“There’s nothing you could have done,” Ciro said, reading her. “Nothing.”
“What do we tell Antonio?” Enza asked. “I will do whatever you want.”
“We tell him everything. I have answered every question he has ever asked me honestly. He knows about my father and my mother, his uncle and the convent. He knows what I saw when I was banished from Vilminore, and he knows why. I am not about to start to spin fables to my boy now. If I am going to die, I want him to know that I thought enough of him to share everything.”
Enza wept. “Everything?”
“Everything,” Ciro reiterated.
They heard the snap of the key in the lock of the front door opening downstairs. Enza looked at Ciro with desperation.
“Are you sure?”
Ciro didn’t answer.
Antonio bounded into the living room, recounting the day’s events as he dropped his gear. “Ma, I scored twelve points, and had four assists in practice. Coach says I’m first team JV. Isn’t that great?” Antonio entered the kitchen. “Papa, you’re home!” he said when he saw his parents sitting side by side at the small table.
Ciro extended his arms out to his son. They embraced.
“How did it go in Rochester?” Antonio went to the counter, took a heel of bread, slathered it with butter, and bit into it. Ciro smiled, remembering doing the same in the convent kitchen of San Nicola. It occurred to him that this is what he would miss when he died. His son as he ate bread.
“Want some?” He extended the bread to his father.
“No, Tony, I don’t.”
“So, what’s the skinny?” Antonio looked at his mother, whose eyes filled with tears. The news had just taken root in her heart, and the pain overwhelmed her, more for her son than for her own broken heart.
“Mama. Papa. What is it?”
“Remember when I told you about the Great War?”
“You were in France, and you said the girls were pretty, but not as pretty as Mama.” Antonio poured himself a tall glass of cold milk from the icebox.
“Yes, but I also told you about the weapons.”
Enza took the glass of milk from Antonio and pulled out a chair. She indicated that he should sit.
“Listen to your father.”
“I am. He just asked me about the weapons in the Great War. There were tanks, machine guns, barbed wire, and mustard gas.”
“Well, I got hit with the mustard gas. So I have a little backache that comes and goes,” Ciro explained.
“You look fine, Papa. Doc Graham can help you. He helps everybody. And when he can’t, he sends you to Dr. McFarland.”
“It’s worse than that, son. I’m very sick. I know I look fine today, but as the days go by, I’m going to get worse. The mustard gas went through to my bones, and now I have the kind of cancer that it gives you. In a matter of time, I will die from it.”
Antonio took in the words, but shook his head as though what he was hearing could not possibly be true. It was when he looked at his mother that he knew. Slowly, Antonio stood up and put his arms around his father. Ciro was shaking, but so was Antonio, who couldn’t believe the terrible news. Enza got up from the table and put her arms around both of them. She wanted to say something to comfort Ciro, and something more to galvanize Antonio, but there were no words. They held one another and wept, and that night, there was no further conversation, or music on the phonograph, or even supper. The house was as quiet as it could be with a family living in it.
Later that night, Antonio buried his face in his pillow and wept. He had looked at a stack of his father’s papers in the living room and seen the diagnosis. He had seen a sketch of his father’s spine, and the strange circles with the words tumor and metastasize written next to them in ink.
Antonio had studied the Great War in school. He remembered a question on the quiz about mustard gas, and when he asked Ciro about it, he said it had the scent of ammonia and garlic. At the time, it hadn’t registered with Antonio that if his father could identify the scent, he too had been hit with it. But now he knew it was true.
He rolled over and dried his eyes on his pajama sleeve and stared at the ceiling. His greatest fear had come true. He and his mother would be alone; how would they go on without his father?
Antonio had never argued with Ciro. Some said it was because Antonio was an only child, with little cause for conflict. Others said it was because Antonio was unusually serene, with no need to defy authority. But it was deeper than that. Antonio had visited the cemetery on every feast day and prayed near his grandfather’s gravestone. He had stood beside his father as Ciro wept. Antonio had promised himself that he would never add to his father’s sadness.
Antonio had heard the stories. He knew about his father’s life in the convent without any parents. He knew that Zio Eduardo had been placed in the seminary, and Ciro had been forced to come to America when he was scarcely older than Antonio himself. The stories broke Antonio’s heart, and they also made him realize that the last thing his father needed was a rebellious son. Enza was the disciplinarian, leaving Ciro free to love his son and coddle him in a way Ciro himself had never known. Antonio had always known he had a happy home. What would become of them now?
Silver moonlight poured through the skylight of Ciro and Enza’s bedroom. The clean Minnesota breeze carried the pungent scent of spring. The wind off Longyear Lake was cool. It relieved them.
Ciro and Enza were entwined in one another, having made love. Their bodies were like two skeins of silk, woven together, inseparable. Ciro kissed his wife’s neck, and closed his eyes to remember every detail of it.
“Should I draw the shade?” Ciro asked, and Enza knew he was thinking of the old wives’ tale from the mountain.
“The bad luck is already here. The moon won’t change it,” Enza said.
“How do you think Antonio is doing?”
