“No, thank you,” she replied in her politest voice. She could not break down under this pressure. She would not be subjugated. “I don’t go on dates.”
“Now’s a good time to start,” Tony said. “Or you’re going to be an old maid.”
“No, thank you,” she repeated, sitting up straight and looking her father in the eye. “I do not date. I am mourning my lost fiancé.”
“Horseshit,” said Joey in English. Assunta would have smacked him if she’d understood.
“Enough!” Tony had escalated to his roaring mode already. “She accepts your invitation,” he said to Carmelo. “You can pick her up here on Saturday at six o’clock.”
Stella’s hands were vibrating in fury. She was not in control of this situation. What could she do? “Tina, you’ll come with me as a chaperone,” she said.
Tony said shortly, “You’re twenty-five years old. You don’t need a chaperone.”
Stella looked around the table, at her brothers and sister and parents and suitor all watching her, waiting for her to say something. With Joey filling the chair on one side of her and Tina on the other, there was no way she could stand up and storm out of the room with any dignity. She contemplated throwing her plate of food, but she wouldn’t be proud of herself for that kind of melodrama.
So instead she gave them as little satisfaction as was within her ability. She picked up her fork, tined a collection of ziti pieces, and put them in her mouth. Her tongue was dry and her stomach tight. The moment dragged on, everyone waiting for her reaction, as she made her way steadily through the plate of pasta.
“Well, all right,” Carmelo said after too long. “I’ll pick you up on Saturday.”
All his pretending to be a gentleman—a real gentleman would have backed off when she made it clear she didn’t want to go out with him. No, he was like all the rest of them, the exhausting conspiracy of men working together to make women do what they wanted them to. She would tuck this away, this definitive proof that Carmelo wasn’t as nice as he seemed.
THAT NIGHT, AND EVERY NIGHT leading up to her date, Stella had her nightmare. It had been more than a year since she’d had an episode and she’d hoped it had gone away. But here it was, back again—her imprisonment, the rapist’s hands on her naked skin, her helplessness. Sleepless and exhausted, she’d go sit at the kitchen table under the first Stella’s shrine and try to nap on her folded arms. She tried to rub away the feeling of the rapist’s erection pressing into her thigh, rubbing until it bruised. She prayed to Mary for protection and forgiveness.
DOGGED BY INSOMNIA, HARASSED, and unwilling, Stella refused to make any special effort with her appearance for her date, which was very upsetting to Assunta.
“Why can’t you just do this, Stella?” her mother sobbed. Friday night had become a full-scale screaming match. “Why can’t you be just a little nice to him so you don’t spoil your chances?”
“For God’s sake, Mamma, why can’t you just listen to me?” Stella’s voice cracked with rage. “I’m saying I don’t want to marry him. I don’t care about spoiling my chances because I don’t want him.”
“Yes, you do!” Assunta shouted. “Yes, you do, and you know it!”
“Mamma. Why don’t you believe me? Why don’t you listen?” A fight like this with her father would have been easier—he was just a brute and Stella hated him. But coming from Assunta—this was betrayal by the woman Stella loved most in the world, who apparently didn’t care about her daughter’s hopes or opinions. “When have I ever lied to you about anything? Never.”
Assunta’s sobs transitioned into howling. She was incoherent, the situation helpless. Stella, worn out by her anger, went into the bathroom and washed and curled her hair. She needed to for church, anyway. It was just one day early.
Carmelo, on the other hand, had made a good effort for their date. When he came to pick her up, his black curls were dampened and combed down along a neat center part. He wore his gray suit and a sky-blue silk tie. He had a new fedora pressed to his chest when she met him at the door.
Carmelo chatted, obviously a little nervous, during the short car ride, and Stella rode in depressed silence. Her fight with her mother lay heavy on her still. She was enervated by frustration. No one believed she knew what was best for herself; everyone wanted to control her.
Now she was alone with Carmelo and the weight of the situation was hers to bear. Stewing in her bad feelings was not going to save her hide. She needed to focus on Carmelo, on ending the courtship.
