* * *
On the morning of my seventeenth birthday, a weekday, there is a knock at the door. Mama is elbows-deep in a scrub bucket, so I reach the door first. There is a small older woman standing there, maybe about sixty-five or seventy years old. She’s wearing a black coat and a black flowered babushka around her head.
“Buon giorno. I’m looking for Magdalena Costandini.” She gives me a broad smile, and it’s clear that she doesn’t have a tooth left in her mouth. That hollows out her cheeks a little, but it actually makes her features softer, I think. Far worse to have just a few teeth.
“Virgilia!” says Mama, coming up from behind me and wiping her hands and arms on a dish towel. “Como stai? Come in, come in.”
“Carolina, this is Signora Santucci. Virgilia, my daughter Carolina.”
I smile at her, and she nods and smiles back at me. She smiles a lot, this woman, and her face is sweet despite the wrinkles and toothless gums.
I don’t know how Mama knows her, but they pat hands, and Mama leads her into the kitchen. “Have some coffee. I just made frezine.” Mama puts the hard toasted rolls on a plate and then has second thoughts about it. “No, these aren’t quite right. Let me cut some of this bread.” I think she has just realized that Virgilia can’t easily manage the frezine with no teeth.
“Maybe just a little snack,” says Virgilia. She puts two slices of bread on her plate and seems to be enjoying her coffee. When she is warm enough, she unbuttons her coat and slides the babushka off her head, revealing a crop of gray fuzz.
I give Mama a questioning look over Virgilia’s head. Who is this woman? Mama motions for me to sit.
It takes about ten minutes for Virgilia to have her bread and coffee, and we do nothing but drink our coffee, listen to her smack her lips, and wait patiently until she is prepared to speak. Why is this woman here, and how does Mama know her, I wonder.
“How do you feel these days, Virgilia?” asks Mama, finally breaking the silence when she thinks that the old woman is through eating.
“Getting old is a curse,” says Virgilia.
“Don’t I know it,” says Mama.
“Not yet, you don’t,” says Virgilia. “What are you, Lena—forty-five? Wait twenty more years. Look at these hands, all twisted. I can’t even get these rings over my knuckles anymore. Arthritis in my hands, in my neck, in my knees. Getting old is not easy. I ask God to give me another day, and here I am. One day at a time, God willing.” She pauses. “And you.” She’s looking straight at me, and I am caught off guard. “How old are you now, dear?”
“I’m seventeen today.”
“Today! Isn’t that something? The very day I come is your birthday. How could I have known that?” Virgilia seems pleased with the coincidence.
“You’re a good girl for your mama?” she asks. I nod my head, and Mama is quick to speak up.
“Very good, Virgilia. A very good daughter. She works hard, and she obeys her parents. And she’s a very smart girl.”
“That’s good,” says Virgilia, “That’s very good. A daughter should be obedient.
I glance quickly at Mama. These compliments are very nice, but I feel like something is up here. Why am I the focus of attention?
“How is business these days?” Mama asks.
“I do what I can to get by,” answers Virgilia. “Too many people today, they want to pick for themselves who they marry. What do they know about it? Marriage is serious business. Young people today—always wanting to be Americans. They don’t appreciate tradition and family like they used to.”
“So true,” says Mama, and I bet she’s thinking of Giova bringing home that German girl.
“But enough talk. This is why I am here. I have been asked to talk to you about an arrangement. There is a very good boy from a very nice family, the Piccolis, and they are interested in Carolina.”
I am not sure if I am hearing this correctly. Is she talking about marriage? I look at Mama for an answer, and she chews her lower lip and looks down at her hands. They are talking about marriage! For me!
“This is the boy,” says Virgilia, and she pulls something out of her purse. It looks like a family photograph of a man and woman with their three sons.
“This one,” says Virgilia pointing, “this is Flavio. He’s twenty-two, and he works in the steel mill in Etna, and he never misses mass.”
She shoves the photo toward me, and there, in the photo, is the young man that I saw watching me at the festival. His eyes in the photo seem to be looking right at me. He’s no Valentino, but I would have to admit that he is very nice-looking.
