Christmas is very different this year, with a new family member in the house. If anyone were to ask what makes the Italians from the Veneto different from the Neapolitans like Rosemary (she is, it turns out, only half Sicilian), I would say the difference begins at Christmas. We put up our tree on Christmas Eve; Rosemary’s family puts theirs up the day after Thanksgiving. Venetians fast on Christmas Eve and attend a midnight vigil; southern Italians have a banquet, including seven kinds of fish prepared different ways, and attend Mass on Christmas morning. The Venetians like bunches of fresh greens on the door, plain and simple, no glitter, no bows; the Neapolitans like to decorate the outside of the building as lavishly as the inside. Mama’s people come from Bari, so they like the ornate as much as the southerners, though in honor of Papa, Mama has always deferred to the traditions of the Veneto.
But Rosemary’s presence has changed our household in ways that go far beyond Christmas. We’ve had to figure out how to include her in our family, and her task has been to try and fit in. Even though she’s young, she’s a good cook and a fine baker. She taught us how to make tartufo, creamy vanilla-ice-cream truffles with a chopped cherry center that are dipped in hot chocolate syrup that dries to a crust, then rolled in coconut. They’re so delicious, Mama and Papa have almost forgotten that she “had to” marry my brother. Rosemary gave me the recipe and told me to put it in a box. “Start collecting recipes, because the day you get married, you’ll need them,” she said. In beautiful Palmer penmanship she wrote:
ROSEMARY SARTORI’S QUICK TARTUFO
(In America, SNOWBALLS)
Yield: 1 dozen tartufo
3 bags shredded coconut
1 cup heavy cream
1 gallon vanilla ice cream (softened)
12 maraschino cherries
FOR CHOCOLATE DRIZZLE:
1⁄4 box paraffin wax
1 pound dark chocolate
Melt paraffin wax with chocolate in a double boiler
on stove until liquid. Set aside.
Soak coconut in heavy cream. Set aside.
Roll ice cream into baseball-sized balls. Bury maraschino cherry
in center of each. Drizzle chocolate sauce on ice-cream ball,
then roll in coconut until covered. Place on waxed-papered
cookie sheet and freeze.
Papa and Roberto have been working diligently on the downstairs apartment. It will be perfect for a young family, with a new kitchen in the back that leads to the garden, where the baby can take sun and play. They hope to have it done well before the baby’s arrival in March, but it seems as if all they do is argue about details, from what kind of faucet to put in the kitchen sink to how many shelves should be in the closet. Roberto hopes to unveil the apartment for Rosemary on Christmas Day, so every spare moment that the men aren’t at the Groceria, they are downstairs sanding, pounding, and painting.
Christmas is Papa’s least favorite time of year because the Groceria is jammed with tourists and surly customers, with everyone making special orders. Mama, on the other hand, embraces the holidays with gusto. When Papa was a boy, he didn’t receive gifts on Christmas. He got a trinket and some fruit on the Epiphany, January 6. In Mama’s family everyone received one special gift, and then they cooked a meal for a family who didn’t have enough money to make a Christmas dinner. And now, every holiday card that comes into our house is displayed. Mama runs wide red ribbon around the living room door frames and pins the cards to the ribbon. By Christmas Day the archways are covered in cards. I notice that Mama pinned up a card from my ex-fiancé’s family. There was no personal note, just a stamp inside that said, “Happy Holidays from the DeMartino Bakery.” Dante did send me a card with a handwritten note that said, “I miss you. Love, Dante,” which I pinned next to the one from his parents.
Mama stacks holiday records by Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra on the stereo, and the carols play night and day. The delicious scent of anisette, butter, and coconut fills the house as Mama bakes. The pantry is filled with neatly stacked tins of homemade cookies. We’ll tie satin ribbons on the cans and load up the car, delivering them to relatives and friends all over Manhattan and Brooklyn the week of Christmas.
“Lucia, do you think it would be all right if I put lights in the front window?” Rosemary asks as she untangles a string of red, green, and gold Roma lights for the tree. The blue spruce that we have hauled home from the corner touches the ceiling.
“We never have,” I say. “But if it would make you happy, we’ll ask Papa.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need the lights.”
