Sisters of Glass

by Stephanie Hemphill

  I smack the tool into his palm.

  “What are you making?”

  Luca spins toward me

  with his half-finished work.

  “A betrothal glass.

  It will be sent to the enameler

  after this for decoration.”

  Even though the stem

  is yet to be completed,

  the goblet Luca molds

  is the flawless blue of deep ocean.

  I step away from the fires

  but cannot peel my eyes

  from his work.

  “What do you think they will mark

  upon the glass?” Luca asks.

  “How should I know?” I say.

  I feel steamy and wipe my brow

  with my apron.

  “I thought you were the one

  preparing to be married, Maria?”

  he says with a smile that feels as

  though he has knifed me to the wall.

  This causes me to redden.

  I begin to say, “How dare you presume

  to know everything about—”

  A shock of thunder cracks above us,

  followed by heavy pounding on the roof.

  I can waste not another word,

  for the rain falls in waves.

  And if my petticoat is soaked and stained of soot,

  Mother will surely hail down upon me.

  CAUGHT IN THE RAIN

  The rain beads

  upon my dress

  like rotten pearls,

  for I brought no cloak

  to cover me.

  Were I a few years younger

  I might consider removing

  my dress altogether and running home

  in my camicia, but that might bring scandal

  should it reach the ears of the government,

  and I dare not cause my family

  embarrassment or punishment.

  Carlotta gasps to see me.

  “Maria, your mother!”

  “Please help me remove

  this dress before I do any more harm.”

  Laughter boils behind me

  like hot oil hissing from an open pot.

  “What about your fitting, dear sister?

  How shall you wiggle your way

  clear of that? How could Father

  imagine you to be a lady?”

  “Do my ears mistake me

  or is my sister actually speaking to me?”

  The char in my words

  stops her clever smile midway.

  “What do I care, Maria?”

  Vanna squints.

  “But Mother will know

  you have been out of the house.”

  This I know, but does my sister

  need to keep tally on all I do wrong?

  Has she nothing else to do?

  FLOODING

  The rain prevents travel

  across the canal.

  It cries down

  upon the earth

  with anger and passion.

  Our furnace floods,

  and everyone except me

  is called to bail it

  and preserve the fires and wood

  so we will not lose precious time

  we need to produce our glass.

  Our palazzo echoes

  like an empty drum,

  gray and gloomy

  as my disposition.

  I almost wish to have

  been in trouble over my dress

  rather than tread water

  in my isolated loneliness.

  Thunder announces itself,

  and a voice calls,

  “Hello?”

  “No one is here but me, Maria,”

  I yell, and scurry to the front hall.

  Luca’s hair drips a puddle

  onto the floor. He slicks it back

  with his hand, and his eyes

  nearly shimmer silver in the half-light.

  “Fetch your cloak. We must go

  and move the supplies in the studio.”

  “But Mother said I was to—”

  “Hurry! The rain does not wait

  for you to make debate.”

  I speed up the stairs,

  whirl on my cloak

  as though it were a cape.

  I grasp Luca’s hand

  and rush into the downpour.

  A quiver radiates up my spine.

  I quickly release my hold.

  “Follow me,” I say,

  trying to sound authoritative.

  OUT OF HARM’S WAY

  We lift the soda ash

  and the manganese

  onto the higher tables.

  My cloak feels boulder weight

  with rain and cold;

  I shake it out in the corner

  of the room.

  “The rain rages still.

  Let’s wait here

  until she calms a bit.”

  I nod, though I should return home,

  for the studio is drafty,

  but mainly it is strange

  to be alone with Luca again.

  A pregnant silence presides over the room.

  “So your father was a master gaffer?”

  “No,” Luca says.

  “Your grandfather?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Uncle?” Again I receive a negative response.

  “Well, then who?”

  “You must delight in your own speech.”

  Luca smiles at me.

  I fold my arms and turn from him.

  The mud on my shoes holds more interest.

  “I have no family I know of. An old maestro

  I swept floors for as a child apprenticed me.

  But what does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” I say, but I cannot look

  at him for fear I might reveal otherwise.

