[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  “Lily, I care about you - you know that. And you can do whatever you want, but four years is a long time. I can’t guarantee that I’ll still be here when you’re ready. I thought we were starting a life here. Maybe you’re not the girl I thought you were, after all.”

  “Joe, you’re only twenty - and I’m only eighteen. What’s the rush?”

  “Hey - my mother was fifteen when she had Alfonso, sixteen when she had Anthony, and seventeen when she had me - and my parents have been together for thirty years. Hell, my mother didn’t even finish high school. It didn’t hurt her one bit.”

  “Things are different now, Joe. It’s not like it was back then.”

  “And people were happier.” Joe took another cigarette out of the pack and lit up. “Look at your family, Lil - two of your brothers are divorced, your sister Jasmine is divorced, your parents are like a train wreck. Why do you think that is? It’s because people don’t care about the basics anymore. They don’t care about family, and traditions. Do you want to end up like them?”

  “I absolutely do not,” said Lily.

  “Well, it’s up to you,” Joe said, blowing smoke into the cool night air. “Go ahead and go to college if you want. But I need to get on with my life, too.” Joe flicked his cigarette butt onto the driveway and it landed in a puddle with a hiss.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, kissing Lily on the forehead.

  Joe pulled the Barracuda out into the street and disappeared into the night. Lily took another drag on her cigarette, noticing the dented garbage can toppled over, no longer possessing the sound frame necessary to keep it upright. She exhaled, looking to the stars, scrutinizing the mysterious forms they sketched in the vast black sky, as if they could somehow help her weigh the hope for a home against the fear of the unknown, the company of friends over the solitude of strangers, the sting of rejection and abandonment against the comfort of the familiar.

  35. Iris

  Christmas seemed so far away when summer had barely begun, but never a letter was exchanged between Iris and Gregorio without a mention of the holiday, which drew closer with the arrival of each colorfully stamped airmail envelope. No longer was Iris forced to scrounge the lines of the letters she received for signs of affection, as she had been forced to do with Peter Ponzio. Quite to the contrary, each carefully composed sentence on each sheet of onionskin paper she fondled expressed Gregorio’s appreciation of the impressions Iris had made upon him, and confirmed his desire to delve more deeply into the numerous other hidden qualities he was certain she possessed. On her part, Iris wrote little about how she spent her time; what could she possibly say about wheeling around a messenger cart at Kodak eight hours a day, or about cooking and cleaning house, or about the latest level of litigation between her parents, that could possibly interest a sophisticated man like Gregorio? Her letters opened with the usual polite inquiries into his well-being and that of his mother and sister, followed by the types of questions that would confirm her interest in Gregorio’s professional life, without revealing her ignorance as to what it actually entailed. In closing, she never failed to reiterate her gratitude for the wonderful time he had shown her and Auntie Rosa in Italy, hinting that there was nothing she would enjoy more than the opportunity to travel there again in the future. One Sunday afternoon, Gregorio even called her on the telephone, saying he simply could not go to sleep unless he heard her voice, the musical sound of which was fading all too quickly from his memory, despite his constant efforts to keep it alive. The thought that Gregorio would go to the trouble and expense of placing an overseas phone call just to hear her voice flattered Iris immensely.

  Two weeks later, on returning home from the afternoon matinee of Grease with Rita Esposito, the chorus of “You’re The One That I Want” still playing in her head, she was disappointed to hear that Gregorio had phoned in her absence. The following Sunday, she elected to stay home just in case he tried calling again, and he did not disappoint her. From then on, she opted to stay home to read on Sunday afternoons, instead of wasting her money on the movies and a hamburger. After all, Gregorio would still have to pay for the call if she were out with friends, and it might send him the wrong message if she weren’t around, even though she knew he might call. Her consideration was rewarded, and Gregorio soon developed the habit of calling every Sunday afternoon. Iris watched the clock anxiously whenever they spoke, though their conversations, stilted by frequent misunderstandings and poor connections, never lasted more than a few minutes. When at the end of his sixth call, just before hanging up, Gregorio told her that he loved her, Iris remained seated in silence, the dead receiver in her lap, for several minutes. At the end of his seventh call, Iris told him that she loved him, too.

