The Queen of the Big Time

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Well, Papa, you’re not the only one with good news. I got my marks,” I tell my parents proudly.

  “How did you do?” Mama asks.

  “I’m first in my class.”

  “Good. Good.” Mama looks down the report card. “Look, Papa.”

  “Maybe someday we can afford the trolley for my girls.” Papa smiles.

  “Just on Sundays, Pop,” I tell him.

  “Why Sundays?”

  “I want to go to Mass.”

  “Mass?” Papa is surprised.

  “You heard her.” Mama smacks Papa gently with my report card. “Mass. She wants to go to church. We should all go to church. And we’ll have no excuse if you hire some help around here.” Mama looks at me. “Good for you.”

  Mama is a good Catholic; she prays the rosary every night, baptized us all, and makes us say grace before meals. She is reverent, but has never made Papa feel bad that chores take precedence over Sunday Mass. Mama thinks God understands the workingman and his duties. In the spirit of helping the family, I promise Papa that I will walk to Mass on Sundays. “Save the money,” I tell him.

  “Well, I’m not going to church with you,” Assunta says wearily, rubbing her knuckles. “You’ll have to bribe one of the others to go with you. Five days a week walking to and from town is enough for me. Of course, when I move to Roseto, that will be different. I’ll be the holiest, most devout woman you’ve ever seen. I’ll be so religious I’ll grow wings. But not until I live in town.” Assunta takes her coat and hat and goes up the stairs.

  “I’ll walk with you,” Elena promises.

  “What about dinner?” Mama calls after Assunta.

  “I’m too tired to eat,” she calls back.

  “You may go to Mass as soon as the machines are installed, but I still need your help this Sunday,” Papa tells me. “The next two weeks I am going into the quarry. They have a rush job and posted signs in town. Carlo Ricci came to see me, and we’re both going to take the work.”

  “I don’t want you to do it.” Mama puts her hand on Papa’s shoulder. He takes her hand and smiles.

  “Alessandro is arriving at Eastertime. We’ll have a wedding to pay for. You want to have guests? A fancy dress? I need the work.” Papa goes to the cupboard and brings out the wine and a few glasses. “Now, we toast our good fortune. Roma, go get your sister.”

  Roma runs up the stairs while Papa pours the wine. Elena passes the full glasses around. Dianna smiles because this means someday there may be enough money to send her to school. And for Mama, dear Mama, it means that she won’t have to work from morning until night. Papa gives each of us a glass; for the little ones, he adds water to the wine. Assunta and Roma join us around the table. “Salute!” he says and takes a drink. We all follow suit.

  “We should thank God,” Mama says, looking at me.

  “Yes, we should.” Suddenly, I am the religious center of our family. If only Mama knew that the only reason I want to be in church is to be closer to Renato Lanzara. I’m sure people believe in God for less reason than that.

  “I’ll tell you what. If God gives us good weather and a nice profit this year, even I will go to church,” Papa announces.

  Mama rolls her eyes. “Such a good Catholic.”

  The spring of 1925 is the most beautiful we have ever seen. As the snow melts, the muddy ground beneath turns the palest green, and when you look far away to the Blue Mountains, the silvery-gray coat they have worn all winter melts away to reveal a soft blue that in time will become as dark as a night sky.

  Everyone in our house is on edge, because Assunta received a letter that Alessandro Pagano will arrive in Philadelphia on March 15. Mama has scrubbed the house from top to bottom three times this week. She goes to the smokehouse every morning to select the best prosciutto to serve her future son-in-law. Papa chides her for her perfectionism, but Assunta is grateful. Alessandro has seen her picture, but if he doesn’t like the rest of us, he doesn’t have to marry her. This is why Elena and I are ironing every tablecoth, napkin, and curtain; in fact, anything made of fabric, including the moppeens we use to wash the dishes, has been pressed. Mama has been baking cookies, cakes, and pies for three days. She says every corner must sparkle, and every hem must be starched. Alessandro must see that he is marrying into a family of quality or he can turn around and go right back to Italy.

