The color that had just come back into Luciana’s face drained out, and Annamaria scowled at Julietta, afraid the girl would faint again. “Why do you ask?”
“You mentioned him. While you were on the floor.”
“What did I say?” Her eyes burned with an unearthly intensity in her pallid face.
“You cried out for him. Said something about assassins.”
She should never have accepted the wine!
“Is he all right?”
“Fine.”
Julietta might have asked more questions, but the look on the girl’s face precluded any more inquiries. They worked in near silence for the rest of the afternoon, Julietta fearing that Annamaria’s promised illness might come at any time; Annamaria fearing that Luciana might faint once again; and Luciana fearing both that she had revealed too much and that Madame might deny her request for immediate pay.
At six o’clock, Julietta and Annamaria put away their work, cleaned up their areas, and prepared to leave.
“Are you coming?” Annamaria searched the girl’s eyes for any sign of hunger or illness. She saw only a strange sort of resignation. And . . . panic.
“No.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow?” The question was posed with the quiet optimism of hope. Annamaria had liked the girl, even though she hadn’t said very much and even though what she’d said were mostly lies. She’d heard several Genovese speaking once, and they hadn’t had the accent the new girl did.
Luciana heard the pair walk down the stairs. Heard the exit of those other faceless, nameless girls on the second floor. And just when she figured that no one was left, she heard the sound of a person coming up the stairs. She felt a sudden pounding in her chest, and a draining of warmth from her face. She knew there was no reason for the terror that clutched at her. Knew there was no one more sinister than Madame Fortier in the shop. She tried to still her trembling hands by laying aside her work and tidying her space.
Madame soon appeared in the doorway. “May I see what you’ve accomplished?”
Luciana held out the collar.
Madame took it into her hands. Ran a finger over the beads. Hardly a gap could be felt between them. And there was nary a pull in the material beneath. She turned the collar over, praying as she did so, that she wouldn’t be disappointed. She wasn’t. The stitching was as neat and precise as if she’d done it herself. She nodded. “Nicely done.”
Luciana swallowed. Took in a breath for courage. “I need money, Signora.”
“And you’ll have it. Work like this will be well paid.”
“I need money now.”
Madame raised a brow even as Luciana’s collapsed in upon themselves. It wasn’t going right. She’d meant to ask, not demand, but the problem was that she wasn’t used to doing either. The contessa’s granddaughter was used to having her needs met, even anticipated. And at first, in America, she’d had money to speak for her needs. But she had abandoned her title in this new country and now her money was gone.
“Who are you? Exactly.” Madame put the collar down on the table and looked at her newest hire.
“An immigrant.”
“As are all my girls.”
“I am Luciana Conti.”
“Who is not from Abruzzo. Or Calabria. Or Sicily. Where are you from?”
Luciana didn’t answer. “I’m an immigrant and just one among so many. Why should it matter who I am or where I’m from?”
Everything matters. But because the girl was trying, so desperately, not to let it, Madame Fortier decided not to pursue the matter. “I will pay you for two days’ work, and I’m trusting that you’ll return to the shop tomorrow.”
Two days’ work. It wouldn’t be much money, but it would be something. And at that point, something was everything.
Luciana did return the next day, a Friday. And on Monday and Tuesday. By that time, her oddly elegant gown had lost its allure for both Julietta and Annamaria. And her satin pumps were showing holes in their soles. Meant for the gleaming floors of a Roman ballroom, they were entirely out of their element on the cobblestoned streets of Boston.
That afternoon, Madame Fortier came up to the workshop, carrying a pile of gowns in her hands. She deposited them on the worktable in front of Luciana. “Some of these are mine, but most are discards from seasons past. They aren’t really of the mode at the moment, but I suppose they’ll do well enough for you.”
Julietta looked over at Luciana, envy sparking her eyes. Gowns – a whole pile of them – all for the new girl! When she herself was used to wearing nothing grander than blouses and skirts. She frowned. Snuck another peek at them. Not of the mode? Nothing an adjustment here and a tuck there couldn’t fix. She could think of a dozen ways in which the gown Mrs. Leavenworth had deemed unsuitable and the gown Mrs. Morgan had refused to pay for could be redeemed.
“Of course, you would have to make them suitable for day wear. But the colors are dark and the lines simple. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Luciana put a hand atop the stack to claim them. “Grazie.” It cost her a piece of her pride to say it, to admit that the daughter of the Count of Roma had been relegated to accepting discards from a dressmaker. But she realized that airs and attitudes would not clothe her. And that there was nothing so important as remaining in Madame’s good graces.
Madame turned to leave. But then she paused in her step. “Please take what you need – needles, thread, shears – to alter them.”
Luciana nodded, knowing that needles and shears could not inform the hands of a girl who could not use them. She had never made a gown, never altered anything in her life, never stitched two pieces of material together. Why should she have had to? She had ordered everything she’d wanted from a couturier in Paris. What she had done, the beading she had learned, had simply been a parlor trick. A society-sanctioned way to pass her hours when she had tired of books or music or painting. The donation of gowns was very nice, but she had no way to put them to use. She pressed her lips together in apprehension as she wondered how long she had until Madame would expect to see her wearing them.
