m out of retail, custom, all of that. I’m going to Hollywood to work for Helen Rose.”

  I’m flabbergasted. “Helen Rose who made Elizabeth Taylor’s wedding gown when she married Nicky Hilton?”

  “The very one.”

  “Delmarr, how on earth did you meet up with Helen Rose?”

  “Her second in command went to the competition. And she heard about me, get this, from Hilda Cramer, who was out there on radio assignment to interview the great costume designers of film.”

  “Hilda got you a job?” I thought I had already heard the most amazing news, but this is even better.

  “Oh, she told Helen Rose I was the cat’s pajamas, socks, and nightcap.”

  “Well, you are, and it’s about time everybody important knows it!” I’m so happy for Delmarr. He belongs in Hollywood, where glamour and elegance still matter.

  “She asked if I had any talented staff I’d like to bring along, and I told her all about you.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely. Come with me, Lucia. You’ll go right on staff, making a salary.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. Pack your bags, kid. We’re going to California. If ever there were two New Yorkers who needed a fresh start, it’s us. There’s one thing, though. I want your personal guarantee that when I tell you to drop a guy, you’ll drop him pronto. That’s Italian for fast, you know.”

  “I’ll do whatever you say.” I throw my arms around Delmarr’s neck. “Thank you, thank you!”

  “One more thing. I’m thirty-six, if anyone asks. We’re going to the land of youth and beauty, and forty isn’t a number anyone wants to hear. It’s like the failing grade that puts you out of school. Forty and you’re out.”

  “No problem. But Delmarr . . .”

  “What?”

  “I thought you were thirty-four.”

  “Even better.”

  “Who’s gonna take care of Ma?” Roberto whines.

  “I can take care of myself!” Mama counters. “I’m not some old lady.”

  “You’re not old, but you are a lady. And there are some things that a mother needs her daughter around for, okay?” Roberto smacks the table lightly with his fist, just like Papa used to do.

  The change in Roberto since Papa’s death is noticeable. Though he’s assumed the unelected position of patriarch, life was so much easier when Papa was the leader. Despite Papa’s being from the old country, he had a progressive way of looking at things. Roberto acts like God has personally selected him to keep traditional family roles, established in medieval Italy, thriving and intact in America. I’m sorry that I announced my job opportunity to the family during Sunday dinner. I should have known better.

  “I think Lu should go,” Rosemary says as baby Antonio, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, sucks on the tip of her pinky. “You boys might not know this, but she’s very talented. She doesn’t take in mending or make curtains. She’s an artist in a custom shop.”

  “We know where’s she gone every Monday through Friday for the last eight years, Ro,” Rob
erto tells her.

  “Hollywood is so far away,” Orlando says sadly.

  “There’s always the Super Chief, the fastest train in America, and it runs both ways,” I remind him.

  “Last fall was horrible. We don’t want anybody to hurt you ever again. Okay?” Roberto says as he tears off a piece of bread. “You’re too good, Lu. It’s always been your problem. You get sucked in by bad elements. It’s not your fault. But it happens, and we gotta stop it.”

  “I’m getting older. If I’m going to make a new start, I need to do it now.” I wish I could explain to my family what it’s been like since John Talbot left me. The changes are subtle, but I feel them deeply. I used to be pursued by young men from good families, but no more. The kind of suitors who have approached me lately aren’t men my family or I ever would have considered. The other morning, when I passed the school yard on my way to the Groceria, the young men didn’t even call my name. When I smiled, they didn’t acknowledge me. I need to go somewhere I can begin anew.

  “We’d like it if you’d find a nice guy in the neighborhood and start a home. Now, if you don’t find a nice guy, we love having you here. You’re a big help to Mama and Ro and the new baby.” Roberto beams with paternal pride.

  I’m grateful when Mama changes the subject. Roberto may believe that he has the final say over my life, but he doesn’t. I’m a modern woman, and I’m going to do what I want to do. I haven’t worked this hard for so long to stay home and be the maiden aunt to my nieces and nephews, no matter how much I love them. It’s time for me think about how I want to live, and if giving up my glorious room and life in New York City is part of the package, then that’s how it must be.

  After dinner I help Rosemary wash the dishes and put them away.

  “Thanks for speaking up at dinner,” I say.

  “Listen, Lu, there’s enough help around here. I know you feel a duty to your mother, but this is the good thing about being in a big family: many hands make light work.”

  I laugh. “I noticed that. Since you moved in, taking care of the house has been so much easier.”