The Infinite Now

by Mindy Tarquini

  Six

  The next morning, I woke to sun rising over the upside-down rooftops of the market five minutes into the future. I drew the curtain aside, fixing it behind a nail I’d hammered into the jamb for that purpose. The curtain fell free, casting the room into darkness which lightened by moments until the market again projected across the ceiling slope.

  I hooked the curtain behind the nail a second time. A second time the curtain fell free.

  I hooked it again, looping a length of ribbon around the velvet to tie the curtain into place. The curtain kicked back.

  Deliberately. Defensively. And with determination.

  I left all the flaps undone; the curtain rebuttoned them down to the centermost grommet. I closed that grommet off; the curtain reopened it.

  The air grew tingly, my scalp hairs tense. I got dressed, yanking the waistband of my skirt up over my hips, my shirtwaist over my head, grabbed my stockings, grabbed my shoes, thinking I should get out of there. Now.

  I stumbled down the stairs. The door at the bottom of my attic wouldn’t open. I pounded on it, straining for the tap-tap-tap of the old man’s hammer, but all that returned was an overwhelming silence. Up the stairs, in my attic, came the sound of struggle. Knocking. And scratching, and the oddest slithery sound. The stairwell fell into darkness. The curtain must have fallen free. I gave the doorknob another try. “Mamma. Please.”

  The door flew open. I flew through it, my feet barely touching the floor, grabbed my coat and scarf, and flung myself onto the landing.

  The tailor’s sons were there, peering soulfully up at me. “We’re hungry.”

  “Hungry? What? Ask your mother.”

  The older one answered. “She’s sleeping. So is Poppa.”

  A fit of sneezing exploded from downstairs. “Well . . . sounds like they’re up.”

  The older one took the younger’s hand. “C’mon, let’s ask Signora Bruni.”

  The pregnant girl had a name. I wondered what her Christian one was. “Keep your distance. You don’t want to get Signora Bruni sick.”

  The bigger boy didn’t seem to like me telling him what to do. “How can she get sick if we aren’t?”

  I wasn’t sure she could. But at school we’d learned germs traveled on a sneeze. And if they traveled on the sneeze, maybe some of their parents’ sneezes had landed on them. If they went to sit in the pregnant girl’s apartment . . .

  I saw the influenza in my mind’s eye, falling from the boys’ clothes as a dust, red as a . . . kerchief, the kind of kerchief a young soldier from Kansas might wear.

  The girl would take the boys’ coats, maybe put an arm around them, and the dust would cling to her hands. Her hands would carry the dust into the streets, perhaps touch a peach or an apple in the market. She’d tap a finger to her mouth while she made the decision, then bite her lip. The dust would find a way into her lungs.

  She’d feel tired. The headache would start. The fever would come and she’d sneeze, then cough, bringing up blood in bursts to splash another red across the sheets and maybe even the wall.

  Then she would die. Meanwhile, another customer would pick the apple the pregnant girl hadn’t chosen. And take it home to her family.

  I turned the boys around and shuttled them down the stairs, the vision so clear, my head throbbed with the impression: a city covered in red dust, traveling with the people.

  The younger boy tugged at my skirt. “Are you all right?”

  The vision fled. The throbbing in my head ceased. “Let’s go. There must be something in your icebox. And be quiet. If Signora Bruni sees you, she’ll want you to eat with her.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I’d long ago stopped answering those kinds of questions. “Move. I haven’t got all day.”

  They hurried, pushing open the door to their apartment.

  Dishes piled in the sink, laundry in a tub beside it. The tailor’s wife sat by the stove, face drawn, skin cracked, a cup of tea in hand. Its steam, cinnamon-laced and friendly, smelled familiar. “What are you doing here?”

  “The boys are hungry.”

  “Then I will feed them.” Her tone was sharp enough to slice tomatoes. “Etti, Fipo. What did I tell you about bothering the don?”

  Ah. The boys had names, also. “They didn’t bother the don. The don isn’t home.” I thought of what waited in the attic, the incident already taking on the unreality of a dream. Still, I wasn’t eager to go back up there alone. “I thought I’d make some oatmeal.”

