Lucinda's Solution

by Nancy Roman

  “Is it a good idea to keep reminding them? Maybe they should forget her and accept you as their only mother?”

  “I’m not sure. I love them, Martin, and I want to be their mother. But I want them to know her too. I think their hearts are big enough to hold two mothers.”

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  “You seldom speak of her,” I said.

  His eyes grew dark. Angry even.

  “Spare me,” he said. “Spare yourself.”

  “Spare myself? From what? From what I see every day? From the hurt of knowing how much you loved her?”

  “From the hurt of knowing how much I love her still!”

  He rose from the bed and left the room. I heard him open the high cabinet that held the glasses. That held the whiskey.

  And I fell asleep wondering if Martin’s heart would ever be big enough to hold both wives.

  We made it through the weekend in Springfield.

  Mass and the visit to the gravesite were difficult but distant, like I was watching strangers through a November fog. Martin especially felt like a kind stranger, so polite and unfamiliar. I wondered if he was even aware of the people, the prayers, and the conversation around him. I thought perhaps it was Martin’s strategy for surviving the next few days.

  My father was stoic. He made no effort to reconcile, but neither did he criticize me further.

  But it was all worth it, because I was able to spend time with my mother. Although the occasion was solemn, she was as overjoyed to see me as I was to see her. She was visibly relieved that I was healthy and the children were thriving.

  Once all the commemorations were completed, Mother instructed Amelia that she should have charge of the children for the entire afternoon, so as to provide me with a respite. Amelia grumbled only just a little, to fill her required dose of complaining for the day, and led the children off to play. Mother told me that Amelia had dusted off her old dollhouse and that she had been secretly looking forward to playing with the children.

  “She’s near sixteen,” Mother explained, “but that is an age when it is comforting to be a little child once in a while.”

  “She’s more beautiful each time I see her,” I commented.

  “And more spoiled. Your father takes great pride in how Malcolm is doing at the yard; but Amelia is his darling. She will demand a husband who also treats her like a princess. A year ago I thought that would be impossible, but seeing how the young men swoon, it may be easier than I imagined to install Amelia in a castle.”

  “I am beginning to believe that women who demand more, get more. So perhaps Amelia is the smartest of us all.”

  “And how are your wishes, Lucinda? Are you seeing them fulfilled?” asked Mother as she brought me tea and honey.

  And we talked. I told Mother all about our friendship with the Giamettis. I expressed concern over Frank’s health, and she advised me to watch for signs that his recovery may be faltering, and worsening instead of improving. She had witnessed a similar condition with the neighbor’s son on his return from the War. His improvement was so welcomed and applauded by all, that when his pain returned, he did not have the heart to inform anyone, and pretended for quite some time to be fine. He came to a tragic end, and Mother wondered if it could have been prevented had anyone discerned his suffering.

  I found this information distressing, and Mother quickly added a reassurance that Frank’s case sounded very different and his recovery was most likely on the horizon.

  We discussed Sofia Giametti as well, that she was a sweet companion to me, and bestowed great love upon the children.

  “In a way,” said Mother, “You are both war brides. Making the best of your arranged marriages - and unlike Amelia, your expectations do not exceed your situation.”

  “Yes,” I laughed, “Sofia and I are both doomed to reality.”

  And of course there was my coming baby. Mother reiterated her impression that I looked very well, and gave me some instruction as to how to let out my clothes temporarily. With Sofia being a seamstress, I thought that perhaps I might even be able to succeed, with her help. I confided to Mother that I had been consumed with worry, and had on impulse sought out a doctor. Mother was amazed but gratified that the doctor was a woman. I confessed that I had no knowledge of childbearing and had been embarrassed to ask. That when the baby moved inside me, I thought that something was terribly wrong, and that I might die. I described how kindly and efficiently Dr. Howell had reassured me.

  “Oh my darling,” cried my mother. “You will get through it all. I’m so sorry you had to have such worries all alone. But now you have a good friend and a good doctor. Don’t keep your fears inside you. Let them out and then beat them with a stick!”

  I checked in on the children who were still enthralled with Amelia’s elaborate dollhouse.

  “I’d like to go out for an hour or so,” I told Amelia. “If you tire of the children, just put them down for a nap. They’re overdue. Mother can help you.”

  “I can manage,” said Amelia.

  And the children did not even look up from their play to say goodbye, which was a good thing, I think.

  I found Peter cleaning coal bins at the lumberyard. He was covered with soot, but whistling. He smiled when he saw me.

  “I would hug you but you’d be dirty for a week,” he said.

  “That looks to be a very unpleasant job, Mister Dustbin.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad, because I have the place to myself. No one wants to help, and I like it that way.”

  I looked around. “Where are the horses?”

  Peter wiped his brow, and surreptitiously his eyes, with the back of his dirty hand.

  “Carthage died. Two weeks ago. I don’t think I know of any horse living longer than that old fellow. But we haven’t used the horses for months now. We’ve gone over entirely to trucks. Which leaves me cleaning coal bins, because I don’t see well enough to drive on the streets. Your father would be a fool to let me loose in a motor vehicle.”

