Swimming in the Moon: A Novel (38 page)

Henryk stopped me, touching my shoulders as lightly as wind. Pain washed over his face. “I’m sorry, Lucia. I need time to think.”

“There isn’t much time.” I grasped the lapels of his American jacket, then released them as if the cloth were burning. Night air filled me, blowing us apart, and suddenly I was running, my feet on the sidewalk drumming ta-
dum,
ta-
dum,
ta-
dum,
up the boardinghouse stairs and into our bedroom, where Mamma was already asleep.

Don’t think about Henryk. Stop thinking of him.
I paced the room, never lifting my eyes from the floor or looking out the window, afraid he might still be there on the sidewalk.
Look at your mother instead,
I thought frantically
. Think about her. Think about work
,
only work.
I’d need a job to pay the next weeks’ room and board. Where could I find one? Not at Printz-Biederman, the memories were too painful. I paced the room until I was exhausted enough for sleep, still thinking of him
.

In the following
days I obtained a letter of recommendation signed by Mr. Kinney but surely written by his wife. With it I was hired in the accounts department of Taylor’s department store for seventeen dollars a week. From Monday to Friday, bookkeepers worked nine-hour days: on Saturday afternoons we were free to “enjoy the pleasures of family life.”

“Imagine, Mamma,” I said, “we could go to the country or see a concert.”

She shook her head violently. Of course, Toscanini.

I sighed. “That’s true,
he
might be conducting.” I’d ceased arguing with her. As Dr. Ricci said, she lived beyond logic and I must meet her in that land. We went to Garfield Park, far from Lake Erie or any concert hall. She wanted more yarn. I bought it, and she began making a shawl for “the dark lady.”

“Lula?”

“The dark lady.”

“Well, I’m sure Lula will love it.”

The countess finally wrote that she and Paolo had just returned from Rome, where an aged aunt had died. They were sorry to hear of Mamma’s “condition.” She prayed for us both, held us close to her heart, and would write again soon. The single page was a thin blanket for a cold night, yet the simple words reminded me yet again of how far I was from my friend. Yolanda and Giovanna had written lately with veiled references to the asylum and for the first time did not invite us to Youngstown.

“You can bring her over here,” Lula said. “It’s not Youngstown, but it’s someplace.” I did sometimes bring her on quiet nights. I never loved my mother more than in that time when we learned to be alone together.

I
N THE
P
ARLOR

The city surged
into lively action after the summer’s languor. Josephine went to New York for ILGWU meetings. She’d pass through Cleveland again on her way to Michigan, hoping to take me with her. Isadore confided that Josephine had a “friend” in New York, although each had other “friends.” So this was free love: freedom from this tearing, constant heart pain.
Don’t think about Henryk. Don’t.

At Printz-Biederman and even in the smaller factories, salaries were creeping up with rising demand for dresses, coats, and men’s suits. Workers began simply refusing forced overtime and banding together to buy sewing machines at wholesale prices. Bosses complained and threatened but in the end did nothing, knowing that a skilled seamstress could easily find work in other cities. As Josephine said, we were changing and the bosses were changing with us.

I had successfully avoided seeing Henryk until a rainy November day when Roseanne needed potatoes for dinner and brushed away my excuses. “I am
not
letting my boarders go hungry just because Lucia and her fella had a fight.”

“He’s
not
my fella.”

“Wonderful. Then go now, please. I have to start the stew.”

“Couldn’t—”

“Lucia, I need those potatoes!”

So I went to the store. Henryk and I were elaborately cordial, discussing the rain and Pepe’s progress in school while his father noisily stacked cabbage crates, muttering in Yiddish. Henryk answered back sharply. Lamplight brushed his shoulders as he filled my basket. The light, his hands, the workings of his arms all were more than I could bear. I looked away. “What about Kalamazoo?” he asked softly.

“I still don’t know how to bring my mother.”

“I talked to Isadore about the factory. Those poor girls.”

Don’t be good. Don’t make me care for you.
When a cluster of women crowded into the store, I slipped away. Next time, Roseanne would have to do her own shopping. Or I’d pay a neighbor boy. I began scribing again and keeping ledgers for the union. The work was tedious but it filled my time.

The next Friday evening, I was hurrying home for dinner with a pack of receipts from Isadore. Boys selling late apples had tossed bruised fruit in the gutters. The air was bright with apple tang. I ran up the boardinghouse stairs, pulled off my coat, and was about to go check on Mamma. The parlor doors were closed, which was odd. Roseanne met me, hands on her widening hips. “You’re late! And you have visitors in the parlor.”

