by CD Reiss
With a thrust of my legs, I push myself out of the pool, water cascading down my shoulders and hips, so much more tender with me than my husband has ever been.
“You can leave it,” I tell Armando.
He drops the bag and retreats.
I take my time drying off, then I snap the bag by the handles, stomp up the stairs, and drop it on my bed.
With a ding, he’s in my phone again.
—The dress is for church—
So he was serious last night about church. Is it even Sunday? I look out the window again, as if the clouds could tell me. I lost time in Italy—lost my footing and my bearings. My phone says it’s Sunday, so it must be.
From the bag, I pull a pair of white stockings, a matching lace bra, and a garter.
—The rest is for me—
The dress is far more demure. It’s a classic navy blue jacket dress with gold crest buttons that—unlike the underwear—is appropriate for church. It’s not as dumpy as the things in my closet though, as if Santino has a more nuanced vision of what his wife is supposed to be.
—The rest is for you? It’s not exactly your size—
Santino’s response comes quickly, and I flush at the knowledge that wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, I’ve captured his attention, if not his sense of humor.
—God owns what the world can see, and I own what the world cannot—
Getting dressed in the clothes he sent for me, I forget that I’m angry. I forget that he betrayed me with my sister before he knew me and with lies after he married me. But that’s wrong. I can’t ever forget it.
—You talk a lot about owning me. You can’t own people—
—You are Italian and my wife. You are mine. Be in church at 11:45am—
He has an answer for everything, but I call bullshit.
I can’t escape Santino, but that doesn’t mean he controls my every move. If I’m not his prisoner, then I don’t have to go where he tells me to go or wear what he tells me to wear.
This life I’ve been living is the life of my mother, my sister, my aunts, my nonnas. The women in my family have all sat idly by as the silent partner, the quiet backbone of a family often torn apart by violence committed by men like my husband. I may not ever really escape it, but I can remind myself of who I once was.
And I can hurt him. If I can’t hurt his body, I’m going to break his heart little by little. Piece by piece. I’ll chip away shards of his control until he tells me everything I want to know.
I text Scarlett.
—Happy jetlag! I don’t know about you but mine is totally worth it—
That last part is questionable, but I leave it and continue.
—I miss your face and I have so much to tell you! But Monday is bad. Are you free today?—
—I can be!—
Before I leave, I check the mirror, trying to guess whether I’ll look normal enough to pass muster with Scarlett. She’s only ever seen me dressed like a normal American college student, never so Sunday-formal or well-pressed. Well, she’s about to see a new side of me, because no matter how good I look, I’m nothing but a designer dress stuffed with secrets, and even the softest fabric can’t soothe the riot of conflict under my skin.
That’s just another reason to skip church.
Convincing Armando to drive me to The Leaky Bean, our favorite off-campus coffee shop, involves a lie about a change of mass time and another about how long I expect my coffee date with Scarlett to last.
I get caught up in the surreal moment of going across the river where the streets are full and people my age are goofing off, shopping, living the lives they imagine for themselves. In this world, if there’s a man whose job it is to drive you places, he drives you where you want to go, not where your husband demands.
The town center is everything I remember from a lifetime ago. The telephone poles flake with layers upon layers of flyers in every color.
ROOM FOR RENT
LEARN GUITAR
HOMEWORK HELP!
LSAT STUDY GROUP
Bicycle racks crammed with pastel cruisers and speeders outline the edge of the sidewalk. A row of mopeds lean on their stands, perpendicular to the curb. What catches my breath are the people walking in the sun with a cup in one hand and a phone in the other, their shoulders and legs exposed, and their voices humming in the air. It’s just as it’s always been, and just like Italy.
Armando parks and I get out, waving him away with a promise that I’ll be back soon.
There are no black cars except ours. No black suits or men sitting with their arms crossed in judgment. It’s burgers and coffee and hacky sack and skateboards.
This is freedom. This is life.
“Violetta?” Scarlett’s voice squeals behind me. I turn just in time to be mauled by my best friend, sporting a very nice, very new tan. “Why does it feel like I haven’t seen you in years?”
“Because it’s been too long.” I want to cry, I’m so happy to see her, and when we get into the coffee shop with its blackboard menu, student art, mismatched wooden tables, and constantly hissing milk steamer, I almost do.
When we order, I have to stop myself from asking for the things I’ve been drinking in Santino’s kitchen—because I don’t have to. No espresso. No cappuccino. Instead, I get a strawberry Frappuccino—which has the distinction of being the least Italian drink with the most Italian name—and Scarlett orders an iced green tea, because though she’s been trying for years, she just can’t quit caffeine. We chatter about her move from coffee to tea, Icelandic men, and her new hairstyle that’s subtly different from her last hairstyle, barely stopping as we pay for our drinks and secure a table.
“Hold the phone.” Scarlett is in the middle of describing a lost suitcase fiasco, but stops as if she hasn’t seen me this entire time. I’m convinced she’s going to comment on the dress, but instead she points at my hand. “Is that… is that what I think it is?”
