The Shoemaker's Wife

  “Honey, are you all right?” Enza asked as she massaged his lower back.

  “He’s got the shoemaker’s stoop,” Luigi said. “Put blocks under your cutting table to make it higher. A few inches will save your neck and shoulders. My back was killing me until I put down the blocks, and now I’m much better.”

  “I’ll try it,” Ciro said. “Can the blocks help me with my workload?”

  “That they cannot do.” Luigi laughed.

  “Wooden blocks really work?” Pappina asked.

  “Absolutely,” Luigi said.

  “Well, make me a pair of wooden shoes then.” Pappina laughed. “I’ve had a sore back for seven months.”

  Enza went to early mass alone on Christmas Day. Ciro was tired from the long visit at the Latinis, and had made his once-a-year church appearance the previous evening. She let him sleep, leaving a note to tell him that she would be late coming home after mass.

  Her Christmas gift to him was one she could not share until she was certain he would approve of it.

  Enza tied the scarf around her neck and pulled her wool cloche over her ears. She set out on foot for Saint Joseph’s Cemetery, about a mile outside Chisholm. She loved to walk, and whenever she went far, she remembered doing the same on the mountain trails above Schilpario. There were small reminders of the place she came from everywhere.

  Her feet crunched the dusting of snow on the frozen ground as she walked. The clean air had the scent of pine and, occasionally, the smoke of a hearth fire from a farm off the main road. The winter in Chisholm had a palette of white and gray, like the feathers of a snowy owl, or the gray jays that would return once spring came. As Enza walked along the plowed road, she thought how much easier it was to walk in Chisholm. There were no steep trails to climb, just long black ribbons of road leading to new destinations.

  The fir trees along the road were dense and tall, with trunks so thick, she wouldn’t be able to put her arms around them. It was clear that this swath of forest had been untouched for a hundred years, just as they remained in the Italian Alps. She had seen the fields where the loggers had felled the forests along the road between Chisholm and Hibbing in the name of progress. It was only a matter of time before these old trees met the same fate. But this morning, they were all hers.

  She pushed open the black wrought-iron gate to Saint Joseph’s Cemetery. There were barren shade trees scattered about, a few statues of the Blessed Lady and kneeling angels, but mostly she saw tasteful polished marble markers embedded in the earth, with carved inscriptions. Unlike in Schilpario, there were no marble mausoleums with altars, colorful frescoes, or gilded gates to house the granite sepulchers. This cemetery was as plain in presentation as a farm field.

  The priest had given her a map. In the center of the cemetery, under a grove of leafless trees, were the burial plots of men who had died in the mines. She began to dust the stones with her glove to reveal the names: Shubitz, Kalibabky, Paulucci, Perkovich. These men, she had been told, had worked in the Mahoning mine, the Stevenson mine at Stutz, Burt-Pool, Burt-Sellers, and the Hull mine. The Catholics among them had been transported from Hibbing on the Mesaba Railway, where they received a funeral mass and proper burial. Photographs had been taken and sent back to the families in Europe, although in some cases, nothing had been sent because the miner had not left any instructions or forwarding information.

  They had not found the remains of Carlo Lazzari. He had burned in the fire.

  Enza leaned down and cleared a headstone with her glove.

  Carlo Lazzari

  1871–1904

  She smiled. It was a smooth black granite stone with the engraving inset in gold. She made the sign of the cross.

  “Enza!” Ciro said from the gate. He walked down the path to join her with a look of concern on his face. “You shouldn’t be out in the cold. Monsignor Schiffer said I would find you here.” He looked down at the gravestone and saw his father’s name carved into the polished black granite. “What is this?” he asked, perplexed.

  “I had it placed here. I bought it with a portion of the money from the stock. I felt it was the right thing to do, even though they never found him.” Her voice broke, because she was afraid of his reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you any further, so I didn’t tell you.” Enza knelt next to the stone.

  “Why would you place a gravestone when his body didn’t survive the fire?”

