The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna

by Juliet Grames

  Tony chuckled. “I always knew you were a little whore. You can barely hide it.” Before Stella’s half-asleep brain even caught up with what was happening, her father reached out and cupped her left breast in his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you some pistola real soon.”

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, Stella thought of leaving Bedford Street. An unmarried woman leaving her parents’ home—it wasn’t done, but how could she go on living here? Once the idea had crossed her mind, she thought about it constantly. She just had no idea how she could do it, short of marrying Carmelo Maglieri, but that would be taking her body out of the jaws of one wolf and putting it naked into another’s.

  Becoming a nun seemed like a terrible idea to Stella—nothing but housework and praying all day, a prisoner locked away from everything that was interesting and delightful in the world. But how else did a woman make it on her own? She had no education and very little English. The problem was larger than Stella’s limitations, though. In the world where the Fortuna girls had been raised, a woman never left her father’s house until she was married. To run away was the same thing as to become a whore. If she did run, she would risk breaking herself away from her world forever. She would be shunned in church. Her friends might not be allowed to see her anymore. Her mother’s heart might break. Stella shoved aside the dread of what Assunta’s reaction would be—Stella couldn’t worry about her mother right now.

  Whatever form her escape would eventually take, she did know she would need money. She had some, a small savings she had been siphoning off her factory salary before turning it over to her father. One morning in February Stella dawdled getting ready so she could count the money after Rocco had left for work. She had fourteen dollars in change. Only fourteen dollars. She thought of the fifteen dollars she’d spent on Tina’s shower with some chagrin, but then shook that off—that had been one of the happiest days of her sister’s life, and her own. But other than the shower, there were dresses Stella hadn’t needed to splurge on, the money she’d spent on movie tickets and soda fountains with the girls. Her mind was churning, a mush of frenzied strategic planning and self-recrimination.

  “You’re going to make us late, Stella,” Tina said as they sat on the Caramanico marital bed and counted out the quarters and dimes.

  “I wonder how much rent Papa charges,” Stella said. She was thinking about Miss Catherine Miller, the tenant who rented the third-floor apartment from Tony Fortuna. Miss Miller was a retired schoolteacher and had never been married. Stella wished she could ask the woman how she’d left her father’s house. But Miss Miller was an English-speaking American, for whom the rules were different. And the old lady had never been particularly nice; there was a risk she would repeat anything Stella said back to Tony. Stella knew better than to trust anyone but herself.

  “He charges twenty dollars a month,” Tina replied.

  Stella eyed her sister, already buttoned up in her winter coat. “What? Why do you know that? He told you?”

  “He told Rocco. You know he’s trying to get a tenant to move out so Rocco and I can rent one of the apartments.”

  Stella felt a sparkle of relief. The end of her kitchen-sleeping nightmare was in sight. “When?”

  “Maybe this summer,” Tina said. “The husband on the second floor”—she meant Mr. Czarnecki, but couldn’t pronounce the family’s last name—“is looking for a new job now but they promised to move when they found it.”

  Twenty dollars a month. Stella made sixteen dollars a week at the factory. She chewed on this, and also on the fact that Tina had known about this plan and had not shared it with her. Stella had never known Tina to have a private thought in her whole life. Things changed after you got married, apparently.

  “Come on, Stella. We’re going to be late.” Tina’s face wore a sheen of anxiety, or maybe it was just overheated from wearing the heavy coat inside for so long.

  As they walked toward the Silex factory, Tina asked, “What’s the money in the sock for, Stella?”

  Stella thought Tina should have been able to put two and two together. Spelling it out made Stella feel like the crime was closer to being committed.

  “I want to move out,” she said finally. And because Tina was grimacing at her, uncomprehending, Stella added, “I mean I want to go live somewhere else. Not with Mamma and Papa.”

  “With Carmelo?” Tina said. Her eyes were so round Stella could see white all around the coffee-colored irises. “Stella!” she squealed.

  “No.” Stella fought back her anger. “Not with Carmelo. By myself.”

  “What? Why?”

