by Ruth Reichl
Sammy gave a forced little chuckle, but he still seemed anxious.
“Laugh if you want.” I cradled my purse as I walked down the stairs. I meant to keep talking so he’d stop seeing the war images in his head. “But this brave young soldier actually has been plotting a kind of rescue. Rosalie’s birthday’s on Sunday, and when I asked Sal what they were doing, he looked at me like I was crazy. ‘We don’t make a big deal of birthdays,’ he said.”
“I take it that you do not approve?”
“I don’t. Rosalie works so hard.” I’d wanted to throw a big party, but then I thought better of it; Rosalie would spend the entire evening making sure everyone else was having a good time. “I was thinking she’d like a romantic lunch, just the two of them. They almost never get to spend time alone.”
“I trust you have enlisted Thursday?” The color was coming back into his cheeks.
“Yeah, she loved the idea and came up with this great little menu. And Richard’s going to decorate The Pig’s private dining room.”
“I shall contribute a bottle of Dom Perignon,” said Sammy grandly, and I hoped that I’d managed to make him forget about war.
“HOW’RE YOU GOING TO GET Sal out of that shop?” Thursday asked at our final planning meeting.
“I have my ways,” I said, wondering exactly what they were.
I was still worrying about it early Sunday morning as I stopped to buy a bunch of roses on my way to the shop. It was a start.
“Are those for Rosalie?” asked Sal. “She’ll be pleased.”
This was the moment. “I was thinking …” I began haltingly. “This is the slowest time of the year.… ”
It took a little while for me to get it all out, but when I was finally done, Sal stared at me as if I were an alien creature. “Leave the shop to you and Theresa?” His tone suggested that he would be more likely to leave a couple of orangutans in charge. “Abandon my customers? What will they think?”
“You were gone for hours when you took me on the Sal Test,” I said. “What’s the difference?”
He looked at me incredulously. “That was work! I was doing it for Jake. I wasn’t just going off to have a good time. Besides, Rosalie was here.”
“They’ll think,” said Theresa, who had come in quietly with Rosalie, “that you’ve decided, for once in your life, to act like a normal human being and put your wife before your customers.” I’d been so busy trying to persuade Sal, I hadn’t noticed them entering the shop. Rosalie was putting bread on the shelves and filling the cases, acting as if all this had nothing to do with her. But she didn’t object, which seemed like a hopeful sign.
I don’t know what tipped the balance, but when Kim Wong arrived to present Rosalie with the chocolate invitation that she’d created for the occasion, Sal threw up his hands. “I give up,” he said. “You win. Rosie, go get your coat. Looks like we’re taking the day off.”
Still, he was spewing instructions as he walked out of the shop. “Don’t forget that Gennaro’s mama likes the spring Parmigiano, not the summer. Don’t give Jane cold mozzarella; she’ll throw it in your face. And Mr. Abruzzo prefers the bresaola to the speck—”
“You think you’re the only one who knows how to run the shop?” Theresa pushed him through the door. As it closed behind him, she was saying, “No, don’t answer that. Please.” But when she turned around, I saw that she was apprehensive. “I’ve never been in the store without Sal or Rosalie,” she admitted.
At first everything was fine. “They’re celebrating her birthday!” Gennaro clapped his pale hands together and looked prayerfully toward the ceiling. “Benissimo! Mama will be so pleased.” Jane actually complimented me on the mozzarella. And, as predicted, on this cold February day, the shop was less frantic than usual.
But then, for the first time in two months, Mr. Complainer walked through the door. “Oh, no!” To my horror, I said it out loud.
“Nice to see you too.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” I carved off a chunk of pecorino and handed it across the counter, a peace offering. Awful Amy, I noted happily, was absent. “It’s just that Sal’s going to be devastated that he missed you.”
“He’s not here? He’s always here.” He ran both hands through his curls. “Is something wrong? Is he sick?”
“He’s fine. Fine. It’s Rosalie’s birthday, and he took her out to lunch.”
“You mean,” Theresa chimed in, “you made him take her to lunch.”
