The Queen of the Big Time

by Adriana Trigiani

  Assunta leans on the table and eyes the cake. Mama turns to the sink. Papa has gone into the pantry, so Assunta seizes the moment and extends her long, pointy finger at the cake to poke at it.

  “Don’t!” I push the platter away from her.

  Assunta’s black eyes narrow. “Do you think she’ll be impressed with sponge cake? You’re ridiculous.” I don’t know if it’s the way she is looking at me, or the thought that she would deliberately ruin a cake for my teacher, or fourteen years of antagonism welling up inside of me, but I slap her. At first, Assunta is surprised, but then delighted to defend herself. She hits me back, then digs her fingernails into my arm.

  Mama pulls me away from her. Assunta always ruins everything for me, but this is one day that cannot be derailed by my sister. “What’s the matter with you?” Mama holds on to me.

  I want to tell my mother that I’ve never wanted anything so much as the very thing Miss Stoddard is coming to talk to them about, but I’ve made a habit of never saying what I really want, for fear that Assunta will find some way to make sure I don’t get it. Mama never understands, she can’t see what kind of a girl my sister really is, and demands that we treat each other with respect. But how can I respect someone who is cruel? My parents say they love each of us equally, but is that even possible? Aren’t some people more lovable than others? And why do I have to be lumped in with a sister who has no more regard for me than the pigs she kicks out of the way when she goes to feed them in the pen? Assunta is full of resentment. No matter what her portion might be, it is never enough. There is no pleasing her, but I am the only one around here who realizes this.

  Elena, who hates fighting, hangs her head and begins to cry. Dianna and Roma look at each other and run outside.

  “I should tell your teacher to go straight home when she gets here, that’s what I should do,” Papa says. Assunta stands behind him, smooths her hair, and smirks. She tells Papa I threw the first punch, so it is I who must be punished.

  “Please, please, Papa, don’t send Miss Stoddard away,” I beg. I am sorry that I fell for Assunta’s jab, and that the whole of my future could be ruined by my impulsive nature. “I am sorry, Assunta.”

  “It’s about time you learned how to behave. You’re an animal.” Assunta looks at Mama and then Papa. “You let her get away with everything. You’ll see how she ends up.” Assunta storms upstairs. I close my eyes and count the days until Alessandro Pagano comes from Italy to marry her and take her out of this house.

  “Why do you always lose your temper?” Papa asks quietly.

  “She was going to ruin the cake.”

  “Assunta is not a girl anymore. She’s about to be married. You musn’t hit her. Or anyone,” Papa says firmly. I wish I could tell him how many times she slaps me with her hairbrush when he isn’t looking.

  Mama takes the cake and goes to the front room.

  “I’m sorry,” I call after her quietly.

  “You’re bleeding,” Elena says, taking the moppeen from the sink. “It’s next to your eye.” She dabs the scratch with the cool rag and I feel the sting.

  “Papa, you musn’t let her meet Mr. Pagano before the wedding day. He’ll turn right around and go back to Italy.”

  Papa tries not to laugh. “Nella. That’s enough.”

  “He has to marry her. He has to,” I say under my breath.

  “They will marry,” Papa promises. “Your mother saw to it years ago.”

  Papa must know that the deal could be broken and we’d be stuck with Assunta forever. Bad luck is wily: it lands on you when you least expect it.

  Papa goes out back to wash up. I put the jar of jam back in the pantry. Elena has already washed the spoon and put it away; now she straightens the tablecloth. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” she says.

  “I’m going to wait on the porch for Miss Stoddard,” I tell Mama as I push through the screen door. Once I’m outside, I sit on the steps and gather my skirts tightly around my knees and smooth the burgundy corduroy down to my ankles. The scratch over my eye begins to pulse, so I take my thumb and apply pressure, something Papa taught me to do when I accidently cut myself.

  I look down to the road that turns onto the farm and imagine Assunta in her wedding gown, climbing into the front seat of Alessandro Pagano’s car (I hope he has one!). He revs the engine, and as the car lurches and we wave, her new husband will honk the horn and we will stand here until they disappear onto Delabole Road, fading away to a pinpoint in the distance until they are gone forever. That, I am certain, will be the happiest moment of my life. If the angels are really on my side that day, Alessandro will decide he hates America and will throw my sister on a boat and take her back to Italy.

