The Way of Beauty

by Camille Di Maio

  Zia. Angelo had begun using the Italian name for aunt ever since introducing her to the boy.

  Vera forced a smile. She could do this. She could figure out how to be just friends with Angelo again.

  They pushed through people who were stopping at the various stalls and made their way to the Christmas tree. It would not be lit for many hours, but already, men on ladders were clipping on the candleholders. William wiggled until Angelo set him on the ground, and then the boy ran over to a box of the metal clips and picked one up.

  “No,” Vera started, reaching for him.

  “It’s all right, ma’am.” One of the workers put a hand up. Vera had not yet been called “ma’am” over “miss,” and she felt quite grown-up next to Angelo.

  “What a handsome young man. Would you like to help me with these?” The man took the clip from the box and showed William how to fix it onto a branch. Wonder struck, the boy repeated the action until he got it right and looked back at Angelo and Vera for approval.

  They applauded. “Wonderful!” And Vera felt for a moment like they were their own family. That William and Angelo were hers and it was a glimpse of what her life might have looked like if he had never met Pearl.

  “You must be mighty proud of him,” said the man.

  “We are,” said Angelo. And Vera silently agreed that there was no need to offer more explanation.

  “Can I get a photograph of him? It would make a good picture for the newspaper. Young boy helping to ready the Christmas tree.”

  Vera looked at Angelo, uncertain whether she was able to give this kind of permission, but Angelo had already shaken the man’s hand and said yes.

  The man opened his satchel and pulled out a black case. He unlatched it, and an accordionlike stem stretched out. At the end was a lens. He held it still and pressed the lever that made a clicking sound, which Vera assumed meant that the job was done.

  “Why don’t you two stand on either side of him?”

  Vera hesitated, but Angelo grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the tree. William sat by their feet, engrossed in his task.

  “A little closer together.”

  Angelo and Vera were shoulder to shoulder, and she felt nervous next to him, as if she had not ever been so close to him before.

  She glanced at him once as the man snapped a photo, then hurriedly looked back at the camera.

  “Mighty good. Going to be a lovely photo,” he said.

  Angelo started to bend over to pick William up. The man walked over to the tree with a pair of scissors and snipped one of the decorations off it.

  “Mistletoe. For you and your lovely missus here. May you have a lifetime of love and an abundance of children like this one.”

  With Christmas less than a week away, Pearl had fewer activities with the suffragettes and insisted that Vera spend the time with her father, while still giving her the same pay.

  “A Christmas bonus,” she’d said. No such thing had ever been offered at the factory, and the best one could hope for was to come in a few hours late on Christmas Day. Vera accepted gratefully.

  She was glad to not have to see Angelo after the incident with the mistletoe. She hadn’t been able to look in his eyes after it had been said, so she wasn’t sure how to even read his expression. He had grown silent, though, and the rest of their outing was quite perfunctory as they let William select a gift for Pearl. A velvet jewelry box that was intended to go along with a necklace or some such thing. But William had found a rock that he wanted his mother to have and begged to put it in such a case. It had cost half of what Angelo gave him to find a present, so they spent the remainder on warm muffins that they ate in almost complete silence.

  She had left with a promise to visit his newsstand on Christmas Eve, as had always been their tradition.

  Vera sidestepped a patch of ice, one of many that were stubbornly staying put despite a rare day of sun. She had three parcels under her arms. She’d made good use of her week, reading to Vater as he took his many naps and listening to music on the radio as she knitted, knitted, knitted. Three sets of scarves and mittens. Green for Angelo, white for Pearl, blue for William. She’d made a set for Vater and planned to give it to him tonight, following the German custom of opening presents on Christmas Eve.

  There was just enough space in their apartment for a tiny tree, and she saved every year for some toffee and yarn and a fresh strudel. There were never any presents underneath it for her—not since Mama died. Though Angelo always thought of her and gave his Kid a gift. But he liked to see her open it. Hair ribbons when she was younger, books as she got older.

