The Queen of the Big Time

by Adriana Trigiani

“I don’t know.”

  “Of course you’re going to have girlfriends. Why wouldn’t you?” I look over the side of our seat, and my stomach flips. I won’t look down again, I decide.

  “You’re very bold and you’re very honest,” Renato says without judgment.

  “And you’re honest with me, which I appreciate. You’re right. I’m probably too young for you. But I wish I wasn’t.” How I wish I hadn’t said that. I sound like a silly girl for sure.

  Renato reaches into my pocket and takes my hand. “That is something that will change.”

  The way he looks at me makes me blush. He knows I won’t always be fifteen, and so do I. “That’s what Mama says. You can’t believe where your youth goes. How fast it slips away. It’s sugar in the rain.”

  “Your mama is right.”

  “So that’s why you put your arm around me,” I say aloud. “Because you put your arm around all the girls.”

  “Not all the girls.”

  “Some?”

  “A few.”

  “Good for you.” I look at him and smile. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  He looks at me quizzically. “Usually I get slapped if I don’t make a girl believe she is the only one.”

  “It’s always better to accept the truth.” I look away.

  “You don’t compete with other girls?”

  “For a boy?”

  “For anything.”

  “What good would that do? There is always someone more beautiful, more accomplished, and then someone backward, less intelligent. Why would I compare myself to anyone else?”

  “All girls do.”

  “Not me. That’s a waste of time. I have a sister who has spent her life complaining because she feels she never gets what she wants. She’s a true malcontent. She always thinks there’s somebody out there who has it better than she does. She can never say to another girl, ‘That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing,’ because she’s worried that her own dress isn’t pretty enough.”

  “That’s how girls are. At least the ones I know.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” I tell him.

  Renato looks out over Roseto and smiles. “You’re a rare one, Nella.”

  “Well, sometimes I’d like to be more like everybody else. But I can’t. I think about things too much, and that’s not good. Being thoughtful is a curse.”

  “Not if you value your intellect.”

  “I do. I just wish I had … whimsy. That’s it. Whimsy. The ability to dance through life instead of trudging like a farmer.”

  “Leave whimsy to the giggly girls. You don’t need it. You have brains and beauty, a rare combination.”

  “Why do you think I’m beautiful?” I’m not playing the coquette. I really want to know what Renato Lanzara finds beautiful.

  “Let’s see.” Renato takes my face in his hands and looks at me clinically. “You have a good nose. It’s straight. And the freckles from the sun …”

  “My mother won’t let me use powder, but the minute she does, I’m covering them,” I promise.

  “Don’t ever cover them. They’re you.” He moves my face to a different angle. “Your eyes I like best because they change color in the light. Now they’re dark brown, but in bright sunlight, they have a lot of green in them. Emerald green.”

  We sit quietly. This is one part of being alone with a man that Chettie never mentioned. The silence. The in-between-the-words time, when no talking is necessary. I watch the movement of the crowd below. There are no empty spaces in the streets. From this angle, it seems people are shoulder to shoulder, which will make Father Impeciato very happy, as the church will raise lots of money.

  Suspended there in the soft summer night, I suddenly wish the Ferris wheel would start again so this ride would end. I don’t want to be near him anymore, it’s too hard. I don’t want to fall for Renato any more deeply than this girlish crush I have on him. He will never be mine. Something inside tells me so. I also know that I’ve met my match with him, but that doesn’t mean I’ll get what I long for. There are many women in his circle, and I’m just a kid to him. That’s the extent of it. I have gotten all the good stuff I can out of our spontaneous rendezvous. He told me I was beautiful, something no one has ever told me before, and it is not going to get any better than that. Now I know a little more about him, and really, that is all I ever hoped for from Renato Lanzara.

  “Nella?”

