by Nancy Roman
We were all weeping. We were together in our agony, and perhaps in our hope.
Martin looked at me in confusion. “You would abandon the children?” he asked.
“Oh Martin,” I answered. “This has been the hardest part of my decision. But I am not abandoning them. I am ensuring that they have the best mother they could have. I would keep Annie with me, because she is still at my breast, not because I love her any more than I love Catherine’s children. And when… when Frank… leaves me… I will join you and Sofia. I will join you as your sister, as I was meant to be. The children would be together again.”
“I am not a religious man,” he said. “But I am not sure I can reconcile this with God.”
“God?” I cried. “God? You are afraid that God will condemn us?” I raised my voice. “God does not care. If God cared, Catherine would be alive - she would be here with her children enjoying a beautiful summer evening. If God cared, you would still have your wife; your children would still have a mother. If God cared, Sofia would not be barren. If God cared, I would be at Mount Holyoke happily studying literature and believing that I would change the world. And if God cared, there would have been no war. And Frank - my darling Frank - would not be dying.
I have come to believe that God doesn’t decide. He gives us the wonder of a free will and a superior intelligence. He sees if we use it. If we lead good lives and find our own happiness.”
“How could we do this?” Martin asked. Then he asked again, although with a slight difference that was all the difference in the world.
“Could we do this?”
“Could you love Sofia?”
Martin looked at Frank, who had posed the question. He looked to me, and I nodded slightly, in an effort to let him see that he was not hurting me. Then Martin looked at Sofia. He smiled for the first time in this astonishing conversation.
“Yes,” he said.
CHAPTER 55
Once we had decided to do this terrible and wonderful thing, the logistics all fell into place. Within days, Martin accepted the position in Ohio, and the company found him a home that they would make permanent if he found he liked it. He filled out his paperwork with his wife listed as Sofia Blaisdell. They arranged to leave in a week. Martin’s and Sofia’s excitement and optimism began to grow, although there was often a certain undercurrent of melancholy.
We worried about the children. I was fearful of their reaction. They had already lost one mother - how could I hurt them again?
Martin and I sat with them on Sunday morning. I took Charlotte on my lap and Martin held Jonathan. I explained that their Papa had a wonderful new job in a beautiful place called Dayton, Ohio. So they would take a long train ride and go there to live. And Sofia wanted to go to Ohio very much, so she would go too.
“Do you remember all the stories I told you about your first Mama?” I asked. And they nodded and told me how she danced and ate honey and let them swim in the baptismal font and made everyone laugh. And I reminded them that before I came to live with them and take care of them, I was Aunt Lucinda, and not Mama.
“I came here to love you and take care of you and be your new Mama until Papa found just the perfect Mama for you. And Zia Sofia loves you and Papa so much, that we know that she is the perfect Mama for you.”
“Zia Sofia is our Mama?” asked Jonathan.
“She would like to be,” said Martin. “She loves you so much.”
“But what about Mama?” said Jonathan looking at me sadly. Charlotte snuggled in tighter into my lap.
“I need to stay a while and take care of Zio Frank,” I said. “And then I will come and we will all be one family with Papa and Mama Sofia and Aunt Lucinda and little Annie.”
“And Zio Frank!” said Charlotte.
“Oh, yes,” said Martin. “Zio Frank will come too.”
And I left the children with Martin and went into the bedroom. I closed the door and cried for a very long time.
We told Mr. and Mrs. Battle that all of us were moving to Ohio - that Martin had found a new job and that the Giamettis had decided to move as well. I knew I could not stay on Pearl Street with Frank. The Battles may have been kind people at heart, but this concept of us exchanging families was too shocking to share.
Besides, I knew when I was formulating this plan where I wanted to go.
Constance helped me. She was so adept at finding just the right person who would have the knowledge and the resources. Within four days, she had put me in touch with a businessman who had a small beach cottage to let in Madison, Connecticut. Madison, where I first realized that I was in love with Frank, and first saw the slight possibility that we could change our fates.
I took a six-month lease on the house - from July first through Christmas. As a woman, and only nineteen at that, I could not sign the lease. I returned with Martin and he signed as my brother. I paid the rent in advance with my college nest egg.
Five days later, Martin, Sofia, Jonathan, and Charlotte boarded a train for Ohio. Frank and I saw them off at the station. We kept it cheerful on the surface for the sake of the children. But it was difficult. Sofia clung to Frank, hiding her heartbreak by crying into his shoulder. I wrapped my arms around both children and told them one more story about their mother - how Catherine on her first train ride told everyone that six invisible horses were pulling the train. Invisible to everyone but her.
“There are three black horses and three white horses, and they have the most delicious - her word - tails. And Grandfather told her she was being frivolous, but Grandmother said, ‘I believe you.’”
Martin kissed me and held Annie like the precious gift she was. “You have the most generous soul, Lucinda,” he said to me, and put the baby gently back into my arms.
