The Incident at Montebello (18 page)

“Of course. I'll speak to her. She needs you more than you realize.”

Puzzled, Isolina stared at the midwife. “What do you mean?” she asked, but Cecilia said nothing. Instead, she simply kissed Isolina's cheek and hurried away. Cecilia's promise lingered in her mind, but here it was her wedding day and Lucia was no kinder. Throwing back the blankets, Isolina yanked the picture off her mirror and crumpled it.

Sipping coffee, she tried to calm the flutters of worry and nervous excitement traversing her rib cage. She couldn't eat the bread, salami, and cheese that she set in front of her brothers, who were hungry before they washed their faces or combed their hair. After devouring breakfast, the boys ran in excited circles through the house until she chased them outside. Amelia, wearing her best slip and one of Lelo's shirts buttoned over her burgeoning stomach, rushed around the kitchen. “Three hours. I don't know how we're going to make it. Santa Maria. Where did I put my gloves? I left them right here on the table before I went to bed and now they're gone. If I can't find them, I don't know what I'll do.” When she caught Isolina's eye, she stopped and demanded, “What's the matter?”

“I'm scared, mamma,” Isolina admitted.

Amelia didn't reply. Instead, she dragged a chair into the birthing room off the kitchen and made her sit in it. Picking up a hairbrush, she stroked the long shank of Isolina's hair. As she brushed, Amelia reassured her, “A young girl on her wedding day is always a little scared because she's thinking about what's up ahead. She's the one who's got to run the house, take care of her husband and children, plant the vegetables, cook the meals, nurse the babies, and teach them right from wrong. The men think they have it tough, but what do they know? They work for a few hours, and then go off to the
caffè
to talk politics and play cards. We do the rest.”

Relieved, Isolina nodded. She needed her mother's comfort. She needed to know she could handle the responsibilities that would rest on her shoulders, but Amelia wasn't finished.

“And that's not the worst of it,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “When they come home, they're like dogs in heat and the only thing you can do is put up with them. They push themselves on you even though it hurts, and it seems like they want it every time you bend over to pick up something off the floor. So, you grit your teeth and bear it. It won't last long. Our men are
veloce, veloce
. Quick, quick. And then before you know it, the babies start to come. After that, you'll both be too tired to do it. But what can I tell you? That's life. We all go through it.”

Needless to say, Amelia's talk did little to calm her. She twitched with anxiety while Amelia draped a towel over her shoulders and pinned her hair in clusters at the top of her head. To make matters worse, Nonna Angelina, dressed in her best suit and pearls, tapped on the door and handed her lace gloves folded in tissue paper. “Fifty years ago, my father bought these for me on the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze,” she told Isolina. “You better not lose them.” Marie Elena walked in next with a silk purse to hold the
lire
given to her as wedding presents. And then the midwife poked her head around the door and offered her a basket of cosmetics made from her flowers and herbs. “What good are makeup and perfume for a shriveled old
strega
like me? But for a pretty young girl like you, the rouge will give you a little color on your cheeks and lips.”

The women crowded around her in the tiny room, filling it with excited talk and perfume. She fidgeted as they fussed over her face and hair and put the final stitches in her gown for good luck. After they slipped the dress over her head, she spotted Lucia's daughter Nietta, who was staring at her with envy. Edging closer, she handed Isolina a handkerchief embroidered with blue and white flowers. “My mamma wants you to have this for good luck. Something old, borrowed, and blue. My mamma says you should pin it to your slip.”

This unexpected kindness soothed Isolina's heart. She kissed Nietta and patted her cheek, but Nonna Angelina saw things differently. “It's ridiculous,” she muttered. “Lucia should be coming.”

“That's her decision, not yours, mamma,” Marie Elena said.

“Shh,” Amelia warned. “I don't want any trouble. Not today of all days.”

The church bells were calling everyone to mass. When she stepped outside, she was engulfed by a crowd of relatives dressed in their Sunday clothes—even her brothers who had been playing happily in the dirt a few hours earlier. Kissing her, they cried, “
Che bella.
What a beauty.” She was smiling until she noticed Lucia.

“I thought I could stay away, but I had to see you,
cara
,” Lucia murmured. Her lips struggled upwards and faltered.

For a moment, Isolina couldn't speak. She blinked back tears.

“No tears,
cara.
It's bad luck on your wedding day,” Lucia said, kissing her.

“Thank you,
zia
,” she cried and hope fluttered inside her.

As she walked to church, friends and neighbors waved to her and laughed when she picked up a broom in the road. It was a test, every young girl knew it. So she swept the cobblestones, proving she'd be a good housewife. And in the piazza, she paused by Cipriano the beggar, opened her purse and handed him a few coins. Pleased, the townspeople murmured again. Her parents nodded, proud they had taught her so well.

She searched the crowd for Rodi and found him by the church door, surrounded by his brothers-in-law, cousins, and father. Surely, he was as nervous as she was. His face was pale, but feigning casualness, he jingled the change in his pockets. One of his cousins joked, “You're lucky she showed up, Rodi Butasi. What does a pretty girl like her want with a scoundrel like you?” Rodi managed a thin smile. But when he caught her eye, he winked and she breathed easier.

The Butasis went in first. Her parents were supposed to follow, but they lingered, giving her one last kiss. Amelia's lips were wobbling and Lelo was blowing his nose. Isolina reached up and straightened Amelia's hat with the demi-veil, which matched her dress with a lace collar and full skirt, wide enough for her belly.

“Can you believe it, Lelo?” Amelia said, wiping away tears.