  “Because he lived. Because he was your father. I buried a box with a picture of you and Eduardo, a letter from me, and a lock of your hair. The priest blessed it, and they placed the stone here a couple days ago. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

  Ciro’s blue-green eyes stood out against the winter sky as Enza looked up at him. She realized she would never really know her husband; she was never sure what his reaction might be. He was a deeply emotional man, and his physical strength was in no way an indication of a strong resolve. He had lost so much in his life that he didn’t know where to put the grief.

  Ciro knelt next to her at his father’s grave in the snow and began to cry like a boy of six. Enza leaned down and put her arms around her husband.

  “All this time, I hoped it wasn’t true.”

  “You had to hope,” Enza said. “I would have.”

  “All my life I was told that I look like him and think like him—” Ciro’s voice broke. “But I never knew him. I can remember small things about him, but I don’t know if those are really my memories, or if Eduardo had told me the stories so often that I claimed them as my own. You would think a grown man wouldn’t need his father or have to hold on to the idea of him. I know it was silly for me to pretend that my father might still be alive, but I wanted him to be. I needed him to be. To admit that he’ll never see the man I’ve become or meet my wife or children . . . it’s almost too much to bear.”

  Enza took a piece of pattern paper and a pencil out of her pocket. Asking Ciro to hold the paper against the stone, she rubbed the pencil against the engraving on the granite. Slowly, her father-in-law’s name and years of birth and death appeared on the sheer white paper, a palimpsest, proof that he had received a proper burial. She folded the paper neatly in her pocket, then helped her husband stand. “Let’s go home,” she said.

  They walked out of the cemetery and closed the gate. As they made their way back to West Lake Street, they clung together against the bitter winter wind. If a stranger had seen them walk past on that Christmas morning, he would find it hard to tell if the husband was holding up his wife, or if she was shoring him up.

  Enza worried Pappina would go into labor and have the baby before Enza could arrive to help her. So Luigi paid a runner in advance to take the trolley from Hibbing to Chisholm at the first sign of labor, to let Enza know that it was time.

  For the two weeks prior to Pappina’s due date, not a flake of snow fell on the Iron Range. Though twenty-foot drifts remained from the January snows, the roads were icy, and the temperatures freezing, as long as the trolley tracks remained clear, Enza could be at Pappina’s side in minutes.

  Enza had helped her mother and the midwife in Schilpario when Stella was born. Enza hadn’t been allowed to be with her mother for the birth of any of the other children, but by the time Stella came into their lives, Enza was like a second mother to her brothers and sisters. She helped with the wash, the meals, and taught them how to read. Giacomina was so confident in Enza’s abilities that she allowed her to watch the children when she left the house to run errands, or go up the mountain trails to gather herbs.

  Giacomina had barely whimpered when Stella was born. In fact, Enza remembered that the room had been quiet and dark, and there was almost a sense of reverence to the way in which the baby slipped from her mother and into the arms of the midwife like a bouquet of flowers.

  Enza held Pappina’s hand as she hollered and struggled throughout her long labor, until the moment her son appeared, perfect, long, and squawking. The nurses in the Hibbing Hospital were accom
modating, so Pappina was able to recover over the course of several days before going home to the apartment Enza had prepared for her.

  Enza fell into the familiar routine of a new baby in the house. She set up the layette, made sure that Luigi had regular meals, kept up with the laundry, bathed and washed Pappina’s hair, and made sure everything in the apartment was tidy. She made a large pot of soup, with tomatoes, root vegetables, orzo, and broth, that would help Pappina regain her strength. Enza felt a rush of giddiness, imagining that Pappina would do the same for her someday.

  Enza took the trolley home to Chisholm after five days at Pappina’s side. She smiled as she looked out the window, remembering that nothing made a woman more bone-tired than looking after a baby.

  She pushed the shop door open and smiled. Ciro looked up and placed his lathe on the table. “How is young John Latini?”

  “Almost ten pounds, and I have the sore neck to prove it.” Enza laughed.

  “A Valentine’s Day baby.” Ciro beamed.

