The Queen of the Big Time

by Adriana Trigiani

  Renato laughs, and there is no sweeter sound in the world to me. I wonder if he knows that every time I make a joke, a little piece of my heart breaks off. It’s just self-defense. It seems whenever we get close, he leaves. From the first time I saw Renato, he seemed to swoop in, mesmerize me, and then leave without an explanation. When I’m with him and we’re happy and anything seems possible is the time when I’m most afraid of losing him. I have a feeling of dread that I cannot shake, even here in the sun on this clear summer day.

  By August, the heat has made the mill unbearable. We’ve added more fans, but all they seem to do is push the hot air around in suffocating gusts. The combination of heat from the machines and the temperature outside makes for terrible work conditions in the mill. If I owned this factory, I wouldn’t operate it in this heat.

  My girls try to maintain their usual pace, but they cannot. We are falling behind. I sit down at a machine to help the girls set cuffs. The blouse we are working on for this shipment is complicated. There are darts, a fluted hem, and a wide collar with a satin facing. We’re struggling with the complexity of the design, and the heat makes it worse.

  I push the cuffs through the threader. “Miss Castelluca?” I look up at Mr. Jenkins. “We’re behind.”

  “That’s why I’m pitching in. You should too. We’re short a body in pressing,” I tell him.

  As quickly as Mr. Jenkins turns to go to pressing, the mill fills with black smoke. It happens so fast that by the time I stand up, I cannot see where it is coming from. The whirl of the machines stops, replaced with cries for help and the sound of metal work chairs overturning. Smoke seems to be coming from the cutting room. The workers try to run for the exit.

  “Ladies! Get down! Crawl!” I drop to my knees. “Follow me! To the back!” There is an emergency door out back where we load the truck. I push it open, then yell to the men to help the girls file out. Some girls have gone out the front, but most of them are stuck in their stations. In the din, workers have run and pushed the metal bins on wheels into the center aisle, crowding it, trapping the girls at their machines.

  “Nella, get out of there!” Chettie yells from outside. She must have escaped out the front doors. I ignore her and go back into the mill. I hear the sounds of the fire truck on its way. I trip on what I think is a bolt of fabric, but it’s not, it’s Mr. Albanese. He has taken in too much smoke. “Help! Someone, over here, help!”

  A man lifts me up by the waist and carries me to the open door, depositing me on the truck ramp. I look out in the field and begin to count heads. A lot of the girls have gotten out or been rescued by now, but some were overtaken by the smoke. Franco emerges down the ramp with Mr. Albanese. “Get him the tank!” Franco yells to the fire captain. “He’s not breathing.” Franco goes back in and returns carrying three more workers, one by one, to safety.

  As the fire department douses the blaze, the smoke subsides enough that we can see what is happening. There must have been an electrical fire. Most of the wires in the mill were rigged quickly to accommodate more machines. We must have overloaded the system with the latest additions, and the fans to keep the air moving.

  As I make the rounds through the girls, the gravity of what has happened begins to settle in, and some of the girls weep. I organize the girls by department to see who is missing. It appears that everyone got out.

  I see Franco doubled over by the ramp, gasping for air. I go to him. “Come away from the building, Franco,” I tell him, putting my arm around his waist and leading him to the field. “Let me get you some water.”

  By now word has spread of the fire, and many Rosetans have arrived with buckets of cold water and cups to drink with. I dip into a bucket and give Franco a cup of water, which he guzzles. “What happened, Franco? Could you tell?”

  “Too much power. The heat. The circuits blew. It started in the wall.”

  I watch as the firemen finish their work. The smoke has subsided, revealing the charred walls and the dank smell of burnt silk and cotton. It’s frightening how fast it happened. Some days I could smell the electrical wires overloading with power, and we’d turn some of the fans off, but the building, with its old wooden frame and oiled floors, was bound to go up like a tinderbox. I see Mr. Jenkins standing with the fire chief, and I go to them.

  “Is everyone all right?” Mr. Jenkins asks me.

  “I think so. Our regulars are all accounted for, department by department.”

  From this vantage point, I can see the damage to the structure more clearly. One side of the building is gone, and the rest ruined by smoke. I hear the muffled cries of the girls in the field, and I know some are crying because they were frightened, but most are devastated because their jobs are gone.

  Chettie and I walk home to Dewey Street at nightfall.

  “It’s not like I even ever liked that mill,” Chettie says, breaking a long silence between us.

  “I know.”

  “But when it’s gone …”

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?” Chettie asks. There’s no fear or self-pity in her voice. By now we are so used to dealing with bad breaks, we almost expect them.

  “Jenkins will find another building.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely.” I give Chettie a hug before she climbs her porch steps. “Jenkins won’t want to miss making money for long. Don’t worry.”

  When I reach Alessandro’s house, I climb the porch steps slowly. Elena meets me in the doorway.

  “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you and Chettie, and everyone.”

  “This was a very bad day. But I’m okay. No one was seriously hurt.”

  “Lavinia Spadoni said the factory is ruined.”

  “We won’t be returning to that building, that’s for sure.”

  “Nella, I have more bad news.”

  “Is something wrong with the baby?” I ask, my pulse racing.

