Milk Glass Moon

  Jack tastes the third sample. “This is very mild.”

  “Because the olives it comes from are very ripe! Now try this one.” Giuseppe gives Jack a sample from an unmarked bottle. He tastes it and makes a face.

  “What is wrong?” Giuseppe asks.

  “I’m sorry. This is bad.”

  “Of course it is! Tell your wife! It is the brand she cooks with in the States! Terrible! I would not use this to—”

  “Wash my feet!” Etta, Iva Lou, and I say in unison.

  “There is a huge difference. Really, you cannot compare,” Jack says to us.

  As we pile back into our car, Giuseppe and Elaine wave from the steps of the factory. Iva Lou snaps a few pictures of them from the car. Elaine promises to ship a case of olive oil to Big Stone Gap. “We can be in Bergamo by sunset,” Jack promises.

  Etta puts her hand on my shoulder, and I reach back to take her hand. She is as happy as I am to return to Bergamo and Schilpario, to our Italian Alps. I grasp her hand tightly and look back at her. Etta loosens her grip first, but I continue to hold her hand, pulling it close to my face. We’re both a little embarrassed; it reminds us of when Etta was little and we were close. Then she does something she hasn’t done in years—she leans forward and rests her head on my seat. I think about what I have learned from my daughter over the years. She taught me that the stars, even when they seem to disappear, always return to their origins. And here we are, back to the place we came from, only one generation after my mother left to find her destiny in America. Who knew we would return so soon?

  “There. Dad. Turn there.” Etta leans between us into the front seat, pointing to the turn to Via Davide.

  “You know where it is?” Jack can’t believe she remembers.

  “Third house on the left,” Etta says confidently. “Black shutters. Lemon trees. There!”

  “It’s adorable.” Iva Lou climbs out of the car. “How long’s it been since you were here?”

  “Seven years,” I say.

  “And it hasn’t changed a bit!” Etta says excitedly, running up the familiar walkway with tiny purple flowers.

  My cousin Federica peeks out the window (her brilliant red hair gives her away instantly) and shouts for Zia Meoli when she sees us coming up the walk. Federica greets us at the door. She is very pregnant, and luminous. Her red curls are cropped close to her head, and a three-year-old girl hovers around her knees. “Welcome home!” Federica throws her arms around me, remembers Jack, cannot believe how much Etta has grown, and is delighted when Iva Lou presents her with a gift of Outdoor Drama baseball caps from Big Stone Gap.

  “This is Giuliana.” Federica picks up her daughter to introduce us at eye level.

  “She looks just like you!” I tell her.

  “The hair, no?” Federica laughs and runs her fingers through Giuliana’s thick curls.

  “Ave Maria!” Zia Meoli stands in the entryway with her hands on her hips. She is older, her hair nearly white now, but her posture is still perfect and her energy as vital as ever. I give her a good long hug.

  “Etta! Etta, you are all grown up! I can’t believe it! Bellisima!”

  Etta is thrilled to see her aunt, so happy she cries. Iva Lou fishes in her purse for a tissue. “Jesus, now you’re gonna make me cry.”

  “How is Zio Pietro?” Jack wants to know.

  “Come see him.”

  Zia Meoli leads us back through the house to the sun porch, through the familiar hallways that smell like lavender, past the old photographs in simple gold frames, through the sparkling kitchen with the white metal cabinets and the black and white harlequin floor. “Everything looks beautiful, the same,” I tell my aunt, and then “Zio Pietro!”

  My uncle sits in a wicker rocking chair with his hands folded in his lap. He opens his eyes when I call to him. At first he is overwhelmed by the sum of us, but he sees who we are and smiles broadly. “How are you?” I kneel down and embrace him.

  Jack introduces Iva Lou, and Etta makes a big fuss over Zio Pietro, reminding him of how she learned to make boxes in his woodworking shop.

  “I haven’t made anything in a long time,” he says.

  “I could help you,” Etta offers.

  “Too much for me now. I am old,” Zio Pietro says, and smiles.

  “Hello, everyone.” We hear a familiar voice in the doorway.

