The Right Thing to Do

by Josephine Gattuso Hendin

  Gina had always felt like something of a misfit among the other girls. They could talk about makeup and clothes or even books or people, but then would come the moments when they would make quick and easy confessions to each other that seemed to be the cement between them. She had lots of weaknesses to confess, but she could never talk, could never make a show of her helplessness. When her friends came up to commiserate with her after Nino had brought that rejection letter to school, she had politely rebuffed them. Was it pride or fear? She had too much of both. She had seen them confide only to regret it when their confidantes talked, talked, talked. She was too much like Nino—imposing absurd standards of conduct nobody met, digging in behind them and finding nothing but isolation.

  They had reached the subway platform. The sight of it made her want to turn and run back to Alex. She couldn’t. Not tonight. The idea of escaping from Nino began to flicker in the back of her mind. What could she say to him now? Should there be an open confrontation, no lying, just a statement that Alex was what she wanted? If she were a man, it would have been easier. Nino respected physical power. He would have condemned a man for fooling around with a “nice” girl, but he would have understood. Her being a woman triggered emotions of protectiveness and honor that sprang out of a dim Sicilian past. That was it, she thought. For Nino the loss of honor had less to do with her than with a judgment on him. It was his vanity that was at stake. He needed to be so respected that nobody would mess with his daughter.

  She and Alex had not paid him the respect he thought he deserved. He had sent out his bill of obligations due. And now he wanted it paid in the coin of sentiment and right behavior: apologies, marriage, everlasting repentance. She would never be able to meet his price. He had come to foreclose on her freedom. Father, daughter, lover–they all seemed cast into the roles of an Italian opera. She was determined that no one should die in the last act. Especially she herself.

  Nino was bent on getting what was due him. Maybe she could meet his demands, up to a point.

  “Let me ask if we could compromise,” Gina said to Nino in a conciliatory tone.

  “You aren’t in a position to bargain for anything,” he answered. But she could see his curiosity was piqued.

  “I’ll have him come to the house and you can talk to him. Until then, in return, you do nothing.”

  “And you?” Nino demanded. “What do you do?”

  Gina shrugged noncommittally.

  “That’s reasonable,” Laura said quickly. “Until we find out what the situation is, it pays to do that. We may,” she said softly, “need him to . . . you . . . if she . . .” her voice trailed off. When the train reached their stop, none of them had a word to say. They walked home slowly, keeping pace with Nino’s limp. When they got home, all his rage seemed to have drained into exhaustion. Nino sat down.

  “I can’t think anymore tonight,” he said. “Get out of my sight,” he said to Gina. “I’ll tell you what I intend to do with you in the morning.”

  She walked into her room. Laura came in behind her. Sitting numbly on the bed, she looked at her mother. Her eyes began to burn.

  “How could you do this?” Laura said. “Didn’t I always give you the best advice?”

  “I took it. You always said, ‘Never marry a Sicilian.’ So I didn’t. I haven’t.” Gina looked at her mother. Her eyes filled with tears. I know why he does this. But not you. Not you.

  “This time,” Laura said, looking at the floor, “he’s right. This is the right thing to do.” She reached out to smooth Gina’s hair, but Gina moved out of reach.

  Gina sat, waiting for her to leave. When she did, Gina pressed her face into the pillow, trying to bury her revulsion and pain. But it was there waiting for her when Nino banged on her door the next morning. “You,” he said, knocking open the door, “invite him to dinner. We’ll see what he is.”

  She looked at him. She felt embalmed, but picked up the telephone and did what he asked. Alex was curt but agreed to come for coffee. “Dinner,” he explained, “will be too long. I’ll speak to your father, then maybe we can take a walk.”

