Zita crouched beside her, taking her hands and squeezing them in her old, dry ones. “You will go home to your mamma, of course,” she said soothingly. “Until the signora comes to her senses.”
“Mamma won’t have me,” Doria said sadly. “She said so.”
“Of course she will. That was only talk.”
“She will say I should have kept quiet. It’s what she always says.”
“I will go with you, and explain. The signora is crazy; everyone knows that!”
Doria thought perhaps her heart would break into pieces. She was Butterfly, helpless little Cio-Cio-San. A girl with no power. She hadn’t asked much of her life, she thought, only this work, service to the maestro, the music! But Villa Puccini was her Sorrow, to be taken away from her even though she had given her life to it.
She said, “I don’t know if Mamma will listen to you, Zita. She’s a hard woman.”
“Lo so,” Zita said grimly. “Emilia’s had a hard life.”
“Do you think the signore will be angry with his wife for doing this? Will he make her take me back?”
Zita scowled. “Hah. Who knows what rich people will do, Doria?”
Sick at heart, Doria reached under the bed and pulled out the satchel she had carried here on her very first day at Villa Puccini, nearly six years before. She folded in her dress, her nightdress, her few bits of lingerie. She hesitated over her spare apron, then took that, too. She put her hairbrushes on top of it all, and closed it.
She followed Zita out to the kitchen and then to the back door. They put on their coats, and Zita picked up the big umbrella. She also, with a quick glance over her shoulder, took up her shopping basket, and filled it with two jars of tomatoes, a bottle of olive oil, a tin of tea sent from Babington’s in Rome, and a loaf of bread. “The signora would not want you to go back to your mamma empty handed,” she said. Doria tried to smile at this, but her lips trembled.
Together, the two of them went out the back door and into the rain-sodden garden. Zita put up the umbrella, and, laden with the basket and Doria’s satchel, they trudged up the muddy lane toward the Manfredi home. The villagers of Torre came to their doorsteps and windows to watch them, and Doria hung her head. Tongues would wag today. Rumors would fly. Her mother would be furious, and Father Michelucci would be disappointed. Even Zita couldn’t know how her heart ached.
Only Cio-Cio-San, poor little Butterfly, could have understood her feelings.
23
La mia mamma, che farà s’io non torno? Quanto piangerà!
My mother, what will she do if I don’t return?
How she will weep!
—Jake Wallace, La Fanciulla del West, Act One
Jack took care making his way out of Vermont, across New York, and south to Pennsylvania. He kept a close eye on his rearview mirror. He bought a map at a service station to supplement the GPS, since he wasn’t certain what destination to program it for. He used the cash he’d brought, and for two nights he slept in the car, rolled in his sleeping bag, finding deserted state parks and campgrounds to park in, and watching to be certain no one observed him. By the time he skirted the south end of Lake Michigan and headed north into Wisconsin, he was sure no one was following him. She wasn’t following him.
He kept his cell phone in the car charger. Once or twice a friend called, but he didn’t speak long. He promised himself he would call Chet and Kate in a day or so to reassure them. He pressed on toward the west, using the map to choose the fastest route. He had to change the radio channel often as stations faded in and out. Once he came upon a classical station that lasted long enough for him to hear Octavia Voss sing “The Song to the Moon” from Rusalka. Tory loved that aria. He yearned to see her, headphones fixed over her head, tears on her cheeks as she gave herself up to the music, and he swore to himself he would see that again.
There was plenty of snow, but the roads in Wisconsin and Minnesota were well plowed, and he only had to slow his pace a few times. Christmas lights shone along main streets of towns and from remote farmhouses. They blinked garishly in convenience store windows. He ate fast food mostly, but once or twice, when he couldn’t face another greasy hamburger, he stopped in a grocery store and bought oranges and bananas. He cleaned up in rest stops and gas station bathrooms, and promised himself a motel room when he reached Montana.
The long, long hours of driving forced him to be alone with his thoughts. His mind spun with images and regrets and tumbled memories of things he wished he’d done differently, until at last he blew out a breath and said aloud, “No way, man. You’ll end up as crazy as Gramma. Take it from the beginning.”