“What do you think?” asks Virgilia. “Strong, lots of hair. He can read and write. Went to the seventh grade. He lives with his parents, but he is saving money for a house, and he is looking for a wife.”
I have no answer for this kind of question, and I look at Mama in desperation.
“This is very good, Virgilia,” says Mama. “I think Carolina is a little surprised, but I am sure that she is interested. Yes, I can see that this is a very nice family, a very handsome boy.”
“What would you like me to tell them?” asks Virgilia.
“Tell them that we will be happy to consider a courtship, but I would like to talk to Pietro first.”
“Of course,” says Virgilia. “The father must be told. You let me know when you are ready. I’ll leave the photograph for you to show him.”
She pats my hand and then stands up to leave. Mama walks her to the door and exchanges goodbyes while Virgilia covers her head again and prepares for the walk home. The door shuts, and I prepare myself for the conversation that we are about to have.
I’m still sitting at the table—in shock—and Mama sits down in the chair next to me. “Well, we have a lot to think about.” She picks up the photograph. “Very nice, I think. This could be a good one.” She sounds like she is selecting a piece of pork roast for dinner.
“Mama, did you know that woman was coming here?”
“Oh, we sometimes talk at mass. I didn’t know she was coming today. But it makes sense. Look at you now. You’re all grown up.”
“I don’t feel all grown up. And I don’t even know this person.”
“I was married a year already when I was your age. We are lucky that we have your hope chest almost full.”
I don’t feel particularly lucky. I feel like someone who is standing on the top of a cliff and has that scary feeling of looking down.
“What if I don’t want to do this, Mama?”
“We will talk to your father. If you don’t like this boy, we don’t have to do anything. But I think it wouldn’t hurt to get to know him. How can you know if you like a pair of shoes if you don’t at least try them on?”
I drop my face into my hands and shake my head back and forth. Mama laughs at me, rubs my hair, and tells me not to worry. “Come on now,” she says, “back to work. We’ll talk to Papa later.”
Dear Diary, March 24, 1927
Yesterday, I couldn’t ride the streetcar alone, but today, I can get married. Yesterday, I was my parents’ only daughter, but today, I am a trading card. What is it about being seventeen that makes me seem different to my parents? I don’t feel different. I thought that becoming an adult would be more obvious to me, that I would know it was happening. No one is matching Giova with a wife. I notice that he can choose freely. Even Pa didn’t seem alarmed! He sat in his chair and chewed on his pipe while Mama relayed the details. For him, this is an interesting business proposition. I AM THEIR DAUGHTER! I am Carolina Costandini! Won’t someone ask me for my opinion?
* * *
In April, Giova comes to the dinner table and flings the newspaper onto the table in front of Papa. He looks sad and angry at the same time.
“What do you think of the justice system now, Papa?”
Pa takes the paper and reads the headline. “Denial of Trial by Thayer is Affirmed by Mass. Supreme Court.” Papa doesn’t say anything until he has read the article. He then tak
es off his glasses and rubs his eyes.
“Papa, you said there was reasonable doubt. They won’t kill Sacco and Vanzetti, will they?”
“That’s what it means, Carolina. They don’t care about ‘reasonable doubt,’” interjects Giova. “They care about setting an example here. Kill a couple of anarchist bastards. That’s what that judge called them.”
“Sit down, Giova,” says Pa. “The Sons of Italy have sent a lawyer from Pittsburgh, Michael Musmanno. No one is giving up. Everyone in town says this Musmanno is a good man. He’s an Italian—he will fight hard. The whole world is fighting for Sacco and Vanzetti. In France, Germany, England, Poland, Switzerland, South America—there are millions of people protesting.”
“Wake up, Papa,” implores Giova. “The millions don’t matter. The few who hold the reins aren’t going to show mercy.”
“Sit down and eat your dinner, Giova,” says Mama. “We don’t need to do this at the table. Let your Papa eat.”
“I’m not sitting down. I’m going out. Giuseppe is already at the meeting, and that’s where I’m going, Pa. I’m not letting you stop me anymore.”
