The curtain hadn’t created that bubble, I did. And I couldn’t collapse it because I didn’t want to, because I didn’t want to face the future. The curtain had accentuated every minute, every second. Its release might be uncontrolled. Overwhelming.
Then again, it might not. I’d never know, unless I moved forward. So I took a breath. I took a step.
And the whole thing dissolved.
No fireworks. No explosion. No marching bands or fanfares. The bubble deflated, going pfft like one of Benedetta’s balls of risen dough, descending in a gray haze over our shoulders, then landing at our feet. It was shimmery, a rainbow of color. All I had to do was step outside to see.
Carlo scratched at his neck. “Not very exciting, signorina.”
No. Not very. “Life isn’t very exciting. Not when it’s going pretty much the way it’s supposed to.”
“Not what you thought it would be.”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“You can still go to Atlantic City.”
I could, but even that didn’t seem all that interesting if I were going by myself. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you’d like some company on the way to the train station.”
“You thought you’d make sure I actually went.”
“No. I knew you’d go. When you decide to do something, you do it. Benedetta’s baby will be fine with her aunt. We will see her when Nicco returns.” Carlo put out his hands, palms up. “It’s just as well, two boys are plenty of work. I know, I was one myself.”
The old man must have told him about the letter from the Children’s Bureau. “You don’t have to marry me, Carlo. Even for the boys. If Tizi marries the druggist, things may work out. I’ve still got goals to pursue, other ways I can be useful.” I headed up the street, like I was going to pursue one of those goals that instant.
Carlo caught up. “You are wrong, signorina. I’m afraid I do have to marry you.”
I didn’t understand. Carlo knew that. He got ahead of me and walked backward. “You see, when Benedetta and Nicco came to live at the house, the Lattanzis gave them a letter that they should buy the house and take care of the boys should anything happen to them. They also left a second letter, in case circumstances changed for Benedetta and Nicco. That the house should go into a trust and I should have the option to make the purchase, put the money in escrow for the boys, and collect rents if needed. Now Benedetta is gone and Nicco wrote to me and said if I can figure out something better, I should.” Carlo stood in front of me, made me stop walking. “So I’ve exercised the option.”
“You’ve purchased the house.” I put my hands on my hips. “You’re the landlord, not the boys.”
“Yes. But I cannot collect rent from the boys. I’d never think to collect rent from the don. Nicco won’t be home for weeks, maybe months. And with Tizi living there also . . .” He slipped his cap off his head. “Please, signorina. You must marry me. Or I will have to pitch a tent in the don’s garden. Every penny I have is in the house. I don’t even have the money for oatmeal.”
Well. No wonder the signora went on about Carlo having a clean tablecloth. Not because she thought I was questionable goods, because she wanted to make sure her house was cared for after she was gone. “You want to marry me for oatmeal.”
“I want to marry you because you are beautiful, because you are out-spoken, because you have ambitions. I want to marry you because you believe in magic, because we’ve already made a solemn oath, because we will never fail each other, because we will always be there to help, no matter what the other needs. We are mourning together, signorina, yes, but when times are good, we will also celebrate.” He went down on one knee, clasped his hands before his heart. “Although, it might be better if I do the cooking. You aren’t very good with a stove.”
There were lots of things I didn’t think I’d be any good with. Some of them were attached to Carlo. “Listen, I appreciate the offer, but, as you so kindly pointed out, I’m not like other girls.” I started walking again.
He scrambled up. Caught up with me again. “Of course you are not like other girls. You are better, more than I could ever have hoped.” He took hold of my arm, turned me to face him. “Why won’t you give me a chance?”
“Have you forgotten? Because I don’t like boys.”
“That’s all right, signorina. It’s perfect. You don’t like boys, but I do.”
“You do what?”
