Lucia, Lucia

by Adriana Trigiani

  “Lucia!” Mama calls up the stairs.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Can you stop at the Groceria on your way to work?”

  I grab my purse. Downstairs, Mama has prepared the bank envelope. “Bring this to Papa and let him go over the figures. The caterer sent a list of hors d’oeuvres you need to look at for the reception. How’s Delmarr doing on your dress?”

  “Fine, Mama. How many responses have we gotten?”

  “We’re going to have around three hundred when all’s said and done,” Mama says. “Where are you having the gifts sent?”

  “Out to Huntington.”

  “How’s the house coming?”

  “I haven’t seen it, Mama. John wants to surprise me. We’ll stay there on our wedding night.”

  “As it should be,” Mama says proudly. Thank God she never asks me anything else about my wedding night. Then I’d have two sins on my hands: mortal (making love) and venial (lying about it).

  When I arrive at the Groceria, Papa is hanging wheels of Parmesan cheese from the ceiling like a mobile. “Now, that’s original,” I say.

  “Where do you think you get your talent?” He smiles.

  “Have you gone to rent your tuxedo yet?”

  “Nope.” He walks over to the register, and I follow.

  “The boys all have their tuxedos. The least you can do—”

  “Is show up and give away the most beautiful girl in Greenwich Village.” As he methodically places the change in the drawer, he assures me, “I know my role. Your mother goes over it with me every night. She wants the best wedding anyone has ever seen. Finally, one of her children is having a Mariani-style Italian wedding. You know the Barese, they go for the glitz.”

  “Papa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t give me any money when I get married. The reception is enough of an expense. Okay?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I want you and Mama to take care of yourselves. I want you to rest.”

  He closes the register, comes around the counter, and kisses the top of my head. “Sure. Sure.”

  “I mean it,” I tell Papa firmly.

  “Go to work,” he tells me as he picks up a crate of tomatoes and goes to create his next display.

  I walk through the store and wave good-bye to Angelo, who is pouring ice chips on the fresh fish. I’m about halfway up the block when he comes running after me, calling my name.

  “Lucia, come back! Something’s wrong with Pop.”

  When I get back to the Groceria, Papa is sitting on a stool. Roberto is trying to give him a cup of water. “Please, Pop. Drink it,” Roberto pleads.

  “Let me see.” I lift Papa’s head and look into his eyes. “You’re going to Saint Vincent’s.”

  “The hospital? Ba!” he says.

  “You’re going. And right now,” I order him. Papa’s color is terrible. He hasn’t looked this bad since he fainted in Italy.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Hopefully not, but if there is, we’re going to make it better.”

  Roberto goes for the truck while Angelo and I wait with Pop. “I wish you wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it,” Papa says to me.

  “Papa, if anything happened to you, I would die,” I say, kneeling beside my father and holding him in my arms.

  The worst part of calling home with bad news is that Mama drops the phone, and then you’re never sure if she heard it all, and if she did, whether she’s all right or in a state of shock. When I tell her Papa is in a room at Saint Vincent’s, she drops the phone but picks it back up quickly. She isn’t that surprised. She told him his color was poor at breakfast, but he disregarded her completely.

  By the time Mama gets to the hospital, she is calm. “Antonio, you’ve got to take better care of yourself.” She stands beside his bed and holds his hand.

  Dr. Bobby Goldstein, a heart specialist, joins us in Papa’s room. He is lanky and young, with a kind face. “Mr. Sartori, I’ve been to your market many times.” Papa beams. “The best prosciutto in New York City, in my opinion.”

  “Make my husband better, and you get free prosciutto for the rest of your life,” Mama says.

  “My wife, always giving away the store,” Papa jokes, squeezing Mama’s hand. Then he looks at the doctor with a serious expression. “You want to tell us what’s wrong with me?”

  “The good news is that you didn’t have a heart attack,” says Dr. Goldstein.

  “And what’s the bad news?”

  “We’re not sure exactly what happened to you.”