  “Nella! Miss Stoddard is coming!” Dianna skips out from behind the barn. Roma, as always, follows a few steps behind. I look down the lane, anchored at the end by the old elm, and see my teacher walking from the trolley stop. Miss Stoddard is a great beauty; she has red hair and hazel eyes. She always wears a white blouse and a long wool skirt. Her black shoes have small silver buckles, which are buffed shiny like mirrors. She has the fine bone structure of the porcelain doll Mama saved from her childhood in Italy. We never play with the delicate doll; she sits on the shelf staring at us with her perfect ceramic gaze. But there’s nothing fragile about Miss Stoddard. She can run and jump and whoop and holler like a boy. She taught me how to play jacks, red rover, and checkers during recess. Most important, she taught me how to read. For this, I will always be in her debt. She has known me since I was five, so really, I have known her almost as long as my own parents. Roma and Dianna have run down the lane to walk her to our porch; Miss Stoddard walks between them, holding their hands as they walk to the farmhouse.

  “Hi, Nella.” Miss Stoddard’s smile turns to a look of concern. “What did you do to your eye?”

  “I hit the gate on the chicken coop.” I shrug. “Clumsy. You know me.”

  The screen door creaks open.

  “Miss Stoddard, please come in,” Mama says, extending her hand. I’m glad to see Miss Stoddard still has her gloves on; she won’t notice how rough Mama’s hands are. “Please, sit down.” Mama tells Elena to fetch Papa. Miss Stoddard sits on the settee. “This is lovely.” She points to the sponge cake on the wooden tray. Thank God Mama thought to put a linen napkin over the old wood.

  “Thank you.” Mama smiles, pouring a cup of coffee for Miss Stoddard in the dainty cup with the roses. We have four bone china cups and saucers, but not all have flowers on them. Mama gives a starched lace napkin to her with the cup of coffee.

  “Don’t get up,” Papa says in a booming voice as he enters the room. Papa has changed out of his old work shirt into a navy blue cotton shirt. It’s not a dress shirt, but at least it’s pressed. He did not bother to change his pants with the suspenders, but that’s all right. We aren’t going to a dance, after all, and Miss Stoddard knows he’s a farmer. I motion to Dianna and Roma to go; when they don’t get the hint, Elena herds them out.

  Mama sits primly on the settee. Papa pulls the old rocker from next to the fireplace. I pour coffee for my parents.

  Miss Stoddard takes a bite of cake and compliments Mama. Then she sips her coffee graciously and places the cup back on the saucer. “As I wrote you in the letter,” she begins, “I believe that Nella is an exceptional student.”

  “Exceptional?” Papa pronounces the word slowly.

  “She’s far ahead of any student her age whom I’ve taught before. I have her reading books that advanced students would read.”

  “I just finished Moby-Dick,” I announce proudly, “and I’m reading Jane Eyre again.”

  Miss Stoddard continues. “She’s now repeated the seventh grade twice, and I can’t keep her any longer. I think it would be a shame to end Nella’s education.” Miss Stoddard looks at me and smiles. “She’s capable of so much more. I wrote to the Columbus School in Roseto, and they said that they would take her. Columbus School goes to the twelfth gra
de.”

  “She would have to go into town?”

  “Yes, Papa, it’s in town.” The thought of it is so exciting to me I can’t stay quiet. How I would love to ride the trolley every morning, and stop every afternoon after school for a macaroon at Marcella’s!

  “The school is right off Main Street, a half a block from the trolley station,” Miss Stoddard explains.

  “We know where it is.” Papa smiles. “But Nella cannot ride the trolley alone.”

  “I could go with her, Papa,” Elena says from the doorway. She looks at me, knowing how much it would mean to me.

  “We cannot afford the trolley twice a day, and two of you, well, that is out of the question.”

  “I could walk! It’s only three miles!”

