The Queen of the Big Time (30 page)

As we drive deeper into Bari toward Roseto, the hills turn a deep emerald green.

Papa reads my mind. “It’s more green here because of the ocean.” I begin to understand how Roseto, Pennsylvania, came to be. The forefathers rebuilt their beloved hill town, and as we drive up to the entrance of Roseto Valfortore, it is not unlike the steep hill of Division Street that gives way to Garibaldi Avenue. As Papa drives down the main street, I feel as though I have been here before. So many of the details are identical. The same two-story houses with their porches on the second story line the main street just as ours do. The look of the people—the dark hair and flashing black eyes, the prominent noses—
the features of
our
Rosetan people, are here. As much as the people look like the folks at home, it is their posture and carriage that give them away as Italians from the other side. People who do heavy labor, either on a farm or busting rocks in a quarry, have a strength in their neck and shoulders that gives them an upright carriage. I remember Miss Stoddard telling me to stand up straight. My people came by that posture naturally. Papa has it, Mama too. I worry that years behind a sewing machine, slumped indoors in the mill, took a toll on my bones. I see it in all of us who work in the mill. We aren’t what we once were, and it isn’t just our advancing age.

“You see why your mother and I come here every year?” Papa points. “It’s just like America, without the noise.”

I laugh. “Oh, Papa, our town isn’t so noisy.”

“No? Here they still ride horses. This car is a rare exception in this town.” Papa pulls up to a gold stucco two-story house in the middle of the main street. “This is my brother Domenico’s house. This is where we stay.”

“Come stai!”
Papa’s youngest brother, a compact, sturdy man of sixty with sandy brown hair, comes out of the house. “Nella!” Domenico embraces me. “Agnese,
vieni!”
He throws his arms around Mama. Zia Agnese comes out of the house, and I am stunned at how youthful she is. She is my age, but looks a full ten years younger. Her shoulder-length black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her skin is golden bronze with pink cheeks. She has full lips and beautiful teeth. She gives me a big hug. “Nella!” Their daughter, Penelope, comes to greet me. She’s around twenty, and built like her papa. She is a beauty, but different from her mother in every aspect.

“You come in, you rest.” Zia Agnese helps me with my bags. Penelope shows me a breezy front room with shutters that let in the sun. She puts my bags down and surveys me from head to toe. I remove my hat and place it on the nightstand. Then I take off my gloves. “You won’t need your hat and gloves here.” She smiles. “I hope you brought sandals and skirts.”

“I did.”

“No stockings, okay?”

“Okay.” Well, that settles that, I think, and sit on the edge of the bed. This trip is off to a terrible start. I brought a suitcase full of new clothes: two serge suits, a wool bouclé coat dress, and plenty of new stockings. The only casual clothes I brought are a full black cotton skirt and a white blouse (made at Nella Manufacturing, of course). The white blouse is called the Kim Novak, though the Hollywood connection to our blouse mill grows slimmer every year. Movies are not what they were; their influence has lessened. We turn to brand-name designers now. They seem to be more important than the stars.

I change out of my traveling suit into my skirt and blouse. I forgo the stockings as advised, and slip into a pair of ballerina flats, comfortable for walking. There is a smoky oval mirror over the fireplace, and I lean in and look at myself. My hair, which used to be a mop of curls when I was a girl, is set stiffly in a medium pageboy. Even my bangs are stiff. I didn’t notice a hair salon in town. Luckily, like Papa, I don’t have gray hair, but in a new room, with new lighting, I see that my hair makes me look old. I run my hands over my face. The powder that I apply is too pink, and that makes me look old too. My lipstick, a light peach, does nothing for me. I look closely at my face, and though it’s not wrinkled, I have the overall expression of a pinched, imperious woman. Faint lines that slope south on my forehead give the impression that I’m always looking down on people. My nose is straight, and my lips full, but the set of my mouth is smug, as though I have all the answers. I look deeply into my eyes. And at last, I see myself. The waxy veneer of the woman I am seems to melt away, revealing the girl I used to be. Suddenly I can’t stand myself and I look away. All the things Celeste has said about me are true: I am nothing more than a profit-driven mill owner. I have become old Mr. Jenkins. Or worse, I have become his son, Freddie. I found my purpose in the mill and am driven by its success and profitability. What happened to
me? What happened to the girl who loved to read books and live in her imagination? And how did I let it happen?