She hadn’t picked her tactic yet; was she going to be cold and polite and very distant? Or outright mean and rude? Or should she be normal and friendly, since it was so hard to not warm up to Carmelo, and just tell him plainly that she appreciated his effort, but she was never going to say yes and wouldn’t it be easiest for them both if he would stop trying? She still hadn’t decided when they arrived at Tom’s Restaurant, which Carmelo had chosen for dinner.
Throughout the meal—she ordered a hamburger, and Carmelo followed suit—she vacillated. Every time she realized she was chatting too warmly, she would get angry with herself and retreat into a sulk, but then she would feel stupid and weak. The meal was exhausting whenever she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying herself.
And Stella felt shabby sitting across from him in this brightly lit diner. She imagined the other diners looking at them, a handsome, well-dressed man and a barely groomed woman wearing no makeup, not even a little lipstick. She suppressed flashes of regret. Vanity, she would not let vanity be her downfall. The opinions of strangers meant nothing.
Carmelo was undaunted. In fact, he became increasingly comfortable and confident over the course of the meal. He talked to her about his twin sister in Montreal, his parents and brother back home in the Abruzzi. He asked her polite questions he already knew the answers to; she was disadvantaged because he had spent so much time trying to get to know her.
“Next time,” Carmelo said as Stella folded her napkin and placed it on her empty plate, “I can take you down to the rose garden.”
Stella had enjoyed the hamburger; she was feeling content. She shook herself out of that stupor. “Carmelo. There isn’t going to be a next time.”
“Yes, there is.” He winked at her, so self-assured.
She felt a rile of hatred—yes, that was good. Nurture that. “I’m here because my father made me go out with you. You know that. I don’t like you, and I never will.”
“Oh, you’ll see. I’ll make you like me.” He winked again. “I think you do already anyway.”
“Carmelo. Listen to me.” The wink disgusted her. She bit down on her frustration, spoke clearly and slowly so that maybe this time he would hear what she said. “This—you and me—isn’t going to go anywhere. You can chase me all you want, but I am never going to get married. Not to you, not to anyone.”
“Bullshit,” he said jovially. “Every woman wants to get married.”
“Not me.” Her chest was tight. The fury of last night had come back, and now it was all directed at him.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “Even if you don’t know it yet. You’ll change your mind. Just watch.”
She stared at him across the table. For the first time, she noticed he had several unruly eyebrow hairs that splayed out of formation, poking up like insect antennae. “Carmelo. I’m telling you I don’t love you, and I never will. You’re not listening.”
He shrugged, counting money out of his wallet, but his smile had tightened. “You think you know what you want, Stella, but you’re going to realize you’re wrong.”
Her fury bubbled in her throat. It was like talking to a wall. “Why are you so persistent?” she asked. “There are a hundred other girls who like you. Quit wasting your time on me.”
Carmelo’s eyes were bright as he met her gaze. “Stella, I’ve seen our future together. It’s a good one. You’ll see it, too. We’re meant to be together, we have been since we were born.” She scoffed. Was he serious? “L
isten. My friend Rocco is going to come back from the war and he’s going to start a family with your sister. Think about how nice it would be if you and I got married. Our children would grow up together like brothers and sisters.”
She’d teetered through years of ambivalence about Carmelo Maglieri—was he genuine or dangerous, sweet and gentle or cagey and manipulative? Now she understood: as kind as he seemed, Carmelo was as macho and controlling as Tony, just in his own way. Carmelo didn’t love Stella—how could he, when he couldn’t even listen to what she had to say? All he loved was his own dream of his own future, which he needed her for. He had no interest in trying to understand why she wouldn’t want to be a part of it.
She needed to drive him off. Do something drastic to disrupt his fantasy. She looked down at her arms, resting near her plate, and rotated her left wrist so she could study the flat surgical scar, thinking hard. Her heart was beating in her ears. “You know I don’t cook. And I never will.”
“Oh, well, then you absolutely better marry me. I’m a great cook.” He dipped his chin knowingly. “Not a lot of other men would put up with that from their wives.”
There was her bubble of fury again. “What’s wrong with you?” she said. She stood up from the table and raised her voice. “Why do you keep chasing me when you know I don’t want you? I could never respect a man like that. It’s pathetic.” She took two steps toward the door, then turned around and made herself shout, “That’s right, I said you were pathetic!” Let the other diners think she was a noisy wop. She didn’t care. Let Carmelo think she was a noisy wop. Let him focus on that.