  “You should take the trolley over to see them.” Enza turned to go upstairs, then remembered she had a message to deliver, “Luigi said to tell you that the baby had a small nose. He said you would understand.”

  “Va bene,” Ciro said, bursting into laughter at the private joke.

  “He’s a healthy boy, small nose or not,” Enza assured him.

  “All that milk she drank was worth it.”

  “We’d better buy a cow,” Enza said.

  “Where would we put a cow? That patch of ground in the back will yield some tomatoes, and that’s about it.”

  “It could be a small cow,” Enza said softly, placing her hands on her hips and then the small of her back.

  “Are you—” Ciro looked Enza up and down, in search of the lush fullness a woman carrying a baby would most certainly possess. She was as beautiful as ever; only her hand on her waist indicated a change.

  Enza nodded that she was expecting a baby.

  A honeymoon baby.

  Their wedding-night baby.

  Somewhere between Paoli, Pennsylvania, and Crestline, Ohio, on the path of the Broadway Limited to Chicago, Enza had conceived their child. Ciro went to her, lifted her up off the ground, and held her tight. “I thought I couldn’t be any happier.”

  Ciro felt a joy within his heart that he could not describe, filling him up in a way he had never thought possible. It was instant, and would last for the rest of his life.

  A baby of their own was his highest dream. Ciro remembered imagining his wife and children before he met them, and the house he would build in Vilminore for them. But all those dreams were beside the point, now that it was really happening. He had so much love for his wife and the baby within her that he felt a new fire within him, stoking a greater ambition to provide for them. All he hoped for in this moment was many children, and a long life to take care of them.

  Chapter 24

  A TRAIN TICKET

  Un Biglietto per il Treno

  The Minnesota summer was as glorious as any Enza remembered as a girl in the Italian Alps. Longyear Lake dazzled like a sapphire, reflecting the cloudless sky that was saturated in deepest blue, like Marrakesh silk. The evergreen trees fringed the horizon, while low green thickets were speckled with the first buds of sweet blackberries. The loons wailed in the morning light, calling across the water.

  Enza propped open every skylight in the house. In the final weeks of her pregnancy, she had nested with a vengeance; she had washed every window, scrubbed the floors, and perfected the details of the nursery. She had sewn a layette for the baby in snow white chamois and soft cotton. She trimmed the bunting in white grosgrain ribbon, and piped the hood in silk. Ciro had built a crib and painted it white. He stenciled the walls of the nursery in alternating stripes of cream and sandy beige, to give the effect of wallpaper—a trick Enza had learned watching Neil Mazzella as he directed the scenery load-ins at the Metropolitan Opera.

  When the bells on the shop door jingled that morning, Ciro had looked up from his work. He was so surprised, he dropped his shears onto the table with a thud.

  Laura Heery stood in the doorway, a suitcase in one hand and a hatbox in the other. She wore a navy crepe suit, a matching straw hat, and white gloves. “I couldn’t very well let your girl have a baby without me.” She grinned.

  Ciro embraced her and called up the stairs to Enza. Laura removed her gloves and placed them in her purse. She walked the length of the main room, peering through the window to Enza’s sewing room as Ciro ran up the stairs to bring Enza downstairs. Laura could hear them chatting in the stairwell, so she raced to the front of the shop. When Enza appeared in the doorway and saw Laura, she squealed with delight. Laura embraced her, and soon, both of them were weeping. Laura stood back and took in Enza’s full and lush beauty.

  A customer, a miner of around forty-five, pushed the door open, saw the women weeping, pivoted, and left.

  “Girls, you’re costing me business,” Ciro joked. “How about we show Laura the apartment?” He picked up Laura’s luggage.

  “You must be exhausted,” Enza said to Laura as they followed Ciro up the steps.

  “No, I’m loaded with pep. I went stir-crazy on the train. I hope there’s lots for me to do.”

  “You can put your feet up and rest, and maybe my wife will do the same,” Ciro said.

