The Infinite Now

by Mindy Tarquini

  We’d found common ground, she and I. Fellow travelers, meeting by chance on the same trolley, each knew the other knew something and each knew nobody else understood how.

  She looked past me, her gaze sweeping corner to corner. “Young Carlo normally collects the don’s prescription. He’s not ill, I trust.”

  She spoke in that cautiously inquisitive way people do when they want to know one thing but ask about something else. I looked behind me, too, thinking maybe she was looking for this Young Carlo and I’d see what he looked like.

  All I saw was the expanse of the pharmacy’s display window, and the street beyond. I turned back, but the guaritrice had been replaced by a shadow—spindly, and spiky, and far too small. I blinked, presuming the brightness from the window had blinded me. “The don expected him, but I think he forgot.”

  “The young are always forgetful, are they not? Still, he should be more reliable. He’s the don’s heir.” Her voice came out of the shadow, distant and doubtful.

  “Don Sebastiano has a son?” My construction of a neighbor kid collapsed, replaced by a young man with better things to do, one who no doubt slept under the table the few times he managed to drag himself home. No wonder the old man had balked at the idea of being my guardian.

  “He doesn’t have a son. The don and his wife lost their children. However, Young Carlo serves a purpose.”

  My new manufacture of a carefree young man fizzled. “My mother always told me things have purpose. Not people.”

  “Your mother was very wise. Yet, you may refer to Young Carlo the same, once you meet him. Maybe at the parade. Everybody is there. All the young people, our best and brightest.”

  My eyes finally caught up with the light level, and the shadow resolved. The guaritrice waved her arm, like the best and brightest were standing in the room with us and she meant to show me. “Why are you not with them?”

  “I meant to go to the parade.”

  “But you got lonely. Poor little soul.” She patted my cheek, then drew me close, like Mamma used to, smelling of lavender, as Mamma had. Then talked, as Mamma once did. “Life is filled with so many maybes. So many wants and wishes. Your mother used to tell me all we imagine, we can make true. Whatever we like. Such a good soul, your mother. She cared so much for you. Wanted to see you happy. Settled. And now she’s gone and left you.”

  Her words rolled over the heavy places in my heart, molding my memory of Mamma into what the guaritrice spoke—a good soul, dedicated to my well-being, able to imagine all I wanted might someday be true. “You knew her?”

  “Like a sister.” She heaved the most melodic of sighs, one that started high and in the back of her throat and ended in a breathy mush. “But change comes to all, little one. We must be strong. Must be practical. I hear you’re going to typewriting school.”

  Every fuzzy curve in the guaritrice’s voice went sharp. Mamma’s memory deflated, melting into a pile of ill-formed sentiments. Something pricked at my thumbs. “How do you know about typewriting school?”

  “People talk, little one. Oh, how they talk. And so shall we, but come.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “I’d like to introduce you to my Tizi.”

  She moved me toward the back of the store, an alcove which felt disconnected from the rest of the pharmacy. There was a counter there, with a strongbox centered on its top, and a map of the city tacked to the wall behind. Red dots speckled the map, a scattered bloom that coalesced around the market. Beside the map was a doorway, curtained in beaded strings of many colors.

  I tilted my chin at the map. “What’s that?”

  “We must keep track of our deliveries.” The guaritrice gave me a squeeze, then released my shoulder and clapped her hands. “Tizi.”

  A light went on behind the beads. One side drew back, and a girl stepped into the room, bearing two steaming cups. “I was making tea.”

  Masked like the guaritrice, with hair three shades lighter, Tizi was half a head shorter than me, and at least two years my junior. Her brows sloped down toward the sides of her eyes in a way that made her look sad. She fixed me with a blue-gray stare. Frank. And familiar.

  The guaritrice lay a palm on the girl’s head. “Your mother visited the other day, and I’d hoped you and Tizi could play together, but your mother did not bring you with her. So protective, your mother. She did all she could for you. A mother must. Sometimes life is not easy. And now look at you, all grown up and able to think for yourself.” She put her hand on the small of Tizi’s back and pushed her forward. “But listen to me going on while Don Sebastiano’s order needs to be filled. Tizi, why don’t you give our new friend my tea. I’ll have a cup later.”