  Living her life between letters and phone calls and fantasies, the weeks passed quickly for Iris; by midsummer, it had become apparent that it would probably make more sense for her to bide her time and see how things developed, rather than rush back to Buffalo. Her reasoning was validated by the flicker of relief she detected in her father’s eyes when she expressed her thoughts to him; though he would never come right out and ask her to stay, he reminded her that there were a number of good colleges within driving distance. By the time the falling leaves had spread their blanket of crimson and gold over the grass, she had convinced herself that university could wait. She would stay on at home through the autumn, see what happened at Christmas, and still have plenty of time to register for the spring semester. The money she was earning now would come in handy later, whether it be to pursue her studies here, or in Buffalo, or elsewhere. Who could say what the future might hold in store?

  Thanksgiving came and went, marking the official beginning of the Christmas season. Iris began sleeping poorly, waking in the middle of the night to stare at the dark ceiling of her empty room, wondering what would happen when she and Gregorio were finally reunited. Every morning and every evening, she studied the few snapshots he had allowed her to take of him, trying to recall the kind look in his eyes and the amused turn of his smile, trying to conjure up that feeling that had fluttered inside her when they were together. Regardless of how her memories may have faded, regardless of whatever difficulties she may have encountered trying to decipher the handwriting in Gregorio’s letters or his heavily accented words over the phone, one thing was very clear to Iris: Gregorio Leale was a serious man, with serious intentions.

  She hoped and prayed to God that everything would go smoothly during his visit, then rolled up her sleeves and did her part to make that happen. She cleaned the house from top to bottom, although for the sake of propriety, arrangements had been made for Gregorio to sleep at Auntie Rosa’s, whose condominium was also more orderly and quiet, and more suited to a man of his professional standing and refined upbringing. Iris busied herself baking tray upon tray of Christmas cookies, and decking the halls with the most beautiful decorations that had ever graced the Capotosti residence. Iris vowed that the holiday would be celebrated in great style, with joy and serenity. No one would rob her of what promised to be a very special Christmas. No one.

  The anticipation that had been building up over the months of their long-distance courtship reached its peak when Gregorio finally stepped off the plane, walked purposefully toward her, and wrapped his arms around her. The scent of tobacco that tickled her nostrils when he kissed her on both cheeks was remarkably familiar, but the scratchy woolen overcoat he pressed her head against was not; it had no place in her memories of that marvelous Italian May, and smelled slightly of mothballs. It was odd to see the object of her romantic Riviera fantasies bundled up in this winter version, embodied in this foreign man with the blond goatee, standing on her icy North American turf.

  A series of snowstorms thwarted any plans Iris might have made for sightseeing, had there been any sights to see in western New York in the dead of winter, with ten-foot snow drifts and a wind chill factor of minus twenty degrees – and that was Fahrenheit, she pointed out to Gregorio, who thought
being snowed in rather adventurous. The main roads were plowed regularly, making it possible to drive back and forth to Auntie Rosa’s, and each evening Iris cooked hearty meals for the extended family. Gregorio never failed to compliment her on her culinary skills, and seemed to enjoy conversing amicably with her father and anyone else who hung around afterwards, eating Christmas cookies (one per evening was all Gregorio would allow himself) and drinking coffee (Gregorio preferred the chamomile tea he was in the habit of drinking, of which he had brought a supply). Iris had tried to arrange an evening out with Lily, but she declined, saying she was fighting off the flu, and did not want to spread her germs; maybe after Christmas, when her symptoms and the snow subsided.

