An Italian Wife

by Ann Hood

  For Gogo

  Contents

  Salute

  The Summer of Ice

  War Stories

  Coney Island Dreams

  Moonlight in Vermont

  Dear Mussolini

  Waiting for Churchill

  La Vigilia

  Husbands

  Crooning with Dino

  Captain Macaroni

  The Boy on the Bus

  The Importance of Similes

  America

  Salute

  IN AMERICA, ANYTHING WAS POSSIBLE. THIS WAS WHAT Josephine’s husband told her before he left their village to catch the ship in Naples. She didn’t know him, this husband of hers. Their marriage had been arranged by their parents long ago, before Josephine had breasts or menstruated for the first time. He was considered a step up for her family: his parents owned land in the next village, and pigs, and even a cow. He had been to Rome, where for two years he worked as a guard at the king’s palace. “Vincenzo Rimaldi,” Josephine’s mother had told her from the very day the betrothal was set, when Josephine was only eight years old. “He will give you a good life. You will have fresh milk every day. And pork all year long. And most important, you will have land. Land is better than gold, Josephine.”

  Josephine had nodded, but really she would rather have gold than land or pigs. She liked pretty things, shiny things, things that glittered. She collected rocks with veins of fool’s gold, or pieces of flint that sparkled in the sun. Once she found something bright-blue and unidentifiable and she kept it in her apron pocket, believing it must be valuable.

  Because her husband-to-be was eleven years older than Josephine, she didn’t meet him until the day of her wedding. He was away in Rome; he was taking care of all that land.

  A week before her fifteenth birthday, her mother woke her and explained that her wedding would be today. The husband-to-be had managed to book a spot in steerage on a ship to America and he would not be back for some time. The families had decided it was better for the wedding to happen right away, before he left. If God was smiling on them so much as to get him a ticket on that boat, then perhaps he would send them a child right away too.

  “I knew this match was a fortunate one,” Josephine’s mother said, making a quick sign of the cross and kissing the silver crucifix that dangled from the black rosary beads she wore around her neck. “You are so lucky, Josephine,” her mother told her, pinching Josephine’s cheeks. “America! Imagine it!”

  “I can’t, Mama. I don’t even know for certain where it is.” Josephine was trying not to cry. What she did know about America was that it was far away, across a vast, turbulent ocean. She would be happy to marry any boy in her own village, someone without a cow, someone staying put.

  “Who cares where it is?” her mother said dismissively. “Everyone there is rich. Money spills out of their pockets. They live in big houses and have many cows and pigs. You’re blessed, Josephine,” she said, making another sign of the cross. “Now, get up so I can get you ready.”

  Josephine had gone to sleep the night before, happily watching the moon rise outside her window. It was her favorite moon, a crescent, with a star shining bright beside it. Now her life was about to change completely. Nothing would be the same after today.

  Her mother unfolded a white lace dress and held it up for Josephine to see. “This is the dress my mother made for me when I got married. Now you will wear it.”

  Josephine fingered the fine lace.

  “You know how the dogs are when they’re in heat?” her mother asked, busying herself by laying out undergarments and stockings, taking a cameo from its satin box.

  She didn’t look at Josephine, who was frowning at her mother. Why would they talk about something like dogs on the morning before she got married? Josephine’s stomach churned uncomfortably.

  “You know how the boy dog climbs up on the female dog and moves on her?”

  “Yes,” Josephine said hesitantly.

  “All of God’s things do that, Josephine. That’s how we reproduce.”

  “Reproduce?” Josephine repeated.

  Her mother sighed. She glanced at Josephine ever so briefly. “That’s what you will have to do tonight with Vincenzo.”

  “What?” Josephine said.

  This was too much. In a few minutes her whole life had been turned upside down. She went to sleep distantly betrothed, and woke to learn she would get married today, that her husband would leave her in three days’ time and go to America, where he would eventually send for her. And now this thing with the dogs. She could picture it, their own long-dead dog Jacko, mounting any female dog that passed—bigger ones, smaller ones, it didn’t mater; Jacko was indiscriminate—and jerking around inside them, sputtering and drooling.

