We join Zia Meoli and Zio Pietro. My uncle takes Jack off to show him something; Zia Meoli and I go for a walk, just the two of us. Zia Antonietta leaves the group and returns home up the side street.
“Where is Zia Antonietta going?”
“Home.” Zia Meoli shrugs.
“Isn’t she going to stay and have some fun?”
“She likes to do her chores.”
“Now?”
“Yes. She prepares the table for breakfast tomorrow, and then she goes to sleep.”
“Why does she prepare the breakfast?”
“That is how we do it. Antonietta never married, so she runs the family home.”
That was me, I think to myself as we walk along. I took care of everything. I was so busy, I didn’t think about what I was doing or where the years were going. I just did what was expected of me. I wonder if Zia Antonietta is the town spinster. Zia Meoli must read my mind.
“My sister likes to take care of us.”
“She seems happy.”
“She was to marry, many years ago. The third son of seven of a family in Sestri Levante, on the seacoast. Then the war came and he died. She did not want to marry anyone else. She had many suitors. But her heart was broken, and that was the end of all that for her.”
I feel better that Zia Antonietta had a great love, even though he died. But I can’t help but wonder what it is about these Vilminore women; do they only ever love one man their whole lives, even if they marry another like my mother, or never marry like my aunt? Are they so clear-sighted about their great loves that there is no room for any other, ever? It seems that once their hearts were unlocked, they should have remained open to the possibilities of new love. Maybe the Vilminore girls are just one-man women.
Jack is waiting for me when we return to the house. I kiss my relatives good night, and Jack and I go to our room.
We sink into the layers and layers of feather-filled mattresses. We sink so deeply we can’t find each other. My mother tried to re-create this effect in America, but she couldn’t. Jack, used to sleeping on hard American mattresses, is afraid his back will go out in all this softness. I pound the top mattress flat to find my husband’s face.
“Thank you for marrying me,” I tell him. He looks confused, like Here she goes again, my strange wife. “No. Really. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome . . . I guess.”
“I like being married to you.”
“Good. Because you promised to stay with me forever.”
“I know. But now it seems like time is flying by; I’m not going to have enough time with you. I just know it.”
“Why do you worry about stuff like that?”
I don’t think he wants my answer. Because I worry about everything! I worry about Zia Antonietta, whose lover died before she could marry him. I worry that her entire life is doing dishes and sweeping without love to break the tedium! I worry that happiness can’t stay; I know it is just like the Deep Sleep, it is just a phase, a time, and then you come out of it and start all over again. I worry that the joy in my heart will become so ordinary to me that I will forget how sad I was without him and I will take him for granted and start nagging him and turn him away. I worry that I’m too old to have children. I worry that coal dust is sifting like black sand in the bellows of his lungs and he’ll get emphysema and die an untimely death. I worry that when we die, he’ll go first and I’ll be left all alone again. I worry that when I die and go to find him in heaven, he won’t be there. He will have changed and I won’t recognize him and then I’ll be traipsing through all eternity reliving the first thirty-five years of my life when I could not love anyone.
“Stop it.”
“What?”
“Stop thinking. You’ve got that crease between your eyes. The one that comes out when you worry.”
That did it. Never tell a thirty-six-year-old that there is a crease anywhere on her. It is not something I want to hear, ever. I rub the crease away. “That’s my third eye.”
Jack laughs so loud, I pull the sheet over his head. “Shh.”
“What is a third eye?”
“In face-reading. It’s the all-knowing eye of your mind. It’s where you create the pictures that become the reality of your life.”
“Put a pretty picture in there then,” Jack says simply.
Oh, if it were only that easy; I look at him pityingly. When it is all said and done, he is still a man, and men just don’t understand.
