As Madame retreated back down the stairs with the dress, Luciana’s question remained suspended in the air between them. Whose was it? And why had it never been worn?
That night, Annamaria came home to a celebration. “What’s happened, Mama?” She caught Mama Rossi’s arm as the woman danced around the small room, glass held high in an ongoing toast.
“It’s Theresa.”
“What about her?”
“She’s getting married!”
Married!? But . . . Theresa was so young. Younger than Annamaria, in any case. “To . . . ?”
“To Giovanni, of course!”
Giovanni Sardo? The one Annamaria was supposed to have kept her away from? “But she’s only seventeen!”
“And I was only fifteen when I married your papa.”
Fifteen. Seventeen. It made Annamaria feel old beyond her years at the age of twenty-two. As the eldest, it was true that no one would expect her to marry, but at the moment that expectation seemed patently unfair. Why should Theresa be able to marry? Why should Theresa be able to engender the good wishes of everyone in the family, while Annamaria was only given shirts with holes to be mended and dirtied plates to wash?
The thought that had been formed in the bowels of the basement began to pulse in her head. It wasn’t fair. And she would say something about it . . . just perhaps not tonight.
As she looked around at her family’s smiling faces, as she saw Theresa and Giovanni look at each other with such barefaced love, Annamaria’s scarf felt as if it were choking her. She loosened the knot. Pulled it off and flung it into the corner.
Papa Rossi handed her a glass.
She took it, raised it in Theresa’s direction. “Felicitazioni.”
Her sister smiled and then turned back toward Giovanni.
After that, no one else looked at Annamaria. No one turned to her and teased her about when it would be her turn. No one wondered when they would be raising a glass to her happiness. She took a sip from her glass. Normally, she liked the fruitiness of Papa Rossi’s wine, but that evening it seemed rather bitter.
She set her glass down on the table, took up her scarf, and tied it under her chin once more.
“Where are you going?” At least Mama had noticed her leaving.
“To get some tomatoes.”
“But we don’t need – ”
Too late. Annamaria had already gone.
Annamaria had meant to go to Zanfini’s. She even crossed the street. Rafaello saw her coming and retied his apron strings around his waist. But when it came time to actually enter the store, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t enter into that oasis of cucumbers and spinach. She couldn’t bear to look on him. On all the joy that was forever out of reach. Oh, she might be able to convince her family to free her from her obligations, or at least to lessen them, but she knew she would never be able to convince them to let her marry a Sicilian. Even as she heard herself think the word marriage, her cheeks flared with the audacity of such presumption.
So she walked on past while she cursed the day of her birth.
The day that had made her the eldest daughter in the Rossi family.
If only she’d been born second. If only she were her sister. If she were Theresa, she would be planning her wedding right now.
Right this minute. And she would have the privilege of wearing Madame’s beautiful gown.
Rafaello watched her pass. Saw the tears that marked her cheeks.
He bolted from the store.
Mr. Zanfini frowned. Followed him to yell out the door. “Rafaello! What about the figs!”
Rafaello didn’t even hear him. He jogged to catch up with Annamaria. Tapped her on the arm once he did.
She turned toward him. And then she turned away. Quick enough, she hoped, to keep him from seeing her tears.
But his hand reached out in front of her, offering a handkerchief. “Per favore.”
That he – of all people – should see her! Her shoulders convulsed in a despairing sob.
“Per favore. Let me help you.”
Help her? He was the problem. If only . . .
“What is it?”
She turned, handkerchief pressed to an eye. There was no point in pretending. “I wish . . . I wish I wasn’t me.”
“But if there wasn’t you, then who would I dream about?” He put a hand into the pocket of his apron and withdrew the flower that she had dropped all those days ago. Held it out to her.
“Rafaello! The figs!”
He sighed, took a step back, and yelled over his shoulder, “I’m coming!” His heart ached as he looked at her. He had no right to take her into his arms, and there was nothing more that he could say. And so he offered her the one last thing he had: He smiled. And then he turned to walk away.
But she reached out and plucked the sleeve of his shirt. When he turned, she gave the flower back to him. “It was meant for you.”
He looked down into her eyes. Took the flower from her.
Nodded. Placed it back into his pocket. And then he left.
He hadn’t spoken more than a few words, but he left her feeling cherished.
She pressed herself against a tenement wall, handkerchief clutched to her chest as a group of children skipped past. Stepped down into the street to avoid a dog who was snuffling through garbage.
If only . . . if only she could be free.
Maybe if Papa had more money. Maybe if he could finally buy the apartment. Or even a house. If he owned a house, then maybe they wouldn’t depend upon her so much. They wouldn’t need the money her job provided. And maybe, if they could stop working so hard, it would make it easier for some of the others to give Mama a hand now and then. Then Annamaria would have the freedom to . . . why . . . do anything!
That’s what money bought. It bought freedom. Money in quantities like that strega, Mrs. Quinn, had. To think that she could afford to attach real jewels to her gowns the way Annamaria had attached money to the statue of Saint Marciano at the festa! Imagine that. Imagine what a small fortune a pile of jewels like that would bring. Such wonderful freedom.
