An Italian Wife

by Ann Hood

  DINNER BEGINS without Vincent. No one can find him.

  Vincent arrives just as Mama G starts to serve the spaghetti with anchovies. He sits down without apologizing and fills his plate high with smelts and eel and octopus and fried shrimp and baccala, then holds it aloft for Mama G to add the spaghetti with anchovies.

  “Now I see how you keep your girlish figure,” Pat says. His own belly is big enough to hang over his belt, and to quiver when he talks or takes a breath.

  Vincent laughs and raises his jelly glass of wine. “Salute, my brother-in-law. To our girlish figures.”

  Mama G has left some spaghetti plain for the kids, but Cammie refuses it.

  “I’ll take it with the anchovies, Mama G,” she says proudly.

  Mama G beams, pinching the girl’s cheeks. “Figlia mia,” she says, and kisses the top of Cammie’s ringleted head.

  It seems they will never stop eating, Connie thinks, even though she touches almost nothing. The platters keep getting emptied and refilled. Vincent and Pat drink too much wine and grow sloppy and silly. The metallic taste of vomit fills Connie’s mouth. When they get home, she will have Dr. DiMarco do a pregnancy test. No, she decides as quickly as she thinks this. She will go to Dr. Caprio. Somehow, the thought of Dr. DiMarco knowing she is pregnant embarrasses her.

  Connie glances up at the clock.

  “Amahl and the Night Visitors,” she says, getting to her feet.

  Standing so fast makes her dizzy and she clutches the edge of the table, the plastic her mother has placed over the polyester tablecloth decorated with fake-looking poinsettias beneath it crinkling.

  Angie stares into a small gold hand mirror, applying fresh dark-magenta lipstick. “Amahl?” she repeats.

  “The opera,” Connie says. “It’s going to be on television in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah,” Pat says, “that’s just what I want to do. Watch a friggin’ opera.”

  “I’ve got your opera right here swinging,” Rocky says.

  Unexpectedly, tears fill Connie’s eyes. She wants to go home. Now. Back to her small white Cape in Connecticut and her dreams of Dr. DiMarco falling in love with her. She wants to take Davy away from these people, who do not even seem to notice how special he is. But when she looks at her husband, it is clear he is too drunk to drive in the dark all the way to Connecticut.

  The opera is just beginning when Connie sits in her mother’s worn easy chair, the powder-blue upholstery fraying at the seams. She runs her hands over it, as if she can fix it.

  Anna comes in too, but she is not interested in Amahl and the Night Visitors. She just needs to put her swollen feet up on the little footstool.

  “He wants five kids,” she says, almost boastful. “I am going to be pregnant for the next ten years.”

  The little boy, Amahl, is trying to convince his mother that there are three kings at their door. The mother keeps asking, “What shall I do with this boy? What shall I do?”

  “Mother, Mother, Mother, come with me,” the boy sings in the sweetest voice Connie has ever heard. “I want to be sure you see what I see . . .”

  The boy’s name is Chet Allen, and watching him Connie realizes that Davy could be on television just like Chet Allen. She thinks of him in his kindergarten play back in October, how he came onstage in a floppy chef’s hat and white apron, holding a tray of baked goods and singing, “Have you seen the muffin man?” He had sung louder and more clearly than any of the other children.

  Connie leans forward.

  “I was a shepherd,” Amahl is singing, his voice pure and high. “I had a warm goat who gave me warm, sweet milk . . .”

  Others have come into the living room. The air is filling with the smells of perfume and cigars and sweat and wine. But Connie can only stare at Chet Allen.

  “Cammie’s going to do a little performance,” Gloria says. “A little song and dance.”

  Davy climbs on Connie’s lap and she holds him tight.

  “See that boy on TV?” she whispers to Davy. “You can do that. You can be that boy.”

  Davy has his thumb in his mouth, sucking quietly.

  “Watch the boy,” she says.

  Vincent sits on the arm of the easy chair, holding a grease-stained bag.

  “For you,” he says, offering it to Connie.

  “What is it?”