  We know that Alessandro comes from a good family. He is the third son of eight children. He is from Mama’s hometown, Rimini, on the Adriatic Sea. Papa is also from the Bari region, farther south than Mama’s people.

  Papa and Mama married in Italy, then came to America, following some cousins who settled in Pen Argyl. Their marriage was not arranged, which was unusual. A mother and father usually choose a spouse for their child, striking a deal with a good family. This way, everyone knows what they are getting. A good match means two nice people can come together and the union will make both families stronger. Even Chettie’s parents were arranged. Mama and Papa fell in love on their own, but Papa soon won Mama’s family over. Mama never wanted the farm life, but she took it on because she loves Papa.

  Yesterday, Papa took the train to Philadelphia to pick up Alessandro. Assunta has stayed behind with us, to make sure all final details are tended to. Mama has been working so hard she fell asleep at the kitchen table right after she finished putting lace on the nightgown for Assunta’s wedding trousseau.

  “Mama?” I gently shake her. “Mama, you fell asleep. Go to bed,” I tell her.

  “Did you sweep the walk?” she asks groggily.

  “Everything is done,” I promise her.

  Mama gets up slowly and climbs the stairs to her room. I put out the lights and follow her. When I get to my room, I change into my nightgown in the dark, so as not to wake the girls. They are as exhausted as Mama, and soon it will be morning and there will be more chores. Assunta’s room will become Alessandro’s, so she is bunking with us. All five of us in one room. It reminds me of the cold winters when we would huddle together to stay warm, only now we come together for a different reason.

  I climb into my bed next to Roma, whom I nudge closer to the wall to make room for me. I lie on my back and feel every muscle and bone in my body ache. Besides making the house ready, we did all of Papa’s chores this morning. I marvel at how hard he works. I don’t know how he does it, day in and day out, and then has the ambition to work in the quarry. I guess he loves us so much he would do anything to give us what we need. I wonder if I’ll ever love anyone that much.

  I turn to go to sleep and hear Assunta sniffling. Soon the sniffles give way to quiet weeping. At first I lie in the dark and listen, not saying anything.

  “Assunta?” I finally whisper. “Are you all right?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Assunta?” I get up out of the bed and kneel next to her. “Are you sick?”

  She shakes her head.

  “What is it then?”

  Assunta twists the sleeve of her nightgown over her fist and wipes her eyes. “I’m scared.”

  “Scared? Of what?” But somehow I already know the answer. She’s afraid to leave home, Mama and Papa and even us, though we irritate her. She’s afraid that when she sees Alessandro for the first time, she won’t like him and then everyone in both families will be sorely disappointed.

  “What if he doesn’t like me?”

  I didn’t even think of that! She’s worried he won’t like her? I’ve known my sister all my life, but oh, how she surprises me. “I wouldn’t worry. He’s seen your picture and written to you.”

  “But a picture isn’t real.”

  “Sure it is. You can tell a lot by a picture.” Of course, I won’t tell her that Elena and I have examined Alessandro’s picture a million times and we can’t tell if he’s tall or short. You never know if the photographers put a large vase or a small vase on the table next to the chair where they take the picture. His stature could be an optical illusion.

  “Don’t worry.
He’ll like you,” I promise her.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you are very determined,” I begin. It takes me a moment to compliment her, as I am so used to complaining about her. But I think very hard. “And you have lovely long hair. It’s as black as night, Mama always says. And you have pretty eyes and your feet aren’t too big for your height.”

  “Thanks,” she says softly. “It’s just … I thought I’d be happy when he came. But now I wish he’d turn around and go home.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “No, really I do. I don’t know him.” Assunta begins to weep again.

  “If you don’t like him, you don’t have to marry him. Mama said so.”

  “She doesn’t mean it.” Assunta sobs.

  “She means it. And I’ll tell you what, if you don’t like him, you tell me and I’ll tell Mama and Papa and I’ll lock you in this room and I won’t let you out until he’s gone.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Yes, I would. No woman should marry a man she doesn’t love. Not ever.” I give her a hug, which I haven’t done since I was small. I go to my bed and get in it, giving Roma another nudge. She rolls over close to the wall.