  Angelo speaks up. “Doc, Pop was lifting a case of crushed tomatoes when he passed out. Could that have anything to do with it?”

  “It could.” The doctor smiles. “In the meantime, we want to run some more tests.”

  “Is there anything Papa can do to make things better?” I ask.

  “No lifting. No stress. And in terms of diet—”

  “I know all about it: give up butter and eggs and Manhattans.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “One cigarette after dinner. That’s all. Never during the day.”

  “If you were well, I’d say one won’t kill you. But you should stop altogether.”

  “I’m throwing out those cigarettes!” Mama says.

  “Your days of strenuous labor are over. No loading or unloading trucks; no lifting, period. I want you to walk about a half mile a day, but no more. And I’d like you to follow this diet. It may seem bland at first, but in time you won’t even miss your old way of eating. We’ll need you to stop by for a heart monitor once a month.”

  “Give up food, work, smoking, and spare time. Anything else, Doc?”

  “A good attitude would be helpful. We’re going to keep you overnight to do some more tests.”

  When Dr. Goldstein leaves the room, we try to perk up Papa’s spirits. He laughs with us, but I can tell that he’s frightened. It’s devastating to see the leader of your family full of fear.

  “We’re going to follow the doctor’s instructions exactly,” Mama declares.

  “Who wants to live like that?” Papa says.

  “You do! You want to live, Antonio Sartori, and don’t you forget it!” Mama kisses him and lets her cheek rest against his.

  “Okay, okay,” he tells her. “I’ll eat the cottage cheese and lettuce for the rest of my life. Soon I’ll grow ears and be a rabbit.”

  Mama stands up straight and says sternly but tenderly, “I don’t care what you turn into as long as you’re here and healthy.”

  Rosemary has thrown herself into my wedding plans like a genuine comare. She’s put herself in charge of the favors for the guests, traditional Italian confetti, tiny net bags of candy almonds. She tied each little bundle with a lace bow; how delicate they look lined up in an open box in the living room. Not to be outdone, Mama’s cousins in Brooklyn have made cookie platters for each table. Mama cleared her pantry next to the kitchen and filled every shelf with round platters of baked delicacies—apricot cookies; coconut drops iced in pink butter-cream frosting; fig and date bars stacked in pyramids, wrapped in cellophane, and tied with crisp white satin bows. Whenever Mama opens the pantry door, we get a blast of sweet vanilla, cocoa, and lemon sugar through the living room. It reminds me of Christmas. Mama bakes whenever there’s something to celebrate.

  “I don’t know if you’ll like this, but it’s something we always did in Brooklyn,” Ro says, lifting a beautiful bride doll out of a box. The doll is sitting in a pool of lace with a long tulle veil. Her eyes blink when Rosemary moves her; her lips are hot pink, and she has a mole drawn on her chin. “See, we put her on the lead car.” I must have a puzzled expression, because Ro sounds a little exasperated as she goes on. “We’ll tape her right to the hood ornament of John’s Packard.”

  “It’s cute,” I tell her, forcing a smile of approval. My Venetian side comes out. I prefer simple adornment. Dolls on cars are pure Neapolitan.

 
“I knew you’d love it.” Rosemary pulls another doll out of the box. This one is dressed in caramel satin, like my bridesmaids, Ruth, Violet, and the doll woman herself, Rosemary. “This is for the attendants’ car.” Ro looks at me hopefully.

  “Did you make those doll dresses?” I ask her.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re pretty. Nice trim work on the lace. Strap her on the second car.” Rosemary looks relieved. “And thank you. You’ve worked so hard on this wedding, and I want you to know that I appreciate it.” I give her a big hug.

  “Thank you, Lu. You’ve been so good to me.” Rosemary turns away.

  “What’s the matter?” But there’s no need to ask. “It’s Maria Grace, isn’t it?”

  Rosemary fusses with the bride doll, straightening the veil and smoothing the skirts. “I’m having another baby. But keep it a secret. I haven’t told Roberto yet. I’m waiting until after your wedding.”