  “You will do it tonight and you will do it anytime Vincenzo wants you to. This is what a wife does for a husband.”

  “But Mama—”

  “There’s no more to say about it. Now, get dressed. His family is already on their way.”

  ...

  UNTIL TODAY, JOSEPHINE’S days had been her own to do whatever she wished. There were always chores: water to haul from the well in the center of the village, clothes to wash and hang along string hung from tree branches to dry, bread to bake, pasta to roll out and shape, vegetables and fruits to cook or can or bottle or set in the sun to dry; there was always something to sweep, or candle wax to scrape off the shrines in the church, or helping the nuns with their flock of sheep. But even with all of these things to get done every day, Josephine still had time to wander the hills outside the village, to pick wildflowers there, or wade barefoot in the stream. “She’s too dreamy,” people told her mother. “She has her head in the clouds.” But her parents indulged her, buying her paper and colored pencils so she could make pictures and even letting the nuns teach her to read.

  But standing here in the too-tight lace dress—“Hold your breath!” her mother had ordered, so that she could button all the tiny pearl buttons that ran up the back—with the silk stockings held up by garters that dug into her thighs and the shoes a size too small, Josephine realized that if she let it, this marriage would ruin her life. She would no longer be able to draw with her colored pencils if her husband decided he wanted to have his way with her. She would no longer be able to walk in the cool stream, letting the hems of her skirts get wet and muddy. She would live far away in America.

  This last thought made her throat tighten. Below her, she heard voices, loud and celebratory, shouts of “Salute!” and the clinking of glasses. She smelled pork roasting, onions frying, sweet things baking.

  Josephine sat stiffly on her bed and unbuttoned the shoes. In her tight dress, it was hard to move, so it took her a long time, grunting and sweating to finally get the shoes off. Then she unfastened the garters and slid the silk stockings down her legs. She had climbed out her bedroom window many times, but it was difficult in her wedding dress. As she wiggled outside, she heard a seam split, and smiled. When she lowered herself to the ground, she glimpsed all the people who had gathered for the wedding. They were inside and outside; they were familiar and they were strangers.

  Josephine took off at a gallop, splitting another seam as she ran out through the fence that marked the land they farmed and into the field behind the houses. The grass felt cool and damp on her feet. She ran until she no longer heard the sounds of the wedding party. She ran until she reached the stream, where the nuns’ sheep drank and chewed. Josephine opened her arms wide and ran as fast as she could into the water. She didn’t bother to lift her hem. She slipped on some wet stones and splattered mud on the white lace and her face. She stayed in the water until her mind calmed. Then, barefoot and muddy and wet, she went to meet her husband.

  HIS F
AMILY FROWNED at her and the people from the village whispered when the bride showed up late and dirty and dripping. But Josephine didn’t care. She took the veil resting on a table and placed it over her face, clutched the wildflowers she had stopped to pick on her way back, and walked through the crowd.

  Her eyes moved past the priest to the short man waiting beside him. The man was grinning at her. Josephine wished her mother had not told her about dogs, because she had thought of Jacko, and this man who was about to become her husband resembled Jacko. He was short and barrel-chested, with a slightly pushed-in face and unruly brown hair. She made the sign of the cross because she needed all the help she could get, then took her place on the other side of the priest.

  It was over so quickly that Josephine hardly had time to think. The priest said words, everyone said prayers, he made Vincenzo repeat something after him, and they were done. Married, just like that. Vincenzo lifted her veil and with his fat thumb wiped a smear of mud from her cheek before he kissed her right on the mouth with his cold, rubbery lips. Everyone cheered wildly as they watched him claim her. Josephine tried not to gag or to cry. When Vincenzo took her hand and held it triumphantly in the air, the crowd cheered again. This time, she couldn’t hold back the tears, and as they turned to face everyone, she saw the women nodding at her sympathetically.

