The Godmothers

by Camille Aubray

  Filomena waited nervously as he rose to his feet, for he deliberately lingered there, even though Sal the driver waited outside with the car running. “Dear girl,” Gianni said, peering into her face before she covered it with her veil, “I know that everyone in this family has talked to you, welcomed you. I myself am not a man of many words and speeches. But I want you to know that I am happy you are here, and I can see that you make Mario happy.”

  He paused. “I would just like to say, that if you have any reason not to want to do this thing today, it will be all right. I will still sponsor you if you wish to stay in this country and go off on your own. So please, if you would rather not go forward, do not be afraid to say so, at least to me.” Filomena saw that he meant it. She was touched and stunned. Such genuine consideration for her needs and desires made her feel like a real person, not just a pawn. Her heart swelled with a gratitude that only deepened her loyalty to this remarkable family.

  “I thank you for your kindness. But yes, I do want to marry Mario,” she said simply.

  Gianni nodded appreciatively; then he said something that Filomena could not truly comprehend until much later. “There are things that happen in life that can’t be helped,” he said quietly. “Mario’s life has not been without its complications. He does not fully understand this yet. But whatever happens, please, always be there to remind him how important it is to have his family near, for they only want to love and protect him.”

  Filomena had no idea what to say, so she just nodded. Gianni said, “All right, then. We must go now. Quietly and calmly. It is a great day.”

  Sal opened the car door for her and waited, and for the first time he gave her a brief smile and a nod. Seated there surrounded by yards and yards of her precious dress, Filomena felt as if she were being whisked off on a cloud of tulle.

  When they arrived at the church, with its lovely columns and bell tower, the doors were wide open. On the sidewalk, a few little girls were playing hopscotch amid the fallen leaves. As they paused in admiration of a bride, Filomena recalled doing that as a girl. But she felt a moment of panic; she’d been fearful of entering a church ever since the bombing of Naples had literally brought down a church on her. She paused involuntarily, trembling, causing Gianni to look up inquiringly. Filomena could almost hear Rosamaria hissing at her, He thinks you are having second thoughts about his family. So, in a silent prayer to Rosamaria, Filomena forced herself to straighten up and smile, certain that her cousin was with her, right now, giving her a shove to go on.

  Determinedly, Filomena climbed the stone steps and peered inside. The aisles were decorated with white and pink roses and white satin ribbons. The pews were filled with many people who were complete strangers to Filomena but whom Mario’s family obviously knew well. The guests craned their necks to get a first look. Filomena hastily ducked out of sight.

  Petrina, initially irritable and impatient that morning, had rallied now and was waiting at the back of the church, insisting on checking Filomena’s dress, hair, veil. Lucy and Amie were the attendants, and Lucy unexpectedly stepped forward to squeeze Filomena’s hand.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “It’s a piece of cake.”

  “She means it’s a cinch,” Amie offered, not to be outdone. Filomena didn’t recognize either slang expression, but the looks on their faces were reassuring.

  At the first startling notes of the organ, the children went forward: Pippa and Gemma scattered pale pink rose petals from little baskets onto the white satin runner laid at Filomena’s feet. Christopher followed, carrying the rings pinned to a white satin pillow. Next, the matrons of honor, Amie and Lucy, with Mario’s brothers as the ushers. Gianni offered his arm to Filomena, and as they moved forward, she heard the crowd rise in response.

  With all these people staring at her, she was glad to have Gianni’s calm and steady guidance down the aisle. Through her gauzy veil, she saw Tessa poised like a queen in a front pew. Mario was waiting at the altar, his intelligent face aglow but looking slightly nervous.

  When Filomena reached Mario, she gave her bouquet to Amie, then placed her hand on the prayer book that Tessa had given her, and Mario put his hand on hers. His reassuring touch melted the chill in her fingers, which had felt like icicles. The priest spoke, and Filomena and Mario began to murmur their pledges of love to each other. Then suddenly, Mario was kissing her, the organ burst into music, and as they left the church its bell began to peal.

