I dream about a home of my own, and as often as not, I imagine a big, rambling Victorian on Garibaldi with lots of furniture and a big kitchen and one tenant: me. I love Franco, but marriage seems like another job on top of the work I do at the mill. I won’t be able to hold Franco off forever, but I love these days that are filled with dinner dates, long drives, and endless conversation instead of obligations.
On the way to Easton to see the new Norma Shearer picture, A Free Soul, I tell Franco Chettie’s news. He is happy for them, but doesn’t say much. I think his reaction is odd. Maybe he’s angry with me for talking about him with Chettie, and maybe my mention of Steckel’s embarrassed him. He probably was getting his watch fixed.
Franco settles me in my seat in the theater and goes for popcorn. I look around at the couples there for the show and wonder how many of them will marry, and if they do, whether they will be happy. Working at the mill gives me my own money, and I wonder whether I’d be a little more anxious to get married if I didn’t have a job. Why don’t I crave a wedding day and the title of wife like all the other girls? Some cannot wait, grabbing the first boy that suits them, and others are destroyed when they’re not chosen. I’ve never seen a happy old maid in Roseto. There is always a bitterness, an undercurrent of anger at getting stuck in the house they grew up in, caring for the older parents and looking out for their nieces and nephews. I’m sure when they look at the children they wonder what might have been. Why don’t I? Perhaps my heart never mended from Renato. I compare Franco with him in big ways and in small details. They are very different, but Renato always has the advantage. It’s a fact Franco cannot compete with: Renato was my first love.
Franco slides down in the seat next to me and gives me a sack of fresh popcorn smothered in butter, just as I like it. I feel guilty for thinking about Renato when I’m out with Franco, so I give him a kiss on the cheek. He turns to me and kisses me on the lips tenderly. I guess he’s not angry at me about teasing him at the mill.
The newsreel shows President Roosevelt and a team of workers from the WPA building a bridge outside Washington, D.C. I know people are suffering, but somehow I feel not only blessed but oddly detached. There is nothing about the Depression that I haven’t lived already. During the boom years, we were on the farm struggling, sometimes barely surviving. We were alone then in our despair, and now we are alone in our prosperity.
The story of A Free Soul is dark and complex. Clark Gable plays a gangster. Lionel Barrymore is the lawyer who gets him off a rap. Norma Shearer plays Lionel’s daughter, a flapper who falls for Clark Gable. The father, who’s a lush, is bereft when his daughter goes for a gangster.
“Get ready. This is the best scene,” Franco whispers.
“Have you already seen it?” I whisper back.
He nods that he has. That’s odd. He came all the way to Easton to see the show and now he’s back? Who did he see it with the first time, and why would he see it again?
Clark Gable is telling Norma Shearer in no uncertain terms that she is his woman; she resists him but then tells him that she loves him and that nothing will keep them apart. Franco reaches to hold my hand. He threads his fingers through mine. Then I feel something cold on my ring finger. He has slid an engagement ring onto my hand! I look down at the emerald-cut diamond and squeal with delight.
“Shhh,” the patrons behind me say. I lean over and kiss Franco. He puts his arm around me and holds me close. We slide down in the seats and kiss.
“Will you have me?” he whispers.
“Yes, I will,” I tell him. I want to build a future, and as I sit here with Franco, I believe he is the man with whom I want to share my life and work.
On the drive home, I sit close to Franco and rub the back of his neck as he drives. I check the ring over his shoulder. It is a beauty, catching the headlights of the cars in the other lanes as they pass. “You know, you didn’t really ask me.”
“Ask you what?” Franco says innocently.
“Don’t get fresh. You didn’t ask me to marry you.”
“Will you marry me?”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“Will thou marry me?”
“Better. It sounds like Yeats.”
“Thank you. So, when do you want to get married?” Franco asks.
“How about the spring?”
“How about tomorrow? We’ll go up to Sailor’s Lake and get a justice of the peace to marry us.”
“Catholics don’t elope,” I remind him. “Good Catholics, anyway.” As soon as I say it, I realize the irony.
