The Queen of the Big Time

by Adriana Trigiani

  Our factory operates on an assembly line. The fabric is draped, measured, and cut according to a pattern on the cutting table in a workroom attached to the main floor. In the cutting process, large bolts of fabric are unwound off a giant wheel and layered back and forth, making a multilayered base. The pattern, made of sheer parchment, is laid on the fabric and pinned to the top layer. Every inch of the fabric is used. On the cutting table, it almost looks like a map has been laid on top of the fabric. Then an overhead blade cuts each layer of fabric according to the pattern. These shapes become the parts of a blouse: the front, the back, the sleeves, the collar, the facing. These pieces are bundled by the dozen and tagged, then delivered to the bins, where the machine operator sews the pieces together. The more she sews, the more she makes.

  These bundles are passed along through the factory, with each worker performing a particular task until all the pieces are sewn together and become a blouse.

  “Nella, Mr. Jenkins wants to see you in his office.” Elmira checks her clipboard.

  “What for, if I may ask?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know everything that goes on around here.”

  Liar, I think as I make my way to the front office. A bookkeeper with a short blond bob types as I tell her why I’m stopping in. All the girls who work in the factory have cut their hair into the latest style, not because we’re out boozing it up with the flappers over in Easton come Saturday night, but because it’s easier to operate a machine without a pompadour or braids to get in the way. “You can go in.” The bookkeeper motions.

  Mr. Jenkins is a tall, slim man with a trace of a Welsh accent. He seems to like the Italians, though. The workers think Mr. Jenkins is a good boss, but I’ve never met an employee who’s had any real affection for the person he or she works for—it’s a job, and it’s always obvious who stands to gain the most in the exchange.

  “Miss Castelluca?” He looks up from his work. He has a thin face with a weary expression and clear brown eyes. “I’m losing a forelady.”

  “Who?” I am surprised.

  “Miss Clements. She’s getting married.”

  “But why is she quitting?” I ask.

  Mr. Jenkins gives me a puzzled look. “Her husband won’t let her work. So, I need a smart girl in her place. I understand you just turned sixteen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s awfully young for a forelady.” He taps his pencil on the desk and looks out the window. “But I don’t have anybody else. We’ve all been watching you and you’re the obvious heir apparent.”

  I don’t mean to, but I laugh. “Heir apparent” is such a strange term to use for an uneducated farm girl and not a blood relative to the factory owners.

  “Something funny?” Mr. Jenkins looks over his glasses.

  “Just a little, sir. If I were your heir, I don’t think I would be running the steam hose in the pressing department.” Everyone knows Jenkins’s children live in a nice house over the New Jersey state line and attend fancy boarding schools.

  He smiles. “No, you wouldn’t. Not that it would hurt any of my children to work. But that’s not how it is anymore. Not like when I was a boy.”

  I imagine Mr. Jenkins working in a factory. I don’t quite believe it. He is too refined to come from common laborers, and his soft hands give him away. “How much are you going to pay me as forelady?”

  He seems surprised that I asked. “Twenty cents an hour. And a bonus of one penny per bundle that you produce in your department.”

  “Why only twenty cents an hour? Miss Clements makes thirty-five.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She saved exactly enough for her wedding reception at Pinto’s Hall by working for two months. She told me, and I did the math.”

  “You’re an odd duck, Miss Castelluca.” He stands up, but I know that is only a ploy to make me back down from the salary figure I named. He said it himself, he needs me, and if he needs me, I know he’ll pay. “Very direct.”

  “I know, sir. I am also smart and fast, and I’ve figured out how to get better production off the floor or you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

  “How? By giving all your coworkers a raise?” He laughs nervously.

  “Eventually. But first, I believe you need to reconfigure the machines. See, you have a mix of single, double, overlock, and blind-stitch machines on the floor. But you don’t have them in the order they are used in.”

  “That’s because operators handle more than one machine.”