It was a good way to pass the hours, it turned out. Tory the therapist, he reflected wryly, would have approved. He disciplined himself to look at his twenty years in order, to try to figure out what had gone wrong between himself and his mother, what he had done and, in fairness, what she had done—or not done—to let this rift grow between them. He had a good memory. He thought back to when it had all started, when he was thirteen or fourteen, and worked his way forward through the years.
He remembered jumping on the trampoline in the Garveys’ backyard, he and Colton bouncing together, falling, laughing even when they bounced right off onto the grass. He had banged his head on the steel support where the canvas was suspended. His forehead swelled, and his eye turned black and blue in a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Garvey had glanced at him, saying offhandedly, “There’s ice in the freezer if you want it,” then turning back to whatever she was doing. He had been amazed at that. His mother would have insisted he hold an ice pack on the bruise, would have lectured both him and Colton about the dangers of getting wild on the trampoline and, if it had been Colton with the black eye, called his mother to tell her. When Tory came to pick him up that day, Mrs. Garvey was nowhere to be found. Colton had looked a little shamefaced about that, facing Tory’s worried frown with a shrug and reddening cheeks. Tory had refused to let Jack go back to the Garveys’ again until she learned the trampoline was gone.
He remembered a baseball game one spring evening. Colton’s dad had practiced all the sports with him, football, soccer, basketball, and baseball, and Colton was a great hitter. Jack remembered the shame of his own strikeouts, the agony of a dropped ball in center field. They’d won the game anyway, when Colton smacked one completely out of the park, and he had stood by watching Colton and Mr. Garvey high-fiving each other. When Tory came up, she said something or other, he’d made a good effort, at least he’d tried, something like that. He remembered how his throat had burned with humiliation at the other guys hearing these lame excuses for his failure. He had snapped at her that she didn’t know what she was talking about, and he remembered with painful clarity how the smile had frozen on her face, how her slender shoulders had stiffened, and how high and tight her voice was when she turned to greet one of the other parents.
There were good times, too. They had made a trip to New York when he was fourteen, and wandered the streets together staring at the buildings they recognized from films and television, going to a Broadway show of his choosing, attending only one classical concert. He had enjoyed that, actually, and had liked the way the patrons of that theater glanced at his pretty mother, how smart she had sounded chatting with their seatmates about the music.
His eyes began to burn as the sun set ahead of him, beyond the flat fields and low silhouettes of the little Minnesota towns he drove through. He had better stop. He’d be no good to his mother if he fell asleep and crashed the damn car.
And he remembered, as he started looking for a safe place to park, how cautious she had been about his driving, how he had chafed under her constant reminders, how he had badgered her to let him take the car to school—an old Volvo station wagon, embarrassing, but at least having four wheels—and how rarely she had allowed it.
By the time he was driving, of course, the Garvey family he so admired had broken up. Mrs. Garvey’s negligence, Mr. Garvey’s infidelity, had all led to
disaster for Colton and his little brothers. Jack had seen it for what it was, even as a teenager. He understood he had been wrong about them, that their family was no more ideal than his own single-parent household. Why had he never told his mother that? She had never spoken of it except for offering to take him to say good-bye to his friend on the day the Garveys left town.
Jack found a city park with a gravel lot in a tiny town on the western edge of Minnesota, but the moment he turned off the engine, he knew it would be too cold to sleep in the car. Snow blanketed the grassy area around him, and bent the boughs of pine trees with its weight. Frigid air crept in through the doors of the car the moment the heater went off. He’d have to splurge on a room. He wouldn’t be any good to Tory if he turned into a Popsicle, either.
He pulled out his wallet and counted what he had left. He was pretty sure he could do it. He would be out of money by the time he reached Oregon, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was to get there, undetected, and search for Tory.
