The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  The jeeps soon rumbled to a stop in front of a modern two-story building. It looked rather like a motel, or perhaps an apartment building. Two wings of rooms with balconies on the second floor and cement patios on the first flanked a central lobby entrance. On the other hand, the architecture was so plain, the construction materials so utilitarian, it couldn’t be anything but a military structure.

  “Here we are,” Lieutenant Guilford said cheerfully as the driver turned off the engine. “It’s not the Ritz, but I hope you’ll find it comfortable enough. Your luggage should be arriving shortly.”

  Ann, Marcie, and Vi jumped from the back of the jeep while the other cast members piled out of their respective transports. Sue, ever on top of things, began counting heads as everyone stretched and began chatting. The two middle-aged male actors, Charles and Matt, immediately paired off and headed toward Ann, eager to compare initial impressions of Italy. Victor hung back with Wyatt, who was talking to one of the jeep drivers. Luciana stood off to the side, alone, her gaze fastened on the technical director.

  Vi wondered if the two were still involved. On board the ship, she hadn’t seen any evidence of a marked preference for each other’s company, though the close quarters might have made them more cautious.

  Lieutenant Guilford, once again all smiles, gathered the troupe and ushered them inside, promising refreshments. That was welcome news to Vi. She had been too nervous in the last twenty-four hours to eat properly.

  The building was basically laid out on a wheel-and-spoke plan, with a large communal space in the center and three wings—not two, as she had first thought—of semiprivate rooms.

  “We’re short on space at the moment, so I’m afraid you ladies will all be in one single room with bunk beds.” The lieutenant gestured to the wing on his left.

  “How delightful,” Frances muttered.

  “Unless you’d rather share beds, like the men will be doing,” the lieutenant continued, giving her the side-eye. “On the upside, this building does have hot water, at least as of this morning. But please remember the plumbing in Italy is, well . . . rather delicate. Be mindful of what you flush or risk the ire of the entire building.”

  “Even better,” Frances said with a roll of her eyes. Gertie giggled. Sue shot them both a hard look.

  Dismissed to store their gear, everyone headed off in the appropriate direction. Vi’s spirits sank when she walked into the women’s room. What would have been spacious for two people was positively cramped with the seven of them. Sue claimed the luxury of the single cot, which was positioned near the door.

  “Probably because she doesn’t trust Frances not to sneak out at night,” Marcie said sotto voce to Vi.

  “More likely she doesn’t trust any of us,” Vi said dryly.

  “At least I don’t make goo-goo eyes at every passing officer.” Marcie scowled in Frances’s direction. “One might think she had just escaped a convent instead of a huge ship overloaded with men. And then there’s her preference for silver and brass. It’s disgusting.”

  “You’d excuse her if she targeted enlisted men instead?” Vi asked somewhat seriously, remembering how Marcie had all but thrown herself at the soldier in the Camp Kilmer mess hall.

  “It would certainly be more fair. Officers get enough perks without stealing all the girls, too.”

  Vi shot her buddy a look. “You do remember that we were given officer status when we joined the USO.”

  “And then there’s our room!” Marcie continued. “Clean, modern, with hot water . . . and yet on the way here, what did I see? Devastation, everywhere. And does anyone care? No, not really, except about the palace—everyone is glad it escaped the bombing. Because it is so magnificent. So grand. Never mind that the gaudy monstrosity was built on the backs of the peasantry.”

  “Wait, this from the person who mockingly called Luciana a contadina?” Vi massaged her head, which had started to ache from lack of food and sleep. “Forgive me, but I assumed you held a dim view of farmers, and here you are championing them.”

  “I hold an even dimmer view of dukes and kings who do nothing for their people but who are ever eager to use their labor and earnings.”

  Vi closed her eyes and struggled to muster the remains of her patience. “Marce, we are guests here. Remember? We’re not supposed to insult them or their way of life.”

  “Porta rispettu a lu locu unni stai.” Luciana’s sweet, musical voice startled Vi into opening her eyes again.

