Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  “I love it here.”

  “You don’t miss Brooklyn?” I ask, wondering if I’ll be homesick in Hollywood.

  “Only the Promenade. There’s something about water. I used to walk along the river every night after dinner. It’s very soothing.”

  I never got to show Rosemary the spot that would have been my home on the water, but I remember the feeling of peace I’d have whenever I looked out on Huntington Bay. “I wonder if I’ll like the Pacific Ocean.”

  Mama yells, “Telephone for you, Lucia!”

  I dry my hands and go into the living room to take the phone from Mama. “Hello?”

  “Lucia, it’s Dante.” I haven’t seen him since Papa’s funeral. We didn’t get to talk much, but once again, when we needed them, the DeMartinos were there. My heart melts a little at the sound of his voice.

  “Dante, how are you?” I ask warmly.

  “I’m fine. How have you been?”

  “We’re muddling through around here. It’s not the same without Papa. Thank you again for the beautiful flowers you sent to the funeral home. And to your whole family for coming to be with us.”

  “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”

  “I know.” I’ve been asking myself since November why I couldn’t be content with a nice fellow who loved me. Why did I have to go for heat and danger, the slick John Talbot? What was I thinking, going above Fourteenth Street for love?

  “Would you like to go out for dinner on Saturday?” he asks. His voice breaks, exactly like it did the very first time he asked me out on a date.

  “I’d love to,” I tell him.

  The last gown we build in the Custom Shop is Violet Peters’s lace fantasia wedding gown, rows of lace and ruffles over a full skirt with a bodice of illusion netting and long sleeves that come to a point. The gown is too silly for Delmarr’s taste, but he designs it to please Violet, who’s ecstatic when she sees the final result. It’s appropriate for a girl who will recess out of the church under the honor guard of the New York City Police Department, their swords forming a silver canopy in the air.

  I have to say, I can’t wait to get to California and make movie costumes. I’m tired of wedding gowns and all that comes with them. If I ever marry, I’ll wear a suit, like they did in my mother’s day. The world has gone too crazy for big weddings. Maybe it’s still the postwar glow, a glorification of true love and men coming home to devoted women, but enough is enough.

  Ruth, Helen, and I throw Violet a bridal shower at the Plaza Hotel, just the four of us over high tea. The place is posh, with its flower arrangements of long-stemmed roses and pink lilies spilling over their tall pedestals like fountains. Everything comes to the table on polished silver, cookies and tea sandwiches served on a three-tiered tray by a waiter wearing white gloves.

  Violet cries when she opens the three-piece leather luggage set we bought her and finds her new initials embossed in gold on the handles: V.P.C. “I’m gonna be Wallis Simpson on my honeymoon!”

  “And then there was one!” I toast myself with champagne and say loudly, “What’s to become of the old maid?” I’m feeling a little tipsy.

  “Come on, you’ve got plenty of time,” Ruth says kindly.

  “Girls, let’s face it. I’m a very poor planner. I chose a career that’s becoming obsolete and a man who, last time I heard, was in jail. And now I’ve agreed to go out on a date with my ex-fiancé.”

  “The closing of the Custom Shop is not your fault,” Ruth begins.

  “And how could you have known that John Talbot was a con artist?” Violet adds.

  “Grab Dante DeMartino. We all loved him, and you should get it over with and marry the man,” Helen says.

  “I want to go to Hollywood more than I want a husband,” I announce with such conviction that the ladies at the next table look at me.

  The girls stare at me. I realize too late how rude I’ve been. Three career girls making jobs of being wives don’t need to hear about my big plans in movie land. What do they care about palm trees, convertibles, and sunsets on the beach, and worse, enjoying all these things alone? But it’s clear to me: I’m the left shoe, the oddball, the sideshow. I want to work like a man. No one puts it that way, but that’s the truth. That’s my dream. When I look back on all I’ve been through, my working life is the one thing that has never let me down.