“I like boys. A lot. Enough for both of us.” He took my hand, and something warm and welcoming took hold of my heart. “Don Sebastiano is very wise. Where is there in this world for two people such as us? I love you, Fiora Vicente.” He touched his head, then his chest. “Here. And here. Whether you marry me or not, we are family. A piece of paper won’t change that. Just we’d have a lot easier time convincing the Children’s Bureau if we looked like every other couple in the neighborhood.”
I thought of Benedetta, how she’d reddened over the topic of sheets, of beds. “That’s all fine for adoption, Carlo, but there’s more to marriage than oatmeal.”
“Plenty more. Wonderful and intimate. Look at you. Look at me. We have all the proper tools for this job. With a little tinkering we can make them work.” He put his hand on my cheek. “Can’t we give it a try?”
Try. “You mean, right now?”
“When else?” He imitated the movements I’d made earlier, moving his hands toward him, fingers splayed. “Didn’t you just make a speech about how it’s all infinite?”
And beautiful. And expanding. Unyielding and inexorable and kind of sloppy and definitely awkward with the baby in her sling between us. Also funny and sweet, him leaning in to me, and me reaching up to him. His face stubble was rough, his muscles hard, his angles sharp, and sinewy.
But it was a kiss. Our first.
I wiped at my mouth.
Carlo slid his cap back over his head. “We’re going to have to work on that.”
Three days later, Carlo and I were married. Two days after that, I was starting to regret it. Two days later, so was he. Four days after that, it felt a little more like fun. After two weeks, we stopped pretending like we weren’t doing anything after the lights went out, and by the end of our first month, he was forgetting to wipe the mud from his shoes before tracking across my clean floor.
Good thing the boys arrived. Fipo rushed right upstairs. Then he rushed right back down. “Where’s the don?”
“He’s walking with his daughter. He’ll be so happy to see you.”
“He better hurry. Etti and me aren’t here to move back. We’re here to get our things.”
The tall, thin lady from the Children’s Bureau pulled me and Carlo aside. “He’s been . . . difficult. Visit for a while. It may take some time for everybody to get reacquainted.” She turned to Fipo. “I’ll wait outside.”
“You won’t have to wait long. We don’t have very much.” Fipo pointed an accusing finger at Carlo. “Not even our house. Not anymore.” He slammed the door after the lady.
Etti waved his hands. He mumbled a few words. Carlo went to stand beside him. “What are you doing, little man?”
“I’m vanquishing the lady from the Bureau.” He tapped under his eye. “Like the signorina did with the guaritrice.” He spread his arms wide and turned to me. “You fixed everything. The air feels good. Everybody can breathe again.”
Fipo came out of his room, clothes bundled under his arm. “She didn’t fix anything. And she’s not a signorina. She’s a signora. I’ll bet she still can’t make hotcakes.”
“She doesn’t have to. I can.” Carlo put out a hand to Etti. “Why don’t we make some together? Fipo and Signora Lelii need to talk.”
Signora Lelii. After sixteen years as Fiora Vicente, Signora Lelii sounded strange, foreign. Dropped on me the way the house dropped on the Wicked Witch of the West’s evil sister.
Fipo shoved an envelope at me. “For you. From Mamma. She left it under my mattress.”
The envelope was thick, bulky. My name was on the front, written in Signora Lattanzi’s flowing script. I opened it. A pile of bills fell out. Money bills. More than I’d seen together ever up until then.
The envelope couldn’t have been left under Fipo’s mattress. Or Etti’s. I’d turned them and turned them again, anticipating the day they would return. “Fipo. What is this?”
“There’s a letter. Read it.”
Dear Fiora,
Enclosed please find what I think is fair for all your excellent mending. We all have dreams. May you find yours. Until then, I leave mine with you and Carlo.
Thank you.
That was it. No remonstrations, no criticisms, no reminders of everything I hadn’t gotten correct. Just a thank-you, and, from the thickness of the wad, more money for mending than I could have earned in a year, much less a month.
“Mamma said you could use it for typewriting school.” Fipo looked out the window into the street. “And maybe use the leftover to take care of us. If you wanted.”
I followed where he looked. The Children’s Bureau lady waited on the sidewalk.
