Lucia, Lucia

  “Lucia! It’s John Talbot,” he says, leaning across the front seat of his 1950 Packard, painted a glossy midnight blue, with beige and cranberry accents on the running board. I remember this very model from Exodus’s catalog. My brother longs for one, but they’re made to order and expensive. “Do you need a lift?”

  I run through the mental checklist of the safety precautions for the unmarried girl alone on the street. I throw out the rules when I remember that it is Delmarr who introduced me to John Talbot. Maybe this fellow has a lot of girlfriends, but he also has a car in the middle of what is turning into a terrible storm. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Don’t get out,” I tell him as he attempts to open his door into moving traffic to come around and open mine. I jump into the car.

  “I’m going to have a talk with Delmarr. He’s got a lot of crust having you work so late.”

  “It’s not his fault. I was helping my friend Ruth with her wedding gown.” I smooth my skirt and see that the car seats are made of the finest leather. The interior is clean and neat. This is a man who takes excellent care of his things.

  “You make a lot of wedding gowns there, don’t you?” John asks, easing back into the flow of cars.

  “All the time.”

  “Is that fun?”

  “Well, as you can imagine, a lot of effort goes into a girl’s wedding gown, because she wants to present her very best self to the man who’s chosen her. But when girls come to us to put together their very best selves, they turn into—well, to be honest, they turn into raging monsters.”

  John laughs. “But they look so sweet in the newspaper, with their tiaras and veils.”

  That’s interesting. John Talbot reads the society pages just like Ruth and me. I don’t think he’s looking for the fashion; maybe seeing which names have to be crossed out of his little black book. “Oh yes, we spend a lot of time bringing them back from beastly to demure. Sometimes I wonder if the grooms ever see the side of their fiancées that we do.”

  “Probably not. You ladies have a way of duping us. We’re suckers for you.”

  “Then I would say you deserve what you get,” I tell him.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” John asks in a friendly way.

  “Why would it matter to you? You kissed me on New Year’s Eve like you knew me my whole life.” I can’t believe I brought up the kiss. I instantly wish I could take my words back.

  “I know. I want to apologize for that,” John says sincerely. “I wasn’t really behaving like a gentleman, though I can promise you I absolutely am one. I got carried away. That gold dress was something.”

  “Thank you.” Now I’m glad I hid that bolt of lamé in the supply room. We sit in silence for a couple of blocks while I think of a way to get the conversation going again. “Delmarr tells me that you sell fabric.”

  “It’s one of the many things I do.”

  “How do you have time to do more than one?” I ask.

  “I figure I’m young and should try a lot of different things before I settle on one career.”

  This is a terrible sign, I think to myself. If he’s this noncommittal about his work, how could he ever settle on one girl?

  “But I will settle on one thing eventually,” he says, as though he knows what’s on my mind.

  I exhale gently. Good. He’s not a flibbertigibbet, he’s versatile. “Oh, take that right onto Commerce.”

  John misses the turn and continues down Seventh Avenue South. “Sorry,” he says, not meaning it.

  “Now you have to go all the way around the block to get me home.”

  “That was the idea,” he says lightly. “I like talking to you. I’m buying time. Is that all right?”

  “I spent the day bending over a sewing machine, so you have to spell things out for me.”

  “Okay. Let me spell it out, then. I want to spend time with you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I see who you are.”

  “Did you know I was born with a curse on me?” I ask. John laughs. “Yes, I was. And my mother, God bless her, thought I dodged it when I was born without a birthmark on my face, because that was her biggest fear. But I think a curse is like a poisonous vapor—when it’s released, it may not overtake you all at once, but it will linger. And one day it’ll kill you. Do you know any Italians?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you ever know any with a curse on them?”

  “Only you.”

  “And you’re not deterred?”

  “Not in the least.”

  I point to my street. “Okay, over there. This time don’t miss it.”