  None of the fancy things I have been given in my life, from Papa’s gift of a coral necklace on my sixteenth birthday to John Talbot’s mink coat, meant nearly as much to me as the things I bought myself with the $48.50 a week I made at B. Altman & Company. There isn’t a man who can come along and buy me anything that I cannot earn myself. “Never let the man know that,” Mama used to say to me, but the lesson didn’t take. I’ve spent wisely and never splurged. I remember the radio, the hair dryer with the deluxe bonnet, and the canopy bed from Interior Decoration that I bought with my own money. I calculated how many hours I had to work against the value of the purchase. I could practically tell you how many stitches I’d need to sew to walk out of B. Altman’s with whatever item my heart desired.

  My biggest problem with the opposite sex is that I know how to be happy on my own. It’s in my nature to make the best of a bad situation. Even now, with the department closing, there are opportunities to pursue for a worker of my caliber and experience. I may have to travel across the country to seize an opportunity, but still, it’s mine for the taking.

  “Who says everybody has to get married?” Ruth says.

  Violet takes a bite of her cookie. “It’s the building block of society.”

  “Well, you girls may have to be the blocks,” I tell them.

  “You don’t sound sad about it.” Violet looks sad enough for all of us.

  “I’m not,” I say.

  “Violet, Lucia has her happiness coming. In fact, she’s owed it,” Ruth says to me, and smiles. How I will miss her when I move to California. Her friendship has shaped me, made me feel safe, and given me a confidante I could laugh with. I am so lucky that I met her when I most needed a partner. “I hope you’re never sad again,” she tells me. “You’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

  It’s that funny time of year in New York City, the week in September when it’s neither hot nor cold, and there’s a mugginess in the air that ruins the best hairstyles. I leave the curlers in an extra hour to keep the humidity at bay. Dante has invited me to the San Gennaro Festival. I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, and I’m looking forward to catching up with him.

  Dante picks me up promptly at seven (men who are late have never been my problem). He whistles when I come down the stairs. “Do I have a date with Ava Gardner?” he asks.

  “I’m her stand-in,” I say.

  Little does Dante know, I copied this outfit right out of Photoplay magazine. Ava Gardner, during one of her brawls with Frank Sinatra, was wearing black capri pants, a white blouse, and a wide waist-cinching red belt with matching flat sandals. I copied it down to the smallest detail, including the delicate gold hoop earrings, nestled against her dark hair.

  Commerce Street is jammed with cars, every parking spot taken, which is rare. The festival brings families from all the boroughs, and even though we’re twenty blocks from Little Italy, cars have overflowed into the Village. As we walk over, Dante doesn’t take my hand, but he guides me when we cross the street by placing his hand on the small of my back.

  “How’s work at the bakery?” I ask.

  “Good. Papa’s cranky, but he’s always cranky. And Mama’s taking care of the house, as usual.”

  I look at Dante and envision how close I came to living with his family on First Avenue and East Third Street, with bleached white diapers hanging on the line in the backyard and his mother making homemade pasta on the farm table in the kitchen. For one moment I reconsider what life with Dante DeMartino might have been. He’s handsome, and so mannerly and sweet. He has deep roots, like mine, and Papa thought we were a good match. Dante is not a
shallow man who flits through the world having a good time at the expense of others. Ruth would call him the genuine article. As we walk through the crowd, men tip their hats to him, and women smile and ask about his family. John Talbot might have elbowed his way into society, but Dante has a common touch. I wonder why I never appreciated it before.

  As we walk under the glittery white arches over Mulberry Street, I wonder how I can bear to leave Greenwich Village. It has been my home all of my life. I know my people well, and they know me. For every gentleman who tips his hat to Dante, there’s one who throws me a kiss. We’re not only welcome here but celebrated. Will the Hollywood movie stars treat me with this kind of affection and respect? This is where I belong, in the heart of Little Italy with people just like me. All around us window boxes are stuffed with small red, white, and green Italian flags, and I wonder if I’ll ever see anything like this again. Will it be enough to stick flags in the urns outside my Hollywood bungalow?