Police? A complaint about Mamma? Fear shot through me. “What happened?”

“Find out.” Roseanne opened the doors and pushed me in so briskly that I stumbled over the rag rug, noticing nobody at first, but caught by familiar smells: lavender and English soap. I stepped back in terror, fearing that my mind had truly gone. Mamma saw Toscanini everywhere. I’d seen Enrico in the union hall. Now here were two visions from my past.

Behind me, Roseanne was laughing. “Lucia, have you forgotten my cousin Paolo? He hasn’t forgotten you.”

So they
were
real, Paolo and the countess in our parlor. He came forward and kissed me on both cheeks. The black hair was tipped with gray, but he was Paolo still, the steady ground of my life in Naples. “Elisabetta,” he said, “just look at our Lucia, such a splendid young lady, all grown up!”

“Come here, my dear,” said the kind, clear voice. Here was the countess in soft blue wool and lace, stretching out her arms to me. I looked between them, dazed.

“Elisabetta wanted to surprise you,” Paolo explained. “Perhaps the surprise was too much?”

“My aunt in Rome left me enough money to pay for a trip to America,” the countess explained. “We’d planned a spring visit, but after your letter, we knew we had to come now. That’s why my letter was so short. We left that day.”

I cried and laughed and couldn’t speak. Roseanne brought a glass of water. Paolo handed me a spotless linen handkerchief scented with his soap. So it was real; they were here with me, and this was joy, pure joy, like a warm summer night on the bay. When the countess closed her white hands over mine, I saw a gold band on her finger, the mate of Paolo’s.

“Yes, we’re married,” she said simply. “But in truth, we’ve been pledged since you were a baby.”

Paolo sat beside us. “We’re having our honeymoon in Cleveland.”

Roseanne brought wine and her best glasses, announcing that my mother was asleep after a restless afternoon. In his silky way of smoothing out all trouble, Paolo proposed that we three visit until Teresa awoke. Then we could all go out to an American restaurant.

“You’ve grown, Lucia, even more than I imagined,” said the countess. “You’ve done so much and learned so much. We’ve been proud to read your letters.”

“You look well, Countess.” I couldn’t cease smiling to see them, the places of my life joined like broken china miraculously repaired. She did look well, the furrows of her brow smoothed, a ready smile, and no dark circles beneath her eyes.

“Call me Elisabetta. We’re friends, are we not?”

“Yes—Elisabetta. How are Nannina and Luigi?”

“Very well. They’re expecting a child and send their love.” Elisabetta took my hand, excited as a child herself. “I can’t wait to see Cleveland with you. And Teresa of course, if she’d like.”

If she’d like.
The simple words rolled in my mind. Who could know what Mamma truly “liked”? I asked instead if they wanted to eat at an Italian restaurant.

Elisabetta glanced at Paolo, who took a small leather notebook from his pocket. “Elisabetta and I have been reading about American foods we’d like to try. Shall I read you our list?”

I was young again, enthralled by his solemn grace. “Please.”

“Some I will translate. For others I’ll attempt the English.” He cleared his throat. “Succotash, puffed rice cereal, and quiet little dogs—”

“Hush puppies,” I corrected, trying not to stare at Elisabetta’s face watching his, as if this were Leopardi himself, reciting for her.

“Thank you. Hush puppies, buttered toast with hash, biscuits, maple syrup and pancakes, peanut butter, frizzled beef, sliced ham, smoked bacon, fried clams, clam chowder, oyster stew.” He looked up: “Shad?”

“A kind of fish.”

“Ah. Shad. Campbell’s soup; angel’s cake and devil’s cake; gingerbread; strawberry shortcake; rhubarb, pumpkin, and blueberry pie; sweet potatoes; baked beans; corned beef; creamed corn; whipped potatoes; and roasted turkey, stuffed. That is all, Elisabetta?” She nodded happily. The familiar parlor was so charged with their presence that I felt like an intruder. “So,” Paolo asked, “where can we find good American food?”

“The Forest City Hotel is very fine,” Roseanne called from the hallway.

“Perfect,” they said together.

“I’ll see if Mamma’s awake.” When I stood, Paolo rose as he would for any lady. In that instant, the sheath of “servant girl” I’d worn for years fell away. I straightened my shoulders. A gentleman had stood for me.

