As Assunta prattles on about what I don’t have, I feel my confidence melt around my shoes like hot candle wax. But instead of rallying my spirit and aspiring to the height of my own self-confidence, I crumble. Deep down I believe that Assunta is right: I am not pretty. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about it, but it’s the first time it seems true. Maybe that’s because I’m not out in the field playing with the other kids; now I’m expected to be a proper young lady. It didn’t matter when I played bocci if I was pretty, it only mattered that I was good, that I could win. But proper young ladies are supposed to be pretty, and I’m not. I sit down on the bed.
“There’s no sense crying about it,” Assunta says flatly. “There’s nothing to be done. Some girls are pretty and some girls aren’t.” Assunta turns and looks at herself in the mirror.
“I know I’m not a beauty,” I tell her. She looks surprised that I would admit this. “But there are other things about a person to treasure. Like their wit. Their kindness. Their concern for others. Qualities you wouldn’t appreciate because they have lasting value.”
Instead of snapping at me and turning my observation into an argument, Assunta grabs her sweater and looks at me. “You’re strange,” she says. She takes her sweater off the shelf and goes. I hear her clop down the stairs in our mother’s old shoes, and remind myself that my sister only says terrible things because she wears Mama’s hand-me-downs and no one has ever found her special. Alessandro Pagano doesn’t count because she is being forced upon him, it’s not like he chose her. Part of me wants to tell her that even though she has fancy ideas about life in town, she’s just a farmer too, but if I got in a fight with her, Papa would make me stay in my room all night, and then I would miss the chance to be with our company, something I wait for all year.
I lean into the mirror to look into my eyes, and instead of squinting at my image, I lift my chin a bit and smile. Yes, there are freckles and a nose with a bold tip, but my eyes are nice and my teeth are straight, and though my cheeks are full, my jawline is strong. I’m not so bad, I remind myself. The most important element of being a lady is posture and carriage, I hear Miss Stoddard say in my ear. I stand up straight and let my shoulders fall naturally. This instantly lengthens my neck and I look better.
When I walk down the stairs, I’m careful not to clomp stomp, but skim the wooden stairs silently, like a dancer. When Miss Stoddard walks between the school desks, you never hear her feet hit the floor; she swishes past and you get the clean scent of sweet peaches as she goes.
“Aren’t you pretty!” Elena claps her hands together when she sees me as I enter the kitchen. “Here.” Elena reaches into her hair and pulls out a pink satin ribbon. She arranges it in my hair, then points to my reflection in the glass of the pantry door. “You’re a beauty.”
“Thank you, Elena.”
“It’s the little things that make such a difference,” she says, fixing a curl over my ear.
Mama lines us up and gives each of us a quick kiss, then rattles off the instructions of how we will serve the meal. Besides pouring drinks and otherwise serving our guests, there’s a big buffet table near the table we set, and Mama wants us to replenish it whenever we see an empty platter. She hands Dianna the basket of hot bread. I grab a clean cloth to serve the rolls.
Papa comes from the barn with the men, a laughing army, pleased with themselves after a day of hard work well done. They gather around the table, filling the long benches on either side. Papa loves to have company, especially male company. It must be so hard for him, surrounded by girls all the time. I know he wishes he had a son to take over the farm. We do our best to help him, but on days like this, it must be particularly difficult, as most of the men bring their sons along.
Papa stands at the head of the table, gives his guests a word of thanks for their help, and invites them to take their plates to the buffet table and fill them. The men make a line down either side of the table without breaking their conversation for a second. They return to the table and sit, chatting in Italian mixed with English. Dianna and I stand by to serve the bread.
Papa winks at us, our cue to serve, so we start with the first man to his right. The man is making Papa laugh; he has a handlebar mustache and big hands. Dianna holds the basket as I place the roll on the end of his plate.
“Bellissima!” he says as he looks at Dianna. When he looks at me, he smiles politely. I wonder what it would be like to be beautiful, so beautiful a man has to tell you so when he sees you for the first time. Dianna doesn’t hear the compliment, or notice the slight I feel, but she’s too young to understand what her beauty means.
