Though Brandon accepted my working, he didn’t like it. He liked that I was happy. In the end, that’s what mattered to him the most. When he found out that while I was working, other Marines were hitting on me, he went from not liking the job to hating it. What made matters worse was that the men hitting on me were officers and so he couldn’t even talk to them and tell them to find someone else to pursue.
One day, while I was working at the pancake station, I looked up past the officers I was cooking for and saw Brandon walking across the dining room. As a corporal, he wasn’t allowed in this place. The only thing I could think, watching in shock as he approached me, was that he was going to get into trouble. I’d learned from Italy and my experiences with Brandon on the base there that he sometimes acted impulsively when it came to me. I had gotten into trouble the time we made love in my car outside the gate. I didn’t want to be the one causing him to get into trouble again.
He came straight over to me. The officers in the dining room didn’t say anything. They must have assumed he worked there.
He arrived at my station and said, “Put the spatula down.”
He caught me off guard. I didn’t understand what was going on.
“Brandon,” I whispered, “you can’t be here.”
“Put the spatula down,” he repeated. His expression was neutral, Marine-like, the way they held themselves when they were in formation, so I couldn’t tell if he was upset or not.
I put down the spatula and started to come around the cooking station so I could quietly convince him to leave. If they put him in the base jail as punishment, I would have to be without him again and didn’t want that.
“Listen, you have to go…” I started to say.
Before I could finish, he grabbed me and lifted me in the air the way he’d done at the airport in Boston when I first arrived. He wasn’t angry at all, but instead was filled with happiness.
“I’m getting out,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m getting out of the Marines and we’re leaving California.”
This was all a surprise to me. It left me confused. “What do you mean?”
“I told them I’m not re-upping. I’m getting out and you and I are leaving here.”
It was a surprise, but I knew it was something good. Brandon had long thought that the Marines wasn’t for him, that he would do his four years and leave. He hadn’t made his final decision until now, and with the decision made, I started to feel a little nervous. This was his steady, stable job. Once he was out, what would we have?
He put me down, and I took him over near the kitchen door to talk privately.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Massachusetts.” He grinned.
He said we could stay temporarily with his mother, he would get a job there and we could make a good life. More than a year earlier I had decided that I loved Brandon enough to follow him anywhere. I had followed him to California. Massachusetts would be the next stop on our lives together. I trusted him and his confidence and I accepted that this was the right decision.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 13
We drove from Southern California to Massachusetts. I loved the days together, driving across the country, staying in little motels, making love every chance we got. We would be staying with Brandon’s mother once we arrived and getting the chance to be intimate was going to be more difficult, we knew, so we wanted to take advantage of any chance we got before we arrived.
We stopped in Las Vegas and at the Grand Canyon. The two were as opposite as could be, but I found both of them amazing. Texas seemed to go on forever. New Orleans was a lot of fun. The trip was one of the best weeks Brandon and I had spent together. Nothing else to do but experience it together. No work or friends or problems getting in the way. If it were possible to spend your entire life driving around with the one you loved the most in life, that would be the best way to live life.
When we arrived in Massachusetts, everything was covered in snow, something I’d never experienced before in Italy, California or North Carolina. It was night, and as we drove though Hudson toward Brandon’s mother’s apartment, the streets were empty except for a plow roaring by, clearing a path on the opposite side of the road. Brandon had no problem driving in the snow. In fact, he seemed at ease, like he belonged here. Seeing his confidence and calmness, took away much of my anxiety.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen. Neither of us had job lined up. We’d saved a little money, but not enough to survive for more than a few weeks. We were starting again, something I’d been doing so much in the last few years. I longed for the day when I would feel settled, permanent. Still, being there felt right.
The night air was so harsh and icy when I got out to the car at Brandon’s mother’s apartment building and walked toward the entrance that it felt like the cold was going to crack the bones in my face. When I’d visited here my first summer, it had been cold at night, but nothing like this. If it weren’t for Brandon, if this hadn’t been the town he came from, if he hadn’t been hurrying through the cold right by my side, I would never have come to a place like this.
Finding your soul mate changes many things about you. Not only the things you do and places you go, but also the things you realize you can do, the difficulties you thought you could not surmount, but with that person they become bumps or turns in life’s journey that you can go through and emerge from, a different and better person.
I was not the person who had met Brandon that night at the Marine dance in Napoli. All that we had experienced together—the good and the bad—had changed me and continued to shape me each and every day. I did not regret a moment of it, even the hardest times, because they had brought me to where I was that day, who I was that day. I hoped Brandon, too, had no regrets. When he held me, when he looked into my eyes, when he made love to me, I always felt that unyielding love of his. I needed him to continue feeling the same way, even as we both emerged different, shaped by our experiences.