  “But they shouldn’t. Use your fastest girls on collar settings and cuffs. The way you have it now, the best girls are sewing fronts and backs. Too easy. It only makes sense to give the fastest girls the hardest work. They’ll figure out how to do it better.”

  Jenkins’s eyes narrow. “Okay, thirty-five cents an hour. And a penny a bundle.”

  “A penny a bundle unless I hit one thousand bundles a week, then anything over a thousand, a nickel a bundle,” I reply.

  He laughs again. “You’re crazy!”

  “Do we have a deal?” I ask him. I used to watch Papa negotiate with the stores when he sold his milk and butter, and he would rather drive home with a carriage full of product then undersell himself. He used to say, “Better we drink the milk and eat the butter ourselves than give it away.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Castelluca.”

  “I have to. I have a family to support and a new niece. I can’t monkey around. Every other week there’s another blouse mill going up in Roseto. I know what I’m worth. Do we have a deal?”

  Mr. Jenkins shakes his head ruefully but says, “We have a deal.”

  I leave Mr. Jenkins’s office, and as soon as I do, I begin to shake. It’s cold and drafty in the entry area, but it’s not the temperature. I’m shaking from fear. I could have lost my job in there, but I came away with a raise. Wait until I tell Elena. Papa and Mama will be so proud.

  Franco Zollerano comes from the factory with a group of machinists. They look at me, then bid Franco good-bye and go outside. He smiles at me.

  “Are you ever going to return my handkerchief?” he asks as he wipes his hands on a rag.

  “Who sees you?” I tease him back. Now that I’ve gotten a promotion, I’m a first-class smart aleck.

  He smiles. “I’m around.”

  “Not that I can ever tell.”

  “You’re keeping tabs on me?” He looks at the floor and then drinks me in from the tip of my shoes to the top of my head.

  I am not going to let him intimidate me. “No, if I were keeping tabs on you, I would make it my business to know where you go.”

  “Good point.” He laughs, and I see nice white teeth. The front teeth overlap a bit, but it’s charming. “I work at all Jenkins’s mills. So I’m over in Jersey quite a bit. That’s maybe why you’ve missed me.”

  “No one said anything about missing you.”

  “You will, though.” Franco stuffs the rag into the back pocket of his coveralls and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m Franco Zollerano. I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced.”

  “We haven’t. I’m Nella Castelluca.” I extend my hand; he does not take it. He shows me the grease on them instead. His hands are big, too big for a man who must deal with intricate machines. “You’re a machinist.”

  “Yep. And you?”

  “Pressing. Then collar setting. But I just made forelady.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a kid.”

  “Mr. Jenkins doesn’t think so.”

  “He must have gotten you cheap.”

  “No, he didn’t. Of course, I knew what to ask for.” Why am I getting into a discussion about my pay with a machinist? What does he know about running a factory?

  “Well, good then. Congratulations.” Franco turns to go.

  “Hey,” I call after him.

  He looks at me.

  “You don’t like management?”

  “Good guess.” Franco
pushes the door open and goes outside. As it closes, a cold draft of air hits me hard and I shiver. I feel badly that I bragged about my new job. I sounded impudent. But there is something about this man that makes me want to one-up him. I don’t like his cocky attitude, not one bit.

  Elena has prepared the house and baby for Alessandro’s homecoming. She has cooked a pot of sauce, baked bread, and made a cream pie. She has scrubbed the house from top to bottom, changed, washed, and pressed all the linens, and chopped plenty of firewood for the weekend. Mama, Papa, Roma, and Dianna will stay in town with us. Mama is very nervous about this homecoming.

  “Mama, why do you think Alessandro would reject his own daughter?” I ask her as we set the table.

  “Men don’t take to babies, especially girls, without the mother’s coaxing.”

  “Even Papa?”

  “He kept his distance until Assunta was nearly one year old. Then he realized what he was missing, and when the rest of you came along, he held you from the start. That’s why I worry about Alessandro. After all, he can’t take care of the baby himself.”