  Beside her, Marcie stiffened, color suffusing her cheeks. “You dare talk to me about respect after what your great-grandparents did in Sicily?”

  The actress’s dark, soulful gaze settled on Marcie. “You forget my people have suffered injustice, too. And yet I still love Italia and will do my best for her. Can you not do the same?”

  Luciana’s question was met with a taut silence.

  Vi glanced from one to the other. “‘Porta respetta’ . . . what was the rest?”

  The actress smiled a touch sadly. “It’s an old Sicilian proverb, ‘porta rispettu a lu locu unni stai’: show respect for the place you are in.” She glanced at Marcie. “Even if one isn’t sure it deserves it.”

  “Well, you can keep your advice to yourself,” Marcie said, with a haughty lift of her chin. “I’m an American, through and through.”

  “I understand mixed loyalties,” Luciana said, her gaze steady. “But the blood remembers even if we wish to forget. So be careful. The camorra have no love for Sicilians . . . Marcella Maggio.”

  Vi groaned inwardly as all the color drained from Marcie’s face. This was not going to end well.

  “I knew it! My papa sent you to spy on me, didn’t he?” Marcie’s voice shook.

  Vi looked at the actress curiously. She had never considered that Papa Maggio might have more than one person watching over his little girl.

  Luciana’s eyebrows rose. “Why would he? I have no ties to the Mafia. Those criminals give Italians a bad name.”

  Marcie’s hands balled into fists. “My father is not a criminal!”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Marcie growled and cocked her fist back.

  Vi grabbed her travel buddy’s arm. “Whoa! Easy, cowboy.”

  “She just insulted my papa!”

  “She merely voiced an opinion shared by a lot of people,” Vi said, and then lowered her voice. “And you’ve got an audience. So shut it, unless you want to get sent home.”

  “But—”

  Wyatt popped his head through the door. “The luggage is here. Come on out and claim it before it gets stolen.”

  Vi could’ve kissed the man for his impeccable timing. Luciana, after shooting Vi an apologetic look, hurried out of the room after him. Marcie sank onto the bunk and crossed her arms, still clearly steamed.

  “He’s kidding, right?” Gertie asked from her bunk after Wyatt had disappeared. “No one would take our things, would they?”

  Frances stretched and then headed for the door. “Better not wait around in case he wasn’t.”

  Gertie hopped down. “You gals coming?”

  “In a minute,” Vi said. The opening Luciana had created was too valuable to pass up.

  After they were alone, Marcie snorted and then said softly, “I bet you anything Luciana—that buttana—was the snoop who got Janet canned.”

  Vi suspected the cause was much closer to home—as in Papa Maggio had wanted a better travel partner for his progeny. Still, she didn’t want to discount Marcie’s instincts without giving them a proper hearing. Snoops, whether for the USO or anyone else, presented a very real threat to her, and ultimately her future. Yet Luciana seemed more the type to have secrets of her own. Secrets that might present a different kind of danger.

  Perhaps it’s time I do a little snooping myself . . .

  Feeling a bit like Pandora, she sat next to Marcie on the bunk and opened the proverbial box. “So what really happened to Janet?”

  Chapter 13

  “Not
hing.” Marcie stood. “We’d better catch up with the others.”

  “You said Luciana ratted her out, which means she must have had something to hide,” Vi said, refusing to move. “What was it?”

  Marcie hesitated, her expression becoming troubled. “Does it matter? Janet was nice and a good dancer. She might have missed a few rehearsals, but not enough to fall behind. And she was so excited to be a part of the show. She couldn’t wait to get to meet other USO performers, like the Andrews Sisters or Bob Hope.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that, either,” Vi said. “But if you think she was kicked out over missing rehearsals, wouldn’t that point to Sue or Mr. Stuart?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” Marcie glanced around nervously as if to check that they were alone. “Between you and me, I don’t think that was it. As I said, she was a good dancer. But she’d had an abortion not long before she tried out, and hadn’t told anyone. Well, she told me, but only because her cramps were so bad one day, I’d wanted to call a doctor.”

