Hope's Angel

by Fifield, Rosemary

“So, how come he’s not already married?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s been traveling a lot, after he left the seminary. He said he thought being a priest was what he wanted, but then when he started having doubts, he didn’t think it was right to stay, so he left to try to get his head together. He went down south and did some charity work and stuff, but then when the race riots started after Martin Luther King died, he got out of there. He’s from around Boston, but he doesn’t really want to go back there to live either. So he went to St. Johnsbury.”

  Gianna’s lengthy soliloquy delivered with unabashed enthusiasm made Connie smile. “What does he do in St. Johnsbury?”

  “He works at the museum. He’s a history and nature buff, and he also knows a lot about engineering, so they hired him to set up exhibits and do maintenance and stuff.”

  “At Fairbanks?” Connie smiled to herself, remembering her conversation with Angie.

  “Yeah, at Fairbanks. He wants to take me there next weekend and show me what he does.”

  “That’s great, Gigi. I hope you go.”

  “But what about Mamma and Papa? And Nonna?” Gianna glanced toward the living room where Aunt Lucretia could be heard calling Connie’s name. “What about her? You know how prejudiced she is.”

  “She’s prejudiced against anybody who’s not Italian.” Connie dismissed her aunt’s opinion with a wave of her hand. “She has nothing to say about us. Nonna, I’m not sure about. And maybe Mamma and Papa will surprise us. Who knows? But you need to do what you want to do. It’s your life.”

  “Yeah, that’s easy to say to someone else.” Gianna tilted her head toward the living room. “She’s calling you.”

  Connie went into the living room. Her aunt needed her cane and some assistance getting out of her chair so she could go to the bathroom. Connie helped her, then started back toward the kitchen. As she passed the sofa, her eyes rested for a moment on the Bible beside it.

  Gianna was seated at the kitchen table, staring at her own fingertips as they nervously tapped the tabletop.

  “Gi, do you remember when the twins were born?”

  “November, 1952.”

  “No, I mean, do you remember anything about it?”

  Gianna’s voice was listless. “Not much. I remember the doctor made Ma stay in bed before they were born, and Nonna came from Pittsburgh to take care of us.”

  “That must have been hard on Ma and Pa, having another baby die.”

  Gianna’s disinterest in the subject was palpable. “I suppose. I don’t know. That whole thing’s kind of a blur.”

  “So, you don’t remember anything?”

  “I remember burying Lucia. And I remember how crazy you were about Angie. I thought you’d be jealous, but you weren’t.”

  “I wish I could remember more.” Connie tilted her head and frowned, trying to sharpen the foggy picture in her mind. “I remember being sent away for a while… weren’t we sent away? To stay with Aunt Mariana or somebody while Ma was in labor?”

  “Yeah, Nonna sent us away. She delivered the babies. We spent the night with Aunt Mariana and Uncle Phil. Teresa was like twelve or something, and she was mean. I remember her telling you to stop crying for your mamma, that you weren’t going to be the baby anymore, and you’d better grow up.” Gianna turned her face toward Connie. “Why?”

  “Well, I was looking at this Bible in the living room, and it’s got a family tree with everybody on it, and Angie’s name doesn’t fit.”

  Gianna gave Connie a look of exasperation, as if she were being purposely obtuse. “That’s because her name isn’t really Angie. You’re the one who insisted on calling her Angela.”

  “No, I’m talking about her real name. Nobody in the family is named Hope. Hope isn’t even a saint’s name. Did you ever hear of a St. Hope? Catholics have to have saints’ names.”

  Gianna shook her head as she rose to her feet. “Maybe Faith, Hope, and Charity don’t count.” She turned toward the back door, obviously distracted by her own concerns. “Connie, how am I going to tell Ma and Pa about David?”

  “You’ll have to just tell them. They’re going to want to meet him before they let you go out. You can’t let them be surprised when he shows up. That could be awful.”

  “What if they say no?” Gianna chewed on her lower lip; she looked like she was about to cry.

  “Then you have to make a decision about how you want to live your life.”

