PRAISE FOR ROSANNA CHIOFALO AND BELLA FORTUNA
“Like a gondolier navigating the canals of Venice, Rosanna Chiofalo takes you on a magical ride filled with family and friends, love and loss, heartbreak and happiness. Bella Fortuna is a warm glimpse into Italian-American life.”
—Holly Chamberlin, author of Last Summer
“Chiofalo, a first-generation Italian-American whose parents emigrated from Sicily in the 1960s, brings the Italian immigrant community and neighborhoods richly to life.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Skillfully crafted . . . sure to pull the reader into the love of family and the sights and senses of romance in Venice.”
—Metro West Daily News
“From the streets of New York to the canals of Venice, Rosanna Chiofalo creates a warm and lively story the reader won’t want to see end. Valentina DeLuca is a heroine with intelligence, heart, and courage, the kind of person every woman wants for a dear friend. Time spent with her is a sheer joy.”
—Mary Carter, author of Three Months in Florence
“A warm tribute to her heritage, the book brings to life colorful scenes from her past as a first-generation Italian American.”
—Astoria Times/Jackson Heights Times
Books by Rosanna Chiofalo
BELLA FORTUNA
CARISSIMA
STELLA MIA
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Stella Mia
ROSANNA CHIOFALO
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Ed, my “stella mia.”
This one’s all for you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest gratitude to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his careful attention to editing my books and for allaying my anxieties whenever they arise. You truly are my right-hand person, and I couldn’t do it without you!
To everyone at Kensington Publishing, thank you for believing in me and my books and for your hard work in ensuring their success.
Lastly, thank you to my family for your love and unwavering support.
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR ROSANNA CHIOFALO AND BELLA FORTUNA
Books by Rosanna Chiofalo
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE - A Song
PART ONE - Messina and Taormina, Sicily
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
PART TWO - Aeolian Islands
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
PART THREE - Astoria, New York, and Messina, Sicily
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
EPILOGUE - Sarina’s Grapevine
AUTHOR’S NOTES
RECIPES FOR STELLA MIA
Teaser chapter
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
A Song
Astoria, New York, June 2013
My earliest childhood memory is of a song. I remember lying in my crib and hearing the soothing sounds of a sweet voice singing to me. Many people don’t believe that I can have such an early childhood memory, but I know it is real. For my father has told me that my mother sang this song to me from the first time she held me in her arms after I was born up until the day she walked out of my life.
I still remember the words to the song because after my mother left, my father sang the song to me throughout my childhood since it had always calmed me. This is the song I am singing as I tend to the grapevine in my father’s small backyard of the house where I grew up. Today is Sunday and the start of the last full week in June. The grapevine is already quite lush with its vibrant green leaves. Yesterday, my father’s next-door neighbor asked me which stage of the grapevine is my favorite. I can’t say. In the spring when its leaves are beginning to sprout, excitement surges through me in anticipation of having the grapevine for another year. In the summer, I love seeing the grapevine in full bloom. In August, the grapes that have grown on the vines add even more beauty and are ready to be harvested. At this time, the leaves have turned the same golden hue as the spiders that dangle up and down from the clusters of grapes like yo-yos. I also love the morning glory flowers that I planted. The first thing I do when I wake up is walk to my window and look at their open blooms. By early afternoon, their petals close as they retreat once more into slumber before they awake again the following morning. The flowers’ vines intertwine around the grapevine, like a child clinging fiercely to her mother.
The grapevine was planted by my mother, shortly after she and my father moved into my childhood home. I only have a handful of memories of my mother, since I was three years old when she left. And the memories aren’t very clear. But I do remember the day before she left. I was here in our yard, and the weather was beautiful. I was laughing as my mother held my hand and walked with me, pointing out the names of the flowers and herbs she had planted. We spent the whole morning and afternoon outside. There’s a photograph of me from that day. My mother was lifting me high up into the air as I reached for the dangling grapevine. Daddy had helped my mother create an arbor of overheard wires so that the grapevine would grow upward and create a lush canopy, which would provide shade for us during the humid summers New York City is known for. I remember giggling so hard as she held me up, and when she lowered me back down to the ground, I hopped up and down on my feet, begging, “Mama! Up! Up!” We played like that for what felt like hours. I don’t even remember going back inside. But my father told me years later, I fell asleep outside in my mother’s arms while she lay in a folding chair. She then carried me to bed and tucked me in. She left early the next morning before I even woke up. I don’t remember that following day, but my father told me I was searching for my mother throughout the house and even in our yard. I kept screaming, “Up! Up!” as I pointed to the grapevine. My father tried lifting me so that I could touch the grapevine, but I didn’t want him. I kicked and screamed, “Mama! Up!”
Daddy told me Mama had to go away, but would be back soon. And I believed him that she would be returning since I kept searching for her every day. Aunt Donna told me, years later, I finally stopped looking for my mother about a month after she’d left. And it wasn’t until I started school and saw the other students’ mothers that I began asking about my own.