  For the rest of the day, they ate and drank and danced. When the sun set, they lit candles and ate more and drank more. The music grew louder, the dancing more frenetic. She danced with her girlfriends, and sneaked ladlefuls of wine. Although she didn’t like the taste very much, she liked how it made her lightheaded. She was someone who was prone to drinking too much of it. Josephine, full and sleepy, had almost forgotten they were all celebrating her wedding when she felt a hand on her elbow.

  “Josephine,” her husband said to her, and her girlfriends moved away shyly.

  She watched them slip back into the crowd.

  “It’s time for us to go upstairs now,” he said.

  Josephine chewed her bottom lip and said finally, “But the party.”

  He laughed at this, and led her into the house, still holding on to her elbow. To her surprise, a group of men followed them inside and up the stairs. Even though Vincenzo closed the bedroom door firmly behind them, the men stayed in the hall, shouting instructions and making jokes.

  “Would you like me to light a candle?” Vincenzo asked her politely. “Or would you prefer the dark?”

  Josephine shrugged, but he couldn’t see her of course. Out the window, she saw the same moon that just last night had made her smile so dreamily. Now it shed the only light in the room, making Vincenzo shadowy and sinister. Sometimes, when Josephine sipped too much wine, the room spun when she lay down. She liked that giddy feeling, and wished for it tonight. But everything stayed firmly rooted.

  As quick as the wedding itself, Vincenzo had unbuttoned his pants, pulled down her bloomers, climbed on top of her, and stuck his thing inside her. For a brief moment it hurt, but then it just felt strange. Before Josephine could decide how she felt, Vincenzo moved quickly, three or four times, quivered, and collapsed on her.

  “Maybe when I send for you to come to America,” he said, “you will bring me a son.”

  He rolled off her and shouted to the men waiting outside the door, “Go home now, you pigs. It’s done.”

  The men shouted back, “Good luck! Congratulations!” and then noisily ran down the stairs and back to the party.

  Vincenzo started to snore immediately while Josephine tried to find a spot away from him in the narrow bed. Finally, she got up and took off the wedding dress, slipping on her white nightgown. She combed her hair, thinking that if that was all there was to it, she didn’t mind so much. She hadn’t liked his hot breath on her neck, but otherwise it was fast, boring.

  Climbing onto the edge of the bed, Josephine gazed out the window. That star next to the moon, she thought, was the symbol of love. It broke her heart to look at it, so she closed her eyes tight, and waited for sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Josephine was woken up by the sight of her mother-in-law, Concetta Rimaldi, bursting into her bedroom.

  Vincenzo was gone and Josephine was alone in the bed, still clinging to the very edge.

  “Up!” Concetta ordered. She had the same pushed-in face as her son, and the same unruly hair, except hers was already silver.

  “Up!” she said again, this time slapping Josephine on the thigh.

  Josephine jumped off the bed, wondering what strange thing was going to happen now. Had it really been only twenty-four hours ago that she’d been happy?

  Concetta yanked the sheet off the bed and held it up to the sunlight. Embarrassed, Josephine saw a rust stain of blood right where she had lain while Vincenzo poked at her. Concetta lowered the sheet and smiled. “Good girl,” she said, patting Josephine’s arm. “Good girl.”

  Then Josephine watched as Concetta took that sheet and hung it out the window for everyone to see.

  “Signora,” Josephine said, “this makes me ashamed.” She pointed to the window.

  “Foolish girl,” Concetta said. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Josephine began to follow her mother-in-law out the door. But Concetta stopped her.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “You stay here and wait for your husband. Now that I’ve checked your virginity, the marriage is good.” She kissed Josephine once on each cheek, her breath citrusy, like she’d just eaten oranges. “Put a fresh sheet on the bed, and then wait for him there.”

  She didn’t have to wait long. Vincenzo came bounding up the stairs with two bowls of coffee and a plate of warm bread.

  “Good girl,” he told her.

  Was this what everyone was going to be saying to her as long as that bloody sheet hung out the window? Josephine watched him slurp his coffee and tear the bread with his teeth. She thought again of Jacko, and turned away from the sight of her husband eating.