  I look at him. He puts one arm around me and, with the other, takes my hand. He leans over and kisses my nose. I try to say something, but I can’t. If I were a proper girl, I would tell him to stop. I always thought I was a proper girl, but I guess you can’t know that until you are faced with a kiss from a man you’re not courting. Now I know for sure I’m not a proper girl. He smiles at me, then he kisses my cheek. He gives me several small kisses on my mouth. I want to say something, but cannot. I just feel the soft presses of his lips against mine. The kisses are more tender than I ever imagined them, and certainly more welcome. Why don’t I tell him to stop?

  “All right, folks. We’re startin’ ’er up,” the carney says from below. My first kiss is over too fast. I sit back in the seat, which swings precariously back and forth as the wheel starts to turn again. I put my hand on my lips and look away. The full moon, round and silver like a vanity mirror, is so close I can practically see my reflection in it. If only I could stay in midair forever, my feet far from the ground and my heart beating so loudly all of Roseto must be able to hear it.

  “You cannot tell me the first-kiss story enough,” Chettie whispers as we follow the parishioners down Garibaldi Avenue, saying the rosary. The Sunday solemn procession has commenced. We follow Michelina de Franco, who leads the procession in a white gown and cape. She’s crowned the statue of the Blessed Lady with a tiara made with the gemstones donated by all the ladies of the town. Father Impeciato went door-to-door collecting jewelry, old rings, precious stones, and gold from parishioners in order to commission the crown. A jeweler in New York City took the jewels and gold and turned them into the spectacular tiara.

  The statue is being carried on a board by six men in black suits and sashes. The Knights of Columbus, in their regal white-plumed hats and swords, follow her, creating an honor guard. Michelina’s court, which includes her sisters and senior girls from Columbus School, follow behind carrying baskets of deep red roses.

  Father Impeciato walks alongside the statue, turning to observe the sea of penitents who follow behind with their rosaries threaded through their fingers. There seem to be hundreds of us. Evidently many people need the help of the Blessed Mother to intercede for them in heaven. I am praying for Papa to heal. The Roseto Coronet Band provides a somber drumbeat as we walk.

  Chettie leans close to me. “That is the most magnificent kiss I have ever heard of. Gloria Swanson’s never been kissed like that. Never in midair!”

  “I’ll never see him again,” I tell her. I know we shouldn’t be talking about kisses when we’re praying, but that kiss was more real to me than any prayer I’ve ever said.

  “Sure you will. He lives on Garibaldi, for crying out loud.”

  “No, no, I’ll never see him again because I’ll never walk down this street again.” As we pass the Lanzara Barbershop, I refuse to look.

  “He’s not there. But his father is,” Chettie whispers.

  “What about his mother?”

  “His mother died many years ago. Didn’t he tell you?” Chettie looks over her shoulder. “Okay, we’re past the house now.”

  I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

  “Nella, you didn’t do anything wrong. He kissed you, don’t forget that. You should walk down Garibaldi with pride. Besides, you have to walk down this street when you start back to school. It’s where the trolley stops.”

  “I’ll go down Chestnut instead.”

  “That’s silly. Remember what he said: you’re young, but that will change. He practically promised to wait for you!”

  This i
s where Chettie, with her big heart, lacks common sense. Renato told me plainly that there are lots of girls in his life. He can choose whomever he wants. Why would a man so handsome and smart wait for me? I am more of an expert on boys than Chettie now. I could teach her a thing or two.

  Sister Bernarda, in her black Salesian habit with the veil to her waist and white wimple, gives us a warning look. I rub my rosary beads and pray along with the group: “Hail Mary, full of grace …” I let my mind wander while my lips move through the familiar prayer. I feel like such a phony. I don’t believe indulgences do one bit of good. Does God really want us to offer up our suffering to prove our love for Him? There is enough suffering without playacting it for God. What are all these people doing? Why are they walking and praying in the hot sun? Do they think their prayers have any chance of being answered? Do they really believe that the requests they write on slips of paper and give to the queen of the Big Time to put in a box and offer up later at Mass will have any impact in heaven? I am amazed at their tenacity, for I have not one ounce of it. I can’t believe that Chettie can still pray after all she has been through. Not only does she pray out of duty, she prays out of a desire for good to come to everyone. I think she would have a better chance shooting skeet and hitting the bull’s-eye blindfolded at the archery booth than having God answer her prayers. Is there any chance at all that God is listening?