Mario Barbari stands outside the Vilminore homestead on Via Davide like he owns the entire block. He is dapper in navy slacks, a navy cashmere V-neck sweater, tucked in without a wrinkle (of course), and his signature ecru top sweater, tied in a knot and draped over his shoulders. He is having a smoke—so European. I don’t stand on ceremony. I race down the sidewalk and throw myself on him. “Papa!” He hugs me and we kiss. He is so happy to see me. I’m so glad I like my father. I really do. He’s a character, all right, and his cologne could ignite downtown Bergamo, but he is truly an original. I love to be around him.
“So you get married and you don’t even wait for your own papa to give you away.”
“You didn’t miss much. I had on too much makeup, and I couldn’t breathe in the dress.”
“I’m sure you were lovely,” he says, flicking his cigarette. Is this guy a movie star or what? My father embraces my husband as men do, with a quick hug and big slaps on their backs and arms, and then the two of them load the car. My family gathers on the steps of their home and waves us off into the distance, past the end of the block; Papa drives like a maniac. We’re like a silver pinball whipping around the curves of the town circle surrounding the Fountain of Angels, past the park, and then to the road that leads out of town. SCHILPARIO NORD 7 KM, the green-and-white sign says. We’re on our way to Grandmother’s house.
Jack and my father talk about the difference between the beds in Italy and the beds in America. Jack tells Papa that he is shocked that his back is fine after sleeping on all those feathers. Papa explains that the body heat is evenly distributed when you sleep on feathers, or straw for that matter, so the muscles in the body stay the same warm temperature, and the result is you wake up without kinks and spasms.
“Look at me. I am old. And I am well rested. Yes?” Jack nods; Papa looks good for his age. Papa winks at me in the rearview mirror. He is fifty-four, but not fifty-four in Big Stone Gap years. His hair is long and thick and layers back in soft waves—the only aspect that shows his age is the white streaks throughout. His carriage is upright and youthful. And his skin is still magnificent. He looks about forty. I hope I have his genes.
About halfway up the mountain, Papa peels off into a ravine. I think we’re going to land in a forest, but the road clears, revealing a chalet jutting out from the mountain. Papa looks at us.
“We rest.” He parks. We get out of the car and go into the chalet.
The chalet is a restaurant. It is midafternoon and too early for dinner. Papa nods to the owner, who is restocking the bar. He brings us each a glass of bitters, which my father throws back in one gulp. Jack shrugs and throws his back. I follow. Bitters, I know from the Pharmacy, are herbs steeped in a fizz, a tonic. They are usually medicinal; I have never heard of them being used for social purposes.
“Cleans the blood,” my father offers.
The owner brings out a tray with three small silver bowls and three tiny silver spoons. He places the summer blackberries before us. Papa squeezes fresh lemon over them.
“Go ahead. Eat.” Jack and I eat, and we can’t believe how sweet the berries are. Papa is pleased.
“Now we go,” he says, and we are done. He nods to the owner. He leaves no money. I thank the man behind the bar, and he waves us off with a smile.
The road to Schilpario is really twisty, and my ears are popping as we ascend. I ask my father how high up we are, but he isn’t sure. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he careens us off of the road to a scenic overlook. The protective railing is
old and crumbling, and my heart beats faster when Papa parks too close.
“Come,” he says, and gets out of the car. “Look.” Jack and I join him at the edge of the mountain. I look down the precipice; layers and layers of jagged rock, gutted by time, create a deep gulch for miles to the bottom, which from here looks to be about the size of a quarter. I get dizzy and have to step back.
“Too far down, eh?” my father says. I nod.
“Let me tell you a story,” Papa begins. I ask Papa and Jack to step back. I can imagine a strong wind kicking up and blowing them both over the side, never to be seen again.