  This morning I ate only a banana for breakfast because I want a sausage and pepper sandwich and then a sack of zeppoles, fried dough rolled in sugar, which I am not sharing. Dante waits in line for our sandwiches while I watch the Italian men from Faicco’s flip the sausage on the grill and shovel the steaming peppers and glistening onions onto the soft white bread and into a waxed-paper sleeve. Papa and I would eat these sandwiches every year at the festival, and holding on to this tradition makes me feel like he’s still with me.

  After we’ve covered every inch of the festival, I watch as Dante gambles at the roulette wheel, which unfortunately reminds me of Ruth’s story about John Talbot losing a bundle at the track. With each spin of the wheel, I recall more clues that should have steered me away from John. Why didn’t I listen to my father? Poor Papa, who gave in to the idea of John Talbot so he wouldn’t lose me altogether. What a silly girl I was. If Dante DeMartino loved me before, he’d really love the new Lucia Sartori, sadder but wiser. Dante quits the wheel after losing five dollars and buys me my sack of zeppoles before he runs out of cash. “Good thing I can walk you home,” he says with a smile. “Because the cab fare went to San Gennaro Church.” As we walk out of Little Italy and head back toward home, I suggest we sit on the post office steps and eat our zeppoles.

  We sit quietly, watching people leave the festival, carrying balloons on strings and stuffed animals won at games. Then Dante brushes the powdered sugar off his hands and says, “Lu, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  I sit with Dante, the drone of the crowd behind us, lights spilling out windows and down onto the street, and the taste of sugar on my lips reminds me of all the feasts I have gone to with him. Suddenly I want to lean over and kiss him. Instead, I sit back. “So, what do you want to tell me?”

  “I’m getting married, Lucia.” Dante stares down at his hands.

  I’m glad he’s not looking at me, because I need a moment to compose myself. Then I say warmly, trying to sound upbeat, “Oh, Dante, congratulations. Who is she?”

  “Juliana Fabrizi.”

  “I don’t think I know her. Is she from the neighborhood?”

  “Yeah, they live near us on First Avenue. Her father has a deli on East Tenth Street.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe if I saw her, I’d know her.”

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t go to school with us or anything. She’s younger.”

  “Younger?”

  “She’s eighteen.”

  “Eighteen.” I whistle low in disbelief. I can’t believe this day has come so soon—I am not the youngest girl on the dance floor anymore. Who would have thought that Dante DeMartino would be the man to point it out to me? “What’s she like? I mean, besides the fact that she’s eighteen,” I say pleasantly.

  “She’s very easygoing. Pretty. Sweet.”

  “Does your mama like her?” I ask.

  “Very much.”

  “Then she must be a great girl.”

  “You think so?” Dante still seeks my approval.

  “You know, Juliana is very lucky. You’re the best. They don’t make ’em any better than you.”

  “That’s exactly what I say about you. You have just one flaw.”

  “Only one? This I’ve got to hear.” I put a big smile on my face, but what I want to do is cry. I liked it better when I controlled the situation, when I knew that Dante loved me, and no matter where I went or what I did, he was there in the bakery pining for me. He was my security as much as Papa was, a man who would love me and wait for me no matter what. But all of that has changed because he has fallen in love with someone new. “So, what is my one flaw?”

  “You’re not the marrying kind.”

  Dante looks at me at last, but he can’t hold the gaze. He seems to be trying not to cry. I can’t cry about the truth. If I did, the person I would betray is me. I stand and brush the sugar off my capris. I extend my hand to Dante, and he takes it and stands up. We look at each other.

  “I’m sorry, Dante,” I tell him. And I know that if I told him I wanted him, he would probably drop Juliana Fabrizi instantly and return to my arms. He’s waiting for me to say the word, but I’m not going to. I will not hurt him again.

  “I know you are,” Dante says sadly. And on this, my last date with Dante DeMartino, he holds my hand all the way home.

  Closing down the Custom Department should be a simple operation since we’ve been dismantling it since last February, but there’s still a ton of paperwork to finish. The most difficult chore is the final inventory of the fabric supply room. Each remnant represents a memory of some dress we made, suit we built, or coat we tailored.