There was a motel in the little town, a dilapidated-looking place with cabins arrayed around a snowy parking lot. There was no one in the office when he stopped, but a sign said to ring for service, so he did. A sleepy woman with old-fashioned plastic curlers in her hair came out to the desk, had him sign the register, and gave him a key. She looked curiously at the cash he gave her, but she didn’t say anything other than to direct him to a room. He took the key, said a polite good night, and went out to take his duffel bag from the Escalade.
The room was the most depressing place he’d ever been. The sheets were threadbare, there was no television, and the shower emitted only a weak stream of water. Still, it was good to be off the road. Jack stood under the shower for ten minutes, scrubbing his hair with hand soap and rubbing himself down, glad to be clean after three days of roughing it. He put all the blankets the room provided on the bed, and he inspected the sheets before he climbed in between them. He laid his head on the pillow, and listened to his stomach gurgle. He had only had a banana since lunch. He closed his eyes, longing for eggs and sausage and pancakes. That made him think of the kitchen at home, always stocked, something ready in the fridge for quick meals. Another good memory, and one a guy only appreciated too late.
In fact, he thought, yawning, turning on his side, Tory’s house had been the most efficient he’d ever seen. As different from the Garveys’ house as it could be, of course, and that had been part of his problem.... As he grew warm under the blankets, his thoughts drifted sleepily. Images from his days of driving jumbled with thoughts of school, of his friends, of the classes he hadn’t finished. His stomach gurgled emptily, and he thought of the savory smell of Tory’s lasagna winding up the stairs and into his bedroom while he sat at the computer—
His eyes opened abruptly. Sleep slid away from him, and he lay staring up at the flyspecked ceiling of his lonely motel room.
The computer. The note with that cell phone number on it.
Why was he thinking about that now? What had happened to it?
Or, he wondered with a chill that matched the icy Minnesota air, who had taken it?
24
Non più, fermate!
No more, stop!
—Fidelia, Edgar, Act Three
Emilia Manfredi opened her door to a bedraggled trio. Father Michelucci now held the umbrella, but it wasn’t wide enough to protect Doria and Zita and himself. All three were wet at the edges, elbows and necks and faces. Doria’s satchel dripped with rain, and her boots were muddy. She hung back behind the others now, beyond the shelter of the umbrella, and the rain dripped from the limp brim of her hat to run down her forehead, adding to her misery and shame.
Her mother stood back to let them enter. The priest said, “Buon giorno, Emilia.” She didn’t answer.
Zita, in the little silence, said tentatively, “Buon giorno.”
Emilia spat, “Penso di no! I don’t think so.”
Doria shuffled in after the others, her head bent. As Father Michelucci and Zita took off their coats and hung them on the pegs by the door, Doria busied herself unbuttoning her boots and kicking them off. Her stockings were wet, too, but she kept them on to hide her long toes. She stood to one side as the priest sat down and her mother and Zita sat opposite them.
Zita glanced up at her. “Doria,” she said in her rusty voice. “There’s tea in my basket. Why don’t you make a pot for us?” Doria hurried to fill the kettle, glad of something to do. She felt as if her mother’s angry gaze would burn right through her.
Emilia sighed and folded her hands on the table. “What has she done?”
It was Zita who answered. “Niente,” she rasped. “Doria has done nothing. Elvira Puccini is a madwoman.”
Emilia turned her gaze to the priest. “Father?” she said, in a voice as hard as stones, a voice that made Doria’s heart shrink even as she put the kettle on to boil.
She looked up and saw Father Michelucci steeple his fingers beneath his chin. Worry lines pulled at his forehead. “Emilia,” he said. “Giacomo is very happy with your daughter’s work. But his wife—”
“Doria works for the signora!” Emilia snapped. “It is her job to make her happy!”
At this unfairness, Doria’s neck stiffened. She whirled to face her mother. “I work for them both!” she cried. “I do everything in that house!” She cast an apologetic glance at Zita. “Almost everything. Zita does the cooking.”