  I plucked at the guaritrice’s sleeve. “But, I—”

  She turned to me. “No, I insist. It is an honor to serve Rosina Vicente’s daughter.” She worked her index finger around a tendril of Tizi’s hair. “Isn’t that right, Tizi?”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  “Good. Keep our guest company until I return.”

  The guaritrice ducked behind the curtain.

  Tizi handed me one of the cups. I took a sip, lavender and . . . something I couldn’t quite place. Cloves, maybe?

  Tizi watched me. “Mamma says people don’t treat you nice because of what happened to your mother.”

  I spat my mouthful back into my cup, set the cup back on its saucer and the saucer onto the counter. I fixed Tizi with one of my stares, but she laughed it off. “Don’t try that with me Rosina Vicente’s daughter.”

  Fine. I picked up my cup. “How can our mothers be such good friends? I’ve never seen either of you before.”

  “People like our mothers don’t have to see each other to know everything they need to know. Besides, we just arrived.”

  “From where?”

  “Here and there.” Tizi flopped her palm left, then right, then left again. “We started in Kansas. On a hog farm. It stank. But Mamma says if we want to make an elephant, sometimes we need to start with a flea. We hitched a ride out of there with a soldier home on leave. Mamma was so grateful. She gave him a bright red scarf as a thank-you.”

  Kansas. I’d heard of it, of course. Like in the tailor’s boy’s book. Dorothy. Oz. A cyclone-tossed house that crushed a witch. “Mamma says that, Mamma says this. Someday your mamma will leave you. Then you’ll have to speak for yourself.”

  The curtain flew back. The guaritrice swooped in. “We must watch our words, little one. We never know who might be listening.”

  Tizi’s eyes went wide and beneath her mask, her complexion paled. The guaritrice scooted her into the background. She pressed an envelope into my hand. “Don Sebastiano’s medicine. The instructions are on the label.” She pressed a paper bag into my other hand. “Tea. My own mix. Brew this for him. And a little for yourself, if you like it. Twice a day. It will make you feel better.”

  I opened the bag and sniffed. The mixture smelled of cinnamon and cloves. It would be perfect with the apples. “You know Don Sebastiano.”

  “Everybody knows Don Sebastiano. And he knows everybody. How fortunate Signora Lattanzi brought you to him. It’s what your mother would have wanted. Such a good woman, the signora, to do what your mother would have wanted. We all must try to help you in that way.” She leaned toward me, her expression soft and sad. “Your mother left you her things, yes?”

  Beautiful things. Useful things. I thought of Mamma’s curtain dancing light across the roof slope in my attic.

  Powerful things.

  The guaritrice tapped my elbow. “How tragic you almost didn’t get them back.”

  “You heard?”

  “How could I not?” She let go of me and walked back and forth before the counter, wringing her hands. “That horrid landlord. I went to see him, brought him a little tea as a peace offering, but I found you’d already collected the curtain. How very smart of you. How very wise of Don Sebastiano to make sure it was returned. Who knows what mischief it might have gotten up to if it’d been lef
t on its own.”

  “Mischief?”

  “The most chaotic of mischief. Have you any idea the power the curtain commands?”

  “Of course I do. Kind of.” I glanced at Tizi, standing smug and certain beside her mother, secure in a relationship I’d never had, wearing an expression that said she knew I was lying. “What I mean is, Mamma never actually explained how any of it worked.”

  The guaritrice stopped pacing. “We should talk. About your mother. About her things. The things that matter. The things to which we return. It is foolish to not make the most of our burdens. Especially when a burden can help you enter a world you never imagined. A world where you earn money, money to pay for your typewriting school, money the people in the market are too silly to let you earn in other ways. There is nothing to it once you know. Swish of a finger, twitch of a wrist, and you are there. But you must learn the proper way. Bring your burden to me and let me teach you.” She took hold of my chin. “Because there’s a price to pay if you do not use things properly.”