“No, no, you’re part of the family, you should have Christmas the way you like it.”
Rosemary begins to cry.
“What’s the matter?” I climb down the ladder quickly.
“I want to go home,” she whispers.
Poor Rosemary. The whole time I was engaged to Dante, I worried about Christmas and how I would have to spend it with Dante’s family instead of my own. I will not share this with Rosemary at the moment. Instead, I guide my sister-in-law to the couch and sit down next to her. “But this is your home now.” As Rosemary leans back against the cushions, I see how much the baby has grown. Her tummy is high and round.
“No, your father and mother look at me like I’m a puttana.”
“They don’t feel that way at all,” I tell her, but she can see through the lie. She and I know the rules, and there’s no getting around them.
“My parents raised me the same way your parents raised you,” she says. “I knew what they expected of me, and I failed them. Worse, I brought shame upon them. They can’t be happy for Roberto and me, because we made a mistake. And they’re not wrong. A good daughter doesn’t have to get married; she waits for her wedding night. I didn’t, and now I am paying for it. It’s all my fault.”
“Wait a second. Roberto is every bit as responsible.” I hear Ruth’s voice in my head, talking about what sophisticated girls do. But Rosemary is as far from sophisticated as the Christmas lights she wants to string in the front window.
Rosemary cranes her neck to make sure only I can hear what she is about to say. “Roberto is a man, and they always said it and I never believed it, but it’s true—a man is forgiven. The girl is always at fault. Forever marked. People say, ‘Roberto did the right thing.’ But that’s not what they say about me. I’ll never be able to make this right. Never. But Roberto already has. He married me, so his is debt is cleared.”
“Do you love Roberto?” I ask.
“With all my heart.”
“In my mind—and maybe tomorrow Saint Ann will see that I am hit by a bus for saying this—love makes the difference.” I hope that Rosemary understands that I am talking about making love itself, not just loving a man. “Rules are rules. But I believe if you are going to marry the man, there is nothing wrong with making love to him before the ceremony. One God. One man. What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything, if you get pregnant.” Rosemary exhales slowly.
“You know that I was engaged—”
“Dante DeMartino. So many girls in Brooklyn are in love with him!” Rosemary turns to me. “All the mothers sent their daughters to pick up the bread when he made deliveries. They poured out of the apartment houses when the DeMartino truck came through!” Speaking about her old neighborhood cheers her up. “Did you and Dante . . .” Rosemary can’t say the words.
“Make love? No. I would have married him if we had. But I knew that it wasn’t meant to be.”
“How did you know?”
“I always felt like there was enough time. And I guess what I’m waiting for, when it comes to love, is a man who makes time go by so fast that I can’t hold on to it.” I prop my feet on the coffee table. I can’t believe I’m confiding my deepest feelings to Rosemary. These sorts of revelations are usually reserved for Ruth. But I can tell that Rosemary is a good egg, and I want to be her friend, since she’s already my sister.
I almost tell her about the mys
terious man I saw, the one with the smile and the beautiful hands. Besides my lunch strolls when I look for him, I catch myself thinking about him a lot, too. On the main floor one day, I thought I smelled his cologne, so I followed a man into Custom Shirts. When it wasn’t the mystery man, I felt like a fool. I told Ruth about it, and she laughed so hard, I knew what I was doing was crazy. Why can’t I let go of the idea of him? And why was I hooked so fast? It was probably something as simple as the low sparkle of chandelier lighting, or the panels of leather on the walls, or the cup of butter-pecan ice cream I had for dessert at lunch that made me feel full and woozy and a little wanton. Maybe the scene itself, the model dining room with the glistening silverware and fine linens and delicate china, made me need a handsome stranger to enter stage left and take my hand and whisk me off into the future. I’ve been waiting my whole life to feel that magnetic attraction. But I can’t tell Rosemary any of this; I’d sound ridiculous.
“We need to finish the tree.” I stand and stretch.
“Lucia?”
I turn to her. “Yeah?”
“I thought you were so fancy, but you’re just a girl.”
“Fancy?” I laugh and look down at what I’m wearing, corduroy pants and Papa’s old wool sweater.