  Vi’s heart sank even as it went out to Janet. Unwanted pregnancies weren’t always a sign of promiscuity—a girl could be in love and unlucky or could be the victim of forced sexual attention—but society didn’t always see it that way.

  She herself had known several dancers who, having found themselves unexpectedly knocked up, had taken the back-alley way out to keep their jobs. It always hurt her to think of a mother being forced into such a decision, but she was also aware that it would be entirely too easy to moralize when she would never again find herself in such a situation.

  “And you think someone might have found out and tipped off the USO,” Vi said.

  “That’s my theory, yes. You know what the USO is like.”

  “I do. But I’m curious: Why blame Luciana?”

  Marcie crossed her arms and scowled. “Because there’s something shady about her. First palling around with Mr. Miller, then the captain aboard ship. Breaking rules whenever it suits her. Knowing things she shouldn’t.”

  “Like your real name is Marcella Maggio?” Vi asked, finally getting the opening she wanted.

  Marcie cocked one dark eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

  “It does if I can’t trust you to be straight with me.” Vi took a deep breath. “My point is, Luciana’s shadiness aside, I’m not convinced she’s the one who ratted Janet out.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Have you considered the fact that you’re the daughter of an uptight, traditional, Catholic father—your words—and how he might feel if he found out that his little girl was traveling with a woman who’d had an abortion? Especially when the two of you would be surrounded by young sex-starved soldiers while on tour. Men don’t become angels just by adding a uniform.”

  Marcie’s chin came up. “Who are you, my mother? And even if my father had found out about Janet, he wouldn’t have interfered.”

  “Are you sure? Answer me this, then: Did Janet disappear before or after Sue assigned travel buddies?”

  “Before. No, wait—after.” Marcie’s eyes widened. “You really think my father had something to do with it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “But if my father knows . . .” Marcie glanced at the door and scowled. “I bet it’s still Luciana’s fault, the buttana. I bet she told him.”

  “Why?” If anything, Marcie should have deduced Vi was the spy, having taken Janet’s place. “She just told us she doesn’t like the Mafia.”

  “She could be lying. She quoted a Sicilian proverb, after all.”

  Vi frowned, confused. “Wait, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Pfft. Americans don’t know anything. Sicilians are considered pigs by our ‘countrymen,’” she said bitterly. “Even in America, where all men are supposedly equal, we get no respect from other Italians. It’s been that way ever since the Italian peninsula was united—by force, mind you—and Sicily, along with Naples, was reduced to nothing by the fascists of the North.” Marcie squared her shoulders. “But we are a proud people. We still remember that less than a century ago, Sicily was the capital of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Rich. Powerful. The envy of Europe.”

  “I see,” Vi said, and she did. After Marcie’s impassioned rant and Luciana’s veiled warning on board the ship, it was becoming clear there was more than a little bad blood between the different regions of Italy. It also gave Luciana’s caution to “show respect for the place you are in” added weight. “You still haven’t answered my question about your name.”

  Marcie’s chin rose a notch. “Can’t I have a stage name like everyone else?”

  “What if something happens to you and the army needs to contact someone? Tell me you at least gave them your real address.”

  Some of the steel left Marcie’s spine. “I didn’t think about that.” Then she straightened, and her eyes flashed. “It doesn’t matter. My parents don’t care about me, anyway.”

  Vi felt her headache returning. “Marcie, I don’t care if you have a stage name. I don’t care if you are Sicilian-not-Italian, or that your father might be Mafia. But I would like to know what name to give to the authorities if you are ever injured. Especially since I’m your travel buddy and responsible for your whereabouts.”

  Marcie regarded her solemnly for a long moment. “Do you promise not to tell anyone unless you absolutely have to?”

  “Cross my heart, hope to die,” Vi said wearily, making the sign of an X over her chest.

  “Don’t say that!” Marcie exclaimed, rapidly crossing herself. “May we both live long and happy lives.”

  Vi sighed mentally at the girl’s mercurial mood shifts. “Of course.”

