Mercifully, Roseto’s new village priest did not show up at my wedding. Father Impeciato handled the proceedings with an old-fashioned calm and resolve. The choir sang on cue and Pinto’s Hall made sure the orchestra played the extra hour so the millworkers could dance well into their Sunday morning. Franco and I went to a charming hotel in the Poconos for our wedding night. He gave me a strand of pearls and a nightgown. I gave him a new tool set and pajamas.
From our room, we had a perfect view of the Delaware Water Gap, and a featherbed that was as soft and deep as a cloud. We made love and ate chocolates and talked of our future. We made our plans to have children and someday see Italy together. I want to show Franco the world. He just wants me to live in his.
I never mentioned Father Lanzara during our honeymoon week, and neither did Franco. But Renato has remained in the back of my heart like a dull ache for five years, and getting married cannot change that overnight. I don’t want to love Renato, I don’t want to have these feelings, but for some reason, they persist. I want so badly to rid myself of that dull ache, but my honeymoon was not the time to try. Now that we’re home, I know it’s time to face the dragon.
I climb the steps of Our Lady of Mount Carmel as I have for so many Saturdays for confession. Usually, I like this sacrament. I like to feel that God forgives me for being human and gives me a chance to start anew.
I have never entered a confessional to speak directly with a priest. He is merely a conduit to God Himself. It has never mattered to me who the priest was; if it was Father Impeciato, that was fine, or a visiting priest from Bangor, equally fine, because I am a faceless sinner to the confessor, and he is faceless to me.
But this day I know the face of my confessor. I know his voice. I know his hands. I’ve held him when he cried. I want a dialogue. It is inappropriate for me to knock on the door of the rectory, or stop in after Mass to speak with Father Lanzara. After all, this man once loved me. I am not the only person in town who knows of our past. I would not compromise his reputation or mine in that way. I will always do what I think is right, and in the dark box of the confessional, the only place we can converse freely, I wish to come clean.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Either Renato does not recognize my voice or he pretends not to. He begins the prayer in Latin and I stop him.
“Renato, it’s me. Nella.”
“Nella?” he whispers.
“Yes, your Nella. Would you care to tell me what happened to you?”
“I wanted to tell you when I entered the seminary, but I thought it was best to leave you alone.”
“No, it would have been best to talk to me instead of disappearing.”
“I never thought that they would send me back here.”
“If they sent you to China, you would still owe me an explanation.”
“The bishop had a plan in mind and could not be persuaded to change it. He has a dream to build a Catholic school here. And then a hospital. He looks at me as though I’m another Father DeNisco. He thought a hometown boy could rally the town.”
I almost feel sorry for him as I listen. For all my suffering, this is a real penance for Renato, to return to the place he grew up, to lead the very town that always made him so restless. “The bishop is an idiot. You don’t belong here. You have a past here. A past that I’m a part of. Maybe a small part …”
“It wasn’t a small part,” Renato says quietly.
“The letter you left me was an insult.”
“I was confused. I didn’t want to lead you on.”
“If you wanted to be a priest, or marry someone else, or live alone, all you owed me was a conversation. What was I supposed to be thinking these past five years?”
“I’m sorry, Nella.”
“You should be.”
“Truly. I am sorry for the way I acted.”
“You know what, Father? That’s not good enough. How ironic that you get to sit in this box and forgive people. Well, I can’t forgive you.”
I sit back on my calves and try to drink in the truth: Renato has chosen something else over me, as surely as if he had returned on the arm of another woman, and I need to accept it. I loved him more than he loved me, and that is a bad place for a woman to be.
For the first time since I began confessing my sins in this booth, I pull back the velvet curtain without offering an act of contrition. I walk out into the church, and out the door onto Garibaldi Avenue. I stand there a long time before I walk toward home and my destiny, Franco Zollerano. This is one confession for which I feel no absolution.
CHAPTER TEN
When news comes of Mr. Jenkins’s passing in his home in New Jersey, Franco and I are not surprised. By the fall of 1939, Mr. Jenkins had turned most of the daily operation of the factory over to me, with monthly visits by his son, Freddie. Mr. Jenkins tried to work through a heart ailment and then cancer, but he became so frail he could no longer make the drive to Roseto from New Jersey. He counted on me to run his business, and I did, always grateful for the opportunity. Even though Mr. Jenkins was a Johnny Bull, he grew to respect the Rosetans at the end of his life and looked upon me as a daughter he could trust with his beloved mill.
With two children at home, our six-year-old son, Franco Junior (we call him Frankie), and our two-month-old daughter, Celeste, our hands are full. Franco and I dream of opening our own factory, but while we save as much money as we can, it will be several years before we have the seed money.
Freddie Jenkins has none of the charm of his father, and even less of his vision. Jenkins’s operations grew to include four mills in our area—two in Roseto, one in Pen Argyl, and the newest in Martins Creek. Freddie often says that anyone can set up a bunch of sewing machines in the Slate Belt of Pennsylvania and make money. He surely has. Franco and I lie in bed at night and scheme how we too can get in on the boom.