  It was only eight o’clock in the morning, but it was already 91 in the shade. She stayed in her room, so that Nino would have to come in and ask her if Alex was coming. When she said yes, he nodded and locked her in her room. It was when she heard the lock turn that she made up her mind to get away. I can climb out the window, she thought at first. It was just a few feet from the ground. But then there was too much still unplanned. Tomorrow she would register for school at Hunter College. She would need a place to stay. Fear welled up around the thoughts of escape, but somehow making plans forced it back until even the fear was a kind of encouragement. Outside, the wet heat seemed to whiten as the day went on. In the dim, shaded room where the sun never reached, she figured and slept. When she woke, her sheets were wet with blood. Rolling them into a ball, she smiled. Her mood seemed to lighten; her freedom seemed to surge with the streaming blood.

  Forgetting Nino had locked the door, she tried it. It was open and he had gone. She ran a bath and rinsed the sheets in the sink before throwing them in the washing machine. It was all coming together, she thought. Her luck! Had it been waiting for her there, someplace unknown, before now? She would never leave anything to chance again. But she had touched it, her luck, at last. Her belly felt flat and warm. Everything was working. Maybe it would always work, maybe she could always feel this sense of possessing and repossessing herself, of retrieving herself. The thought of leaving home made her feel better and better. She thought of discussing it with Alex, but he would assume she was leaving for him. He’d probably be afraid she wanted to live with him. She didn’t. She would plan her escape herself.

  Her desk was still cluttered with last term’s reading. She began to arrange things for her big move. She picked up her books and sorted them into stacks. Hero with a Thousand Faces; The Myth of the Eternal Return; Into Eden: American Puritanism. That book had led to her first conversation with Alex. She had read it for a course and decided to finish it over the summer. Alex had seen it on her desk and told her his father had written it. She had been even more impressed when she learned that his father had come from a down-and-out Ohio family and, after his success as a historian, had become cultural advisor to the American embassy in Paris. Not bad for a poor farm boy.

  There was a kind of redemption in escaping the place where you were born, the limits of the world around you. Even just reading multiplied environments because you could, at least for a while, live in the world of the book. What she loved about anthropology was the mass of possible worlds it offered. The concrete problems of life were deadeningly repetitive, but the immense variety of cultural solutions was dazzling. Why did she have to live the way Nino lived or think the way Nino thought? She began to hum. She was tired of thinking about her own feelings. Anthropology and history took your mind off emotions. She was anxious to get back to school.

  Alex arrived with bouquets of lilac and mimosa. He gave one to Laura, who took it into the kitchen and started to cry. The mimosa was for Gina, who just held it and looked at him. He was very elegant in a heavy woolen suit with a vest, a pale blue shirt, and a silk tie. From the sofa where he sat with his bad leg elevated, Nino watched him too.

  “It’s interesting that you can wear a suit like that this time of year without sweating,” Nino said. He was enjoying this more than he had expected.

  “It seemed appropriate to wear a suit, Mr. Giardello, and this is the only one I have,” Alex said, and smiled.

  “Sit down, sit down. Have some coffee,” Nino said as Laura returned with a pot of espresso. “Take off your jacket. After all, we’re practically related.”

  Alex sat down, slightly disconcerted. He did not remove his jacket. Gina stood in the doorway, watching.

  “You know,” Nino continued, “we’re an interesting family. Gina’s cousin—she must have told you about him. He is an excellent marksman. He’s in the Army now, but still active i
n the National Rifle Association.”

  “I’m not much for violence,” said Alex.

  “Among friends, violence is never necessary,” Nino agreed. “Of course, none of us is for violence. However, sometimes,” he shrugged, “there is no other way.”

  Laura had begun to pray to Saint Anthony. Gina could tell by the angle of her eyes.

  “Where are you from?” Nino asked, beginning in earnest.

  “Amsterdam, I was born in Amsterdam,” Alex said. “Then I lived in Paris. I came here when I was six.”

  “Ah,” Nino said. “An immigrant.”

  Alex looked at him. “You might say. My father was working in Europe.”

  “What do you do besides working as a stamp perforator?”

  “I have a leave of absence from Brown. After three years, I wanted some time off.”

  “Backed out just before the end? If you wanted to get away, why did you hang around a school?”

  Alex shrugged.

  “What were you studying?”