Carmelo stood, too, but she didn’t let him get a word in. “You want a wife who would never respect you?” she shrieked. “You like being made a fool of?”
His face had flushed pink. “All right, Stella. Let’s go.”
“Pathetic,” she said again. A horrible feeling was settling in her gut. The waitress was coming toward them, a broom clutched in one hand. She would have had no idea what the shouting was about, Stella realized.
“Come on.” Carmelo gestured toward the door, and she walked ahead of him out onto the street. She felt sick. This was so undignified. She tried to steel herself. It would all be worth it if he would leave her alone.
“I want to go home,” she told him. “I don’t feel well.”
He walked her to his car and opened the door to the passenger side. His face was still bright red as he got into the driver’s seat. Was he mad? Embarrassed?
They drove back to Bedford Street in silence. He got out of the car to let her out, and then escorted her up the steps. Assunta scurried to meet Stella in the foyer. “What’s the matter? Weren’t you supposed to go to the movies?”
“Stella’s not feeling well,” Carmelo said. He didn’t step into the house, just stood on the doormat.
“Not feeling well? Stella, are you all right?” Her mother was shaking her shoulder.
“I’ll be fine, Ma.” Stella fought back waves of mortification and anger. Was that all he was going to say? Was this over? “It’s just an upset stomach. I’m going to bed.”
Carmelo tipped his fedora as he bowed to Assunta, then to Stella. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” His voice was flat, affectless. “I hope you feel better soon.” He pushed his hat down over his ears and walked back to his car.
Assunta was wild eyed. She was probably trying to imagine what terrible thing had happened on the date. “What’s the matter, Stella?”
Stella didn’t answer. She pushed past her mother and went to the bathroom, where she vomited her hamburger into the toilet.
AFTER HER RUINED DATE WITH CARMELO MAGLIERI, Stella lived through the nightmare four more times in as many days. She’d become so afraid of having it that she couldn’t fall asleep, despite her exhaustion. Then, for some reason, it stopped.
CARMELO NO LONGER STAYED FOR DINNER. When he dropped Tony off after work, he rarely even came into the house to say hello. She had successfully ended the courtship.
Tina and Assunta both harassed her and Tony gave her a black eye she wore proudly for a week. But the damage was done, and Carmelo didn’t want her anymore. She was safe, until her father latched onto another suitor. What with the stiff competition among the East Side Italian girls for the returning soldiers, Stella wasn’t worried. Carmelo had been her most dangerous brush with marriage, she was sure; it would be much easier from here.
* * *
NOW THAT THEY WERE CITIZENS, Stella and Tina went to work at the Silex factory, on a coffeepot assembly line. The day they went in for their interview, Assunta came along with them. She brought a tray of ravioli to bribe the foreman. Whether or not the ravioli were a factor, the Fortuna girls got the job.
CARMELO MAGLIERI BROKE HIS MORATORIUM to visit Bedford Street one night in August. He sat at the kitchen table to chat with Assunta as she cooked, acting as if weeks hadn’t passed since he’d last sat there. Stella had been keeping her mother company, sorting and tailing long beans, and when Carmelo sat down across from her he nodded polite greeting. His expression was serious today, none of his cherub smiles. The top buttons of his tan shirt were open, a gold cross on a chain hanging in an array of chest hair at which Stella had trouble not staring.
Carmelo accepted a glass of wine from Assunta, who was so overjoyed to see him she stumbled over things to say. Stella loved her mother for her affectionate heart, even if she was a traitor.
“I have some news, Za ’Ssunta,” Carmelo said, but he was looking at Stella. “Zi Tony and I already spoke about it, but I wanted to tell you in person.”
Carmelo’s older brother, Gio, had bought a grocery store in Chicago from a paesan. Apparently Carmelo had been sending home so much money that Gio had been able to take care of their parents throughout the war with enough left over to buy a grocery store.
“He says since it’s my money, he bought the store in my name,” Carmelo explained. How did he manage to look humble?