“My aunt Serafina DeMarco eloped.”
“She doesn’t count. She had to.”
“Don’t be catty. Let’s go see Father Impeciato then.” Franco turns off the road.
“This doesn’t look like the Our Lady of Mount Carmel rectory.” Franco drives into a clearing; there’s a red barn lit by lanterns. He pulls up and parks.
“What is this?” I want to know.
“For a girl from Delabole, you ought to know what a barn looks like.”
“No, I mean, what are we doing here?”
“Chettie spoiled the ring, I’m not spoiling this.” Franco takes me by the hand and into the barn. There’s an old man napping on a stool leaning against a horse stall. “Mr. Finkbeiner?” Franco shakes him gently. “Sir?”
Mr. Finkbeiner wakes up. “Oh, Franco. I got the hitch all ready. Come on.”
Mr. Finkbeiner leads us out the back of the barn. He has rigged a horse to a wagon filled with hay.
“Ever been on a hay ride?” Franco asks.
“Not since I was thirteen.”
Franco helps me up into the driver’s seat. He slides in next to me. “See you later,” he says to Mr. Finkbeiner.
“You’re so romantic,” I sigh.
“I got a romantic girl, so I have to stay on my toes.” Franco pulls me close. The horse leads the wagon into a deep, black field. He seems to know his way. I remember breaking ground with my father in our cornfield with the plow when I was a girl. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day to finish the work that had to be done. I have that feeling tonight with Franco, the fear that there just isn’t enough time. Not even the bliss of this moment will last, even with a diamond from Steckel’s to prove it.
“You’ll do anything to be alone with me,” I tell him, getting my mind off these dark thoughts. “Hire a hay wagon? This has to be a first.”
“Do you know how tired I am of dropping you off on Dewey Street? I can’t stand it anymore. Then I go home to my room, the room I grew up in, and I feel like I’m in prison. I want you in my bed every night for the rest of my life.” Franco stops the horse and leans down and kisses me. He jumps off the seat and comes around to my side. He lifts me off and carries me to the wagon in the back. On the way, he covers my face in kisses. I feel more than possessed, more than a girl in love; I am hungry for him. He sets me down and takes off his jacket, laying it on the fresh hay in the wagon. Then he places me gently on top of it. I pull him close and we laugh. As we roll into the hay, it kicks up like confetti. As we kiss, the moon dances in and out of the clouds as though it is flashing a warning. I ignore it and roll on top of Franco, cradling his face in my hands. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you,” he whispers. “Don’t ever leave me.”
The final sacrament Father Impeciato will perform before his retirement as pastor of Our Lady of Mount Carmel will happen tomorrow morning, March 1, 1932, with the wedding of Antonella Margarita Castelluca and Franco Danielo Zollerano. Elena will stand up for me, as I stood up for her, and Franco’s eldest brother will be the best man. Elena made my wedding dress, a two-tiered champagne satin gown with dolman sleeves. The headpiece, a wide band of satin, will be anchored by a plume of stephanotis. Chettie, whose summer baby is starting to show, will direct the wedding.
Something old, a red bandanna handkerchief, given to me on my first day in the mill by Franco, will serve as the garter. I will tie it around my thigh
, right above the knee, in a neat bow. Elena gave me a miraculous medal pin of the Blessed Mother for something new, which I will pin to it. Something borrowed will be Chettie’s rosary, and something blue will be a single iris among the roses in my bouquet.
Pinto’s Hall has been booked, Franco’s morning suit has been fitted, and the house that we will rent, in the hope of buying one day, is a brick two-story at 169 Garibaldi Avenue. There is a long, lush lot in the back where I plan to have a garden.
The first thing I did once we set the date was to go down to Marcella’s bakery and order our cake. I chose one with ten tiers of yellow cake and white frosting. In honor of our trade, marzipan needles and spools of thread will dance up the sides of the cake.
Alessandro went to Philadelphia to pick up Mama and Papa, who are returning home a few weeks early from their winter sabbatical to Roseto Valfortore. Papa wrote a beautiful letter to me, which I will always cherish. He said that in all things, he trusted my judgment, and I have surely done Mama and him a great honor by choosing Franco. When I showed Franco the letter, he was as moved as I was.
