Catarina's Ring

by Lisa McGuinness

  At home she couldn’t sleep because when she closed her eyes she could see the car coming and feel the same horrifying sensation of being rooted in place, watching it happen. She would turn, wanting to react, but would be frozen while the car careened toward her mother again and again. She saw the impact over and over. She hated being able to remember what was on display in the store, as if her mind cemented those details in place while she simultaneously saw her mother being hit by the car, flung at the window, and finally land on the ground.

  So she’d decided to flee from the sympathetic eyes of her friends and family, her in-law studio, the catering job she hated anyway, and enrolled in a cooking class in Italy to get some breathing room. If she could breathe again, and sleep, she thought maybe she could come to terms with what had happened.

  Now, weeks later, while Juliette was still mourning the loss of her mom, the ring rested on the middle finger of her right hand as she swung open the heavy black door to the flat she’d rented in Lucca, Italy. Juliette had decided to wear it always as a symbol of strength and perseverance. She thought her nonna, who was the first to wear it, would have wanted it that way. She subconsciously twirled it for strength as she peeked through the open door. She was exhausted as she dragged her heavy suitcase inside and looked around the tiny apartment she’d be calling home for the next six months.

  Juliette stepped over the suitcase and let her eyes adjust to the interior light of her subleased apartment. It was dimmer than outside, but sunbeams streamed through a window that opened out onto a metal balcony spilling over with scarlet geraniums. She walked in further and was relieved to see that the apartment was more than fine. It had a tiny kitchen with a two-burner stove that would probably be deemed an illegal fire hazard at home, but seemed a perfect fit here. The bathroom was miniscule and entirely covered—including the floor and ceiling—in orange seventies-era tile, and the showerhead stuck out of the side wall with no enclosure, but she didn’t care.

  The wooden floors of the main room were laid in a traditional herringbone pattern and the walls were an off-white plaster with photographs of the surrounding sights. Thankfully there were no bugs in sight. The furnishings consisted of a small, round, dark-gray marble table with two black-painted wooden chairs by the window, a red linen sofa and a tall, beautiful, dark-chocolate colored armoire that made the room look richly furnished, in spite of its small size.

  The armoire was exactly the type of piece her mom would have loved. She sighed, running her hand along the smooth wood. When she tried to open it, she realized it had a false front. What looked like drawers at the bottom and cupboard doors at the top was actually one large door that pulled open and inside was a Murphy-style pull-down bed.

  Tucked onto shelves at the top of the armoire were sheets and a heavy down duvet with a plain white linen cover that smelled of lilac and starch. The fluffy down was thicker than she had ever encountered at home and the thought of snuggling under it was exactly what she wanted to do in her travel-weary, emotionally-exhausted state.

  She liked the look of the apartment. It would be a cozy place for her for the next half year, where she could avoid soothing words and pep talks.

  She went back down the steep stone staircase and brought up two smaller suitcases, dropped them in the middle of the room, pulled down the bed, made it, flopped down in her clothes, and was asleep instantly and dreamlessly for the first time in the seven weeks since the accident.

  She awoke, disoriented, to the sound of Italian being shouted outside her window and the realization that she was starving. The angle of the sun told her she’d slept for hours and it was now afternoon. She sat up and looked at the clock, then kicked off the covers, threw her clothes into the corner, and took a long, hot shower.

  While she shampooed her hair, she did a quick calculation and realized that because of traveling and the time change, she had skipped breakfast and lunch altogether and was now way overdue for a meal. She remembered the pastry she’d eaten half of at the train station, which she could finish now to tide her over, but she wanted some real food and soon. She had seen an open-air market in the main piazza from the taxi window on her way from the train station to her apartment and hoped the vendors were still open.

  She would need to set up her kitchen and make dinner, so once she was out of the shower and dressed, she used the back of her train ticket to scratch out a grocery list of milk, tea, coffee, garlic, thyme, artichokes, cheese, wine, and bread among other essentials.

  She quickly dried her hair, then threw it into a ponytail and ventured out to stock her kitchen. She thought she might even pick up some flowers to make it cheerful inside. She meandered back to the market she’d seen with only two wrong turns, which for the directionally-challenged Juliette was a triumph. As she walked under the stone arch that formed the entrance, she noticed that the piazza she’d spied was not the main “square” at all, but a circle. It was surrounded by shops and restaurants, strewn with parked bicycles here and there, and hosted a large farmer’s market, which was the perfect place to begin. It was good to be someplace altogether different where she could focus on new sights and sounds instead of on her sadness and unbridled fury at both the out-of-control driver and herself.

  Chapter 5

  CATARINA, HER FIRST DECISION AND HER SECOND DECISION

  Catarina hefted her heavy, brown, chipped, ceramic water jug and scooted it along towards the well. Hers was just one in a short line of vessels waiting to be filled at the pump. She, Anna, and Maria Nina got their best gossiping done while they waited to fill their families’ water urns with the rest of the women in the village, who managed to pump water and visit with their closest friends at the same time. On hot summer days, they fanned themselves while they sweltered and chatted, and in the cold of winter they—wrapped in shawls, thin cloth coats and hand-knitted sweaters—exchanged confidences while extracting the water their families needed from the old, creaky pump.

