“Mama, I think I ripped my pants today on one of the machines. Can you sew them this evening?”
“Giova, every other night, the same thing. Your papa never tears his clothes. What are you doing that you are so rough?”
“Pa is a foreman, Mama. He doesn’t work hard like I do.”
“I don’t work hard?” interrupts Papa. “How do you think I became foreman? I was the hardest worker there.”
“I know, Papa. I’m just saying that you don’t have to do the dirty work anymore.” He grins at Mama, who can never resist his smile.
“Give me the pants, Giova,” she says, “and let’s hope you can be more careful.”
Lindo and Marcello excuse themselves from the table, and Mama goes to the kitchen to make Italian coffee. She cracks eggs into four cups and beats them with sugar until they are frothy. Then she adds strong black coffee and serves it to us.
This is my favorite time of the day—after dinner. Mama and I do our sewing, Giova smokes a cigarette, and Papa lights up his pipe. Sometimes we listen to the evening’s radio shows, but tonight Pa is playing opera on the Victrola. The younger boys are too restless to sit, but I am happy to be off my feet. Tonight I am tatting along the edge of a pillowcase—tiny little scalloped stitches that I sometimes curl to form roses. Mama says that I need to make these for my hope chest. I have a trunk full of embroidered linens for the day I get married. To think that Giova and the little boys will never have to sew flowers on sheets—one of the many ways that they are so lucky.
“What do you want to hear?” asks Pa.
Mama loves “Recondita Armonia” and everything by Puccini, but the duet from the Pearl Fishers is my favorite.
“My favorite, too,” says Pa as he cranks the side lever of what Mama calls “the machine.” Everything is “the machine” to her, including the mangle that presses the clothes and any kind of automobile.
For the next four minutes, I close my eyes and quit sewing. Pa smiles at this, but he also closes his eyes. We are immersed in the music, and there is no one in the room but Giuseppe DeLuca and Benamino Gigli, singing and harmonizing only for us.
Dear Diary, March 28, 1925
Today I saw Mrs. Pantuzzo in the market. I am embarrassed by how Mama treats her, but I have decided to make it up to her when I see her again. I want her to know that I am not rude and jealous like everyone else. I want her to know that someday I want to be just like her. Isn’t it strange that Mama can be so awful to her yet so kind to Mr. Marchetti and Fitz? I will never understand Mama. If she likes a person, there is nothing she won’t do for him. But if she forms a bad opinion of someone, look out. She is so full of judgment and scorn sometimes.
* * *
The weather is so perfect this afternoon. I have done laundry with Mama all morning, and we are now putting it outside on the clothesline. The April breeze flows through our hair and kisses our faces. It lifts the sheets up and down like ship sails. I raise my face to the sun, and I feel energized and calm at the same time. Today is one of those days that give me hope and lift me up. Even Mama is in a bright mood.
“Mama, I have finished everything that you told me to do, and we don’t need to start dinner for a while. Can I please walk the boys home from school today?”
Mama has a mouth full of clothespins, and she glances in my direction and nods her head. Most of the work is done for now, and she always feels better when the boys do not cross the streets by themselves.
“I’ll see you later, Mama.” And I practically skip out the door. It is a glorious day, and all of the neighbors are enjoying the sunshine as well. Some are on their porches and wave as I walk by. Mr. Marchetti seems to be surveying the current state of his garden, seeking any sign that the winter’s long rest is over. As we cross the street, we pass the Vassari house. Sara Vassari is not outside, but I can see her furiously cleaning the inside of the windows. Always cleaning, always working. She is just like Mama. Her eye and lip have healed. It seems that these “episodes” never stop her from going back to the routines of life.
The students are already leaving St. Boniface when I get to the crossroads. They come out of the school laughing and running—only too happy to escape the confines of higher learning, especially on a day like today. Soon Marcello is at my side with his books slung over his shoulder. “Lindo will be late. He is in trouble with Sister Norbert, and she is making him clean the board.”
“Oh, Lindo! He’s in trouble every week. Run along home, Marcello, and tell Mama that we’ll be a little late. I’ll wait for him.”