6
Annamaria had left work in a hurry that evening, riding the electric car back to North Station and then walking to St. Leonard’s Church. She was going to confession so she could be absolved of all her sins.
But what had she ever done? Besides dodge old Giuseppe and walk on by the Sardos’ store? She wished she could do something that really needed confessing.
Annamaria clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as she deciphered the thought. Had she just – had she really . . . ? Where had that come from? She made the sign of the cross, and then clutched at the medal that dangled from her neck.
But as she stood in line at the church behind signora Tubello and signora Rimaldi, feet shuffling against the stone of the floor, she pondered the thought. Most people did things that needed confessing. Her sister Theresa did, nearly every time she opened her mouth or set foot outside the apartment. Mama did. So did Papa. So why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she be allowed the same right to sin as everyone else?
Because it was wicked, that’s why.
But still. Why was so much expected of her when nothing was expected of anyone else?
Did that mean she wanted to be . . . bad? She didn’t think so. At least that wasn’t what she meant to think. But what did it mean? Where had those thoughts come from? And how could she get rid of them?
When her turn came, she stepped into the closet-like space, closing the door behind her. Inside, it was dark, the air close, smelling faintly of the rosemary that tainted signora Tubello’s breath and quite strongly of the peculiar odor of signora Rimaldi’s sweat. I might have fanned my hand in front of my nose, you might have pinched yours shut entirely, but Annamaria found the scents rather comforting.
Annamaria searched for the comforting sight of Father Antonio’s shadow on the other side of the screen that separated them. Having seen it, she closed her eyes. Clasped her han
ds. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession.” She paused. Normally, she would have immediately started confessing sins, but the things she’d done the week before, the thoughts she’d had that evening, refused to be categorized. They had seemed sinful . . . but were they really? What gave old Giuseppe the right to pinch her? And why should she do something for Theresa that Theresa was perfectly capable of doing for herself?
Those weren’t sins.
But . . . maybe her feelings were. Though she’d been exhilarated by her actions at first, they’d left her feeling peevish and foul-tempered. And hadn’t she just thought about doing something wrong? More than that she’d tried to justify the doing of wrong, hadn’t she? And worse, she’d desired it.
“I’ve had thoughts, Father.”
“Of what, my child?”
“Of doing . . . wrong.”
Annamaria Rossi? Doing wrong? On his side of the screen, Father Antonio leaned forward. What on earth could the girl be planning? “Have you done something wrong, then?”
“No. I’ve just thought about it.”
“About what?”
“About . . . being bad.”
“Why? In what way?”
Here, then, is where it began to get tricky. Annamaria’s thoughts were subversive in the most dangerous sort of way. They were thoughts meant to entice. Thoughts that could, very possibly, seduce one into sin. But Annamaria hardly had the words to explain it, and Father Antonio could not conceive of it, at least not in conjunction with Annamaria Rossi, and so he remained dismissive and rather bemused when he should have been quite concerned.
“It’s just – I’m not – it’s not fair, Father! It’s not fair that I should be kept from the things that I want. Not when everybody else is allowed to have them.” She despised herself for the tone in which she had spoken the words. Father Antonio must surely think her nothing but a whiny child. She wished she’d said nothing at all. But that was the point of confession, wasn’t it? To say things?
“And what is it that you find yourself wanting?”
“I want . . .” to be free. “I want a family, Father. I’d like to get married. I want to have children. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with that. But your life must be given over to service. You know that this must be.”
“But . . . why? How do I know that this is what God demands?”
“He made you, didn’t He?”
He had.
“And He placed you in your family, didn’t He?”
He had.
“And what is the commandment that He gave to sons and daughters?”
“Honor your father and mother . . . ”
“That your days may be long in the land which the Lord your God gives you.” How Father Antonio liked Annamaria Rossi! She was one of the only ones who still remembered her catechism.
That my days may be long? Dear God, please, don’t curse me like that! How lonely all those days would be. “It just doesn’t seem fair that those are the things everyone would want for Theresa while they’re all denied to me.”
“Nothing in this life is fair. And remember, our Lord Jesus came to serve, not to be served.”
To serve. Suddenly the weight of the medal that hung around her neck seemed so heavy.
“You know, my child . . . you can’t confess to a sin that you have not committed. I must ask if you have any others.”
Annamaria’s cheeks flushed with shame. Of course she couldn’t. She hurried through the confession of her true sins and finally, she prayed. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they have offended thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.”
And so Father Antonio granted her absolution when he ought to have warned her to take great care. He prayed for her and assigned her ten Hail Mary’s and three rosaries as penance. “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.”
“For His mercy endures forever.”
Annamaria stepped out of the booth, and Father Antonio remained, hoping for a parishioner just a little more . . . interesting. For someone who really needed his help.
