The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  Enza lay alone in their new bed on sheets from her trousseau trunk, her head resting on one of the two feather pillows she had brought from New York. Laura had embroidered “Mrs.” on one of the pillow shams, and “Mr.” on the other. The scent of fresh paint wafted through the apartment. Everything, including her marriage, was new. Enza looked over at Ciro’s side of the bed. It was four o’clock in the morning; she had arrived home at one.

  The words of her father consumed her. Without the care of a mother and a father, and a solid example of marital love, what if Ciro did not know how to be a husband? He certainly didn’t know how to be a good husband tonight. What if his womanizing ways had returned, his vow of fidelity a short-lived hope after the long war, but a promise he could never keep? She fell asleep as disturbing thoughts consumed her.

  Later still, Ciro pushed open the front door of the shop. The bells on the door jingled, and he silenced them by reaching up and placing his hand over the ringer. He locked the door behind him. He climbed the stairs slowly, having had too much to drink and not enough to eat. He was a bit dizzy, and had no idea what time it was. He made his way down the hall and into their bedroom. He undressed slowly. He looked over at Enza, who was asleep. Ciro slipped into bed and pulled the covers over him. His head sank into the pillow, fragrant with lavender. The sheets were soft, the mattress firm. He smiled at the thought of having a wife who had made him a lovely home. He rolled over to kiss her sleeping cheek. She opened her eyes.

  “You’re home,” Enza said.

  “You’re awake?” Ciro asked. “Why did you leave the party?”

  “I couldn’t find you.”

  “I was in the barn.”

  Enza’s voice caught. “What were you doing there?”

  “Playing cards with a man named Orlich, a Polish fellow named Milenski, an old man named Zahrajsek, and another man I can’t remember.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The dancing girl.”

  “I don’t know who you mean,” Ciro said. But he knew exactly who Enza was referring to. The girl had reminded him of the French girl he’d met during the war. She had the same gold braid and warm smile.

  “I couldn’t find you.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to play cards.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “I had too much to drink,” Ciro said.

  “Don’t make excuses.”

  “But it’s true,” Ciro said, turning to face her in bed. “I drank too much, and nothing more.”

  “Do you want me to be honest with you?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “When Ida mentioned 1904, you looked wounded.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.” Ciro turned over in the bed, away from Enza. “What good would it do now?”

  “If you accept what happened to your father, you’ll find peace.”

  “I have peace,” Ciro said defensively.

  “Well, I don’t. When you’re troubled, you withdraw. I came home hoping to find you here. When you weren’t, I had hours to think about what might have happened to you. I was afraid you went with the girl with the gold braid.” Enza shuddered to admit that she’d felt abandoned, but this night had brought up every insecurity she had ever known.

  “Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

  “Because you could. You could disappear from my life, just as you did in the past. It made me wonder, what do I really know about you?”

  “You know everything,” Ciro assured her. Maybe it was his wife’s brutal honesty and clear-eyed observations about his behavior, but it made Ciro think, and he had an epiphany. He not only appreciated Enza’s point of view, it made him look at his own. The truth was, Ciro saw their romantic past as a series of near misses, the result of bad luck and poor timing. Once they were married, he forgot how close they had been to spending their lives without each other. Clearly, she hadn’t. Enza was complex in ways he could not yet decipher. They were from the same mountain, but their insecurities created chasms that they couldn’t fill.

  Ciro turned over and placed his arm around Enza. “I’m sorry you couldn’t find me. I danced with her without thinking of your feelings. I didn’t know it would hurt you. It was just a dance. You’re my life.” He kissed her gently. He could feel the corner of her mouth turn into a smile as he kissed her.

  “It can’t happen again, Ciro,” she said firmly.

  “Please don’t turn into the wife that chases her husband with a broom.”

  “I won’t chase you with a broom.” She returned his kiss with equal passion, then added, “I’ll pick up a shovel.”

  Enza lay back and laced her fingers through his.

  “We have a little money left over from my savings.”

  “You’ve done a wonderful job furnishing our home. Buy yourself a hat.”

  “I don’t need a hat. But you need something.”

  “I have everything I want,” Ciro assured her.

  “You need a wedding band,” Enza told him.

  “Enza, I gave you the only ring I ever owned. It means everything to me to see you wear my mother’s ring.”

  “And I’ll always wear it because it says that I’m yours. Now you need to wear a ring that says that you’re mine. Tomorrow we go to Leibovitz’s. We’re buying you a wedding ring. The thickest gold band I can find.”

  Ciro laughed. “I don’t need a ring to prove that I’m yours. You have me, Enza.”

  “I know that. But I want the rest of the world to know it too.”

  Enza had done such a good job of decorating the Caterina Shoe Shop windows for Christmas that many women stopped in and asked to buy shoes. They were disappointed when they saw Ciro’s industrial machines, the garish overhead lights, and the stacks of miner’s work boots to be repaired. They realized it was a shop for men, with nothing to offer them, and they would depart as quickly as they had entered after Ciro apologized. Sometimes he would promise the ladies that one day, the window would be filled with fashionable shoes for them that he had designed and made. Then he’d send them up the street to Raatamas. He couldn’t count how many times he threw the department store business.