I walk over to the school lawn and wait on a bench for fifteen minutes. When Lindo fails to appear, I become a little restless and go into the building. In the foyer, there is a large statue of the Blessed Mother. The halls are dark with hardwood floors and rather dingy walls. All the same, I am in love with this place. I love the smell of it and the solemnity of it. There are rules of conduct posted on the walls. There is a picture of Pope Pius XII and one of the bishop. I know where all of the rooms are because I went here for five years, so I climb the stairs and glide my fingers along the brass handrail. Lindo’s classroom is the second door on the right. Funny I haven’t passed him already. It doesn’t take twenty minutes to clean a blackboard.
“When you are finished with that, Lindo, I want you to clap the erasers outside. I don’t want the chalk dust in my room. And do NOT clap them against the bricks.” I hear Sister Norbert talking.
“Good afternoon, Sister. Mama sent me for Marcello and Lindo. Is he free to leave yet?” Sister turns at the sound of my voice. She is maybe fifty or sixty years old, a little plump and a little gruff, with very ruddy cheeks.
“Good afternoon, Carolina. I’m afraid that Lindo has one more chore to do. It won’t take long. Perhaps next time he will think twice before he skips class to play on the hill. Right, Lindo?”
Sharpsburg is in a valley and is bordered on one side by the Allegheny River and on the other side by “the hill.” The hill is very steep, but it contains useable land. Anyone who does not have enough yard uses the hill for gardens. I’m sure that Lindo had thought he was invisible among the tomato plants, but Sister has a clear view of the hill from the school windows.
“Yes, Sister.” I can see that Lindo is seething. He doesn’t look up at me or her. He runs out of the room with the erasers, and Sister continues to organize her papers. I walk over to the desks and sit down in one. I think back on what it had been like to be a student. Then I look at the blackboard and at Sister’s list of assignments. I look at the tattered map of the world and remember being drilled on the continents and countries. I’ve only been away for four years, but I feel like I’ve been away so much longer.
“Carolina,” asks Sister, “how are you spending your days?”
“I help my mother. There is more cooking, sewing, and cleaning than she can do by herself.”
“Do you miss school at all?”
“Very much, Sister. But Mama needs a lot of help, and I already know how to read and write. Mama says there isn’t much more I need to know. I was never good at sums really.”
“You’re a very good reader, that’s true. But reading is just the beginning—it’s just the tool that opens the door to learning. I wonder if you would like to continue your schooling at home—just casually. You could borrow any books from the school that you’d like. Sister Mary Dominick has the seventh and eighth grade history series. Sister Elaine has a very thorough catechism and religious studies volume. I think you would enjoy reading them, and I could meet with you sometimes to talk about what you’ve read. Of course, there are the English and composition primers as well. I think you are at an age where you can teach yourself at home. What do you think?”
What do I think? What do I think? This is like my birthday and Christmas put together, and I am so happy on the inside that I am afraid I will say something stupid.
“Thank you, Sister. When can I start?”
“You mention it to your parents. In the
meantime, let me gather a few books for you. I’m going to include a copy of Lives of the Saints. I think you will enjoy the biographies. And this is my own copy of Classic Poetry.”
I head home with a light heart while Lindo trudges behind me with his head down, occasionally kicking a rock and grumbling something derogatory about schools and teachers and endless rules.
As we pass Mr. Marchetti’s house, I notice that Rose’s blue bike is parked in the yard and that Rose is nowhere in sight. I am in such a generous mood, and for one small moment, I feel adventurous enough to try something. It would help Lindo take his mind off of his bad day.
Mama has always been overprotective since my sister died. She never stops worrying about us. We aren’t allowed to swim, aren’t allowed to climb trees, and certainly aren’t allowed to ride bicycles. In fact, I have never been on a bicycle. Lindo and I have no idea how to ride one.
“Hey, Lindo.”
“Hey what?”
“How would you like to take a little ride on Rose’s bike?”
I can see the troubles of the day fall away from Lindo’s face. He is all at once a different person.
“Carolina, do you think we’ll get in trouble?” His dark brown eyes are large with apprehension, but he is already fingering the handlebars.