  “Stefano Grassi!” Iva Lou throws her arms around our old friend.

  “How are you, Miss Iva Lou?”

  “How do I look?”

  “Magnificent.”

  “Then that’s how I am!”

  “It is so good to see you all again,” Stefano says graciously as he shakes Jack’s hand and kisses me on the cheek.

  “You remember Etta?” Iva Lou pushes Etta toward Stefano. Etta doesn’t lurch; in fact, she is refined in her movements and extends her hand.

  “Etta has grown up!” Stefano’s eyes narrow and he looks at me, then to Jack and then back to Etta.

  “Little Rose here has blossomed,” Iva Lou says smugly.

  The term “sparks fly” takes on new meaning as we stand with Stefano and Etta. He looks at Etta as though this is the first time he has ever seen her.

  Etta is tall and lean, her light brown hair falls below her shoulders in waves, and her eyes are soft, tilting upward, the color of mossy green velvet. The only Italian element I can see in her face is the set of her mouth: her lips are full and her front teeth have a slight overbite, which gives her an endearing pout. Here in Italy, her Scottish-American coloring stands out.

  “How have you been, Stefano?” Etta asks him, sounding grown up.

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  Iva Lou nudges me as she notices how Etta smiles at Stefano. I look over at my husband. He too has not missed a beat of this. He puts his arm around Etta’s shoulder.

  “We’re all so happy to see you again. We’ve planned a wonderful dinner in Città Alta,” Stefano says.

  “That will be wonderful,” I say, speaking for the American contingent. Federica asks for a rain check. She will stay home with Zio Pietro, who is too tired to join us. We do our best to convince him to come, but he is stubborn, so we promise to bring him something from the restaurant. Zia Meoli joins us, and I’m very happy about that; we have so much to catch up on.

  Stefano takes our group to Bergamo Alta (also known as Città Alta), the ancient town above the modern city (known as Bergamo Bassa), to a hillside restaurant with a view of the valley. Stefano is a delightful host, ordering such local delicacies as risotto with fresh truffles (it’s the hunting season for them now) and costolette, veal cutlets coated in bread crumbs and pan-fried in butter. Etta fills Stefano in on all the news in Big Stone Gap, and Iva Lou, her loyal sidekick, adds the spicy details, while Jack laughs.

  “Zia, how have you been?” I ask her.

  “It’s hard to get old.”

  “You’re not old!”

  “Eighty-three. And Zio Pietro is eighty-eight. We are old.”

  “You look terrific.”

  “I am doing well. I have shrunk a bit, though that’s what happens to old bones. But Zio has had some problems with his heart, and his memory is not so good anymore.”

  “Does he go to the wood shop?”

  “Not in several years. He likes Stefano to come by and talk to him about architecture and building. That was always his passion.” Then Zia says with admiration, “Etta is a woman now, isn’t she?”

  “Almost. She looks so much older than she is.”

  “What are her interests?”

  “Zia, she is a complex girl. She’s sensible but headstrong. Sometimes that serves her well, and sometimes it causes problems.”

  “She is very different from you, isn’t she?”

  “Very.”

  “It’s difficult to know what to do. We think our daughters will be just like us, or at least appreciate who we are. It wasn’t really until Federica had her daughter that she realized that I wasn’t crazy or old-fa
shioned. It took a long time.” I sit back and exhale a long, deep sigh. Zia takes my hand. “It’s difficult now, but eventually, you will be happy you have a daughter.”

  “Oh, I am happy I have her.”

  “No. What I mean is, a daughter will stay by the mother all of her life. A son is different. A son will leave you. Sons are easy until they are grown. But when they’re grown, they’re gone.” She sighs.

  “There’s an old expression in America. ‘A son is a son till he marries a wife; a daughter’s a daughter the rest of her life.’ ”

  “Exactly,” Zia says, nodding.