  “No, no, Assunta’s fine. It’s Renato’s father. He died this afternoon.”

  “I just saw him last night!” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Today we almost lost workers in the fire, but a couple of streets away, Renato was enduring a much greater loss.

  “It was a heart attack, Nella. It was very sudden.”

  Instead of going into the house and washing up, I turn around and walk down Garibaldi Avenue to Renato’s home. There is a small crowd on the porch. I greet them and go inside. As always, I’m surprised at how neat and clean the place is. Renato’s mother died years ago, and he’s an only child, so it’s only been the two of them for years, and yet the sparkling copper pots hang neatly in the kitchen, and the green plants flourish in the front windows. I hear Renato in the kitchen, so I follow his voice. He is standing by the sink with Father Impeciato. “Excuse me,” I say to them. “Renato, I’m so sorry.”

  Renato embraces me. “I heard about the mill.”

  “It was horrible.” I begin to cry. Finally, with his strong arms around me, the sadness and loss of the day overwhelm me. “I feel so silly crying when your papa—”

  “I was with him.” Renato’s eyes fill with tears. “I was able to say good-bye. I thank God for that.”

  For Nicola Lanzara’s funeral, Our Lady of Mount Carmel was filled to capacity. Renato delivered a eulogy that was so moving, even those who were not close to his father in life felt closer to him after hearing the inspiring words. I sat with Renato through the wake and at the funeral, and I hope I was of some comfort to him.

  Renato said good-bye to his cousins from Philadelphia on the porch as I cleaned up the last of the dishes and glasses, taking them into the kitchen. The neighbors were all helpful with the dinner, and Renato was a gentleman throughout, tending to his guests as though they were invited to a feast, not a funeral.

  “Don’t do another thing,” Renato says as he comes into the kitchen.

  “I want to,” I tell him. I go to him and put my arms around him. He has cried here and there throug
hout the day, but as I hold him, he weeps. The harder he weeps, the closer I hold him. I hope that wherever Mr. Lanzara is, he knows that I will take good care of his son.

  “I miss him already,” Renato says through his tears. “I loved him so much.”

  “I know you did. And he knew it.”

  “No, no, I never said it.”

  “He knew.”

  “I wish I had told him.”

  “Renato, he knew.”

  “When Mama died, he never brought another woman around. One time I asked him why, and he said, ‘Out of respect for you. That was your mother. How could I bring another woman in here to replace her?’ ”

  “He was a good man,” I say softly.

  “Now I’m all alone.” Renato lets go of me and turns away, reaching in his pocket for his handkerchief.

  “You are not alone. You have me,” I say. “Renato. Look at me.”

  But he can’t.

  “I’ll be okay,” he says and leaves the kitchen. I have a terrible moment of not knowing what to do. Does he want me to stay? Or should I go home and give him some privacy? I long to hold him and comfort him, but he has pushed me away. He is so complex, and so often I don’t understand him. I feel inadequate, and yet I know he needs me. I go into the front parlor, but he isn’t there. I open the door gently and look out, but he’s not on the porch either. I turn and look up the narrow staircase to the second floor and see a light on in a room at the top of the stairs. “Renato?” I say quietly as I climb the stairs. He doesn’t answer. I follow the light to the bedroom and push the door open. Renato is sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands. He sobs, much like Papa did when Assunta died. It is from the gut, the place of deepest feeling. I cannot bear to see him suffering like this, and if I could, I would take on his pain so he would have it no longer. I climb across the bed and wrap myself around him. He doesn’t push me away. “I love you,” I tell him softly. He turns and faces me, taking me in his arms. “Let me love you.” He shakes his head no, but he doesn’t mean it. I kiss him tenderly on his face until the tears stop. His heart is pounding, and I kiss him until his breathing softens and he is calm. Then he kisses me tenderly, and in an instant, I want to give him everything I have. I would give him the world, I would give him his father back, I would make it so that he would never cry again. He unbuttons my dress; all the while I think, He must never be alone. He must have me all the days of his life. I think about Father Impeciato and the banns of marriage, and the rings, and the vows, and none of it, not one single element of it, matters to me in this moment. I love Renato Lanzara, I have from the first moment I saw him. I only wish I had more of myself to give; somehow my heart does not seem big enough to hold what I feel for him. He owns me, my first, last, and true love.

  Mr. Jenkins takes me on a tour of the new home of Roseto Manufacturing Company. We have moved to the end of Garibaldi Avenue, in an old box factory. Jenkins brought in a team of men from Jersey who salvaged some of the machines, bins, and supplies from the fire. Whatever was lost will be replaced with equipment from his other factories. The workers need not have worried that they would lose their jobs; Mr. Jenkins had the new mill up and running within a week.

  A few of the girls did go to the competition (in the past couple years three more blouse mills have opened in our town), but for the most part, our roster will return intact. Only Mr. Albanese, who was a year from retirement, will not return. He told me his close brush with death helped him realize that time waits for no one, and while he still feels good, he wants to take it easy.

  “How’s Renato doing?” Chettie asks as she helps me set up the workstations.