“We’ll just take a quick ride. No one is around. But hurry. You sit on the bike, and I’ll hold it and run beside you.”
Lindo is thrilled with the plan. I run, panting, down the block and back. Lindo holds on to the wobbling handlebars while I hold on to the seat. This is no easy feat, but he is small and light, and he has a very athletic nature for someone who is rarely allowed to exercise it.
“Okay, Lindo. It’s my turn. Can you help me to balance myself?” I don’t know what makes me think a nine-year-old can manage both a bike and a fifteen-year-old, but unfortunately it is only later that I question my logic. At first, Lindo really is holding on, but I think that must last only four seconds because I am very quickly heading for the wing wall of Mr. Marchetti’s front steps, and I am falling off the bike at the same time.
With a painful crash, I ram into the wall and fly into the steps with both my knee and my head. For a brief second, I can’t even move. I just feel stunned. Almost immediately, I can feel a lump rising on my forehead, and my knee is scraped and bleeding.
Lindo is crying because he thinks it is his fault. I am now crying because it hurts so much and because now Mama is going to know that I was riding a bicycle. I guess it is the crying duet that alerts Mr. Marchetti to our intrusion into his yard. He comes running from the front door.
“Carolina! Que cosa fa?” I am so mortified that I was riding Rose’s bike that I can’t explain. I just keep crying, and now my head is throbbing, and my knee is bleeding into my sock.
Mr. Marchetti looks at the bike and looks at the knee and pretty much has guessed what happened, but then Lindo blurts out—through tears—that we were riding Rose’s bicycle, that we only wanted to try it for a short time, and that Mama would now find out and we would be punished.
“I see,” says Mr. Marchetti. “Carolina, you put-a you arm around my neck. I help you inside, okay?” Mr. Marchetti is short, but he is sturdy and thick and very strong. His hands are rough, and the constant dirt under his nails is evidence of his years of hard labor, not lack of cleanliness.
I swing my arm over, and he helps me hobble inside. Lindo comes inside, too, and he is back to sniffling.
“Sit, sit, sit.” Mr. Marchetti pulls out the chrome kitchen chair, and I plop into it. Nana Marchetti runs up to us, talking in rapid Italian. I can make out only some of it. In a flash, the wrinkled little woman is washing the scrape on my knee and disinfecting it with hydrogen peroxide. Now it’s me who starts to cry again. Mr. Marchetti is chipping at a block of ice to wrap in a towel for my head.
After the initial sting to my knee subsides, and after the ice starts to dull the throbbing in my head, I start to calm down. Nana tapes a bandage over the scrape.
“Lindo, you’d better run ahead so Mama isn’t worrying about us. My books are on the sidewalk.”
“Wait,” says Mr. Marchetti. “No bike, eh? You tella you mama Carolina she fall on the steps, right?
I think Mr. Marchetti is telling Lindo to lie. I think he is telling us that he will keep our secret. Lindo looks at me to be sure he understands correctly, and I nod my head. We are in agreement. Off he goes.
Since Rose and Mr. Marchetti are coming over for dinner anyway, they walk me home. Nana isn’t coming because she is in her eighties and has good days and bad days. Mama will send something home for her anyway. I’m limping, so we take it slowly. Halfway home, Rose slips her hand into mine and looks up at me and smiles.
“Mama Mia! What did you do!” cries Mama when we finally get home.
My lip starts to tremble, and I am not sure of what I am going to say when Mr. Marchetti beats me to the answer.
“Mea culpa! I leave my rake on the steps. Carolina, she trip on it. All my fault.”
“I’m okay, Mama.” I take a sideways glance at Mr. Marchetti, but he is looking straight ahead and keeps telling Mama that he is a stupid and careless man.
“Forgive me, Lena. I think she gonna be fine. Maybe a little lump tomorrow, poor baby.”
Mama brings me to the couch while Papa welcomes Mr. Marchetti into the house and to the table. Soon Mr. Marchetti is complimenting Mama on her coniglio cacciatore, the family is talking away, and my accident is forgotten.
I guess I dozed on the couch because when I wake, Mama is doing dishes, and Mr. Marchetti and Rose are gone.