“Come on, come on, let’s get started!” Chettie calls from the top of the stairs of the church.
“We’re coming!” I call out from Franco’s car. He comes around and opens the door, helps me out, and kisses me as he pulls me onto the sidewalk.
“I don’t understand why we have to rehearse. How hard is this anyway?” he says as we walk up the steps.
“Father Impeciato likes everything to be perfect.”
Chettie and Anthony have prepared a meal following the rehearsal dinner, and both of our families have been invited. When I open the door, Papa meets me. “Pop, you look so good.” I give him a big hug. “Bronzata!”
“I have a box of presents from the other side. You won’t believe it. Lace, linens, and even a corkscrew. Your Italian relatives are so happy for you.”
“I am happy, Papa.”
Chettie, a veteran of wedding rehearsals, knows exactly where Papa and I should stand in the back of the church. I peek through the doors and can see Father Impeciato at the altar checking his watch. Chettie walks me through the processional, placing Elena a few steps ahead as matron of honor.
There, at the end of the aisle, Franco waits for me. He is tall and handsome and strong, all the things I noticed the very first time I saw him at the mill. It is hard to reconcile the man I thought he was with the man he has become. It’s not that Franco Zollerano changed for me, but we have somehow changed each other. He has made me softer and more tolerant, and I hope I have made him more introspective.
“You go to there …” Father Impeciato points to the step behind the Communion railing, “… and Franco, you join us there.” He points again. Franco takes my hand and we face Father Impeciato.
Out of the sacristy, through a door to the right of the altar, comes a priest. With his head bowed, he goes to the tabernacle and places the chalice and paten next to the small golden door. There is something about the priest that is familiar, and while I keep my eyes on Father Impeciato, I am drawn to the figure in the long black cassock with his back turned to us.
Father Impeciato, eager to move the rehearsal along, calls out to the priest, “Father Lanzara?”
I am confused when I first hear the name, and then my heart begins to race. I tighten my grip on Franco’s hand. The priest turns around and looks at us. It is the same sandy hair, the strong jaw, the clear blue eyes. It is Renato. My Renato.
Chettie and Elena, as shocked as I am, crowd close to me. Franco looks down at me, utterly confused. Finally, I break the stunned silence. “Renato? You’re a priest?”
“Yes, I am.” He smiles, and it isn’t even a sheepish smile, but rather a cordial one. He genuflects and comes around to the front of the altar. Renato is as handsome as ever. The cassock seems like a costume, and in an instant I feel as though I am playacting through a wedding ceremony and he has taken his cue to come to the stage and rescue me.
Renato extends his hand to Franco. “Congratulations.” Then he takes my hand. Without looking in my eyes, he focuses on a point beyond the top of my head and says warmly, “And to you too.”
“When did you become a priest?” Chettie blurts.
“In Rome, last spring.” He gives a sort of half bow from the waist, as if to say that the pleasantries are over. I look at Chettie and she looks at me. We don’t know what to think.
So this is what happened to Renato. He didn’t disappear, marry a girl in Allentown, or flee the country. He went to the seminary and entered the priesthood. But why? He was the world’s least likely candidate for the priesthood! He loved women and fine clothing and poetry.
“He is my replacement. Your new pastor,” Father Impeciato adds. “The bishop thought the perfect choice would be a native son of Roseto. I quite agreed.”
“It’s good to see you all again. I won’t interrupt your rehearsal any longer,” Renato says curtly and goes.
Father Impeciato continues blabbering about our service, what will happen when, when to move to the Blessed Mother statue for the Ave Maria, but all I want to do is run back to the sacristy and talk to Renato. I’ve been waiting for an explanation from him for five years, and even though I’m about to undertake the most holy of sacraments with Franco, I want to know why Renato left me. Franco feels my attention go, and squeezes my hand to bring me back to the moment. But the moment, our moment, is gone. I am back to the day I pulled Renato’s letter from the screen door, when I felt the full force of his rejection after I loved him with the deepest truth. My head spins. Chettie whispers that the rehearsal is almost over. “You need air.”