  “Well, the rain stopped her throttle,

  so we should go back,” Luca says.

  I nod, for unlike Luca,

  soon enough my family

  will note that I am gone

  and worry where I am.

  CALLED TO DUTY

  The flood fragmented,

  like shells upon the shore,

  a whole shipment

  of orders Paolo and Luca

  labored two weeks

  with many apprentices

  to prepare.

  Even I am called

  to staff the ship

  and create a batch.

  I smile as I dust off

  our recipe book.

  Father, steer my rusty

  hands with your gentle sail.

  I carry the mixture

  down to the furnace.

  Luca works inside alone.

  I hesitate like a frightened bird,

  circle and toe the ground

  before I approach him.

  “Where is your fancy gown?

  Am I not worthy of your finery today?”

  Luca’s smile is nearly a smirk.

  “I might toss this batch

  at your head, sir, were it not

  three days in the making,”

  I say, and set down my bucket.

  “You have prepared this.

  I thought your full occupation

  was feathered caps and wooden shoes.”

  He laughs. “What kind of glass

  shall this mixture produce?”

  “You know less than a flea.”

  I turn to leave.

  Luca grabs my arm. “I jest with you.

  Please stay and watch a moment

  if you like, and we’ll see together

  what appears.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I say under my breath,

  but I sit down.

  THE ART OF GLASSBLOWING

  The magic of glass

  resides in alchemy,

  the correct mixture

  and preparation

>   turning stone, ash, metal,

  fire, and breath

  into clear solid beauty.

  The craft of glass

  relies less on tools

  of the bench

  and more on training

  the mouth and lips

  of the gaffer himself,

  the one whose

  breath molds the cup

  or the vase.

  The art of glass

  is not color or clarity

  or shape alone.

  Art births from the mind.

  Father always said

  a true artist sees

  each piece as unique,

  as an individual.

  Luca preheats the blowpipe

  in the furnace’s hottest chamber,

  then gathers the molten moile

  like honey on a dipper.

  He rolls his gooey tube,

  glowing like a spark turning to flame

  on the marble marver’s flat surface,

  before he dares bring the pipe

  to his lips

  and blow a bubble

  of bright orange-yellow

  trimmed in red,

  which balloons on the edge

  of his tube.

  Luca swings round his punty

  to his bench and light streams

  behind him as if he were an angel.

  His jack, blocks, tweezers, paddle,

  and shears surround him,

  but he reaches for no tool.

  He closes his eyes

  and imagines the pitcher

  in perfect clarity.

  It is as though I meet him

  for the first time

  as he begins to create

  his glass art,

  and he looks at me

  and says,

  “The batch is perfect, Maria.”

  FAMILY SERVICE

  Mother examines the sleeve

  of my new gown.

  “You missed some dirt right here.”

  Her eyebrow rises like a shadow.

  “Remind me again why

  you were caught out of doors?”

  “I thought I heard Paolo call

  for help during the flood rain.”

  Vanna’s mouth opens, her tongue

  unfurling like a snail popping

  out of its shell, but she says nothing.

  “Still, stain or not, this is the latest

  fashion, and you should wear it

  when you meet the next suitor.”

  “I thought perhaps Uncle and Marino

  would meet with him instead.”

  “There is far too much work

  to do because of the flood.

  Besides, I am not sure they

  are well equipped to choose

  a partner for you,” Mother says,

  as she untangles my hairpiece.

  “This is dreadful.”

  I nod. “What more can I do to help?”

  “Why, Maria, wonderful that you

  should ask. Why don’t you

  take this hair and reweave it?”

  I sink as lead in water.

  I hoped Mother would let me

  continue to help with the batches.

  I accept the hairpiece

  with a half smile.

  “I’ll set right to work.”

  AT SUPPER

  I don’t care much

  for the pot that Carlotta prepares,

  but Uncle Giova feasts upon the bones.

  “Have you been away at sea?

  A starving sailor might eat less than you.”

  Marino pokes at Uncle.

  Uncle laughs as he licks his bone.

  “A healthy appetite is good for the soul,

  dear nephew.”