  He smiles crookedly and takes a white Chinese-food container from the bag.

  “Pork fried rice,” he says. “From Ming Garden.”

  “But when—”

  “I went and got it before dinner. I figured all that fish might upset your stomach.”

  He is holding the container out to her, but Connie doesn’t take it. On the television, Amahl’s mother is agreeing to let him go with the three kings.

  Mama G puts on the too-bright overhead light.

  “Come on in, Cammie,” she calls into the kitchen.

  Cammie bursts in, dressed in a sea of sparkles. Her cheeks are rouged, her lashes thick with mascara, her lips reddened and shiny with lipstick. Even her tights sparkle as she tap dances to the center of the room. In her hands she holds a shiny red baton with white rubber tips. She holds it as if it weighs nothing at all, throwing it in the air easily and catching it without even looking.

  “On the good ship Lollipop,” Cammie sings in a squeaky loud voice, “it’s a sweet trip to the candy shop . . .”

  Her feet tap across the floor, the baton flies into the air, and is caught again and again.

  Cammie points the baton right at Davy: “. . . and there you are, happy landings on a chocolate bar.”

  Chet Allen is singing. He is with the kings. He is following that star.

  “Look,” Connie whispers to her son. “Watch that boy.”

  Around her, her family is applauding. They are on their feet, surrounding Cammie, clapping and clapping until Connie thinks she cannot take it, not one more minute of it.

  “Watch him, Davy,” she says, her voice cracking as she presses her beautiful son close to her, holding on to him as tightly as she can. “Watch him.”

  Husbands

  SHE SAW THEM EVERYWHERE. ON OVERHILL DRIVE, Maplewood Street, Linden Way. Mowing lawns, walking dogs, pulling cars in and out of garages. She saw them in backyards and driveways, on sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. Early in the morning they tucked newspapers under their arms; placed cigarettes between their lips; adjusted hats, ties, glasses, watches, wedding rings. Jangled car keys, whistled, waved good-bye. In the morning, they drove away. The ones who worked in factories, hospitals, fire stations, police stations came back by four. But most returned at five o’clock, six o’clock, sometimes even seven. Car doors slammed, children ran outside to get swooped into arms. Martinis were stirred and tables set. The blue glow of television news filled the neighborhood. The husbands were home. Husbands were everywhere. But none of them belonged to Francie Partridge.

  She’d had one once, long enough ago now to make him seem like a dream. He had been tall and broad-shouldered, with a cowlick, and a scar under his chin from getting hit with a hockey stick. When she got the news that he’d been killed in France, in a place called Normandy, she’d thought about him all the time. She could feel the pressure of his lips on hers, remember his minty scent. All she could do at first, really, was think of him, as if she might be able to memorize every detail. But she hadn’t been able to. He faded, grew small and faraway like a picture in a library book. Now, ten years later, weeks passed without her thinking of him at all.

  Francie was meandering dreamily through the A&P produce section and a man strode past her. He walked purposefully, like he had somewhere to go. Francie saw him, saw his wide back and the sandy hair in need of a trim, his long legs and a certain way he held his head and she remembered her dead husband. The memory made her woozy, made her grip the edge of the display of Golden Delicious apples. She thought she might faint, right there in the A&P. Francie closed her eyes, ready for anything except the pair of strong arms that caught her. Yellow ap
ples tumbled to the floor.

  A man said, “Whoa there,” and Francie looked into the bright blue eyes of the person who had caused all this in the first place. Up close, he looked nothing like her husband. Her heart slowed. Her stomach settled. She took a few deep breaths. The man smelled like just baked pie. His name tag said: ART CUMMINGS, BAKERY MANAGER.

  Francie smiled up at him.

  “You okay?” he asked, not letting her go.

  She was aware of a crowd around them. She saw the frowning face of Margaret Lefleur. Margaret lived on Maplewood, right where it intersected Francie’s own street, Mayflower Lane.

  “A dizzy spell,” Francie said lightly. “It’s passed now.”

  “You sure?” Art Cummings asked.

