Lucinda's Solution

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Lucinda's Solution Page 11

by Nancy Roman


  By this time, Mother had come out with Amelia and Malcolm, and all three had been cheering on my accomplishment of not hitting the house. We all hugged our hellos and the little ones ran around us all with happy excitement.

  Mother had outdone herself on dinner. A large, and I’m sure expensive, roast of beef, with potatoes that had browned around the roast, and what Mother liked to call haricots verts, but Catherine used to say, “Green beans, Mother. They’re green beans.” It was a family joke. But there was no one there to make it anymore.

  Still, we remained buoyant. At the end of the meal, Martin turned to my Mother and said, “Thank you so much, Mother Benedict, for such a magnificent meal, and to you too, Father Benedict, for the pleasure of driving your admirable automobile. I am glad I can be so alliterative in my gratitude.” We laughed, although I am sure Jonathan and Charlotte had no idea what they were laughing at, and I had my doubts about Malcolm and Amelia as well.

  “Lucinda and I have some wonderful news,” Martin continued. “Lucinda is expecting a baby.”

  Everyone turned to gape at me, including my own children.

  My father stood. “No!” he bellowed, slamming his hand to the table and upsetting his coffee cup. He stormed out of the room.

  I jumped up and ran after him. I heard the door to his office slam, but I threw it back open without the mandatory knock.

  “How could you?” he asked. His whole body shook with rage.

  “I don’t understand…” I said quietly.

  “You have fornicated with your sister’s husband!”

  “With my own husband! You are the one who wanted us - forced us - to marry.”

  “You will both be in hell. There is no greater sin.”

  “I am being a wife.”

  “You are NOT a wife. You are a sister! This is evil. This is incest!” Father began to cry. “Get out, get out!”

  I fled the room. I ran up the stairs to the guest bedroom, to Catherine’s bedroom.

  Before dinner, I had taken out our Sunday clothing to release the wrinkling from the suitcase. Now I threw the clothing back into the suitcase. I was crying and trying to get the wretched case to close when Martin came in.

  “We need to leave immediately,” I said, choking on my tears. “If there is no train, we can hire a car.”

  “Lucinda, no. We cannot take the children out now. Your mother is reading them a story and then she will bring them up to bed. Your father is shocked, but he will calm himself. You’ll see.”

  “No, he won’t. I know him. You didn’t hear what he said to me. My God, why did he want us to marry?”

  I threw myself onto the bed, convulsed in tears. Martin stood watching, helpless.

  Mother came in with the children, and I tried to stifle my sobs. The little ones were clearly upset and had never seen me so distraught. They cried “Mama, stop!” and clung to me.

  “It’s all right,” said Mother to the children. “Mama is very tired from such a long day, but she will be all smiles again in the morning. You go to sleep now and you will see that everything will be happy in the morning.”

  I could not seem to move - nor could Martin. I heard Mother rummaging through the suitcase that I had turned into a disastrous jumble of clothes. By the time she had dressed the children for bed, I was able to regain enough composure to sit up and give the children my best imitation of a sincere smile.

  “See, I am already feeling a bit better,” I said.

  “Is Grandfather angry?” asked Jonathan.

  “Oh no,” I answered. “He is just tired too.”

  “Maybe you should not drive the automobile anymore,” suggested Jonny.

  “I think perhaps you are right,” I said.

  My mother kissed both of the children goodnight and then came to me and kissed the top of my head. “The sun will shine again in the morning. You’ll see,” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” said Martin, and Mother touched his cheek briefly before leaving us.

  When we came down to breakfast in the morning, Mother was alone in the kitchen with porridge and biscuits. And thankfully, coffee.

  “Your father has gone to early Mass with Amelia and Malcolm,” explained my mother.

  We ate quietly. Even the little ones were subdued that morning.

  Mother said, “Martin, why don’t you take the children out to the garden? Perhaps you could pick some tomatoes and peppers that you could take home with you.”

  And Martin took both children by the hand and left Mother and me together.

  Mother poured us each another cup of coffee and sat down at the table by my side. She took my hand.

  “Your father,” she said, “is a man full of contradictions. A man who does not always have the capacity to confront and acknowledge those contradictions. But last night he had to see the consequences of his actions. And he found it hard to accept.

  He pushed you into marriage, but he told himself that it was just a union of propriety. To keep up appearances. He did it for himself, not you. And failed to recognize what was inevitable. That you and Martin would come to accept your artificial marriage as a real marriage. He finally had to see what he has not let himself see for many months: that Catherine is dead. And life has the audacity - the sheer bad manners - to go on. And it brings you new life.”

  I wiped away the beginning of a new round of tears. “Martin and I are not in a real marriage as yet. But we are getting there. He is still overwhelmed with grief. He has not really allowed himself to even try to be happy.”