  “I will take care of her. Always,” Elena promises. “If he doesn’t want her, she can come with us on the farm.”

  “A child should be with her father.”

  “Only if he loves her,” Elena says quietly.

  “They’re here!” Roma says from her perch in the front window. Papa walks with a permanent limp since his accident, so Alessandro helps him navigate the icy sidewalk. Dianna opens the door for them. Mama, Roma, and I go to Alessandro. He embraces us. “Where is she?” Alessandro asks softly. He takes off his hat and coat. We can see his face is pale, and his eyes are red from crying. Papa wipes his eyes with a handkerchief. “Elena?” Mama calls out.

  Elena comes from the kitchen with a pink bundle. Alessandro opens his arms, and Elena hands him the baby. She fusses with the blanket. Alessandro looks down at her; her pink face and black hair are like his own. His eyes fill with tears. “Bella.” He kisses her.

  “Thank you for taking such good care of her,” Alessandro says to Elena. He kisses the baby tenderly. Mama need not worry: Alessandro will be as good a father to his daughter as he was a husband.

  “She needs a name.” A tear slides down Elena’s cheek.

  “I think she should be named for her mother.…” Alessandro begins to cry, and the baby coos as if to comfort him. He stops his tears and looks at the baby intently. The baby looks back at him, as if she is waiting for him to say something. “Yes, she should be called Assunta.”

  For the first time since my sister died, my mother lets out a low, painful moan of despair. Papa holds Mama tightly and she begins to sob. Her loss is now real. Until Bambina had a name, her own daughter was not really gone. Alessandro holds his baby close. “She’s here,” Alessandro whispers. “This is my wife. Her eyes.”

  Mama turns away. “Mama, don’t cry,” Alessandro says. He walks over to her and puts the baby in her arms. Mama kisses Assunta. Alessandro puts his arms around his daughter and her grandmother.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Many years ago, before Father Impeciato took over Our Lady of Mount Carmel, there was a priest, Father Pasquale DeNisco, who turned Roseto from a quarry camp into a beautiful village. He died in 1911, one year before Roseto became incorporated as a borough, but the impact of his leadership is everywhere. He knew the Italians needed to learn English, so he taught language classes, and then instructed them on how to become U.S. citizens. He organized a branch of the American Federation of Labor as the blouse mills cropped up all over town. Father DeNisco organized Roseto’s first sport teams, the Roseto Coronet Band, the Philodramatic Club, and the first volunteer fire company.

  Each June, Father DeNisco gave a cash prize of ten dollars in gold to the family who planted the prettiest flower gardens. The prize is long gone, but the habit of growing glorious flowers has remained with the people. As I walk to work down Dewey Street, the lilac bushes, orange trumpet vines climbing trellises, and hanging baskets dripping with fragrant white flox are a testament to his legacy.

  Elena made me a new summer work dress, a sleeveless sky-blue sheath with a matching smock over it. The smock has a white collar and satin bow, very chic. Elena sewed two deep pockets on the front, which are useful for the endless supply of tags and pins that I need all day.

  Last week my workers produced over a thousand bundles. I got a nickel for each bundle over a thousand. It will probably be the money I am most proud of earning in my entire life. It was the money Jenkins thought I would never make, so the moment was that much sweeter when I marched into his office and showed him the tags from the overrun.

  When I took over from Elmira Clements, with Chettie’s advice, I learned how the workers felt about conditions at Roseto Manufacturing, and slowly I’ve begun to make some improvements. Mr. Jenkins’s chief concern is profit, of course, but I have learned that if the workers are happy, production naturally increases. It’s my job to make conditions better.

  Once I reorganized the machines, the work output increased. When I was a machine operator, it was hard to see the stitching in the overhead light, so I had lamps installed over each machine. This made a tremendous difference in the quality of the work. I made the sewing machine tables adjustable so they are comfortable for everyone, from the most petite to the tallest girl in the shop. I ordered special work gloves that go to the elbow for the workers in the steam area. My arm will always have a scar from the accident I had on my first day. I want my employees to be safe.