  The bridal reception was held in a new, pretty restaurant in Greenwich Village, whose trees and shrubs were strung with tiny lights. Inside, the banquet tables were dotted with flowers, and from a corner, a string quartet was playing. Mario’s brothers danced with Filomena; they were graceful and dignified.

  When Mario reclaimed her, Frankie said in a quiet, congratulatory tone, “Your doll’s a doll, Mario.” This seemed to please Mario immensely.

  “He never says that unless he means it,” Mario told her.

  Even Petrina’s husband was there—a tall, dapper man named Richard, who was dragged onto the dance floor by his daughter, Pippa. The wedding banquet lasted all day. Amie had let slip that the cake alone cost a princely sum, for it was made with the finest ingredients, despite the rationing of butter, sugar, and flour. Filomena didn’t dare calculate the entire expense the family had gone to for their youngest son, the last to marry, but she had a few spells of panic at the unthinkable cost of this single event.

  Mario was always at her side now, steering her from one ritual to the next, until it was time for them to change into traveling clothes and escape. The faithful Sal was ready and waiting to drive them to their destination, where they would finally be alone.

  “Well,” said Mario as they settled into the backseat of the car, “we did it!”

  * * *

  The honeymoon cottage on Candlewood Lake had an enchanted look in the slanted autumn light. There weren’t many guests here on weekdays, which gave the newlyweds the quiet and privacy that they craved. Nature, too, was good to them, with days of unseasonably warm weather, so that they could take a canoe and paddle out across the lake, which sparkled under a bright blue autumnal sky. Leisure was still an amazing luxury to her—to be outdoors all day solely for fun, not to do farm chores. They picnicked, then drifted lazily along; and in the evening they sat on the porch after dinner and finished their wine. Instinctively their bodies followed the rhythm of the sun, so they went to bed early. In those spicy-scented, cool nights, they lay there in the soft darkness, making plans, making love.

  That first night, when Filomena went into the bathroom to put on her nightgown, she had a moment’s panic, even though Rosamaria had long ago explained the facts of life to her, and, indeed, told her how to “tame” a man so that he didn’t rush things.

  But when Filomena slipped into bed, Mario murmured sweet things to her, and took his time caressing her body, exploring her desire; and Filomena, at first shy, was utterly surprised to discover her own pleasure from a hunger that she no longer had to repress. Afterwards, she slept so deeply, in a contented way that seemed like a memory of a primordial past.

  It was easy to fall into a routine of waking early with the delicate rising sun, sharing a quick breakfast, going out on the lake with a canoe to watch nature frolicking. Ducks paddled companionably alongside them; other birds went flying over their heads in a V-shaped hurry, and little frogs leapt out of their way while making odd pinging sounds.

  Sometimes Filomena and Mario hardly spoke out on the lake, exchanging happy looks whenever they spotted something unexpected and miraculous—a swan taking sudden flight with a great noise of wings, a fish leaping in an arc of grace. Mario was an expert fisherman, and they cooked what he caught. Filomena hadn’t been out in a boat to go fishing for years; she’d missed it without realizing it. But it was also a painful reminder of her father. And one evening, a chance remark by Mario prompted her to reveal more than she’d ever intended.

  She was lying in bed in the dark, p
leasantly exhausted from a day spent outdoors. Mario stood at the window, gazing at the stars, and said reflectively, “When I was a boy, I used to pretend I didn’t really belong to this family. I’d read a lot of books, you see, about orphans who turned out to be princes or warriors. I was certain that someday, I’d leave home and pull a sword out of a stone, or sail across the high seas to my true father’s magic kingdom.”

  As he came to the bed and lay beside her, Filomena said in a sudden burst, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! It’s no joy to be an orphan. It’s horrible. You ought to get down on your knees and pray to God to forgive you for your ingratitude.”

  Mario turned to her in astonishment as, under the cover of the darkness, she burst into tears. He instinctively cradled her in his arms, uttering soothing sounds, until finally he asked, “What is it, cara mia? What makes you so sad?”