  John brakes and turns onto Commerce Street. There’s one set of footprints on the sidewalk in the newly fallen snow. I point to them. “When it snows, I sit up in my window and watch it come down. And when I see the first set of footprints in the snow, I can’t help but think they look like the cardboard feet in the dance kit from the Arthur Murray studio.”

  “So you dance?” he asks.

  “I love to.” I won’t tell John Talbot that I used to pay my brother Angelo a nickel to dance with me.

  “Sometime we’ll go dancing.”

  “I’d like that.” I point to my home. “It’s number forty-five.”

  John pulls up in front. “Wait. I’ll come around,” he says. “I feel bad I didn’t get the door the first time.” Nice manners, I think, as he rounds the front of the car and opens my door. The snow sticking to his hair reminds me of the New Year’s confetti from the night he kissed me.

  “Where’s your hat?” I want to know.

  “In the backseat.”

  “You ought to get it,” I tell him, pulling the brim of my own hat over my eyes. John opens the back door and pulls out his hat. He puts it on, then takes my arm and walks me up the stoop to the front door.

  We stand and look at each other for a moment, not long enough to lead to a kiss but long enough to want one. Now that he knows me a little, he knows I’m not the kind of girl you dip in a nightclub and kiss on the lips without asking. But he’s not the type of man who dips and kisses a girl in a nightclub without asking first, either.

  “Well, good night, Lucia.” He tips his hat.

  “Good night, John. Thank you for the ride home.” I open the front door and, once I’m inside, breathe deeply. John Talbot exhausts me, though in a good way. This isn’t a man who makes me feel comfortable. He’s a man who keeps me on my toes. I never know what he is going to do.

  The house is filled with the familiar scent of simmering tomatoes and basil. I climb the stairs to change into my slacks and one of Papa’s old pullover sweaters. I want a nice dish of Mama’s penne, and then I will curl up in front of the fire with a glass of Papa’s grappa and think about John Talbot.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Once Papa finished remodeling the basement apartment for Roberto and Rosemary, he tackled Mama’s kitchen. He hung a crisp red-and-white-striped wallpaper and installed pristine white enamel appliances, including the latest gas stove, with four burners and a griddle. It inspired me to give my bedroom a new look.

  When I tell Delmarr I want to redecorate, he takes me shopping at the D&D Building on Madison Avenue, where he introduces me to the finest selection of wallpaper in the world: English designs from Colefax & Fowler, French creations from Pierre Frey, and bright American patterns from Rose Cummings. After all our research, we end up going back to Altman’s and up to the Interior Decoration floor, where we find a sample from Schumacher of yellow cabbage roses climbing a white trellis against a sky-blue background. Delmarr informs me that Altman’s has won the commission to decorate the White House for President and Mrs. Harry Truman. Delmarr’s buddy Charles Haight, who started with him in Packaging, will be the chief designer. “What’s good enough for old Bess is good enough for you,” Delmarr tells me.

  Now at home, I’ve moved all my furniture to the center of the room and opened the windows for a cross breeze. I spent
most of the morning measuring out the wallpaper. The adhesive is tricky, so I bought three extra rolls in case of mistakes. As I pour the paste into the tray, there’s a knock at my door.

  “Be careful,” I call out.

  Ruth pushes the door open. “Hi. Your mom said you were up here.”

  “Up to my ears.” I put down the roller and sponge.

  “Need a hand?”

  “What are you doing here? You’re getting married next week.”

  “I’m in good shape. I need to relax a little.”

  “Then sit over there and watch.”

  “I’ll go nuts sitting. Let me help.”

  “Are you sure?” Ruth nods. I show her the plans and point to a spot on the wall. “I’m starting right there.” I give her a roll of paper to unwind. She lays it across the floor, and like the dressmaker she is, she makes tiny pencil marks on the wall to correspond with the paper measurements.

  “You already prepped the walls, I see.” Ruth smooths her hand over the wall with approval.

