David remained silent, watching her, his face unreadable.
“My father’s not prejudiced,” Connie continued. “He’s just overly protective. He’s worried because of the race riots.”
“Uh-huh.” David’s jaw had set into an angry line.
His response dismayed her. “I’m telling you the truth,” she said. “He believes Vermont is a very racist state. Is he wrong?”
“It’s no different than anyplace else.”
“Meaning … it’s not that bad?”
David’s face registered disbelief. “Do you know anything about Vermont history? About the Ku Klux Klan? Or the eugenics program?”
What was he talking about? “The Ku Klux Klan?” She frowned at him. “That’s a southern thing.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not. The Klan was big here in the twenties. At one point, they had ten thousand members in Vermont. And they didn’t just hate blacks. They hated people like your parents—Catholic immigrants moving into Vermont. They hated Jews. They burned crosses in Catholic cemeteries and tried to scare people away.”
Connie sat in stunned silence.
“Prejudice is everywhere.” David’s expression was fierce, his eyes hard. “And if we let it rule our lives, it wins. That’s what it wants. It creates fear and keeps people apart, sends them back to where they came from, robs them of opportunity.”
Connie was appalled that he would think Papa was prejudiced. “My dad was protecting Gianna from being attacked by racists. That’s all.”
David leaned toward her, his eyes drilling into hers. “He’s doing exactly what they want him to do—reacting to the fear they spread.”
The waitress appeared at Connie’s elbow and wordlessly dropped a plate of pie in front of her, then plunked David’s plate on the table in front of him and walked away. David peered into his half-empty coffee cup before picking up the sandwich from his plate and taking a bite.
The reality of what just happened made her feel sick. “You live with that all the time, don’t you?” she asked softly.
“Yup.”
She poked at her pie with the fork, an idea forming. Still, she dreaded how he might answer the question she was about to ask. “If I can get my father to see what he’s doing, would you still be interested in having Gianna come to the museum?”
“If she wants to.”
“I’m pretty sure she wants to.” Connie gave him a cautious smile. “I could be wrong. Maybe she’s talking about going into a convent because it’s what she really wants. But if that’s true, a trip to the museum won’t change that. Right?”
David returned her tentative smile. “Right.”
Connie put a forkful of pie into her mouth. Her appetite had returned. “I’ll be in touch, okay? I mean, you really want to do this, right? I’m not forcing something or making you uncomfortable?”
David laughed. “I can see why Gianna is as quiet as she is. I bet she has a hard time getting a word in edgewise.”
***
All the way home, Connie couldn’t stop thinking about him—the fluid way he moved, the passion in his voice when he talked about the wages of prejudice, how her heart raced when his golden-brown eyes met and held hers. She couldn’t explain it or define it. She feared it was a form of prejudice, a factor of his being black. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to see him without a shirt, to feel the hardness of his body. She found herself curious about him in a disturbingly intimate way, something she had never experienced with other men she knew, not even Paul Cefalu. The realization that she was jealous of Gianna’s potential relationship with him came as a surprise; it was a situation in which she never thought she’d find herself.
Now all she had to do was to convince her father that Gianna deserved the freedom to find out if it was a relationship she wanted.
Angie and Gianna were taking care of customers when Connie arrived home. Papa was outdoors on the shady side of the building, standing on a stepladder, scraping the peeling clapboards in preparation for a new coat of paint. Flakes of white speckled his pale blue shop coat and rested on the brim of the gray felt workman’s cap that protected his salt-and-pepper curls.
“Can I talk to you?” Connie asked as she approached.
Papa kept his eyes on his project. “Talk.”
“Do you know about crosses being burned in Catholic cemeteries years ago?”
“My uncles told me.”
“But you never saw it yourself?”
“No.”
“What did they do about it?”
He generated a new shower of white flakes. “What did they do? Nothing.”
“But they didn’t leave.”
“We are still here.”
“So, the Italians and the Catholics didn’t let them win,” Connie said firmly. “They stood up for their right to do what they want to do and live where they want.”
Papa gave her a sideways glance. “You talk about this in school?”
Connie snorted. “No, they don’t tell us stuff like this in school. I learned about it from David Thomas, Gianna’s friend. The man you said she couldn’t see because some people might not like it.”
She paused to let her words sink in. Her father said nothing as he continued to scrape at the wood siding.
“You know, you’re doing exactly what the prejudiced people want,” Connie said.
“What is that?”
“Letting them bully you into keeping Gianna and David apart.”
“That’s what this David told you?”
“Is he wrong?”
Papa rested his scraper on the top of the stepladder and looked down at her. Connie searched his face for signs of anger but found only concern. “What does he want?” he asked. “Gianna has made her decision.”
“He doesn’t want anything. I’m the one who called him. He respects Gianna’s decision, but I think she’s doing it for the wrong reason.”
“Because I tell her she can’t see him?” Papa seemed genuinely confused. “If this is so, why doesn’t she tell me?”