  I hold her tightly. “Congratulations. Maria Grace will be the baby’s guardian angel.”

  She brushes away a tear. “You know, besides Roberto and our parents, you were the only family who ever held her.”

  “I know. And I’ll never forget what she felt like in my arms.” Sometimes I think about the baby, how sweet she smelled and how easily she fit in the crook of my arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Roberto asks as he comes in and drops the boxes of programs on the front bench.

  “Nothing,” I tell him. “What’s a wedding without a crying jag? Best man, have you picked up the rings?”

  “I have it under control.”

  “Where’s the bachelor dinner?”

  “The Vesuvio. Where else? That fiancé of yours thinks it’s the only restaurant in New York City. Of course, they treat him like a king over there. That’s all right. The food is good.”

  “We’re home!” Mama shouts from the hallway. She and Papa are home from his follow-up visit with the doctor. Rosemary, Roberto, and I rush to the entry hall.

  “What did the doctor say, Pop?” Roberto asks.

  “You’re looking at a healthy man. My heart is strong. That caveman diet your mama has me on is working.”

  “Thank God!” I throw my arms around my parents. “I knew you’d be fine if you listened to the doctors.”

  “I’m going to put on some tea,” Mama says, and smiles.

  Papa and Roberto follow her into the kitchen. “Thank God,” Rosemary says to me. “Now you’ll have a happy wedding day.”

  “It’s the day before your wedding, Mrs. Talbot. Any wish you have, I will grant,” John says as I stand on the stoop. He reaches for my hand. It occurs to me that this is the last time he will call for me here at my parents’ house. It’s the last day that 45 Commerce Street will be my home.

  “I know it’s against the rules,” I begin.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I want to go to our house.”

  “Hmmm.” John thinks. “Is that what you really want?”

  “Yes! I’m dying to see it!”

  “Let’s go, then,” he says, pulling me close.

  John and I don’t say much as we speed along the highway to Huntington. As we turn onto the road to the Cascades housing development, I lean over and kiss the man who, this time tomorrow, will be my husband. Suddenly, I don’t want to see my house.

  “Turn around,” I tell him.

  “What?” John brakes and pulls over.

  “Let’s go back to the city.”

  “I thought you wanted to see the house.”

  “You’ve worked so hard on it. Let’s stick with our plan.” John’s intention was for me to see the house for the first time on our wedding night. I want to save something special for tomorrow night. I don’t want to ruin the surprise for him, or for myself.

  “Are you sure?” John raises his eyebrows.

  “Absolutely,” I tell him.

  John makes a U-turn and gets back on the highway. I look over at his profile, studying every detail as though it were a pattern for a garment. Each feature has beauty and definition: the straight nose, the strong chin, the square jawline, the clear forehead. It’s the face of a man without a worry in the world. I catch myself imagining the faces of our children, hoping our daughter will inherit those long black eyelashes and that our son will have that sweet smile. I’ve almost changed my mind about having a baby. I think I would like to have something only John and I could create together.

  “You made the right decision.” John seems pleased.

  “I did?”

  “You need to have some surprises in this lifetime,” he says. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  I turn on the radio, and as I search through the static for music, I look up and see Manhattan stretching before us—my home, the city where I was born, the place where I’ve spent twenty-six happy years. I never thought I’d leave, never thought I’d say good-bye to Commerce Street. But now I have to. I want to. I’m going to begin a new life with my husband.

  Delmarr is surprised when he sees my bedroom. “You are an Italian princess. What a room! It’s bigger than my apartment. If I were you, I’d just move Talbot in here. What do you want to go all the way out to Hauppauge for?”

  “Huntington.”

  Delmarr makes his way to the back window overlooking the garden. “Whatever. It’s still the suburbs. You ever live in the suburbs?” I shake my head. “The ‘sub’ is in there for a reason. Subtract excitement from your life and replace it with boredom.”

  “I could never be bored with a view of the ocean.”

  “You’ll see.”

