The Queen of the Big Time

by Adriana Trigiani

  “What about the Gene Tierneys?” I whisper.

  “I don’t think she’ll mind.” He kisses my ears, then my neck.

  When Franco was gone during the war, I tried to remember each and every time we’d made love. I didn’t want to forget a single detail about our life together.

  “How’s this?” he says as he lifts me on top of him.

  “It’s better than a hay ride.”

  Franco laughs, and there is no sweeter sound in Nella Manufacturing Company.

  We take my niece Assunta’s campaign for queen of the Big Time door-to-door. Once we’ve covered Roseto, we take the campaign to West Bangor, Bangor, Martins Creek, Pen Argyl, and Flicksville. Every night after work, we load up the car with my sisters, Assunta, and a stack of tickets and fan out in the neighborhoods, covering two blocks at a time. We don’t forget the farmers either, making sure we stop in Wind Gap and Stone Church. I can’t imagine that Assunta’s competition has the kind of manpower that we do. My sisters are as determined as I am to sell every ticket.

  I push the kitchen screen door open, exhausted from another night of fund-raising. My dinner waits on the stove for me.

  “Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard with this queen competition? I’m starting to think you want to win more than Assunta,” Franco says over his glasses as he reads the paper at our kitchen table.

  “You don’t understand.” I turn the heat up on the pan of pasta fagioli on the stove.

  “You’re right. I don’t understand. Why is it so important that Assunta win this thing?”

  “Franco, you didn’t grow up on the farm. You grew up on Garibaldi Avenue, in town. When I came to Roseto to visit, I never felt a part of it. When I went to school it began to change, but then I had to quit and go to work. I remember when I was a girl, and I’d stand outside Marcella’s, and in my head I’d do the math, figuring out how much I’d have to save up to buy my family a box of cream puffs.”

  “I didn’t grow up with money either.”

  “It’s not about the money, it’s about being recognized. When I was a girl, my sisters and I never thought we’d be a part of the Big Time celebration. We walked in the back of the procession with everyone else to say the rosary; we were never invited to be on the court or carry the banner for the sodality or march with the schoolkids.”

  “So you have something to prove?”

  “To myself. I want a Castelluca to go from Delabole farm to Roseto’s queen of the Big Time in one generation. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

  My husband smiles and goes back to his paper. I spoon the pasta fagioli into a dish and sit down and eat. The Castellucas may have come a long way in a short amount of time, but we still eat pasta and beans on Friday night.

  Assunta puts her heart into the final week of fund-raising. The competition is so fierce this year, I take a stack of tickets to our buyers in New York. Franco can’t believe that I’d cross the state line to raise money for Assunta’s campaign. The Rosenbergs are happy to help and sell them in the Garment District to their vendors and friends. They have no problem supporting our cause, even though the proceeds will go to our Catholic church. “Good deeds are good deeds,” Sid Rosenberg tells me when he takes the tickets. We’re sure their efforts will help put Assunta over the top.

  I’m too nervous to go to the church hall for the counting of the proceeds, so I stay home and wait for a call. How thrilled I am when Assunta calls to tell me that she has won.

  The only awkward part of winning queen is that the girls you competed against become your princesses. Elisabetta Sartori, a beautiful girl with long blond hair and deep brown eyes, was a good sport, though her mother, having been denied that front-row seat, was not. Ellie Montagano, small and round like her mother, was very polite on the surface, while her mother had dredged up stories about our family in order to derail Assunta’s campaign. Franco encouraged me to let it go (after all, the Rosenbergs put Assunta in the black and in the big crown, so why quibble?). The rest of Assunta’s court includes Rosemary Filingo, Angela Martocci, Grace DelGrosso, Mary Jo Martino, Giuseppina Bozelli, Lucy Communale, Monica Spadoni, Laura Viglione, Helen Bartron, Violet Stampone, Kitty Romano, Rosina Roma, Rosemarie Gigliotti, and Eva and Angela Palermo.

  “Mama?” Celeste comes into my room.