  Mother motions for me to sit more erect

  in my chair. I expect Vanna to snicker

  as a snorting pig, but she just demonstrates

  what Mother meant by “erect”

  when Mother’s eyes are averted,

  just like the old Vanna would have.

  Paolo sneezes and we all say,

  “May the spirits be blown away,”

  because that is what Father always said

  whenever someone sneezed.

  Luca seems puzzled or maybe

  just left out,

  like a child without playmates

  watching other children

  toss around a ball.

  Uncle’s tone switches from jovial

  to officious, from golden hues to ash.

  “Seems you had a fine day, Luca?”

  “I finished your cups,

  if that is what you mean.”

  Luca does not look up from his bowl.

  “All of the old orders from London

  are completed?”

  Uncle Giova sets down his bone.

  Luca nods as he twirls on his cloak.

  “Thank you for the meal,”

  he says to Mother.

  As soon as the door clangs closed,

  Mother covers her mouth with her hand.

  “Well, how impertinent not to remain

  until we are finished. Where did he need

  to fly in such haste?”

  Paolo crosses to the window.

  “He returns to the furnace.

  I suppose we are just not fit

  to dine with Signore Luca,

  not being from the papal line.”

  Everyone laughs except for me.

  But I wonder if perhaps Luca strays

  from our family table

  for reasons we Baroviers

  are too fortunate to understand.

  SUNLIGHT

  1

  When Luca fails to appear

  the next morning for our earliest meal,

  I hide bread and pears beneath my skirt.

  How I will sneak the food

  to Luca, I know not.

  Mother pulls at her fingers

  as though she would pluck

  them from her hands

  like garden weeds.

  She eats not a thing,

  which signals Vanna and me

  to hurry into our day.

  I ask, “Mother, might I practice

  walking outside in my new high shoes?”

  I expect her to forbid me.

  But Mother waves a gesture

  of indifference, her mind

  sailing on some distant sea.

  After Paolo and Marino and Vanna

  set to the fornica I slip down the stairs,

  my shoes in hand so I make not a clack.

  Mother and Uncle pace the parlor.

  I feel like a house rat

  creeping along the wall

  so as not to be caught or trapped.

  “He works today cleaning

  and preparing the second fornica?”

  Mother begs with her wide eyes

  to be contradicted.

  “We made a contract,

  and Luca has the day

  to do as he pleases.”

  Uncle Giova covers Mother’s

  fluttering hands.

  2

  Outside, the sun warms my head.

  And like a flower opening

  its bloom after rain,

  I cannot contain my smile.

  I stare at the furnace door,

  debate knocking,

  then call out, “Luca?”

  No one answers

  so I creak into the cave

  of the second fornica.

  Cobwebs, dust,

  and an overall dank odor

  permeate the room.

  My eyes adjust to the shadows,

  and I discover Luca slumped

  in a corner, his eyes shut.

  I tap his shoulder,

  and he sprouts awake.

  “Maria, what are you—?

  Could they not afford to buy you

  a complete dress?

&nb
sp; This one seems not to cover your chest.”

  I launch the breakfast

  I saved for him into his lap.

  “It is the latest style.”

  I feel heated even in the colder room

  and fear a flush paints my cheeks.

  I cover my face with my hands.

  He bites into a pear.

  “Thank you. I am famished.

  There is more work here

  to be done than I supposed.”

  “I could help you.”

  The words dribble from my lips

  before I consider how

  I might be able to do so.

  “It is probably better that you don’t.”

  A pang of anger stirred with pain

  clamps my center.

  He continues, “But if you should visit,

  I would always welcome you in.”

  Luca’s eyes stun me.

  I can neither move nor speak,

  like one under a spell.

  I finally nod.

  A sticky web caps my hair.

  My mouth tastes woolen,

  and I cannot think what to say.

  I open the door and half stumble

  into the street.

  3

  I smile,

  as ornate and obvious in my good cheer

  as a jeweled and feathered hat.

  Vanna nearly knocks me over

  in the street.

  She shakes her head.

  “Where have you been?”

  Even she cannot

  vanquish my joy.

  “Practicing my walk

  in these high shoes,” I say.

  “And it is a lovely day.”