“Really?” asked Mr. Complainer. “Good for you!” His smile held so much warmth, I could feel my cheeks begin to flush.
“Nobody can make Sal do anything,” I said.
“I think you’re being modest.” He was beaming his approval.
“She is,” Theresa agreed.
“I did plan a little lunch,” I admitted, surprising myself by hoping he’d keep looking at me like that. “And Sal wasn’t exactly thrilled. Why did you have to show up and make matters worse? He’s never going to forgive me; he’s been looking for you every Sunday.”
“Really?” Mr. Complainer laughed with open delight. “You’re not just saying that?”
“No. He really misses you.”
He clearly had no idea how much Sal liked him. I handed another piece of cheese across the counter. “He’s convinced you’ve been going down the street, where the line’s shorter.”
“That’s crazy!” Mr. Complainer seemed incredibly pleased. “I would never … He should know that. I treasure my Sundays with Sal.”
“So how come you haven’t been in?”
“I’m teaching up in Cambridge. This is the first time I’ve been in the city in almost two months.”
A professor? He was a professor? But teaching one semester didn’t necessarily make him that. Writers sometimes taught. Aunt Melba had once spent a semester at Cranbrook. And I supposed all kinds of other people moonlighted at universities. I wanted to ask what he taught, but it wasn’t the Fontanari way; Sal said it was fine if the customers wanted to tell us about themselves, but it wasn’t our place to ask. But I could say this: “So we can tell Sal you’ll be back?”
“As soon as I’m done with the gig, I’ll be back to—how did that writer put it?—‘worship at the Fontanari altar.’ ”
He’d remembered my words!
“In the meantime, though, I need a care package to get me through the next two months. Nothing tastes like Fontanari’s.”
Parmigiano, pecorino, prosciutto—he wanted it all. I was starting to pack up the order when he stopped me. “And, Wilhelmina, I think I’d better have three balls of mozzarella.”
“The real thing?”
“Of course I want the real thing!” I was reaching for the imported mozzarella di bufala when he stopped me. “Why would I want week-old Italian stuff when I could have the cheese Rosalie made this morning? Don’t you know anything?”
I stared at him incredulously. “That”—I scooped the cheese out of the vat—“is going to make Rosalie’s day.”
“Please tell her I wish her a very happy birthday.”
“I’ll do that.” He turned to go and then hesitated, searching the shelves as if to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then I realized he was doing what he always did with Sal: trying to delay his departure. When he got to the door, I screwed up my courage and called after him, “Don’t you be a stranger.”
Sal wasn’t the only one who’d missed him.
SAL AND ROSALIE RETURNED with pink cheeks, and as Rosalie pulled out her phone to show me how Richard had made a tablecloth of bay leaves, covering the entire table with them, Sal demanded a blow-by-blow account from Theresa.
When she got to Mr. Complainer, he groaned. “Wouldn’t you know it? The first time I leave, the guy decides to show up. Just like him. Is he coming back?”
“Ask Willie,” Theresa replied, wiggling her hips a little. “They had quite the conversation.”
Rosalie snapped her phone shut. “Was that woman with him?”
/>
“No. And he wanted your mozzarella.”
Sal took off his cap, then put it back on, settling it more comfortably on his head. “He bought Rosie’s mozzarella?” He put his arm around his wife. “Now we’ve surely lost him for good.”
“For a while, anyway,” I said. “A couple of months. He’s teaching somewhere out of town.”
“Away from the city? Poor guy!” Sal could not believe anyone would voluntarily leave New York. “Wonder what he teaches that could make him stay away so long.”
“You don’t know?” I was surprised.
“It never came up.” Sal drew himself up. “We stick to what’s important.”
Rosalie glanced toward the door, as if the phantom Mr. Complainer might still be standing there. “Two months is a long time. Come to dinner tonight, okay?”
“ROSALIE COOKED HER OWN birthday dinner,” I told Sammy the next morning. “And it was great. Of course. She made Jewish artichokes—which were so crisp they crackled when you put them in your mouth—lasagna, porchetta, and a puntarelle salad. Her oldest nephew was there, and she made him sit next to me. He took one look, bolted his food, and then bolted toward the door.”