  “Which he is certainly not.” I agreed. “So what happened to Zeke?” I was afraid of the answer, but Peter smiled.

  “Ah, but that’s the good news. Without Carthage as part of the team, Zeke hadn’t much use. And he’s practically as old as Carthage anyway. I found a farmer who took him to pasture.”

  “Really? What farmer would want one old retired wagon-puller?”

  “Well, truth is… I’m paying for his board.”

  “Now that doesn’t surprise me. You’d dress him up in a top hat if you could.”

  “Oh, but Zeke would look elegant in a topper! And there’s more to this good deal. This farm - out in Longmeadow - it’s splendid! And I’m going to work there. Your father really doesn’t have work for me now that the horses are gone. So I’m going to get my farm after all!”

  “You’ll be owning it?” I asked, startled.

  “Well, eventually. It’s like this, Lucinda. There’s this girl - Margaret. She’s sweet and smart and has a bosom as big and soft as a goose feather pillow. I’m marrying her. Six months till the wedding - her father wants her to wait until she is twenty. And, well… it’s her father’s farm.”

  “That’s wonderful, Peter. Do your brothers like her?”

  “They do! And my father too. They’re Polish, but Pop doesn’t mind. They’re Catholic and the Poles are very hard-working people.”

  “They are,” I agreed.

  “Just think. I am going to be farming with a good strong wife at my side. Why, she can pitch a bale of hay like a man!”

  “I’m very happy for you Peter. And for Margaret too. You’ll make a fine husband. She’s lucky.”

  “Isn’t it grand how sometimes Life works out?” said Peter.

  “It is,” I said.

  CH
APTER 42

  We celebrated Christmas at home in New Haven.

  My mother had invited us to Springfield, but now six months along, I had a good excuse to decline. In truth, I was feeling quite well during the day. I had no real complaints, but I was beginning to find it difficult to get a restful sleep. I was either uncomfortable with an aching back or uncomfortable because the baby inside me seemed to be most active at night. I would say to my expanding waist - it is bedtime now, so you must sleep - but this child had no concept of obedience. And on those rare occasions where my back and the child were quiet, my mind would pick that moment to consider all the tribulations of the world.

  I took to napping when the children did, but even that was becoming more difficult, as Jonathan had seemed to outgrow his need for afternoon sleep.

  “I just can’t,” he’d say. “My eyes keep opening up.”

  Some days when Jonathan’s eyes kept opening up and mine kept closing, I would enlist Frank Giametti to help out. Jonathan was required to play quietly so as not to wake Charlotte, as she was disposed to whine and fuss without a good long nap. So Frank would sit with Jonathan in the kitchen and play with blocks or wooden animals, or read stories, while I slept a bit. As I was dozing, I could often hear Frank’s descriptions of the ships that took him to and from the Great War or stories about his parent’s hometown of Calabria, although he had never been there. His soft cadence in the background of my rest eased my mind.

  Sofia - thank the Lord - gave me some cooking lessons, and I was able to take over more of the meal preparation. She was working long hours and often arrived home later than Martin did. So I had dinner waiting for all of us. We alternated between taking our meals in our apartment or the Giametti’s. The benefit of going downstairs was the probability that Frank would pick up a violin or accordion or even a clarinet and bestow us with music as I cooked. The benefit to our dinners upstairs was the ease with which I could get the children into bed after dinner, and our adult conversation could continue. Either way, Sofia loved being able to read a bedtime story and make sure that prayers were said.

  Jonathan and Charlotte took to calling them Zio Franco and Zia Sofia. I thought there was a very real possibility that the baby I was carrying would arrive with a clear understanding of Italian.

  It was comfortable being one family.

  The intimacy that seemed elusive to Martin and me when alone seemed within our grasp when we were all together. We smiled more. We laughed more. So we sought the company of our neighbors as a respite from being alone. It didn’t matter what combination we made: Frank and Martin trying to fix a leaky faucet, Sofia and I baking bread, Frank and I talking about teaching and education - I learned that his ambition before the war had been to become a schoolteacher - or Sofia and Martin talking about life in Europe. I discovered only through Martin’s conversation with Sofia that he had spent a year in Italy when he was studying engineering.

  We spent Christmas Eve together. We included our landlords, Mr. and Mrs. Battle, when Sofia found out that their children and grandchildren were not coming for a visit, and that they had sat home without ceremony the previous Christmas.

  We celebrated in the Italian tradition. The Battles were just happy to be included; they had no preference or disinclination for any type of holiday festivities. Their proclivity was only for wine, and they themselves supplied enough to last through New Year’s Day.

  Martin, having no brothers or sisters, admitted to being greatly indulged as a child, and mostly remembered the holiday as ‘heaping stacks’ of gifts, but no company or parties. And in my family, Christmas was spent mostly in prayer, which held no interest for me, to my father’s dismay. Although between the Benedict children and the scores of relatives, I still considered Christmas as a happy time with many festive visits and an abundance of hugging. But I couldn’t think of any family tradition that I was heart-set on continuing, with the exception of decorating a fragrant tree - which, by the way, violated the terms of our lease, but considering that the landlords were grateful to be invited guests, they looked the other way at the small tree which stood in our kitchen.