  And in a sudden rush, she told him all about how her parents had quarreled, and how her mother had taken her away and then let go of her hand to give her away to strangers. He was silent, the way a horse listens in mute but palpable sympathy, till her tears subsided. “Poor baby,” he whispered, still rocking her as if she were a child. “I can’t imagine such a thing, done to such a sweet, loving girl as you! They must have been horribly desperate. No one will ever abandon you or hurt you again, I swear it.”

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” she whispered anxiously. She had been unwanted long enough to know that if people found out that you’d been abandoned, it made the whole world think of you as undesirable.

  “Of course not. The past is gone,” he said firmly. “You are one of us now.”

  He paused. “I didn’t mean to be ungrateful to my family,” he said haltingly, as if he owed her an explanation. “But you see, when I was born, my mother was at an age when she didn’t want to have any more babies. She had already lost two infants at birth. So when I came along, she didn’t have much patience, at first. I was always too slow. Took too long to tie my shoes, to change my clothes, even to eat—she told the maid to take away my plate from the table when I wasn’t even finished. She got angry at me, a lot. I couldn’t see why. She wanted to send me off to a seminary, to get rid of me. So, that’s when I thought of running away.”

  Filomena understood now and said quietly, “But she seems so fond of you.”

  Mario sighed. “Now, yes. But she used to get a lot of headaches, after working in her study doing the bookkeeping. She would lie on a little sofa in there and just moan to herself. The doctors couldn’t help. One day, when I was six, and no one else was home, I made her some ‘sunshine tea.’ You put nice verbena herbs in a jar with water, and let the sun infuse it. I brought her a cup. Then I put a washcloth in a bowl of ice water, and wrung it out and put the nice cool cloth on her forehead. And I sang her a little song that Petrina taught me. Mama was so surprised, she cried. Things got much better for me after that.”

  Filomena, watching his face as moonlight peeped through the window, could see his genuine sorrow. She understood why Mario struck a careful balance between pleasing himself and pleasing his mother. Childhood terrors were part of one’s blood and flesh. Even now, as an adult, he did not want the loving Tessa to revert to being angry and impatient with him. Perhaps, Filomena thought, this family was a bit more complicated than she’d realized.

  And then, one day the phone rang in the village store, and the man who owned their cabin and the little store across the lake took his motorboat out to tell them to call home. They went back with him, across a lake so calm in the morning sun. An elderly couple was fishing in a nearby cove, looking as if they’d been there since time began. A few people who lived year-round along the lake called out to one another cheerily on this day that seemed meant to be savored. When they saw Mario and Filomena puttering by, everyone smiled knowingly and said, “Honeymooners,” as if all the world loved this couple, because they loved each other.

  When the boat docked, they climbed out and went into the shop, which had a long soda fountain on one side and a single phone booth at the far end. Mario telephoned home—and Filomena saw the glow in his face extinguish, as if someone had turned off a lamp within him. She knew that there was only one thing that had such awful power.

  “What did you say?” Mario asked, holding out the phone so that she could hear.

  “Mario, it’s Pop,” Frankie answered urgently. “He’s dead. He was walking home with a box of pastries from the bakery on Sunday. I saw him coming up the front walk. He said, ‘I don’t feel so good,’ and then he fell like an apple off a tree. Doc says it was probably a stroke. Ma is a wreck. Johnny’s been crying like a baby when he thinks nobody can hear him. Mario, you gotta come home.” He paused. “Ma says Pop was getting strange phone calls in the middle of the night that upset him, but he never said who it was. Petrina is sending her own driver up there to get you. We gotta keep Sal here.” The call ended on this ominous note.

  “Mario, I’m so sorry,” Filomena said, hugging him.

  He let her hold him close for a while. “We have to go,” he said finally, looking stunned.