  “Mathematics and chemistry.”

  “Chemistry,” Nino said. “Now that’s a good subject. Well, did you flunk out? Were you about to flunk out?”

  “No,” said Alex. “I did very well. I went to Stuyvesant. I did all right,” he said lamely.

  “So the reason you quit was something else.”

  “I was uncertain what I wanted to do, or whether I wanted to stay there. I heard the opportunities might be better out west and thought I might finish there.”

  “So you are confused. You thought to better yourself and in the process you did nothing. Confusion,” Nino said, “is a bad business. Perhaps I can help you. You don’t have to be confused anymore.” Nino tapped him on the chest. “When you’re in trouble, you know exactly where you are.”

  Alex stared at him. Finally he recovered himself enough to say, “There is no reason for me to think I’m in trouble. I wouldn’t be troubled by marrying your daughter, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I’ll marry her.”

  There was an audible intake of breath from Laura which Nino ignored. Gina felt as though she were watching an ancient ritual of sacrifice. She and Alex were the offerings, but also the reasons for each other’s victimization. Each of them was being used to trap the other. Nino was in his element. She could see that he was pleased at how it was going and had sensed that Alex could be made to do whatever he wanted.

  “Have some of this,” Nino said, almost smiling as he poured anisette into an empty water glass and handed it to Alex. He waited for Alex to taste it before he poured some into his own black coffee and took a long drink.

  “One month should be enough time to make all the arrangements,” Nino said genially. “We don’t have to settle the details tonight.”

  “What do you know about baseball?” Nino asked.

  “Nothing,” Alex answered.

  “I thought so,” Nino said. “I’ve been a Yankee fan since 1935.”

  “It’s getting late,” Alex said. “May I take Gina for a walk?”

  Nino looked at Laura. Everyone in the neighborhood would know. But if they were going to get married, they would know anyway. Finally Nino said, “A short walk is OK. Turn left immediately as you leave the house.”

  “Why?” Alex said.

  “Because that’s the right way to walk,” Nino said.

  Alex nodded and rose from his chair. “It was nice to have met you,” he said, extending his hand. Nino shook it. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Giardello,” he said to Laura.

  “You’re very welcome,” Laura said.

  Alex began walking down the long hall. Its uneven floor, lumpy walls cluttered with yellowed pictures, and lack of natural light suggested catacombs for the living dead. Her father’s questioning was bad enough, but the cramped ugliness of the place was repulsive. How could they stand it?

  Gina could see how Alex had taken it in. She had never liked the living room, but she had been able to shut it out except as a too-crowded alcove on the way to her room. Now she saw that the gray-beige paint Nino had chosen was so grim it must have looked aged even while it was being applied. The paltriness of the room came down on her. The new fluted silk lamp shades had plastic shrouds, the green sofa lay under its vinyl-backed throw, the heavy wooden table with its linen cloth was covered by clear plastic—even the furniture was suffocating. The huge table filled the center of the room, leaving barely enough space to edge around it to the chairs. After dinner it could be pushed into place against the wall, baring the honey-colored floors Laura carefully scrubbed and waxed, scarred despite all her care by chairs being pushed back from the table. She knew Alex had seen it that way. It was best to say nothing.

  Gina followed Alex quickly out of the apartment, leaving without a word. On the street, he turned to her and asked, “I think I did OK, don’t you?”

  “You were great,” she said. How could he know that nothing he did or didn’t do would have made a difference? “You look terrific in a suit.”

  “It’s too hot, but I thought it would impress them,” he said simply. The sound of thunder rumbled through the thick, hot air.

  “I’m sure it did,” she said, wanting to take his hand. But she wouldn’t until they made their way past the neighbors her mother always called “the brigade.” There they were—Mrs. Di Costa in black twenty years after the death of her husband, Mrs. Cerisi mourning the son lost in World War II. Her daughter, Mrs. Picci, was there in black for the husband shot in Korea. They were the mothers and grandmothers of the kids who played in the yard. Every time she saw them, they seemed to spell out the succession of weddings, births, funerals, visits to the sick and dying, appearances at wakes. One wake after the other until finally you yourself were the main attraction, the guest of honor. To the right they stretched on, more neighbors looking for a breeze in the heat. To the left there were private houses where no one sat outside. They turned left, avoiding the gossipy super’s wife Laura called “the radio.”

