The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna

by Juliet Grames

  Seeing his daughters had a taste for work, Tony harassed them to study English harder. He tried to impress them with the fiscal advantage of having papers—if they naturalized, they could apply for factory jobs. “I make five times as much money as you in one week,” he said.

  But the citizenship test was an insurmountable obstacle. Stella and Tina took turns carrying the study book around, but after months of turning the pages it was no more legible than it had been in the beginning. With much concentration, Stella could sound out the English words and guess their meanings, but Tina had had so little schooling in Ievoli that she could barely remember how any of the letters were supposed to sound even in Italian, never mind in this strange foreign language where nothing sounded the way it looked. Ten months in the United States had given them only a little English. They were surrounded by Italian speakers. Stella was shy of her accent; even when there was a chance to speak to an American—say, at the store—she found herself doubting words she’d been sure of a moment before, and resorted to pointing or blurting out Italian instead.

  Nevertheless, she quizzed her sister like she used to for catechism. “You know this one,” she’d say, then read in English, ‘Where is the Statue of Liberty?’”

  “I don’t know,” Tina said hopelessly.

  “Yes, you do! You saw it yourself.” Stella raised her arm and made a fist in the air, like the green lady with the torch. She repeated in slow English, “Statue of Liberty.”

  “New York!” Tina smiled. She got one!

  “‘What is the name of the president?’” Stella read out carefully.

  A pause for thought. “Rosa Vela,” Tina answered. This meant “pink sail” in Italian, which Stella had thought up so Tina could remember Roosevelt’s name. “Picture a fancy boat with pink sails,” Stella had suggested. “It’s so fancy the president sails on it.”

  But then things became very opaque, and the book’s answers didn’t help the girls understand the questions.

  “Why does the American flag have thirteen stripes?” Stella spread the book between them so Tina could see the picture of the flag.

  “What is ‘stripes’?”

  “Strisce.” Stella pointed to the alternating white and gray in the sketch. Tina was silent. “It says here there are thirteen stripes because there are thirteen ‘colonies.’”

  “What is ‘colonies’?”

  “You know, like colonia,” Stella said. “Cologne, perfume.” This didn’t seem right, but it was the best she had for Tina. “Maybe America has thirteen famous perfumes?”

  The questions only got harder, full of words Stella had never even heard the Italian equivalent of. Who wrote the Declaration of Independence. How can an American participate in their democracy. What is the role of Congress. Under our Constitution, what powers are given to the federal government. How many times has the Constitution been amended. It was very hard to help Tina memorize the answers when Stella couldn’t explain what the questions were asking.

  Fiorella Mulino reminded them she had passed the citizenship test by attending night school at Hartford High. Classes were free; they started at seven, so you could come after work.

  Stella disliked the idea of night school and would have preferred to keep trying to memorize the book on her own. She loathed putting herself in any situation where her weaknesses were on display; she also didn’t relish the nightly walk out of their ghetto of paesan, past the shantytowns and dark alleys of lurking strangers.

  “I’ll escort you,” Fiorella offered. “Stella, you’re clever, you might be able to pass on your own, but Tina won’t, no matter what you do, you know that. And if you go with her to the classes maybe you can help her catch up.” She smiled slyly. “Plus, you might meet some nice boys.”

  “Oh, Madonn’.” Stella clasped her hands and rolled her eyes heavenward in supplication. “Please don’t put that idea in Tina’s head.”

  The first class they went to was on a Tuesday in mid-November. It hadn’t occurred to Stella and Tina to change out of the sweat-stiffened dresses they’d worn all day at the laundry, but after they saw how smartly some of the immigrants dressed up for class, they followed suit. The classes were boring and confusing, just like school had always been, only worse because now it was in English. Stella was often tired after a ten-hour day standing over the ironing board. But she went, feeling nagged and guilty about the money she could be earning if only she could get a better job.

  Joey, who was working part-time as a janitor at the Italian Society, didn’t seem to worry about his U.S. citizenship. But in general Joey didn’t worry about anything. That was his gift. Sparkly brown eyes; bright, straight teeth when he smiled; and not a care in the world.

  AFTER THEIR FIRST AMERICAN THANKSGIVING, which they celebrated with the Nicoteras, Carolina talked Stella and Tina into cutting their hair. “You want to get it like this.” She reached up and patted her own curls, which radiated from her head like saints’ halos in church paintings. “And you want to get a permanent wave, if you can, so that you don’t have to mess around with curling rags every night.”

  “Our father likes us to wear it long,” Stella told Carolina. Tony had the notion that women with short hair were loose. They could move faster, dance more energetically without worrying about pins flying around.

  “But he always says how he wants you to be real Americans,” Carolina said pointedly. “Make him look around. All the American girls have short hair. The only girls with long hair are the country girls.”