“This is a story told to me by my father, Gianluca Barbari. His father, my grandfather, owned a carriage and two horses. He used to take people up and down the mountain to town. They paid him very well, so he kept a very elegant carriage. One morning the town widow called to arrange a ride the following day down to Bergamo. She wanted to leave before the sun rose, and my grandfather agreed to take her. He woke that morning in the dark, fed the horses, hooked them up to the buggy, and went to pick up the woman at her house. She came to the door in a beautiful gown of pale green satin. Her shawl was embroidered with tiny yellow and gold leaves. She wore a beautiful hat with a green plume. My grandfather remembered a beautiful necklace with a diamond the size of a stone. It shimmered in the lamplight. Grandpapa helped her into the carriage. He remembered that she smelled like roses and that she smiled very happily. They began their trip down the mountain. This is the place where my grandfather used to stop and rest the horses. The woman wanted to stretch a bit, so my grandfather helped her out of the carriage. He was right over there watering the horses when he heard a sound like the sound when you shake out wet laundry before hanging it on the line. So he turned to look. The old lady had jumped off the mountain. Her skirts made the terrible sound as she fell. My grandfather ran to the edge, but she was gone. He shook terribly, and he had a moment where he thought that he, too, would jump. But he had eight children to feed, and he could not do it. So he went back up the mountain and directly to the police station. Grandfather knew the policeman and hoped he would believe his story. The policeman said it would be difficult to prove Grandfather’s innocence because the widow had no relatives in town; she was alone, so who could corroborate his story, or at least offer information as to the woman’s mental state? No one. My grandfather now worried he would be thrown in prison, unjustly accused of pushing the old widow over the mountain. But then the policeman had an idea. ‘Let us go to her house and see if there are any clues that would help us ascertain if she was crazy, or in a weak state of mind.’ When they reached the widow’s house, the policeman was going to break the lock, but he did not have to. The front door was unlocked. The policeman went in, asking my grandfather to stay outside. He said the minutes while the policeman was inside the house turned his hair from black to white. The policeman came out holding a letter. The letter said that the authorities were not to blame Gianluca Barbari for her suicide. She said it was her choice entirely. She was ill and had no one in the world and wanted to die. Please give whatever was in her house to the church. Then the policeman handed my grandfather the fare for the trip, explaining that the widow wanted to pay him. My grandfather returned home and told his family the story. He was so grateful that the widow had left behind a letter clearing his name that he commissioned a stained-glass window to be made for the chapel. My grandfather’s brothers had a small glassworks business. They made the stained-glass window and installed it in the choir loft. The window is still there.” My father promises to show it to us.
We are high up in the Alps, and though it is summer, the breeze is very cool and sends a chill through me. Jack and Papa lead me back to the car. We drive the rest of the way in silence.
There is no grand entrance into the town of Schilpario. You happen upon it, almost by accident. It has not changed, either; it looks like the pictures in Iva Lou’s books. It is just much smaller than I expected. I am not disappointed, just surprised. The main drag is a narrow street, lined on one side by shoe-box houses. These homes have different details from the ones down in Bergamo, though. There are Alpine touches: dark wood trim in gingerbread curves, small porches, and colorful shutters of soft beige and pink. The stucco on the outside is painted more vividly than down in the town. Perhaps the people of Schilpario paint the houses light colors so they are not lost altogether in the mountains and can be found by travelers as they pass through.
The town is nestled into the side of the mountain; houses dot the hillside above us; narrow streets make veins that lead to the main street. Papa drives us through the town and up to the waterwheel, which spins clear, icy mountain water over its flaps. Everyone who sees us waves and smiles. I get the feeling my father is well-respected here. Papa does a U-turn and returns down the main street, pulling over to park in front of a bright green shoe-box house. Nonna appears in the doorway. She is surrounded by people—I assume I am related to all of them. As they gather around the car, Nonna shoves them aside and hugs me and then Jack. She grabs my hand to inspect my gold wedding band.
“Sposa bella!” she says to me, and hugs me so hard I hear my clavicle crack. She leads us inside. Nonna has prepared a feast of risotto, salad, and roast duck, which Jack flips for. Jack and I and Papa sit at the table. It seems there are four people serving to each one sitting at the table. We are waited on like royalty. I notice my father is treated reverentially; and I also notice that he expects it. He is the only son in this household, and he is the mayor of this town, so he is held in very high esteem. I look at him and admire his self-confidence. He wears it so naturally.