We weave in and out among the men, placing the bread. When I reach the end of the table, I place the last roll and turn to go back to the kitchen.
“You’re working hard,” says the last guest in the last seat at the end of the table.
“Everyone works hard around here.” I look at Papa’s guest and realize that I’ve never seen him before. He doesn’t look like the other men. Most of them are Papa’s age, but this man is much younger, just not as young as me. I would say he’s at least twenty. He has sandy brown hair and a wide smile with perfect teeth. Mama always says to look at a man’s teeth, which are the key to his general health. I must be looking at him for too long and maybe with too much admiration. He butters his bread.
“Something wrong?” He looks tall, and his shoulders are broad, but his hands are not like the other men’s. The fingers are long and tapered; there are no calluses or cuts, like on Papa’s hands.
“Oh no,” I tell him quickly.
“What’s your name?” he says pleasantly.
“Nella.”
“Ah. Rhymes with bella.”
“Oh, but I’m not the pretty one in my family.”
He laughs. “Maybe you just can’t see it.”
“Oh no, I can see it. I have a mirror in my room. Well, it’s not just my room, I share it with Elena and Dianna and Roma. Assunta gets her own room because she’s the eldest. But she keeps her clothes in our closet because we only have one closet.” I don’t know why I am compelled to tell this man every detail of our living arrangements, what does he care, but it’s too late now. At least he seems mildly interested, or maybe he’s just polite. He motions for me to sit down, so I do.
“I’m an only child. I wish I would have had a brother to share things with.” The way he smiles at me makes me look into his eyes, which are as blue as the sapphire in Mama’s locket.
“But not four of them. I never get a moment’s peace.”
He laughs. “Not a moment, huh?”
“Hardly ever. Half the time when I’m reading, I have to stop because there’s some chore to be done or I have to look after my little sisters.”
“You like to read?”
“It’s my favorite thing to do.”
“Me too. Are you in school?”
“At Delabole. But it only goes to seventh grade, and I’m already fourteen, so I repeated it twice. My teacher tutors me, but she thinks I need to be in a classroom with my peers. She wants me to go to Columbus School.”
“You must be smart if she wants you to continue in school.”
“I’ve always gotten A’s.”
“I graduated from Columbus School.”
I was right. That means he’s at least eighteen. “What’s it like?”
“Excellent teachers. I was well prepared for college.”
“You’re in college? I want to go someday.”
“What do you want to be?”
“A teacher.” My heart begins to race. Saying my dream out loud is so exciting to me, and saying it to a college man makes it even more thrilling. “What do you want to be?” I ask him. He looks at me, a little surprised that I would want to know.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Why not?”
“There are lots of things I’m interested in,” he says and shrugs.
“You should eat. Your food is getting cold,” I t
ell him as I stand. I look beyond to the black field behind our barn and wish I could run into the dark night. I feel trapped and so sad that I’m only fourteen and I won’t ever know this young man as I would like. I need to find a graceful way to exit. I remember Miss Stoddard and throw my shoulders back.
“Nella, Papa needs coffee,” Assunta tells me nicely, and I am so relieved, as I would hate for her to embarrass me in front of this man with the beautiful hands.
“Right away,” I tell her.
As I walk quickly back to the kitchen, I can feel his eyes following me. I take a deep breath when I get inside. My heart is pounding now.
“Slow down,” Mama says as she passes me with a fresh platter of pepper salad. “There’s no rush.”
“What’s the matter?” Elena takes one look at me and the empty bread basket and can see something has happened.
“Nothing.”
“You’re all red.”
“It’s windy,” I lie. “Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Papa wants coffee. Can you take it to him?”
“Yeah. But something’s wrong. What is it? You can tell me.” Elena lifts the coffeepot off the stove with a flannel mitt.
“There’s a boy at the end of the table, the farthest seat from Papa. Will you find out his name?”