  “Do you know how?”

  I didn’t, but how hard could it be?

  The signora pointed to a shelf behind the stove. “The canister is there. If you’ll bring it down and leave it here, I’ll make it myself. We’re fine.”

  “All due respect, Signora Lattanzi, you don’t look fine.”

  “You’re wrong. Fipo fill that pot with water. The small one.”

  The older one climbed onto a stool and turned on the tap. “How much?”

  I took the pot from him. It was crusted with what looked like dried tomato gravy. “At least let me clean this first.”

  The signora grabbed my fingers and turned my palm up. “With these hands? Signora DiGirolamo told me the dishes are piled to the ceiling in the don’s apartment. Have you ever washed a dish in your life? Your mother, always so soft on you. And now look at what’s happened.”

  I yanked my hand from hers. “Don’t you talk about my mother.” I remembered words, the right words, the ones that would sound appropriate. “She was a good soul.”

  “Yes, a very good soul. I’ve prayed for her. Prayed for your poppa. Lit a candle. Gave you my mending. You’ve no reason to fault me for this. No reason to bring foul fortune on my family. The young man is lucky. Lucky, I tell you. God bless you. God bless him. You’ll see. He’s a good match. Almost a citizen. Now leave the pot and leave my house. I will see to the oatmeal.”

  Outside the Lattanzis’ apartment, I leaned against their door, my rage enough to push any worry over freethinking curtains out of my head. Match. Lucky. The signora’s fever must be raging. Did she think she was sick because of me? I sat on the bottom tread and pulled on my stockings, then my shoes, dropped there on the way in.

  Well, fine. Her decision. Although oatmeal was sounding pretty good to me, even cooked in a dirty pot. I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

  But, no. Signora Lattanzi didn’t want my help. She didn’t need it. She’d looked pretty good. Nothing like my parents. Maybe the pregnant girl was right, maybe all the signora and the signore had was a cold.

  Another fit of coughing burst from the Lattanzis’. I picked up my coat and scarf, also lying on the floor.

  Maybe not.

  The doctor’s office was shuttered. A sign instructed: LEAVE NOTICE OF PATIENTS NEEDING ATTENTION.

  Sheets of paper were tacked to the jamb, a pencil hung from a string beside. I wrote the Lattanzis’ name and our address, tore off the page, and slid it beneath the doctor’s door. Then I turned. And halted.

  The young man from Parade Day, his shock of soft, brown curls falling over his forehead, stood on the other side of a store window, talking to a man at the counter.

  I hurried past, stopping on the far side, then reversed direction and strolled by the window again, staying close to the curb so I could read the awning stretched across the facade: LEATHER GOODS: BOUGHT AND SOLD.

  Poppa always told me to cultivate my curiosity. Mamma told me to be careful it didn’t kill me. I couldn’t cross the window again. What if the young man looked up and saw?

  I compromised, crossing the street to pass the shop, wondering whether the young man was purchasing or selling. When I looked again, the other gentleman was gone, and the young man had moved to the other side of the counter, bent over a pile of items I couldn’t identify. Perhaps he wasn’t buying or selling. Perhaps he worked there.

  I crossed back. A trolley trundled past, then a cart. I ducked around the first, dodged the next, eager to get back to the
curb.

  The young man stood on the sidewalk, carrying the same leather satchel he’d carried on Parade Day. “May I help you, signorina?”

  I straightened my coat and rearranged my scarf, aware I hadn’t thought to grab a comb in my escape from the attic. “Why should I want your help?”

  “This is the third time you’ve passed the shop. And yes, the shop is most impressive, still I cannot remember I’ve ever seen anybody give it such careful and constant attention.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” I stepped close to the lamppost, tried to pretend I’d only meant to read the notices tacked there. The first week of the fourth Liberty Loan subscriptions were due. And, apparently, according to the flyer, keeping a happy spirit would ward off the influenza. “I must be on my way.”