  Papa looks a little scandalized, but once again, Elena comes to my rescue. “I’ll walk with her, Papa.” How kind of my sister. She was average in school and couldn’t wait to be done with the seventh grade. And now she’s offering to walk an hour each way for me.

  “Thank you, Elena,” I tell her sincerely.

  “Girls, let me speak with Miss Stoddard alone.”

  The look on Papa’s face tells me that I should not argue the point. Mama has not said a word, but she wouldn’t. Papa speaks on behalf of our family.

  “Papa?” Assunta, who must have been eavesdropping from the stairs, comes into the room. “I’ll walk her into town.” Elena and I look at each other. Assunta has never done a thing for me, why would she want to walk me into town?

  “Thank you,” Papa says to Assunta and then looks at me as if to say, See, your sister really does care about you. But I am certain there must be some underlying reason for Assunta to show this kind of generosity toward me. There must be something in it for her!

  “I am starting a new job in town next month,” Assunta explains to Miss Stoddard. Elena and I look at each other again. This is the first we have heard of a job. “I am going to work at the Roseto Manufacturing Company. I have to be at work by seven o’clock in the morning.”

  Elena nudges me. Assunta has been keeping secrets. We had no idea she was going to work in Roseto’s blouse mill.

  “School begins at eight,” Miss Stoddard says.

  “I’ll wait outside for them to open the school. I don’t mind!” Miss Stoddard smiles at me. “Really, I’ll stand in the snow. I don’t care!”

  “Nella, let me speak to your teacher alone.” Papa’s tone tells me he means it this time, so I follow Elena up the stairs and into our room.

  “Can you believe it? I’m going to school!” I straighten the coverlet on my bed so the lace on the hem just grazes the floorboards.

  “You deserve it. You work so hard.”

  “So do you!”

  “Yes, but I’m not smart.” Elena says this without a trace of self-pity. “But you, you could be a teacher someday.”

  “That’s what I want. I want to be just like Miss Stoddard. I want to teach little ones how to read. Every day we’ll have story hour. I’ll read Aesop’s Fables and Tales from Shakespeare aloud, just like she does. And on special days, like birthdays, I’ll make tea cakes and lemonade and have extra recess.”

  Assunta pushes the door open.

  “When did you decide to work at the mill?” Elena asks her.

  “When I realized how small my dowry would be. Papa’s money is all tied up in cows. I don’t want Alessandro thinking he got stuck with a poor farm girl.” Assunta goes to the window and looks out over Delabole farm. “But he is getting stuck with a poor farm girl, so I have to do my part.”

  I never thought about a dowry, but it makes sense. Of course we have to pay someone to take Assunta off of our hands. Who would take her for free?

  “I’m sure Alessandro isn’t expecting—” Elena begins.

  Assunta interrupts her. “How do you know what he expects?”

  The funny thing is, I’ve read all of Alessandro’s letters to Assunta (she keeps them hidden in a tin box in the closet), and I don’t remember a single word about any expectations of a dowry. But now is not the time to point that out. If she knew I read her private mail, she’d do worse than scratch me.

  “Alessandro is a lucky man.” Elena and Assunta look surprised. “You’re very kind.” I smile at Assunta. “You didn’t have to offer to walk me to school, but you did and I appreciate it.”

  “You will have to work for the privilege.” Assunta crosses her arms over her chest like a general and looks down on me.

  “The privilege?”

  “I’m putting you to work for me. You will make all the linens for my hope chest. And when I pick my house in town, you will make all the draperies. And for the first year of my married life, or until I decide otherwise, you will be my maid. You will cook, do our laundry, and clean my house. Do you understand?”

  So there it is: the catch. Assunta wants a maid. I’d like to tell her that I will never clean her house, or sew for her, or do anything she asks of me, because from as far back as I can remember, I have hated her. I pray every night that God will stop this hate, but the more I pray, the worse I feel. I cannot be cured. But I want to be a teacher, and no matter what I have to do to reach that goal, I will do it. I don’t want to stay on the farm my whole life. I want to visit the places I read about in books, and find them on maps that I have studied. I can’t do any of this without Assunta’s help. “It’s a deal,” I tell her. Assunta smirks and goes back downstairs.