  Shortly before it was time to leave for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, Gregorio invited Iris’s father to step outside with him, the former with his loaded pipe, the latter armed with cigarettes. Iris was quite certain the purpose of Gregorio’s invitation was not the contemplation of the freshly fallen snow, though neither man revealed the subject of their conversation to her, and she did not ask. On Christmas morning, when Gregorio presented Iris with a little velvet box and a very big question, she knew what her answer must be. Her voice trapped by a lump in her throat, she nodded her head vigorously in assent as he slipped the ring on her finger. The prospect of becoming the wife of Dr. Gregorio Leale and moving to Italy left her speechless.

  “Hey, Lily!” Iris honked the horn and waved as she turned down the side street to the house where her mother and sister lived. Lily must not have seen her, otherwise she would have stopped, or at least waved. Instead, her car pulled out into the traffic on to the main road, muffler belching, radio blaring, cigarette smoke billowing out the open window.

  As she pulled into her mother’s driveway, Iris was pleased to notice how neat the lawn always looked since Joe had started hanging around. It occurred to her that he had already put in an entire season of maintenance; the leaves had been raked in the fall when Iris came to say hello at Thanksgiving, and the driveway had been shoveled when she brought Gregorio over to meet her mother and Lily at Christmas. She thought it a bit of a pity Joe had decided to tame the side yard, though. The last time she had stopped over, the patch had been filled with wildflowers, and now it was just another rectangle of cropped grass.

  Iris wondered where Lily was off to in such a rush. She hadn’t seen much of her lately, what with working up until the day Gregorio and Isabella had arrived, and all the last-minute preparations to attend to, but since her mother had insisted Iris drop everything and come right over, she was hoping she would at least be able to kill two birds with one stone and catch Lily, too. There had been an urgency bordering on frantic in her mother’s voice when she called to say she wanted to see her in private. Maybe she had been the one to ask Lily to leave; she probably wanted to talk to Iris one-on-one before the wedding, give her a reassuring squeeze of the hand, tell her she was sorry she had found herself saddled with so many responsibilities at such a young age. Maybe she wanted to assure Iris that the sacrifices they had all been called upon to make had been worth it, that the sociopolitical causes she had worked so arduously to sustain had made the world a better place for all women.

  Iris would tell her mother that she had never judged her, that she understood her choices a little more now that she herself was a grown woman, that she was proud to have a mother who stood up for her beliefs. Then they would embrace, and Iris would try not to cry, though just about everything made her cry these days. Everyone said it was normal. Pre-nuptial jitters. In a way, she was glad her mother had insisted she come; soon she would be far away, but Iris would have the wisdom of her mother’s words to bear in mind, and the warmth of her embrace to carry in heart.

  “Hi, Mom.” Iris said with a smile as her mother opened the door.

  “Hello, Iris. You look pretty today. Come right in.” Her mother turned and led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks,” Iris accepted the mug her mother held out to her, hoping the coffee wouldn’t aggravate the roiling in her stomach that had been making it a challenge for her to keep food down since the arrival of the Leales.

  “Cream? Sugar?” her mother asked.

  “No, thanks. Black is fine,” Iris said. She wondered how many other things her mother did not know about her, how many things she had known but forgotten, like whether she had liked Babar books as a child, or preferred Dr. Seuss.

  “I’m in the middle of some research here, trying to make some sense out of New York State divorce laws, as if that is even possible. Here we are, in twentieth century America, and a woman getting divorced in this state doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of fair treatment.” They both looked at the table strewn with open books and legal notepads, as if expecting some answer, some explanation, some suggestion. “Why don’t we go sit in the living room?” her mother said, leading the way to the sofa, from which she rounded up a stack of papers she then dumped on the already cluttered coffee table.

  “How are the boys?” her mother began, as they both sat. “It’s hard for me to pin them down for a visit these days.”

  “They’re fine, and all three of them are so smart and handsome! I’m sure they’ll be breaking hearts right and left. Maybe they already are. I hardly see them myself, except at suppertime.”

