The Queen of the Big Time

  Once I gave in to the idea of being with Franco, I quickly saw the many pluses: he is a good man from a good family on Garibaldi Avenue. My girlhood dreams have not all been lost; fragments of them have become real. I left Delabole farm for the place I longed to be. When I marry Franco, we will live in town. I will have my own home and still be near my family.

  There is one problem. As I climb the steps to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, I know that Father Impeciato will have the answer. Between the hours of three o’clock and five o’clock in the afternoon on Saturdays, he hears confession. There is a long line the weeks before Easter, as parishioners have a deadline: all good Catholics must make a full confession before the resurrection. But now Easter is over, and the pews are empty again. I see the red light is on on the priest’s side of the confessional, which means Father Impeciato is inside. The curtain is drawn open on the sinner’s side. I look around the church, and except for Mrs. Stampone, who changes the altar linens, it is empty. I slip into the booth and pull the curtain.

  I make the sign of the cross and say the opening prayer. The last time I was at confession was two weeks ago. The sin I am about to confess is one I have never mentioned in the booth before.

  “Father, I am in love with a nice boy, and I need your advice.”

  “Go ahead,” Father Impeciato says.

  “There is something in my past that I did that might be a problem. I don’t believe what I did was a sin, because if I thought it was, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “There are many definitions of sin, as you know.”

  “The catechism is pretty clear on this one, Father.”

  “Which particular sin do you refer to?”

  “Intimate relations. I made love to a boy once five years ago. And he left. I intended to marry him, but that was not to be. Now I’m in love with a different man.”

  “Any prior indiscretion would not impede you from marriage now—” Father begins.

  “I disagree with the word ‘indiscretion.’ As I said, I wanted to do what I did. I had full knowledge of the consequences, and I did it anyway. Right and wrong is not why I’m here, Father.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Must I tell the young man I’m with now that I’m not a virgin?”

  There is such a long silence, I wonder if Father Impeciato has gone to sleep or left the booth to stretch his legs. I put my ear up to the screen, and I can hear him breathing, so he must be thinking. As I kneel, I lean back on my calves and relax a little. Apparently this could take awhile. What a strange ritual this is: admitting secrets in a closet to a man who can’t see you.

  “I do not believe you should tell the young man what happened.”

  “Really?” This marks the first time I’ve ever smiled in a confessional. This was the answer I was hoping for.

  “What good would come of it? He would surely have a problem with it, any man would. This young man, is he Italian?”

  “Yes, Father, and Catholic.”

  Father breathes a sigh on the other side. Part of his job and mission from the diocese is to woo back the Italian immigrants who converted to Presbyterianism when Roseto was founded years ago. I can tell he doesn’t want to come down too hard on me now, for fear I will flee to the pretty little church at the other end of Garibaldi.

  “Marriage will be a new beginning for you. Fornication is a sin, make no mistake about it …”

  I remember Renato and the sad day his father died, and the tenderness between us, and what it meant to me to be close to him. Father Impeciato’s words have nothing to do with that day, but I’m smart enough to know that you don’t argue with a priest.

  “… but it sounds like you have lived a chaste life since.”

  “I would say so, Father.” I feel no need to confess the nights Franco and I spend at the pond pitching woo. I’ve never gone as far with Franco as I did that night with Renato, but I don’t believe these details are any of Father Impeciato’s business.

  “Then keep the knowledge to yourself.” He launches into the prayer of forgiveness; the Latin tumbles out of him effortlessly, and I listen, but my mind is elsewhere. Talking about Renato, even in these vague terms, makes the memories so clear. Maybe it’s the darkness of this booth that helps me see my past clearly. I will always love Renato, and maybe that’s a bigger sin toward Franco than the loss of my virginity. But I have flummoxed Father Impeciato enough today.

  “Go and sin no more,” he says through the screen.

  “I’ll do my best, Father.”

  “A man wants to marry a virgin because he wants to know his wife has moral character.” Chettie takes a bite of panini, a thin sandwich of prosciutto and butter between crusts of soft bread.

  “A man wants a virgin because he doesn’t want the competition. If she knows another man, she might start comparing.” I pour each of us a cup of coffee from my thermos. “And what about the moral character of men? Do you ever wonder why it is acceptable for a man to spend the night in Hellertown carrying on and carousing with the local girls, but if we did the same thing with their men, we’d be hussies?”

  Chettie shakes her head. “What’s the big deal to wait for your wedding night?”

  “It seems silly to me.”

  “What would your parents say?”

  “What do you think?” I dip anisette toast into my coffee. “I can’t talk to them about such things.”

  “I won’t do it because I’m afraid I’d burn in hell. When Anthony tries, I remind him of the black pit with the flames in the window of Our Lady of Mount Carmel and what happens to frisky young men. They fry like pork fat for all eternity.”

  “Do you think that God knows the day you get married?”

  “Of course He does. It’s a sacrament.”

  “Oh, so you think He keeps a log up there and knows the exact moment you get your ring.”

  “It’s a matter of faith, so yes, I think He knows.”