“He would never let you see how scared he is,” Enza said. “It’s good to keep his routine. We’ll go to the games, and we’ll be here when he comes home from practice. All we can do is be here for him.”
“I wish he had a brother. Eduardo was always able to help me through things. I wish he had that.”
“He is close to the Latini boys.”
“Luigi and Pappina are going to tell the older boys, so that they can help Antonio. I didn’t know what to say,” Ciro said.
“I’m sure you said the right thing.” Enza kissed him.
Pappina and Enza centered the navy-blue-and-white-striped tablecloth on the ground, anchoring the edge with a picnic basket on one side, the children’s shoes along the other.
John Latini and Antonio were the same age, soon to turn twelve.
The Latini boys—Robert was ten, and Sebastian nine—waded in the lake, skimming stones and tossing a ball. The rose of the family, baby Angela, was now four. Angela had glossy black hair, wide brown eyes, and tiny rose-petal lips. In stark contrast to her rambunctious brothers, she played quietly on the edge of the cloth with her doll.
“What’s it like to have a little girl?” Enza asked.
“She’s my lucky charm. At least I can teach her my mother’s recipes. Someone will know the old ways when they’re grown.” Pappina offered Angela a fresh peach. The little girl took it and then offered a bite to her doll.
Ciro and Luigi decided to walk along the shore of the lake. In the distance they looked like two old men, huddled close, talking as they went.
Enza unwrapped chicken cutlets, while Pappina sliced tomatoes from her garden, added fresh mozzarella, drizzled them in lemon, and shredded basil on top. They brought loaves of crusty bread, wine for the adults, and lemonade for the children. Pappina made a peach cobbler and a thermos of espresso.
“I talked to the boys. They know what to say to Tony,” Pappina said.
“He’ll need them. They’re like brothers.”
“They’ll be there for him. And we’ll be there for you.”
“Pappina, I look at him and I can�
�t believe he’s sick. He eats well, he still works hard, he has some aches and pains, but nothing terrible yet. I keep hoping that the tests were wrong. I even went up to see Doc Graham, but he explained what’s ahead for us. Pappina, I don’t think I’ll be able to get through it,” Enza cried.
Pappina leaned over and comforted her. “That’s when your friends will help you. I’m here for you.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. I try not to cry in front of Ciro.”
“You can cry to me anytime.”
“I have so many regrets,” Enza said.
“Why? You have a good marriage.”
“I didn’t have another baby.”
“You tried.” Pappina looked over at Angela, feeling sad that her dear friend could not know the joy of a daughter.
“Ciro wanted another child so much. It was his dream. And I just accepted that I couldn’t. You know, I’m not one to pine for what I don’t have. But my husband is.”
“Remember something—children come into your life in many ways, all the days of your life. Antonio may be an only child today, but someday he’ll marry and who knows? He may have a house full of children.”
Luigi and Ciro made their way back from the shore of the lake. “Okay, girls, what did you make to eat?” Luigi asked. “I need to feed the beast.”
“Your beast could do with a little less feeding,” Pappina said as she prepared her husband a plate.
“Am I fat?” Luigi asked, patting his stomach.
“The third hole in your belt hasn’t seen the prong in two years,” Pappina said.
Ciro laughed.
“Not so funny.” Luigi sat down on the tablecloth.
“Luigi and I were talking about the old days at Zanetti’s.”
“Signora could cook,” Luigi said as he took a bite of a chicken. “Not as good as you, Enza, but pretty good.”
“We’d like to be in the same shop again.”
Enza and Pappina looked at one another.
“I like this town. Hibbing is getting too big. The boys like the lake, and they want to go to school with Antonio. They want to be Bluestreaks.”
“Oh, the kids came up with this?” Enza asked.
“No, we came up with it on behalf of the kids.”
“Well, Pappina and I would love nothing more than to be neighbors.”
“That’s true,” Pappina agreed.
“So we’ll close Caterina One and consolidate with Caterina Two,” Ciro said.
Pappina handed her husband a cup of wine, and gave one to Ciro. She picked up her own cup, while Enza raised hers. “One God. One Man. One shoe shop,” Pappina toasted.
Enza propped feather pillows around Ciro’s back until he was comfortable. “You take good care of me.” Ciro pulled Enza close and kissed her.
“Do you think I’m a dope?” Enza asked. “Consolidating the shop. Working under one roof. I understand what you’re up to. You’re shoring up the shop. You’re putting a plan in place. A man in place.”
“I’m being practical,” Ciro said.
“I have a say in this. But you went ahead and made a plan without me. Luigi will keep things running, and you can die in peace, knowing there is someone to look after us.”
“But I’m just trying to take care of you!” Ciro said, bewildered. “Why does this make you angry?”
“Because you’ve accepted your fate when you can change it! You’re not going to die. But if you think you are, you will.”
“Why do you insist every day that I have control over this?”
“Because you do! And you’re just giving up! You’re giving up on me, your son, and our family. I would never give up on you. Never.”
“I wish things were different.”
“If you want to bring Luigi here because it’s good business, then do it. But don’t bring him to take care of me. I won’t have it. I can take care of myself. I can take care of our son.” Enza began to cry.