  Angelo planned to close up early today and was just starting to put away his stock as she approached.

  He beamed when he saw her, and she was glad that their freeze had thawed. “Eccoti! There you are, Kid. I was losing hope.”

  “I’m sorry. A neighbor came by, Mrs. Sullivan. She checks in on my father when I’m with William. She’d made a fruitcake, and it was difficult to pull away.”

  “Of course I understand. I was going to head up that way and find you. We wanted to ask if you’d like to spend the evening with us. Pearl is trying to make a ham. And I do say trying because, poor girl, she was not raised in a kitchen, and the first one burned. But the second one seems to be coming along.”

  A lump formed in Vera’s throat. She imagined sitting with the three of them, dinner set on the table. A fire in the fireplace. How absolutely cozy. But it felt like an intrusion to consider it.

  “Thank you, but no. That is time with your family. It’s your first Christmas together. And don’t you usually go to Mass in the evening?” She’d joined him and his parents for midnight Mass several times, and once for the Festa di Ceppo, where they joined other Italian immigrants for the burning of the Yule log.

  Would Pearl participate in these events now that she was his wife? Or would they spend Christmas Day at Madison Park with Pearl’s grandmother?

  “Not this year,” he said with no explanation. “But come to the apartment tonight. You are family, Kid. You always have been.”

  She had always envisioned being part of his family in such a different way.

  “I should be with Vater,” she said, though she wanted with all her heart to say yes.

  “Va bene. You’ll be missed. But you’ll have to think of us, because these are for you to put under your tree.”

  He handed her three packages, all wrapped in white paper and tied with red ribbons. One said, To Mr. Keller, and Vera was grateful that he’d remembered her father.

  “It’s not much,” he said, watching her look at it. “Some handkerchiefs for him. The other two are for you. William picked out that one, and the one with the silk flower in the ribbon is from Pearl.”

  Both were oddly shaped.

  He pulled out another from under the counter. This one was wrapped in newspaper and tied with green string. “And this,” he said as he placed it in her hands, “is from me.”

  Vera smiled inwardly.

  His finger brushed against the side of her hand as he gave the package to her, and a shiver ran through her body, though it was an innocent enough gesture.

  The gift was rectangular in shape, the size of a book but much lighter.

  “Should I open it now?” she asked.

  “Nah. Put it under your tree. Save it for the morning.”

  She said her goodbyes and handed him the gifts she’d made, running off before he could give her a friendly hug that would make her cry.

  She couldn’t wait until morning. She opened the gifts when she returned home. Not because she was impatient—gifts meant little to her. But because she needed to recapture the joy of the holiday after feeling a sense of loss all day.

  Each one brought a smile to her face.

  A set of watercolors from Pearl. A wooden eagle from William, presumably from the same toy maker at the market.

  And from Angelo, a framed picture of a newspaper cutout. There they were, in front of the
Christmas tree. The mistletoe, not yet plucked, was hanging above their heads. And the two of them were looking at each other, the camera having captured expressions in a moment so brief that an onlooker might not have seen it. But here it was, immortalized. A look of love on each of their faces.

  Or was she only imagining it?

  Chapter Seven

  March 1913

  “V-V-V-era!”

  Little William Pilkington threw his arms out wide as soon as he saw Vera. In the few months that Vera had known Pearl’s young son, his stutter had not improved. Pearl paid it no mind, saying he’d outgrow it. Vera kept her doubts to herself. She spent far more time with him, but she believed that despite Pearl’s frequent absences, a mother knew what was best.

  She dismissed any thoughts to the contrary by reminding herself that Pearl was fighting for a higher cause. What was one little boy in comparison with the millions of women who needed someone like Pearl to be their beacon? Their savior? And it wasn’t as if Pearl had abandoned William. Leaving him in the care of Vera put him in doting arms that showed him love every day. Vera swelled with pride at the gift of supporting the cause in this way—and in escaping the work of the factory.