  She wished he wouldn’t let go of her. She wished, in that instant, that he would walk up her driveway tonight, slip his keys into her front door, and call to her that he was home. A dog that she did not own, a cocker spaniel or a Scottie, would run to meet him, and she would step into the living room with a pitcher of martinis for the two of them. Art Cummings would kiss her lightly on the cheek, ask her what smelled so good, follow her to the gold sofa, and sit beside her.

  “Ma’am?” he was saying.

  Margaret Lefleur stepped forward. “Do you need me to drive you home?” she was asking.

  She stuck her pale round face right in Francie’s, so close that Francie could smell the tuna salad Margaret must have had for lunch.

  “She lives right by us,” Margaret explained to the crowd.

  “Really,” Francie said, straightening, “I’m fine.”

  Art Cummings released her. He studied her to be certain.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Someone started to pick up all the bruised apples. Art nodded at her, satisfied. When he raised his hand to his head in a kind of salute, she saw a plain gold wedding band on his left ring finger.

  “Anchors aweigh,” Francie said. But everyone had dispersed as quickly as they’d gathered. She was standing there, alone.

  MANY OF THE HUSBANDS had been in the war too. Paul Lefleur had lost his arm in the Pacific and walked around on hot summer weekends in a sleeveless T-shirt, showing off his stump. Some of the men limped, or had bad nerves. Some of the men walked the streets of Meadowbrook Plat at night, unable to sleep; the war gave them bad dreams, guilty consciences, insomnia.

  One summer night, Francie was in her backyard deadheading her lilacs when Mike Macomber from two doors down appeared out of the shadows. Mike was tall and wiry, like a baseball player, with pale blond hair tinged green from chlorine. Francie could see his yard from her back steps, but she’d never been invited over. His wife, Elaine, had a pinched, anxious face, like she was waiting for bad news.

  “You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Francie said that night Mike showed up.

  “Sorry,” he said without a hint of apology. “Once Jack Paar’s over, there isn’t much left to do.”

  “Where’s Elaine? Isn’t she watching Jack Paar with you?” Francie said. She was peeved at this interruption and she didn’t try to hide it.

  Mike laughed and sat in one of her woven plastic chairs. That weave would leave crisscrosses all over the backs of his legs, Francie knew. Mike lit up a cigarette and offered it to her, but she shook her head no and went back to her lilacs.

  “Pretty,” he said just when she’d forgotten he was there.

  She turned to him.

  “The lilacs,” he said.

  “They’re hard to take care of,” Francie said. She had struggled with these lilacs since she’d bought the house in ’51. Her grandmother had told her that lilacs need sun and pruning and attention. She’d said it like Francie was incapable of making lilac bushes bloom, and that made Francie even more determined.

  “They smell so pretty,” Mike said. “Like France.”

  Francie sighed and sat in the chair next to him. She took his half-smoked cigarette from his slender fingers and put it in her mouth. After she inhaled and blew the smoke out in a slow, long breath, she said, “That’s where my husband died. Normandy.”

  It used to be that she would grow teary when she said those words: “husband” and “died” and “Normandy.” She used to tell anyone who would listen how the military officer who came to tell her the news had cut himself shaving that morning and had a small piece of tissue stuck on his cheek, dotted with blood. She used to add how her mother had fainted at the news, how her grandmother had yelled at the officer in Italian, lunging for him as if he had killed Mac himself.

  But Francie had stood still and calm. The garlic her grandmother had been browning in olive oil burned as she stood there accepting the news, and the acrid smell filled the room. She could hear the hot oil splattering. Then she thanked the officer, led him to the door, and watched him walk away. That was when Francie began to shake. It started deep inside her and radiated out—giant, uncontrollable shaking. Her arms and legs jumped, her head shook so hard on her shoulders that her grandmother thought she was having a seizure and jammed a wadded up handkerchief into Francie’s mouth so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue. Francie took another drag from Mike’s cigarette, then lifted the bottle of anisette she’d brought outside with her and poured a shot glass full.

  “Here,” she said, offering it to him.

  Mike drank it in one long swallow, then coughed.