  In a couple of months, I will mark my one-year anniversary working here, and my six-month anniversary as forelady. As the weeks have gone by, I’ve thought about school less and less. Sometimes I feel a pang over what I’m missing, and sad about not becoming a teacher. I wonder what it would be like to teach a classroom of children eager to learn, but I use those skills when I’m teaching the girls a new operation in the mill. My work life is gratifying; I never think about whether I like what I’m doing or not, I just concentrate on doing it well. I am at my best when I have a purpose. The goal of taking care of my family is met every week when I pick up my paycheck. That feels good.

  Alessandro helps Papa out on the farm, while Elena and I stay in town with the baby. Our brother-in-law makes it into town three nights a week. There’s always talk about selling the house on Dewey Street and moving us back to the farm. But the house in town makes my work life so much easier, and my salary is too important to jeopardize with a three-mile walk in bad weather that might make me miss the start bell. Another reason to hold on to the house is that Dianna will come into town next year to attend Columbus School.

  My younger sisters will not have to work at the blouse mill as Assunta, Elena, and I have. Financially, our family is doing better now, so there is no need to sacrifice their educations for the extra income they could bring in. I know a lot of that has to do with how hard I work and save. The more effort I put in at work, the easier it is on Mama and Papa. I used to put my ambition in books; now I put it in productivity at the mill.

  Bright and early Monday morning, Chettie meets me on the street and we walk to the factory. “Anthony Marucci has gotten off the dime and asked me out. He’s going to take me to the show this Saturday in Easton. Wanna come?”

  “I don’t think so. Who wants a third wheel on a date?”

  “We could get someone to go with you.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on. Anthony has lots of friends. Franco Zollerano thinks you’re cute.”

  “No, thank you. That guy is so full of himself.”

  “That’s just the way fellas are,” Chettie replies. She always thinks the best of people. “He’s just trying to impress you.”

  “Boys. You can keep them. What a waste of time.”

  Chettie gives me a knowing look. “Well, I heard one of the girls talking in line about Renato. His father says he’s coming home today.”

  News of Renato’s return sends a rush through me. I wonde
r why he didn’t mention a visit home in his last letter. Maybe he wanted to surprise me. I haven’t seen him since the Ferris wheel ride, but we’ve been writing back and forth since he sent me that beautiful letter about Assunta.

  Chettie gets in line to punch her time card while I go into the office to sign in. Jenkins has a new policy with the foreladies and foremen: he wants us to sign in and give a brief description of the job at hand that day with projections of output. I always try to beat the figures I put down on the sheet; it’s a little game I play with myself.

  Today the truck comes from New York to pick up our shipment. I will stay late and oversee the load-in. Mr. Jenkins used to stay for the truck, but no longer. He trusts me to count every blouse for the buyer.

  When the final bell rings, the factory empties in seconds. I reposition the large fans in front of the windows. I’ve found that the fans facing out helps keep down the haze from the filaments somewhat. In the heat, it’s harder to control, but if I position them this way at night, the factory is cooler in the morning. I lower the lights in the main factory room and go to check the cutting room.

  I am surprised to see Franco working late. He seems to slip in and out, of course, since machinists go from factory to factory fixing equipment. Days go by without an appearance at Roseto Manufacturing. Sometimes I find myself looking for him, and then I remember Renato. No one can compare with Renato, especially not a machinist with a smart remark.

  Franco has taken apart the spreader. It sits in small pieces on the cutting table while he works.

  “What happened?” I ask him.

  “The wheel isn’t working properly. I’m replacing it.”

  I start to go. “Well, good luck.”

  “I like your dress,” he says, looking me over.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Thank you. My sister made it. The last thing I want to do when I go home is sew.”