  Enza was in the back of the shop, sewing a satin blanket for Pappina’s baby’s layette, when she overheard a female customer talking with Ciro. She snipped the threads from the blanket, and when she heard the bells signaling that the woman had left, she joined Ciro in the front of the shop.

  “Why don’t we sell women’s shoes?”

  “Because I don’t make them,” Ciro said as he measured a sheet of leather.

  “We don’t have to make them,” Enza said. “We could buy them from a middleman and sell them at a profit, just like any store in town. I could have Laura check with some suppliers in New York. There’s enough room in the front of the shop. We could put in a couple of glass cabinets.” Enza turned and imagined the perfect spot for the display cases.

  “I don’t have time to sell shoes,” Ciro reminded her.

  “But I do,” Enza said. “We send more customers up the street than we keep. I won’t bother you with any of it. I just need the space in the front of the shop.”

  “All right,” Ciro said. “But when I start making women’s shoes, you’ll have to stop selling the ready-mades.”

  “You have a deal.”

  Enza took the trolley to Hibbing. She entered the Security State Bank of Hibbing on Howard Street in her best hat and gloves and went to the loan department to see Robert Renna.

  “Mrs. Lazzari?” Mr. Renna looked up from his paperwork. He wore a suit with a vest and a plain navy tie. A pair of reading glasses was perched on the tip of his long nose. “How is everything working out?”

  Enza smiled. The last time she was in the bank, she had cosigned Ciro’s loans for the business and witnessed Luigi’s paperwork. “Both shops are busy,” she said as she took a seat.

  “I’m happy to hear it. What can I do for y
ou today?”

  “We have a lot of ladies come through the shop. I’d like to sell ready-made shoes. But I need a loan to build the inventory.”

  “You have three stores in Chisholm that sell shoes.”

  “I know, but they don’t sell the kind of shoes I would stock. I have a connection in New York City to bring real fashion to the ladies of the Iron Range. That is, of course, if you’ll help me go into business.”

  “What does your husband think?”

  “He has his hands full, so this would be my project.”

  Renna was used to widows coming into the bank for loans, but not married women. Usually their husbands handled the banking. Mrs. Lazzari was obviously an uncommon woman. “Let’s take a look at your present loan.” Mr. Renna went to the shelf and removed a ledger containing the pertinent information on all current loans. He opened the leather bound ledger and with a ruler, scanned the handwritten columns. “Here we are.” He turned the page. “Your husband and his partner opened an account with a nice nest egg. You and Mrs. Latini co-signed the loan. They’ve borrowed against it at a reasonable rate. So I think there’s some wiggle room here to help you out.”

  Mr. Renna went to the file desk and put together loan papers for Enza. She watched him as he handed the secretary some forms to type. A few minutes later, he returned with a contract.

  “Take this home. Look it over. Talk it through with your husband, because I need his signature on the loan. And then let me know how much you need.”

  Enza smiled. “I can make a go of it, I know it!”

  Renna showed Enza a ledger with a note in the margins. “Does your husband have a brother?”

  “Yes. But he’s in Italy.”

  “No, a brother here. There’s a safety deposit box in the bank, it’s under C. A. Lazzari.”

  “His father was Carlo Lazzari. He worked here about fourteen years ago.”

  “Would you like me to check?” Mr. Renna offered.

  “Thank you.”

  Renna went to check on the information regarding Carlo Lazzari’s accounts. Enza felt queasy, as she always did when the subject of Ciro’s father came up. She thought of the Italian expression, “If you truly love someone, when he is cut, you bleed.” Enza didn’t know if it was simply her empathy for her husband that made her anxious about his father, or the unanswered questions that surrounded his disappearance and death. After a few minutes, Renna returned to his desk.

  “Well, the accounts are closed,” Renna explained. “But there’s an unclaimed safety deposit box.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for a key,” Enza said.

  “We keep them here.” Renna pulled a small silver key from his pocket and gave it to her. “I can show you to the vault.”

  “Should I wait for my husband?” Enza looked down at the key in her gloved hand.

  “You’re a signatory on all of your husband’s accounts, including the business. You are authorized to open the box if you’d like.”

  Enza followed Mr. Renna through a steel gate to a large room with a marble floor. The walls were lined with small steel boxes, etched with numbers. Mr. Renna excused himself and went back out into the main floor of the bank.

  Enza looked for Box 419. When she found it, she lifted the key to the lock. Her hand shook, though she hadn’t thought she was nervous. She turned the key in the lock and looked inside. There was one sealed envelope inside. She removed it. It was a plain white business envelope, with neither an addressee nor a return address, slightly yellowed with age.

  Enza removed a hairpin from her chignon, carefully opened the seal, and pulled out a document. It read:

  Burt-Sellers Mining Corporation

  Hibbing, Minnesota

  100 shares of common stock

  Carlo A. Lazzari

  Enza folded the stock certificate and returned to Mr. Renna’s desk. “I don’t mean to bother you,” she said, “but can you tell me what this is?”