  Ruth, who’s lived in elevator buildings all her life, huffs and puffs through my doorway. “Every time I climb those stairs, I understand why you’re so slim.” She lays her dress bag over a chair and plops down on my bed. I examine her slacks and sneakers. “Don’t worry,” she says. “All I have to do is jump into my dress.” She sits up. “Your hair is amazing!”

  “Mama put it up,” I say. She did a beautiful job. We copied a high chignon out of Vogue, then Mama anchored John’s tiara around it.

  “You look stunning,” Ruth says.

  “Well, homeliness was never this girl’s problem,” Delmarr says. “The Talbot family won’t know what hit them.”

  “John has no family. There’s only his mother, and she’s too sick to come. But he’ll have my big Italian family soon enough.”

  “All right, let’s get you into your getup.” Delmarr removes the muslin balloon from my gown. I have never seen a more beautiful dress. It’s a sculptured ball gown, strapless, with a fitted bodice. Delmarr designed a series of tucks under the waist that leads to sweeping flounces attaching over the bustle with a single button.

  “My God, it looks like it’s made out of cotton candy,” Ruth marvels.

  “Straight from the runways of Paris,” Delmarr says proudly.

  “Here are the gloves.” Ruth hands me long white satin evening gloves.

  “Remember, as the day grows longer—” Delmarr begins.

  “So do her gloves!” we all finish in unison.

  “Okay, where’s my matching bolero for the church? No priest has seen a woman’s arms since the Crusades.”

  “Lu, I didn’t make the bolero,” Delmarr answers.

  “Oh God, no. I don’t have anything that will go with this gown, and I can’t go sleeveless!” I’m about to cry when Delmarr grins.

  “This is my gift.” From the muslin sack Delmarr pulls a floor-length white satin evening coat with a portrait collar. The deep sleeves have wide cuffs covered in tiny seed pearls nestled amid beads that shimmer like pavé diamonds. “No girl from B. Altman’s Custom Department is going to get married in a tacky bolero.”

  Like a queen, I put on the dress and Delmarr’s coat, this royal robe, and descend the stairs. Papa sees me as I turn the corner of the first landing to greet him in the foyer.

  “Stai contenta,” he says to me, taking my hands.

  “Oh, Papa. I am happy.” I ha
ve never said a truer thing in my life.

  I wanted to walk to Our Lady of Pompeii, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. “The hem of your dress will be black in half a block!” So we ride over in Papa’s car, with the bridesmaids following in Roberto’s car, complete with the doll in the caramel taffeta dress on the hood. Roberto gave John the bride doll for his car last night. The thought of him taping a doll to the hood of his car makes me chuckle.

  I peek into the church to see how well it accommodates our three hundred guests. Every pew is practically full. The pew markers, bouquets of white carnations and miniature pink roses tied with caramel-colored satin bows, look lovely. I breathe in the smell of incense, Chanel No. 5 (evidently the perfume of choice for my cousins from Brooklyn), and beeswax from the tall candles surrounding the altar.

  Helen Gannon, ready to have baby Gannon at any moment, turns and winks at me from the end of her pew. She is wearing a fuchsia satin swing coat, a glorious contrast with her red hair. It’s a wonderful feeling to see everyone you know and love under one roof for the happiest day of your life.

  “The priest said to wait in the baptistry,” Ruth says. “As if a Jewish girl would have any idea where the baptistry is.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll go in a second.”

  I kiss Mama and Papa and wave to Exodus and Orsola. They’ve been home nearly a week, but I’ve hardly seen them because I’ve been so busy tending to last-minute details.

  “Come on, Lucia. You’re supposed to be in hiding,” Ruth chides me.

  She and I join Violet and Rosemary in the room off the vestibule. There is a waist-high marble font for baptizing babies under the stained-glass window. A large statue of Saint Michael, patron saint of the angels, carrying a sword and shield, stands in the corner. “Rugged,” Ruth comments as she looks him up and down.

  She busies herself fussing with my hem while Violet smears on another layer of lipstick. “I’m getting so many good ideas for my wedding,” Violet says earnestly. “I wonder if Presbyterians use pew markers.”