  “Eat up,” Vincenzo told her. “I don’t leave for three more days. You’ll need your energy.”

  That was when she understood what was in store for her. The two of them would be locked in this room for three whole days. But then, Josephine reasoned, he would leave for America and she would be free again. Slowly, she chewed a small piece of bread. Anything could happen in the meantime. His boat could sink in the ocean. He could fall in love with a rich American and never send for her. He could be trampled by a horse, fall sick with consumption, or simply disappear.

  “Finally,” Vincenzo said, “you’re smiling.”

  “Yes,” Josephine said.

  “You’re beautiful when you smile,” he said gently.

  He wasn’t awful, Josephine decided. And it was only three days. He asked her to lie down, and she did. Then he unzipped his pants, lifted her nightgown, moved about jerkily three or four times, quivered, and collapsed on her. It was so ridiculous that Josephine had to work on not laughing out loud.

  Over the next three days, he did this every six or seven hours. In between, he brought Josephine food, and let her sit and draw. It was so silly, that her mood improved greatly, and by the time he left, he was certain he had married the most good-natured, lighthearted girl in all of Italy.

  Josephine walked him to the edge of her village, where the cobblestones ended and a winding dirt path began. That path, she had been told, went all the way down the mountain to a bigger road that eventually worked its way to the city of Naples.

  “Good-bye then,” Vincenzo said.

  Josephine nodded at him and smiled.

  He touched her cheek lightly. “You are a treasure,” he told her. “I only hope I’ve given you a son. That when I send for you, there will be two coming to America.”

  Josephine waved to him, and practically ran back home. The entire thing felt like a dream already. In her house, she hummed as she punched down the dough that had just finished its first rising, and brought a platter of small perfect tomatoes outside to sit in the sun.


  NINE YEARS LATER, her mother came running into the house, out of breath, and grinning broadly.

  “Finally,” she said, “Vincenzo has sent for you.”

  Josephine frowned, trying to remember this man who was her husband. But in the years that had passed between them, his face had faded into a smudge, and she could not remember what his voice sounded like. From time to time, she had received a letter from him, telling her how hard he was working and all of the things he was doing to prepare for her arrival. He rented a house, and then he bought that house. He planted the fields around it and he began to save money. She read his letters as if they were chapters in a serial novel. They seemed to have nothing at all to do with her life, which was moving along pleasantly at home. There was no baby produced from those long-forgotten three days after the wedding, and Josephine continued on just as she had before the interruption of marriage.

  But now, it seemed, she really would have to go.

  A week later, she, too, had traveled the cobblestones to the dirt path down the mountain. She had ridden a cart all the way into Naples, where water sparkled more brilliantly than any rocks she had found. Excitement rose in her as she boarded the big ship. For a long time, she stood at the railing, watching the lights of Naples twinkle at her until they finally disappeared. By then, the ship was in the ocean. There was nothing but endless sky, water, and stars.

  Josephine shivered in the cold, damp air. But still she did not move. She stood, waiting for her life to unfold. She stood, ready.

  The Summer of Ice

  YEARS LATER, JOSEPHINE WOULD THINK OF THAT SUMMER of 1918 as the summer of ice. Already, it had become the summer of the Great War. People blamed everything on the fact that the world had gone mad. Dogs howled into the night. Hail as big as plums fell from the sky, not once, but twice that summer. Father Leone held special Masses to pray for the boys going off to war. The village filled the church for those Masses, crying as Father Leone, with his head of slick, wavy hair and his large, drooping handlebar mustache, invoked the names of the town boys who had gone. It was said that the Virgin Mary cried real tears after these Masses. A special representative from the Boston Archdiocese was coming to investigate. But for Josephine, even with the howling dogs and brutal hail, even with the weeping Virgin, and her own son, Carmine, being old enough to join the Army, that summer was ordinary, until Alfredo Petrocelli, the ice man, got the Spanish Influenza.