Connie gave him a small smile. “She’s not going to argue with you, Papa. That’s not in her nature.”
“Aha, but it is in yours.”
Connie felt her cheeks warm as she looked away from him. “I don’t want Gianna to make such an important decision without being sure.”
“And to see this man will make her sure?”
“She won’t wonder for the rest of her life if he might have been the right one.”
Papa paused, then said, “You think he can be the right one?”
“I think he’s a good person. And I think he’d be good to her. The rest I can’t say.”
“You don’t care that he’s not white?”
Connie smiled at him. “Papa, our part of Italy’s not that far from Africa.”
Papa stared at her for a long moment, his face solemn, his brown eyes unreadable. Then he turned back to the wall, picked up the scraper, and began vigorously attacking the flakes of peeling paint. “Your sisters have been working all day while you go wherever you go. Maybe they would like a break.”
***
Dinner was quiet, as always. If Papa had said anything to Gianna about David Thomas, neither gave any indication.
Afterwards, the family gathered in front of the television to watch the seven o’clock news. Between the latest reports on the fighting in South Vietnam and the presidential campaigns of Richard Nixon and Hubert Humphrey, the nightly news broadcasts had become required viewing. Connie cringed inwardly as reporters gave the daily American and Vietcong body counts in their matter-of-fact voices, and she wondered if the numbers were even accurate. If we were doing so well, and they were doing so poorly, why was this war still going on with no end in sight?
“I forget to tell,” Mamma said as they watched soldiers slog through rice paddies with their guns held high above their heads, “Nino Scarpa and Franco Fiorelli, they join the army.”
A jolt of terror shot throug
h Connie, leaving her speechless as she turned toward her mother.
“The marines,” Angie said as her eyes caught Connie’s. “I was going to tell you, Con. Nino told me today.”
Connie blinked back a surge of tears. As though compelled by the need to confront reality, her gaze returned to the television screen where the soldiers were running from the rice paddies to take cover in the trees. Nino and Frankie?
“He said they’re eligible for the draft until they’re twenty-five, and they don’t want to go through that, waiting to be called up,” Angie said. “This way, they choose when, and they’re not just army grunts. Plus maybe they can stay together, wherever they go.”
Nino’s face flashed before her eyes-- the hurt when she refused to go out with him again. She might not want to spend her life with him, but Nino was special to her; she’d known him and Frankie since kindergarten. The thought that either of them might face the horrors of this war terrified her.
“Not everybody goes to Vietnam, you know,” Angie continued. “They probably have a better chance of being sent somewhere else if they enlist.”
“All marines enlist. And there are plenty of them in Vietnam.” Connie looked at her younger sister as another thought entered her mind. “What about Paul Cefalu?”
Angie gave Connie an apologetic grimace. “I don’t know. Sorry.”
“I doubt it,” Gianna said from her seat on the couch. “His sister told me he just got an apprenticeship with some electrician in Barre after trying for two years.”
Connie felt as though she couldn’t breathe. This war was hitting too close to home. “When do Nino and Frankie go?”
“I’m not sure,” Angie answered. “Ten days, maybe?”
Connie drew a deep breath, then turned to look at her older sister. “And when do you go?”
Gianna showed no emotion as her eyes met Connie’s. “I haven’t set a date yet.”
Connie nodded, her heart too heavy to pursue the topic further. “Good. I can only take one tragedy at a time.”
Chapter Six
Monday, September 16
Connie leaned against her car and glanced at her watch. Her Spanish class started in twelve minutes, and Greg Fairchild had not shown up to talk about ridesharing.
She hadn’t minded the wait itself. Their planned meeting in the commuter parking lot had provided an excuse to escape the stuffy confines of campus buildings in favor of an hour in the sun. Autumn had begun to transform the surrounding trees and shrubbery into vibrant works of art shimmering gold and orange against the cobalt blue sky, and the air held an invigorating fall freshness.
But the time was up and he had not come. Once again, she had no way of contacting him to arrange another meeting. She was beginning to wonder how sincere he was about riding together. But then, why should he be, considering they barely knew one another?
If she waited any longer, she would be late for class. She pushed herself away from the car and walked back toward the brick campus buildings across the street.
“Hey! Connie! Wait up!”
She stopped and turned. Greg was jogging down the center of the lot, waving as he ran.
He was breathing hard when he came up beside her, and she took the opportunity to study his face while she waited for him to catch his breath. He was classically handsome with strong cheekbones and a square jaw, his good looks accented by soft curls of chestnut brown and dark-lashed eyes of slate gray.
“I’m sorry,” he said, giving her his perfect smile, “you’re probably heading to class. I forgot all about our meeting until a few minutes ago.”
Irritation replaced Connie’s pleasure at seeing him. “No problem,” she said as she walked away. “Why don’t we forget the whole thing?”
“Hey. I don’t want to forget the whole thing. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” Greg stepped in beside her as she kept her eyes trained on the buildings in the distance. “Look, I’m sorry I forgot. I have a lot going on.”