She could pay someone else to perform her duties.
And maybe then, if Papa and Mama could meet Rafaello, they would see that he wasn’t such a Sicilian after all.
When Annamaria returned to the apartment, Mama and Theresa pounced on her.
“You have to help me with my dress!”
“You need to help Theresa with her dress.”
Annamaria blinked. What dress? Hadn’t she just finished mending Vittorio’s shirt and undoing the hem on Stefano’s trousers? There hadn’t been a dress in the pile. In fact, Theresa didn’t even own a dress. “What dress?”
“My wedding dress! Annamaria, you have to help me. You know I’m no good at sewing.”
Her wedding . . . “I can’t.” I won’t. You know as well as I do, that’s what she really wanted to say.
“Of course you can. That’s all you do all day at that fancy shop where you work.”
“I do smocking, not sewing.”
“I want something beautiful, something . . . well, something white, of course. You’ll make it for me, won’t you, Annamaria? I was thinking, if you could find some lace? And some pretty rosettes for the skirt?”
Annamaria stood there listening to Theresa babble, and it came to her that this is what her life would be like if she didn’t do anything to change it. She would forever be told what everyone else wanted and how it was that she should meet those demands. And she decided right then that she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“I was thinking that I might get married myself someday soon and that you and the boys would be able to help take care of Mama and Papa.”
“Wha-at?”
“As they get older. When it comes time.”
“Married?” Mama stared at her, slack-jawed.
“You?” Theresa was looking at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns.
Mama, having realized what Annamaria must be ta
lking about, was all smiles. “Married once we’ve passed, Papa and I. Of course you’d get married then, though you can’t blame me if I hope it’s not too soon in coming.”
“What did you mean, ‘help’ you?” Theresa had taken a step away from her sister.
“What I meant was that if we all work together at taking care of our family, then no one person would have to do it all alone.”
Mama and Theresa glanced at each other, and then they turned to stare at her.
“I wouldn’t have to do it all alone.” There. She’d said it. And what a very great relief that had been. Of course she shouldn’t have to do it all alone. Why had she been suffering so long in silence when it had been that easy to make everyone understand?
“But – you mean – you want me to help – you?” Theresa turned toward Mama Rossi. “She can’t do that, can she? Just completely refuse to take care of you? Giovanni wouldn’t marry me if he thought we’d have to take care of you. And Papa.”
“Hush now.” Mama patted Theresa on the arm. Then she turned toward Annamaria. “Stop your foolish talk. Don’t you love your sister?”
“Of course I love her!” As much as anyone could love a self-absorbed, selfish seventeen-year-old girl.
“Do you want her to get married in that old blouse and skirt?
Because that’s what she’ll have to do. If you don’t help her.”
“Of course not!”
“Do you really want people to think the Rossis aren’t as good as the Sardos?”
“I didn’t mean – ”
“Good! We knew you’d do it.”
“I can’t – ”
“Of course you can.” Mama leaned close. “And anything you do will be much better than Theresa could do by herself.” Mama winked as she nodded. She kissed Annamaria on the cheek. “You’re such a good girl.” She took Theresa by the hand and moved to join the others.
“I can’t. And I won’t. If Theresa wants a dress, then you and she will have to make it yourselves. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the time.” Or the inclination.
As Mama and Theresa stood there, mouths open, Annamaria stepped past them and went to join the rest of the family.
24
While Annamaria had been climbing the stairs to the Rossi apartment, Julietta was attending a meeting with Angelo. She’d been buoyed beyond relief when he had waved to her that morning near Zanfini’s. Thankfully, he hadn’t mentioned one word about their time in his shack. Or her neck, though it might have been nice to have been given an apology. Her toes still curled with shame.
She wasn’t quite sure what to think of herself. Or of him.
He’d crossed the street when he’d seen her that morning and told her he wanted to introduce her to his friends. Not that he’d said it in quite those words. He’d urged her to attend an important meeting about the problem of the capitalists and the solution to the war.
An important meeting.
She imagined she knew what that would involve: sharing a stolen moment out behind the Sons of Avellino Hall. Watching while the boys played morra down in the alley. Even bystanding while a game of bocce ball was being played. She was amenable to any of those.
But it turned out that Angelo’s meeting truly was a meeting. And those friends of his! They were taking turns yelling at each other, eyes lit with an enthusiasm, a nearly religious zeal, that Julietta didn’t understand. It wasn’t money they were after. Julietta would have sympathized with that. Applauded it, even. There were such lovely, lovely things that money could buy.
But these people seemed to despise such vain pursuits.
She wished she could think of something clever to say. It wasn’t in her nature to sit quietly in a room, letting everyone else have all the attention. They were speaking of capitalists, in a tone of voice that Mama Giordano usually reserved for the Settlement House ladies. And they seemed to be equally disdainful of the rich as they were of the poor – the people who did not have to work for their living and those who did. Which left Julietta feeling just a little bit confused. If they didn’t want to work for a living and they didn’t want to be rich, then what, exactly, did they want?