  Stella knew what she meant by “country girls.” There were some Italian families on Front Street who lived strictly, raising their daughters the way things had been back home—ankle-length skirts, veils, arranged marriages. Tony Fortuna had his rules and became explosive if they were disobeyed, but he didn’t make the girls cover their faces to go to mass. Stella thought he was smart not to impose that kind of embarrassing stricture on his family; after all, they had lived most of their lives without him, and he didn’t want to put himself in a position where they might stand up to him. He was a disgusting person, in Stella’s opinion, but a wily despot.

  Stella and Tina talked it over that night as they were combing out before bed. It was weird to think about parting with all that hair—the marker of their femininity. But Stella didn’t want to be lumped in with the “country girls” anymore. Of course, Tina would do whatever Stella did.

  The conversation with Tony began much as expected. “Papa, Tina and I want to cut our hair,” Stella said during dinner that Sunday.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “Women in this house dress respectfully.”

  “But Papa, you say you want us to be American. No American woman wears her hair long. Everyone will think we’re . . . we’re poor and new here.”

  Stella had been prepared for a protracted argument, but after several moments of hard thought, Antonio seemed ready to reverse his opinion.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. Short hair is better for life in America.”

  That seemed too easy. Stella watched his face to try to guess what kinds of private thoughts were passing behind it. “So you’ll give us money for the hairdresser’s?”

  “All right,” he said. “All right. You girls will cut your hair and then we should get a family portrait taken. That’s what we will send home at Christmas.” He slapped his thighs. “One year as Americans. Yes, we should take a portrait.”

  Her father had a vision in his head. Stella decided to press her luck. “Tina and I need five dollars each.”

  Antonio turned to look at her. His face was turning red, and she braced herself, but then he started to laugh. “If that’s how much the hairdresser costs, you can figure out how to cut your own hair.”

  “No, Papa, it’s for the permanent wave. We need to go and get it professionally done. They have to put chemicals in your hair to make it—”

  “Absolutely no permanent wave. Mannaggia, give them a finger and they take your whole hand.” Antonio had retu
rned his attention to his food. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you each two dollars. You, too,” he said to the boys. “You spend it on what you want, haircut, clothes, whatever. Just make sure you look good for the picture.”

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS all six Fortunas dressed in their best and went down to G. Fox to get studio photos taken. The girls had each spent fifty cents on their new short haircuts, which they had practiced rag-curling and combing to frame their faces. The remainder of their budgets had gone toward blue cotton Stella sewed into matching long-sleeved dresses on Fiorella’s mechanical sewing machine. Stella and Tina had begged Antonio for extra money for new shoes, but he had drawn the line.

  The Fortunas posed with Antonio and Assunta seated in front, their sons on either side, and Stella and Tina standing behind them to disguise the old shoes they’d bought in Nicastro. Tina is one inch taller and a bit less bosomy, and of course there is that standout mole above her lip. Otherwise their smiles are identical, as are their dresses, their posture, the angles at which they hold their elbows—similar in the subtle and comprehensive ways only sisters are similar. Assunta’s ankles are crossed and her feet tucked under her chair. She is smiling this time. Antonio may be smiling as well, but as with the Mona Lisa, no one can ever be sure what he is thinking; most of his expression is concealed by his mustache. Together, they are an impressive accomplishment of a family.

  For fifty years, this portrait hung on various walls next to the grainier black-and-white of the first Mariastella. Somehow there is no other photo of the entire family, not even at any of the children’s weddings. This was the first and last time they were photographed together.

  * * *

  NINETEEN FORTY-ONE WAS BETTER THAN 1940. Front Street was becoming less foreign. The Fortunas knew their favorite pushcart vendors; they understood the money and knew how much things were supposed to cost. They had learned to enjoy American food, its diversity and its rich ingredients. They’d learned a little more English. They worked hard six days a week, steadily setting aside money for their house; they had enough pocket money now that they could afford to dress American. They went to the Italian Society dances every Saturday night, meeting up in the evening with Fiorella Mulino, Carolina Nicotera, and Franceschina Perri to do one another’s hair. Usually they met at the Nicoteras’ house, because Carolina had no fresh brothers who would harass the girls as they tried to get dressed.

  There was live music every weekend, usually a three-man band who sang songs in Italian and English. An ordinary Saturday here was a bigger party than the annual fhesta in Ievoli. Stella loved to dance and was good at it. Franceschina had taught her the fox-trot and the swing, and even Stella had been surprised by how quickly she shed her village-girl shyness about dancing with boys. It was thrilling to think of the scandal dancing like this would have caused back home, boys and girls moving so fast together, skirts flying, calves bare, uncorseted breasts bouncing—the freest and most joyful her body had ever felt.

  Stella had her pick of partners. She danced often with Frankie D’Agata, who was very popular among the girls, until she decided she was spending too much time with him and started turning him down, which incited gossip. She said no to anyone who wasn’t taller than she was. She rejected the wooing of Fiorella’s older brother Vittorio, who she thought was greasy. She refused to ever, ever dance with either of the Perri boys on principle, especially the older one, Mario, who was particularly handsome and full of himself. He asked her anyway to spite her and tried to pinch her bottom. Sometimes she told boys no for no reason at all and danced with her girlfriends instead.