  They walked in silence for a moment while Stella weighed how to answer. “I can’t live with Papa anymore,” she said finally. She couldn’t mention how Rocco’s wandering eye made her nervous; she couldn’t mention that she had realized, even if Tina hadn’t, that the sisters weren’t a team anymore, that Stella had no allies in her house. “I hate Papa. You know that. I can’t stand to live with him anymore.”

  Tina didn’t say anything, and Stella glanced at her, followed her gaze. On the right they were passing the playground. Even though it was only seven forty-five, one young mother, a girl of perhaps twenty, was already standing listlessly by the sandbox where her toddler, bundled up in a blue scarf and red knitted cap, was digging with a toy trowel. Tina stared at them so hard that Stella, thinking of the mal’oicch’, gripped her elbow and sped them up.

  “Anyway. I’m thinking that if I can just save up a little more, then I could go live by myself. Like Miss Miller upstairs.” Stella was gratified that Tina was listening to her again, the dreary spell of the mother-and-child tableau broken. “Make coffeepots, save my money, live by myself—like Za Ros used to save her silkworm money, remember?”

  Tina was frowning. “Who would cook for you, Stella? What would you eat?”

  “Oh, Tina. That doesn’t matter. I just have to get out of that house.” She felt the heavy heat of her father’s hand against her breast as if it were touching her again right now. “I have to get out or I might die.”

  “So dramatic, Stella,” Tina said. “Why don’t you just marry Carmelo? Then you can leave, no problem. Papa can’t stop you.”

  Stella’s heart cramped, as though a hand even larger than her father’s had reached into her chest and squeezed it. “I don’t want to marry Carmelo, Tina.” How could Tina say such things? How—after their lives spent together? Had she never once listened to anything Stella said? “Him or anyone. I really, truly—I promise you, I will never marry any man.” Her pitch was rising. She felt on the edge of hysteria. “I mean this from the bottom of my heart, I swear to God our Father and the Blessed Virgin, I am telling the truth, Tina. I don’t know why you don’t believe me.”

  “I do believe you,” Tina said, chastised. Stella knew, though, that Tina’s faith in her would only last as long as this walk they were taking together, that the moment Tina spoke to Assunta, or Tony or Carmelo or Rocco or any of their girlfriends, Tina would forget that she had believed Stella and would shrug and tell whoever it was that she didn’t understand her sister’s stubbornness, either.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes as Stella tried to calm the rage and hurt and frustration in her chest. As the factory came into view on the next block, Tina said, “But where could you go on your own, Stella?”

  “I don’t know. All I know right now is I need to save up as much money as I can.”

  “I’ll help you,” Tina said, and gripped Stella’s fingers to cement her vow.

  There were so many other questions Stella had no answers for, no information whatsoever. Where could she go? Did they have rentable bachelor rooms like the one Carmelo lived in, but for single ladies? Her English was so bad; would she be able to explain herself to a landlord? How would she know whom to trust? Was there anyone she could ask for advice without getting herself in trouble, without it all getting back to her father?

  She thought she should be able to put aside
two dollars a week without alerting Tony—she would have to be sneaky, think of excuses for where the money went. But she could do it. If she could save fifty dollars, that should be enough to leave, shouldn’t it?

  Would she make it on her own? Could she?

  And if she couldn’t, what was her next plan?

  * * *

  THE LAST TIME STELLA REJECTED Carmelo Maglieri was on Palm Sunday, 1947. It wasn’t an encounter she had been prepared for, and it was not her finest work. But they should have realized what would happen if they trapped her in a corner like an animal.

  The Fortunas had gone to mass down at Sacred Heart. They chanted along with the Latin liturgy, received their palm fronds, tithed, and took Communion. Afterward, they had lunch at the Perris’. Za Caterina served leathery fried baccalà and a nice spread of meat-free Lenten antipasto, provolone and pickles and lupini beans. They walked home in the twinkling March sun, everyone half drunk on homemade wine and happy to remember that Assunta had baked an orange cake for the afternoon.

  They had only just arrived home when there was a knock on the door. Stella was put on alert when Tony, who did not generally answer the door, leapt to his feet and bellowed, “Assù! Make some coffee!”

