Swimming in the Moon: A Novel (12 page)

“Why can’t I meet his parents? What’s wrong with me?” she demanded as we went through the racks at Higbee’s. When I suggested that Charlie’s mother might prefer an American “sweet,” Yolanda announced that she didn’t want to talk about Charlie anymore. She pulled me toward a black coat with a short gray cape attached. “They call this a ‘capelet,’ new this season,” she explained. “Very
dashing,
don’t you think? That’s what Americans say:
dashing
. But it’s seven and a half dollars.”

A clerk bore down on us. “Are you girls just looking or are you here to buy?”

I set my heavy purse of quarters on the counter with a thud. “To buy,” I said, “here or in some other store.”

“I was only asking, miss, since I heard you talking Eye-talian.”

“I’ll buy in American if you have that style in a
dashing
color.”

He stepped back. “We do, yes, miss, over here.” We chose burgundy with a deep blue capelet, not the winter’s endless black and gray. With fifty cents more from my scribing, I paid and had him wrap my prize. It made a satisfyingly bulky bundle as Yolanda and I walked the long way home.

“Remember, don’t talk about Charlie,” she warned. But I saw how hungrily she stared at an American couple stepping out of a motorcar and an Italian couple laughing as they scrambled over ink-black humps of frozen slush.

“Thank you for helping with the coat,” I said to distract her. “My mother will love it. She’ll have the finest coat at Stingler’s.”

Yolanda’s eyes swung back to mine. “She might need another job soon.”

“What?” My stomach clenched.

“Stingler’s could be making peanut clusters instead of chocolates and caramels. The swirls don’t come right if the dipping room’s too cold, and Little Stingler’s too cheap to heat it. Anyway, peanut clusters cost less.”

I hugged my bundle closer. “How do you know all this?”

We were crossing an icy patch. Yolanda walked cautiously as she spoke. “My friend Marta heard Little Stingler talking to the foreman about letting some of the dippers go. She could be wrong. Her English isn’t good. But if she’s right, your mother’s in trouble. First: anybody can make peanut clusters. Second: he likes dippers with small children. Even better if they have small children and no husband. Those women have to work.”

“So does Mamma.”

Yolanda veered around a shoeshine boy. “So you really don’t know?”

I grabbed her sleeve. “Know what?”

She dropped her voice, nearly hissing. “The other dippers make Little Stingler
want
to keep them. They do, let’s say, private things for him. Your mother won’t. He’s kept her on so far just because she’s so fast at dipping. But with clusters everything’s different.”

“Private things?” I repeated dully. “You mean the girls have to—” A heavy weight filled my stomach, as if I’d swallowed lead.

“Yes. They do different things, depending on what he can get. Of course, on Old Stingler’s good days, Little Cock has to behave himself.”

I stopped, nearly vomiting onto the black snow, sucking at the frigid air until I could walk again. I imagined Little Stingler lurking by the washroom, ordering girls to his office, keeping them late, making them come early, even pulling them from the dipping line as friends pretended not to see. I saw greedy hands pushed under skirts or resting paternally on shoulders and then slipping down. I saw red-faced girls returning to their posts, frantically smoothing skirts while others looked away, each one thinking:
Will it be me tomorrow?
I saw Mamma twisting free, dodging, snapping, snarling, making him turn to easier prey, but stirring up resentment at her “insolence.” Perhaps each girl’s shame reminded Mamma of what she’d endured on the seaweed. Meanwhile I’d curled around my books, suspecting nothing. Being so ignorant of Miss Miller’s gilded life paled to nothing; I didn’t know my own mother’s life.

“Does Marta do those things?”

“She has to,” Yolanda said quietly. “The family needs her pay. Charlie promised that I’ll
never
work for Stingler’s.”

“I see.” No wonder Mamma sang and talked to herself. No wonder she came home bad-tempered and exhausted. We’d reached Yolanda’s flat.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. I talked about it with Charlie. We weren’t sure.”

“No, you did right. And don’t worry. You’ll meet Charlie’s parents and they’ll love you.” We kissed at parting as we always did, but quickly, brushing icy cheeks before she flew upstairs to her crowded flat.

How could I study, waiting for Mamma’s return? And what recompense was a wool coat with a silly capelet? Still, I laid out the coat on our bed and straightened our room until I heard her in the entryway speaking to Roseanne. When she came in, her face stiff and shoulders stooped, I pointed at the coat.