  “I don’t think He knows or cares.”

  Chettie’s eyes widen at such talk. “Cripes, Nella. You aren’t a very good Catholic.”

  “I’m nowhere near as good as you.”

  “Why do you bother going to church?”

  “It’s not like I don’t believe in right and wrong. And I like the Mass, I like the routine of it, the music, the church when it’s filled with gold light through the stained-glass windows. I like the incense and Holy Communion. And it’s important. If I’m going to be a forelady and live in Roseto, I have to be part of the church.”

  “That’s true. They like a churchgoer around here.”

  “They don’t need to know that when I kneel in prayer I follow my own heart, or that I trust my own conscience as much as I trust a priest or a bishop.”

  “When you put it that way it doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “I don’t think people should run around blaspheming and fornicating—but there’s a difference between that and caring about someone and showing it.”

  “It’s just better if you’re married. You’re safe then. The man can’t leave you,” Chettie says with authority.

  It’s the first thing she’s said regarding intimate relations that makes some sense. Only a girl like me who’s actually been left by a man would know how true that sentiment is.

  I’ve never told Chettie about what happened with Renato. She was a big help when he left, but I never told her why I was so distraught. I suppose it would have been easier to get over him had we not crossed the line. When we made love, everything changed for me. It wasn’t puppy love; it became a sort of devotion. Maybe that’s why it has taken five years for me not to feel sick when I think of him.

  I wish I could tell Chettie what making love was like. It didn’t seem like I had fallen off the earth into an abyss of sin. I even longed to repeat that night, but alas, Renato would not, probably because he already knew he had no intention of marrying me.

  “… you agree, right? It’s better if you’re married,” Chettie persists.


  “Whatever you say.”

  “You and Franco?”

  “Not yet.”

  She exhales a sigh of relief. “Good. Because if Anthony ever found out, I would never make it until June first, believe me. All he’d have to hear is that Zollerano and Castelluca were having at it, and that’s all the encouragement he’d need to put the final pressure on me.”

  “It’s right for you to wait for your wedding night. So wait.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but if you’re smart, you’ll wait too. Italian men are hypocrites. They beg for it, but they really don’t want us to do it. If we gave in, they would hold it against us for the rest of our lives.”

  “Italian men are big babies. They want what they want when they want it.”

  “Well, Anthony will just have to wait.”

  I think about my lunch with Chettie as I walk home from work. I decide to take the route up Chestnut Street, because when I walk up Garibaldi, Mrs. Zollerano is waiting on the porch for a chat. Sometimes I’m there the better part of an hour hearing all the Roseto gossip. Tonight I want to soak in a hot bath and go to bed early.

  When I climb the steps to Elena’s porch, I hear one of the kids crying. I slip into the house and hear Elena comforting Assunta in the kitchen.

  “Now, honey, we always told you the truth.”

  “But I don’t have a mommy,” Assunta wails.

  “You do have a mommy, she’s in heaven,” Elena promises her.

  “Ellie Montagano said that it was wrong for you to marry my papa. She said that it would have killed my mother.”

  I put down my purse and gloves and go into the kitchen. Elena has her hands on her hips, trying to reason with Assunta. For a moment, they look just like Mama and my sister Assunta arguing in the kitchen at the farm, and I have to remember where I am. “That is nonsense, Assunta.” I give her my handkerchief. “Now, stop crying.” Little Assunta is so much like her mother, fierce, proud, and never content. I’m sure she fished for the fight with Ellie Montagano.

  “Look at me,” I say. “Your mama loved you. She was so excited for you to be born. But God decided He needed her in heaven.” Once I say this out loud, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. What does God need her up there for anyway? He needs another harp player, third angel from the left? But Assunta looks at me with interest, so I continue. “And back here on earth, you were a tiny thing, and we were afraid you wouldn’t make it. Your aunt Elena took care of you from the first moment you were born. Now, would Ellie Montagano have a problem with that?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Okay, so here we all were, Aunt Elena, Aunt Roma, Aunt Dianna, your nonna, me—we were all looking out for you. And your papa saw what a good mother Aunt Elena was, even though she did not have any of her own children then. He saw that and loved her for it. Then they got married. And you were there, at the wedding.”

  “I was just a little girl, right?”

  “Right. There is nothing wrong with Aunt Elena taking care of you and your papa and your sister, Aurelia, and your brother. Understood?”

  Assunta nods.

  I look up at Elena. “And are you going to be okay?” She nods too.

  I grab my purse and gloves and go back outside. I remember that the Montaganos live on Cemetery Road, so I head in that direction. As I walk, I begin to fume. Rosetans can be warm and delightful, but at the same time, their rigidity and judgments are sickening. Six-year-old Ellie did not make up this scurrilous gossip, she heard it somewhere. Her mother, Isidora, used to work for me at the mill and is known to carry more stories than The Saturday Evening Post. I don’t care who she talks about, as long as it’s not my family. I knock on the door at 17 Cemetery Road.

  “Is your mother home?” I ask a girl with jet-black ringlets.