  “They’ve been lucky to have a big sister like you.” Her mother took a sip of coffee, cleared her throat. “You’ve grown up into a lovely young woman, Iris. And you have some truly remarkable qualities.”

  Iris felt her cheeks grow hot. She wondered whether it was normal to blush at a compliment from your own mother. Auntie Rosa was so openly biased and paid her so many that she didn’t even take them seriously anymore. “Thank you.”

  “Your generous spirit and smiling face draw people to you.”

  “Really?” Iris said. The wounds left by her mother’s abandonment had long since crusted over; her unexpected words of praise were a salve that soothed the scabs and smoothed the scars.

  “However, those very same qualities can bring about your demise. There are forces at play here that you are not aware of.”

  “There are?” Iris hugged her mug tight, took a gulp of the liquid. Bitter, lukewarm. Her father was right about one thing anyway: her mother did not know how to make a decent cup of coffee.

  “Rosa. Your aunt,” she said, little puffs of air escaping her lips as she set down her mug. She folded her arms across the breasts that still looked weary after serving twelve consecutive terms of lactation. “She’s lured you into her trap!” Her mother’s thin voice rose with the vehemence of the whistle-blower into which she had morphed, but its timber remained that of the harried mother struggling to regain dominion over a situation that was spinning out of control.

  “What trap, Mom?” Iris asked, putting down her mug. She was irritated at the cookie crumbs sprinkled across the dusty table and stained carpet; at Lily and her mother for their sloppy housekeeping; at the fact that such details should claim her attention at a time like this.

  “The trap she set for you when she hauled you over to the Old Country last year!”

  “What are you talking about?” Iris was starting to feel confused and frustrated, as if she had walked into a candy shop with a craving for bonbons, only to find the shelves lined with jars full of nuts and bolts.

  “It’s too late for Rosa to go find herself an Italian husband or marry one of those demigod doctors she worships. She spent her life taking care of your crippled grandmother as penance for letting Teresa drown, but she was never forgiven. She was denied her chance, so now she’s coerced you into living her life for her. She has set you up with just the right man – Italian, and a doctor to boot. What more could she want? It’s despicable, the way she’s using you!”

  “How can you say those things?” She wasn’t used to challenging her mother; it had always been easier to simply ignore her. But she had never heard anyone speak of Auntie Rosa in a negative way. Auntie Rosa was t
he most generous, loving woman Iris knew; if anything, she was the one who had been used her whole life.“I’m the one who wanted to go to Italy last year,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m the one who convinced Auntie Rosa.”

  “Why you went doesn’t matter now. What matters is why you would go over there again. And why you would want to live in such a backward country. You think women here have it bad? Wait till you see what you’ll have to deal with over there! Oppression! Discrimination! Exploitation!”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom! It’s way more modern than you think over there! Look at Isabella! She’s a judge! Women don’t sit around rolling meatballs and reciting the rosary all day like people here think!”

  “And this Gregorio! He’s far too old for you! He gets the best of both worlds by snatching you up so young and fresh yet already so well-trained to clean the house and cook meals and look after children.”

  “I have you to thank for that experience, Mom! You left the job vacant, in case you don’t remember!” Iris spit out the words before she could stop herself.

  “That’s irrelevant. You’re a bright girl. Your intelligence could take you anywhere. You need to get back to college, before you find yourself stuck in a house full of bawling bambinos.”

  “Look who’s talking!” Iris felt dizzy, short of breath. She placed a clammy hand on her forehead to stop the banging inside. For once, her mother had finally decided to talk to her, and all Iris wanted was for her to shut up.

  “I have a right to talk. I’ve earned that right. Because I know. If I could go back, I would do things differently.”

  “Thank you very much, Mom!” Iris jumped to her feet, determined to have her say before her anger turned to tears. “You probably wish we were never born. Well, now you’ll have one less daughter to worry about!” She ran to the door, turned, and added, “As if you ever did!”