Giova storms out of the house, and no one says anything. Papa and Mama look at each other but don’t speak. The rest of us eat our dinner in silence. After Papa has a few bites, he gets up from the table, takes his pipe, and goes out onto the porch. I’d like to follow him, to talk to him, but I think Papa wants to be alone. What I am afraid of—what is most terrifying—is that Papa doesn’t have an answer to Giova.
While Mama heaps more food on the boys’ plates and admonishes them for their poor table manners, I reach over and pick up the newspaper that Giova threw down. I’d like to read the article for myself. It is just as Giova said. The Massachusetts Supreme Court has upheld Judge Thayer’s denial of a new trial. Giova has said that this judge is prejudiced against Italians, that he doesn’t care whether Sacco and Vanzetti are innocent or guilty. Thayer called them “anarchistic bastards.” But what I can’t understand is why the state court won’t fix that. Surely they have nothing to fear by allowing a new trial. They cannot all be like Thayer.
Dear Diary, May 6, 1927
I know that Vanzetti’s words to the court seared the heart of Giova the way they are searing mine now. Maybe Papa has the same pain. Maybe he has had his faith in the justice system shaken, and now he doesn’t know how to answer Giova. I can only hope that the voices of everyone mentioned in the paper—famous artists and writers, labor unions, educators, carpenters and coal miners, law professors—will be heard by the judge and the governor and the courts. I hope that they will be heard by God, and I can’t help but wonder where He is. I am pasting Vanzetti’s words in my diary so that I never forget them:
“I would not wish to a dog or to a snake, to the most low or misfortunate creature of the earth—I would not wish to any of them what I have had to suffer for things that I am not guilty of. But my conviction is that I have suffered for things I am guilty of. I am suffering because I am a radical and indeed I am a radical; I have suffered because I was an Italian, and indeed I am an Italian; I have suffered more for my family and for my beloved than for myself; but I am so convinced to be right that if you could execute me two times, and if I could be reborn two other times, I would live again to do what I have done already. . . . But Sacco’s name will live in the hearts of the people . . . when your name . . . your laws, institutions, and your false god are but a deem rememoring (sic) of a cursed past in which man was wolf to the man.”
These don’t sound like the words of an uneducated immigrant who can barely speak English—that was my understanding of his plight. But these words are eloquent and passionate. I can’t help but wonder how they do not touch the hearts of the judge and the jury members. I wonder if Pa has already read the paper today.
* * *
Dear Diary, June 12, 1927 - morning
I don’t know why Sacco and Vanzetti have become so important to me, but not a day goes by this summer that I don’t rush to grab the newspaper when it arrives on the porch. At first, I felt sympathy for them as two men who were not being given a fair chance to appeal their death sentences. They were faceless men whose lives I did not know. And now, after reading so much about this case, I feel like I do know them, especially Mr. Vanzetti, whose mustached face I have now come to know through the photos that are printed.
If I have grown up at all, it is not because I am being courted by Flavio, but because I am awakening to the suffering of others through the suffering of these innocent men.
Unlike Giova, who has brought Annette to our house only a handful of times since Christmas, I will have no privacy with Flavio. I suppose that either Giova’s infatuation with Annette has waned, or that he is tired of being teased by us and takes Annette out on private dates. Maybe he spends time at her house. But it’s all a big secret from the family. Giuseppe likes to say that Giova needs to take a running start just to help Annette with her coat. Marcello and Lindo laugh and laugh over that, but I think the jokes are starting to hurt Giova’s feelings. She sure is a lot taller than he is.
Today Flavio is coming for dinner. I am feeling something that might be nausea and might be butterflies.
“Carolina, snap out of it and put that diary away. You’re daydreaming again, and it’s almost time for him to be here. Go get some tomatoes and basil from the garden, and then help me make a salad with the sweet onions.” Mama wants to put her best foot forward every time Flavio visits, and today she has outdone herself. We’re having lasagna and brasciole and a braided bread that Mama usually makes only for the holidays. I spent most of yesterday making pizzelles to have with the coffee afterward. You would think Flavio was President Coolidge himself. All this, just so he’ll take me off their hands.