Instead of driving to church for Celeste’s baptism, we put her in the pram and walk up Garibaldi Avenue. Papa and Mama live with us now, giving Alessandro and Elena much needed room on Dewey Street for their growing family (Elena had a third baby last year, a daughter, Maria).
We are happy that Papa is with us, because he is a good influence on our son. Frankie thinks that Garibaldi Avenue is his private street, and he runs across to his Zollerano grandparents’ house and then home to my parents. My in-laws have been a great help with the children. My parents and my mother-in-law take turns watching the children when we work.
“I like that hat,” my husband compliments me. I bought it at Hess Brothers in Easton. It’s a wide-brimmed red straw hat with silk roses on the crown. I made a wool suit in magenta to go with it. I saw Myrna Loy in a suit in the movie Test Pilot and copied it down to the buttons on the skirt. “I love you in red.” My husband kisses me on the cheek. “Frankie, hold the door for your mama.” Frankie holds the church door open for us as we enter.
Elena and Alessandro will stand up for Celeste as godparents. We’re baptizing Celeste quickly because Alessandro has to leave for Italy in a week. His importing business has prospered, but he must travel a great deal. Elena is very understanding, but as the family has grown, so has her workload. Somehow she handles it all beautifully.
Father Lanzara is waiting for us inside. He invites me to the Communion railing, where I receive a blessing called “churching” that cleanses me after giving birth, and gives me the right to assume the sacraments once more. Renato gives me a candle to light.
Renato looks at me and prays, “Ingredere in templum Dei, adora Filium beatae Mariae Virginis, qui tibi fecunditatem tribuit polis.” He leads me to the altar, where I place the lighted candle in a candlestick. I go back to the kneeler. Renato prays the Magnificat aloud; most of the words blur into a hum, but when Renato reads, “He has shown might with His arm; He has scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart. He has put down the mighty from their thrones and exalted the lowly,” the words feel like an apology. When he places his hands on mine to bless me, I
pull away quickly. When Renato places his hand on my cheek to absolve me, I look up at him, our eyes meet, and I feel a surge of what we used to mean to each other. Like two old lovers, we speak with our eyes. Even though it’s brief, the intimacy is real, and it is electrifying. The baby coos, and I quickly look away. I stand up and turn to my family and smile.
“Here, honey.” Franco gives me back our daughter now that I have been cleansed.
We follow Father Lanzara to the back of the church to the baptismal font. We watch as Renato blesses my daughter and welcomes her to the fold. I look around at my sisters, my nieces and nephews, my parents and my in-laws, and realize how lucky I am.
“Father, please join us for dinner,” my mother-in-law says.
“I’m sorry. I have to prepare for Mass tomorrow.”
“But you must eat something!” she insists. Beatrice Zollerano is president of the women’s sodality, so she has to look after the priest.
“Don’t worry. Mrs. Stampone takes good care of us in the rectory.”
“Her sauce is not one half as robust as mine,” my mother-in-law sniffs.
“How about we drop off a plate to Father Lanzara later?” I suggest.
“Please, that’s not necessary. Thank you for the invitation.”
Renato leaves the sacristy and goes out of the church. I watch him go, sad to think he will have dinner alone.
After we put the children to bed, Franco comes to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
“I’ll bring you tea upstairs,” I tell him.
“No, you have to get up early too.” Franco puts the kettle on the stove. “Alessandro had an interesting offer for us.”
“What’s that?”
“He said he could give us the down payment to buy the mill. But,” Franco pauses, “what he would rather do is partner with us.”
“My God, really?” I ask, but immediately have second thoughts. “Is it good to get in business with family?”
“I don’t think it would be a problem,” Franco says.
But my husband does not have a mind for business like I do. I would rather borrow the money from a bank. I don’t believe in business and family mixing, I don’t see how it can work without problems. What would happen if a shipment went out late? What would happen if machines needed replacing? What would we do if our best operators went to the competition?
“I don’t like the idea.”
“Then we stay indentured servants to Jenkins’s son. Do you think that’s a better idea?”
“It’s not better, but we’re hardly servants. He just gave me a raise.”
“It’s not enough,” he says.
“It will be enough in two more years.” I know, I’ve done the math, I know the figures. “Why don’t we wait?”
“I think we should consider Alessandro’s offer. I’d rather owe my brother-in-law than continue the arrangement we have with Jenkins.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell Franco, but my mind is made up.
“Why do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Tell me that you’re going to consider something when you have no intention of doing what I ask?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I consult you about everything.”
“Nella, you don’t trust my judgment.”
“It’s not that, Franco. Of course I do. But I’ve been a forelady since I was sixteen. I know a little something about how a mill operates.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps.
“I’m not allowed to disagree?”
“Now you’re baiting and switching. Another one of your classic tactics.”
Franco turns to go upstairs. I stop him.
“What’s the matter?” I want to know.
“I don’t like how you look at him,” Franco says softly.
“Look at who?”
“Renato. You still care about him.”