Etti poked his head out the door to the Lattanzis’ apartment. “Carlo wants to know if we should make tea.”
Yes, it was still the Lattanzis’ door. I cooked at the Lattanzis’ stove, and ate at the Lattanzis’ table. Carlo set up his business in the Lattanzis’ shop, and he and I made love in the Lattanzis’ bed. I did change out the sheets for the ones I’d used in the old man’s attic. And I moved all the Lattanzis’ things to the boys’ room. I was pretty sure what Carlo and I did was the same as every couple did; still, I didn’t like the idea of the Lattanzis’ spirits lingering to see what we were up to.
But, tea. I didn’t remember any tea.
I went to check, my heart sinking to see the familiar bag, smell the familiar scent. Cinnamon and cloves. Like Benedetta’s coffee.
I got woozy, my stomach got churny, my nerves caught fire. “Etti, where did your mamma get this?”
“The lady at the drugstore gave it to her. Signora Bruni liked it, too.”
Because Signora Lattanzi told her the spice blend would help the baby grow. I had to sit down. I had to put my head between my knees and sob with relief.
I hadn’t spread the sickness to Signora Lattanzi. I hadn’t condemned Benedetta when I took her out of the bubble. The guaritrice poisoned them. She gave her flavorings to Signora Lattanzi, who gave some to Benedetta, who mixed it with her coffee and gave her coffee to me. I didn’t get sick because I was resistant. But they weren’t. The signora was already sick. Benedetta already infected. Whether the bubble stayed, or went, Benedetta was doomed. Because she already had the sickness. Because the sickness was hard on pregnant women, because, because . . .
I didn’t sit in the chair. I didn’t put my head between my knees. I didn’t cry, I didn’t wail, I didn’t carry on. I didn’t even think all of that. Not all laid out like I’ve just said. I thought all of that later. At the time, I couldn’t make a scene because Etti was smiling at me, and Fipo was watching, and Carlo was flipping hotcakes that were starting to smell like strawberries.
So I acted like everything was fine and I threw the tea into the dustbin. “This is stale. I’ll find us some fresh in the market later.”
Then I opened the envelope, the one with all the money. I made a big show of counting it. “You know, Fipo, there’s enough here for ten typewriting schools, and classes don’t begin for weeks. Plus, you and Etti are still so little, I doubt either of you can eat enough to make a difference. I’ll put this money away, and when the time is right, Carlo and I will put it to good use for you.”
Fipo didn’t look like he believed me. “Can I learn to fly an airplane?”
The question made me uncomfortable, uncertain. Made me think of smoke and flame, exhilaration and regret. I thought of the day Fipo flew his toy airplane into my rising dough. I remembered the sensation of acceptance, that control was an illusion.
Whatever happened to Fipo wasn’t up to me. And I had no right to decide his dreams for him. I slipped the envelope into my apron pocket. “You can learn to fly an airplane, if that is where your heart lies. You can learn anything you want.”
The hotcakes were ready. It seemed rude to leave the Children’s Bureau lady standing on the sidewalk, so I opened the door to invite her to join us. She wasn’t there.
I stepped out on the stoop, rubbing my arms against the December cold. I looked up the street. I looked down.
She wasn’t there. She definitely wasn’t there.
Etti tugged on my skirt. “I told you. I vanquished her.”
“Etti, do you even know what vanquished means?”
Fipo answered. “It means we get to live with you. The lady told us if we couldn’t find her, that meant we were definitely home and we could stay here forever.” He put his hand in mine. “Come on. I’m hungry.”
Thirty-Two
Nicco never returned to live in his and Benedetta’s cozy little apartment. He returned to pack up her things and to thank the don for caring for her while he was in the war. I offered my help, but he seemed more comfortable with Carlo. I kept Benedetta’s illustration, the one where she’d noted all our pretend relations. I put it in a frame and hung it on the wall. Nicco didn’t know about it, so I didn’t think he’d mind. A few months later, he sent a letter. Benedetta’s baby was growing well; they were settled with the aunt in Coatesville. He enclosed a photo of the baby, along with others he’d found when he finally developed the film on the Brownie.