  “My eyes were open all night,” Catarina whispered, after telling them about the letter with the marriage proposal. She had lain awake until she could sense the morning near and even then was only able to sleep fitfully for a couple of hours. She had mulled over each and every possible bachelor she knew of in the region, and although she acknowledged that her Babbo was right, her prospects were grim, she still came to the conclusion that she would rather stay and be with her family and friends in a poor village with no suitors, than go live among strangers in another country—even one she had heard was the land of riches.

  When she woke from her fitful sleep, her eyes were red and scratchy, but she was resolute. She avoided Mama and Babbo for the morning, though, making sure neither could get her alone, and rushed to meet her two close friends at the well.

  Even though she had no intention of accepting the proposal, Catarina enjoyed being the center of attention for just a little while. After all, there was hardly any excitement in the village, so why not give her friends something interesting to talk about for once?

  The well pump and trough were attached to a stone wall at the village center and for the last three years it had been Catarina’s chore to get up and out early each morning, rain or shine, to go fetch the water. She brought the family’s hand cart and two large, empty ceramic urns, which she would fill and haul back to her house.

  “I would never go,” Anna insisted after hearing the proposition. “They couldn’t drag me away!” She helped Catarina hoist the first of her heavy, now-full urns onto the cart.

  “What if your babbo ordered you?” asked Maria Nina, who leaned against the wall awaiting her turn. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head at Anna. “You’re a fool, Anna, so why try to reason with you?”

  Anna frowned while they watched Catarina pump water into her second water jug. Anna was mild mannered and quiet. She had fine, golden-blond hair that was unusual for a southern Italian girl. It contrasted beautifully with her warm olive complexion and light-brown eyes. Her demure personali
ty, however, was at odds with her dramatic coloring: the thought of changing her life had never entered her mind.

  “Catarina, you must go,” Maria Nina implored. Her personality was the opposite of Anna’s. Of the three friends, Maria Nina was the most outgoing, the quickest to find mischief to get into, and the boldest about flirting with the boys in the village. Like Catarina, she had dark, wavy hair and a slim figure, but her eyes were a warm chocolate brown and she had an elegant, Roman nose. Both Maria Nina and Anna were taller than Catarina, who somehow managed to appear strong in spite of her small stature.

  “It would be a mistake to stay here,” Maria Nina continued to encourage her friend. This time it was she who helped Catarina lift and place the second jug onto the cart. She then took her own turn at the pump, and began the laborious task of filling her own family’s water urns.

  “There’s nothing for us here but some old olive trees and withering grapevines,” she said as her arms moved up and down with the pump lever. “You could live an exciting life in America. You would be in a big city. I bet they have dances every night.” Her eyes looked into the distance, visualizing it.

  “Now who’s the fool?” Anna laughed. “Dances every night! Ha. I’m sure Catarina would still have to work hard in San Francisco. But instead of taking care of the Carlucci household and seeing her family every day, she’d have to take care of some stranger’s house and live with people she doesn’t even know. What if they’re cruel? What if they won’t let her ever come back to visit?”

  “It doesn’t matter, so stop arguing,” Catarina told them. “I’m not going. I’m staying right where I am, so I can become an old lady with you two. I’m not leaving my family. I’m not leaving my country.”

  She looked around the square, beyond the houses and stores to the orchard and hillsides where the olive trees and grape vines had been planted hundreds of years before. To Catarina, they were beautiful. They dictated the seasons of life: whether it was the green leaves of spring, wet with raindrops; the heavily laden grape vines of summer; the autumn harvest and crush; or the bare, dormant plants of winter. They spoke to her and she couldn’t imagine life away from their rhythm. While in the back of her mind she did feel excitement at the thought of a big city, that alone wasn’t enough to sway her resolve.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would stay. She knew it would be difficult to go against Babbo, but he said he wouldn’t force her to leave and she intended to hold him to that. She would tell them right away, she decided, so she gave both of her friends kisses on their cheeks, took the handles of her cart and wheeled her water jugs across the cobblestone square and back to her front door.

  On the way back home, her resolve began to melt. She pictured her sister’s face when she brought up the idea of Catarina being able to help give other family members the opportunity to move there as well. Was she being selfish? She trusted her father’s opinion. She knew he was worried about the family being caught up in the war. She wondered if she should respect his wishes about going. By the time she opened the front door and unloaded the water urns, she was thoroughly confused. She had planned to tell them that she would absolutely stay. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She decided to spend the day thinking about it and then brought it up again with her father at dinner. Instead of the calm, reasonable Babbo of the evening before, she found her father impassioned on the subject.

  “Oh, mio Dio,” he practically yelled while waiving a fork twirled with spaghetti. “You will be wasting your life here if you don’t go! There are no suitable men for you to marry,” he began, and then continued with, “War is coming. Mark my words; this will be no place for a beautiful young girl when that happens.”