  “Honey, hurry. We have to take Assunta’s gown to her.” I look up from my sewing; the final fitting required two additional darts in the waist.

  “Is this right?” Celeste turns around in her costume. She is one of Assunta’s flower girls.

  “Where are your leotards?”

  “I don’t have any. I’m gonna wear anklets.”

  “You can’t wear anklets.”

  “That’s all I have.”

  “Oh, Celeste.” I put the gown on the bed and go into Celeste’s room. I rifle through her drawer until I find the package of white leotards. “Here. Hurry.”

  I go back into my room and cover Assunta’s gown with a sheet. Franco and Frankie wait outside. Frankie, against his will, is a page. He wears satin knickers and a hat with a plume.

  “Where’s Celeste?” Franco asks.

  I turn around, but she’s not behind me. “That girl.” I hand over Assunta’s dress and go back in the house. “Celeste?” I call up impatiently. She doesn’t answer. I go up the stairs. “Celeste, what is the problem?” I push her door open. She is struggling with the leotards. “Here, let me,” I tell her, yanking them up over her knees and up to her waist.

  We take Chestnut Street over to Dewey, as Garibaldi Avenue has been sealed off for the parade.

  “There’s gonna be a big crowd,” Frankie says as he looks out the window. “And I have to wear this stupid hat.”

  “It’s very regal,” I tell him. “Be a good sport.”

  When we get to Dewey Street, we jump out of the car with the dress. Assunta is inside, waiting in her slip.

  Celeste follows me up the walk. Assunta’s hair has been put up in a lovely circle of curls. I help her into the gown, a white satin A-line gown with an embroidered bodice and long fluted sleeves and an overskirt of layered white tulle. The netting looks like a cloud of whipped cream.

  Elena, in a chic pale blue suit, adjusts the skirt of Assunta’s gown. Mama looks at Assunta and gasps. “You look just like your mother.”

  “I do?”

  “Just as she did on her wedding day.” Tears spring into Mama’s eyes. Elena puts her arms around Mama.

  Celeste fluffs the layers of tulle on Assunta’s gown. “Don’t touch that, Celeste,” I tell my daughter.

  “Assunta, I want to give you something.” Mama reaches into her pocket and gives Assunta a small black velvet box. “Your mother was my eldest daughter, and someday I would have given her this.…”

  Assunta opens the box and lifts out the gold locket with the blue sapphire that Papa gave Mama so many years ago. “Thank you, Nonna. I love it.”

  Assunta leans down as I clip the locket around her neck. “You know, before you were born, your mother wanted you to be named Celestina, for your nonna.”

  “Like me!” my Celeste says proudly.

  “Yes, honey, like you.” Elena smooths my daughter’s hair.

  I look at Assunta. “But when your father came home from Italy after your mother died, he took one look at you and named you after her.”

  Assunta’s eyes fill with tears. “I wish she was here.”

  “We all do,” Elena assures her, even though the story of her own life would have turned out far differently. We gather around Assunta, our queen of the Big Time, and embrace her. We can’t make up for her mother’s absence, but at least we can help her remember how much she was loved by our sister.

  The July sun is hot on the plaza as Assunta crowns the statue of the Blessed Mother. After the war, the women in town donated their rings to make new crowns for the statues, a glittering one for Mary and a smaller one for baby Jesus, who she holds in her arms. I donated a gold signet
ring that Franco had given me, and I take great pride in looking up at the gold crowns and knowing that my love for Franco is a part of them. There are some women who gave their wedding bands, but I just couldn’t give mine up.

  Celeste and Frankie do a wonderful job of carrying Assunta’s train as she walks up the front steps of the church to receive her crown. The ceremony is very moving, and we applaud Assunta as she is helped onto the float with a throne. As they parade down Garibaldi Avenue, Elena cries. Our niece, the little girl Elena mothered so tenderly, has grown up tall and strong, and now holds the highest honor a young woman in Roseto can achieve. Never mind she won the American way, selling tickets. She had the honor of crowning our patron saint; surely that means a life of good luck and happiness. I can’t help but think how far we’ve come from Delabole farm, how so many years ago, for one of us to become the queen of the Big Time seemed impossible. But we are outsiders no longer. All those years toiling in the Society of Mary, working in the mill proving my mettle, and defending the family name when Elena married our brother-in-law seem to float away like the white balloons let loose over the church plaza when the parade begins.