  Mr. Renna unfolded the stock certificate. His face broke into a wide grin. “Mrs. Lazzari, this is your lucky day. This stock is now worth a dollar a share. That is, if you sell it today. You can hold on to it, and watch it grow, if that’s your preference.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are many safety deposit boxes in this bank with unclaimed stock certificates. After the mining disaster in 1904, Burt-Sellers almost went under. They couldn’t afford to make a cash settlement to each family, but reparation was clearly required. So they issued stock. Some of the men that died left no survivors. Others had provided no information for contacting their survivors. But each of them had a box in this bank. It was lucky that we thought to check today. We didn’t catch it when your husband and Mr. Latini came in for the loan. I guess you’d call this fate,” Renna said kindly.

  On the trolley ride back to Chisholm, Enza guardedly peeked into the envelope over and over again, scarcely able to take in this stroke of luck. When the trolley pulled into the station, she ran down West Lake Street and burst into the shop. Ciro was buffing a pair of work boots on the brushes. She ran to him and flipped the switch of the machine off.

  “Ciro, you are not going to believe it. I went to talk to the bank about my shoe business, and Mr. Renna found a safety deposit box in your father’s name. Since I’m a signatory, he let me open it. Look!” She handed Ciro the envelope. “Your father left you stock.” He sat down on the work stool and opened it as she prattled on with the details. “Honey, it’s worth a hundred dollars.”

  Ciro placed the stock certificate on the worktable. He stood, picked up the work boot he had been working on, flipped the switch on the brushing machine, and commenced polishing the boot. Enza was mystified, her excitement and impatience slowly giving way to anger. She went to the machine and turned it off. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Why? It was your father’s. You always tell me that you wished you had something of his. This stock was given as reparations for his death.”

  “And it wouldn’t change a thing, now, would it, Enza?”

  “He would want you to have it.”

  “Buy furniture with it. Or send it to my brother for the poor. That stock is blood money. It could have meant everything fourteen years ago, when my mother had to sell all our belongings to pay off our debts forcing her to leave Eduardo and me in the convent. But now she’s gone, and my brother is a priest, and I don’t need it.” He put down the boot and looked up at the shelves he had built, loaded with boots, laces tied together, each pair affixed with a small tag showing the customer’s name and a pick-up time. “This is my legacy. My hard work. You. Us. The rest of it doesn’t matter. It’s just money. And it isn’t money that I earned. It will just remind me of all I lost and will never recover.”

  Enza stood for a moment, holding the certificate. She folded it and placed it in her pocket. She didn’t bring up the subject again. Instead, she cashed the stock and opened a bank account in Chisholm in their names. Then, like Ciro, she put it out of her mind.

  Luigi opened the door of his apartment in Hibbing, festooned with fresh greens, tied with a bright blue bow. “Buon Natale!” Luigi embraced Enza and then Ciro. He helped Enza with the packages she carried.

  Pappina had set their holiday table with candles and white china. The scent of butter and garlic simmering on the stove wafted through the three-room apartment. An empty bassinette in the corner was covered in small white ribbons. Pappina was in the kitchen, very pregnant and cheerful and delighted to see Enza and Ciro.

  “What are you making?” Ciro asked.

  “Escargot in butter and garlic.”

  “Did you put the nickel in?” Ciro asked.

  “Go ahead,” said Pappina.

  Ciro fished in his pocket for a nickel and dropped it into the pan where the snails, in their copper-and-white shells, simmered.

  After a few moments Pappina sifted out the nickel, still a shiny silver, returning it to Ciro. The Italians
never eat escargot if the coin turns black. It means the snails are rotten. “They’re good.”

  “They better be. We’re starving,” Enza said, pitching in to help Pappina with the pasta. Luigi poured Ciro a glass of wine in the living room, and they joined their wives in the kitchen.

  “Ciro came to mass with me this morning.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Luigi.

  “We went to Saint Alphonse,” Pappina said.

  “We have to. If we want the baby baptized, we have to tithe,” said Luigi.

  “Oh, you make it sound like all the church wants is your money,” Pappina said.

  “They don’t mind your money, but they’d prefer your soul,” Ciro said.

  “Your brother is a priest, and you talk like that?” Enza gently slapped her husband’s cheek. “You know you enjoyed it—you liked the kyries and the hymns. Right?”

  “I did. And looking at the statues brought me right back to San Nicola. It’s funny how the things you do as a boy never leave you.”

  “I hope some of the things you did left you,” Luigi joked.

  “I’m a happy husband now. I only have eyes for Enza.”

  “Smart man.” Pappina laughed.

  “It’s difficile for a statue to change its pose,” Luigi said.

  “I’ve changed for the better, brother.” Ciro smiled.

  “We’ll take your word for it,” Pappina said to Ciro. “Would you take the platter to the table? I need a strong man, I left the bones in the turkey.”

  Ciro lifted the platter and turned to take it to the living room. Enza watched him go. He seemed to get more handsome as time went on, and she imagined that when he was old, he would become even more attractive to her as his light brown hair turned white. She saw how other women looked at him, and knew that they were seeing on the surface what she had always known: there was no one else like him. She followed him into the dining room, where he placed the platter on the table. He stood up and rubbed his lower back with his hands.