. . . . .
It was not easy, starting again.
Brandon’s mother had a one bedroom apartment. Brandon asked for sheets and a blanket to make up the sofa for us, but she insisted we take her bedroom.
“Two people can’t fit on that sofa,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Mom, we’ll take the sofa,” Brandon said. “It’s not a problem.”
“It is for me. This is my house. I say who sleeps where.”
“I’m not going to take your bed,” I told her.
“Yes you are,” she said with a smile.
She insisted. She too was rebuilding her life, saving up to buy her own house. So she understood what it was like for us and she went out of her way to help. Brandon had told me about his childhood, about how his mother had run off with a man when he and his brother and sister were children. They’d had to live with his grandmother. It was traumatic for Brandon. I think it was traumatic for his mother, too. Helping Brandon when he was starting again after leaving the Marines must have given her some relief.
For Brandon, it was torture. He wanted to be self-sufficient, he wanted to give me a good life. He hated having to depend on his mother. Those few weeks he spent all of his days looking for work, but the economy wasn’t so good up there and he struggled to find work. Our money ran out. I started looking in the newspaper for a job for me. I didn’t want another waitress job. I wanted a job where I would be respected, be a professional, have the chance to grow, get promoted. I called all of the ads I found, but no one was offering to hire me, or even to have me come in for an interview. Maybe it was my accent. Maybe someone like me could only get work as
a waitress. If I had to, I would, but I wanted to try for something better.
Brandon looked tortured because he hadn’t found work. The winter didn’t bother him, like it did me. In fact, he preferred it to the summer. But not being able to provide was killing him. I told him it would be okay, that things would turn around, but as time went by, we both were losing our optimism.
When he finally did get a job, it was as a security guard, earning minimum wage. But he was so relieved. It wasn’t nearly enough money to live on, even for someone sleeping on their mother’s sofa, but he was so thankful that he was earning it for himself. He cashed the first paycheck and gave me most of the money.
“Here, go shopping with this,” he said. “Get what you need.”
Then he gave his mom some money too, to help her with the expenses of the apartment.
I saw the positive change in his demeanor immediately. It was as if he felt like he was a man again.
“I’m going to do better than this,” he told me that night as we lay awake on the sofa. “I’m going to get a better job, but at least we have money coming in.”
“I know you will,” I told him. I snuggled up close and caressed his chest. I wished we had our own place, somewhere we could be alone and make love whenever we wanted. We struggled together, and that made me feel closer to him. I knew we would get there, having our own home, living a better life. I believed in him. I just needed to have patience.
. . . . .
I continued looking in the newspaper for a job. I had always wanted to work in a bank. When I was a child, Rodolfo and Angela and I used to pretend that I was a banker and they were customers coming in for money. We made some play lira with paper. My mother commented that I handled the play money better than the real tellers at the bank.
I saw an ad in the newspaper for a teller job at the Marlborough Savings Bank and decided to apply. The ad said to call Karla Digiulio in Human Resources. Her name was Italian so I thought that was good sign.
When I called, I got a voicemail and left a message. Then I sat by the phone and waited for her to call back. My mother-in-law came home late that afternoon and saw me sitting by the phone. I explained why.
“But she doesn’t call me back,” I said. “Maybe it was my accent, she didn’t understand me.”
“I’m sure she understood you. Don’t worry, she’ll call. She’s probably very busy. Give her a little more time.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Now, did you make enough copies of your resume?” she asked.
“Resume? I don’t have one. Oh, my god! What am I going to do?”
She sat down and patted me on the arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”
She grabbed a note pad and a pen from a drawer in the kitchen and we sat at the table. “I’ll print it from a computer at work,” she said. “Okay, let’s start with your education. Do you have any college at all? It doesn’t have to be a degree, but any classes, anything?”
“No.”
“That’s okay. Not everyone has that. A high school diploma is good enough for this kind of job.”
We then moved on to my work experience. She included the two waitress jobs I’d had in the U.S. and made it sound like I had gained customer service experience that would be helpful in the bank. When I told her about working for the construction company in Napoli, she typed that in and said I had been the office manager. When we finished, she took me to Staples to make copies. Next I had to wait for a call back.
The next week, when I still hadn’t heard back, I asked my mother in law what I should do. “Do you think I should call Karla Digiulio again?” I said. “I don’t want to annoy her.”
“Why not call?” she said. “At this point it won’t hurt? If she doesn’t want you, then it doesn’t matter if you annoy her. If she does want you, she’ll be glad that you are eager and show your interest.”