Chettie is right. It will help to get outside. We practice the stately recessional, but I make it back down the aisle in record time. I almost run out of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.
Once we reach the doors, Franco pushes them open. When I get outside, I hold the hand railing for balance.
“That was the goddamnedest thing,” Franco says to me. “Jesus.”
“Would you stop cursing!” I phrase it as a question but I say it as a demand. But when I look at Franco, and see his confusion and hurt, not just because of Renato’s return but because of my reaction to it, my heart aches for him. Franco will be my husband as of this time tomorrow, and I don’t want him to feel anything but happiness. “I’m sorry, Franco. I wish we would have had some warning.”
Franco holds me close as Chettie, Elena, and Papa come out of the church.
“He’s a priest,” Papa sneers as he smooths the brim on his hat and punches the crown. “The town playboy becomes the padre. Only in America.”
At dawn on my wedding day, Elena’s house is quiet. I go down the steps to the kitchen and put on the coffee. I open the shutters to the side yard and look out. The ground is covered in a light dusting of snow. The sun is starting to peek over the hill, throwing a bright gleam on Dewey Street. It has snowed on my wedding day. I wonder what the old stregas would make of this. Either rain or sun is a lucky element for the bride and groom, but what about snow?
I pour fresh milk into the pan as the coffee percolates. I watch the milk as it foams, removing it quickly and pouring it into the bowl. This will be the last time I will fill one cup with milk. How I’ve loved these mornings when I get up an hour before everyone else and sit in the quiet warmth of the kitchen and have my breakfast alone. This is the last morning I will be alone. From this day on I will make Franco’s breakfast, and then, as the years go by, the children will come and I will make theirs. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I don’t understand the meaning of Renato’s return so close to the day I am giving myself to my husband. And a priest! Would it have made any difference had he returned with a wife? Yes! Someone would have been chosen over me. At least he’s not still a bachelor. What would that have meant on my wedding day?
“Good morning,” Elena says softly as she comes into the kitchen. She goes to the toaster and loads bread into the slots. Sh
e takes the butter crock from the shelf and the jam from the cupboard. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t let Father Lanzara ruin your wedding day.”
It always amazes me how Elena knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Don’t call him ‘Father.’ ”
“But he’s a priest now.”
“Not to me. He may be your priest. He’s Roseto’s priest. But he’s my ex.”
“Nella, you have to let go of all of that. The past. Him. What you used to feel, it’s of no use to you now.”
“Do I look like the kind of girl who would pine for a priest?” I say.
“No. But if you hold on to what you were to each other, it will get in the way of how you feel about Franco.”
“I’m not holding on to anything,” I lie.
“I know something about holding on to the past,” she says. “It took me a long time to accept Alessandro as my husband and not Assunta’s widower. I always felt like I was in second place. Please don’t let Franco feel the way I did.”
“I would never do that,” I say, my heart breaking for the difficult position Elena has been in all these years.
“Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes you won’t even know you’re doing it. Lots of times Alessandro treated me as though I should know something or as though I should understand something about him when it was all new to me. And even though we’ve been married longer than he was to Assunta, I am always aware that he had a life before our life together.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise her, realizing that I’ve never been careful with Franco. I say anything that’s on my mind to him. I’ve never stopped to think how my words might hurt him. But I’ll be very careful from now on, as tender with his heart as he is with mine.
“You have such a good man. He can make you very happy if you let him.”
Elena goes to the cupboard and sets the table for the children’s breakfast. I watch her as she effortlessly falls into the morning routine, as though she were born to do it. This is her little corner of the world, and she has made it warm and inviting. She has found her happiness in an unlikely place. I vow to do the same. Nothing about my home life was ever as easy as the work I do in the mill. I always struggled to fit in naturally with the flow of a family. Now, on my wedding day, I feel the obligation to create a new family. I hope I’m up to the task.
The Queen of the Big Time Page 18