  “Yeah.” She chews gum and turns and hollers, “Mama, there’s a lady here.”

  Then the girl runs off, leaving me on the porch. Isidora comes to the door. At the mill, she never struck me as bright and she was never on time, two characteristics that still run up my spine.

  “How are you, Nella?” she says, smiling. Isidora is small and round, like a bobbin. “Would you like to come in?”

  “No, no, I would not.”

  This gets her attention. “You seem upset about something.”

  “My niece Assunta is home crying because of something your daughter said to her.”

  “I can’t imagine it. What?”

  “She passed a comment about my sister Elena marrying Alessandro.”

  “That’s terrible,” Isidora says.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “You know, sometimes Ellie hears things at school. It’s too bad that your sister Assunta died the way she did, but people will talk. And Elena and Alessandro did marry rather quickly. There really wasn’t a proper period of mourning. I’m sure that’s all that was said.”

  “That was five years ago, and you’re still talking about this?” I was aware of the gossip at the time, but disregarded it. There is always a story going around Roseto, and if you’re in the middle of it, you hope that it will soon pass. Usually, it does.

  “It’s just that the children all go to school together. It comes up. You know, in light of Alessandro and Elena’s natural children.”

  “Look, Isidora. When you worked for me at the mill you had the loosest lips in the lunchroom. I’m sure ‘the children’ have nothing to do with this vicious gossip, and you can consider this a warning. If I hear another crass comment about my sister coming from anyone in your family, you will have me to deal with. Understood?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” Her eyes narrow.

  “And you hide behind children to spread your nasty stories. If I have something to say, I say it.” I turn to go down the steps.

  “You Castellucas, who do you think you are? A bunch of farmers,” she sneers from behind the screen door. “Big boss lady. Big deal.”

  I smile; if this is the worst thing she can say about me and mine, that’s fine with me. “Remember what I told you,” I say without turning around to look at her again. “I mean what I say.”

  What I will always remember about Anthony and Chettie’s wedding day is not the beautiful bride, the handsome groom, or the church festooned in white carnations and yellow daisies on a sunny June morning, but rather the knock-down, drag-out fight that Anthony’s aunts had on the steps of Our Lady of Mount Carmel after the service.

  Anthony’s family is so large, they filled up every seat plus the side aisles and took over the choir loft as well as their side of the church. One of his aunts felt slighted, as she had to sit in the back pew. When her rival sister-in-law came down the aisle at the recessional, having sat in the second row, she made a comment. They had words, which were thankfully lost on the crowd because of the organ music, but once they got outside, the fight escalated. One pushed the other down the stairs, and fists, purses, and feathered hats flew. Chettie did the right thing, ignored them, and proceeded in Anthony’s borrowed Cadillac convertible to Pinto’s Hall for the reception.

  “Didn’t the pictures turn out nicely?” Chettie says as she shows them to me over lunch. The cool breezes of autumn have come to Roseto, but the sun is warm. Chettie and I love the fresh air, so we eat outside instead of in the lunchroom that Mr. Jenkins built for the workers.

  “They’re beautiful. And look, you can’t see Aunt Rosa’s black eye.” I point to the group photo of the Marucci clan.

  “Somebody said the fight was good luck. But of course, everything is good luck on a wedding day: rain, sun, left hooks.” Chettie grins. “I sure hope so, because I’m gonna need all the luck I can get.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Nella, I’m having a baby.”

  “Oh my God!” I give Chettie a big hug, knowing this is something she has wanted. It’s fast too, as Anthony and she have only been married three months.

  “I hoped you and I would have our children together,” she says.
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  “Somebody has to be first,” I say. “And I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Do you think Franco will pop the question soon?”

  “I don’t know. You know I’m not one of those girls who sits around hoping for a diamond. I figure it will happen when it happens.”

  “Somebody saw him at Steckel’s.” Chettie raises her eyebrow just as Franco comes down the steps carrying his toolbox.

  “What are you girls talking about?” he asks. I still marvel at his height, his strong arms and neck. I could watch him repair equipment for hours.

  “You.”

  “Nella!” Chettie is horrified.

  “Really?” Franco throws his toolbox in the back of the truck.

  “Somebody saw you at Steckel’s. Were you jewelry shopping?” I ask him.

  “Nella, I can’t believe you!” Chettie is stunned at my candor.

  “I was getting my watch fixed.” Franco gets into his truck. “I’m going to Jersey. I’ll pick you up around seven.” He starts the engine, waves to us, and pulls out of the parking lot onto Slate Belt Boulevard.

  “What’s the matter with you? You’ll ruin his surprise!”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “But what about romance?”

  “Oh, there’s romance. Don’t worry about that.”

  The bell rings to call us back in from lunch. I watch Chettie go back to finishing; she’ll have the baby, her mother will watch it during the day, and she’ll continue to work. For all the girls in Roseto, our mothers are built-in help; and if we’re really lucky, the nonnas live with us too, so there’s an extra set of hands and eyes to help raise the children. The mill hours are built around the children. We start in the mornings by seven and finish by four, in time to be with the little ones after they’ve come home from school.