“I’ll get you some dinner,” says Mama.
“My head stills hurts,” I complain.
“It will be better soon. You took a bad spill. Didn’t you see the rake?”
I ignore her question. “Mama, Mr. Marchetti is a nice man, isn’t he?”
“Sure, he is a nice man. His wife was a good woman, too, God rest her soul.”
“Maybe he could marry Mrs. Pantuzzo. Her husband is dead, too.”
“Bite your tongue. You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand. Mr. Marchetti is too good a man for someone like Nicoletta Pantuzzo.”
I don’t understand why Mama talks this way. What in the world has made her so angry now?
“Mama, I was just saying . . .”
“You don’t need to be saying. Mr. Marchetti has enough to worry about with an old mother and a child like Rose. He doesn’t need more troubles.”
This is just the kind of thing that I don’t understand. I want to tell Mama that Mrs. Pantuzzo would be a help to Mr. Marchetti, but there is no use in it. Mama isn’t going to listen anyway. I eat my soup in silence.
Dear Diary, April 7, 1925
This was a good day and a bad day. Sister Norbert has lent me some books, and I am going to study at home. I am happy to have the books, and Sister says she will talk about them with me. The bad thing is that I took Rose’s bicycle and hurt my knee and head. But I learned something today. Mr. Marchetti is a very kind man. When Rose took my hand today, I was surprised. She has a sweet face. I don’t think I ever noticed that before. Anyway, I am grateful to Mr. Marchetti for helping me and for not telling Mama about the bicycle. I don’t think I will try that again. I wanted to tell you, Diary, about all of the things that Sister said, but my head is still sore, and I want to sleep. I’m excited to have a teacher and to be a student again!
* * *
BANG-BANG-BANG. Mama and I are having lunch the kitchen, and someone is knocking so hard on the door that I almost spill my coffee I’m so startled.
“Well, that can only be one person,” sighs Mama.
Mama opens the door to my Aunt Isabelle—we call her Zia Izzy. Zia never walks into a room, she storms it. I can actually smell her before I see her. It’s a terrible smell of someone who doesn’t bathe, but there is also the smell of anise about her, a licorice smell.
“Good,” she hollers and gives my cheek a quick s
queeze, “I’m not too late for lunch.”
This is Mama’s oldest sister. There are three of them—Isabela, Magdalena, and Giulia. Zia Giulia lives across the river in Morningside with three small children and a policeman husband. We don’t see her as often as we see Zia Izzy, and that is unfortunate because Zia Giulia is like Mama. They work hard, they are clean, they cook good meals for their families, and they take care of their children.
Zia Izzy is none of those things. She has two children, a boy and a girl. Both are older and grown now. They have their own families and no longer live with her.
“Lena, I’ll have some toasted bread, but burn it. You know I can’t taste it otherwise.” She pours herself a cup of coffee, and I get a good look at her from behind. Her clothes are gray and long and loose. Her hair is also gray, but it isn’t pulled back like Mama’s and Sara’s. And it doesn’t flow in curls like Mrs. Pantuzzo’s. Zia’s hair is coarse and wiry and uncombed. I always lose my appetite when she is in the kitchen.
“Little girl,” she says to me as she grabs a chair at the table, “I have an offer to make you.”
Mama spins around from the counter because she doesn’t like the sound of this conversation at all.
“Izzy, what have you got up your sleeve?”
“Lena, mind your own business. This is a matter for me and my niece.”
“What concerns my daughter concerns me, Isabela. Her business is my business.”
Zia Izzy looks down at her coffee and sucks in a slow breath. I have seen her do this before and then let loose with a barrage of the most vile and filthy words in both the Italian and English language. I am now holding my own breath.
She closes her eyes and lets the air out slowly. Then she turns to Mama with a sly, unnerving smile. “Of course, Lena. You are right. And since this is a matter of importance, I need you to sit down here and listen to what I have to say.”
Mama’s eyes have narrowed, she is crossing her arms, and she is drawing in her cheeks. I feel like I am in the crossfire. I would like to walk out of the room and leave them to their own fates, but Zia is staring at me intently and means to tell me something.
The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts Page 2