  Assunta’s tears soon give way to the gentle breathing of sleep. I lie on my back, surveying the ceiling of this room as I have for so many nights when sleep won’t come. Even though Assunta is bossy and mean, deep down I know I will miss her when she marries Alessandro Pagano. After all, we’ve been a family all these years, and she was a big part of us. Often she was the big heaving angry part of us, but part of us nonetheless. I hope Alessandro is a good man. And I hope she’ll have the strength to create a new family for herself, one where she’ll be happy, if happiness is even in the cards for Assunta Castelluca. I make the sign of the cross and turn my plea into a quick prayer. Chettie would be pleased.

  “They’re laughing and talking!” Dianna runs into the parlor the next morning. “He’s taller than Papa!” I look out the window and see Papa walking down the lane with Alessandro Pagano, who looks exactly like his picture. Assunta, wearing a simple white linen sheath and Mama’s sapphire locket, looks lovely standing in the kitchen doorway. Her shiny black hair hangs straight to her waist. She exhales a sigh of relief.

  “Assunta, go upstairs,” Mama directs.

  “But Mama …”

  “Go.” Assunta goes upstairs. “There is a proper way to be introduced. It’s not right for a lady to wait for a man. He waits for her.”

  Dianna and I look at each other. Is Mama kidding? Alessandro has waited all these years, and now we’re going to make him wait even longer?

  Papa opens the door and shows Alessandro into our house.

  “Mr. Pagano, this is my wife, Mrs. Castelluca.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” he says slowly, then gives Mama a package out of his satchel. “This is from your sister Elena.” Tears spring to Mama’s eyes as she sits and opens the package, a stack of small lace doilies.

  “Now, now, Celeste, stop the tears. Mr. Pagano has come a far distance and he’s hungry,” Papa says softly to Mama. Papa knows better than anyone how much Mama misses her family in Italy, so he is extra kind to her whenever they are mentioned.

  “Shall I go and get Assunta?” I ask Mama.

  “Not yet.” Mama shoots me a look like she’d take a switch to me if she could.

  “Come, Alessandro, first we have supper, and then you’ll meet our beautiful Assunta.”

  In what seems like the longest midday supper in history, Mama offers Alessandro every delicacy she knows how to make. Elena and I serve him as though he is a duke. He has fine table manners, and after the long journey he has quite an appetite. He eats orange slices dressed in olive oil and pepper, shavings of Parmesan cheese with prosciutto, a salad of black olives and dandelion, a soup of tortellini in a chicken broth, sliced ham in fresh bread with butter, and all the wine he can drink.

  I think he’s handsome. His face is angular, with a large nose and full lips. He has jet-black hair combed with a neat side part. His ears are big but close to his head. His neck and shoulders are strong. His hands, big and calloused, are like Papa’s; the nails are trimmed and neat, though. Evidently Assunta wasn’t the only one gussying up to impress her intended.

  Elena motions for me to fetch water from the well with her, while Mama laughs with Alessandro at news he shares from Italy.

  “What do you think?” I ask Elena.

  “He’s good-looking enough. She’ll like him,” Elena says practically.

  “He seems quiet.”

  “That’s fine. You know she’ll do all the talking anyway.” Elena pumps water into a bucket. “I think they’ll be a good match. She’ll be able to boss him around and he won’t even notice it. I hope he makes enough money for her. He’ll be importing nuts and candy from Italy. Is that a good business?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Papa needs help here on the farm.”

  “But Assunta wants to live in town.”

  “First get them married. Then all the details can be worked out.”

  “I hope they never arrange me.” Elena hands me the first pail.

  “Me either.”

  “It’s too upsetting. I’d rather stay home with Mama and Papa all my life.”

  “Me too,” I lie. Really, I would rather live in town and marry Renato Lanzara. But I can’t tell Elena that. I can’t tell anyone but Chettie, because my Renato is as elusive as her Anthony Marucci.

  As we carry the water back to the house, I imagine the day when we won’t have to haul water, milk the cows, stack the hay, and kill the hogs. Maybe one day when I’m a teacher, Papa will sell the farm and move into town, where we can join the other fine families who stroll up and down Garibaldi Avenue after supper stretching their legs. Maybe Delabole farm is just the beginning of our story and not our destiny.

