The Queen of the Big Time (13 page)

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s an organization for young women to honor the Blessed Mother. It would be a great privilege for you to serve our church in this way.”

“Then I should be honest with you, Father. You shouldn’t hold me up as an example for other girls.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t know what I really believe.” Father Impeciato looks at me quizzically, and I try to help him understand what I am saying. “If anything, I struggle with every word you say every Sunday.”

“You do?”

“I don’t understand all the terrible things that happen in the world. My friend Chettie lost her father, and we may lose our farm because my father’s leg isn’t healing like it should. I don’t know if the Blessed Mother would want me to start anything on her behalf.”

“That’s where your faith comes in.”

“Well, I try, I guess. I come in here and I pray. I go to Mass. Maybe my family is being punished because I’m the only one who comes, but that’s because there is so much work to do on the farm. And God
doesn’t send help directly, in the way of money, if you know what I mean. But I’m sincere when I ask God for help, and I never get any indication back that He has heard me.”

“God isn’t a magician.”

“I don’t expect tricks, Father. But I do expect some sort of protection.”

“God protects you.”

“How do you know that, Father?”

“Because God loves all His children.”

Instead of arguing with him, I change the subject. “So the Society of Mary …”

“There isn’t any organization for our young women. And I believe you’re a leader. Your teachers tell me that you’re excellent in school and helpful to them. I would help you establish the group, of course. You would help the church in many ways. There is much to be done. For example, the choir needs their music set out each Sunday before Mass …” Father Impeciato drones on about all the chores that need tending to, like ironing the altar linens, and how we would be responsible for the May crowning of the statue, and as he goes on and on, I close my eyes in the afternoon sun and remember Renato singing on Assunta’s wedding day and decide that that is reason enough to help out. There’s an even bigger reason to say yes to Father Impeciato’s request. If I organize the Society of Mary, there will be no question in the minds of the Roseto girls that I am at last a genuine part of them and this church. We are farmers, and while this has never been anything to be ashamed of, it makes us different and separate. We aren’t automatically included in Roseto life, but if I do a good job for Father Impeciato, I can change that.

“I’ll do it, Father.”

“Thank you, Miss Castelluca. God will reward you for your kindness.”

Assunta invited Elena and me to stay the night at her house before our first day of work at Roseto Manufacturing Company on Front Street. Alessandro left for Philadelphia by train yesterday to take the ship to Italy. He should be back by the first of the year, in plenty of time for the baby’s birth in mid-January.

“How did you sleep?” I ask Assunta as she heats milk in a pan on her stove.

“Not well. How about you?”

Elena and I shared a bed in the spare room. She tossed and turned all night, as she does whenever she is about to start something new. She’s nervous about our new jobs at the factory. “I slept fine.”

The milk foams up in the pan. Assunta removes it from the stove and gently pours it into three bowls. She lifts the small espresso pot off the stove and splashes a bit in each of the bowls of hot milk. She spoons sugar into each and stirs them. She motions for me to sit at the table, handing me one of the bowls of
gabagule
. “Here,” she says, giving me the heel of the bread from last night’s dinner. “The butter is on the table.” I break the crusty bread and spread soft butter on it, then dip it into the bowl, taking a bite of the buttery bread and sweet milk together.

“It’s good. Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for letting us stay over.”

“No one should have to walk three miles on their first day of work,” she says without looking at me. “I remember when I worked there, and it wasn’t easy.”

Assunta forgets that she’s talking about the very same day that I walked to school for the first time. I never minded the walk when I knew I was going to school. “The training wasn’t so bad at the factory. Elmira Clements seemed nice.”

“Be careful. She’s a Johnny Bull,” Assunta warns. “She puts on a smile, but she’s watching every move you make. She spies on everyone for the boss. My friend Donata took two black buttons from work one day, two buttons! And she was fired.”

“I won’t take anything,” I promise.

Elena comes down the stairs dressed for work. She is wearing a gingham jumper with deep pockets and has put her hair up in a topknot. “Is this okay?” she asks, sitting next to me at the table.

“You look fine,” I tell her.

Assunta gives Elena her bowl of milk and bread. We eat our breakfast in silence. Assunta is blue because Alessandro is gone, Elena would rather be working on the farm, and I’ve given up school. This is not a good year for the Castelluca girls.

As Elena and I make the turn onto Front Street, we can hear the whirl of the sewing machines through the open windows of the Roseto Manufacturing Company. There is also the loud whoosh of the steam presses that come from the finishing department, but unlike at school or church, there is not the sound of a single human voice in the din. At 7
A.M.
the factory is up and running. The new workers start a half hour later than the regulars, so as not to disrupt productivity.

On the other side of the street, I see some students on their way to Columbus School. My heart is heavy in my chest. I wish I could turn and follow them. I can’t think about what I am missing when the bell rings at school. I would have sworn the day I set foot in the Columbus School that I would have graduated on time with honors. Mama and Papa promise I will go back to school as soon as we’re on our feet again, but I think they are dreaming.

“Nella!” Chettie waves at us from the factory entrance. We join her in line to punch the clock. “Elmira has us starting in the cutting room.”

“What about me?” Elena asks.

“You’re in pressing,” Chettie says.

“The hottest month of the year and I’m working the steam press.”

“I’ll do the pressing,” I say. “You go with Chettie to the cutting room.”

“No, no, they won’t let you switch,” Chettie, who has one week’s experience already, explains.

“I’ll talk to Miss Clements. I’m sure she won’t care,” I say, but I hear Chettie muttering, “She won’t like it. She doesn’t like change,” as I walk away.

The main room of the factory is wide and deep, filled with rows of sewing machines anchored by low wooden worktables. The operators sit on low-backed metal chairs on wheels, which allow them to move between the bins and the machines while staying seated.