All the talk, all the shouting, the complaining, reminded her of Little Matteo when he was sulking. He didn’t want this thing and he didn’t want that thing; he didn’t really want to be made happy at all. He just wanted to enjoy his fit of bad temper. And if he could kick somebody in the shins as he did so, all the better.
No. She really didn’t understand it at all.
When they’d first come, before all the people had started in about politics, everyone had seemed very sociable. Quite friendly. There were several seamstresses from shops on Hanover Street. Another deliveryman, like Angelo. Several fellows who worked at the paving yard. Some university students. And one they called Pick. A pick and shovel man, probably. Like half the immigrants in the North End.
It was with no little regret that she marked the passing of time as the meeting went on and on. And on. She tried to concentrate on what they were all saying, talking over one another and beating the table with their fists now and then. She might not have understood exactly what it was they were hoping to accomplish, but one thing was certain the longer she listened: They hated the rich with a much greater passion than they despised the poor. And there, she could agree with them. For in her experience, the rich were those like Mrs. Quinn, who came into Madame’s shop and barked orders at everyone. And a second thing was certain as well: Angelo was held in high regard by most of them for the access he had to his employer’s truck. And for something he’d done back in Roma before he’d emigrated.
She looked over at him, struck once again by the beauty in the raw planes of his face. By the passion in his eyes. As he sat there, intent upon the words of the speaker, listening with such active concentration, he fairly glowed with righteous indignation. And if she heard him say words like destruction and bloodshed as he talked, she was able to convince herself that he really didn’t mean them.
“Down with tyranny! Long live the revolution!”
“What did you think of the meeting?” There’s nothing Angelo would have liked better than to have pulled Julietta into his arms, then and there. But he’d arranged to do some business with his anarchist friends, and he didn’t have the time right then.
Julietta shrugged. Smiled. It wouldn’t do to tell him what she really thought, and so she said nothing at all.
“I can’t stand all those rich people parading about town with their fancy clothes and all their money and lists of rules. This is America. The Land of Plenty. Plenty of miseria, I’d say!”
“Not that much miseria. My papa owns our apartment. He never did in Avellino.”
“Your papa ought to own a house! All of us ought to. But the government is against us. Can’t you see how they’re trying to oppress us? So many have so much, but even more – even worse – so many have so little. And you can see how very little those who have so much have done for the rest of us. They scoff and despise.”
They? Surely he wasn’t talking about actual people. She sent him a sharp glance, but she didn’t see in him anything different than she always had. Anything more than his glittering dark eyes, thick curly hair, and full sensuous lips. And in any case, Julietta didn’t consider herself poor, not by any means . . . though were she to come into extra money, she knew what she would do with it.
She did know something about oppression, though. And the excesses of the wealthy. “There was a rich lady, come into the shop just the other day. She came with a bag filled with jewels. All colors and sizes! And left it for Madame to sew onto her clothes. As if she wanted to be a piece of jewelry herself. Can you imagine!”
“A bag of jewels?” He slid a glance toward her. A whole bag?
That was unlikely.
“A whole bag. With . . .” What had Madame called them?
“Rubies and garnets and the blue ones . . .” What had Luciana called them? “Sapphires. She’s a real str
ega, that woman!”
“They’re all stregas. All the rich ones. How else could they contrive to keep all that money to themselves? But does she always do that? The shop owner, I mean. Keep her clients’ jewels?” Angelo despised the rich, just as much as his friends did, but he was willing to admit that it took money to finance a revolution. And he was able to appreciate the irony of exacting that money from the very people he was fighting against.
“No. No! She was upset about it. One of the girls said Madame had tried to talk the woman out of it, but the strega wouldn’t be persuaded. You know how the rich are. Anyway . . .” She linked an arm through his.
As you’ve probably suspected, Julietta didn’t know how the rich were any more than she knew how Americans were. But she was done talking about the shop. She wanted to talk about Angelo. And the next time they might be able to see each other.
Luciana had stopped by the grocer’s on her way home from work. She had finally been able to stop asking Madame for an advance on her pay. That meant she could bring home something more than just bread and cheese for dinner.
To her mind, if trouble were to find her in a store, it would be better than finding her on the street. For at least then she would have the chance to ask someone for help. So she took her time selecting a bottle of milk for the contessa and two eggs for their breakfast. She asked the grocer to measure out four ounces of a tube-shaped maccheroni. She hadn’t tried cooking noodles before, but she didn’t suppose they would be so very difficult to make. She’d seen the grocer weigh piles of them for customers before. She went into the frutta e verdura on her street as well and bought a zucchini and a handful of greens.
Laden with packages, she entered her building and walked up the flights of stairs. She stepped around a pile of refuse in the hallway, then paused to lean the bottle of milk against her thigh as she turned the key in the lock. Setting her packages on the sideboard, she slipped off her scarf and went to greet the contessa.
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