“You’re so beautiful. Your hair is always shiny. And your clothes, I’ve never seen anything like them except in Charm magazine. You’re always going out the door looking smart, on your way to something important. I admire that.”
“Rosemary, I’m not fancy. I’m a seamstress. I love clothes. I think they’re art. That’s all.” I extend my hand to Rosemary and help her up.
Papa and Roberto come up from the new apartment, where they’ve been working all morning. They chat with each other, oblivious to us. I interrupt them. “Papa, Rosemary would like to put some lights in the front window. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure, sure,” he says without looking at Rosemary.
“Tell her, then,” I say quietly.
Papa looks confused, but he knows what I mean. He hasn’t had a conversation with Rosemary since the wedding day. I’m sure he doesn’t realize it, but he avoids eye contact. Maybe he believes if he doesn’t look at her, the whole incident will go away. But deep down, Papa has a dear and tender heart. Despite his hurt, he does right by Rosemary as family; he plasters her walls, grouts tile in her bathroom, and gives Roberto a raise at the Groceria to ensure her and the baby’s future. But he doesn’t acknowledge her. He’s a traditional man, and he cannot accept what has happened.
Now he turns to her. “Rosemary, you may put the lights in the window.” He looks at her for the first time since he met her at Our Lady of Pompeii, standing here next to the half-lit Christmas tree. He even manages a smile.
Rosemary faces my father. “Thank you, Mr. Sartori.” Her voice breaks, and she looks down at the floor.
Papa turns to go. I grab his arm and raise my eyebrows. He knows the look—my mother gives him the same one, the wordless prompt—and he obeys.
“Rosemary. You may call me Papa.” There is a moment of silence, then Papa goes into the kitchen. Roberto looks at me and then at his wife. He goes to Rosemary and holds her tenderly. Even temperamental Roberto has a soft side; maybe he’s learning how to be a husband. I can see that my brother truly loves his wife, and that all these weeks of my whispering with Mama and worrying and praying for them were unnecessary. There is a real bond between my brother and his wife, the kind I hope to have someday. Roberto gives Rosemary his handkerchief, and she dries her tears.
I look at Rosemary and think that I could be her. I could be in Claudia DeMartino’s living room tonight begging to have some part of Christmas the Sartori way, maybe to put the crèche in the fireplace or the lights on the mantel like we do here, negotiating through Christmas as though it were a maze instead of a holiday. I’m sure she’d make me feel like an outsider. But I’m relieved not to be married, not to have to give this up. I want to be here, with my family.
“Where are the lights, Ro?” Roberto asks.
“Over there,” she says, pointing to a box near the base of the tree.
“Show me where you want them,” he says gently to his wife.
“You sure I look all right?” Mama asks me as she stands before my three-way mirror.
“Okay, how about, ‘You look gorgeous’?” She does. My mother has a beautiful shape. She is tall and broad-shouldered, and she has great legs. It’s hard to believe that she’s over fifty. It’s not only her figure, though; it’s her face that makes her stunning, her smile and her dark brown eyes, soft as sable.
“Thank you for making this for me,” she says. Ruth and I made the dress for Mama between commitments to finish luxurious gowns for the standard round of holiday parties attended by society matrons. I designed the off-the-shoulder blue velvet dress with a trumpet skirt and a long, slim silhouette, very Parisian. To finish the effect, Mama has pulled her hair into a chignon and wears a large cabochon brooch of faux sapphires and glittery Austrian crystals cinched on her waist. “Is this good enough for the McGuire Sisters?” she says as she twirls.
“They may have you come up onstage and model the dress.”
“You know, I heard them on the radio. On Kate Smith. And they were wonderful.”
“Now you’ll see them in person.” I give my dress a final once-over in the mirror and tell Mama, “Papa and Delmarr are waiting downstairs. Let’s go.”
Mama puts her arms around me and looks at our reflection in the mirror. “Lucia, thank you for this dress. And for everything. You always seem to know the right thing to say to me when I’m upset. You’re a good friend.”
“Mama, it’s easy. You’re my favorite girl.”