  At Pearl and Angelo’s apartment, if she was cold, she would just layer on another blanket or pull William’s warm body next to hers as she read him stories. In the factory, the foreman griped about the cost of coal, and she didn’t own enough sweaters to fight the chill. Just before she’d left, a girl one table over had caught pneumonia and never returned.

  She especially appreciated the additional time she got to spend with Angelo, who stopped into the apartment nearly every day for a short lunch. It was easy to imagine, when the three of them sat at the table over a soup she’d just made, that they were the family—husband, wife, child. But every time she allowed herself an indulgence in that illusion, it was quickly pierced by the reality that brought a fresh pain. If things were any other way, it would bring heartache to Pearl, whom she loved and admired. So Vera tried to detach her emotions from it all and think of it as a job. A nice one that had gotten her out of the factory. Nothing more.

  But whenever Angelo walked by her, when she saw the affection he had for his stepson, Vera’s heart tightened almost to the point of breaking. Sometimes his gaze seemed to linger on her, and his touch lasted just a second longer than necessary. Or did she just hope that to be the case?

  Vera noticed that Pearl’s fine clothes had begun to show wear. The tips of her pastel skirts were now colored by thin coats of dust from the streets, no longer hand-washed by meticulous servants. The lace frayed in places; missing buttons were not generally replaced, and if they were, it was with inexpensive mismatches.

  Whatever stipend she received from her grandmother, it didn’t go toward personal luxuries. But Pearl always had a spare coin to leave for Vera to take William out for an ice cream or a new book.

  He was the sunshine in Vera’s world. And today, they had a big outing planned.

  “Will!” she responded when she’d closed the door behind her. The boy threw himself into her arms, and she spun around as she picked him up. It had been four days since they’d seen each other. Vera’s father had taken a turn for the worse and she’d been forced to stay home with him. The dementia released horrible profanities that she didn’t want William to hear.

  “How’s your papa doing? What did you do together yesterday?”

  “L-l-l-lollipop,” he said, holding up five fingers caked in stickiness.

  “I can see that.” Vera laughed. “Looks like strawberry. That was my favorite when I was your age. Although I called it by its German name. Erdbeere. Your papa calls it fragola.”

  Vera loved how Angelo always encouraged her to practice her German and even to learn Italian. It was uncommon in the immigrant communities as they struggled to be seen as Americans.

  She leaned over and smiled. “Your papa gives you lollipops when you go out with him?” She was happy for his sake that Angelo had so enthusiastically taken on the role of father.

  William nodded.

  “Let’s go wash up before breakfast,” she said, leading the boy over to a basin on the bureau.

  The bedroom door was cracked open. William must have crept into bed with Angelo again in Pearl’s latest absence. The boy was afraid of the dark and wanted to sleep near him whenever possible.

  She saw Angelo stir under a mountain of blankets. It was early March. Vera’s shoes were wet from walking here in last night’s snow, and the chill of the basement apartment made her shiver.

  How warm it seemed in there.

  If she’d been a great beauty or a witty conversationalist or a heroine like Pearl, perhaps the empty side of that bed would have been hers instead. But she was just plain Vera Keller.

  Her hand rested on the doorframe, and she knew that no matter how hard she tried not to, she did love him. She loved him more than breathing—but she also loved Pearl too much to ever do anything about it.

  Crash! Vera turned and saw that William had knocked over the water basin.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” she said, placing a finger over her lips and racing to him. He’d soaked himself in water and wailed until she made her way to him.

  She curled him into her arms. His plump legs wrapped around her, and she thought once again that he fit her like a puzzle piece.

  “Don’t cry, Will. Zia Vera’s here.” She whispered this so that Angelo wouldn’t wake.

  As she rocked the boy back and forth, the rise of maternal feelings rushed through her and she worried, as she had of late, that she might be taking Pearl’s place in Will’s heart. She knew she’d been hired because Pearl planned to be away frequently—marches, legislative sessions, rallies. Maybe Vera just didn’t know enough about the world. Maybe that was what all this meant for women. That they could be in the home with their children or choose to be somewhere else.