I used to ask Daddy, “Why don’t I have a Mommy?” Daddy would always look like he was going to cry when I asked him this. He never had an answer for me. He would just try to distract me by changing the subject. By the time I turned nine, I learned to stop asking and realized my mother was gone for good. But when I was fourteen, Aunt Donna told me that my mother had left us to go back to her home in Sicily. After learning this, I couldn’t resist asking my father again a few times why she stayed away. He never spoke badly of her and always said my mother had been in a lot of pain. Daddy assured me that she loved us and said we needed to pray for her. I did whatever my father told me, and so I prayed for her. But it became more difficult, especially in my teens when I wished I had what my friends possessed. I wished I had a mother I could go shopping with; a mother who would cheer for me at my plays; a mother who could give me advice on boys. So I soon stopped praying for her. I’m a very religious person, and I have asked God t
o help me forgive my mother for leaving. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. I came to terms with her not being in my life a long time ago. I choose to focus on the people who are in my life: a loving husband, a doting father, an aunt who would die for me if given the chance.
Shortly after we came to stay with Daddy, I was looking through a few of his photo albums. I found another photo that was taken on that day before my mother left. She was kneeling beside me as she held out a few morning glory flowers she had cut from the grapevine. She smiled, watching me inhale the flowers’ sweet fragrance. I quickly shut the photo album—for it hurt too much to see my mother’s tender expression.
My husband, Kyle MacLean, asked me once why I insist on still coming to my father’s yard every year and tending to the grapevine since it reminds me of my mother and the pain she caused. I simply told him I love all plants, including grapevines. I could tell by the sad look in Kyle’s eyes that he didn’t believe me. The truth is I’m not exactly sure why. I have tried not to think about my mother a lot over the years. But when I look at the grapevine in my father’s yard, I can’t help but think of her. Maybe that’s why I still tend to it. The grapevine is the only part of my mother I have. That and the song she sang to me as a child.
Kyle and I live in the same neighborhood where we grew up, Astoria, Queens. But we didn’t know each other as children. Kyle loves to tell our family and friends how he knew he was going to marry me when he first heard my singing. He was the best man at his brother’s wedding, which was held in Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, where I volunteer and sing during Masses as well as weddings and funerals. I actually sing at a few of the churches in Astoria.
My father, Paul Parlatone, or “Paulie” as everyone calls him, is always telling me, “Julia, you’re giving it away for FREE! You should be getting paid for your singing, especially since you’re in such high demand.”
Kyle always says when he heard me singing “Ave Maria” at his brother’s wedding, he was struck by the sound of my beautiful voice. I blush whenever he tells the story even if it’s just the two of us. We celebrated our five-year wedding anniversary recently. Though we’ve been trying, I still haven’t been able to conceive. I’m forty-two years old and know that my chances of getting pregnant are growing dimmer.
A part of me craves that special bond between a mother and a child, but I was fortunate to have a father who showered me with affection as well as my Aunt Donna, Daddy’s sister, who moved in with us after my mother left so she could help raise me. Love was never missing from my life. But I’d be lying if I said I never wished to have back my biological mother. When Kyle and I began dating, he asked me if I ever had a desire to find her. While I have been curious about my mother from time to time, I can say without hesitation that I have zero interest in searching for her. Why should I waste my time and energy on a mother who wanted nothing to do with her daughter?
Sometimes I think it’s best that I haven’t been able to get pregnant. I’m afraid I’d be a terrible mother because of how my own abandoned me. I remember my college psychology professor saying once how children learn compassion from their mothers. How can I be a compassionate, good mother when I didn’t have such a role model? But Kyle and my friends have always told me I’m one of the most sensitive, tender people they’ve ever met. I have my father and Aunt Donna to thank for that.
My desire to be a mother has been with me since I was a girl, and I love being around children. So it’s no wonder that I decided to become a teacher. I teach third grade at St. Joseph’s Parochial School. It’s about a mile from where I grew up on Ditmars Boulevard. Kyle and I own a one-family house on 43rd Street and 28th Avenue, just down the block from St. Joe’s, but my father acts as if we live on the other side of the country. Even though he visits regularly—probably more than Kyle would like—Daddy wishes we had bought a house on his street. While my father and I are very close, and I love spending time with him, I’m also a grown woman who needs her privacy. But at the moment, I don’t have a choice. Kyle got laid off from his job a month ago, and with my modest teaching salary, we weren’t able to make our monthly mortgage payments. So we decided to sublet our house until he finds another job. In the meantime we’re staying with my father, who’s thrilled. Kyle, on the other hand, looks as if he’s just been told he has a flesh-eating disease. Don’t get me wrong. Kyle loves my father, and Daddy is fond of Kyle. But Daddy’s also fond of teasing Kyle mercilessly about his half-Scottish heritage. Kyle is Italian on his mother’s side of the family, and Scottish on his father’s. What’s a sore point for Daddy is that Kyle identifies more with his Scottish culture. He belongs to the American Scottish Foundation, takes bagpipe lessons, and marches every year in the New York Tartan Day Parade. I’ve tried asking Daddy to ease up on Kyle and all the Scottish jokes, but Daddy just can’t help himself.