Fipo, and Etti, and the photograph of the Three Musketeers, together in Benedetta’s kitchen, our hands clasped joyously over our heads.
I never heard from him again.
Signora Lattanzi once told me to make myself useful and everything would work out. I passed plenty of sunrises in what remained of Benedetta’s kitchen questioning her assertion.
Carlo didn’t like it. One morning he found me there, espresso brewed, expression somber. He placed my cup on the table, then ran a finger over the shelf where Benedetta had kept her Brownie. “This room is too empty. We should stay here. This baby is coming and the boys are growing like trumpet vines. I’m tired of stuffing my mouth with sheets so I don’t pervert their tender years.”
Live there. “Shouldn’t we rent it out? What will we do with the Lattanzis’ bedroom?”
“We can put the boys there. If this baby’s a boy, he can join them when he’s old enough to be scarred by our behavior.”
For a boy who liked boys, Carlo sure had adjusted.
I ran a palm along Benedetta’s rolling pin. So had I. “Why are you always so happy?”
“Because life is easier that way.” Carlo leaned against the jamb. “The past is a road that never changes course, Fiora Vicente. Don’t mire yourself there.”
No. Of course not. “If we move the boys to their parents’ room, what do we do with the boys’ room?”
“I thought you might like it for yourself. A place to work at your typewriting. Plenty of people in the neighborhood need letters done. Letters in English that look professional. And letters in Italian for business there. You can use your skills and who knows what other ambitions you may realize.” He put out a finger and lifted my chin. “And on the days you want to take the trolley into center city . . . well, there’s a stop right outside in the market. I know it’s not the same as working in an office, but you also have my love, as well as my encouragement. Maybe it will be enough.”
Carlo was right. His love and his encouragement were enough, enough to get me through the first throes of motherhood, enough to welcome our son two years after that. They were enough to get me through nurse’s training, enough to help me open an office beside Carlo’s shoe business, stitching and bandaging and doing the things the doctor was too busy, and too expensive, to treat. Carlo’s love and encouragement were even enough to get us through the old man’s final illness, and enough to get us through Carlo’s own.
An ailme
nt of the heart the doctor told us. Just like the old man.
I still find that ironic.
The day after I returned Benedetta’s baby, the day after Carlo decided we were the perfect match, the day after I dissolved the bubble, two things happened.
First, Mamma’s Big Ben tick-tick-ticked its way back to match the time and rhythm of the old man’s. Since then and ever after, no matter when or how much I wind them, the Big Bens tick-tick-tick in sync.
Second, and more important, the sickness dropped away. Profoundly and without explanation. Health officials reported it had “run its course.”
The school year restarted, public venues opened for business. War news, never far from the front pages, again became our sole concern. The influenza retreated, memory of our attempts to control it lost among the clamor of propaganda and the clash of spears. But in the dark places where the ancient things grow, superstition lingers, waiting the chance to spring forth, searching the spark to bring it life, and seeking any transport to further its survival.
That knowledge weighed on me.
Tizi married the druggist. She had five children. She kept the curtain until the old man died, then kept it in the two years after. She returned it to me a week after I lost Carlo.
“I thought you might like this to, you know . . . look back.” She looked uncomfortable, already large with her sixth. She lay a hand over her belly, eyes downcast, shy, I suppose, to be suggesting how I should manage my grief. “I mean, if that’s what you want to do. But I don’t think you need the curtain to remember Carlo. I don’t think you ever needed the curtain. I think you could have done all you did with any piece of fabric over any window. I think you could have done it without the fabric, just looked out the window, closed your eyes, and imagined. I think everything you ever needed is inside you, Fiora Vicente. So I think you’re going to do fine without Carlo. And I think wherever he is, Carlo thinks so, too.”
The Infinite Now Page 26