  “You mean, like you? Like the guy you want to ride with to UVM, but he has to meet Papa first? Why don’t you just tell them you’re going to ride with him, and that’s that?”

  “I just might.”

  “Yeah, when hell freezes over.”

  Aunt Lucretia was calling from the bathroom. Connie went to help her, and when she returned to the kitchen, Gianna had left the duplex.

  ***

  Nonna came home forty-five minutes later, ready for a nap of her own, and Connie hurried back to her house. She found Gianna in the store’s fenced-in backyard, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless top, stretched out on a chaise lounge in the late afternoon sun. Her eyes were closed, her face impassive. Her dark hair was curled around her head once more.

  Connie settled into a webbed chair beside her. “Have you talked to Ma and Pa yet?”

  Gianna spoke without opening her eyes. “Mrs. Conti was inside, having coffee with Mamma when I got home. I haven’t seen Papa.”

  Connie slid lower in the chair, turned her face toward the sky, and closed her eyes. She had no idea how her parents would react to Gianna seeing a black guy. On the one hand, they never said anything derogatory about people of other races. On the other hand, Mamma’s reaction to Connie riding with Greg Fairchild, an unknown from across town, had been immediate and negative.

  Greg Fairchild. The probability of commuting with him to UVM was pretty remote. He lived too far away for her to casually bump into him on the street and talk about it. Calling his house seemed too forward; she didn’t know him that well. She would have to drive herself at first, and if they bumped into each other on campus, they could explore the possibility then—or not.

  A shadow cut off the sunlight warming Connie’s face, and Mamma’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m making manicotti for supper. I need help.”

  Connie and Gianna left their places in the sun and followed her up the stairs to the kitchen. The smell of freshly made marinara sauce hung in the air. Papa sat in the living room, watching his favorite TV program, Victory at Sea; Angie had yet to come home.

  Connie mixed the ricotta, grated cheese, and eggs to make the filling, while Gianna helped Mamma roll out the pasta dough that waited in a bowl on the table. When Papa’s program ended, he came into the kitchen to sit at the table while the women assembled the stuffed pasta tubes.

  “Tell us about the young man you met,” Mamma said to Gianna. “How was he?”

  Gianna kept her eyes on the filling she was spreading over the dough with the back of a spoon. “He was nice.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “David Thomas.”

  Mamma nodded. “That doesn’t sound Italian.”

  “It’s not. Is that important?”

  “Not so much.” Mamma looked at Papa to gauge his expression. “We are in America, right? These things can happen.”

  Papa nodded silently; he was on the verge of falling asleep in his chair. Gianna kept her attention on the manicotti.

  “You don’t say much,” Mamma persisted. “You don’t like him?”

  Gianna set down her spoon and proceeded to roll the dough into a tube. “Actually, I do. He’s very nice. He seems like … he’d be a good person to know.”

  “Then, why the long face? He doesn’t ask to see you again?”

  Connie watched Gianna press her lips together and draw in a long breath. “Not exactly,” Gianna said. “But he might. He talked about showing me where he works, at the natural history museum in St. Johnsbury.”

  Mamma smiled and reach
ed out to rest her floury hand on Gianna’s arm. “Then, this is good, right? You would go?”

  Gianna met Connie’s eyes across the table before turning her gaze on her mother. “I‘d like to.”

  Mamma made a quizzical face and pulled her shoulders up to her ears. “So?”

  “There’s something about him you need to know,” Gianna said.

  Mamma’s shoulders dropped, and her expressive eyes widened dramatically. “He’s not Catholic.”

  “Mamma, he was going to be a priest,” Gianna said with a frown.

  Mamma’s jaw dropped. “He’s married before.”

  Gianna let out a sigh of frustration. “No, Ma, he’s black.”

  Papa’s head come up; he was no longer asleep.

  “What does it mean, black?” Mamma asked Gianna.

  “He’s Afro-American. Un uomo di colore.”

  Mamma sat silently staring at her, her eyes unblinking, her expression stunned.