  One of Assunta’s duties as queen is to attend the carnival. I remember so many years ago what a thrill it was when the queen made her rounds. Assunta does a good job, including everyone in the fun.

  “Quite a day,” Renato says when he stops by Alessandro’s candy stand, which is still set up across from the church every year out of tradition. For several years now, Alessandro has given the profits to Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

  “Yes, it was, Father.”

  “Thank you for all your help selling tickets. You know you made me look good with the bishop.”

  “It’s all for a good cause.”

  “Yes, I want to put a cafeteria in the primary school. The profits from the carnival will help a great deal.”

  “Father, you should have been an urban planner. You’ve changed this town with the new schools and the park. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you, Nella.” He smiles. “I couldn’t have done it without your generosity.” Now when I look at Renato, I don’t see the face I used to dream about, or the lips I used to kiss. I concentrate on that Roman collar, and it keeps me on the straight and narrow.

  “Nella, I wanted to tell you, I have some news. I’m leaving Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I’ve been assigned to a parish in New York.”

  My heart sinks a little. Though we don’t go to church here, I always knew that Renato was up the street. I might run into him at firehouse suppers and on the street when I take my evening walk. He is so much a part of Roseto that it is hard to imagine the community without him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “My replacement starts the first week of September. He’s a terrific priest. Father Schmidt.”

  “The bishop is going with a non-Italian?”

  “Change is good. The people will like him, I’m sure.”

  “You did a great job for Roseto, Father.”

  “I didn’t reach all of my goals. I wanted to build a hospital here.”

  The din of the crowd and the sizzle and shouts from the sausage and pepper stand make it hard to hear. I look at Renato, and he smiles at me.

  “I’m thirty-five years old now,” I tell him. “I’ve known you half of my life.”

  “And I’m still seven years older than you.”

  “I know. You’re an old man,” I joke.

  He laughs. “Nella, I—”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him, looking away because suddenly I can’t bear to look at him.

  “I’ll miss you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to leave a second time without saying good-bye.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You see, there is redemption. Sometimes we don’t have to make the same mistakes twice.”

  Renato is pulled away by a parishioner, anxious to introduce him to her family. I don’t know it for sure, but I feel that this is the last I will see of him for many years.

  The fall of 1959 brings big changes in our household. Soon after my daughter, Celeste, has turned twenty, she decides that her November wedding to Giovanni Melfi, a nice Neopolitan boy from Philadelphia, should somehow top the Queen of England’s. Our Lady of Mount Carmel is filled with calla lilies, the Hotel Bethlehem has been festooned with dozens more, and the glamorous New York City boutique Sully of Fifth Avenue has built her a gown with more beads than a Moroccan temple.

  “Are you surprised?” my husband says as he hunts for his shoehorn. “Celeste is no farm girl.”

  “She’s a chicken-in-every-pot baby, and, boy, does she act like it. Spoiled rotten.”

  “I can hear you,” Celeste says from her room. “I need some help in here.”

  I go into Celeste’s room. She stands in her slip, stockings, and garter. When I look at her, I am amazed that she is a woman. Where did the time go?

  “The train is going to be a problem.”

  “Because it’s eight feet long?” I joke.

  But Celeste looks lovely, like one of those carved cameo beauties from the old world. Her brown eyes sparkle under a cap of short black curls. She looks like an Italian movie star. She has her father’s strong jaw and my nose. She is prettier than me; in fact, she has the best features of the Castellucas and the Zolleranos. She is far too young to get married, I think, but this is her choice. She was in her first year of college at Marywood and decided it wasn’t for her. Giovanni was willing to wait until she graduated, but she wasn’t. As we all know, my Celeste doesn’t take no for an answer.