There’s a knock at the front door. It’s a timid knock, but Lindo hears it and runs to get it. “Ciao,” he says. Flavio looks back at him and nods his head. I am spying from the kitchen. I see him come in and shake hands with Pa.
“Come in! Come in, Flavio,” beckons Mama from the kitchen. “Pinch your cheeks a little,” she whispers to me, “and tidy your hair while I talk to him.”
I run my hands over my hair and give myself a quick look in the reflection of one of the silver plated trays. My face looks fine, and I’m not pinching it for Flavio or anyone else. I follow her into the living room and am entirely calm until our eyes meet, and he winks at me. My face is now on fire, and my heart is fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Don’t you look nice, today, Flavio. Carolina, get him a glass of Pa’s wine. Come here, Flavio, and sit down. Dinner will be ready soon, but we have a few more guests coming tonight. My friend Sara should be here any minute, and our neighbors, Angelo and Rose. He’s a widower. His poor mama just died last month. She was 96, God rest her soul. But you must know him—he’s the barber. Do you know Angelo, the barber?”
“Sure, sure,” answers Flavio and nods his head politely. His leg is moving up and down nervously, but he seems so confident when he speaks, and he keeps sneaking smiles at me. I can hardly look at him. Mama keeps talking until there is a knock on the door again, and there are the Marchettis, followed by Giuseppe who just got home from work. Pa is not home yet, neither is Giova, but they will be home any time now. Rose comes and sits beside me while Mama makes the introductions and then repeats them when Sara arrives.
While everyone is telling stories and trying to entertain Flavio, I use the opportunity to study his face. He has a very angular but very nice face. He isn’t wildly handsome, certainly not a Valentino, but he has no faults that I can see. He’s Calabrese, like we are, so he’s dark. His hair is thick and wavy, and his nose is strong, though a little crooked. It looks like it has been broken before. His eyes are brown with flecks of gold around the pupil, and he has long lashes. I think he is about 5’8” or 5’9” with strong arms—I can tell from the way his shirt sleeves fit so tightly. Flavio’s best features, actually, are the two huge dimples that cut deep in
to his cheeks. They make his smile seem very genuine.
Finally, Papa and Giova get home, and we can eat our dinner. That gives the conversation a bit of a break. Flavio jumps up and eagerly shakes their hands, but neither of them is quick to make him feel at home.
Everyone takes a seat in the dining room. Mama wants me to show Flavio what a good housewife I’ll be, so she keeps telling me to serve food and to refill the glasses and to help her in the kitchen. I’m getting hungry and would like to eat, but for once that’s not something Mama is concerned about.
“Carolina made the brasciole herself,” she tells everyone. I shoot her a look. The brasciole is a rolled steak with salami and hard-boiled egg in it. I held it together while Mama tied a string around it. I never made brasciole by myself in my life. She looks back at me with a look that says I’m not to contradict her, and I shake my head. If a man marries for a brasciole, he may as well look for an older wife—one about fifty!
“How are things at the docks, Flavio?” asks Papa. His concern is that Flavio is employed—and that he stays employed.
“Going well, Mr. Costindini. The work is steady, and I have a strong back.” He grins at me and takes a sip of his wine. “Best of all, we have a new boss—finally someone who lets us have a break once in a while. That really helps when we are lifting heavy crates all day.”
“A good boss makes a big difference,” agrees Papa. He keeps eating while he’s talking. I know that he likes to think he makes a difference to the people who work under him.
“The best boss is-a no boss!” says Angelo. “I take-a breaks all day!”
We all laugh, and who can argue with that? “I’ll drink to that,” says Giova, and we all clink our glasses together.
8
When dinner is over, Mama suggests that Flavio and I take a walk around the block. This time, Mama and Sara accompany us, but far enough behind that our conversation is private. They are such good friends, Mama and Sara, and they are talking and laughing arm in arm. These days without Luca have given Sara the freedom to smile and enjoy life again. I am ashamed to think it, but that is one instance where one man’s justice seems to have worked out for the better of society.
The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts Page 17