  Connie’s gaze shifted from her mother to her father. Papa was combing his bushy mustache with the fingers of one hand, his face solemn as he watched Gianna.

  Gianna looked at Mamma and then Papa. “Somebody say something, okay?”

  Papa spoke in Italian. “This is not a good thing, Gianna.”

  Gianna’s expression hardened. “Why? What have you got against black people?”

  “What do I have against black people?” Papa’s soft brown eyes concentrated on her face. “This is not about me. What do you think those riots are about that are happening right now in this country? Black people against white people. The races don’t mix.”

  “That’s not happening here. This is Vermont.”

  “This is Vermont.” Papa’s forehead creasing into a frown. “What does that mean?”

  To Connie’s surprise, Gianna held her ground. “People here don’t care about color. They let other people be. They mind their own business.”

  “Is that so? How many black people do you know here in this town? How many went to your school?”

  Gianna flinched. “None.”

  “How many went to your university?” Papa asked.

  “None.”

  “How many do you think live in this state?”

  Gianna’s gaze came up to meet Connie’s once more, then shifted away as she said, “Not many.”

  Papa leaned toward her. “Then how do you know what Vermont people think about black people?”

  “I just know that Vermont is different,” Gianna said quietly.

  Papa’s frown deepened. “Vermont is different?” He shook his head, his face heavy with sadness. “Gianna, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Why?” Gianna’s voice broke. “Are you going to tell me that people here discriminate against us for being Italian? Because I don’t see it.”

  “You don’t see a lot of things, Gianna,” Papa said sternly. “But if you think Vermont is different, I’m telling you that isn’t true. In fact, it’s just the opposite.”

  “Papa,” Connie broke in, “can we forget about what other people think? What about you and Mamma? Are you against her seeing him or not?”

  Papa’s gaze remained on Gianna. “I am against my daughter experiencing pain that can be avoided. There is enough pain in life that we cannot avoid.”

  “If she wants to see him anyway, would you stop her?”

  Papa sat silent for a long moment, still watching Gianna. She stared at the tabletop between them, her complexion ashen.

  Papa’s voice made his decision clear. “I will not allow it.”

  Connie would have bolted from the table in protest were she in Gianna’s place, but Gianna did not leave. Her eyebrows knit together in a moment of pain, then her face took on a vacancy that said she had prepared herself for this. Connie knew her well enough to know what she was thinking. Any optimism she may have harbored had quietly drained away. Gianna would take a stoic approach. Life would go on as it had before she met David Thomas.

  Connie silently cursed Father Ianelli for his thoughtlessness, but she didn’t blame Papa. Too much misery haunted Papa’s eyes as he watched his eldest retreat into herself. He hadn’t made this decision lightly nor had he made it out of personal prejudice. Connie wasn’t sure why, but he seemed to believe he was protecting Gianna from a true threat.

  Mamma rose from the table and began to clear the bowls and utensils from the workspace, keeping her own counsel as she moved back and forth between the sink and the table. A suffocating silence filled the small kitchen. Connie carried the pan of manicotti to the stove and ladled sauce over the top of the pasta, then covered the pan, opened the oven door, and slid the pan into the hot oven. When she turned back to the table after closing the oven door, neither Papa nor Gianna was in sight.

  Angie came home an hour later, a few minutes before the manicotti was ready to be taken from the oven. She came through the back door with her head down, greeted Mamma and Papa with kisses on their cheeks, then disappeared into her bedroom at the back of the house without speaking to anyone. Connie was about to follow her, to warn her not to question Gianna about her “date,” when Mamma caught Connie’s arm and stopped her in mid-stride. Mamma’s face stern as she silently shook her head.

  Connie turned back toward the kitchen with an exasperated sigh. She was used to high drama—God knew she contributed her share—but she hated secrets and being left in the dark. Angie’s covert activity was beginning to wear on Connie’s patience.

  Mamma handed Connie the pot holders and opened the oven door. Connie bent down to pull the hot pan of manicotti from the oven and promptly burned her hand through the thin potholder. She cursed loudly and dropped the pan back onto the oven shelf, then braced herself for the inevitable tirade about her language from one or both of her parents.