As Annamaria walked down Prince Street, she couldn’t keep herself from wondering if, in fact, she could do something that needed confessing. Something so . . . rebellious, so . . . wicked, that it had to be wrong. Wouldn’t that be something? But doing something, and being able to do something, were two very different things. Unfortunately, meek, kind, gentlehearted Annamaria had cultivated the two most lamentable, most damning traits known to womanhood: She was nice. And worse, she was good.
Julietta, on the other hand, could have confessed to any number of sins. But she didn’t. At least not on a weekly basis. She had developed a more efficient method of confession that fit in rather nicely with her personal philosophy of work. Why go to St. Leonard’s for confession every week and admit to sins by ones and twos, when making a confession once a year, at Easter, was so much more convenient? It made her feel more devout in the same way that it made her feel more contrite. She could repent and be sorry in a much more satisfactory way if she had the benefit of having all her sins lined up together in a nice long row.
And that evening, she added one more sin to the pile.
The Settlement House lady visited the Giordanos again. Julietta loved it when she came. The girl could examine her clothing – and her hats! – and then, later, try to imitate the American accent. But to Mama Giordano, the Settlement House lady was the devil incarnate, always telling her the things she shouldn’t do and handing her an ever-growing list of things that she should. She couldn’t understand Americans! Mama had offered the woman a bowl of her spaghetti with tomato gravy and the woman had turned it down. And not just that. She had done it with a sniff.
And a grimace!
Mama took the bowl from the woman and put it down in front of Little Matteo. He knew what was good for him. Then she looked over at Julietta. “What did she say?”
Julietta understood English much better than she could speak it. “She says we need to eat more meat. Every starch needs a meat.” That’s what the lady always said, and Julietta was inclined to agree with her. That’s what all Americans ate. They ate meat. Mounds and mounds of meat.
“More meat? She going to give us some?”
The Settlement House lady was a bit worried. It was always tense in the Giordano apartment and now the mother of the brood was frowning. She turned toward Julietta. “What is your mother saying? She doesn’t look happy.”
“She fine. She fine.” She wasn’t, of course, and that’s where the sinning came in. Julietta had lied.
“She going to give us some? That’s what I want to know.” Mama stepped toward the Settlement House lady, arms lifted as if in supplication to heaven. “When are you going to give us this meat?”
“Ma.”
The Settlement House lady was looking back and forth between Julietta and her mother. “Maybe . . . I know meat is expensive. But so many vegetables – it’s just not healthy for you! I know you people eat noodles . . . maybe you could just eat them with meat. With . . . meatballs!” That would work, wouldn’t it? Meatballs couldn’t be as expensive as a roast or a chicken. And hadn’t she seen Italians making meatballs? Somewhere in that filthy and derelict old building?
“What did she say?”
“She says maybe we can eat our maccheroni with meatballs.”
“What? Like this spaghetti? With meatballs? Who ever heard of such a thing!”
“Ma.”
“She’s crazy. Loony.” She swept her gaze from Julietta to the Settlement House lady. “Get out of my house.” Turned back to Julietta. “Tell her to get out of my house. Got no time for crazy people. Got enough people here as it is.” She shuffled back to the stove, muttering
to herself.
“What did your mother say?”
“She say . . . that’s good idea, but . . . she got to think about it.”
“Think about it?”
“She got to think about . . . about . . . what we have for dinner now we can’t have vegetables.”
“It’s not that you can’t have vegetables. It’s just that you shouldn’t have so many of them.”
“Pazza!” Mama had brandished her wooden spoon along with her words.
“She say, Thank you for coming.”
“Italian’s a very strange language, isn’t it? It uses so many less words.”
“Crazy! E’ proprio fuori!” Mama poked herself above the temple with a finger.
“Please . . . she say, Don’t trip over the door.”
The lady turned and flashed a smile toward Mama Giordano.
“Thank you.”
Mama placed her hand beneath her chin, palm down, and then flicked it away from her face toward the woman.
Julietta blanched at the gesture. Turned to push the lady out the door. “That mean God bless you.”
That was a gesture the Settlement House lady hadn’t seen before. The southern Italians were such a strange race of people. Always using their hands whenever they talked. She sighed and then lifted her shoulders, endeavoring to be as pleasant as she could with these destitute illiterates. She put her own hand beneath her chin, repeating the gesture. “And God bless you too.”
Julietta waited until the door had shut before she turned on her mother. “What are you thinking?”
Mama looked up from her pot. “What was she thinking, that’s what I want to know.”
“You can’t treat them that way! I had to tell her you had blessed her.”
“Blessed her?”
“That’s what I told her. That you’d said God bless you.”
“God bless you? To that woman? ‘God curse you,’ more like. God curse these people who think they can come into my house, my own kitchen, and tell me what to do! Did you see her? Did you see that hat she wore? In Chiusano San Domenico only two kinds of women wear hats – ”
A Heart Most Worthy Page 4