“È vero,” Zita said, nodding so that her gray hair, frizzier than ever in the wet, fell out of its pins. She pushed it back with her bony hands. “It’s true. Doria does everything in that house but the cooking. Can you imagine, Emilia—”
“It’s a good job,” Emilia said stubbornly. “She could find a way to—”
Father Michelucci put up a hand, and Emilia stopped. He said gravely, “I don’t think so, Emilia. I don’t think there’s a way.” With a glance up at Doria, he added, “I don’t think it’s safe for Doria to be there any longer.”
Emilia gave a snort of disbelief. “Not safe? What nonsense!”
The priest’s cheeks reddened. Doria said, “Mamma, don’t speak to Father Michelucci that way!” The kettle whistled, and she turned away to pour the boiling water over the tea leaves. When she turned back, she saw that her mother had folded her arms as tightly as she now folded her lips, restraining herself.
“When the signore comes back,” Zita said, “he will speak to his wife. Signor Puccini is fond of Doria.”
“Fond,” Emilia muttered.
“Sì,” Zita said. Her hair fell down again, and this time she left it where it was. “Sì, he is fond of Doria, but the signora imagines every girl in the world is after her husband.”
“She is very unhappy,” the priest said.
“Hah! Unhappy?” Zita said. “Pazza. Crazy.”
Doria poured the tea, and carried the cups to the table. She put one in front of her mother. “It’s very good, Mamma,” she said softly. “It comes from Roma, a shop near the Spanish Steps.”
“Did you steal it?” Emilia said sourly.
Zita said, “A gift, Emilia.”
“From whom?”
Zita’s smile was both waspish and triumphant. “From Signor Puccini! It was sent to him by an admirer of Madama Butterfly.”
There were a few moments of peace as they sipped the tea. Doria poured a cup for herself, but she stood beside the stove to drink it. After a time, her mother looked up at her. “You must go back, Doria. Apologize.”
“Apologize for what? I didn’t do anything!”
Father Michelucci pursed his lips, and his frown lines deepened. “Emilia, listen to me. I think it’s best Doria is not in Villa Puccini anymore.”
“Why?” Emilia turned her angry gaze on the priest.
“Mamma—” Doria began, but her mother ignored her.
“Why is it best?” Emilia demanded. “Why is it better for her to come back here, where I still have children to feed and clothe, a house to keep? Her brother tr
ies, but Rodolfo can’t support us all!”
“I don’t want to speak ill of Elvira,” the priest said, choosing his words slowly. “She is one of my parishioners, after all, and I know she has—I know she suffers.”
Zita snorted, but he bent his gentle glance on her, and she didn’t speak.
“Some of her sufferings are imaginary,” the priest said. “Many are not.”
“If Doria has given offense—” Emilia began.
Doria stamped her foot. “I haven’t, Mamma! You’re doing just what the signora does. She accuses me, and she won’t listen when I tell her it’s not true. You can ask Signor Puccini!”
Father Michelucci gave a slow nod. “I will go to Villa Puccini myself,” he said. “I will speak to both of them.”
Doria said, “It’s not that I don’t want to go back, Mamma. I do. But I can’t—”
“Let us see,” the priest said, and his worried gaze came up to Doria. “Please. Let us just wait and see.” A fresh rumble of thunder underscored his words, and Doria shivered.
After Zita and Father Michelucci departed, Doria presented the gifts from Zita’s basket to her mother. She didn’t say anything, nor did Emilia. Doria went to carry her satchel back to the room she had always shared with two of her youngest brothers. She was searching out corners to stow her clothes and her hairbrushes when her mother appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Doria,” she began.
Doria straightened, and faced her. “Yes, Mamma,” she said warily.
“You are my daughter. My girl. You can stay as long as you like.”
“Grazie, Mamma.”
“But I want to know the truth.”
Doria’s jaw ached suddenly, and she found she was gritting her teeth. She put down the clothes in her hands, and crossed the room to face her mother, her little fists braced on her hips. “As-colta,” she said, in a tone as hard as any Emilia Manfredi had ever produced. “Listen to me, Mamma. The maestro is like an uncle to me. Or a big brother. He has been kind, and he talks to me as if I matter. As if what I think, or what I feel, matters.”
The Glass Butterfly Page 26