  Her tone was ominous, the low rumbling that followed, real.

  “And you must get to know my Tizi.” She again put out her hand and Tizi again stepped under it. “How nice if you became friends.”

  Time to leave.

  I tucked the medicine into my pocketbook, my feet already heading for the door. She walked with me and tapped the tea. “Keep this between us. Don Sebastiano is a proud man. A stubborn man. How awful if anything happened to him. How very sad for you. Just a little, twice a day and you will be free to do as you please.”

  She opened the door to the pharmacy, and before the jingle faded, I found myself outside on the sidewalk, my temple throbbing and a sensation, like butterflies, fluttering against my ears.

  Five

  The day after the parade, I pushed out of bed, eyes grainy. The projection of the upside-down market flickered across the ceiling slope like a movie in the cinema. A great wheel turned over the cobbles, the people who’d attended the parade fled before it. The young man from the market whistled from the sidewalk, his tune no longer happy.

  I blinked and woke up for real, the projection showing a market moving in its familiar and upside-down everyday routine.

  I dressed quickly and raced downstairs.

  Change was coming. Perhaps I hoped to escape the wheel, too.

  The old man was not at his workbench, the cloth not laid, the stove cold. I put on my scarf, thinking . . . I’m not sure what I thought, maybe that I had to find him.

  The pregnant girl stopped me on the second-floor landing. “I wondered,” she said, eyes downcast. “Would you like a coffee?”

  Coffee. And . . . conversation?

  Sunshine broke through my clouds.

  The old man was probably running an errand. Or taking a walk. Wherever he was, the old man wasn’t home. So he didn’t have to know. About coffee. Or conversation. Or anything I didn’t want him to know about. I looked down the stairs, like he’d heard my thoughts and would come charging up to stop me.

  All that came charging up those stairs was a hacking cough. “Is that coming from the Lattanzis?”

  The pregnant girl leaned over the banister. “The signora says it’s a cold. She didn’t look bad. The newspaper says every sniffle is not the influenza.”

  She clasped her palms before her chest. “Forgive me. Your parents. I did not think.”

  “No. It is fine. We all say things we wish we hadn’t.” I looked at my feet, all the things I wish I’d never said bubbling like dirty water from a bad drain. “My parents were good souls.”

  And they’d gone and left me.

  “Of course they were good. They were very good.” The girl stepped away from her door. “Please. Come in.”

  She led me into a room even smaller than the old man’s. A curtain hid a corner where, I presumed, she slept. A bassinet dominated another corner, all lace and pleats and pretty little bows. A bookshelf stood beside it, piled in titles. “You like to read?”

  She nodded. “It helps my English. And to enter another world.” She curled her fingertips together, then exploded them outward and swept her arms to either side. “Like magic.” She leaned toward me. “Signora Lattanzi says it is a waste of my time. How about you?”

  “I love it, too. I read all the time. Every chance I get.” When I couldn’t get out of it. Stories were fine for babies. I wanted to see the real world.

  The girl crossed to the window. She pressed two fingers to her lips, then to verbena twined into a ring hanging from the casement. She faced me, fist over her heart, expression sheepish. “For protection. Don Sebastiano says windows and doors let things in. They also keep things out.”

  I went to examine the ring. Iron. Like the door knockers. “What is he trying to keep out?”

  She held out her hands, palms up, her expression shifting to amused. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.” She motioned to the table. “Come. Sit here.”

  A ball of dough rested on a marble slab beside a collection of little rectangles, pinched in the middle to make a butterfly shape, what we call farfalle.

  She laid a small cloth before me, set out a cup and saucer, placed a sugar bowl and creamer beside. I ran a finger along the cloth’s edging. “Did you crochet this? The stitches are so tiny.”

  She dipped her head, looking pleased at the acknowledgement. “I did everything. The napkins and the curtains. Even the sheets and pillowcases.” She reddened at the mention of sheets, color washing across cheeks plump as pomegranates. She poured the coffee. “So silly of me. Of course there are sheets and pillowcases.” She laid a hand on her belly. “And obviously a bed.”