“Come here,” Ciro said softly.
“No. You come to me,” she said to him.
Ciro went to his wife and put his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I want you to be secure. I didn’t mean to insult you. Of course you can take care of yourself. You survived Hoboken without me.”
“What would help you get better, Ciro?”
“A miracle,” he said softly.
“I think I know of one.”
“Monsignor Schiffer already dropped off a vial of holy water from Lourdes. Only a German priest would bring an Italian French holy water,” Ciro joked.
“Not that kind of miracle in a bottle—the real thing. I want to take the money we’ve saved and send you to the mountain. You should go home and see your brother. Your friends. The convent. You should swim in the water of Stream Vò. It would heal you faster than the water from Lourdes.”
“What are you talking about, Enza? My place is here with you and Antonio.”
“No, Ciro, listen to me.” She pulled Ciro close. “Remember the berries in late summer? The way the juniper trees had pale green shoots underneath the branches, and they’d turn velvety and dark as they grew closer to the sky? If anything can make you well, it’s the place you come from and the people that loved you. Your friend Ziggy—”
“Iggy,” he corrected her.
“Wouldn’t you like to see him again?”
“He taught me to smoke.”
“You have to thank him,” Enza said wryly. “And the nuns—”
“My nuns.” Ciro laughed. “I wonder who is left at the convent of San Nicola?”
“You must go and reclaim your home again. That mountain is as much yours as it is anyone’s. That rotten priest banished you, and you never returned. It’s not right.”
“Is my beautiful wife at long last turning on the Church of Rome?”
“No. But a bad priest is a bad priest.”
“I used to dream of building a home on the mountain like the one you helped your family build. I wanted a garden.”
“Where was I in this picture?”
“You were always there. I just didn’t know it yet. I didn’t know the woman I would love all of my life was you.”
“If you love me, you’ll go back to the mountain and let it heal you.”
In the days that followed their conversation, Pappina and Luigi met with Ciro and Enza, and they agreed to consolidate the business. The Latinis would move to Chisholm that summer and rent a home on Willow Street. The men would pull together and build an inventory, making work boots and fur-trimmed winter boots for snowshoeing.
Enza took in alterations from the Blomquist’s and Raatamas department stores, and Pappina helped in the shop when she could. Enza expanded the dance shoe business to provide the shoes year-round, not just by special order.
Ciro and Enza began to argue frequently about her desire to send him home to Italy. When Enza moved the tin money box from the kitchen to the dresser in the bedroom, Ciro would put it back in the cabinet. When she brought it down to the shop to leave it on the worktable, he would gently put it aside. When she left it on the kitchen table at breakfast, he ignored it.
Ciro told Enza that he would never go home, until one day, in the heat of the last day of August, a letter came from Eduardo.
My Dear Brother,
I said a mass for you this morning.
After a long search, more prayers have been answered on our behalf.
I have found our mother. She is safe, but I fear she is beaten down from years in a convent with terrible conditions. She would like to see you, and so would I. Perhaps a trip could be arranged?
My love to you, E.
At first, Ciro didn’t tell Enza about the letter. He kept it in his pocket, and in stolen moments would reread it as though there was a line in it that would help change his mind. He was relieved that his mother was alive, and soon after the relief subsided like the waves on Longyear Lake, the pain came through anew, and his broken heart filled him with a deeper and more profound regret. He wished to be angry
at Caterina and abandon her, the way she had abandoned them. But his heart, having grown in the tender care of Enza, would have none of it. He loved Caterina and wanted to see her again. He needed his mother now more than ever.
Ciro agreed, at long last, to go home to the mountain. He wanted to see his family before he died.
When Ciro told Enza he had made the decision, she leaped out of her chair and threw her arms around him. “How will we pay for the trip?” Ciro asked her.
“Remember the Burt-Sellers stock money? You wanted no part of it. But I’ve saved it. Your father is paying for your passage home.” Enza beamed.
Ciro had been stalwart in the face of every decision regarding his health. The idea, that his father, who had died so young and failed to provide for his family, would in fact, with his death benefit, pay to reunite his wife and sons was almost too much for Ciro to bear. He collapsed in Enza’s arms.
“All those years ago, you told me to spend the money on hats. And I’m so glad I’m not vain about hats.”
That afternoon, Enza stood in the telegraph office and dictated a telegram to Laura H. Chapin of 256 Park Avenue, New York City:
BOOKED ROUND-TRIP PASSAGE TO ITALY FOR CIRO. LETTER FOLLOWS TO EXPLAIN. I WILL BRING HIM TO NEW YORK TO SEE HIM OFF. MAY WE STAY WITH YOU BEFORE DEPARTURE? E.R.L.
The train from Minneapolis to New York City sped through the night as Enza and Ciro sat in the reading car. She read The Sheik by Edith M. Hull as Ciro smoked a cigarette and watched her as her eyes scanned over the words.
Enza pulled the blue wool wrap she wore over her suit tightly, without taking her eyes off the page. Ciro took delight in watching Enza when she read; it was as if she were consumed by the words, and the world outside the one on the pages ceased to exist.
The Shoemaker's Wife Page 44