My cheeks heat up and my heart races. Even though my best friend is the most self-centered person I’ve ever met, the diamond is too huge to miss. I had a story prepared, but now I can’t even remember it.
“Oh… well, you know it’s… I wasn’t sure if you’d, uh…” I’m desperately looking for something to say that sounds casual and mature, but my mouth is moving and nonsense is coming out.
“Not notice?” Scarlett’s eyes almost bug out of her head as she reads my thought. “Have you seen the rock on your finger? You could see it from Mars.”
She grabs my hand to get a closer look at it.
“I guess.” I blush, fully embarrassed, because now I have to tell the entire shocking story and I don’t want to. She’ll never understand.
“Which Greek prince stole your heart?”
I have to tell her something, but what? I have to tell a horrifying story without the horror, and I have never felt so far outside the world I aspired to be a part of. “Um, Italian actually.”
“No shit. I guess you weren’t kidding, huh?” Her face is pure awe, recalling some string of words I wasn’t kidding about.
“What?”
“About how serious Italian men are?”
Had I told her anything about living on the other side of the river?
I had to cancel plans to attend Novia Gardiamo’s last-minute wedding.
And maybe I told Scarlett about Mariella Casella, who married a man she didn’t seem to like, but who insisted.
What did “insist” mean then? And what does it mean now?
Did I know all along that girls were being forced into marriages? Did I not pay attention to it because I assumed it wouldn’t happen to me? Did I tell Scarlett these stories as if they were funny anecdotes about a faraway culture?
We’re sitting, and Scarlett is talking right through my self-doubts.
“I mean, my god, we’re only apart for, like, seven weeks and you got engaged?”
“Well, married actually.”
She looks genuinely hurt. “You got mar
ried without me?”
Thankfully, she’s drawn the attention back to herself and I have to nod yes, biting my tongue to keep from spilling the details she can’t hear. That it might have been dangerous for her to be in the church that day. That I didn’t even pick out my own wedding dress, or have a real reception, so of course I wasn’t responsible for the invitations.
Scarlett is still talking. “You didn’t let me plan your bachelorette party or your wedding shower. We didn’t go dress shopping! I feel cheated from this entire experience!”
I want to shout, “Same!” Instead, I grab her hand. “It all happened so fast there wasn’t time for any of that.” That’s true enough anyway.
“Violetta,” Scarlett purrs. “Are you… you know…?”
“Am I…?” I leave space for the answer. When she arches her eyebrows and looks at my belly, I realize I must be the dumbest person in a hundred-mile radius. “No!”
I deny it as if I’m offended, which I don’t have to be. I’m married after all.
“I’m not pregnant,” I add less defensively. “It was just so emotional.” True. “And in-the-moment.” Also true… for me. “But I promise you, if I ever have a make-up bachelorette, you’ll be the only one in charge.”
“If?” Scarlett snorts. “Like this husband of yours could stop me.”
Could. Would. Can. Will.
“I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
Lies. Not only can I wait, I will prevent it from ever happening. If she ever meets Santino, she won’t believe or understand him. Even now, watching one of the most familiar faces I know, I can see the mistrust. Scarlett never understood my obligations, and she won’t understand them now.
How could she? I still don’t.
“He must be that fucking wonderful to scoop you off your feet like that.”
My friendship with her is over. She just doesn’t know it.
Instead of being rescued, I’ve been caught. Spending an afternoon with my old life was supposed to help me remember who I am, but instead, it’s telling me I no longer fit and never did. I was playacting the entire time.
“Yeah,” I say.
Something—or someone—over my shoulder catches Scarlett’s eye.
“What?” I ask, hoping to shift the focus back to her.
“A man just walked into this place,” Scarlett says. “By the board games. Dark jacket. Little older. Definitely a prof or grad student.”
“Glad to see you haven’t changed,” I say, trying to do a casual stretch-and-glance so I can at least scope out this hottie.
“Right now, I am so glad you’re married, because I’d fight you for this one.”
I see him. He’s neither professor nor student. Not a hunky athlete coming back from the practice field, scruffy and sweet, or a dreamy philosophy major hoping to find answers inside inscrutable textbooks. Instead, my eyes land on broad shoulders, a wicked mouth, and a sharp suit. My pulse races, because of course.
Of course.
Santino DiLustro, who’s supposed to be in church and seething that I didn’t show up, and who employs the man who drove me here, is standing by a flyer for a one-bedroom apartment.
When he sees me, he smiles like a new husband, and he walks to our table with the confidence of a lover. I want to tell myself I’m just playing along, trying not to start drama in public, but it’s not that. He’s absolutely magnetic. Everyone’s watching him with lust, aspiration, or envy, and he’s mine.
All mine.
I stand and let him draw me into the heat radiating off of his powerful body. He kisses me tenderly on the cheek before smiling at Scarlett with the beneficence of a saint.