It made sense to me, so I called again and again got her voicemail.
“Hello, this is Luisa Cloutier,” I said, trying to speak without an accent. “I called you last week and left a message. I wanted to tell you that I am really, really interested in the teller position you have in the newspaper. Can you call me back?” I gave her my mother in law’s number then said, “Thank you.”
I hung up and let out a long breath, relieved it was done.
“Good job,” my mother in law said.
“Could you tell I had an accent?”
She smiled at me. “Barely.” A short time later, Karla Digiulio called back. One of the first things she asked was, “Where’s your accent from?”
. . . . .
My interview was two days later. I spent the morning doing my hair and makeup, trying to make myself look my best. My blue and gold skirt and jacket were the most professional outfit I had. The high heels made me look taller, and I thought that would be good. I’d read somewhere that the taller you are, the better people think of you. I was determined to get this job.
Brandon let me take the car that morning. I drove to the main office in Marlborough. Everyone was very friendly. “Have a seat, Ms. Cloutier.” “Ms. Digiulio will be right with you, Ms. Cloutier.” “Can I get you anything while you’re waiting, Ms. Cloutier?”
Karla Digiulio was the human resources manager. She greeted me with a smile and a handshake and thanked me for coming. I was overjoyed that they were interviewing me. We went into her office, where she gave me an application and asked me to fill it out. I did that. We talked awhile about my work experience and then she told me that I had to take a test.
“What kind of test?” I asked. I worried that it was a English grammar test or something like that.
“General aptitude,” she said. “Math, some scenarios of things that might happen at the bank, that kind of thing. Just do your best.”
I was nervous until I started taking the test. I knew most of the answers and felt that I did well. After I finished, Kathy thanked me and said they’d let me know. As days passed and I didn’t hear from her, my confidence faded. Maybe I hadn’t done so well on the test after all. Or maybe my accent was too heavy. Or maybe they didn’t think my work experience was good enough. Or maybe they had called my school in Italy. I needed this job. Brandon was going to work every day, coming home exhausted. I was desperate to help out.
Finally the call came. “We’d like you to come for a second interview,” Kathy told me.
“Yes, I will. Thank you.”
When Brandon got home, I could barely wait until he got in the doorway.
“They want me to come back! The bank wants me to come back for another interview.”
“Yes!” He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me into the air. “You got the job! That’s great! Ooh-rah!”
“It’s just a second interview.”
He looked me in the eyes and said, “My love, you got the job. I know you got it. This interview is just a formality.”
. . . . .
I started a week later. My boss was an assistant manager named Wilma. They were starting me at minimum wage. But it was a foot in the door. This was the chance I needed. I would show them that I was worth more.
When I used to go to the bank in Italy for my work, I saw that customer service was horrible. People always had to wait in long lines for at least an hour to do anything there. When you finally got to the front, the teller usually had a nasty face and wasn’t friendly at all. Sometimes they’d even be talking on the phone to their family or friends. My thinking was to do this job the way that I had wished they did it in Italy, to be fast, friendly, smile and not make careless mistakes.
And that’s what I did. After the initial training pe
riod, they gave me a teller’s window. The managers sat in desks on the other side of the lobby, facing the tellers so they could see everything that happened. I noticed they were especially watching me, the new girl. I went out of my way to be friendly to everyone, not only the customers, but also the other tellers. And I worked quickly. I learned the job easily and was very good it. Maybe it was because of all the shuffling of money I’d had to do at the construction company in Napoli, maybe it was because I had learned the importance of great service as a waitress and brought it to my interactions at the bank. I kept the line in front of my window moving quickly and kept the customers smiling.
One day Wilma called me over to her desk. “I need to talk to you.”
“Is something wrong?” I asked as I sat down across from her.
“Yes.”
I was worried because I was doing everything to do a good job. “What it is?”?
“You’re not being paid enough,” she said. “You’re doing a great job so I’m raising you pay.”
I smiled proudly. Not just because it was more money and Brandon and I could use it. But more because she’d recognized the hard work I was putting into my job. This was such a huge difference from how it had been at the Waffle House.
“I’m so happy to be here,” I said. “I want to have a career here.”
“You’re off to a good start.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“From here, the other managers and I can see everything that happens. So all you need to do is just keep doing a good job. We’ll see it and you’ll be rewarded. That’s how it works here.”
When I got home, I told Brandon. He was thrilled for me.
“I always told you that you’re smart,” he said. “Now that you’re in a place with other smart people, they see it and they value it. You’re going to go a long way, my love. I’m so proud of you.”
Until Forever Page 11