  All I knew of that aspect of marriage I’d learned from watching dogs. It didn’t look comfortable.

  The aroma rose from my cup. “Your coffee is lovely. Do you brew it with cloves?”

  “I don’t know what’s in it. Signora Lattanzi gave me the mix. Says it will help the baby grow.” She wafted the scent under her nose. “Smells like strawberries to me. My favorite. But summer is over and I can’t get them anymore.” She tapped her chin, then yanked her hand away. “Oh dear. I’m not supposed to touch my face when I crave something. The baby will have a mark. But I do love strawberries.” She smacked herself on the rear. “That should fix it. At least the mark won’t be visible.”

  She giggled, the sound fluffy as whipped cream, then waved at the dough. “I hope you don’t mind. If I don’t roll it now, it will dry out.”

  She set to, laying her full weight against the wooden pin. Tendrils escaped her rich brown coif to feather about her forehead. She pushed at a wisp with her forearm. “I wish I had a separate counter for this. Every job is easier when you have the proper tools, don’t you think?” She tossed a little more flour onto the marble. “It’s only me, so it doesn’t much matter, but Nicco says when he returns we will buy a house, big enough for a dozen children, and marble slabs in every corner.”

  “Only rich people own houses.”

  “The Lattanzis own this house, and they’re not rich.”

  The revelation struck me like a match. One thing for the tailor’s wife to bring a stray into a place to which she had no attachment, but to bring a stray into the heart of all she had, all she was, took courage.

  “I thought Don Sebastiano owned this house.” I looked to the iron rings, to the verbena, thought of how the signora and the pregnant girl deferred to him. “I mean, he sure acts like he owns it.”

  The pregnant girl sliced the flattened dough into thin strips, then rolled a crimper across their breadth to make the rectangles. “What Don Sebastiano owns is not easily seen. How fortunate he took an interest in you. When you get married, you will understand better.”

  And there it was, the slight denigration, the smallest jab that maybe I shouldn’t consider myself like other people. Or maybe I should consider myself exactly like other people. Maybe I should be quiet and nice and do exactly what was expected of me.

  The pregnant girl�
�s coffee went cold in my stomach. “I’m not getting married. I’m going to typewriting school.”

  She looked up from her crimping, her face bright and interested. “Typewriting school. There’s a girl over on Twelfth Street who went. Now her clothes are always stylish.”

  I nodded. “Those jobs pay plenty. Enough to go to Atlantic City. You know, take the train and spend the whole day. Maybe even overnight.”

  “So much ambition.” She opened closed fingers between us, casting her disbelief to the heavens.

  “Why shouldn’t I have ambition?” I tapped my forehead. “This is America. Only modern thinking.”

  “Yes, but you’ll still need somebody to take care of you.”

  Take care of him more likely. Cleaning, cooking, keeping the buttons on his shirt. I pushed the coffee away, and made a show of looking from one corner to the next. “What do I need? Look at you. Making your own pasta. All alone and taking care of yourself just fine.”

  “I’m not alone. There’s the Lattanzis. And Don Sebastiano, of course.”

  “You knew him before you came to live here?”

  “Everybody knew him. He is from our village. Like your parents.”

  This was why Signora Lattanzi brought me here, why she thought she owed my parents, my mother, some responsibility. “We all come from the same village.”

  The pregnant girl drew her head back. “You didn’t know? You must have been very young when you came over. Signor Lattanzi’s family used to make everybody’s christening clothes. And Nicco’s grandmother, the don’s wife. Like this.” She interlocked her index fingers. “So when Nicco went to enlist, Don Sebastiano told him it would be best if I came here.”

  The pregnant girl’s explanations ushered me into a new world, like the pregnant girl claimed happened with her books, a world in which I was no longer a stranger, no longer an interloper, a world in which I was more like a . . . cousin. How come Mamma hadn’t told me? “Why did the don think you should come here?”