Elena laughs. “Is he a sheik?”
“No … I mean, yes.” Ever since Elena and I went to the movie house and saw Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik, she swears I have not been the same. “He’s just nice,” I tell her, and as soon as I say it, my face flushes the color of Papa’s best red handkerchief.
“He must be more than nice. You’re shaking,” Elena says quietly.
“It’s the sound of his voice. It’s very deep and soft and I don’t know how to say it … it thrills me.”
“I understand.” Elena smiles. I am so glad I can tell her things, even when I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling. “Let me see what I can find out.” Elena turns to go outside. I stop her.
“Don’t say I said anything,” I whisper.
“Don’t worry.”
Two ladies come out of the pantry carrying Mama’s rhubarb pies, and as much as I love it, I won’t go outside to get a slice. I’m afraid if I look at the blue-eyed boy again I might cry. I have never been overwhelmed by a boy. This must be what love at first sight feels like. If it is, it’s awful. I feel sick and nervous and sad. I’ve met the boy I want and I cannot have him. He’s too old and would never wait for me. He would have to wait four years at least, until I’m eighteen. Four years. It might as well be a hundred.
I’ve had little crushes, but for the most part, the boys at Delabole School are silly. They hardly study and have no interest in books and learning; they only go because their parents make them go.
I wonder how Elena will approach him. I don’t want to know everything about him, just a few things: his name, where he lives, and exactly how old he is. I wish I would have asked him what his favorite book is, because you can tell a lot about someone by the books he reads. As soon as I get my courage up, and the flush of my cheeks dies down, maybe I’ll go back outside and talk to him again. I will forget for a moment that Papa would think I was too young for him, and play the part of a lady. In fact, I will pretend I am Miss Stoddard, and that I have an education. I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty. He must, he said I was bella. I take the moppeen and go into the pantry. I wipe off my face and sit on Mama’s step stool and wait. It seems like hours before I hear the screen door slam.
“Nella?” Elena calls out.
“In here,” I whisper.
“There’s no need to hide.” She comes into the pantry and sits on a step stool. “Here’s what I found out. His name is Renato Lanzara.”
“What a beautiful name.”
“Isn’t it? He is twenty-one years old.”
“Twenty-one!” My heart sinks in my chest. He might as well be forty, he’s too old for me.
“And you’ll love this: he lives in town. His father is the barber.”
“Why haven’t I ever seen him before?” I wonder aloud.
“Nella, he’s seven years older than you. That’s a lot.”
I don’t want to go outside anymore, and I’ve lost my nerve for talking to him. I don’t even care about sitting around hearing the grownups tell stories of Italy or the sweet slice of rhubarb I’m missing. I just want to go up to my room and be alone.
“He had to go.” Elena breaks the news gently, but I am so disappointed I can’t speak. “But he said to tell you that he enjoyed meeting you.”
“He did?” I am amazed.
“And then he said to tell you something only you would understand.”
“What was it?”
“He said, ‘Tell Nella not to forget the rhyme.’ ” Elena fixes the bow in my hair. “What rhyme?”
“It was nothing,” I tell her. As much as I love Elena, this is one secret I’d like to keep to myself. “Nella rhymes with bella,” he’d said. He thinks I’m beautiful! He sent me a message. A message just for me! With this news, my ambition returns and races through me like a fever. I don’t want to sit in this pantry another moment. Not only will I stay up late and listen to stories and eat pie, I will wash every dish and pot and pan after our guests leave. I don’t ever want to go to sleep, I want to stay awake and think of Renato Lanzara, the handsome boy from town with the exquisite name.
CHAPTER TWO
I follow Assunta on Delabole Road, a few paces behind her. She carries a small lantern as we make the turn onto the main road to town. The sun is not yet up. It is strange to start my first day of school in the dark, as I used to be able to run down the lane to Delabole School five minutes before Miss Stoddard rang the bell and be on time. In the distance, the hills of jagged gray slate slag look forbidding as the sun makes a ribbon of light over the mountains far away. “Hurry up,” Assunta says impatiently.