And they were gone. Frank and Annie and I got into the hired car that held a few suitcases and Frank’s violin, and our newly acquired tin dinnerware, and went to the beach.
CHAPTER 56
The house held two small bedrooms, and a kitchen so tiny you had to step to one side to open the oven, and a big parlor with a sofa as well as a kitchen table and three mismatched chairs. All the furniture was ancient - with sagging springs on the beds and sofa, and pieces of paper under the table legs in an ineffective attempt to stop the wobbles. But it was also a modern home as cottages go, I was told, because it boasted indoor plumbing and a telephone - both of which were requirements for me, given Frank’s condition and a baby three months old.
There was no crib for Annie, but considering we had not brought (nor owned, to be truthful) very many clothes, we took a drawer from the dresser, lined it with a blanket, and put it on the floor. “Do not step on the baby,” I warned.
And there was a bookcase, with old books - history, poetry, the complete works of Alexandre Dumas, Charles Dickens, and Jane Austen.
And a porch. There was a glorious screened porch with a view of the water, with the beach down a short path through some reeds and saltspray roses. As I looked towards the water, a rabbit hopped across the path.
And so, yes, the house was perfect.
The gentleman who owned the house, once he understood Frank’s failing health, had contacted a local market, who agreed to deliver to our cottage. Frank was tired and wanted to sleep for a while, so he lay down on the creaky bed, and I set off with Annie to find the market. It was less than half a mile from our cottage, so an easy walk during the nice summer weather, but I foresaw days when I would not want to leave Frank.
The shopkeeper, Mr. Vincent Longo, was a genial man, and had been expecting me. He addressed me as Mrs. Giametti (which was sweet to my ears) and expressed his appreciation for Frank’s military service, pointing out that he was also Italian-American, and was glad to help out during what he called “my husband’s convalescence.” I gave him a list of my most urgent necessities - coffee, tea, f
lour, eggs, and some chicken and various fruit and vegetables. It seemed odd that I needed such small quantities and did not need to prepare food for the children.
Mr. Longo would not let me take the groceries, especially since I was carrying the baby, whom he called the prettiest little Italian face he had ever seen, and I agreed. He assured me that he would send a boy around in an hour or so with all my packages.
“That is very kind,” I replied. “I hope you will understand if I need to take the coffee right away.”
When I returned to the cottage, Frank was still asleep. I put the baby in her drawer, smiling at the comical but practical simplicity of her new bed, and set to work rearranging the furniture.
I dragged the small bed out from the tiniest bedroom, and put it on the porch. I did the same with the kitchen table and chairs. We would live outside as much as possible during the day. There was some phlox in bloom on the side of the house, and I snipped a few blooms and put them in an old jar on the table.
I was sitting on the porch with coffee, reading an old book on the history of Connecticut when I heard Frank stir. He came out to the porch and sat with me.
“How did you do this?” he asked.
“It was magic,” I said.
“From start to finish,” he said. “Is there coffee left?”
We watched the sun go down, and I prepared a simple dinner of chicken and lima beans.
“You put a bed out here,” Frank noticed.
“I thought if you needed to sleep during the day, and the weather was hot, this would be comfortable.”
“I may sleep here tonight,” he said. “It would almost feel like I was under the stars.”
“That sounds very nice,” I said, “but it is a very small bed. The bed in the bedroom is big enough for two.”
“Well, that sounds very nice too.”
And that was all there was to it. When we turned out the lights, we lay down together in the bedroom, with Annie at our feet in her makeshift bed. I fell asleep holding Frank in my arms, and I felt that I had set myself right with the world. “Goodnight, my husband,” I said.
I had an onerous task to complete the next day. I wrote to my mother. I attempted to explain to her that I had not been a wife to Martin, and that I had gone away - I did not say where - to care for Frank, whom I loved. To write, ‘Frank is dying’ caused me to stop and walk down to the beach. I had left Frank with Annie, and so I did not stay long - just enough to cry a bit and regain my composure. I wrote:
You and Father may never forgive me, but I hope someday you will understand. I should never have married Martin - he and I can never love each other in any way but as brother and sister - as it should always have been. He has had a wonderful offer to work in Ohio, and I have persuaded him to go there without me. I have gone away with Frank. Frank is dying, and my love for him is so deep that I could not bear it if I could not spend these final months by his side. Sofia and Martin understand, and have given us their blessing. Sofia has gone with Martin to Ohio. She will take care of Charlotte and Jonathan, and I believe she will be a blessing to them as a mother. I also believe that Martin and Sofia will be able to love each other the way a husband and wife should - the way Frank and I do. I have Annie with me. It is my intention that after Frank no longer needs me - a few months at best - I will rejoin Martin and Sofia and the children - as aunt, not mother, and we will all be together again. This arrangement is sinful in the eyes of the world, I know, but I am hoping that someday you may see that it is honorable and that it is right for us. But whether or not you can accept my decision to abandon my marriage, please know that the children will not be lost to you - Martin has pledged that the children will visit you with loving affection whenever possible. Do you remember what you wrote when you sent me my college nest-egg? You wrote “You have accepted a future not of your choosing. But I am convinced that one day you will have the opportunity to do the right thing just for yourself.” Mother, this is my time. It is right for me to love Frank while I still may. I may never find such love again.