  As I walk Chettie home to Dewey Street after the procession, our feet ache.

  “I should have prayed for shoes that didn’t rub,” I say.

  Chettie laughs. “Next time.”

  “Do you ever have a feeling of doom?” I ask her. The moment it comes out of my mouth, I regret saying it. After all, she lost her father in a horrible quarry disaster; of course she knows tragedy.

  “I never have one before something happens, if that’s what you mean. Why, do you?”

  “Yes. All the time.”

  “About what? Renato?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’re just afraid, that’s all. You really like him and you want him to like you, so you’re telling yourself something terrible will happen so you won’t get hurt. But my mother says there is no way to get through life without getting hurt.”

  “Now there’s something to pray for: not getting hurt.”

  “Like Sister Theresa said, ‘Life is a vale of tears,’ ” Chettie says sadly. “I wish Papa would come back. But he won’t. We still have to live.”

  “I know.”

  “Even with all the bad things, something beautiful can happen. You got kissed! I can’t wait for my first kiss.”

  “Anthony Marucci?”

  “Too shy, with me anyway. If I wait for him to kiss me, I’ll have white hair.”

  “He might surprise you,” I say.

  “Nella, there’s something I have to tell you.” Chettie stops in front of her house and turns to me. The August sun is beating down hard on us, and I wish it were like the old days when we were girls and Mrs. Ricci would make us lemonade and we’d sit out under the porch awning and tell stories. “I’m not going back to school.”

  “What?”

  “I have to go to work.”

  “I thought your uncle in Philadelphia was helping you!”

  “It’s not enough, and my mother is afraid we’re too much of a burden on him. They’re taking me at the blouse factory. They have a lot of openings there.”

  “But Chettie, you want to be a nurse.”

  “We need the money now, Nella.”

  “But your education …”

  “I can’t think about that right now.”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “There isn’t,” Chettie says. “But it’s all right. I’m sure it won’t be so bad.” She turns and goes slowly up the steps.

  I walk to the trolley stop. Alessandro gave me money for the trolley back to Delabole if I promised to say a rosary for his and Assunta’s baby. They finally told us the happy news this morning after Mass.

  By the time I arrive at the farm, I’m tired from the long procession, and the news from Chettie depresses me.

  As I lift the latch on the gate at the end of our lane, I see Alessandro’s car parked by the barn. I wish Chettie weren’t the oldest in her family. How lucky we are that Assunta has married a nice man who helps us. It’s as if Papa finally got the son he wanted so badly.

  I go to the house, following the sound of voices. I hear a lot of murmuring between Alessandro and Papa, probably another discussion about the equipment on the farm. I hear Papa say, “You must go,” just as I open the screen door and slip into the house.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask when everyone turns to look at me. Assunta leans back on the settee while Papa sits on a straight-backed chair from the kitchen, his leg with the brace strapped tightly to it extended in front of him. Mama stands and paces. Alessandro leans against the doorframe, holding what looks like a letter.

  “How was the procession?” Papa asks.

  “I prayed for everyone.”

  “We need it.” Papa looks at Alessandro.

  I turn to my brother-in-law. “Did you get bad news?”

  “Alessandro has to go home to Italy. His father is very ill,” Assunta says quietly.

  “I will not go,” he tells her. “You are not feeling well. My place is with my wife.”

  “If it were my papa, I would go,” Assunta tells her husband. “You must go.”

  “We have the farm to worry about,” Alessandro says, looking at Papa.

  My heart sinks at this news. Alessandro can’t go back to Italy! What will we do? It takes a month to get there, a month to get back; even if he stays a short while, even a couple of weeks, it will be winter by the time he returns, and who will run the farm until then? Papa stands up slowly. “My leg is getting better every day.”