  “He feels that being happy again is disloyal.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Grief is a terrible thing. In some ways, you never want to get over it. You think it is not fair to go on with your life - to smile again without the one you love.” She took a sip of coffee and I saw that her hand trembled.

  “Nothing quite so horrid as bad manners,” I repeated with a sorrowful smile.

  Mother smiled too.

  “Did you know,” she continued, “that you had a brother two years older than you?”

  “No! What are you saying?”

  “Your brother Joseph. He died before his first birthday. He was taken by some fever he could not fight. I thought I would die with him. I thought I should have died with him. When I found I was expecting another child, I was so angry. I was angry with your father for ever wanting to have marital relations again. I was angry with you for thinking you could replace my darling Joe. I was angry with my body and with God, for making me continue to live.”

  I took her hand once more.

  “When you were born,” Mother continued, “it would be easy to tell you that suddenly all was right with the world and that I loved you and life was sweet again. It did not happen that easily. I refused to look at you, refused to nurse you. Your father had to hire someone to care for you. But gradually you made me curious. I heard your cries, I saw you be comforted by the nurse, by young Catherine, and yes, even by your father. Who was this strange demanding creature? One day I said, ‘Everyone get out of the room and let me take care of my own baby!’ And I held you and it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t forget Joseph. But I could love you too.”

  “If you did not forget Joseph, why didn’t you ever talk about him? Why didn’t you tell me I had another brother?”

  “Just because I had joy back in my life doesn’t mean the pain went away.”

  “And now?”

  “The sorrow is always there. But so is the joy. I truly believe Martin will eventually see that too.”

  “Do you think Father will?”

  “I don’t know. He is a difficult man. But I know one thing - a baby is always a blessing. You were my salvation. Your child will save you too.”

  “I am not sure I can do it.”

&nbs
p; “If there is anything I know about you, Lucinda, it is that you can do anything.”

  CHAPTER 37

  My father did not forgive me. At least I do not think he did.

  But I forgave him.

  He also lost a son when baby Joseph died. He also lost a daughter when Catherine died.

  And looking at my life with honesty, I saw that my father did not push me into marriage with Martin. That Christmas, when I learned of Father’s plan, Martin had been willing to release me from that terrible agreement. But truth be told, I wanted to marry Martin.

  I told Martin once that I had always adored him. But I let him think it was childish admiration. I knew the shameful truth. I had loved Martin with my whole soul. And I had thought in that immature soul - and still did in some ways - that I could replace Catherine. That I could have her life. That I could become her.

  I replaced her with her children, because they were too young to keep her memory safe. It was up to Martin and to me to give her back to her children, with our memories and stories since they would have few of their own.

  I resolved to do this.

  I took down the portraits of my muckraking heroes that hung in the parlor. The room was now the children’s bedroom and Ida Tarbell did not have to watch over them at night. I put those pictures into my trunk. Catherine’s photo had its place of honor on the dresser in the bedroom, but Martin and I did not have to be reminded of her. She lived with us, and between us, night and day. So I moved that photo to the parlor and hung it in the spot that had been Tarbell’s.

  “This is your first Mama,” I told the children as I straightened the portrait. Jonathan nodded as if he remembered, but I’m not sure he did. “Anyway,” I said, “your first Mama loved you very much. She died in the great influenza epidemic. She didn’t want to die because she wanted to stay with you, but she couldn’t help it. So your Papa asked me if I would be your Mama, and I said yes. Because I love you and I loved your Mama. And that is how you came to have two mamas. And I will tell you stories about her, so you know her and love her too.”

  “Tell a story now, Mama,” said Charlotte.

  “You can’t call her Mama anymore,” Jonathan cried, and although it nearly broke my heart, I said with a smile,

  “Oh yes. You both can call me Mama because I am your Mama too. I was not your first Mama, but you are my real children and I am your real Mama.”

  “Story!” insisted Charlotte.

  So I told them about Catherine, and how she liked the ice from Grandfather’s ice house, and how she would put honey on it, and let me have some, and share it with Aunt Amelia and Uncle Malcolm too. And we would go home with honey on our faces and Grandmother would say, “How did you get so sticky?” And Catherine would say, “The bees were kissing us!”

  “She was fibbing!” said Jonathan.

  “Yes, but she fibbed to make Grandmother laugh. And that is all right. Making someone laugh is sweet. As sweet as honey.”

  “Tell another!”

  “One day, when you were very little, Charlotte, it was terribly warm. And we were out for a walk, but there was no place to escape the heat. And you fussed and cried. You couldn’t talk yet, but we knew that you were saying, ‘I need to get cool right now!’ We came to a church and went in. It was cooler in the church because of the heavy stone walls, so I thought that was very smart of your first mama. But she had something else in mind. She picked you up from your pram and put you in the baptismal font. Clothes and all. And she said, ‘A second baptism is always a good idea!’”

