“How was your day?” Flavio asks me, his voice soft and gentle. He looks right at me, and again I find it hard to meet his eyes.
“Oh, it was fine. I’m always in a good mood when the sky is blue like it is today. I envy you working outside.”
“Some days on the dock, when it’s lunch time, I stretch out, close my eyes, and let the sun shine down on me. The other guys tease me for sleeping, but I’m not. I’m just enjoying the heat and the light. I wish it could be summer all year long. I don’t think you’d envy me on the days we’re working in the cold and rain. There are a lot of those.”
“You’re right. I always think men have it better than we do, staying home all day and keeping house. But Giova’s stories of the mill are terrible. I should remember how hard everyone else has to work and how much easier Mama and I have it.”
We talk for quite a while about Flavio’s family and where they are from. I tell him that Mama and Pa are from Catanzaro, and that Mama misses the sunny days and the hot weather. I suppose we walk for twenty minutes or so before Mama claps her hands and wants us to turn back. The end of the walk signals the end of Flavio’s visit, and he says his thanks and goodbyes at the door. I watch him walk away and think, heaven help me, maybe I could get married.
“Well, what do you think?” asks Mama when we get inside. I can tell that she is hopeful by the way she is holding her hands to her chest and by the tone in her voice.
“He’s nice, Mama.”
“That’s it? Do you like him? What did you talk about?”
“Mama, I like him fine, but I still hardly know him. We talked about his family and about the weather. I’m going to bed.”
“Oh, you won’t throw your poor mother the bone you would throw a dog!”
“Goodnight, Mama!” I kiss her on the cheek and laugh.
She smiles back at me and then walks into the living room to sit with Papa. I really am going to bed. This visit was a lot of work, and I am genuinely tired when it is over.
Dear Diary, June 12, 1927
I met Flavio, and he is charming and handsome and interesting. I think I’m in love. No, I’m not in love. But I think I could be. When he looks at me, I feel like I’m tingling from my nose to my feet. Of course, I am still mad at Mama for this. And Flavio, too. Why did he have to go to Virgilia first? I wish he had just talked to me at the festa. We could have learned about each other without the family dinners and the walks and the questions from Mama. Instead, I have to always remember that these meetings are a test, a trial period. If he were just a friend of Giova’s, I could have enjoyed his company at the table and never had to worry about whether I could love him or not. Or whether I could live with him forever and have children with him. I could have just laughed at his jokes and asked him to pass me the salt. And maybe one day, I would find myself wishing to be his wife instead of questioning it as I do now.
Still, there’s no denying how I feel when he smiles at me with those dimples. I want to stay mad at Mama about this, but there is something intriguing about him.
It is not even two weeks later that I am sweeping the floor in anticipation of another dinner with Flavio.
“Carolina,” snaps Mama, “move that broom! We have a lot to do!”
Mama really irritates me when she is expecting company. Everything must be perfect. As if Flavio will ever notice any of the things we’ve cleaned, shined, and polished today!
“I need to go to Bertolli’s for a piece of meat,” says Mama, out of breath from bustling around the house. “Make sure you sweep the front porch as well. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll start the cooking.”
At first, when I hear the door slam behind Mama, I throw the broom on the ground and run upstairs to grab my poetry book. I’ll sweep the porch, but I want fifteen precious minutes to myself. It’s such a beautiful day that I decide to read on the porch swing.
Poetry is a funny thing. Sometimes I can read a poem and instantly appreciate the beauty of the words. Other times, I wonder why the poet doesn’t just say what he means in plain language.
I open the book to a random page—which is my regular habit—and read the words of Arthur Clough:
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem no painful inch to gain
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light.
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.
What does this mean? I have to reread it and put it in my own words. When it seems that the waves do nothing but recede, there is still progress. There are still small streams where the water penetrates the shore. When the sun fails to rise in the direction we look for it, the light manages to find another way. The dawn may come slowly, but it promises a bright day.
I don’t know if I have that right, but it’s lovely. I close my eyes and repeat the words, “But westward look, the land is bright.”
“Carolina!”
I’m jarred from my meditation by the friendly voice of Nicoletta. When I jump up, the book slides off my lap and onto the porch.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she apologizes.
“I was just reading,” I say, as I fumble for the book. I hope she didn’t hear me talking to myself.
Nicoletta is standing at the base of the steps and is smiling broadly. I never fail to be struck by how startlingly pretty and how full of life she is. It’s as if she carries the sun inside her, and it radiates out.
“I’m glad to see your mama is giving you a break!” she laughs.
“Oh, Mama isn’t here. I should be sweeping the porch, but I’m cheating a little. Mama has invited guests to dinner.”
Nicoletta nods, and I wish I hadn’t said that. The light of her smile goes out a little. I wish I could invite her, but that is impossible. She must be so lonely for adult company.
“Actually, it’s just a boy,” I try to explain. “Well, maybe he’s a man,” I say, half to myself.
Nicoletta laughs, and her smile returns. “A boy-man? I have met some of those! Is this a suitor, Carolina?”