  So we went with the Italian tradition. Foremost, we had food! Our Christmas Eve table included more types of fish than I ever knew existed, and also eel and octopus, which I had no interest in trying. If there is any advantage whatsoever in being in the family way, it is the excuse to be as picky an eater as you would like. You say, ‘Oh, I just cannot manage that’ while you gently rub your belly. It also works for any physical labor or unpleasant conversation.

  And there were fruits and pastas and delicious artichokes and eggplant - and panettone! I have resolved to never eat any other kind of bread.

  After we had consumed as much as would perhaps set records not to be broken (until next Christmas), we carried our dishes to the sink, but re-set the table and left the remaining food, of which there was a startling amount. No cleaning up on Christmas Eve. The table was left for Joseph and Mary and the Baby Jesus, who were expected to come during the night. A lovely Italian tradition if you are not beset with mice.

  We played Tombola, a numbers game on little cards. Sofia had provided prizes in the form of cookies made of fig and almond. Mr. Battle won nearly every game and was quite jolly from the winning and the wine.

  Frank disappeared for several minutes, and returned with his violin. He played Ave Maria and O Little Town of Bethlehem, which we all sang. And then my favorite, Hark The Herald Angels Sing, which I love because it is rousing and you can go ahead and shout with joy at the end, which I did, even though I had abstained from the wine. Sofia chose Silent Night, which was perfect for her lovely voice, and surprised us by singing the verses, not only in Italian and English, but in the original German as well.

  Then it was the children’s turn. Sofia and Frank had taught them all the words to Tu Scendi Dalle Stelle, which Sofia had sung to them so many months before. They were well-practiced - which must have happened during my recent habit of afternoon napping. By this time, the children were dressed in their new white flannel nightdresses, and they looked and sounded like cherubs. Mrs. Battle let her tears run unchecked down her rosy cheeks.

  “When the Missus starts the waterworks, it’s our time to head home,” Mr. Battle laughed. So they made their goodbyes, with kisses all around and Christmas wishes. Martin and Frank assisted the wine-afflicted couple down the stairs, while Sofia and I put the children to bed.

  When the men returned, we played more Tombola and the gifts were kisses on the cheeks, with the losers kissing the winner each time, which caused us to become very silly no matter what the outcome. In any other circumstance this would have been shockingly inappropriate, and so it gave me great pleasure to imagine my father joining in.

  Frank picked up the violin, but dispensed with the Christmas carols. He played songs we could all sing, like Mary’s A Grand Old Name and Bicycle Built for Two and My Wild Irish Rose. Martin sang Let Me Call You Sweetheart both with the correct lyrics and a version that was so risqué that even Frank was blushing.

  Frank struck up And The Band Played On. He pushed back the furniture and demanded that there should be dancing. I patted my stomach and demurred, and instead encouraged Martin to dance with Sofia. And they did. They were so lovely, my heart ached. I had never seen Martin dance. There was a lightness to his movement that I had never witnessed. Sofia closed her eyes and let herself be carried away. A Viennese waltz followed. It was more breathtaking than the first, if that were possible. As the waltz finished, Martin led Sofia back to her chair, bowed and kissed her hand.

  The clock struck the hour. It was midnight, and it was Christmas. We hugged and kissed and wished each other Happy Christmas. Sofia said to Frank that they should run and catch at least a bit of midnight mass. And they hurried away.

  Martin and I looked at the dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the plates of untouched f
ood on the table. “Let’s put what we can in the icebox,” I suggested. “We can leave some of it out - the food that will keep. Everything else, out on the fire escape. If the animals eat it, well then God bless them.”

  “Absolutely,” said Martin. “The animals need their feast on Christmas Day.”

  “I would ask the animals to wash the dishes, but those pigeons are so careless.”

  So we did the minimum cleaning and tumbled into bed. The children slept, including my little unborn, until the sun was well up and it was past eight.

  Charlotte and Jonathan woke up shouting “Santa Claus, Santa Claus” - and sure enough, Santa had made a visit to the third floor of 30 Pearl Street. They had oranges and walnuts and chocolate candies in their stockings. And there was a doll for Charlotte with eyes that opened and closed. She hugged the doll to her breast and said, “My Amelia.” And for Jonny, we found a tin car that looked very much like his grandfather’s Oldsmobile.

  We washed up and fed the children and hurried off to St. Mary’s. The service was glorious, and the choir sang with exuberance. So many Alleluias! Jonathan got the giggles remembering the story of his mother singing in the choir and sang out, “Croak, croak, croak!” When the people in the pew before us turned around, I whispered, “Lord, Lord, Lord” and hoped for the best.

  Back at home, Sofia had dinner ready. A marvelous ham with yams and apricots and snap peas. “An American Christmas dinner,” she proclaimed. American or not, it was quite delicious, and even fussy Charlotte had a second plate. And then dessert! Sofia presented a very large, very fancy cake.