At the end of each row is a metal bin, also on wheels. A thick gray haze of dust hangs over the machines. Small filaments of fabric fill the air, visible in the glow of the bright lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling on long cords. It looks as though more machines were crowded in after the lights were hung, as some of the workers squint to examine their stitch work.

The women glance up when I pass, but only for a second or two. They go right back to pumping the pedal that pushes the needle in and out of the fabric. Their experienced hands guide the fabric through the threader and bobbin in even strokes, pulling it out the other end with a yank, and moving the garment along to the next girl, who sews a different portion. I take a deep breath and instantly regret it. My nose fills with fabric fibers and I sneeze loudly. I fish for my handkerchief. Someone hands me a clean, pressed, faded red bandanna. “Thank you,” I say as I blow my nose.

“You’ll get used to the dust,” a man’s voice replies.

“Thank you.” I fold the bandanna back into a square and hand it to him.

“No, no, you keep it.” He smiles. Mama would like this young man’s good manners. He’s about eighteen. His dark Italian eyes seem to pierce me; he has a Barese nose, long and straight, but large. His full lips are bow-shaped, which complements the deep cleft in his chin. His hair is parted neatly, but a black lock falls on his forehead in
the heat. He reminds me of the men in the pictures my father has saved from his village in Italy. He looks like any marble miner from Roseto Valfortore, posing in a group picture at the mouth of the quarry. As he walks away, I see he is tall and walks with confidence. How odd to find that kind of confidence in a factory.

“Miss Castelluca?” Elmira Clements smiles through pursed lips. She would be a pretty woman if she weren’t so tense, I decide. She has a short brown bob, wavy on the ends, and wears a shirtwaist dress of blue and white ticking and black leather lace-up shoes with a stacked heel. She’s slim, but she has thick ankles and big hands. She is definitely Welsh, with her round face, tiny nose, and small mouth. She’s probably twenty-five, but looks older. “You’re supposed to be in the cutting room,” she tells me.

“May I switch with my sister Elena?”

“We assign the jobs lottery-style. You lucked out getting in the cutting room. Are you sure you want to switch to pressing? No one wants pressing.”

“I’ll take it,” I say, attempting a reassuring smile at the same time. I don’t want her to think I’m a troublemaker. And, as far as I’m concerned, all these jobs are horrible because they keep me from being in school, so put me in the worst department, I don’t care. I follow Miss Clements to the pressing department. I look around at my coworkers, all of them men. I try to distinguish one from the other, but they all wear denim aprons and caps on their heads. “Here.” One of them hands me an apron. I quickly tie it on over my jumpsuit. Now I’m glad I wore pants. This is going to be hard work, with a lot of lifting. “I’m Federico,” says the man. He is far older than me, and I would feel disrespectful calling him by his first name.

“Mr. Federico?”

“Federico Albanese. No need to call me ‘mister’ in here, we’re all in the same boat.” He smiles.

“Just because we’re working doesn’t mean we should forget our
manners, Mr. Albanese. My papa would be very disappointed if I was rude.”

He smiles and shakes his head. Mr. Albanese shows me my workstation, a deep bin filled with bundles of finished blouses. I untie the first bundle and put the blouse on the mannequin, a torso without arms on an adjustable steel pole. Mr. Albanese adjusts the pole to my height. “Press the facing first, sleeves next. Then finishing takes it for hanging, bagging, and shipping.” He hands me a tube that emits hot steam. He shows me how not to scorch or dampen the fabric; if I hold the tube at the right angle, the steam takes the wrinkles right out of the garment. But the tube is unwieldy, and the first time I hold it, I lose control and get a blast of steam that burns a red splotch on my arm. “Careful,” Mr. Albanese says. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

Mr. Albanese watches as I smooth the next blouse onto the mannequin. “Faster,” he says pleasantly. Soon I am in the rhythm of the work, and I’m able to pick up speed as I master the hose. When the lunch bell rings, the hum of the machinery instantly stops, and the workers gets up en masse and leave their stations, midstitch. I want to finish the blouse I’m working on. “Don’t,” Mr. Albanese says. “Take your lunch. Always take the break time.”

How strange, I’m thinking as I follow the crowd outside. When I worked in school, the extra hours counted the most. Factory life is the exact opposite: Do exactly what is expected of you between the bells and nothing more.

I take my lunch bucket from the cubbyhole marked with my name and head out into the open field dotted with maple trees behind the factory. I see Chettie and Elena eating their lunch in the shade and join them. “You have fifteen minutes,” Chettie tells me, gulping down water.

“I feel badly that you got stuck in pressing.” Elena looks up at me. “I should have taken the assignment.”

“The cutting room is no cakewalk.” Chettie sits behind Elena, and makes a motion that Elena is not handling the work very well.

“What happened to your arm?” Elena looks at my burn.

“The steam hose has a mind of its own.” I shrug. I decide I’m not going to be like Elena. If I have to do this work, I am not going to complain, I will endure it. I’m hoping my first paycheck will make up for the despair I feel. “What’s it like in the cutting room?”

“I can’t stop sneezing.” Elena takes a bite of her sandwich.

“The sneezing stops after a couple of days,” Chettie says. “You get used to it.”

The talk of sneezing reminds me of the polite young man. “One of the workers gave me his bandanna.”

“What does he look like?”

I look around the field filled with workers, but I can’t find him. “I don’t see him. He has black hair.”

Chettie laughs. “That’s every Italian in Roseto. You’ll have to describe him better than that.”

“Okay, he had a dignified look. That’s the only way I can say it. A dimpled chin.”

“Franco!” Chettie exclaims with a laugh. “Franco Zollerano! He’s a machinist. Very smart.”

“Oh yeah. Very smart people wind up working here,” I tell her sarcastically.