“Yes. Maybe. I mean, I think that’s the idea.” She must think I am crazy. “I have met him only once.”
“He’s nice?”
“He seems to be.”
“Handsome?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, but my flushed face gives me away.
Nicoletta laughs again. “I think maybe you do!”
For a second, we don’t really have anything else to say to each other. Then I surprise both her and myself.
“Nicoletta . . . .” I can’t quite find the words.
“What is it?”
“I’m just wondering how you get your hair to curl that way.”
“Oh, it’s easy. I use rags. If you think your mama would let you come over, I could curl your hair for you.”
Mama would never let me, but I don’t care. For once, I would like to be a seventeen-year-old girl and have a friend and do something fun.
I nod, and we walk into her little house. It’s not as I imagined it. I thought it would be colorful, like she is, but the rooms are sparse and very plain. Elena and Vincenzo are also happy to have a visitor, and they make a big fuss over me until Nicoletta shoos them away. We sit at the kitchen table while she rolls and ties the rags around my hair and asks me questions about Flavio.
“He won’t be able to resist you!” says Nicoletta. “Really, you have such beautiful, shiny black hair.”
I feel awkward receiving compliments from her. No one has ever told me that anything about me was pretty. My hair certainly seems ordinary compared to her red curls.
When she finishes, she ties a scarf over my entire head to keep it all tight.
“Take these out very carefully right before he comes. Then you flip your head upside down and brush, like this,” she explai
ns as she demonstrates on her own hair.
“I had better go, Nicoletta. Mama will be home any minute.”
“Just one more thing,” she says to me. “Here’s a little rouge. You put a little dab on your cheeks and on your lips, okay? A little touch of color, and you will look like a princess.” She seems more excited than I am.
I put the rouge in my pocket, thank her with all of my heart, and run back home. Mama comes in not five minutes later.
“What are you doing with that scarf on your head?” she asks, glancing at me only briefly while she sets down the bag of groceries.
“I pulled my hair out of my way while I’m cleaning.” I don’t know why I am lying to her because she’ll see my curls soon enough, but I don’t want to explain where I’ve been. I wish I could, though. I wish I could tell her how much fun I had and how wonderful it would be to visit Nicoletta now and again. I don’t have a death wish, however.
“Well, come on,” says Mama. “We still have a lot to do.”
The rest of the afternoon passes quickly, and I am in a happy mood. It seems that Nicoletta’s sunshine has had a lasting effect on me. What a gift she has to be able to make people feel good just by being around her.
When Pa and Giova get home from work, I run upstairs and leave them talking to Mama. There isn’t much time to take my hair down, and if it doesn’t work, it’s too late to do anything about it. When all of the rags are out, I look depressingly like an overgrown child with baby ringlets.
I sigh, do what Nicoletta said, and flip my head over to brush the curls. When I toss my head back and look up, I am astonished to see that I have become a movie star. My hair is waving around my face, just like Nicoletta’s does. I can hardly keep from smiling at myself.
Though I am using about half of the amount of rouge that Nicoletta probably intended, I dab it on my cheeks and rub it in, using the remainder on my lips. For the first time in my life, I am surprised and pleased at the face looking back at me from the mirror. I hardly recognize myself!
There is a strong knock at the door, and I hear Pa letting Flavio in. Mama hollers at me to come downstairs. Pa sees me first. He is talking to Flavio, whose back is turned to me.
“Who do we have here?” Pa says, smiling at me with wide eyes.
Mama spins around from setting the table. “Madonna Mia!” she cries. She isn’t smiling. Her hand is over her mouth, and I can tell she is probably now putting two and two together.
Flavio walks over to meet me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Que bellisima,” he says, smiling, and hands me a small bouquet of violets. I wonder where he found them. He must have climbed the hill and searched a good while.
Before I can thank him, Mama grabs my arm.
“Let’s put those in some water,” she says. Her grip is tight.
Pa shows Flavio to the table while Mama whisks me into the kitchen.
“You think you can fool me, but I am on to you. I know who made you up like that.” She hands me a wet washcloth. “Wipe that puta red off your lips right now.”
There’s no defending myself. I wipe my lips and cheeks while Mama storms out of the kitchen with a large kettle of minestrone. At least she can’t ruin my hair.
I’m feeling deflated as I sit down at the table beside Flavio. When I look up, he winks at me, and I feel my face turn color in spite of my unrouged cheeks.
Pa says a fast Pater Noster which is followed by Mama’s energetic cry of “Mangia! Mangia!”
“Everything looks delicious,” Flavio tells her.
“I don’t like this soup,” complains Marcello.
“Eat and be quiet,” says Mama. She wants us all to be on our best behavior, but the boys don’t care about that.
“He doesn’t want his soup because he ate some worms today,” remarks Lindo calmly as he slurps his own bowl.
“Marcello, is this true?” asks Pa.
He nods.
“Mamma Mia! Why did you do that?” cries Mama.
“Paolo said he would give me a penny for every worm I ate.”
“How many did you eat, Marcello?” asks Pa.