  Marcie leaned close and whispered dramatically, as if divulging state secrets, “My real name is Angelina Marcella Maggio. My parents are Antonio Maggio and Beatrice Vecchione Maggio, of Lower Manhattan. Got that?”

  The rush of relief at finally having that secret out in the open, so she would no longer run the risk of tripping herself up, almost had Vi missing the last part. Her heart stopped. “Vecchione?”

  Tony was a Vecchione. Was it possible he was related? The Fates wouldn’t be that unkind, would they? If so, she had an even more pressing reason to make sure Marcie made it home in as pristine a condition as possible, given the war. Trading favors was the name of the game in the Mafia’s world. If Vi safeguarded Marcie, perhaps Mama Maggio would be willing to forgive any part Vi had played in her relative’s death.

  Because the truth was, thanks to her, Tony had been particularly vulnerable that night he had died. And since the truth had a way of coming out whether one wanted it to or not, there was no way Vi was going to squander this chance of balancing the scales, even if it meant being glued to Marcie’s hip twenty-four hours a day.

  Marcie shrugged. “It’s my mother’s maiden name. She kept it because she has a cousin Beatrice and everyone kept getting them confused, which was a problem because the other Beatrice is a real witch!” She stopped and peered closely at Vi. “Is something wrong? You’re pale.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Vi managed a smile even as her thoughts raced. “Beatrice Vecchione Maggio. Got it. Now let’s go get our luggage.”

  Chapter 14

  Three days later, Marcie dropped onto the cracked pavement of the Reggia di Caserta’s courtyard next to Vi. Her face was beet red from exertion and the heat. “Sue is trying to kill us, I swear.”

  Too exhausted to answer, Vi fanned herself with a script. Thank heavens Sue had let them wear their dance outfits this morning instead of their wool uniforms.

  To everyone’s relief, Lieutenant Guilford, after much badgering from Sue, had finally managed to release them from further training and had even found them a place to rehearse. The troupe had whooped it up when he mentioned it would be at the palace. Unfortunately, the reality was quite different than they had expected.

  The palace’s jewel of a theater had already been booked by the Andrews Sisters, who were coming into town, along with a comedian whose name
Vi didn’t recognize. Outranked and outgunned, Vi’s unit had been given one of the paved interior courtyards to rehearse in while the theater was readied for the bigger names.

  To be fair, the courtyard, one of four identical ones, was spacious enough to fit the entire company. The beautifully carved stone and windowed walls also made for good acoustics, so it was easy to hear Sue’s cues and corrections. On the flip side, the walls also allowed precious little airflow, despite one side opening up onto the rather windy central gallery that bisected the palace.

  Longing for a breeze, Vi flicked her glance toward the gallery. Near as she could figure, the massive columns holding up the arches must be deflecting the flow of air from the courtyard, which was why they were all dying of heat. Clearly a design flaw on the part of the architect.

  “Take fifteen, everyone,” Sue called from where she sat next to a sweating and miserable-looking Mr. Stuart. “Then we’ll run act one from the top one more time.”

  Vi groaned silently. Wrung out from the heat, all she wanted to do was nap.

  “Do you think we’ll get to use real props this time?” Gertie asked from where she and Frances were slumped on the other side of Vi. “I need to start practicing with a real tray in my hand if I want to make it look natural.”

  “Talk to Wyatt,” Frances said dully, her head leaned back against the wall. “Maybe he’ll uncrate them for you.”

  “No, that’s all right. He’s busy enough as it is. I can wait until we get to Rome.”

  Frances’s eyes popped open, and she turned to stare at her partner. “Rome? Where did you hear that?”

  Gertie shrugged. “I overheard Luciana on the phone in the common room last night. She was speaking Italian to the other person on the line. At least I think so. But anyway I heard her say ‘Roma’ several times, which is Italian for Rome, right? So I figured that’s where we must be heading next.”

  Vi stared at the girl. “Luciana was on the telephone?”

  “Yes, but I think she said she had family over here.” Gertie frowned slightly. “Didn’t she?”