“For me?” She walked slowly to the bed and stroked the thick, soft wool. “You polished silver for this?” I nodded. “It’s perfect, Lucia. Thank you. I never had anything so beautiful.”

When she bit her lip, turning away, I couldn’t hold on to my secret: “Yolanda told me what Little Stingler makes girls do.”

She sat down, wrapping the burgundy sleeves around her waist. “Why talk about that bastard? It would just make me want to hurt him, like I hurt Count Filippo. Or worse, because he hurt so many girls. Then where would we go? But it doesn’t matter now.” She pushed the coat away. “He said he had to get rid of some girls and he was already paying me too much. Then today . . .”

“What about today?” I heard my own heart pounding.

She stood up so suddenly the bed thumped. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fired but at least I got paid for the week. Old Stingler made him do that much.” Her eyes were wild and frightening. “I’ll never make the same money anywhere else. My English isn’t good like yours, and I can’t trim pretty hats.” She looked at the coat. “We’ll sell it.” She paced the room, walking into my desk so hard that my chair fell over.

“No. I’ll leave school and work.” Anything, anything to calm her.

She shook her head. “You have to finish and get that diploma.” The dinner bell rang. We said nothing to the others, but afterward Mamma sent me upstairs while she spoke to Roseanne. I stared at my book until she returned and announced: “The kitchen girl was fired for stealing coffee. I’ll clean here for two weeks. If you help on weekends, we can almost pay our room and board. Roseanne will forgive us the difference ‘for Paolo’s sake.’ ” Mamma smiled slightly. Then her face stiffened. “I’ll look for work at the garment factories. Cold doesn’t matter there.”

“Mamma—”

“I need to walk.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No!” She yanked on the new coat and was gone. I sat with my book by the drafty window until past midnight, when I saw her coming home. That was the beginning of her night walks and my long vigils.

“So, I’m a servant again,” she said in the morning, pulling her Naples work smock from our trunk, binding her hair tightly, and covering it with a scarf. I ached to see her do these things.

“When I finish high school,” I promised in what became my steady litany, “I’ll get a good job and you won’t have to work. We’ll have a piano—”

“The rugs need beating,” she said. “At least here nobody touches me.”

That afternoon I was late coming home after scribing for a new wave of immigrants. When I opened our front door, cleaning smells poured out: ammonia, linseed and lemon oil, borax and bleach. The parlor shone. The wooden banister gleamed like honey in sunshine. Even the brass coat hooks were polished. Roseanne showed me the dining room. The oak table was a sleek golden pond; windows sparkled. She ran her finger along the wainscoting and looked around in wonder, even dismay.

“What’s wrong? Everything’s clean. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I demanded.

“She’s so fast. It’s not normal.”

“She had to be fast at the villa. It was big and had to be clean all the time. Aren’t you grateful? Look at this room. Look at the glass on this china cabinet, like you could reach in and touch the plates.”

“That’s true,” Roseanne admitted, “but it’s like she’s angry at the floors, at the glass and furniture, as if she’s possessed somehow. Was it like this in Naples?”

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” I said as crisply as I could. Wouldn’t anyone enduring work and then the loss of work at Stingler’s be angry? And wouldn’t it be natural to hurl that anger against furniture and glass?

I tried talking to Mamma after dinner, but she merely snapped: “I’m tired of cleaning. I’m going out.” When she finally came to bed, the bleach on her skin stung my eyes. On the third day she attacked the cellar, hauling out years of broken furniture, moldy books and clothing. I described to Yolanda this frenzy of work and refusal to talk about Stingler’s.

“It’s
not
normal,” Yolanda agreed. “And she’ll run out of things to clean.”

The next week, we found relief. Mamma got work at Printz-Biederman, and Roseanne hired a somber Irish girl named Elsie with good references. Mamma would be making ten dollars a week. The bosses didn’t ask for “favors”; all they wanted was finished coats and dresses. But she’d have to rent her sewing machine from the company and buy thread and needles. It would take years to own the machine. “It’s harder work than dipping, for a dollar less,” she said, walking wearily to the piano. I’d help, I promised. I’d start right away.