He draped his arm around her shoulders. “Take it easy, dear. We've got to do this seven more times.”

The priest was waiting for them by the altar. No doubt pleased to be playing to a full audience, he dragged the service out for nearly two hours. Still, it was all a formality. She had pledged herself to Rodi years before. When he slipped the ring on her finger and lifted her veil, she stared into his eyes, as dark as the water at the bottom of a well. In them, she saw her own reflection. In them, she saw his love for her and her heart was light with happiness.

“What are you waiting for?” someone shouted and she and Rodi laughed and pressed their lips together. No longer did she have to hide her longing, bursting from seed to flower in one delicious, startling moment. She needed his touch, his comfort; she needed his love, his protection. She was tired of carrying her burden alone.

Rodi whispered, “Say you love me.”

“I love you.”

“We'll be happy, eh? We've earned it.”

“We will, Rodi,” she said, hoping with all her heart that it was true.

After mass, Donato escorted Nonna Angelina home so she could rest before the reception. In the spirit of celebration, she nodded to children playing in the gutter and women balancing water jugs on their heads. Neighbors stopped her on the Via Condotti. “May you be a great grandmother many times over,” they cried, kissing her on both cheeks.

But instead of smiling, Nonna Angelina daubed her eyes with her handkerchief. “If only my husband were alive to see this day. Carlo would be so proud.”

“He's here in spirit, mamma,” Donato said. That was close enough—he thought, but a moment later, he lowered his head, ashamed. Nonna Angelina was right. His father would have been proud. To Carlo, grandchildren were assets—that's what he called them—tallied up like numbers on a ledger sheet, the boys in black ink, the girls in red. But he had little patience for them until they were grown. Half the time, he mixed up their names. But who could blame him? His mind was on the business.

Back home, Nonna Angelina lowered herself onto the parlor sofa. This room, filled with expensive and ornate furniture, was his favorite. He gazed at the table lamps decorated with hand-painted scenes of pastoral France, the armchairs upholstered in green velvet, the ashtray on a silver pedestal, the floor lamp with crystal beads dangling from the shade, and the curio cabinet exhibiting a menagerie of china elephants, frogs and giraffes.

Nonna Angelina pointed to a liquor cabinet in the corner. “I could use a little sip,” she told him, so he picked up the decanter and filled two cordial glasses, the sherry glowing amber. As he handed her the glass and settled down next to her on the sofa, she sighed with satisfaction. He patted her cheek, proud of her smooth skin with hardly a wrinkle. He was pleased she was wearing one of his presents from America—a pair of ruby earrings, which swayed as she lifted her chin and swallowed. It was a pity his sisters hadn't inherited her looks.

“Padre Colletti outdid himself,” Nonna Angelina said.

“I thought he'd never finish.”

“You missed most of it.”

“God's keeping score, mamma. You don't have to.” With a jerk of his head, he drank the sherry, which blazed a trail down to his stomach. He licked his lips and poured himself another glass.

After a pause, Nonna Angelina leaned towards him and whispered, “Tell me what happened in Boston.”

He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. He told her about his boss, that bastard Vittadini who left him out in the cold and gave his nephew half the business.

“But he promised you half.”

“I know.” Even after all these months, his disappointment left a metallic taste in his mouth. “But I took what was mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't worry about the details, mamma. Let's just say I took care of the family and myself. That's the important thing.”

Nonna Angelina accepted this in silence. “And how are things with Lucia?” When he hesitated, she said, “I want to know.”

He squirmed, but he had to give her an answer. Puffing on his cigar, he said, “She's changed.”

“She hasn't been the same since the child died.”

He was still shaken by the dramatic change in Lucia. Putting aside her bright clothes and wearing all that black were the least of it. Women lost their children every day to illness and injury and somehow they carried on, having other babies or refocusing their attention on the living.

“Did she tell you what happened that day?” Nonna Angelina said. “No? I'm not surprised. She blames Isolina for falling asleep and letting the children run off, but that's only part of the story.”

“What's the rest?”

Nonna Angelina leaned towards him. “As God is my witness, not a day went by when she wasn't asking one of us to watch Sofia so she could work. Not that I minded. Sofia was a delightful child, but a handful. You had to keep your eyes on her. When the car hit her, she was playing in the street.”

He said nothing, but his eyes were fierce.

“You should have heard Lucia after the accident. She had some nerve telling the doctor how to treat Sofia. And just yesterday at the shop, I overheard her telling the midwife that the
fascisti
are murderers and have blood on their hands. Nietta was there. She heard the whole thing. But that's not all she's done.”

Nonna Angelina's words were blows to his head and stomach. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Professor Zuffi called me in to complain about Charlie.”

“What did he do now?”

“His attitude toward the
fascisti
has changed. I'm telling you. Lucia is behind it all.”

He swore. “Damn
,
I should have figured. She's been nothing but trouble since I came home. Prefetto Balbi warned me, but I thought he was wrong. I figured she was too wrapped up in grief to do anything.”

“Think again. She's changed.”

He couldn't deny it. He could see it for himself.

Nonna Angelina gripped his arm. “Prefetto Balbi has threatened Lelo and Crispino with jail. He questioned Isolina and Rodi. He thinks they saw the accident.”

“Did they?”

“They say they didn't, but Prefetto Balbi isn't taking any chances. He let Isolina off with a warning, but Rodi got the castor oil treatment. It's his own fault for choosing that good-for-nothing Manfredo as his friend.”

He puffed on his cigar, sending up chutes of smoke. The situation was far worse than he had thought. “What does Lucia think she's doing? Doesn't she know she's going to get us into more trouble?”