  “Not so good,” I admit. Renato has been distant in the weeks since his father died. I’ve tried repeatedly to draw him out, but he sinks more deeply into some dark place inside. When I hold him now, it’s not because I want to make love, I only want to help him heal. He rejects me, though, and then later apologizes. I don’t know how to handle him. “Chet …” I say, breaking down. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “I’ve tried everything. Even leaving him alone. When I try to reach out to him, he pushes me away.”

  “It’s like he’s blaming you because his father died,” she says. “I know something about that. When my father died I hated anyone who still had a father. It’s hard to understand why, out of all the people in the world, your father has to die.”

  “And it’s even worse for him. His mother is gone too. He’s all alone in the world, except for me.”

  “Just be present for him. That’s all you can do. Sit there. And when he’s ready, he’ll talk.”

  After work, I walk home on Garibaldi Avenue. I’m going to stop in and see if Renato wants to come over to Alessandro’s for dinner. As I climb the steps, I notice that the shades are drawn and the curtains are closed in the front parlor. I go to the front door and knock. There’s no response. I try the door, but it’s locked. Then my eye catches something. I see an envelope wedged in the door. I pull it out. My hands begin to shake when I see the familiar writing on the outside of the envelope. It is addressed to me. I breathe deeply and sit down on the milk box.

  Dear Nella,

  I hesitate to leave you this letter, because it is my hope that you will remember me and think of me at my best. I’m sorry, but I have to leave you and my home that I love because it is the only way for me to find my purpose. I know you will blame yourself, but I write this letter so you will not. I treasure what we had but it was not right. I took advantage of you when I was afraid, and that is not fair to you. I want you to be happy and to find peace. I am not the man who can give it to you. I will think of you always with affection.

  Your Renato

  I inhale, realizing that I have held my breath the entire time I was reading. I stand up and hold the wall to steady myself. I don’t know how I will make the hill home to Dewey Street, but I have to, so I will. I stuff the letter into my pocket, and later, when I find a match, I will burn it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Every Christmas Eve, Papa would go out to the woods on the outskirts of Delabole farm and cut down a tree. Mama baked gingerbread cookies, which we iced, then hung on the tree with satin ribbons. There was a cookie with each of our names on it, which we ate on Christmas morning. Tiny candles were nestled in foil cups, attached to the branches, and we’d light them as soon as the sun went down. There was caroling, and midnight Mass, and presents that we made for one another. The holiday was always the happiest time for our family, but not anymore.

  This year, it seems everyone in the Castelluca family is sad for a different reason. Mama and Papa miss Assunta, I’m sad without Renato, and my younger sisters can see that the farm life they loved is not going to last forever. Alessandro wants to focus on importing and open a shop in town, and without his help Papa won’t be able to keep the farm going. Alessandro has asked Mama and Papa to move into town, and they are considering it.

  Elena has put up a tree in the front window on Dewey Street. She has invited the family for Christmas dinner. I place cloth napkins next to the dishes on the table. “Nella?” Elena gives me a pair of candlesticks to place on the table. “I want to talk to you about Alessandro.”

  “About how he feels about you?”

  Elena inhales quickly. I look at her.

  “How did you know? You couldn’t tell, could you?” Elena puts her hand to her face, embarrassed.

  “No, of course not. He told me about his feelings months ago.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him to wait until a year had passed. And now it’s been a year.”

  “He has asked me to marry him. What do you think?”

  “I think … he’s a very good man. Do you love him?”

  “Very much. It’s only when I think about our sister that I hesitate.”

  “Elena,” I say, taking her hand into mine. “She would want her daughter raised by a g
ood woman.”

  “Thank you, Nella.”

  “And she would want her daughter to have a proper upbringing.”

  “You know, people talk. I hear things. There have been comments about me.”

  “Who cares what people think?”

  “I do. I’m raising a baby, and I care how she will be treated. I don’t want her to be ashamed of my choices.”

  “Have you talked to Mama and Papa?” I ask.

  “Not yet. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid they’ll think it’s disrespectful to Assunta.”

  “I think you’ll be surprised. Mama and Papa want you to be happy. And they love Alessandro. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Elena’s voice breaks. “I know. But I wish …”

  “What do you wish?”

  “That I would have met him first. That he would have loved me first. That the baby was ours. I know it’s not a perfect world, but why did it happen this way? When Assunta was alive, I was always in her shadow. And I have this terrible feeling that it’s my fate to stay there.”

  “It’s not your fate to be second. You didn’t plan this. It happened. And as for the petty gossips, I have a little experience with that myself. Ignore it. There will soon be another story burning up and down Garibaldi Avenue, long after your wedding corsage has wilted. There’s always something new to talk about.”

  “Will you be my maid of honor?” she asks, clearly relieved to know that I don’t judge her or Alessandro for their decision to marry.

  “I would love to.”

  Father Impeciato marries Alessandro Pagano to Elena Teresa Castelluca on December 31, 1926. Assunta Pagano chatters through the entire service. Even on Elena’s wedding day, her niece hogs the spotlight. Mama is happy for Elena, but Papa has not said a word. It’s not that he disapproves, it’s that this marriage will always remind him of the daughter he lost, and a year later, he still cannot accept it.