  Franceschina admired Stella’s attitude. “Ooo, you can be such a bitch!” she’d giggle, and the other girls would giggle with her at the naughty word.

  “When you’re pretty you have to be a bitch,” Carolina said, and they giggled again. “Otherwise the men will take whatever they can get!”

  “At least none of you have such a pretty sister.” Tina said it as if she were joking, but she wasn’t. “I’ll always only be Stella’s sister. People will always say, oh! Pretty Stella is your sister? That’s surprising.”

  The girls laughed again, protested—no, silly, you’re so pretty, you two look exactly alike.

  Stella, feeling complacent, smiled at her sister. “Don’t be jealous, little bug. Jealousy will rot your heart.”

  “It’s all right.” Fiorella patted Tina’s arm with her thin, smoothing hands. She winked at Stella and declared, “You’re the good sister, Tina. Everyone knows that.”

  IN THE SPRING OF 1941, Stella and Tina went back to work in the tobacco fields. Fiorella thought they were crazy to give up the laundry jobs.

  “But this way we can be with Mamma,” Stella explained. “And really it’s actually more money, because it’s three people’s salary instead of two.” Assunta hadn’t worked all winter because of swelling in her legs. She had also miscarried a baby, and Za Pina had persuaded her to go to an American doctor. The doctor told her she had better not have any more children and had diagnosed early stages of rheumatoid arthritis as well as varicose veins. Assunta, forty-two, was an old woman.

  THE SWELTERING SUMMER OF 1941, when Stella had been living with her father’s flying fists and leering sneers for a year and a half, was when the nightmare started—when she almost killed herself by jumping out the window. Who can say what poison had entered her mind and planted the dream there; maybe she’d brought down the Evil Eye on herself, showing off her prettiness too much, breaking too many hearts. Stella’s life had been so comfortable, so happy lately. She must have been due for some pain. It had, after all, been six years since the last time fate had taken a crack at her.

  It was like the nightmare had broken down a dam in her mind, because once she’d had it, the dream came back to her again and again—her father backed her into a corner, night after night, to molest her. The details changed; sometimes the dream took place in the tobacco barn, or in their old house in Ievoli. The story was the same every time, though—Stella was exposed, trapped, and touched; as the dream blossomed over time, she was presented with a male organ, which was rubbed against her. The dream never lasted long enough for her to know what happened after that. But she woke with a real knowledge of being touched in a way she didn’t want to be. She woke sweating, in terror and disgust.

  Tony did as he’d promised and nailed boards over the girls’ bedroom window so that Stella couldn’t try to jump out again, but other than that, the episode was mostly reduced to a joke. I’ve always wondered why no one took it more seriously; why later, when Stella told them, over and over, that she never wanted to get married, no one remembered that time her subconscious chose to die rather than be violated by a man.

  ONCE THE WINDOW WAS BOARDED UP, the summer nights were stifling long hours of insomnia. Stella became a victim of her own subconscious, so tormented by her exhaustion she couldn’t tell when she was drifting in or out of sleep. Even as the nightmare became familiar to her, she never got used to it, or overcame her paralyzing dread as the man extended his calloused hand. Her ten-hour days of field labor were an aching haze of misery; once she was so tired she had to miss work.

  Stella would lie next to Tina in their narrow bed and press her fingernails into her palms, trying to keep awake. She prayed to the Virgin for respite, and also to the ghost of the first Mariastella, whom she’d realized she had not left behind in Ievoli. “Please make it stop,” she’d whisper, over and over. “I know you’re there. I know you did this. Please make it stop. Please let me be.” But the dreams didn’t stop.

  What were they for? Punishment for being alive?

  Or were they some kind of warning?

  Stella couldn’t talk about the nightmare to anyone, not even to Tina, because the words were too ugly. It had already taken its toll on her; she shouldn’t let it take a toll on anyone else. So she kept it to herself. But the dream had an enormous and permanent effect on Stella’s life. It taught her that some wounds couldn’t be stitc
hed up, that some bad things happen not once but again and again. This was the year Stella learned to smile with her lips closed, so no one would see the two missing teeth she’d knocked out in her fall. This was when she began to feel an uncontrollable revulsion for her father, to dread when he came too close to her, put his hand on her shoulder, let his eyes pass over her curves, as they so often did. Some days she trembled just sitting across the dinner table from him.

  If Tony noticed his daughter’s changed behavior, he never let on.

  IT WAS CARMELO MAGLIERI’S BAD LUCK that he met Stella only a few months after she started to have her nightmare. In a different version of this story, a version where the window stayed unboarded for a cross-breeze, or where Stella’s catechismal education had allowed her to believe there could be a difference between sex and rape, or where the miasma of Tracci hadn’t followed Antonio Fortuna halfway around the world—in those versions of this story, maybe Carmelo Maglieri wouldn’t have been the villain.