  We’re staying the night on Via Davide. Papa is due to pick us up in the morning. Federica has prepared our rooms beautifully with all the details we remember—the embroidered sheets, the down comforters, the silver cups on the dresser filled with wild roses. Iva Lou is setting her hair in the bathroom down the hall, so I know Etta is alone, and I go into the room they’re sharing. She is writing in her journal, which she closes gently when I enter.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  “No, come on in.”

  “That was fun tonight, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Of what?”

  “Stefano Grassi.”

  “He’s the same, Ma.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he’s very self-absorbed.”

  “Really.” I’m taken aback. Where’s my daughter who had a mad crush on the older Italian boy?

  “Yeah. He talked about his work a lot, and where he’s been. He spends a lot of time in Rimini, on the coast. He went on and on about the Adriatic Sea. Iva Lou asked him if he had a girlfriend, and he said, ‘Several,’ which I thought was cheesy.”

  “That is cheesy.”

  “He’s got a big ego.”

  “He’s young. He’s Italian. No surprise there,” I tell her.

  Etta leans back on the pillows. “I think about things too much. I analyze stuff to death. I’m too critical.”

  “Sounds familiar,” I tell her.

  Etta smiles knowingly. If I’ve had fifteen years to observe her, she’s had the same fifteen to mirror me.

  “I’ve always been that way. It’s the one thing I wished I could change about myself. I admire people who can be light, and move through life like small birds, you know, landing, pecking a bit, and then flying off. Not getting too involved. Not caring too much.”

  Etta looks at me as though she understands exactly what I am saying. “You know when Stefano was leaving Big Stone Gap? And I got so upset?”

  “I remember.”

  “I promised myself that I would never let any boy upset me like that ever again.”

  “How’s that worked out?”

  “Pretty well. I don’t let myself get too wrapped up, Ma. I keep a distance. Boys are just too fickle, whether they’re American or Italian.”

  Part of me is thrilled that my daughter is so poised and confident, that she has A Plan when it comes to boys. But another part of me worries that she will isolate herself, much as I did for so long. I don’t want Etta to be repressed, as I was; that’s part of my personal legacy that I hope she rejects. But there is something within the women of my line that spends too much time worrying about being worthy, and being strong in the face of love, and rejecting it to avoid the pain if it doesn’t work out. Etta is only fifteen, too young for some of these concepts. And now that she is opening up to me, I want to encourage her to continue. I don’t want to say the wrong thing.

  I sit down on the foot of the bed. “You know what my mother always told me?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “That all the answers to all your questions are already inside of you. You just have to listen.”

  “Is that true?” Etta asks, putting her book aside.

  “I think so.”

  “How do you learn to listen?”

  “Well, that’s something that comes with experience. And trusting yourself. At night, before I go to sleep, I think about what is troubling me. And then I ask myself to work it out while I sleep.”

  “And you wake up knowing the answer?”

  “Sometimes. But I always wake up feeling as though I’m on the right track.”

  “That’s interesting,” Etta says as she braids the tip of a lock of hair.

  “What do you see yourself doing, honey? After you leave Dad and me and go off in the world. How do you see yourself?”

  “Well, I see myself working. I like cities, but I hope I’ll live in a small one.”

  “You don’t see yourself in Cracker’s Neck Holler?”

  “Maybe when I’m older.”

  “Do you see yourself married?”

  “Ma.” Etta’s tone tells me not to go down this road.

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Did you?” She turns the question on me.

  I guess I’ll be honest. “No.”

  “But you married Dad.”

  “And no one was more surprised than me. I guess that’s what I’m trying to get at, Etta. Stay open to the big surprises, because I swear, they’ll come.”

  “What are you two yammering about?” Iva Lou wants to know as she comes in. Her hair is rolled on curlers the size of orange-juice cans. “Oh, it’s serious.” She turns to go back out the door.

  “No, no. We’re done.” As I stand to go, I ask Iva Lou, “Are you having a good time?”

  “Do you have to ask? Look at me. I’m spillin’ over with joy unabandoned. My pap used to say that, and I have no idea what it means exactly, but it sort of fits how I feel about It-lee.”

  “We’re happy you’re here.”

  “I feel like family. I can’t thank y’all enough.”