  Stella followed her mother to the kitchen. “Who’s here, Ma?”

  Assunta didn’t say anything, but her hands were shaking as she tried to spoon coffee grounds into the percolator. Assunta was not good at secrets.

  From the hallway came the sounds of a second knock, of the locks tumbling. “Who is it?” Stella mouthed. Her mother spilled coffee on the counter and hurried to wipe it up, but she still didn’t say anything.

  Never mind. Stella exited the kitchen, slid silently around the corner just as Tony was opening the door, and locked herself in the bathroom. She sat on the toilet lid and clenched her fists, listening for the inevitable.

  And there it was—Carmelo’s booming tenor, so sure the whole world wanted some of his cheer. “What a beautiful day!” she heard through the door. And then all the correct platitudes of a ritual visit—Zi Tony, you are so kind to invite me to your house. Za ’Ssunta, I would love some coffee. The cake looks delicious.

  She realized her mother, the traitor, must have made that cake knowing Carmelo was coming over. How long had they been planning it? Had Tina known, too?

  There was a tapping on the bathroom door. Stella, fuming so athletically that she was having trouble catching her breath, didn’t respond.

  “Stella, come out.” It was Tina, of course. “Stella, Carmelo’s here. Come out and say hello.”

  The naïveté of the entreaty made Stella angrier. “I warned you, Tina.”

  A disingenuous pause. “What? He came over to visit Rocco. Just come out and say hello.”

  “Bullshit,” Stella said. This event had been planned; Assunta had baked a cake. Stella’d bet anything Carmelo had come over to propose to her. She’d bet anything Tony had already approved the suit—maybe even suggested it.

  Tina tapped at the door again, as if any of her deep knowledge of her sister’s personality led her to believe Stella was going to come out of the bathroom. “Stella. Come out and say hello, Carmelo’s here.”

  Tina continued to tap and call for a few minutes before giving up and going away. Stella forced her breathing to even out, feeling the flush fade from her face. For a period she felt sick to her stomach, and she rubbed her cornetto and tried to drive away the bad feeling, until she realized it was not a haunting or a déjà vu at all, it was just a memory—the Christmas party four years ago when Carmelo had made her hide in the bathroom at the Italian Society, and she’d thought she was getting sick but it was just her monthly bleeding. To be thorough she checked, but it wasn’t her time today; it was only the memory that had been about to overwhelm her. She splashed water on her face.

  Time ticked by as she waited for Carmelo to leave. Stella rode out waves of muted fear every time she heard footsteps near the bathroom. She was waiting for the moment Tony would come and knock down the door, give her one or two for being fresh and drag her, disheveled, to the living room. But Tony never came.

  Every fifteen minutes or so Tina would come by and tap on the door, ask her to come out. She didn’t reply to her sister. Once there was violent banging, the manly kind, and Rocco’s voice: “Stella, get out of the bathroom. I need to piss.”

  “Go piss out the window,” she snapped, then regretted saying anything at all. She heard Rocco curse her but leave.

  There was little to do in the bathroom besides lose herself in her anxieties. She found a bottle of red varnish in the medicine cabinet, and painting her nails kept her occupied for a while. She hummed to herself to force some equanimity, painting carefully. Usually Tina did Stella’s right hand. She tried not to imagine the repercussions of this afternoon. How badly would Tony beat her tonight after Carmelo left? Was this going to be the rest of her life, hiding in a bathroom?

  Carmelo seemed determined to prove he was as stubborn as Stella. Two hours must have passed, but she still heard his aggressively cheerful voice booming from the living room. Didn’t he realize that if she were forced to come out at this point, she would be completely humiliated? Did he plan on not leaving her any dignity at all?

  The last time Tina knocked, she had changed up her cajole. “Stella, come out. I have to do a number two. It’s serious.”

  Stella didn’t answer. She was engaged in a full sulk now, and ashamed of herself, but she saw no other way out. The sun outside the window was dimming and her head was filling up with a twilight ache.

  Two minutes later, Tina came by again. “Stella! Please come out. I have to go.” She rapped, hard. Bang bang bang. “Stella! Please, please, Stella, please. It’s an emergency. Please come out. Or just let me in! You don’t even have to come out.”