  “Did she let me swim in the fountain too?” asked Jonathan.

  “She certainly did.”

  “I like her,” he said.

  I felt a glimmer of hope that Catherine and I might be able to somehow share this home and this family.

  CHAPTER 38

  My delicate condition became not so delicate after all. I recovered my appetite - almost to a fault - and with September came cooler, more refreshing weather.

  Sofia Giametti took a job as a seamstress in the corset factory. I was quite jealous watching her go off to work each morning with her lunch pail, arm in arm with two other young women. Not that I had any inclination towards sewing, or any type of factory work. I liked the idea, however, of earning my own money. As a result though, I did earn twenty-five cents per week, making sure that Frank had a nice lunch each day. I would have done that for free - I had quickly grown very fond of both Giamettis. We all had dinner together every Sunday. And they often came upstairs on weekday evenings after the children were in bed to play cards.

  Lunch for Frank was served downstairs in his apartment, with his food. The children and I were delighted with this arrangement. Sofia purchased and prepared the most delicious pasta and sausages. Even her vegetables seemed more tasty than what I could buy and certainly more tasty that I what I could cook. There were times when Frank was quite unwell, and it was a difficult task to get him to come out from the bedroom and try to eat a bit. The children seemed to have a special sensibility for Frank’s bad days. They spoke in whispers and Jonathan would even put his hand on Frank’s forehead. And if by chance the children were also having a bad day, not in health but in temperament (which I will not pretend was rare), I would leave a meal set on the table and take the little ones home.

  But luckily, Frank’s bad days were becoming less frequent. Sofia worked five days a week, and on at least three of those days, Frank was well and in good spirits. We would go down at lunchtime to find him at work on an instrument, and we’d feast on Sofia’s offerings. Jonny and Charlotte would dance to Frank’s violin - or accordion or cello - even once a harp.

  Frank was born in New York City. He was very proud that he was a true American. His parents had come through Ellis Island in 1885, and he was born five years later. When he was four his parents came to New Haven where The Sargent Metal Company was known for its good wages and willingness to hire Italian immigrants. Frank loved New Haven; his parents did not. They moved back to Italy when Frank was fifteen, and he decided to stay. He went to work in the same factory, producing fine locks and was quite content. In 1912, when he was twenty-two, he desired a wife. He wrote to his parents and they found a suitable bride in Calabria. Frank paid for Sofia’s passage.

  “You didn’t want to find a wife for yourself? To see her and speak to her and know that you were compatible?” I asked.

  “Who would know better what was best for me than my own father and mother?” he replied. “If they said she would be a good wife, I knew they would be correct. And they sent me a photograph.” He got up and went into the bedroom, and came back with a very worn photograph of a very pretty young woman. “Beautiful, no?” he said.

  “Very beautiful,” I agreed.

  “She is a bit older than I,” he said, which surprised me. “We wanted to have a house full of children, but it didn’t happen. Then I went off to the war, and the gassing was a terrible thing. I returned with these headaches. It has been eighteen months now. But finally…finally… I am beginning to improve.”

  “I’m glad you are recovering. Maybe it is not too late for a family. Life is full of surprises. Look at me!” I said. Frank had met Catherine once or twice, and he knew that she had been my sister. I did not need to say more.

  Knowing their history explained why Frank’s English was perfect, while Sofia’s, though excellent, was heavily accented. I felt a kinship with these good folk who were also united through an arranged marriage. They had been together nearly seven years and they had survived war, illness, and infertility.

  This last tribulation was much harder on Sofia than Frank. In some ways, Frank was relieved there had been no children - his frequent incapacity caused him to struggle as a provider. And although he adored Jonathan and Charlotte, I believe that their noisy exuberance on a daily basis would have made his slow recovery all
but impossible.

  But poor Sofia. During one private conversation, she spoke of her heartbreaking barrenness. “I made so many novenas,” she said, “that I wore down my rosary. But God must have known that Frank would suffer his injury and need so much quiet. My sister back in Calabria had two babies die in her womb. Terrible sadness but at least she knew that she could conceive. And so she was not discouraged, and now she has a lovely son. But for me, after all these years, nothing. I have lost hope.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “We all have terrible disappointments. We say, ‘What else?’ and go a different way. I have a fine job and the pleasure of loving your little ones without bringing pain to Frank.”

  “Charlotte and Jonathan love you. And I have my own troubles with my family, so I am glad they have you to love.”

  After discussing the situation with Martin, we asked Sofia and Frank to be godparents to the baby I was carrying.

  CHAPTER 39

  October brought Charlotte’s third birthday.

  We received gifts from my mother, with a note sending Charlotte and all of us much love, but also mentioning that my father still needed some ‘distance.’ which I took as a kind way of saying that he was still filled with anger. Well, we could have a birthday celebration of our own.

 

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