I gathered Annie in my arms and walked down to the market to post my letter before I could change my mind.
The next few weeks were blessed by glorious summer weather and a respite in Frank’s condition.
We would breakfast on our porch - I moved the table again once I realized what spot was bathed in morning sun - with coffee and a loaf of bread that Mr. Longo would send over the previous afternoon. Then Frank would take my arm and we would walk the short distance down to the beach. I would spread a blanket and pillows. I had even learned, with Frank’s instruction, to set up a small tent with sticks and towels, so the baby would have a shady place to sleep. Frank and I would lie in the sun, often silent, but sometimes we would share our favorite childhood memories. I would read the newspaper that Mr. Longo provided - one day late, but what would that matter to us? The world could be years ahead of us, and we were happy to let it race ahead while we remained in the sun, listening only to surf and seagulls.
If Frank was content and relatively pain-free, we would stay most of the day. I would run back to the cottage at noon and return with a basket of fruit and cheese, and a jar of iced tea. Sometimes we would see other folks as they walked along the beach, and we’d exchange pleasantries, “We hope you are having a wonderful holiday,” they would say, and often Frank would shout back, “It couldn’t be more wonderful,” and then under his breath to me, “except for the dying.”
I would look at him sternly and say, “Well, husband of mine, you can’t have everything.” And we would toast ourselves with iced tea in our tin cups.
Occasionally, on very warm days, if no one else were to be seen, I would strip down to my petticoat and venture into the water, returning to sprinkle the cold droplets on Frank while he cried out in mock protest.
It was clear during those first two weeks that the sea air and the warmth of summer had a beneficial, though superficial, impact on Frank’s health. He seemed stronger. He often would carry the picnic basket back to the house at the end of the evening. He even offered to carry Annie - “She would fit in this basket easily now that we have eaten everything” - but I knew how precarious was his strength. I could not risk his falling. If he fell, I was not sure if I was strong enough to get him upright, and if he fell with the baby…well, neither of us would soon forgive ourselves. Besides, by the end of the two weeks, although in his bravado he made a good pretense, I knew that he was completely blind.
It rained only three days in all of July. On the first rainy day, I took out Frank’s violin and strummed lightly on the strings, so he would know what I was holding.
“Do you think you can still play?” I asked.
“My hands are not steady - I am afraid I will damage it,” he responded. “I would love to hear it though.”
“Maybe you could teach me. I want to learn in the way your father taught you. To play through no matter what. To ignore my mistakes and stay with the music.”
“How bad a pianist were you?” he asked with a smile.
“I struggled. But I know the notes and measures. With your help, I might be able to translate them from piano to violin. How hard could it be? It is so much smaller than a piano - therefore it must be much easier!”
“Oh, Lucie, you are so vain!” he laughed.
“Are you afraid you are a terrible teacher?” I asked.
“I am the best teacher,” he responded.
“Oh, now who is vain?”
So he named for me the strings, and how I would place my fingers to achieve different notes. At the end of the lesson - almost two hours, I could play a scratchy octave.
“Enough for today,” Frank said. “I need to rest. Preferably someplace very, very quiet.”
That evening, I fell asleep listening to the rain tapering off. I was awakened after midnight by Frank re
aching for me. I thought perhaps he needed his pain medication. As I searched to find his pills on the nearby table, he pulled me to him instead. He kissed me with more than the sweetness of his usual morning and evening kiss, more than the kiss he gave me at dinner as I put a peach into his hand. I felt a passion that had been unknown to me. I have no words to describe sexual intimacy; I have no experience except for that one momentary grief-filled act from Martin more than a year before.
Frank found me through his fingertips, not his eyes. He found my breasts and my hips. He caressed my shoulders and my waist. He outlined my ears and traced the length of my legs. He took the hem of my nightdress and coaxed it over my head and tossed it to the floor. Then his hands and mouth explored once again.
“You are as soft as the peach I touched today - and as delicious,” he whispered. We made love with an exquisite and gentle urgency.
“I love you, Frank,” I said. “I love you, my husband.”
“Te amo, Lucia, my wife.”
We made love often after that night, each time with the fervor - and perhaps desperation - brought by the knowledge that it could be the last time we could touch each other and hold each other. How the world might change, I thought, if all marriages recognized the possibility of loss with every touch. How much more tender we would be to each other. This was the gift given us in recompense for the coming sadness - that in acknowledging our certain parting, we gave to each other our complete souls.