“When I first saw you, right after you were born, you weren’t blue and gray like the boys, and your face wasn’t smushed like an old apple. You were beautiful from the moment you breathed. You were a golden pink, and the line of your eyes as you slept curved up like a smile. You were calm and gentle. And I could see even then that you would grow up to be a great beauty.”
“Oh, Mama.” If I’m such a number, why do I have a platonic date on New Year’s Eve?
“No, no, I mean it. I knew you would surpass me in every way, and I wanted that. I prayed for that. And now you have.”
I thank Mama, and she picks up her purse to go. As I follow her down the stairs, I can’t help but think how deep the ties in my family are. I wonder if outsiders would find it odd that I like to socialize with my parents. Maybe there are families in which the laces are loose and there is room to consider your own feelings first. But my brothers and I weren’t raised that way. We are bound to one another. Maybe it’s an Italian trait, or maybe it’s the way things took form in our home, but there’s no way around it. This truth defines my life. And I’m not unhappy about it.
Delmarr rises from Papa’s easy chair and whistles, which makes Mama blush. “Mr. Sartori, we are the luckiest men in New York City.”
Papa takes Mama in his arms and kisses her. “Yes, we are.”
“Hey, we haven’t even had drinks yet,” Delmarr says with a grin. He looks at me. “You and I are chaperones for these two tonight. No funny business in the backseat. Dem are da rules.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Papa says.
“I can’t believe Lucia Sartori chose me for her escort tonight. Me, over all the suitors who leave notes on her desk and inquiries with the doorman at Altman’s! I know how privileged I am.”
“Oh, Delmarr, it is I who am honored.” I laugh.
“This is why we love you. All that beauty and still a streak of humility.” Delmarr takes my hand and opens the door. “Come, Cinderella, we’re off the the ball!”
As we drive uptown, the dark, winding streets of Greenwich Village give way to the bright, broad avenues of midtown. As happy as I am to be with my good friend Delmarr on this special night, I wish I were in love. This is the kind of evening I always dreamed of, and I know Dante would not have truly appreciated i
t. He would be as happy to sit on our stoop and toast the New Year with Papa’s grappa from a paper sack. I think about the handsome stranger and wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Does he ever think about me? I let myself believe that he might.
They still call the awning over the entrance to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel “the carriage stop,” even though it has been years since Park Avenue has seen a horse and buggy. Delmarr pulls up his black Buick sedan (it’s at least nine years old but in mint condition). One of several doormen races to the car and opens the door for me. I step out onto the sparkling sidewalk, which seems to have been poured with chips of diamonds in the cement. Delmarr comes around and takes my arm while the doorman helps Mama out of the backseat.
My parents join us on the sidewalk, and I check Papa’s tie, a gift from me, a soft silk in palest blue, cut a bit wider for evening wear. It matches the handkerchief in his pocket. It took me hours to roll the hem of the silk on that handkerchief, but it was worth it. He and Mama look spectacular.
We blend into the crowd. Women in lavish satin gowns of the season’s most popular colors—the muted shades of charcoal gray, rose, and chocolate brown—sashay through the doors on the arms of their escorts, handsome men turned out in tuxedos with starched white shirts and sprigs of green in their lapels. The chatter is sprinkled with laughter. As we climb the stairs to the lobby, a string quartet nestled on the landing underscores our entrance. This is what the society pages call uptown glamour: every detail is attended to, including the air itself, which is filled with music.
“Come, revelers. Let us all welcome 1951 with a bang and say good-bye to 1950 with a raspberry,” Delmarr says as we go through the gilded doors of the nightclub. The Club Room is packed; as many as eight people circle each small granite-topped table. In the low, smoky light, all I can see are orange cinders from cigarettes and pale shoulders leaning in to conversation. The scent of gardenias, orange blossoms, and rich tobacco lingers in the air as we are led to our table. And what a table! “Ringside,” Delmarr calls it. He and Papa hold the chairs for Mama and me. Then as they take their seats, Delmarr leans in and whispers, “Drink up. Tonight is on the house, courtesy of the McGuire Sisters.” Delmarr is in such a good mood, he hardly seems to mind that while the McGuire Sisters are onstage in his dresses, the papers will give credit to Hilda Cramer.
Lucia, Lucia Page 8