Connie pressed her lips together in annoyance. “All the more reason to forget it.”
Greg let out a groan. “Hey, come on. I said I was sorry.”
She refused to look at him. “What difference does it make? It’s probably going to be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Nice try, but you’re not getting out of it that easily. I’m looking forward to having someone else drive.”
The playfulness in his voice caught her attention. She gave him a sideways glance. “Come again? I thought you were offering me rides.”
Smile lines crinkled around his gray eyes as he watched her. “I believe the operative word was share. I’m very willing to share the driving. And the riding.”
“I see. Well, if you insist,” she said, doing her best to keep her elation from showing. “I’ll even offer to drive first, just to show you I don’t hold any grudges for you forgetting.”
Greg grinned. “You are one classy dame. The Park and Ride on Forest Ave, seven thirty tomorrow?”
“Classy dame?” Connie laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re a Bogie fan.”
“One of my many vices.” His smile broadened as he briefly touched her on the shoulder with his fist, then veered away toward the green. “I’ve got to run and meet somebody. See you tomorrow.”
***
Marilyn had saved a seat for her in American History, and Connie slid into it just before the professor began his lecture on the underground railroad. She leaned toward Marilyn and whispered, “Prepare for a Margo Lister hissy. I’m riding with Greg Fairchild starting tomorrow.”
Marilyn leaned closer. “Did you see the war protestors in front of the admin building? Why don’t we talk about stuff like that in this class? That’s American history in the making.”
“Too political.” Connie gave her a sardonic smile. “It would require an opinion.”
“Too close to home, you mean. This school’s in bed with General Dynamics and the ROTC.”
Connie sat back in her seat and tried to listen to the professor’s words but, thanks to Marilyn, her mind kept drifting to Nino and Frankie. They didn’t have the luxury of protesting while protected by a student deferment. All they had was the hope to be sent somewhere other than Southeast Asia.
***
After supper, Angie sat at the gray Formica-topped kitchen table and pulled out her trigonometry book. Connie settled into the chair across from hers and watched Angie scribble out her equations. Angie seemed to be more at peace lately, as though whatever had been weighing on her had lifted, perhaps with the start of school.
With her head down, Angie’s long dark braids lay to either side of the paper, and Connie playfully picked one up as she said, “Any news on the Topo Gigio front?”
Angie’s eyes danced with fun as she looked up from her work and gave Connie a conspiratorial grin. “She’s going up to St. J tomorrow. Cousin Tony is lending her his car.”
“Is she excited?”
“Hard to say. More nervous, I think. How did you get Papa to change his mind?”
“I think he was already feeling bad about his attitude toward David. I just confirmed that he was being a bigot.”
Connie expected Angie to laugh, but the latter simply looked back at her homework.
“How about you?” Connie tugged gently on the braid as she watched her sister’s face. “I haven’t heard any more about you needing to go help whomever. Did their problems get better?”
Angie kept her attention on her paper. “A little.”
Connie had hoped for more of a conversation on the topic, but obviously it was not about to happen. “Any more news from the neighborhood that I should know?”
Angie gave her an inquisitive smile. “You’re awfully talkative. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. You’re trying to work.” Connie dropped the glossy dark braid and sat staring at it. What was going on? She felt restless, agitated almost. Apprehensive, but about what?
Angie set down her pencil and looked at Co
nnie with serious dark eyes. “I saw UVM students on the news walking with picket signs about the war. Did you see them today?”
“No, but I heard about them.” That’s why she was apprehensive. She was driving with Greg Fairchild the next day, and she was keeping it from her parents. There was no way she was going to tell him he needed Papa’s imprimatur first.
“Have you thought about joining them?”
Connie blinked, trying to remember what Angie was talking about. “Who?”
“The protestors. Geez, what planet are you on?”
“I don’t have time for that.” Even as she said it, she knew it was a poor excuse.
Angie’s gaze remained on Connie’s face as though she were trying to read her older sister’s mind. “Do you know that quote about first they came for the socialists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist?”
Connie shook her head.
“It’s about the Holocaust. It goes on about them coming for unionists and Jews. Sometimes Catholics, depending on who tells it. But the point is the last line: ‘Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.’”
“So, you’re saying I should join the protestors on principle?”
“I’m just saying that sometimes it’s important to stand up for a cause you believe in.”
“I don’t see how carrying signs in Burlington, Vermont, can make a difference.”
Angie leaned toward her, her eyes intent on Connie’s. “By itself, it can’t. But add it to students carrying signs on campuses all over America, and it starts to count. I mean, what if everybody at all the other schools said the same thing? Then nobody would do anything, and the government would assume people were happy with the war.”
“Why would they care what students think?” Connie argued. “Plus, lately, students protest everything. They marched on Woolworth’s lunch counter in Burlington to protest segregation at lunch counters in the South. The poor Woolworth’s guy wasn’t discriminating against anybody. How the heck does that work?”
“It’s about raising awareness, Connie. Otherwise people just go on their merry way, not knowing about stuff.”
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