  As I go down the hall to my room, I hear Iva Lou squeal with delight, just as I did, when she lies down on the poufy cloud bed for the first time and sinks a good foot or two into the soft goose feathers. I stand in the hallway and listen to her and Etta laughing and realize that maybe my daughter did miss out on a big family life as an only child, but what she got instead was just as valuable. How many girls have an honorary aunt like Iva Lou? Sometimes what we don’t get in life makes way for something even better.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Where are my girls?” my father yells up the stairs at Via Davide in his rich Barbari baritone. Etta and I fly down the stairs into his arms.

  “Does that include me, Mario da Schilpario?” Iva Lou says from the top of the stairs.

  “Of course.”

  Papa is in good health, robust and youthful. He is wearing faded jeans (with pressed creases, of course) rolled about a half inch at the hem, with a beige cashmere V-neck sweater. His face hasn’t aged much since his last visit to Big Stone Gap. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones and thick arched black eyebrows are as pronounced as ever. I’m glad I was born when he was young, because now I have him in my middle years. The thought of this makes me wince. I hope I will be around when Etta needs me later in her life. “Where’s Giacomina?”

  “She’s in Schilpario, preparing for your arrival.”

  “Couldn’t take that mountain road I’ve been hearing about, eh?” Iva Lou teases.

  “No, she doesn’t mind the road.”

  “Mario da Schilpario, is that road as bad as these folks say? Should I be nervous?”

  “Not with me as your coachman.”

  Iva Lou, Etta, and I ride with Papa, who has a thousand questions for Etta about school, her internship, and even Shoo the Cat. (We put Iva Lou in the front seat in case the winding roads get to be too much for her.) Jack Mac follows us in the van with the luggage. I offered to ride with him, but I think he’d like some time alone; he has been surrounded by women since the start of the trip. It’s times like these that I think of my son—he should be here for his father, who was so proud of him; no matter where we go or what we do, Joe is always missing. When I look back and see Jack following close behind, I feel sad for him.


  “Should I have ridden with Dad?” Etta asks me. I think she’s reading my mind.

  “He looks like he’s okay.”

  “Are you thinking about Joe?”

  “Always.”

  “Me too.”

  I wonder what life would be like if my son were here. Or what life would have been like with more children. We tried, but it didn’t happen. I took it as a sign not to push things, to enjoy Etta, to focus on her. I wonder what she wishes; surely she hoped to have sisters or brothers. I was an only child and used to imagine a house full of siblings and what joy that must be. Jack was an only child too, but he looked at it differently. He liked being alone and loved having the attention of both of his parents. Jack still can’t speak of his father without getting emotional. They were very close, and Jack has told me he would never change that.

  “Whenever I’m really happy, I think of Joe and feel bad he’s not here,” Etta says to me softly.

  “Me too,” I tell her, knowing that I shouldn’t encourage that kind of guilt. “He would want you to be happy, Etta.”

  “I know.”

  “Remember the day of the big snowstorm?”

  “The one where we made ice cream?” Etta asks.

  “The very one,” I tell her.

  “It was so cool. You and Joe and me got all bundled up and went out into the woods with a bucket and lifted clean snow off the branches. Joe and I were so little, you had to do it all. And then we went back inside, and you took sugar and cream and stirred it into the clean snow. It tasted so good.”

  “That was a great day, wasn’t it?”

  Etta doesn’t answer me. She looks out the window, still remembering. Sometimes I forget she was there through the whole ordeal, and think I’m the only person who lost Joe. Maybe that’s because I’m the mother and he was born of me. But it’s really not true; Etta lost her brother and Jack lost his son, and there isn’t one of us who will ever be the same. No matter where we go, we are always looking for him, whether it’s on a curvy alpine road or in the field behind our house in Cracker’s Neck Holler.

  Iva Lou makes sounds I have never before heard from her as Papa takes the sharp curves, then speeds up on the straightaways, then decelerates around dark corners, only to emerge speeding higher and higher up the alpine road. “Does anyone ever go over?” Iva Lou asks Papa, gripping the handle on the dashboard like the hand of God.