  “Look, Lu. Nuns’ wool!” Delmarr lifts the flat board over his head. “How do those girls live in this material? I wouldn’t cover a car seat with it.”

  “They take a vow of poverty, you know. It wouldn’t be the same if their habits were made of silk chamois.”

  “Here. You should have this.” Delmarr brings me a yard of gold lamé.

  “New Year’s Eve!”

  “You know, we did a lot of work in here. I’m surprised we still have fingers.”

  “Do you ever wonder what it will be like when we walk out those doors for the last time?” I point to the Hub’s swinging doors, which have marked every coming and going for seven years.

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re taking the doors off tomorrow.”

  “Taking them off?”

  “Oh, yes. They’re reconfiguring the floor, so the doors are going, and then these walls, and soon the third floor will be one big open space full of racks and racks and racks of machine-made crap. Won’t that be pretty?”

  “Horrible.”

  “Lucia, observe this closely. This is the day elegance took a powder.”

  I look at Delmarr, expecting him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks as though his heart is breaking.

  I’m so happy that Mama has a new grandson to coo over on our first Christmas without Papa. Sometimes I see her cry, and then she pulls herself together and throws herself back into holiday preparation, but I know it’s not easy for her. And it doesn’t ease her mind to see me packing for California while she grieves.

  Delmarr is astonished at our Christmas Eve feast and is moved (spiritually, I’m not sure, but definitely aesthetically) during Midnight Mass at Our Lady of Pompeii. “Do you realize all the things that have happened to you in this church?” he whispers. “And you still come back? I can’t believe it!”

  “It’s called faith,” I whisper back.

  “It’s called fear of hell,” Delmarr says as he looks up at the stained-glass window behind the altar. “My own father, a dyed-in-the-wool agnostic, used to call any donation to the church fire insurance.”

  Mama nudges us to stop whispering. When I look at the poinsettia-covered altar and the pew markers, white carnations with red ribbons, I close my eyes and imagine how I must have looked on my wedding day. It’s been a year,
but it seems like a lifetime has passed; and then there are those moments so painful and raw it feels like yesterday. I have the same feeling about Papa’s passing. Sometimes it feels like he’s been gone for a long time, and other times I half expect him to pull up in the truck and yell from the street for Mama to come with him for ice cream.

  Delmarr kisses me on the cheek after Mass and gives Mama a big hug. As he turns to cross Cornelia Street on his way home, he looks back and shouts, “Monday morning, six a.m., Grand Central Station. Connection to Chi-town. Then the Super Chief to Hollywood!”

  I wave. “See you there!”

  I have one week to finish my packing. It’s the hats that are causing me agita. How many to take and where to put them. The California sun is bright, and I don’t want it to ruin my New York complexion.

  I’m in the basement doing my final load of laundry before leaving for California. I can’t believe I’m feeling sentimental about this old Maytag, the ironing board, and the drying rack, but for so many years I was the Sartori family laundress, and I took my role very seriously. I hear a loud thump. At first I think it’s the machine, but I realize the sound came from another room. I sprint into the next room, afraid the baby fell, but Antonio is napping quietly in his crib. I run upstairs to the kitchen and find Mama on the floor. She has collapsed, and there is a pool of blood next to her face from a gash in her forehead. I grab the phone and call for an ambulance. I get down on the floor next to Mama and try to listen for her heart. Soon the paramedics arrive and load her into the ambulance. I pray aloud to God, “Please don’t take her.”

  Here we are again, I think as we wait for a report from the doctor at Saint Vincent’s. The boys were bereft when Papa got sick, but this is even worse. This is Mama, and I don’t think her sons can picture the world without her. Neither can I.

  After a while the doctor comes out to talk to us.

  “Is she all right?” Roberto asks him.

  “Your mother had a small seizure. At first we assumed it was a stroke, but it’s more like the precursor to a stroke. We’re going to have to spend some time figuring out what happened to her, but hopefully we can prescribe some medication that will prevent any such episodes.”