  “Of course we do,” she answered. “I’ll pack up our things.” She knew immediately that it was her turn to take care of him. Until now, it was Mario who’d paid the bills, ordered dinner, and talked to people, but in the first shock of mourning, her husband could not be expected to take on the world; every little movement would feel like a major effort, she knew.

  So she spoke quickly to the man behind the soda counter and ordered some sandwiches to be wrapped up—egg and bacon for Mario’s breakfast, with a thermos of hot coffee, and some roast beef sandwiches for the drive home. The proprietor’s wife, who made the sandwiches, clucked her tongue in sympathy and did thoughtful extra things, like adding some sugar cookies and chocolates for them to have with their coffee.

  The man who owned the store let them take his motorboat back across the lake. When they reached their cabin, Filomena made Mario sit down at the wooden picnic table with the coffee and the egg sandwich, while she quickly packed their clothes.

  “Eat, because you must be strong for your mama, and for us,” she urged.

  Mario ate mechanically, staring out over the lake without seeming to be aware of what he was doing, as if he could not muster the energy to resist her instructions. When he shivered once, Filomena put his jacket over his shoulders and snuggled closer to him, to keep her sweet young husband warm—just as the world was turning colder.

  13

  New York City, Autumn 1943

  Gianni’s wake was attended by more people than had come to Mario’s wedding, but it did not escape Filomena’s notice that many of the guests were men who’d come alone, sober and well dressed, to pay their respects.

  Even now, lying here in his coffin surrounded by flowers, Gianni still looked handsome, his beautiful hair in place, his clothes impeccable, as he’d dressed in life. Filomena kept expecting him to rise up and resume his role as the wise anchor of this family, to tell them what they should do.

  Mario stood like a sentinel near the coffin, at his father’s head, and did not speak much when people shuffled by and took turns telling him how sorry they were; he only nodded.

  Tessa, who at home had seemed unexpectedly frail to Filomena—almost as if a gust of wind might reduce her to powder—had now risen to the occasion, putting on her black satin dress and veil, and a necklace of gold. She sat in the front row before her husband’s coffin, holding herself erect and never once shedding a tear nor showing any signs of her devastation. She was like a statue, immovable, for the benefit of the crowd, as if to say, “I am still here, and I am in charge now.” Filomena was more in awe of her than ever.

  Johnny sat on one side of his mother and Frankie on the other. Their wives were behind them, with the children, who were all dressed formally, too, and dared not fidget. Filomena sat with the wives and watched as each youngster was led to kiss their grandfather goodbye and then returned to their seat. They looked so
lemn, scared, but determined to act like the grown-ups.

  At one point, Johnny went to the back of the room to smoke, looking devastated, his tall frame stooped, as if he literally had the weight of his family on his shoulders; he stood there immobilized, lost in thought.

  In contrast, Frankie, always filled with vital energy, seemed unable to contain himself today, pacing, watching, speaking to people, ever in motion. Lucy gave up trying to placate him. She had seen enough of death at the hospital to know that she must let her husband expel his grief energy, and then just be there when he suddenly ran out of it.

  Petrina wore a dark veil over her tear-streaked face, once again without her husband’s comfort, for although Richard had come with her to briefly pay his respects, he had taken their car back to the suburbs, leaving Petrina and Pippa with her family. Dressed in black silk, Petrina looked stunning without even trying—so tall on her high heels, a faint scent of some perfume that evoked deep-purple flowers. Her daughter, Pippa, looked sad and anxious in her first black dress, holding her mother’s hand before she took a seat among the other children sitting in a straight, hushed line like a row of little birds.

  Tessa had insisted on only one morning for the wake, so that the funeral Mass could be the same day and the burial late that afternoon. The young wives sensed that it was as if Tessa were protecting Gianni somehow.

  “Watch out,” Lucy whispered suddenly when, in the last hour of the wake, there was a sudden stir among the remaining visitors at the back of the room. A slender man had walked in. The entire room came to attention, like soldiers snapping into place when a general arrives for inspection. Everyone watched silently as the newcomer moved forward.