  “She should walk you to school just because she’s your sister. How dare she make you pay for that?” Elena is angry, but she knows as well as I do that in this house, Assunta is the queen, and we serve her. If I have to scrub a thousand floors to go to Columbus School, the exchange will be worth it.

  Every year, Papa chooses the last Saturday in November for the hog killing. We’ve always been lucky with the weather; it’s not too cold and usually it’s sunny. Early this morning, the men killed the hogs by clubbing them, then scalded them in the large pots to get all the hair off. The afternoon was spent doing the hardest part, the butchering of the meat. Papa and the men will separate out the best parts, which will become smoked hams and roasts. Then they carve away the meat they cure into bacon. The rest will be made into sausage. No part of the hog is wasted, not even the feet, which Mama pickles and puts up in jars. When the work is done, everything is shared among the men who have come to help us. There is even some meat left over for Papa to sell to the butcher in town.

  My sisters and I have worked hard preparing the smokehouse for Papa, and now we help Mama with the meal. The big supper, an outdoor picnic, is everyone’s reward for a hard day’s work. Mama has slow-cooked the tenderloin over an open pit for most of the day. The wives have made roasted sweet potatoes, a salad of fresh red peppers, corn pudding, and fresh bread. For dessert, the ladies made all kinds of pie, sweet raspberry, pumpkin, or tapioca cream with egg-white peaks. My favorite is rhubarb and Mama made two.

  The children are in the barn playing hide-and-seek. I used to organize the bocci games after supper, but I’m too old now. It’s nice to have company on the farm, it fills up our house and fields with laughter, news, and conversation, which I can’t get enough of.

  I look up and see that there are no clouds in the twilight sky as I set the table. Elena lights the oil torches. With darkness settling around us, she points to the sun as it sinks behind the slate hills like a deep pink peony. “Look at the sunset!”

  “Someday I’ll have a hat that color.” I laugh and place the last of the tin plates on the table.

  There is a definite nip in the air, but the heat from the open pit will keep us warm, along with our long wool stockings and sweaters.

  “You should change your clothes for dinner.” Elena sizes me up in my work clothes. She already went inside and changed into her best skirt, a pale blue wool circle with a matching sweater Mama knit for her.

  “Do I have to?”

  “It would be nice. Go ahead. I can finish setting the table.”


  I never used to get dressed for dinner. This is another sign that I’m now officially a young lady. On my way upstairs, I pass Mama and the ladies in the kitchen. They speak in Italian, and Mama throws her head back and laughs, something I rarely see her do. I wish Papa wanted to move to town, where Mama could have friends around her all the time. We are all so much happier when we have visitors; we feel a part of things.

  I go up to my room and take my burgundy corduroy skirt out of the closet. I have a pretty pink calico blouse to wear with it. The sweater Mama knit for me is burgundy, so it’s a perfect match. I climb out of my overalls, covered with smudge from the open pit. I go to the washbasin and scrub my face and hands. I brush my hair, putting some powder on the ends to take out the smell of the smoke. I put on my slip and stockings, and then pull on the blouse, buttoning it carefully. The pink color looks nice against my skin.

  The door pushes open. “What are you getting all dressed up for?” Assunta asks as I button my blouse and straighten the collar.

  “Mama said we should look our best for dinner.”

  “You better not spill anything on that skirt,” she barks. Assunta goes to the closet and pulls out her best dress, a simple green wool chemise with long sleeves. She takes her silk stockings out of the top drawer of the dresser. “And be careful with your blouse too,” she says without looking at me. I don’t know why she takes it upon herself to order us around; we already have one strong mother, we don’t need another. I look in the mirror, wishing I had rouge or powder. I look so plain.

  “You’re not pretty at all,” Assunta says, practically reading my mind, as she pulls on her stockings. “It’s not your fault. You got the worst features of Papa and Mama. That’s just the way it is.” Assunta steps into her dress. She motions for me to button up the back, so I do. “At least you’re not too thin or too fat, just medium. Of course, there’s nothing very memorable about that, either.”