  “We have everything ready, and I’m glad. We can have a good visit before the baby comes,” Enza said as she pushed the door to the guest room open. “Make yourself at home, I’ll put on coffee.”

  “I’d like that,” Laura said.

  Enza closed the door behind her and stood in the hallway motionless, as if she was in a dream. Ciro put his arms around her.

  “Did you know?” Enza asked him.

  “I wouldn’t have been able to keep it a secret.” Ciro kissed her.

  Enza took her handkerchief from her wrist, where she had tucked it in her sleeve, and dried her eyes. “As happy as I am about the baby, I was afraid of being alone. I am so happy Laura is here.”

  “Well, I may stay forever. I love my room!” Laura said as she joined them.

  “I’m going to get back to work,” Ciro said. “You girls let me know if you need anything.”

  “Let me show you the nursery,” Enza said.

  “The girls in the costume shop made some things for the baby. I’ll get them.” Laura went into her room and came out with a box. She followed Enza down to the nursery across from the master bedroom. Enza sat down in the rocking chair while Laura pulled up a stool, handing Enza the box.

  Enza unfolded a satin baby blanket. There was a hand-knit cotton cap and baby mittens, and a black felt crib pillow shaped like a musical note. Laura had embroidered “From your friends at the Metropolitan Opera House” along the staff.

  “How is Colin?” Enza asked.

  “Who?” Laura pretended not to hear.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He hasn’t asked me to marry him, and I don’t think he will.”

  “Why?”

  Laura shrugged. But then she tried not to cry. “I left without knowing why.”

  “You didn’t talk to him about it?”

  “It’s very difficult to bring it up. Remember the girls who would issue ultimatums? They ended up with their ultimatums and not much else. Colin is wonderful to me at work. I thought I was good with his sons. I try to be. I take them to the park and the show. When they come to the Met, I clear a work space in the costume shop and help them do their homework while Colin is busy in the box office. I’ve really grown fond of them.”

  “So what’s the matter?”

  “It’s his mother. She doesn’t want her widowed son to marry a costume shop seamstress.”

  “That can’t be,” Enza said softly.

  “Yes it can. I’m shanty Irish—and how do I know I am? I heard her say it to the help in the kitchen of her Long Island home. I was helping clear the dinner dishes, as a matter of fact, when I overhear
d it.”

  “Did you tell Colin?”

  “I couldn’t wait. I told him on the drive back into the city. And he made excuses for his mother. He said she was an Edith Wharton character. She had airs, and she always would. I shouldn’t take it personally.”

  “You have to take it personally,” Enza said.

  “That’s what I told him! There’s no other way to take it. But I don’t know what to do. I love him.”

  “And he loves you.”

  “But I’m without pedigree. I’m not a Vanderbilt or a Ford.”

  Enza couldn’t help but think that Laura’s work ethic had given her pedigree. After all, she had worked her way across the Hudson River to eventually gain a position at the Metropolitan Opera House. That had to account for something. So Enza said, “The Fords were Irish farmers, and the Vanderbilts were from Staten Island. They became wealthy because they worked hard in a country that let them. So you just tell Mrs. Chapin that the Heerys are on the way up, and you’re taking them with you.”

  “His mother has another girl in mind for him,” Laura said softly, “And Colin is taking her to a regatta in Newport this weekend.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me. And that’s when I decided to take my vacation days and come up and help you. There’s nothing in New York for me. It’s over.”

  That night, Enza made sure that Laura was comfortable in her room before she joined Ciro in their bedroom and climbed into bed. Ciro stacked the feather pillows around Enza like sandbags in a trench until she was comfortable. “Emilio and Ida offered to drive you and Laura to Lake Bemidji.”

  “I don’t know if anything will lift Laura’s spirits.”

  “I didn’t know that Americans made matches like our people do back on the mountain.”

  “It’s worse. You match up the ladder, never down. You not only have to be rich, you have to be educated. Laura is so smart, but she didn’t go to finishing school. I guess that’s a requirement, to marry a Chapin.”