Perhaps Mamma saw something new in my walk. She sat up and allowed the sheet she had wrapped around herself to be pulled away. “Mamma, Countess Elisabetta and Paolo are here! They’re married and came to visit us.” She said nothing as I brushed her dull hair and helped her put on a handsome woolen suit from her vaudeville days. It hung on her now. When had she grown so thin? “Isn’t it wonderful to see the countess again?” I persisted. No answer. Perhaps she didn’t believe me. Or perhaps she had truly forgotten our old life. “Let’s go to the parlor,” I said finally. She shuffled close behind me down the stairs.

Elisabetta and Paolo were standing, smiling. When I stepped aside and they saw her, color dropped from Elisabetta’s cheeks. Paolo’s hand braced her back. I realized then that I’d ceased noticing Mamma’s flat-footed walk and wooden face or that her hair looked fresh-shorn because she’d taken to snipping off small bits when she was alone. Now I saw her as they did: a figure you’d avoid on any street. Could they even recognize in the gray face and vacant eyes the wild-spirited, lovely woman who left Naples six years ago? Could they believe she’d been a skilled chocolate dipper, much less a vaudeville singer? Was I insane to imagine taking her to Michigan?

Mamma’s eyes slowly grazed the floor until they bumped into Elisabetta’s shoes and then climbed upward. When they reached the pale face, she howled, a terrible, trapped animal sound. “Uhhhhhhh, the count!” She would have fled the room if I hadn’t shut the parlor door.

“The count is dead, Mamma!” I said loudly, gripping her arms as she struggled. “We’re going to a restaurant.”

Paolo drew Elisabetta to a chair. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Teresa,” he said in the soothing voice that could turn black to white. “We’ve been visiting with Lucia. Doesn’t she look well?” Mamma twisted around, her back to our guests, shoulders heaving.

“It’s only Paolo and the countess, Mamma. You’re perfectly safe.”

“We don’t have to go to a restaurant,” Elisabetta murmured. “We could stay—”

“A restaurant!” Mamma said loudly to the wall.

“Well—” I began.

“Restaurant!” Mamma repeated.

“You have taxicabs?” Paolo asked smoothly. Yes, I stammered, we could find one nearby. “So we’ll go out, if that’s what Teresa wants.”

“Certainly,” Elisabetta managed.

The enterprise seemed bound for disaster. In an elegant restaurant, wouldn’t people stare and whisper? Wouldn’t we be made to leave? But Paolo’s calm eased us all. I got Mamma’s burgundy coat from the closet and hid her ragged hair beneath a broad-brimmed hat. Elisabetta composed herself, fixing a smile that never flagged all evening.

At the restaurant Paolo found an Italian waiter, whispered a few words, and deftly transferred a generous tip. The waiter gave us a corner table, obsequiously welcoming Countess Monforte and her party. Throughout dinner, he was unfailingly gracious, no matter what Mamma spilled or how often she stood, moved her chair, scraping it across the floor, and sat down hard again. Mortified, I barely ate, but Paolo and Elisabetta courteously ignored her, exclaiming over every dish. They included Mamma in conversations even when she merely stared at her plate or busied herself hiding knives beneath the tablecloth.

“My favorite,” said Elisabetta as we walked home to digest our feast, “was the ice cream sundae you had me try.” Under gaslight, I saw Mamma almost smile. We stopped at the hotel where Paolo and Elisabetta had taken a room.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Paolo said. Mamma pulled away as Paolo, Elisabetta, and I kissed a good night. When a doorman ushered them into the lobby, Elisabetta buried her face in Paolo’s jacket, seeming more exhausted by our evening than by their long trek west. Mamma watched curiously through the glass doors.

“They’re staying here,” I explained. “We’ll pick them up in the morning.”

“Why?”

“Because they want to see Cleveland with us.”

“Why?”

I sighed. “Let’s go home, Mamma. You must be tired.”

The next day Paolo had the hotel arrange a touring car and driver. We glided past Public Square, “Lucia’s union hall,” Garfield Park, fine houses on Euclid Avenue, and the zoological park. Mamma was skittish, her eyes darting everywhere, watchful for “him,” but quiet at least. In the afternoon, we brought her home to rest. “And now,” Elisabetta announced, “we’d like to visit your friend Lula’s tavern.”