  “Excuse me, signorina, but which way? You appear to be undecided.”

  His smile, warm enough to melt ice cream in a blizzard, displaced the last of my dignity. I pointed to the banner overhanging the shop. “I am looking for work. You’re not the owner, are you?”

  “Today I am the delivery boy.” He hefted the satchel to his shoulder. “Signor Minora is the owner. He just left. If you will come back tomorrow, I will introduce you.”

  “How can you? You haven’t introduced yourself.” I didn’t need this young man’s introductions. Didn’t need his presumptions, or his insinuations, or his service. I was a woman who could go out and make my wishes, a woman who’d never let her pile of mending climb higher than her aspirations. This was America.

  I turned, chin high, and started up the street.

  My wrist refused to follow.

  I twisted it, this way, then that, doing my best to look like I wasn’t doing so.

  The young man watched me. “The button on your cuff is caught on a bit of metal.”

  Attached to the lamppost. A nail. Or a screw. A piece of wire.

  Because I hadn’t taken the time to fasten it.

  Embarrassment flooded places I didn’t know I had.

  “Do not fret, signorina. All we need is the proper tool. As Fortune would have it, in this one thing, I can be of service.” He put down his satchel, pulled a buttonhook from his coat pocket, took hold of my elbow, ran his hand down to mine, and expertly extricated my cuff from the fray.

  Excitement firecrackered up my arm, an unexpected rush that barreled past my shoulder and lodged in my throat, like I’d jammed my finger into a live socket.

  Well. My goodness.

  Had the same thing happened to him?

  If it did, the young man didn’t let on. He pocketed the buttonhook, retrieved his satchel, tipped his cap to me, and headed down the street.

  I stood there a while, trying to look like I meant to be standing there, to prove to those rushing past I had some purpose, some promise, some part in life’s grand performance.

  Only modern thinking.

  I washed the dishes that evening. I dried them and I put them away. One. By. One.

  The old man watched me. “Something wrong?”

  I explained to him about the Lattanzis, about how sick they were. I poured his tea and slid the cup before him. “Their lips were blue.”

  “Carlo meant to find the signora’s sister today.”

  “But he forgot?”

  “He has other things on his mind. I’ll send him tomorrow.” The old man picked up his cup, and sniffed at it, his face going strange. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the . . .” From the what? An image surfaced of somebody closing my fingers around the bag of tea, but I didn’t remember who. “From the market,” I decided. Where else could I have gotten it? I went to take a sip.

  The old man knocked the cup from my hand. Hot liquid, tinged in red, splashed across the table, and soaked the contents of the sugar bowl. “No market sold you this. Have you had some already?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ve been drinking it since . . . since . . .”

  “Since you got back from the pharmacy?”

  His question came at me like a cannonball. “I didn’t go to the pharmacy.”

  He held up his box of pills. “Of course you went. Was she there?”

  I had no memory of the pharmacy, yet there was the box of pills.

  He gripped the handle of the teapot. “You didn’t give any to the pregnant lady, did you?”

  “No. We drank coffee.” I remembered the aroma, so rich and inviting, smelling of cinnamon and cloves. “Her coffee. And we rolled pasta.”

  The old man eyed me. He emptied his tea into the sink, emptied the pot after, and dumped the sugar down the drain. He rummaged through the baskets and tins on the shelf until he found the bag, then opened a window and scattered the contents. “I was stupid to let you go. I wasn’t thinking. I haven’t seen her in such a long time. But of course she would be there, now, with so many sick, so much need.”

  Doubt pulled at my insides, like knotted thread. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The guaritrice.”

  It came rushing back, somehow overshadowed by everything else that had happened since. The woman. The girl. The masks. The strange little alcove at the back of the pharmacy. I followed after the old man and examined the bag the tea had come in. “She told me to give you a cup. Told me it would make you feel better.”

  “If she meant it for me, why did you drink it?”

  “Because she told me to make a cup for myself, too. And why shouldn’t I? It smells good. Fragrant. Lavender.” Like my mamma used to wear.