“Two.”
“He ate three,” Lindo flatly adds, still slurping.
Mama grabs Marcello by the arms. “Let’s go. Upstairs, now!”
I think she’s probably going to give him ipecac syrup to make him throw up, though honestly the worms are probably more harmless than the medicine.”
“Flavio, have some bread,” offers Pa. “Unless, of course, you would like worms, too.”
I’m grateful for the chance to laugh a little. My nerves return when Flavio, who is beside me, reaches under the table to squeeze my hand.
Giova, as usual, wants to talk revolution. “What are your politics, Flavio?”
That seems to catch Flavio by surprise, and he shrugs. “I’m not much interested in politics, I guess.”
“Not interested?” asks Giova in disbelief. “Not interested in your future as an Italian-American in this country?”
“I think I know my future,” grins Flavio. “A steady job. A family someday. That’s enough for me.” He looks at me and smiles. My God, his smile is gorgeous.
Giova isn’t smiling—he’s frowning. “But how do you feel about Sacco and Vanzetti being denied an appeal? Don’t you worry about the justice system in this country?”
“I don’t worry about things I can’t change. And truthfully, they probably did it. Either way, Sacco is not my brother. Vanzetti is not my father. Why should I lose sleep?”
I don’t know who is more shocked—me or Giova. Before Giova can vent his anger, I jump into the conversation.
“Don’t you think this could happen to any of us?”
“No.” Flavio is busy eating as he talks and is unaware of any tension at the table. “We are not anarchists.”
Before Giova can grab Flavio by the throat, Pa shoots Giova a look and changes the subject.
I know that Flavio is being practical—maybe even logical—but his reaction has a strange effect on me. I feel like I’ve been splashed in the face with cold water.
After Mama returns to serve coffee and dessert, Flavio suggests we sit out back in our tiny yard where Mama can see us while she washes dishes. To be on the safe side, she sends Marcello and Lindo out, with the warning that nothing is to be eaten unless she cooks it first.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” says Flavio. “I like what you did to your hair,” he says, and he reaches out to push it away from my face. If Nicoletta only knew the impression her transformation of me has made on Flavio!
I’m not comfortable talking about myself, so I try to change the subject. “What kinds of things do you do on your days off, Flavio?”
“I read, I sleep, I eat. If it’s been a hard week, I sleep some more!”
“You read?”
“I’m not illiterate just because I work on the docks, Carolina.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I read a lot. What kinds of things do you read?”
“Cowboy novels—the Wild West. Have you ever read Zane Grey?”
“That’s the title?”
“No, he’s the author. Riders of the Purple Sage? Lone Star Ranger?
“I’m afraid I never heard of them.”
“Oh, you’re missing out. They’re great—lots of action, lots of adventure. When I read his books, I live out on the frontier with wide open spaces—not here in this cramped little town. What do you read?”
“Nothing that exciting—poetry, school books from Sr. Norbert. I’ll have to see about those Zane Grey books—sounds like I am missing out.”
“Hey, Carolina! Flavio! Look at this!” hollers Marcello.
I’m afraid to see what they have uncovered now.
In the corner of the yard, near Pa’s tomato plants, they are hovered over something.
“I think this is a mouse!” says Lindo.
“Don’t touch it!” I respond, reminding myself of Mama.
Flavio bends over the tiny, lifeless creature. “It’s not a mouse. This is a baby rabbit. He must have been flushed out of his nest after last night’s rain.”
The poor little bunny is already stiff. Marcello wants to keep him—we rarely see rabbits, just the occasional rat.
“You can’t keep him, Marcello. But we can bury him,” I offer. “Go find Pa’s shovel. Lindo, ask Ma for a little box to put him in.”
While they run off, I notice that Flavio is looking intently at the ground around the garden.
“Found it,” he says.
“Found what?”
“The nest.” Before I can reach him, he stomps the ground several times.
“What are you doing?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“I’m saving your father’s lettuce and his carrots. Rabbits will eat everything. They’re a menace. They come down from the hill.”
“Did you just kill the other bunnies?”
“Carolina, those aren’t cute pets. They will grow up to reproduce and make more rabbits. Trust me, they are the enemy of the gardener.”
I feel crushed. How could he be so heartless? I won’t tell the boys that there were others. I know that Pa puts onion plants and fencing around the garden to keep the rabbits at bay and that what Flavio says makes sense, but that little bunny was so cute, so vulnerable.
The boys have returned with the shovel, and Flavio helps them with the burial. I’ve had enough courting for one night.
“I’m going in to help Mama with the dishes,” I say. For once, I am happy for the excuse to do housework.
Dear Diary, June 24, 1927
I feel like my heart is turning somersaults. If Flavio looks at me, I can’t even think straight. I imagine what it would be like to be held by him, and I can hardly contain my joy. Is it what the Church calls lust to want a man to kiss your lips and to be able to return those kisses with unrestrained passion? I can only imagine how it would feel to be his wife and to have the privacy and luxury to indulge that passion.
The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts Page 18