The women won’t let me help clean up, and they look at Jack as though he is from Mars when he rises to help with the dishes. Nonna wallops his back with her hand so hard, he sits down and doesn’t try to help anymore. Nonna brings out biscotti, berries, and espresso at the end of the meal. We eat everything. She is pleased.
Two of Papa’s old pals, actually first cousins, drop by to check out the Americans. Papa and Jack invite the men to play cards. Jack asks me if I’d like to play, but I decline, not because I don’t want to play cards but because I know it’s a men-only thing. My cousins look me up and down like a new appliance. I return the favor by examining them just as closely; it breaks their concentration, and they stop staring at me. They aren’t aware of how well I speak Italian, so one of them whispers “nice ass” to the other as I leave the room, figuring I don’t understand. I can’t resist, so I lean in between them and say, “You have nice asses too.” At first they are taken aback, and then they laugh heartily.
Nonna serves our breakfast, hard rolls left over from the previous night’s dinner, soft butter and berry jam, and a large mug of steaming milk with espresso in it. We can’t figure out why, but this combination is satisfying. Jack and I decide to eat this very thing every morning when we return home. How do the Italians know how to live? We don’t understand it. Everything tastes better, even hard rolls and butter! And the pace is so easy. Work a little. Take a nap. Work a little more, eat a little something, take a little nap. And so on, day in and day out. Lots of play time: cards and socializing and long walks. It is a heavenly existence in the Alps.
Papa wants to take us to the chapel with the windows his grandfather created. We walk up the narrow street and turn onto a small side street where the chapel sits, like any house, except the details are simpler and the door is painted bright red—just like the Church of God in the Gap. Maybe they have to keep the Devil out in Italy too. We enter the tiny chapel. A priest is tinkering up at the altar.
“Ave Maria, this is Don Andrea, our priest,” Papa says.
“Ave Maria,” he says. “I never met an Ave Maria before.”
“Don’t you say your rosary?” I ask him. At first he doesn’t get the joke, and then he smiles.
“This is my husband, Jack.” Don Andrea shakes his hand.
“They just got married, Don Andrea. This is my daughter; I told you all about
her.”
“Oh, yes, yes.” The old priest understands everything now.
“We’re going to take a look around,” Papa tells him. Jack studies the architecture. I ask Papa to show me the Blessed Mother window. He leads me up to the choir loft and points to it. It is very small, about the size of a book. As I lean in to examine it, a shiver goes through me. The lady in the glass wears a long blue gown and a hat with gold stars and peacock feathers, just like Ave Maria Albricci, the woman who helped my mother on the boat to America. She has a serene countenance. She stands on what looks like the waves of the ocean.
“Are you all right?” Papa asks me.
How can I tell him about Ave Maria Albricci? Even Jack was confused when I told him about her. He shrugged it off, like angels appear to people every day and save them. But this is too strange. In this sea of coincidences, I am beginning to understand that we don’t control our destinies; they are mapped out for us as surely as we are born.
“Papa, I want to get married again,” I announce to my father. Sometimes he looks at me like I am a little nuts, and this is one of those times.
“Who will tell Jack?” my father asks with a wry smile.
“Not to a different man. To Jack. Again. Here. I want you to give me away.”
My father shrugs, like it isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard.
So on Sunday, June 3, Jack MacChesney and I are blessed all over again, by Don Andrea, at La Capella di Santa Chiara in Schilpario, Italy.
My father is nervous as he walks me down the aisle, but very happy too. He serves as Jack’s best man, and I ask Nonna to stand up for me. She is very embarrassed, though; she thinks she is too old. But I make her do it, strong-arming her the way she commands everyone else.
Men don’t like church weddings the first time around, so you can imagine the begging I have to do to get Jack to repeat the vows. But I realize something important about him in all of this, something that I never knew before. No matter what I ask of him, no matter how corny or difficult or plain old-fashioned undoable it is, if I ask, he will do it for me. He loves me so completely that he cannot deny me anything. I pray that I will never abuse this gift. But knowing me, there will be times I come close. I just hope he understands.