  It never came. When she looked up, Mamma and Papa were standing silently together, staring down the hallway after Angie, their faces tight with concern.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, September 13, 1968

  Connie and her friend, Marilyn Duran, sat facing one another across a wooden table in the library at the University of Vermont. Classes had been in session for almost two weeks, and they were working on their first papers, researching the role played by northern New Englanders in the Civil War.

  Connie had been staring at the open encyclopedia volume before her for an indeterminate amount of time, and had yet to read a word. Her thoughts were elsewhere. “I wish I knew what’s going on with Angie,” she said in a low voice. “She’s been really distant lately. She sits in her room, and sometimes I can hear her crying, but she doesn’t want me to come in. Afterwards, she says everything’s fine and walks away.”

  Marilyn looked up at her with amusement in her green eyes. “It’s probably just fifteen-year-old girl stuff. Don’t you remember being that age? Everything’s a crisis. Nobody understands you. Life’s a drag.”

  “You’re right. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  A sarcastic smile stretched Marilyn’s lips. “How unlike you. What’s up with your other sister? Is she still in a funk?”

  “It’s hard to say. She keeps pretty much to herself, which, of course, is nothing new.”

  Marilyn returned her attention to her work, and Connie forced herself to read the encyclopedia passage about Vermont Representative Justin S. Morrill’s efforts to preserve the Union in eighteen sixty. After an hour of taking notes, Connie looked up at the clock. It was going on four thirty.

  “Gotta go.” She closed the heavy book. “I wish we could check these things out.”

  “You still don’t have a set at home?”

  Connie shook her head. “My parents talked about it, but they don’t have the extra money. I’ll just have to go to the town library tomorrow.” Connie sighed. “It would be so much easier if I lived on campus.”

  Marilyn grimaced sympathetically. “Hey, I saw what’s-his-face the other day—that guy from last year’s American Lit class. The one you wer
e talking about riding with.”

  Connie gathered her books and notebooks into a pile. “Greg? Really? I’ve been looking for him all week, but I’ve never seen him. I thought maybe he didn’t come back.”

  “He’s back. I was down by the lakefront yesterday, and I saw him there with that redhead from the drama club. You know the one I mean. The snotty one. Leave the encyclopedia. I’ll take it back when I go.”

  “Well, I’d love to make it work but, for all I know, he’s living here now and not even commuting anymore.” No use putting too much stock into the remote possibility that last year’s offer still stood. She stood and picked up the stack of textbooks.

  “You know, Margo Lister has the hots for him bad.” Marilyn’s smile was evil. “If you start riding to school with him, she’ll have a hissy.”

  Connie laughed. “I’ll make sure you’re the first to know, so you can spread the news.”

  A cold wind blowing in from Lake Champlain carried the threat of rain as Connie walked to the commuter parking lot; the previously pleasant September day had turned gray and uncomfortably damp while she was in the library.

  She stood beside her car, clutching the pile of books to her chest with one hand, struggling with the other to unlock the passenger-side door. A chilly gust plastered her lightweight sweater against her back, and strands of hair escaped from her pony tail to flutter annoyingly around her face as she wrestled the creaky door open and tossed the books onto the passenger seat. She was tired after a week of late nights studying, and the prospect of driving for an hour to reach home was almost more than she could bear. But, at least it was Friday, and she would have the weekend to recover.

  She pushed the recalcitrant car door shut with a grunt, then turned into the buffeting wind and walked with her head down to the driver’s side of the old station wagon. She was pleased to hear that Greg Fairchild was still around, but his presence on campus didn’t guarantee that his offer to share rides would still stand. Besides, she barely knew him, and quite possibly her mother was right—being alone with a virtual stranger in his car could turn out to be a big mistake.

  She slid into place behind the steering wheel, pulled the door shut, and gave a little shiver as she settled against the cold upholstery. Dark clouds were rolling in from the northwest; some type of storm was on its way. She leaned back against the seat and closed her weary eyes for a moment.