  “But it’s not completely healed,” Mama argues.

  “Celeste.” Papa makes a motion to Mama to stop nagging. “Alessandro has his own family back home. Let him go. We’ll have to make do.”

  “I’m going to work in the blouse factory,” Elena says, looking at me.

  Instantly, I calculate Elena’s absence in terms of chores around the farm. “I can do the milking before I go to school in the morning,” I say. “And when I get home at night, I can feed the horses and tend to the chickens.”

  “We need more help than that, Nella.”

  “Anything, Papa. I can plow, I can harvest, I can take care of the hogs and the cows. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  “To keep the contract with the stores, you’ll have to go to work, too,” Papa says sadly.

  “But Papa … ” I feel a lump form in the pit of my stomach. “I have school.”

  “It wouldn’t be for long. You could go back in a year.” Papa goes on to explain how it would be no problem for me to take a year off and then return to high school, as though it were done every day. I know if I leave Columbus School now, it is unlikely that I will return.

  “No one goes back, Papa.”

  “Sure they do. You skipped eighth grade right into the ninth.”

  “It’s different now. It’s high school. They have rules.”

  “I will talk to the teacher.”

  “Fine, Papa,” I tell him. Papa has made his mind up and there is no changing it. I feel my eyes sting with tears, hot tears of self-pity, and I don’t want anyone to see them. I slip out the front door and head toward the barn, where I can be alone. I barely make it there before I kneel down and start to cry. I’m never going to be a teacher. My dream is gone, and all because of this stupid farm. How I wish Papa would sell it! Sell it and we’ll move to town and make a living like everyone else. The extra money Papa used to make in the quarry is gone forever, and we’ve relied for too many months on Alessandro’s generosity. If I were a man, no one would tell me what to do with my life. I can’t give up my dream—I won’t!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The doors of Our Lady of Mount Carmel are locked
at midnight and reopened in time for daily Mass at 7 A.M. For all the hours the church is open, we sinners are welcome to stop by and lessen our burdens.

  As I climb the steps and pull the church door open, I fish out six pennies from my apron pocket. There is an old lady sitting in the back row muttering the rosary as I pass. I kneel and cross myself at the main altar (but only because there is someone watching) and then open the Communion railing and go into the alcove where the Blessed Mother statue resides for the rest of the year when she is not being carried down Garibaldi Avenue with an elaborate crown on her head for the Big Time celebration.

  I kneel before her and begin. I don’t recite the Hail Mary or the Litany of the Saints, but my own prayer. “Blessed Lady, my life has taken a terrible turn. I only wanted to be a teacher to help children, not out of my own selfish needs. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. I like to read and I’m proud of being smart. But now I can’t go to school. I’m lighting these candles to beg you to change my father’s mind. I need to go to Columbus School and then I need to go to college. Please help me.” I push the pennies through the slot, one at a time, until all six have clunked to the bottom of the brass box. I want God to hear exactly how much money I am sacrificing for this indulgence.

  I light six candles at the feet of the Blessed Mother, hoping that she hears me. At least she will see these candles and know that I am serious. That is, if she is listening. I am so desperate to go back to school that I am inventing faith to get me what I want. Maybe I am being punished for my doubts, but I can’t help them. It seems whenever we get a little bit ahead, something terrible happens and we have to start all over again. Yes, we have been blessed with Alessandro, and yes, I suppose I’m lucky that Miss Stoddard thought I was smart enough to continue on in school, but these gifts have been yanked away at the whims of fate. If six pennies and six candles will help my cause, I can only pray that they will bring me the results I want.

  The old lady kneels next to me. She makes the sign of the cross and gathers her rosary beads in one hand. She wears a black lace mantilla; her hair is artfully arranged underneath the veil like a cluster of white roses. I quickly make the sign of the cross and get up to leave.