I can’t believe Franco is saying this. Whenever I am near Renato, I act indifferent. I barely speak to the man, and if he is performing a service or sacrament, I barely listen to the words. I don’t even try to pray. Yet I can’t lie to Franco. “I’ll always care about him, but it’s not like you think.”
“You looked upset when he wouldn’t come to dinner.”
“I wasn’t upset. I feel sorry for him.”
“Why?”
“He’s alone. Look at us. We have all this family around us. We have each other, our children. What does he have?”
“He’s a goddamn priest. He chose that.”
“Don’t you have any compassion at all?”
“I should have put my foot down when Lanzara came back. Now I mean it. We are not going to church there anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to see that. You’re my wife, and if you can’t let go of him, then I have to cut the rope.”
“Franco, I’ve never done anything, anything wrong. I promise you.”
Franco gets tears in his eyes. “I believe you.” I can see that for all my torment, his is just as real. I thought I had a grip on this, that it was in the past. I haven’t given myself fully to my husband because a small part of my heart is forever taken up with what might have been. I don’t want to love Renato! I don’t wish to be with him. I just want to know how to get him out of my heart, permanently and forever.
“I would never do anything. I don’t love him. You’re my husband. The father of my children. I love you.” I kiss Franco tenderly. “I would never hurt you. Please believe me.”
“I love you, Nella. But I know what I’m up against. Because you are my first love. And I could never stop loving you.”
Franco goes up the stairs, leaving me to turn out the lights and lock the door. Did I choose this terrible place between the past and the present, or did it find me? I resolve to make my husband happy, whatever that takes. And if we must leave Our Lady of Mount Carmel to do it, so be it.
“Nella, Nella, honey?” Franco gently nudges me awake. “Get dressed.”
I open my eyes and see my husband with a hat and coat on, and my son dressed the same. “What time is it?”
“Midnight.” Frankie giggles and tugs on my arm to get me up.
“Are you two crazy?”
“Papa has a surprise,” says Frankie, “and he won’t tell us what it is.”
“Get dressed,” Franco says again.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a secret. Pop and Mama are gonna watch Celeste. We’ll be back by morning.”
“Okay, okay.” For the past month, I’ve been doing everything my husband asks of me. This request is pushing me to the limit, but I’m determined to give him whatever he wants. I climb into my clothes, stockings, and boots and meet them downstairs. Franco has packed a thermos and biscotti in a bag.
“Let’s hit the road.” He leads us out the door. Frankie looks at me and shrugs, and I shrug right back at him. From our first date, Franco Zollerano has prided himself on surprises, road trips, offbeat destinations. I should complain that he’s crossed the line, waking our son in the middle of the night, but I bite my tongue.
Frankie soon falls asleep in my arms. Franco plays the radio and whistles as we drive toward Philadelphia. I cannot imagine what he has cooked up. “Honey, where are we going?” I ask about three miles outside Philadelphia.
“Have you read the road signs?”
“We’re in Philly, but what’s in Philly that is so important that you had to drag us out of our warm beds in the middle of the night?”
“You’ll see.” Franco pulls up in a parking lot behind a series of buses and a few trucks. When he turns off the engine, Frankie wakes up. “Are we here?”
“We’re here. Come on, son.” Franco takes his son’s hand and leads him across the parking lot. I follow, and as I move through the parked vehicles, I realize that we are at the site of the traveling circus, the greatest in the world: the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus.
“Don’t tell me we’re joining the circus,” I say to no one in particular.
“There it is, son.”
And there, in an open field, is the big top. It lies flat on the ground like a parachute. The orange-and-white-striped tarp seems to cover an acre. Then, with a mighty trumpet, an elephant, guided by three trainers, comes down a ramp and lumbers over to one side of the flat tarp. Soon another elephant comes down the ramp and is positioned on the other side. A third elephant comes down the ramp, this one the baby, and it too is led to the tarp. A trainer blows a whistle, the trainers holler at each other, and one shouts, “Lift!” And the three elephants line up. With their brute strength, they pick up the poles with their trunks. The flat tarp is pulled into standing position in moments.
Frankie’s eyes, wide with wonder, can barely believe the majesty of what he sees. “They put up the tent, Papa.”
“Yep. The elephants do all the work,” Franco replies.
I watch my son and his father as they marvel at the sight. My nose burns as my eyes fill with tears. I married a man who sees the world in a completely different way from me. He is full of wonder. I cry, not for my son’s amazement, or for how I have been given the gift of witnessing this love between them. Rather, I cry for me. I don’t believe in anything except what I can see. If I can’t touch it, it’s not real. My imagination has always taken a backseat to my practical nature. I don’t know how to have fun, I don’t know how to let go, and therefore I don’t know how to live. I think I love deeply, but I don’t. I don’t give of myself where it counts. I don’t give my husband a sense of flight, or my children a sense of magic.
“Nella, can you believe it?” Franco watches the orange and white tent, now suspended on poles and ready for business.
“It’s wonderful,” I say softly.
“Was it worth the trip?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the skillful operation.