Choices of the Heart

by Margaret Gay Malone

  Ottavia smoothed his collar. “Find a nice girl.”

  “Aunt Antonia always tells Paolo, “Find a nice Italian girl, maybe one from Torino. You never say that, Mama.”

  She smiled a faraway smile. “Sometimes, dear one, when love does the choosing, it is not always someone we expect.”

  He sensed she was talking about herself. He hesitated, hoping she would explain. Instead, she patted him on the shoulder. “Go, and have a good time.”

  He and Paolo walked the few blocks to the church hall, a wooden structure behind the big brick church. Though he did not have Vittorio’s good looks, Paolo had grown to be an attractive young man. He was medium height, muscular like Vittorio because of the same work, and had the warmth and friendliness of his mother. Girls were attracted to them, for they found Paolo easy to talk to, but it was Vittorio who stole their hearts.

  Paolo gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Whose heart are you going to break tonight, eh, Vittorio?”

  “What is this, first Mama, then you?”

  “It’s spring!” Paolo stretched out his arms. “In spring, pretty girls get even prettier. It’s the law of nature.”

  “Nature and Paolo Crespi. Let’s just have a good time.” He smiled as the two of them dashed up the hall’s steps two at a time.

  A young man collected their twenty-five cents admission, while behind him, two old women dressed in black eyed them suspiciously. They were chaperones, there to guard the young women’s virtue against swaggering young men such as these.

  The dance had begun a half hour before. A violinist stood on the stage, his eyes closed. He could make the instrument cry. Young men clustered on the edge of the dance floor, young women in groups of their own. The girls giggled, throwing surreptitious glances at the men. The males laughed and pushed one another, generally in the direction of a pretty girl, but stopping short of anything more than fleeting eye contact.

  Eventually an accordion player stepped up, and the music grew livelier, the young men bolder, and soon a timorous few were on the dance floor, the girls’ skirts whirling as the men danced them around.

  Young women cast flirtatious looks at Vittorio, who smiled his winning smile back at each one. The groups edged closer. Paolo elbowed Vittorio. “Look at how Concentina looks at you. She’s pretty, don’t you think?”

  “As pretty as anyone here tonight.”

  “What did I tell you! Why don’t you ask her to dance?”

  “What if she says no?”

  “Then I’ll take her to the insane asylum.”

  They laughed, and Paolo’s joke was enough encouragement for Vittorio.

  As he walked over to the young women, they all followed him with their eyes, but it was Concentina he chose. She giggled nervously as he took her hand and led her onto the floor. They danced in silence, and when the music stopped, he held onto her hand.

  “Stay a while,” he said. “What town do you come from back home?”

  “Sicilia,” she said with a heavy accent.

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Three years.”

  “Did you go to school here?”

  She shook her head. “Why go to school? What do I need to know? I already can cook and clean.” She giggled again.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “It’s all right.”

  Silences followed each of her answers, which Vittorio hoped she would fill with questions of her own. Instead, she kept glancing over her shoulder at her friends. Vittorio attempted to continue the one-sided conversation for a while, then gave up and led her back to her friends.

  Paolo smiled expectantly. “Well?”

  “She is best at giggling.”

  “Too bad, but there are others.”

  Vittorio grinned. “I know, and we will meet them all.”

  The two young men spent the rest of the evening keeping their promise.

  “I’m going to ask to walk Stephania home,” Paolo said as the two got ready to leave. “Why don’t you pick someone? Tonetta has a pretty smile.”

  “Paolo, you try too hard. I’m in a hurry. I want to sleep so I can get up early to play baseball.”

  “Baseball!” Paolo shook his head. “You cannot put your arm around its waist or steal a kiss from it, but still you love it. More, I think, than a pretty woman.”

  Paolo was right. For now, he loved baseball best.

  Chapter 20

  “Kitty, my good blue shirt is ripped. Where do you want me to put it?”

  “The trash bin will do,” Kitty said under her breath.

  “Kitty?”

  “Leave it on the chair in my room, Pa,” she answered aloud.

  “I need it for tomorrow.”

  Up to her elbows in a dishpan of pots and soapy water, she rolled her eyes.

  “I can’t do it tonight, Pa. I have school. I’m late as it is.”

  “Then I haven’t a shirt for work.”

  “I washed and ironed two today. They’re behind the door.”

  “Ah, I see them,” he called from his room.

  Kitty attacked the last pot. Night school, and in particular, her literature class, began in twenty minutes. She didn’t want to miss a minute of it. Shakespeare transported her to another world where fiercely ambitious men and women killed for power, where the living were haunted by ghosts who spoke to them, and where lovers were torn apart by frivolous mistakes. It was a relief from the tedium of her chores. She had a thirst for learning and spent what little free time she had reading. She continued her habit of reading to Dermot, a ritual he loved, getting from it whatever he could, feeling the importance of it if not understanding its meaning.

  Dermot sat at the kitchen table eating an apple while she worked. In her rush, she spilled dishwater on the floor.

  “Now I’ll never be on time!”