  Vera knew what her choice would be. Home.

  But she’d met women through Pearl who seemed to want something different, and it excited her to be part of these changing times. Vera attended rallies when she could, staying in the background with Will while his mother shone like the light she was. She taught him to applaud when Pearl spoke, wave when she walked by.

  Today was March 2. Pearl had now been gone for nineteen days, having left from Hudson Terminal with a contingent of men and women who intended to walk all the way to Washington, DC, to preach Votes for Women at the inauguration of Woodrow Wilson. Angelo, Vera, and William had joined Pearl at the station. They blew kisses into the air as she passed. She looked regal in her long wool coat, her sable stole, and her wide-brimmed hat. Vestiges of her old life that proved useful armor in this battle, tucked away for special occasions. She wore a white Votes for Women sash across her chest and a yellow rosette on her lapel. Angelo had handed her a walking stick that he’d purchased for her journey.

  They’d received postcards from Princeton and Philadelphia and Baltimore as she made her way down the 225 miles.

  The general is a warhorse if there ever was one, Pearl wrote, referring to Rosalie Jones, just one of the fixtures of the movement. We’ll be meeting up with the colored women’s suffrage group in Laurel. The cause is for everyone, and I am happy to march with my sisters from all over. Our feet are blistered, our hands are red and bare from the terrible cold, but our mission is just and right, and it is our very suffering that we hope will convince the president to consider our message.

  Vera loved receiving these notes. The newspapers were filled with editorials written by men who opposed the rise of the women and the friendship between races. Pearl’s postcards offered hope for a world that didn’t differentiate between Germans or Italians or coloreds or Poles or Russians. Pearl had explained that votes for women would open the door to votes for all.

  And maybe that would mean that immigrants like her father could be employed in work that put them behind desks and not below the river’s sludge. It was too late for him. But not for t
hose who would come after.

  Today Vera and the boys would travel by train down to the capital to join Pearl in time for the march. William was going to love it. She couldn’t wait to see his face when he saw the real train engine. Just like the one he’d bought for Angelo.

  She rubbed a hand across Will’s wet arm and pulled a towel off the counter to dry him off.

  “It’s a bit early for a swim.”

  Vera turned to see Angelo standing behind her, arms crossed. His shirt was only buttoned partway, and the sight of him made her feel more like a woman than she ever had. If there were no Pearl, she might be so bold as to walk over to him and press her body against his and kiss him the way she did in her imagination.

  “Someone was sticky,” she said. “I’ll change his clothes before we leave.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Come to Papa, William.” The boy reached out to Angelo and grinned in his arms. “Remember that blue sweater that Zia Vera knit for you? You look so handsome in it. Let’s show her how handsome you are.”

  While they went into the bedroom to get ready, Vera looked around at all that had been left undone. Plates and cups and laundry sat waiting for washing. Jam was smeared across the table as if Will had used it as an art palette. She smiled. It was good to be needed, and her boys needed her.

  In no time she’d washed down all the surfaces, cleaned the dishes, and even shelled some walnuts to pack as a snack. They were going on an adventure to meet Pearl in Washington, DC.

  “Well, well, well,” Angelo said as he and Will returned. “What do we say to Zia Vera for taking care of us?”

  “Ta tu, V-V-Vera.” Will’s smile never ceased to warm her.

  He reached his arms out to her, and she set him on her hip as if he’d always belonged there.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Angelo said. He placed a hand on hers, and her skin felt warm where he touched it. “I know your pops hasn’t been doing well. Not that we don’t want you, though. Of course . . . we want you.”

  She had to remind herself to take those words at face value. The vision of someone in love could distort things like a prism, refracting the tiniest of lights into hundreds of beautiful rainbows. But it was an illusion. A parlor trick.