  He smacked the sash shut, drew the curtains, and snatched the bag from my hand, stormed out to the rooftop garden, struck a match, lit the bag, and cast it over the side. It streaked to the cobbles, and, I’d swear, landed with a tiny scream.

  He looked over the edge. “The tea smells like whatever will bring you the most comfort at that moment. For me, it is almond and fig. You couldn’t have known. And the tea made you forget. She gave you the suggestion and you did as she suggested.”

  His reaction seemed ridiculous. The guaritrice was a good soul. She worked so hard. A mother must. And she’d offered me help where the old man had none. “It’s only tea mixed with herbs. But for the leaves, I could bake with it.”

  “It’s more than tea. It makes you go to sleep. Not for real. In here.” He tapped at his temple. “You do things you otherwise wouldn’t dare, imagine things you otherwise wouldn’t dream. Wish for things that will come to no good. Tell me everything she said to you. Every little thing.”

  My attitude, rarely more accommodating than a mule’s, retreated into a shell plastered over in stubbornness. The old man and I were temporary, cobbled together by tragedy, and, despite his assertions we were family, little more than strangers. He had no false comforts to offer, nor confidences to share. Five days after my arrival, the space between us remained veiled, mist hovering over water before the sun rises. “There’s nothing to tell. I was only there long enough to pick up your order.”

  He marched back into the apartment, his face all angles and annoyance. “I don’t expect you to understand me, but I do expect you to obey me. Never accept anything from the guaritrice again.”

  “But—”

  “Nothing. Not even a greeting. You can sell your soul without even knowing and never collect a penny on the contract.”

  Seven

  The old man was gone again in the morning. He left the icy remnants of the previous evening beside a roll and a plate of sliced apples—a note propped against a medicine bottle: “To whom much is entrusted, much is required.”

  Followed by an explanation how he was delivering the DiGirolamos’ shoes, and I should give the medicine to the Lattanzis, one spoonful, three times a day.

  I pried the cork off the bottle and sniffed. It smelled like the anisette Poppa took to help with the cough. I took a sip. The liquid burned all the way down, then fought to come back up. The urge subsided and a subtle heat spread through my insides. How come how often the Lattanzis took their medicine was my problem? Let the incr
easingly forgetful and no-doubt-useless Young Carlo worry about it. He was the old man’s heir.

  Awls. Shoe forms. Leather cutters. Punches. And the carved wooden chest.

  I again raised the bottle to my lips.

  I bet Young Carlo had a harelip and a squint.

  Would he want the flowered teapot? I ran a finger along the handle and traced one of the painted daisies, thinking how accustomed I’d become to seeing it on the table.

  Maybe Young Carlo had a wife, a wife who wouldn’t want the teapot. The old man and I were supposed to be family. That would make this wife my . . . what? Sister-in-law? Aunt? Maybe she would give the teapot to me.

  I took another sip and let the warmth wash all the worry away, replace it with imaginings of myself in this unknown woman’s place, owner of the teapot and my hare-lipped, squint-eyed husband off running errands. The pregnant girl, pregnant no longer, would visit. We’d eat cookies made with proper flour that maybe she’d taught me to bake as good as hers, while the baby did . . . whatever it was babies did. I skipped that part of the imagining, because, truly, at the time, I hadn’t a clue, and moved right to where she taught me how to roll my own pasta so I could make dinner for my brothers who would finally be returned from the war.

  There. I liked that imagining. I bent to adjust my stockings, get a deep breath of the verbena, then maybe go downstairs and see if the Lattanzis were dead.

  The bundles under the table were gone. All of them. So was the box of iron rings.

  I looked to the old man’s windows. Verbena twined into rings hung from each of the iron rods. I dashed to the rooftop door. Another bundle, twined in another iron ring, clattered against the wood. And yet another at the old man’s entrance.

  So many bundles. So many rings. These few were only a fraction. Old World superstition, meant for protection.

  From somebody the old man didn’t like. Somebody the old man didn’t trust. Somebody who had offered me kindness, and caring, and the one thing the old man wouldn’t—answers to my questions.