“Sorry,” I tell her, picking up my pace. Assunta is particularly peevish because she doesn’t want to go to work. She’d rather come from a family that could provide a proper dowry. “Wish we could take the trolley.”
Assunta stops, turns, and looks at me. “All you do is dream. Get your head out of the clouds. We can’t afford the trolley and we never will. Wishing doesn’t help the situation.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop saying you’re sorry. You say it so much I know you don’t mean it.”
I stay quiet and follow Assunta the rest of the way. “This is Division Street,” she says matter-of-factly. “It separates Roseto from Bangor. People in Bangor don’t like the Italians, so don’t talk to them. You’ll soon understand who the Johnny Bulls are.”
Papa explained to us about the Johnny Bulls; they’re Welsh businessmen who came over from England, bought up the slate quarries, and hired Italians at a pittance to work in them. Last year, when the rain ruined our corn, Papa worked all summer in the quarry. Usually, though, Papa takes extra work in the winter, when there are only the cows and horse to tend to. It’s backbreaking work, and two of our cousins have died in the quarry. Most miners die from falls into the pit or injuries they get when dynamiting the slate walls. “Will there be Johnny Bulls in school?” I ask.
“Probably. Just be aware. Don’t pay them any mind.”
Assunta never seemed concerned about my safety before, so her tone surprises me. Maybe there is a little patch of pink velvet on her black heart, maybe she isn’t all bad.
Garibaldi Avenue springs to life as the sun peeks over the Blue Mountains. As we walk down the wide avenue and pass the houses, I hear children laughing and talking while their mothers cook breakfast. Lights twinkle in front windows. I can see inside most houses and their well-appointed front rooms. We just got electricity at the farm, but in town, they’ve had it for almost ten years. We still have an outhouse, but here they have indoor bathrooms.
I wonder what it would be like to take a bath in a deep white enamel tub where the water tumbles out of
the spigot without having to pump it or carry it from the springhouse. Imagine not bathing in the old tin tub set in the middle of the kitchen near the stove where it is warm. Imagine soap shaped like roses instead of the slab of lye we use. Imagine taking a bath in a room with the door closed! Imagine fluffy towels like they advertise in the Sears catalog instead of big squares of flannel Mama hemmed by hand. Imagine having your own bathwater that you haven’t shared with your sisters! It must be heavenly to have your own batch of hot water.
Assunta stops in front of Marcella’s bakery. “Wait here,” she tells me. She goes inside. I look at a wedding cake in the window, a series of perfect round layers stacked on top of one another, separated by Greek columns of spun sugar. The cake is covered in white butter-cream frosting. Whimsical marzipan cherubs dance up the sides. At the very top are a tiny bride and groom; their ceramic hands hold a lace heart between them. I study the cake and memorize every detail, from the silver lace doily on the pedestal that holds it, to the rococo ruffle edges of tinted lavender frosting that support the cherubs as they climb up the cake. I hear the bells on the door as Assunta pushes it open.
“Here.” She hands me a small box. “Papa wanted you to have a cream puff with your lunch.”
“Thank you,” I say as I tuck it carefully into my lunch pail. Dear Papa. He wants me to have a special first day of school, and I feel bad because there must not have been enough money to buy Assunta a cream puff on her first day of work. “Look at the cake,” I say. “You and Alessandro should have one just like it!”
Assunta smiles. “Maybe we will.”
My sister walks me to the front door of the Columbus School, a large, square brick building that sits back in a field off Garibaldi Avenue. Assunta pushes open the door. “Wait inside until the bell rings. It might be a while before someone gets here since school doesn’t start for an hour. They’re expecting you, so give them your name in the office. They’ll tell you where to go. I’m working at the end of Front Street, that’s one block from here. If you need anything, I take lunch from noon to twelve-thirty. I’ll pick you up at three-fifteen. School is out at three, so wait right here.”
The Queen of the Big Time Page 3