  Her father walked into the kitchen, ignored the water, and sat down at the table with the newspaper.

  “Lord sakes, I’m not a servant girl!” she cried. She whipped off her apron and, ignoring the puddle, stormed from the room.

  Her father looked up in surprise as Dermot took a cloth from the counter and slowly wiped up the wet floor.

  Liam snapped his newspaper. “I do not understand that girl.”

  The spring breeze grazed her face as she ran the five blocks to school. Kitty’s mind was in turmoil. Ever since she was twelve, she had done the work of her mother. Now, at seventeen, what lay ahead but more drudgery? Her father accepted her labors as though they were perfectly normal, as if she had no life of her own, nothing other than to serve him and Dermot. It was “Kitty, get my pipe…My trousers need mending…The soup could have more barley in it…See that Dermot wears his warm sweater.” The litany was unending. Her father’s life had stopped with the death of his beloved Maeve. Often, as Kitty cleaned up in the kitchen after dinner, she heard her father in the parlor, humming a sad old Irish song. She knew he was fingering the crystal vase that was their wedding present. He was so consumed with her memory that it left no room for his children.

  And Kitty was so consumed by chores that she didn’t have time for girlfriends and was too busy to see that young men took notice of her, with her slim figure and thick auburn curls as she hurried to this store or that, her mind on potatoes and brisket instead of dances and beaus.

  Tired as she was, she made time for her passion. In school, she worked with her mind. Miss Cass, the literature teacher, asked her questions about their reading, and valued her opinions.

  “You have a wonderful mind,” she told Kitty after the class had read Julius Caesar, when she was the only student to see the irony in Marc Antony’s damning praise of Brutus. Kitty was fierce in condemning the assassins for being blind to what was right because of their own ambition.

  After class, Miss Cass stopped Kitty to talk. “I liked what you said about the men’s self-interest. You were passionate about it.”

  “Self-interest blinds people to what is really going on around them
.”

  The sadness in Kitty’s voice was not lost on her teacher. “That’s perceptive. It takes most people a long time to learn that, and you’re only…”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Often hardship can make people wise beyond their years. Did you make the crossing from Ireland?”

  “No, I was born here, a year after my parents came to America.”

  Miss Cass saw that Kitty was bright and pretty and when she laughed she lit up the room. She did not often find such a student. Miss Cass knew of the trials many immigrant families endured as they adjusted to a new life. What good was it to teach them literature if she did not also teach them to cope, perhaps even to find happiness?

  “Are your parents happy here?”

  “My mother died five years ago, but my father buries her every day.” Tears welled in her eyes, but Kitty brushed them away.

  “Come, sit down. The rest have left the room, and we can talk.”

  Having an unexpected confidante after years of holding in her pain and bitterness, Kitty spilled her heart out to the young woman, with the drudgery and loneliness of her life.

  “My papa wallows in memories of Mama. He has forgotten that he has a son and daughter who need him.” She sat quiet for a moment. “I should not burden you with the story of my life. You are a literature teacher, and the interesting parts of my life would fill no more than a page.” She sat straighter. “A page with large type, that is.”

  Miss Cass laughed. “You have a feistiness that will help you to get along.” The teacher was only twenty-five herself, near enough to understand a young girl’s longing for fun and romance, and Kitty’s story touched a chord in her.

  “You mean to tell me a pretty girl like you has never had a beau?”

  Kitty shook her head.

  “Well, this Sunday, some friends and I are going to celebrate spring with a picnic by the river. I think you should come.”

  Kitty began to shake her head.

  “What’s to stop you?”

  “I have to cook dinner for Pa and Dermot.”

  “Well, either cook it earlier or make a huge roast the day before and let them eat leftovers. As Shakespeare once said, “There is no builder of character more esteemed than the noble leftover.”

  “Act One of Much Ado About Pot Roast,” Kitty shot back, and they laughed conspiratorially, Kitty remembering how good it was to laugh.

  “I’d love to join you on Sunday.”

  ****

  Dermot was small for his nineteen years, and his cherubic face and innocent blue eyes made him look years younger. He continued to be teased by the neighborhood children, their taunts a cruel reminder of something he knew instinctively—that he was different.

  He was able to go out on his own, to the corner store for a pail of milk, or to the empty lot where boys got together to play baseball. Though he was not able enough to play, he loved watching them, and cheered the players as they rounded the bases, heading for home plate.

  “Home run!” he shouted every time his favorite player, a dark-haired young man about Dermot’s age, got up to bat. He’d watch him give a mighty swing and listen for the crack! when he connected. As much as his athletic ability, the friendly wave the young man gave Dermot as he rounded the bases made him feel good. He was Dermot’s idol.

  During one particularly hard-fought game, the score was tied, two-all. A few rowdies cheered for the other team, and jeered at Dermot’s friend every time he stepped up to bat. When Dermot rooted for the young athlete, they saw an easy prey, and taunted him with “Dummy!” and “Halfwit!”