  “You’re beautiful,” I tell my daughter.

  “You think so?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You never say it.” There is a sudden sting to her voice.

  “What do you mean? I say it all the time.”

  “Ma, you have never said it.”

  “That’s just not true,” I argue.

  “Oh, please. Let’s not fight on my wedding day. Let’s make it the one day we don’t fight. Okay?” Celeste sits down at her vanity and gently presses powder to her forehead.

  “I know we squabble.”

  “That’s a polite word for it.” She laughs.

  “It’s not funny.” I put my hands on her shoulders, and she looks up at me.

  “Ma, please. Let’s not get started. I’m serious.”

  “I’m serious too.” I turn to go.

  “You just don’t get it,” Celeste says to my back.

  “What is it I don’t get? That you have everything you’ve ever wanted? That you live in a nice house and went to a good college? That you have a big wedding with three hundred people in the Hotel Bethlehem, a place I didn’t set foot in until I was thirty-four years old?”

  “Here we go … the Delabole farm stories. The poor Castellucas who made good. They went from the cowshed to Garibaldi Avenue.”

  “And don’t forget it.”

  “Oh, Ma, you don’t let anybody forget it.”

  “Because it’s important. What you come from is who you are—it’s your starting place. To come from nothing and make something of yourself, to provide for a family, is no small feat. You will see what I’m talking about when you’re a mother.”

  “Oh, please. You want everybody to know how hard you’ve worked. Well, I’m going to tell you something: You did work hard. You worked so hard you were never home. I barely ever had a meal with you—”

  “You were with your grandparents. I never had both sets of my grandparents when I was growing up on the farm.”

  “Mom, this isn’t about what you had, this is about me. You were never here, which is why I left Marywood. What is the point in getting a degree when I have no intention of leaving my children?”

  “I never left you, Celeste.”

  “You didn’t have to—you weren’t here in the first place. Ask Frankie. I’m not the only one who felt abandoned.”

  Celeste’s words go through me like tiny kniv
es, each one splintering my heart as it sinks in my chest. What is she talking about? Abandoned? She and Frankie were surrounded by family. We worked within walking distance of our children when we bought a mill down the street, we gave them all the things we never had. Celeste traveled! She had vacations; what did I ever know of vacations? She went to Atlantic City and Miami Beach and places I only dreamed of and could never go because I was working. Working for what? For my children. If it weren’t her wedding day, I would tell her these things. But I doubt she’d hear them; she is not interested in anything I have to say.

  “Nella, come and get ready.” Franco pulls me out of the doorway. “Let her be.”

  I go into our room and dress. Franco goes into Celeste’s room and closes the door. I don’t want to know what they’re talking about. If Celeste knew what it was like to do without, she could never say such hateful things to me.

  When Franco returns he takes my hand and says, “Honey, Celeste wants to talk to you before we go to the church.”

  I go into her room. She wears a glittering tiara and a veil of tulle that surrounds her like a cloud.

  “I’m sorry, Celeste.”

  Celeste’s eyes fill with tears, and it dawns on me that she was never much of a crier. “I know, Ma. And I’m sorry for my smart mouth.”

  “I did the best I could, honey. I hope you understand that someday.”

  “I do understand it. I just get impatient.”

  “I want you to be happy. I want it more for you than myself. That was always my dream for you. To do better. To be better.”

  “And I’ll try.”

  Instead of riding up to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, which we rejoined when the new Catholic school opened in 1952, Franco, Celeste, and I walk up the hill in the bright November sun. Frankie and his wife have gone ahead to make sure the ushers are in place before we arrive. Franco holds Celeste’s left hand while I hold her right. This is the last time we will have her to ourselves. Maybe my daughter is right, maybe we didn’t have enough of these moments.

  “Thank you, Ma,” Celeste says to me as I go up the stairs to take my place in church.

  I turn to my only daughter. “Be happy.” And I mean it down to my bones.