  “Yep.” And then, as we do in the Hub, we go about our separate chores quietly, like the team we’ve become. Whether we’re wallpapering, conducting a fitting, or setting out the dinner we’ve ordered in for an overtime job, we know how to complete a task in the most efficient manner. We each seem to know what the other is thinking, and we anticipate each other’s needs and assist in reaching the goal. This is probably what a good marriage is like, I think. As we work side by side I feel a pang of guilt. I was too hard on my best friend and I know it.

  “Ruth, I’m sorry about what I said last night.”

  “No, no. Don’t apologize. You’re honest with me. And I think you’re right.” Ruth takes the straightedge and cuts the wallpaper to hug the baseboard. I hold it as she tacks the paper to the wall.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

  “You’re Italian. You yell. It’s okay.”

  I carefully roll the glue on the back of the paper; Ruth helps me lift it from the edges; we walk it to the wall and ease it into position, smoothing it down with the grader. We step back to see the result.

  “This is the ticket.” Ruth smiles. “Good choice. I like it.”

  The colors, the mood, and the scale of the pattern suit the room. The overall effect is just right. “I do, too.”

  “You ever wonder how we know?” With the pencil, Ruth marks the next sheet. “How come we seem to know what works? It’s like this wallpaper. You chose the right print for this wall, this room. How did you know? The rich girls who come in for fittings, they’re always so . . . perplexed. They never know what color is right on them, or what line looks good on their figures. They want to see what another client is having made so they can copy it. They have no original ideas.”

  “That’s what they pay us for. To tell them what works. Maybe that’s why God gave them all the money and gave us the talent. It’s good old-fashioned supply and demand,” I tell her.

  Ruth helps me hang a second sheet of wallpaper. “Harvey’s cousin Jake is coming in from California for the wedding. He’s a bachelor, and he doesn’t have a date—”

  “Ruth, I will absolutely dance with him, but I’ve already got an escort. I promised Delmarr.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “And besides, I have suitors galore. I can’t possibly take on another. John Talbot picked me up in his Packard last night.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. And he drove me home, and he almost kissed me.” I look at Ruth and smile. “And next time it won’t be an almost.”

  Mama has asked Ruth to stay for dinner, since it’s only right to feed the volunteer, but she has a date with Harvey. She’s missing a delicious meal. Mama has made Papa’s favorite Venetian dish, a hearty fish stew from a recipe given to him by his aunt in Godega. Rosemary has helped Mama prepare it and wrote down the recipe for her collection (and mine).

  VIOLA PERin’S FISH BRODETTO

  Yield: 8 servings

  1 pound shrimp, shelled and deveined

  1 pound lobster tail, cut into chunks

  1 pound sole, cut into chunks

  1 fresh lemon

  1/4 cup olive oil

  1 large sweet onion, sliced

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  6 fresh tomatoes, chopped

  1 cup balsamic vinegar

  2 quarts water

  3 cups red wine

  3 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped

  Salt and pepper

  Prepare fish, squeeze lemon over, set aside. In a large pot, lightly sauté onion in olive oil, garlic, tomatoes, and balsamic vinegar. Add water and wine. Stir well. Add fish, parsley. Add salt and pepper to taste. Cook on stovetop over medium heat for 40 minutes or until fish cooks through. To serve, line soup bowls with thin slices of toasted Italian bread. Ladle stew over bread and serve.

  Rosemary and I help Mama prepare the bowls of stew. Mama takes her scissors and cuts a bunch of basil from her plant in the window. She rinses it, then cuts it in ribbons to garnish each bowl of stew.

  “Maria!” Papa shouts from the living room. “Maria, presto!”

  Mama throws down her dish towel and goes into the living room. Rosemary and I follow her. Roberto, Orlando, Angelo, and Exodus are smiling mischievously. Mama eyes them. “What is it?” she asks. Papa picks her up and twirls her around. “Antonio, put me down. You’ll hurt your back,” she says.

  “You won’t believe it,” Papa says, covering her face in kisses.

  “What? What won’t I believe?”