There is a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call out. Agnese walks in, but I turn away.

“What’s wrong?” She comes over to me.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.” She puts her arms around me, and I don’t know why, but her warmth, as a stranger to me, moves me deeply. I begin to cry. It begins like small stabs of pain, deep in my gut, that turn into a great heaving: my husband, our life together, the possibility of our future, and my youth, all gone now. The grief comes pouring out of me. I try to stifle the sound and cannot. “Cry, go ahead. Cry. Let it out,” she says. And for the first time since I held Franco on the floor of the mill, I cry. “God help me,” I wail through my tears.

When I wake up, I look at my travel clock and can’t believe it. It’s noon! That means I slept twelve hours. I sit up in bed; the only sound I hear is the curtain, whipping gently against the windowsill. Papa’s right, it
is
quiet here. I go down the hall to the bathroom. I listen when I reach the stairs but hear no one. I draw a bath. I sink into the hot water and breathe. I’m not sure why, but I feel good; I almost float. No wonder everyone was worried when I did not weep for Franco; there is great relief in tears.

Usually when I soak in the tub, I wear a shower cap to preserve my hair set. This time, instead of being careful, I slide down under the water, immersing my chin, then my nose, then my entire head. I hold my breath underwater and feel the heat and warmth soothe my eyes. I stay under as long as I can and then sit up. I push my hair off my face and rest against the back of the tub. I look around the white room. There is a long window that overlooks a field in the back. A stack of thick white cotton towels sits neatly on a shelf near the tub. The white ceramic sink has a long antique mirror over it. There is a screen painted in bold peach and white stripes that obscures the toilet. A
small white rug lies on the black-and-white-tiled floor. Except for the levers, handles, and drains, the bathroom is every bit as modern as ours in America.

Once I’m dressed, I go downstairs. No one is home, which surprises me; it must be near lunchtime. I push open the front door and go out into the street. People are milling around, but no one I know. I walk up the main street, loving that I don’t have to say hello to anyone, just walk and look. The storefronts reveal very little. In America, we try to sell items with fancy displays. Here, it seems, you go in and get what you need. Roseto Valfortore is not a shopper’s paradise. When I make it to the end of the street, I see Agnese and Penelope coming toward me carrying a few small bundles wrapped in brown paper.

“Ah, Nella, you’re up.” Agnese smiles. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel good,” I say. And I do. I feel a mighty burden has lifted off me. I breathe deeply, hoping that more change will come. I have rested for the first time in a very, very long time.

“Where’s Mama?”

“She went into Foggia for the fish market with the neighbor. She loves the market.”

“Come, we make the meal.” Penelope walks ahead.

“You slept well?” Agnese asks.

“So well. Thank you. Where’s Papa?”

“He went with my husband. They go looking around. Who knows at what? Your father tells us you have your own factory,” Agnese continues.

“We did.” That was interesting, I think; why did I put Nella Manufacturing in the past tense? I correct myself. “We do.” So far from the pressures, the machines that need to be fixed, the production that needs to be met—it all seems so far away. How could thirty-some years of work slip so easily from my mind?

“Hard work, eh?” Agnese asks.

“Very hard.”

“You like?”

“I used to.” I smile at her.

I follow Agnese and Penelope into the house. Agnese shows me to a chair in the kitchen. I’m not to help but to sit and talk while they prepare the food. The kitchen is the largest room in the house. There is a long farm table with twelve chairs around it. There is another table and long counter where the food is prepared. The fireplace, which serves as their oven, has cast-iron doors. I watch as Agnese and her daughter unwrap the fresh fish, preparing it with lemon and herbs to be baked in the oven. Penelope puts a large pot of water on the stove to boil macaroni. Soon, instead of being lost in the details of how they are cooking, I watch their partnership. There is no correcting, and no leader. It always seems as if I tell Celeste what to do and how to do it, and then in frustration, when she does not do it to my liking, I get angry and do it myself. Here, a mother and daughter work together, but they truly like each other and respect each other’s way of doing things. When I think on the way I handle Celeste, I regret so much. I doubt she has ever felt like we are a team. Now, even when we are bonded by grief, the past hangs over us like a low ceiling in a dark room.