  Tina wasn’t a very good actor. She was probably really suffering. Well. Served her right. She had chosen to be loyal to Carmelo, take his side over her own sister’s. With genuine malice, Stella hoped Tina shat herself.

  “Please, Stella.” Tina’s voice was breaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give you my gold necklace. Please, Stella.” She rapped again. “All of my jewelry. I’ll do all your chores for you. Please, Stella.”

  Stella looked down at her shiny drying nails. They weren’t perfect, but they were pretty good. You’re a cold woman, Stella, she heard Carmelo saying.

  She sat silently until her sobbing sister went away.

  FINALLY STELLA HEARD CARMELO make his good-byes and leave. For good measure, she waited another fifteen minutes; she would hate to come out and find out they’d all been playing a trick on her and he was still there. Feeling prim, she exited the bathroom, her red nails smoothing the sweat-wrinkled skirt of her pink Palm Sunday dress.

  Rocco, sitting on the couch, sneered at her. She hoped he had taken her advice and pissed out the window. Next to him sat Tina, whose back was slumped, eyes downcast. Stella didn’t have to decide whether she wanted to ask Tina about what had happened, because her mother came into the living room to announce, “Dinnertime. I just have to strain the pasta. Get the table ready, Tina.” Assunta shot Stella a malevolent look. “You, too, stupida brutta. Help your sister for one time in your life.” She snorted and performed her version of a flounce back to the kitchen, wide hips lurching over her swollen legs.

  Tina and Stella were silent during dinner. Stella was afraid to draw attention to herself, lest her frighteningly neutral father be inspired to take a position on her behavior this afternoon. Tina, meanwhile, stared darkly at her plate. Stella had begun to feel remorse about how vengefully she’d treated her sister, even if Tina had betrayed Stella. Stella wondered what had happened to Tina’s number two.

  When dinner was over, Rocco went to the Caramanico bedroom to change into his robe. The women could hear his shout all the way from the kitchen. “Tina! What’s the matter in here? It smells like shit!”

  Stella caught Tina’s arm. “What did you do?” she whispered.


  Tina shoved the pile of dirty dishes onto the counter and wiped her forehead, which had broken into prodigious sweat, on the sleeve of her good dress. “Oh, Madonna, Stella. When you wouldn’t come out of the bathroom, I had to go cacchi so bad . . . my stomach was upset, I don’t know what it was. Oh, it was so bad, there was nothing I could do! So I . . .” Stella handed her a dishrag, which Tina used to wipe her mouth—even her mouth was sweating. “So I went in the bedroom and took one of the bowls from the wedding china, you know, from the box under the bed. I went in the bowl, and—”

  Stella almost choked on her scandalized laughter. “Tina! You made cacchi in your wedding china?” But even as she spoke she considered what else her sister could possibly have done. Gone outside in the yard?

  “Tina!” Rocco was bellowing.

  “A big bowl,” Tina said urgently. “You know, the kind for fancy soups. There was nothing to wipe with, so I used my nightgown, the silk one from my honeymoon. But then there was nowhere to put it, so I put the cacchi bowl and the nightgown under the bed, and now the whole room stinks.” Tina was crying sloppily. “What do I do? If Rocco finds out what I did . . .”

  “Tina!” Rocco shouted.

  “Rooo-ccoo!” Assunta shouted back, so loudly Tina was startled out of her tears. “Rocco! I need you!” She turned to give Stella a theatrically accusatory glare, then called, “There’s something stuck behind the stove, Rocco! I need you to move it for me!”

  “In a minute,” Rocco called back.

  “No, right now!” Assunta was pushing the oven from the wall. “Hurry or it will fall on me!” It was like a vaudeville production, Assunta trundling herself down to her knees. But here Rocco came hurrying into the kitchen, after all, so maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous. “Go, stupida,” Assunta hissed, smacking Tina on the calf.

  Stella and Tina ducked past Rocco, scurrying down the hallway and into the second bedroom. It stank like a butcher’s slop pile in July.