Sammy laughed.
“I wish she’d stop matchmaking. I don’t want a boyfriend!”
“Of course not.” He looked straight into my eyes. “Why would you desire romance? Your life is replete exactly as it is.”
“Your point is taken,” I said. “But here’s the thing: He was giving his lame excuses, and Rosalie said, ‘I made ice cream!’ as if that could keep him there, and the creep actually asked if he could take it to go. She gave a defeated little shrug and began to pack it up. I suddenly thought about Lulu’s father coming down the steps of the plane, ice cream under his arm, saying, ‘Cheated death again.’ ”
“I am persuaded that there is a reason you feel compelled to share this with me.”
“The first sentence of Lulu’s last letter was ‘Father has been found!’ Maybe that’s the clue.”
“What is the clue?”
“Father!”
“We should look in the catalog for ‘father’?”
“No, not ‘father.’ ” In my excitement I could barely talk. “Father is a Swan. I’ll bet anything the next clue is ‘Swan.’ ”
A smile was spreading across Sammy’s face. “That is precisely the sort of clue Bertie would relish.”
We ran up the stairs and pulled open the “S” drawer with an enormous sense of anticipation. Sammy riffled through the cards.
“Just one? And it’s red?” My face must have been comical.
“Surely there must be another answer.” Sammy sounded glum. “Bend your mind to this. Is there an alternate word for swan?”
I thought for a moment. Then I had it. “Father’s a Swan, but Lulu’s not.”
Sammy looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“She’s a young Swan.”
“The ugly duckling!” Sammy immediately got my point. “What an extremely sharp-witted young woman you are!” He went to the “D” file and triumphantly pulled up a blue card. “Wild game was much prized as a source of meat during wartime rationing. Among the reader letters of 1944 you will find some fascinating advice on the care of young ducklings from the inimitable James Beard.”
Our race to the secret room—Anzio, as Sammy had begun to call it—sent books tumbling to the floor. I went right to the 1944 shelf and searched through the folders, looking for “Ducklings.” The file was very fat. “There must be a lot of letters here!” Excited now, I pulled it off the shelf and sat next to Sammy on the floor.
APRIL 18, 1944
Dear Mr. Beard,
Mother won the contest! I’ve been racking my brain for ham recipes; so far I’ve made ham salads, ham and molasses loaves, and bean soup with ham. Yesterday I made ham turnovers for all the women in the Corsair group; Mother says they were a big hit. But I’m starting to understand what they mean about two people, a ham, and eternity. If you have any interesting recipes for ham, please send them my way.
The air-raid warden came by last night to check our emergency supplies. He said we were the only house in the whole neighborhood that had every single supply we were supposed to: fifty feet of garden hose with a spray nozzle, one hundred pounds of sand, two three-gallon metal buckets filled with water, a shovel, a hoe, an ax, and a ladder. We even have the leather gloves and dark glasses!
Tommy thinks the Germans are going to try invading us before we invade them, and he says we should sleep with our shoes on. He’s not the only jumpy one. There are blackouts every night, and now that we know the big invasion is near, nobody’s sleeping very well.
Please write to me, Mr. Beard. Sometimes I think that everyone in Akron is going crazy.
Your friend,
Lulu
JUNE 5, 1944
Dear Mr. Beard,
Rome has fallen! We’ve just finished listening to Mr. Roosevelt tell about the liberation of the city, and I’m so happy. I know I’m being selfish, but I hope Father is still in Italy and not part of the big invasion being planned. We all know it will start any day now and that the men will be in terrible danger. Sometimes I lie in bed, wondering how anyone could be brave enough to run right into enemy fire. I’d like to think I could do it, but in my heart I know I couldn’t. I wish I had more courage.
Did you hear President Roosevelt’s speech? I wrote some of it down. “Italians have come by the millions into the United States. They have been welcomed, they have prospered, they have become good citizens, community and governmental leaders. They are not Italian Americans. They are Americans—Americans of Italian descent.”
I looked over at Mother as he was speaking, and her mouth was in a straight, tight line. She hates to be in the wrong, but I hope that will be the end of her calling Mrs. C. the enemy.