Papa and Zio Domenico return from their rounds. They laugh and talk, and I am reminded how Papa was surrounded by women on Delabole farm. I knew he was missing something, but I never knew exactly what, until I see him here, in his homeland. He thrives in the place where he was born.

After lunch, I slip into my sandals and go over to the mirror. Instead of putting on powder, I put on a little lipstick. Being around Agnese’s youthfulness is rubbing off. There’s a pink patch of sun on my nose and cheeks. I am starting to look like the happy girl I used to be.

I decide to go exploring, so I take off up the hill, sort of like where Chestnut Street would be back home. The church is at the top of the hill. With the shards of stone surrounding the courtyard, the old stucco structure looks more like a fort than a house of worship. The
apostles carved in relief over the door stand in welcome, their large feet almost comical. I push the old wooden door open. There is a small, dark vestibule and then another door. I push through it into the church. Once inside, I see the magnificent frescoes, in faded blues, greens, and pinks depicting the life of Mary. Here, behind the altar, she begins as a girl and the frescoes take her through the crucifixion on the back wall of the church. It makes me smile; this Blessed Mother as a woman is quite a beauty, with ruby-red lips and enormous blue eyes. I slip into the pew and begin to pray the rosary. “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit …” I get lost in the repetition of the prayers, and when I stop I wonder if the meditative state I’ve lulled myself into has any spiritual consequences. I wonder, as I always have, Does God hear me?

The village priest comes from the sacristy, genuflecting in front of the altar, and then goes on his way down the side aisle and out the back of the church. I think of Renato, the night before my wedding, when I first saw him in his black cassock. How shocked I was! I could understand if he married a wonderful woman and had a family, but the far-fetched choice of becoming a priest has always seemed so wrong. I feel guilty thinking about him. After all, I lost my husband, whom I built a family, a business, and a life with—why ponder Renato Lanzara? The only thing he ever did with any consistency was abandon me. Maybe his rejection of me has something to do with the wall I’ve always had around my heart.

I get up and walk out of the church and into the sunlight. I sit down on a bench overlooking the town and marvel at the view, the orange roofs on the stucco houses and the patterns of stone in the old roads. I hear a group of kids laughing and talking as they walk up the hill. I remember those sounds from Delabole School and then the Columbus School, how sweet that youthful laughter sounds, and how I felt I never got enough of it. How I wish I could have been young when I
was
young. It all ended the first day I set foot in Roseto Manufacturing Company.

As the group rounds the corner on their way to the church, I see that they are older, probably college age. The bits of Italian I hear them speak have an American twang. What are they doing here in this village?

A sick feeling churns in my stomach. My instincts, which I usually choose to ignore, gnaw at me. I am being presented with clues, but they’re not adding up fast enough. I remember my hair, a mass of fresh curls, and my skirt, simple cotton. I look down at my feet in sandals, no stockings. I want to run in the opposite direction, but there is nowhere to go. The courtyard of the church is a dead end.

“Nella!” A wave of excitement and dread peels through me at the sound of the man’s voice. “What are you doing here?” There is no doubt. It’s Renato. I turn and face him and smile. His hair is still thick, but now it’s white. He is tall and trim, and wears small wire-rimmed glasses. He is dressed in a white shirt and khaki slacks, but no Roman collar.

“I’m here with my parents. What are you doing here?”

“These are my students from St. John’s. I wanted to stop and show them where my ancestors are from. And the frescoes in this church are astonishing.”

“Yes, they are.”

“How are you?” he asks, without speaking directly of my loss.

“I’m okay. Franco always wanted to come here, so I thought I should.”

“It’s like home, isn’t it?”

I nod in agreement. Renato and I are from the same place, the same people, and the older I get, the more valuable that bond is to me. Renato continues to chatter about the landscape, the vista, and the art, and I realize he’s nervous. He’s chattering as though he is trying to cover something; he’s telling the kids how he knows me, and all about Roseto, Pennsylvania. The students seem to notice how fast and furious he speaks. I put my hand on his arm to slow him down.