  Alex took off his jacket and threw it over one shoulder. “Your father is a riot,” he said, shaking his head. “‘When you’re in trouble, you know exactly where you are.’ Too much! and ‘What do you know about baseball?’” Alex laughed.

  Gina gave him a hard look.

  “Well, I mean they’re old-fashioned and worried about you. It’ll be all right now. I think they’ll leave us alone.”

  “Nino won’t leave us alone,” Gina said.

  “Why not? Did he mean that about getting married?” Alex asked.

  “Do you mean you didn’t mean it?” Gina asked him pointedly.

  “I don’t know. I never thought about it.”

  “You just agreed to marry me in a month,” Gina said. “Aren’t you aware of that.”

  “We were just talking. In a way, it was funny being looked over. Nobody ever did that to me before. Do you want to get married?” Alex asked, wondering if she had put the old man up to this.

  “Do you think I do?” Gina asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured you out yet. If it’s that important to you, I guess we could do it,” Alex said.

  He probably would marry her if she pressed him, but that didn’t mean he would behave any differently than if he were single. She suspected that, either way, he would turn Nino into the stuff of anecdotes. He didn’t take anything seriously, she realized.

  “I could never accept a deal Nino had made,” Gina said softly.

  “Don’t look at it that way,” Alex said. “We only agreed in principle. We never got to the details.” He started to laugh. He put his arms around her, and pulled her toward him. “Now that we’re engaged, we can do it solemnly.” He laughed, kissing her.

  “I have to get back,” she said, laughing despite her turmoil.

  “I’ll take you home,” he offered.

  “No, I’d rather you didn’t,” she answered. She could see the two of them running the gauntlet of staring women in perpetual black. They parted without touching at the stati
on. The thunder sounded closer now.

  When she came back she found her mother stuffing lilacs into a garbage bag.

  “How could you do it?” Laura asked. “I still can’t understand it.”

  “Do what? Look, it’s not as though I’m pregnant. I haven’t done anything. He was very polite to you.” She retrieved a branch from the garbage bag. “I’m hot and I have my period,” she said. “Just leave me alone about it. I can’t go through life doing only what you tell me.”

  “If you would only listen to me. Arthur would make such a good husband. He’s loyal, hard-working, and he isn’t Sicilian,” Laura whispered.

  “Neither is Alex.”

  “He’s too peculiar. You’ll never know what he thinks. Besides, just listening to him, you can see he has no future. Not to mention that he’s strange.”

  Gina went into her room, but Laura was determined to continue and followed her in.

  “He thought you might accept him because he was so polite despite what Dad did.”

  “What did your father do? He just told the truth. If he thinks we would accept him, that proves he has no sense of reality. Listen to me. You’re not pregnant. Thank God! This isn’t Sicily. No one has to know this. Just forget about him. I promise that I won’t let your father make you marry him. I swear it,” Laura pleaded.

  Gina said nothing. Laura waited until it was clear there was no reason to think waiting would do any good.

  Alone, Gina undressed for bed. She could hear Laura and Nino talking in the living room, but could not make out what they were saying. The evening had been a disaster. Not a run-of-the-mill disaster, but a debacle. Still, the thought of Alex made her smile. She was tired of heavy feelings and grim moods.

  She was in a deep sleep when Nino pounded at her door and barged in. He stood over her, enraged. “You’re never to see or talk to him again,” he said. “Understand?” he demanded. He raised his cane as if to hit her, but caught himself and, instead, swept it across the surface of her desk, knocking her neat piles of books and papers to the floor. “It’s finished. This time you’re getting off easy, but I intend to make sure there is no next time. This is the end. Just accept that, and don’t try to talk your way out of it.”