  “Zio Antonio left us the family homestead in Godega. My farm! The farmhouse where I was born. The barn where I kept our horse, the fields of wheat behind it, all of it. It’s ours!”

  “Who said so?” Mama demands.

  “My cousin Domenic sent me a letter. Here. Look. You can read it yourself.” Papa gives Mama the letter, and the boys start talking over one another with plans for our inheritance.

  Mama straightens her apron. “What are we going to do with a farm?”

  “We’re going to visit!”

  “When?”

  “In August.”

  “But I already rented a house at the Jersey shore.”

  “Cancel it. Maria, viva un po! I don’t want any arguments. We’re going to Italy. The whole family is going home.”

  Rosemary runs her hand over her stomach. “I don’t know, Papa. The baby will be very small, and that’s a big trip.”

  “He’ll grow! This is my home, and my grandchildren will know it as their own! Besides, it’s Italian law, we have to go in person to claim the property in court.”

  “I am not spending my holiday in Italy feeding chickens and milking goats,” Mama says, putting her hands on her hips. “I have enough to do around here.”

  “You are going to Italy, Maria,” Papa says evenly.

  “I am not going anywhere,” Mama counters.

  It is so quiet in the living room, we can hear a taxi horn honking all the way over on Seventh Avenue. Mama and Papa stare each other down. My brothers back away, checking the exits. We all know what will happen next: a big fight that revisits every slight Mama has endured over the course of their long marriage.

  “Mama,” I plead, trying to defuse the impending bomb. “Can’t you be happy for Papa?”

  “Lucia, you don’t know about farming. My mother’s father was a farmer, don’t forget. And that is a life of hell, I promise you. You work all day in the field and all night in the barn. It’s no fun, and your father and I are too old to take it on. We’ll have to sell it,” Mama decides.

  “I will never sell the farm!” Papa bellows. “Never!”

  Mama backs down when she hears the tone in Papa’s voice. “All right, all right, Antonio. Basta! I’ll cancel the Jersey shore so we can see your farm. Wash up for supper. Are you happy now?” She turns and goes back into the kitchen.

  Papa watches her go, shaking his head in disbelief. My brothers look at me, and I throw my hands up in the air. We may have been tau
ght that Papa is the head of our household and the leader of the family, but the truth is, Maria Sartori runs the show.

  I break the silence. “Pop, I’m sorry. I think it’s wonderful.”

  “Me, too, Pop.” Rosemary smiles at him. She squeezes his hand and then goes up the stairs.

  During dinner Mama and Papa refused to look at each other. Then Papa grabbed his hat and coat and slammed the front door on his way out for a walk. I told Rosemary to go and lie down, that I’d take care of the dishes. When my brothers and I were little, Mama would tell us that if you eat when you’re angry, the food turns to poison.

  “Is Papa back yet?” Mama asks, coming into the kitchen as I dry the last of the dishes.

  “No.”

  Mama sits down at the kitchen table. I pour a cup of tea for her and one for myself. “Are you going to sulk all night?” I ask her gently.

  “You don’t know the whole story,” she begins. “I read the letter. Your father got the farm, and his brother got the money.”

  “Zio Antonio had money?”

  “Yes. And he knew of the feud between your father and his brother, so instead of splitting the land and money equally, he did his own division.”

  “Maybe Zio was afraid that if he gave the farm to both of them, they would end up selling it.”

  “Of course that’s what he thought. Your father’s family has never been anything but trouble.”

  “Well, whose fault is that? You should convince Papa to make peace with his brother.” I can tell Mama is surprised by my tone. “This ridiculous feud has gone on long enough.”

  “We’re better off this way,” she insists.

  “Ma, what is so terrible that Papa and Zio Enzo haven’t spoken in twenty-five years?”

  “It was a lot of things.” Mama squeezes the tea bag against her spoon so hard I’m afraid it will burst open.

  “Let me guess. Money.”

  “Of course it was about money. And it was also about character. Enzo’s wife accused your father of making a pass at her.”