Agnes arranged weekend work for me at the Millers’. Dressed in a crisp black uniform, I became a waitress for parties, teas, and dinners. I had another job as well: when ladies gathered in the conservatory, they wanted tales of Countess Elisabetta, the count, and “all their noble friends.” At first I resisted. My people weren’t storybook figures. As much as I hated the count, his pains were real. But Mrs. Miller expected these tales and, Agnes hinted, might reward them with tips.

“Will those silly ladies ever meet the countess?” Roseanne demanded.

“No.”

“Well then?”

I read my answer in her smile. Of course! Invent. On streetcar rides to work, I concocted tales of fabulous parties and midnight dances with moonlight frosting the bay, picnics on Vesuvius and balls at the palace of King Victor Emmanuel. Maestro Arturo Toscanini played piano for my countess; he adored her. I described precious gifts from an adoring count: cameos the size of my palm, ivory combs and coral vases, enormous bouquets of delicate porcelain flowers, marble busts of her as the Greek goddess Diana. The ladies were entranced. Before banquets I was to suggest points of “refined service” to the butler, which he attended politely when his mistress was nearby and then blithely ignored. For this I was paid well, fed, and given food left over from parties.

Between work, homework, and scribing, I had no time for dances at Hiram House. “I saw your fella Henryk dancing with Miriam, that pretty girl from Irena’s
stypa,
” Yolanda warned. “People say her family owes his a favor.”

“He’s not my fella,” I said too loudly. “And the rest is just gossip.”

“Of course. Anyway, I’m sure he missed you at the dance. Look what Charlie gave me,” she said, showing off a slender ring she wore on a ribbon under her chemise. “We’re engaged,” she whispered. “It’s a secret. But it’s wonderful. We really have to find
you
a fella.”

“I told you, I don’t have time.”

“You should
make
time,” she said somberly. “It’s important.”

Henryk and I still saw each other at school. He was always kind, asked after my mother, and gave me news of Casimir and Anna before hurrying off. He was busy, of course. But he did have time for dances. In any case, he was just a friend, I steadily reminded myself, and I had no claim on his time. I asked Yolanda not to tell me any more about Henryk.

“I won’t, Lucia, but
you
could go out sometime. Cleveland’s a big city. People do have fun here.”

She was right, I thought, and laughed at the coincidence when Donato came back that night from Lula’s, beaming. “Look! I have four tickets to vaudeville at the Empire Theater. The show didn’t sell out and the manager wants a full house. Maybe this will cheer up Teresa. You can bring your friend Yolanda.” Donato blushed when I kissed him in thanks. Mamma was at the player piano, practicing the latest of her piano rolls, “Are You Coming Out Tonight, Mary Ann?” I waved the tickets in her face.

“We’re going to the grand vaudeville, Mamma! Singing and dancing, popular songs, comedy acts, pieces of Shakespeare, opera.” She snapped her head away, staring at the piano keys going up and down. I turned her face to mine. “I know what you’re thinking, but Toscanini won’t be there. It’s just
pieces
of opera, entertainment like a circus but with more music. It’s for families. Americans love it.”

“Singers?” she asked finally. “Like Caruso?”

“Well, not Caruso, but others. You’ll hear new songs. We’ll have a good time.”

“What can I wear?”

“Whatever you want. Put your new coat over any dress. You’ll look beautiful.”

I had no fine coat, but Roseanne helped me put my hair up and loaned me a velvet neckband. We teased Donato that we’d tell his wife he’d gone to the theater with
three
pretty girls. Only later did I find any meaning in Yolanda’s distraction, the constant pressing of her hand to her belly. She said she was worried about Charlie. He’d left school for a job with the United Salt Company. Last week, two men had died at the loading docks, crushed under tons of salt. “He
has
to find safer work,” she kept repeating.

Mamma barely spoke as we walked through the Empire’s grand lobby and handed our tickets to a smartly dressed usher. We marveled at the plush seats, burnished brass, gilded festoons and cupids, sashes, loops of braided hangings, and organ rising by magic from a pit. “Imagine,” she whispered, “singing in a place like this.” I had never been in a grand theater but had read of them in books.

“You know, Shakespeare’s Globe Theater was actually round and—”

“Be quiet, Lucia,” Mamma said sharply. “It’s starting,” Juggler clowns emerged from the crimson curtain, tossing clubs and balls and silky flags. She glared at a noisy squad of young men arriving late. “Don’t they want to see all the acts? Idiots.”