Gio was in Chicago already. He’d run the store until Carmelo got there. Then they would run it together. Carmelo had brought his brother’s letter, and Assunta was turning it over, studying the writing as if she could read it. “How nice, a store. But you’re going away, Carmelo?”
He shrugged. “A store is a great thing. Hard work, but if you’re a smart businessman you can make good money. The factory work here is good, but all the men are going to come home from the war and want their jobs back.”
Tina, who’d been working in the garden, came into the kitchen, her hair sweat-frizzed around her pink face. She gave Carmelo an excited wet kiss on the cheek and he had to tell the whole thing all over again. Stella listened to her mother and sister’s alternating sorrowful and ecstatic disruptions.
“But I came to talk to you, Stella,” Carmelo said, taking the letter back and pointing it at her like a threat. Assunta and Tina immediately fell silent.
He was staring at her. Stella stared back.
“Listen, Stella.” When he said her name a second time, her heart shuddered. “All you have to do right now is say the word ‘maybe.’ Maybe someday you will marry me. Just say maybe and I’ll tear the letter up right here in front of you and I’ll stay on Front Street. Maybe, just say maybe, Carmelo. Maybe someday.”
She met his gaze steadily. “Never.” She was intensely grateful that her father had not joined them in the kitchen for this conversation.
“Stella!” Tina squeaked.
“Never?” Carmelo asked her.
“Never.”
She was startled by a fast, hard blow to the back of her head. She reached through the ringing to touch the source of the pain and her fingers came back wet—slicked in olive oil. It took her a moment to realize her mother had hit her with the thick wooden spoon she’d been using to sauté the garlic.
“Stupida brutta,” Assunta said. “What is wrong with you? What kind of game are you playing?” She looked both angry and hurt. It was as though Stella had rejected Assunta’s own son. “How man
y more times do you think he’s going to ask you before he gets tired and finds someone else?”
Stella rubbed her scalp. “Mamma, how can you take his side over mine?” Seeing the way Assunta was gripping the spoon, she braced herself for another blow.
“I would have given you whatever you wanted, Stella,” Carmelo interrupted. “I would have given you the world. All I wanted was to make you happy.”
The ripple of thought-pictures—his hands on her flesh, swelling pregnant belly. “You could never make me happy,” she said, her mouth dry.
His face had hardened. “What is it you think you want in life, exactly? What do you think I could never give you?”
Stella was at a loss for words. How had she ever been unclear about what she wanted? How many times had she already told him—told them all? “I want to be left alone,” she said finally.
The kitchen was silent for a moment. Carmelo shook his head. “You are a cold woman, Stella.”
As if he had put a curse on her, she felt a chill ripple up her arms and torso. “Maybe so,” she said. “But that’s no business of yours.”
“You think you’re ever going to find someone who would love you more than I would have loved you?” He was staring at her so intensely she had to avert her eyes. “You are a fool.”
After a throbbing moment of silence, Carmelo stood and bowed his little bow to Assunta and Tina. “I tried, Za ’Ssunta,” he said. “I would have liked to have been your son-in-law. But I think I had better go home now.”
Assunta and Tina tried to convince him to stay for dinner, but it was a hollow effort. Carmelo gave Assunta and Tina each a solemn kiss and wished them health. “Stella,” he said to her, nodding his saline good-bye.
Carmenantonio Maglieri had left their lives.
ROCCO CARAMANICO DID, IN FACT, survive the war. He was gone for almost four years, like many men who were shipped to the Pacific theater, doing things unknown and wholly misunderstood by their families. Rocco kept a framed photo of his Engineers Chemical Corps unit hanging in his hallway for the rest of his life, but what had happened in New Guinea was anyone’s guess. Had he shot a gun? Had he killed a Jap? Had he seen atrocities, been exposed to hazardous chemicals, watched his friends die? Had he been in any combat at all, had he ever felt any danger? He came back with no exterior scarring, no shrapnel spatter or purple hearts. What had he been doing all that time? Well, that is the mystery of war. The only thing Rocco made clear was that he would never eat chicken again. Otherwise, he never told anyone anything more than had been in his sterile, correct letters to Tina.
The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna Page 25