  “What the hell?” he said, sputtering. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Francie laughed and refilled the glass. She took a sip, then held it out to him. “You sip it,” she said.

  He did as she told him.

  “Anisette,” she explained. “It’s good in coffee on cold days. Or in snow.”

  “Snow?” he said, grinning at her.

  “You collect freshly fallen snow and add coffee and anisette to it. You eat it with a spoon.”

  “Crazy wop,” he said, chuckling.

  Francie smudged the butt of the cigarette in the big green ashtray she kept outside. She took another sip of the anisette and looked at her lilacs in the moonlight. They hung in heavy clusters, like ripe things ready to be picked. Tomorrow she would bring some to her grandmother.

  “I was there,” Mike said, just when she’d almost forgotten about him again. “France. And then Italy.”

  Francie nodded. She didn’t care about Mike Macomber or his war stories. She hoped he wouldn’t tell her anything.

  Mike lit another cigarette and handed it to her. This time she took it.

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” Mike said.

  “I hardly remember him anymore,” Francie said, and saying it out loud filled her with such sadness that she began to cry.

  “No,” Mike said, spilling anisette as he jumped up. “It’s too painful to remember. That’s all.”

  But Francie shook her head. She struggled for something particular about him, something to hold on to, something more than a cowlick or long legs or a scar so small it didn’t even matter.

  Mike was shushing her. A woman crying made men nervous. Francie knew that. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No, no,” Mike was saying. He said it like he was pleading for something.

  All of the wives in Meadowbrook were fair-skinned, round-faced, flat-chested. They got their hair cut and dried and dyed and sprayed every Saturday. They had small waists cinched smaller with belts. They wore charm bracelets that tinkled when they moved. Francie had thought when she first saw them that they were exotic birds. But she was the exotic one, with her dark curls that could not be tamed, and her olive skin and her large breasts that came to two perfect points under her sweaters. Her hips were wide, her eyes were black, her nose was sharp with a small bump at the bridge. “You Eye-talians,” Elaine Macomber always said as a way of explanation for the way Francie looked or smelled or walked. “Why, look at you in that skirt!” Elaine would say in her hushed, nervous voice. “You Eye-talians sure have the hourglass figure, don’t you?”

  In this moment, with a
n almost full moon and the intoxicating suffocating lilacs in bloom and the taste of licorice mingling with smoke and salty tears on her lips and Mike Macomber so blond and tall reaching to comfort her, Francie ached for her husband.

  Later, alone in her bed, she would blame that ache for letting Elaine Macomber’s husband take her into his arms—all pointy, sharp elbows and small, tight muscles—and kissing her. His tongue was lazy and fat. His fingers long and slender. Long ago, before her little pale blue house here, before her husband, back when she was a girl called Francesca, Francie used to let boys kiss her all the time. She used to let them feel her up. She didn’t care. And she didn’t care now. Francie smiled into Mike’s kisses.

  “Why are you smiling?” he whispered.

  But how could she explain that letting him kiss her here in her backyard was somehow giving her a power that she had forgotten she’d had. It was like finding herself again. When they tumbled onto the grass, it was wet with dew. Francie felt it soaking her blouse and skirt. It was May, warm in the daytime but chilly at night. Francie shivered, and Mike mistook it for pleasure, for permission. She heard the sound of his zipper unzipping, let him reach under her skirt and pull down her panties, let him bunch up her skirt and put his thing inside. She had not done this with anyone except her husband; she had not done this since he died. It felt unfamiliar and oddly pleasant.

  Mike whispered, “I’ve never done this with an Eye-talian.” He sounded out of control. “So different,” he murmured, and she almost laughed. She’d heard once that Orientals’ slits were horizontal instead of like everyone else’s. But were Italians different down there?

  “So much hair,” Mike was saying. “So much.”

  He threw his head back, teeth clenched, his face in the moonlight as pale as a ghost. The lights in all the houses on Mayflower Lane and Maplewood Street and Overhill Drive, all of them were off, the houses dark, the husbands snoring softly beside their wives.