This is the last week of the school year, and I’ve decided to assign a family tree project for my third-grade students to work on over the summer. I’ll be teaching fourth grade in the fall, and my principal decided to keep me with the same group of students. In addition to creating a family tree that lists their ancestors as far back as possible, the students will have to write an essay about one of their relatives. To make it more fun, I’m going to hold a contest when we return to school in the fall. The students will take a vote and decide who has the most interesting essay. The winner will receive tickets for The Lion King on Broadway. I thought it would be fun to participate in the project as well, but as the teacher I won’t be eligible to win the contest. Even though I have the whole summer to work on my family tree, I’m excited about the project and can’t wait to get started. On that note, I finish up watering my father’s garden and coil the hose before going indoors.
Daddy had asked Kyle earlier to join him in a game of bocce along with his cronies at the playground on Steinway Street and Ditmars. Many of the older Italian men in the neighborhood congregate at this playground to play bocce or cards. So I have the whole house to myself this afternoon.
I head down to the basement that Daddy uses as storage unlike many of the other Italian Americans in our neighborhood who double their living space as an extension of their living quarters. I remember Daddy showing me when I was in junior high school a loose leaf binder that had our family’s history recorded in it. When Daddy was in high school, his parents had asked him to record our family’s ancestry so my children and grandchildren would know where they came from. Since my father is reluctant to change, especially where technology is concerned, it never occurred to him to have the history typed up or entered into a computer.
Switching on the light at the top of the basement’s stairs, I begin making my way down. It smells even mustier than I remembered. As a child, I often played down here. I’m surprised Daddy never finished the basement so he could have an extra room. Though it’s a two-family house, Daddy has always rented the second-story apartment, but he would’ve been willing to throw the tenants out and let Kyle and me take it if we had decided to move in with him after we got married. Daddy’s portion of the house only has two bedrooms.
There are rows of boxes, all neatly lined up, in the basement. Their contents are written in black marker on the outside. Aunt Donna must’ve helped Daddy with the storage since I recognize her bold cursive on many of the cartons. My father’s small, squiggly handwriting on a few of the boxes is barely legible. I walk over to a covered sofa bed, which used to be upstairs in the living room and where Aunt Donna slept when she lived with us. After she got married and moved out, Aunt Donna still kept her copy of the house keys and often let herself in as if she still lived here, much to Daddy’s exasperation. But he’d never have the nerve to ask her for the keys back.
Seeing the cluttered confines of the basement, I suddenly realize my father is a bit of a pack rat. At least he’s relegated his stuff to the basement and hasn’t cluttered our upstairs living quarters with junk. Surrounded by all of the boxes and storage containers, I feel overwhel
med and don’t know where to begin looking for Daddy’s binder. I do remember when he showed it to me he had pulled it out of a large brass trunk. Scanning the basement, I don’t see the trunk anywhere. I guess I’ll have to wait until Daddy returns so I can ask him where it is. But then I notice a long rectangular object covered with gold and white damask drapery. Walking over to it, I pull off the drapery to reveal the trunk.
The brass trunk has tarnished greatly over the years. Unlatching its closure, I lift the trunk’s lid as its hinges squeak loudly. A moth flies out, startling me. I had never wondered what my father kept in this trunk when I played down here as a kid. Two piles of Time magazine from the late sixties and early seventies are stacked on the left-hand side of the trunk. They’re sealed in large Ziploc bags. No doubt Daddy is hoping to sell them someday. I get distracted from my original mission of searching for the binder and instead read the headlines that grace the magazines’ covers. Maybe I’ll bring a few upstairs and read the articles in my spare time. Taking all of the periodicals out of the trunk, I count almost seventy issues. After removing the last few magazines, I then move onto several bundles wrapped in yellow, crinkled tissue paper. I take out the first bundle, which feels soft to the touch, and open the tissue to reveal a gorgeous ruby red fabric. Unfolding the fabric, I see it’s a woman’s skirt. The lower half has an elaborate gold embroidered design that swirls all the way around the skirt. Its hem is cut in an asymmetrical line so that the left side of the skirt comes up just past the knee. A gold sash border encircles the hem. The style looks dated, almost like a period piece. I reach for the next bundle and unwrap it. There’s another skirt, but this one is made of white cotton and has several layers of fabric. It resembles a slip that is worn beneath dresses to create extra fullness. I then remember the high-cut asymmetrical hem of the red skirt. I take the red skirt and pull it over the white slip. There is no doubt this white skirt or slip is meant to be worn underneath the red skirt.
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