  He huffed while Catarina and her mother waited for him to cool down. After his final onslaught of, “Even if you find someone to marry here, he will probably be killed in the fighting,” Catarina’s mother, Celestina, had put up with enough.

  “For the love of the Virgin, Emiliano,” she interrupted, “enough about fighting and death. Our girl is staying. Besides,” she pretended to be objective, “there are good men here. After all, this is where I found the love of my life,” she smiled, trying to cajole him back to being reasonable, “and I’m sure Catarina will, too.”

  She was equally determined. Her youngest child would stay.

  Catarina knew she would disappoint her father if she stayed, which weighed heavily on her. She knew he wanted her to have more opportunity than she would if she stayed—even though he would miss her dearly. She also knew deep down that he was right. But her heart was at home with her family. She tried to convince him that she would be happy if she stayed, but as the days passed, she began to wonder if she was trying to convince him or herself.

  Every time she decided to say “no” to the proposal a jolt passed over her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would be missing her one chance. But when she thought about saying “yes” her heart would pound with a sense of dread, especially at leaving her mother and Mateo.

  “I don’t know what to do, Mama,” Catarina said one morning, while making herself a cup of strong caffè before leaving for work at the Carlucci’s.

  “We don’t know what the future will bring. We can only do what we think will be best, Catarina.” She smiled at her daughter and gave her arm a squeeze as she poured milk into Catarina’s caffè latte.

  “How could I ever leave you?”

  “I don’t want you to, but no matter what happens I know you’ll make a happy life, whether you stay or go, because you are a happy person. That’s one of your gifts.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” she said and hugged her before leaving.

  It would definitely be easier to be happy, she mused, as she reluctantly walked to her employer’s house, if only I could change this one circumstance. She sighed as she arrived, and slowly turned the knob to enter. The Carlucci’s home, which was connected to the other houses on the street, was tall and narrow, with windows facing out to the curved cobbled lane. There were boxes of flowers in the front windows and a dour black-painted front door. It painted a sharp contrast with her stone farmhouse. The Carlucci residence was dim and formal with heavy carved furniture, woven rugs and ancestral paintings on the walls. The Pensebene home was sun filled and warm. There was no money for paintings on the walls, but to Catarina that was fine, because each window framed a view of the olive orchard or the hills, which she preferred to the stoic, unsmiling faces looking out from the frames in her employer’s house.

  As she entered, she involuntarily cringed when she saw Signor Carlucci sitting at the table with no sign of Signora Carlucci.

  “Buon giorno, Signor Carlucci,” she said.

  “Buon giorno, Catarina,” he replied with a formal air. “Signora Carlucci is away for the day. Her sister has fallen ill and she is tending her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Signor. Did she leave instructions for me?”

  “I see laundry,” he said and waved his hand at a heap of clothes and sheets stuffed into a wicker basket.

  “Grazie, Signor.” She picked it up and hauled it out to the courtyard. She poured water into the trough the family used for laundry and began to rub the clothes with soap. She hummed a tune while she scrubbed, content to be outside in the fresh air and away from Signor Carlucci, even if it was her least favorite task.

  She rinsed one of the signora’s nightgowns, picked up two clothes pins, and placed them in her mouth to hold them while she lifted it to the line. She turned to hang it and was suddenly grabbed from behind. She gasped clenching on the clothespins that were still between her lips.

  Two firm hands were around her. One painfully squeezed her breast, the other hand roughly turned her face so she could see her assailant.

  She tried to shriek when she met Signor Carlucci’s eyes, but was stopped by the wooden clothespins stuck to her lips. She was able to spit them out but no sooner had they hit the ground than his mouth was covering hers. His breath was stale
with coffee and his tongue thrust between her lips.

  She gagged and jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He grabbed her wrist and twisted.

  “Don’t try to fight me, Catarina,” he huffed with the exertion of trying to control her. “You might as well cooperate,” he hissed. “And if you do, I’ll see that the signora rewards you. But if you fight me, you’ll lose anyway, and I’ll tell my wife that you’re una putana who flaunted yourself in front of me and you’ll be out on your ear.”

  “No one will believe you!” she hissed back as she desperately tried to break free from his grasp. “Why would they?” She wriggled her wrist free of his grip and managed to slap his face and then lunged for the door.

  He grabbed the back of her dress and she toppled down, smashing her kneecap against the smooth stones. Pain shot up her leg.

  She gasped as he grabbed a handful of her hair and wrapped it around his fist, holding her in place.

  The pain in her knee was searing and her head was being held back by his fist in her hair. She managed to arch her back enough so she could turn to the side to see his face, and what she saw etched on his features turned her insides cold. It was a smirk. As if he had already won. That look startled her out of her terror and turned her emotions to rage.

  “I will not be your whore!” she yelled into his face.

  Although he was still behind her, she twisted further to the side and crushed her elbow into his face. She could feel the cartilage in his nose give way and blood spurted onto her dress.