  “Girls, come inside!” Mama motions to us from the porch. As we approach, she says quietly, “We’re going to introduce Assunta to Alessandro.”

  Elena and I almost drop the pails, but the thought of having to haul more from the springhouse makes us extra careful. We put the buckets by the door on the porch and follow Mama inside. Roma and Dianna sit on the settee with their hands folded as Papa pours wine into the small silver goblets Mama keeps in a velvet case.

  “Elena, please go and get your sister,” Mama says.

  I look at Alessandro, who inhales deeply through his nose. The sound of Elena’s footsteps going up the stairs is loud, like the ticking of a great clock. Soon Assunta appears in the doorway.

  “Alessandro, I would like you to meet my daughter Assunta,” Papa says in a voice that booms and then falters. Mama begins to cry. Alessandro turns and looks at the girl who has been promised to him, and we all can see that he is well pleased. Assunta, who never smiles, beams at him as though he is the most handsome man she has ever seen, and in doing so, she becomes so beautiful that even those of us who know her well cannot believe the transformation. Love changes people. It has taken a stranger coming from Italy to show us exactly how.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Father Impeciato is a stern priest with a long face and thin lips that form a single straight line. Under his vestments he wears a silver pocketwatch on a long link chain that he routinely fishes out of his pocket and checks as the organ plays the processional. His Masses begin precisely at eight o’clock in the morning. He has been known to throw out parishioners who arrive one minute after he has made it to the altar. Chettie believes he has eyes in the back of his head, as he spends most of the service with his back to the congregation yet seems to know if we move, whisper, or yawn, because suddenly he will pivot around and glare directly at the sinner who has offended him.

  I find priests and the nuns who tend them strangely otherworldly. Perhaps it’s the black habits, the veils and vestments that obscure the person underneath, but whatever it is, it separates us from them. Maybe it is the design of the church itself, the great distance between the
pews and the altar, or the forbidding marble Communion railing that makes the priest seem miles away. It is all so grand: the high ceilings, the crouching angels, the glass-eyed statues lurking in dark alcoves, the stations of the cross detailing Christ’s suffering at the end of His life, and especially the lifelike crucifix that hangs over the altar. It seems designed to frighten us into good behavior. It must be working, because Our Lady of Mount Carmel is filled to capacity for every Mass.

  All of the rituals seem eerie to me too, from the smoking urns Father Impeciato waves around on a chain to the icy-cold holy water in the font that we bless ourselves with coming and going. The stained-glass window over the altar shows souls in torment, reaching up to the Blessed Lady, who looks down on the sinners in the fiery pit from a safe spot on a cloud. She holds the baby Jesus, who looks out at us, not down at the sinners. I don’t know what kind of savior looks away from those who are suffering, but this Jesus does.

  This morning on the farm, we all got up early to have a final breakfast with Assunta before her wedding. It was very calm, even though Mama was pressing our new dresses, which I helped her sew until the last moment. Assunta was surprisingly serene. She packed, dressed, and ate her breakfast without saying much. It’s as though she had already moved on to her new home in town.

  As we stand in the back of the church awaiting the organ music, Papa gives Father Impeciato an envelope. Father Impeciato understands that as a farmer, Papa cannot attend Sunday Mass on a regular basis because of his chores, but the Holy Roman Church is happy to take Papa’s donations, his eldest daughter’s wedding service included.

  Assunta Maria Castelluca and Alessandro Agnello Pagano chose April 12, 1925, as their wedding day. April 12 is also Mama and Papa’s wedding anniversary, so they chose it to honor our parents. All of Assunta’s life she bragged that she would have twelve bridesmaids, but alas she only has Elena. Alessandro asked a cousin from Philadelphia to stand up for him. He is an oily fellow, with his wavy brown hair parted in the center and slicked down with pomade, and a wolfish grin. When he smiles, there’s a gap between his front teeth. Papa told us to stay away from him. Papa must know something about him that we don’t.