  In the heat of the game, the player did not notice the abuse they gave Dermot. In the last inning, the athlete stepped up to bat, his team’s last hope. His face mirrored intense concentration, the muscles in his arms flexed to do his will. He was down by two outs when he swung with all his might. The whack when the bat connected was so loud that passersby whirled their heads to gape. The ball sailed down the street, sending an outfielder racing after it.

  As his idol rounded the bases, Dermot chanted, “Home run! Home run!” Infuriated that they had lost, the rivals jumped on Dermot and pushed him off the bench. The commotion caught the attention of the player, who ran over and muscled them off the lot.

  “Don’t let me see you around here again!” he shouted, then ran over to help Dermot up.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Y-yes. Thank you.” Dermot was shaken, but pleased that his idol had helped him. “N-nice game,” he managed.

  The player extended his hand. “Thanks. My name is Vittorio.”

  “Hello, Vittorio. My name is Dermot, and I want to be your friend.”

  ****

  The first thing Kitty did on Sunday morning was throw open the window. To her relief, the warm sunshine seemed to waft in on the spring breeze. A perfect day for a picnic. Right after Mass, she set to cooking the dinner, the corned beef simmering in a big pot and the potatoes peeled and ready to cook when the meat was almost done.

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be cooking dinner?” Liam said.

  “Early, but I’m going out.”

  Liam gaped at her. “Out? It’s Sunday. The stores will all be shut.”

  “I’m going on a picnic with friends from school.”

  He squinted, as if trying to process this information. “What about the dinner?”

  “It will be ready.”

  “Who will serve it?”

  “You will, Pa.”

  “And Dermot?”

  “You’ll serve him, too, Pa.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Then you’ll both probably be hungry. Suit yourself.”

  He had started to rise, but sank back in his chair at her response. “This is outrageous, young lady.”

  “I’m seventeen. I want to be with other young people, Papa. I’m invited to a picnic. My chores will be done and you’ll have dinner. You just have to serve it yourself.” She continued to prepare the dinner, and as soon as she was finished, she whipped off her apron and hung it on the door. “I’ll be home before dark.”

  Without a word, Liam sat down at the kitchen table, punched some tobacco into his pipe, and puffed in quick bursts, his thick brows converging.

  Out of the house on a beautiful Sunday in spring, Kitty could barely contain herself. She flew down the street, on her arm a basket of home-baked bread, still warm and ready to share with her new friends. How many would there be? Would any of the young men be handsome? Would any of them like her? The questions thrilled her. A week ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of such a day.

  Kitty met Miss Cass at the designated corner, and they continued on, picking up more friends.

  “Please call me Jane,” her teacher said before they joined the others. Kitty was introduced to each one as they met, five young men and seven women, all with one goal: to have a good time.

  They spread their blankets in a quiet spot by the East River, where a cool breeze refreshed them. All of the young people were friendly, several from Poland, one from Italy, and another from Ireland. The rest were teachers like Jane, born in America. They discussed politics, business, and the best way to assimilate.

  Kitty inhaled the different viewpoints. “Listen to our conversation,” she told them. “We are many people, with different experiences. If we stay among ourselves, we are the less for it. You all have wonderful ideas, and I love hearing them.” To her surprise, they applauded Kitty, who blushed, and shot a look of thanks to Jane.

  They opened basket after basket and spread out cold sliced pork and beef on a large platter, while another was heaped with cheeses and fruit. She was happy to open the blue linen wrap and lay the freshly made bread next to the meats. It looked too picturesque to eat, but a dozen young appetites cared more for the flavors than the visual artistry, and devoured every last morsel.

  Afterward, some played a game of catch; others strolled along the water. A Pole named Stan and an Irishman named Brian were especia
lly attentive to her. As the two began a friendly game of arm wrestling, Jane leaned over to Kitty.

  “It looks as though you have them both interested in you.”

  Kitty looked at Jane, surprised.

  “The signs are plain,” Jane said, nodding toward the arm wrestlers. “Now they’re trying to impress you.”

  Though Kitty shook her head, secretly she was thrilled.

  The day flew by in a sunny haze. When they packed up and finally left, Kitty stole a backward glance at the picnic site—the large oak that had shaded them as they ate, the waning sun that sent a shaft of silver across the water. She would remember it forever.

  When Kitty said goodbye, she couldn’t thank Jane enough.

  “It won’t be our last picnic,” Jane said. “And from watching Stan and Brian around you, I think you can have your pick of beaus.”

  As Kitty continued on by herself, she couldn’t resist swinging the basket at her side.

  Liam barely looked up when Kitty entered the kitchen. “The sun is going down.”

  She stood before him. “I told you I’d be home before dark.”

  “Dermot missed you.”

  She watched her brother engrossed in playing with toy soldiers, and sighed. She had had a wonderful day; nothing her father said could change that. And from now on, nothing he did would stop her from having a life of her own.

  Chapter 21

  The friendship between Dermot and Vittorio grew. Weekends after a game or in early evenings during the week, Vittorio took Dermot on the field for a game of catch. He lobbed the ball and was patient with Dermot’s fumbles.

  “Nice catch!” Vittorio called after Dermot had chased the ball and caught it.