School is almost out, and it makes me feel like dancing. Middle school is over, I’m going on to North High, and I’ll never have to hear Miss Dickson’s voice again. I’ll be joining the U.S. Crop Corps soon, and I know that being a Victory Farm volunteer is going to make this a very fine summer.
Your friend,
Lulu
JUNE 27, 1944
Dear Mr. Beard,
Yesterday was the first day of vacation, and it started off so well. Now it seems like we’re winning the war, and it makes us all feel better, more optimistic.
I have a whole week until Crop Corps starts, a week that belongs entirely to me. Mrs. C. promised to teach me how to make orecchiette (it means little ears), and we were just starting to knead the dough when we saw the telegram man climbing up the stairs. Mrs. C. put her apron over her head and began to wail, and Mr. C. came upstairs to see what was happening. When he saw the telegram man, he started shaking his head and saying, “Go away, go away, go to a different house.”
We sat there watching through the screen door as he came toward us. It took him forever—each step seemed to last an hour—and I kept hoping he would never get there. As long as he didn’t knock on the door, everyone was still alive.
But then he was there, and Mr. C. was taking the telegram from his hand. “Which one?” said Mrs. C., so quiet I could hardly hear her. When Mr. C. said, “Marco,” she screamed and crumpled to the floor. He would have been eighteen in ten days.
The telegram was short and so cold. The secretary of war deeply regretted to inform them that their son was killed in action and extended his sympathy for their great loss. Then the telegram said that they couldn’t even return the body, if it was recovered, because of “conditions,” and if more information was received they would be informed. Mr. C. went over to Mrs. C. and held her in his arms, and they just stood there, holding each other, crying. I didn’t know what to do, so I crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. Suddenly I felt like a stranger.
Mr. Beard, life can change so quickly; one minute you’re happy, the next minute you’re not. I’m afraid that Mrs. C. will never want to see me
again, because she’ll think I bring bad luck. Every time I’m there, she’ll be waiting for the telegram man.
I thought I’d be happy this summer in the Crop Corps. But now I know that just feeling we’re going to win the war isn’t enough. None of us will be happy until the whole horrid thing is finally over.
Your friend,
Lulu
“Is something the matter?” Sammy’s voice was alarmed. I could feel him hesitating. I tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept coming, and for a long time neither of us moved. He handed me the big white linen handkerchief he always carries and patted my back. My throat was raw and my shirt was soaked, but I just kept crying.
Finally I lifted my head and looked at Sammy. “Dare I conjecture,” he was speaking slowly, “that you have not plummeted into this slough of despond merely because of Lulu?” He swallowed hard. “Is it your sister?”
I could feel myself go soft inside, could feel the words filling my mouth, eager to come out. Sammy slid over and wrapped his arms around me. He put his lips to my ear; his breath was warm as he whispered, “Tell me. Tell me.”
Cake Sisters
WHERE TO BEGIN? I CLOSED MY EYES AND TOOK MYSELF BACK. And then I told Sammy my story. All of it.
THE YEAR I WAS TEN, Dad’s birthday fell on a Saturday. The three of us got up late and had our weekly pancake contest, seeing who could flip one the highest. As usual, it turned the pristine kitchen into an enormous mess. But today Dad looked at the batter-covered counters with the dirty pans and sticky plates and said, “Forget the dishes; it’s my birthday. We’re going to the beach.”
It felt like a holiday, like Christmas or Thanksgiving, and I skipped up the stairs to get my bathing suit. Genie followed more slowly. “It’s embarrassing”—she pulled the towels reluctantly off the rack—“going to the beach with your father.” She was almost twelve.
It was a hot, clear day, and Genie stretched out on the sand while Dad and I went bodysurfing. The water was soft against our skin, and Dad waved at Genie, urging her to join us. But she had her sketch pad out. Dad squinted slightly, his wet hair black and seal-like in the water, looking back at her. “She looks more like your mother every day.” I followed his gaze; from here Genie could have been a woman, her bikini stretched taut across her hips, her legs long and golden against the white sand.