“Scarlett.” I hear myself saying polite words, and I’m grateful I have an autopilot function. “This is my husband, Santino. Santino, this is my best friend, Scarlett.”
She stands and offers her his hand. I can’t help marveling at the sight of this powerful man shaking hands with an American girl in cutoffs and flip-flops.
“We were just talking about how you swept Violetta off her feet,” Scarlett chirps. “I’m so sorry I missed the wedding.”
“It was a very brief engagement and a small ceremony.” Santino tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering at my neck. Though I can’t guarantee he feels my pulse pick up, I am sure his touch was meant for this purpose. “We couldn’t wait.”
“I can see that.” Scarlett is smirking at me, and it’s hard not to get lost in the fantasy of this moment: that Santino and I really did meet on some normal day, some-normal-where, had a normal series of conversations, and instantly fell in normal love. That he’s as enamored of me as his touch suggests. That there’s nothing for me to fear with him, or from him.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Santino says, “but I forgot to tell Violetta we have somewhere to be this afternoon.” I expect a subtle threat of violence, some reminder that I’ll come with him whether I like it or not, but his face stays calm. When he turns to me, he’s every inch a man besotted, who merely wants his new bride by his side as often as possible. “Do you mind?”
Do I mind? Yes, I mind, but no, I do not. Talking to Scarlett wasn’t the escape I thought it would be. I nod, because I want to go with him, even if he demands it.
“Depends where we’re going,” I flirt.
“Remember my zia Paola, from the other side?”
“How could I forget?” I try not to sound sour, but I can’t keep the tartness from my tongue.
Gia’s mother, Paola, brought Siena Orolio to the beach house long enough for me to find out Santino loved my sister first. I’m pissed off right now because of her. Paola witnessed what Siena said to me. She saw the color drain from my face because I didn’t know about Santino and Rosetta.
“Marco—my uncle—he has business here. Unexpected things… anyway, he brought his wife and they’re making a trip of it.” Typically vague reasoning for a sudden transatlantic journey. Marco and Paola just hopped on a plane from Italy and showed up for an undisclosed amount of time.
Actually, that’s only unusual for the kids strolling the grassy square by St. John’s University.
For us, it’s perfectly normal to fold space and time where family is concerned. Our houses are often split into smaller units for long-term guests from the other side.
“Where are they staying?” I hope it’s not at our place.
“Anette and Angelo’s, on Porto Street, and it’s going to be a long Italian dinner, so...” He turns to Scarlett again. “I have to steal her.”
“I could use a nap,” Scarlett says with a glance at her iced tea. “They say this has caffeine, but I think they’re lying.”
“We’ll walk you out then,” Santino says.
The arm that was around my waist slides down, and to my surprise, he laces his fingers through mine. On the sidewalk, he lets me go grudgingly so Scarlett and I can hug and kiss goodbye, making promises to see each other soon. But I’m lying to save her feelings.
I’ll be surprised if I ever see her again.
5
VIOLETTA
Santino holds open the passenger door of the Alfa Romeo. As soon as it slams closed behind me, the summer students in shorts and tanks seem like children, and University Square seems like a movie set. It’s all real to them, but to me, it’s no more than a tangible dream I’m cut off from ever living.
Santino gets in beside me and drives away, his wrist dangling over the top of the steering wheel. Will this be the rest of my life, I wonder? Will I always be seduced by a man I despise? Will my body, mind, and heart always be at war?
Rosetta, tell me what to do here.
But no response comes from her or anyone else, dead or alive. There’s only Santino.
Finally, I say, “Did we miss church? Sorry about that.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me.”
I didn’t lie exactly, but pointing that out won’t do me any favors. He and I understand each other. I’m playing a game and he�
�d rather I didn’t.
My phone buzzes with a text—Scarlett.
—YOUR HUSBAND IS SOOOOO HOOOOOTTTTTT!!!!! —
Don’t I know it.
—I was afraid you’d think it was weird—
I don’t clarify what “it” is.
—I would have snapped him up too. You need to have his babies now. Like, now—
I shake my head and put the phone back in my bag.
“What?” Santino asks, navigating the light street traffic to the bridge over the river.
“She likes you.”
He slows at the merge to the bridge entrance and gives me a glance.
“Scarlett. She thinks you’re handsome.”
“And what do you think?”
The wood boards clap under the tires, then quiet as we get to asphalt.
I think God Himself made you specifically to torture me as penance for some grievous sin I haven’t committed yet.
Instead of saying that, I shrug. “Genetic lottery, I guess.”
There’s a pause. He doesn’t seem inclined to comment on his genetics or Scarlett’s thoughts.
But I can’t help myself.
“My sister got all the best genes too.” I say it, and despite my better judgment, I complete the thought out loud. “Didn’t keep you from killing her.”
His silence gets stonier, and I wonder how far I have to push him before the hardness shatters into a deadly hail of information, each confession a shard hot and sharp enough to end us both.
