The Queen of the Big Time (9 page)

“Alessandro?” Assunta appears on the porch. Her tone has the old sharp edge to it.

Alessandro looks up and rests his hoe, wiping his forehead with a red bandanna. “Yes?”

“When you’re done there, can you come and move some furniture? Now that the curtains are up, I see a new way to arrange the chairs so they get the afternoon light. Perfect for reading.” Assunta smiles and goes back into the kitchen.

“This is a small house, and yet there is always something to do,” Alessandro says with a sigh.

He goes back to his work as I unclip the pillowcases from the line. Assunta has both of us working from sunup to nightfall. Alessandro will soon realize that there is no pleasing his queen, but I am not going to be the person to point this out to him. He looks at me and shakes his head. Perhaps he already knows.

Papa’s contract with the Hellertown stores has been a blessing. He is converting the barn to accommodate a small engine that provides power to the automatic milk tubes so we don’t have to do the milking ourselves. Still, Papa has to hook up and run the machines, and he believes it’s as much work as the old-fashioned way. But that’s Papa, he always thinks the old ways are better, that homemade is always tastier than store-bought, and that anyone who gets in a fancy car and drives fast will miss the views you get when you hitch a wagon to a horse and take your time. Papa likes a slow pace. But he’s also ambitious. He knows if he buys a few more cows, he can increase his output for the stores, so without Mama’s consent, he has gone back into the quarry to make some extra money. Papa wants two Holstein cows he saw at the market in Allentown.

I put the fresh peach pie Assunta made in the pantry for supper. She ran out of things for me to do, so she let me go home early. I
didn’t mind the walk back to the farm; it gives me time to think. I never tire of being alone, and I’ve learned to savor the long walk from the farm to town and back again. Papa lets me walk by myself as long as it is still day outside. I rarely see anyone coming or going, so I don’t know why he worries.

The house is quiet so I grab the last empty tin bucket on the shelf and head out to the field behind our barn. This is perfect weather for berry picking, and when I found the house empty, I knew exactly where Mama and the girls would be.

There was a lot of rain this spring so the ground is loaded with strawberries. There are no trees, and the hot sun on the open field makes for lots of juicy, sweet berries. Mama dug some rows among the bushes, but only so we’d have a place to kneel when we pick them. Mama let the plants grow wild in low, tangled thickets, and everywhere there are clusters of strawberries so red, they’re practically magenta, and some are as big as eggs.

Roma takes a bite of one. “Don’t eat too many. You’ll get sick,” I warn her.

“Mama, can we make Papa a strawberry shortcake?” Roma ignores me.

“I don’t see why not. Providing there are some left after you’re done eating.” Mama deposits all the berries from her apron into the bucket.

“Mama, tell us the story of you and Papa,” I urge her. The sun is hot and there are many berries to pick and we need a good story to pass the time.

“Oh, that old story?” Mama complains, but I can tell she’s pleased.

“Please,” I beg. Of all the stories Mama tells of Italy, their love story is my favorite.

“All right. Papa came to Rimini to fish with his brothers. It was a beautiful day. The ocean was blue and calm, and the sun was hot. Just like today. My father had a small sailboat, but he rented them a canoe, because he wasn’t sure they knew what they were doing. But all went well, and they caught many fish, so that night my papa invited
all the brothers to supper. Now, my papa was very good at counting. And he saw that your father was one of seven brothers, and Papa had seven daughters. He liked the way the young men behaved on his boat and thought, Surely one of my daughters will like one of these young men. So Mama prepared the barn.”

“I love the part about the barn,” I tell Elena.

“It’s so romantic.” Elena sits down on the ground near Mama.

“Well, my mama made supper with the fish. The Castelluca boys had wonderful manners. They were respectful and kind and didn’t shove food onto their knives and into their mouths. Mama was impressed that they were so refined. So she invited them to the barn, where she hung lanterns and made a circle with the hay. In the center she put two wooden chairs.”

“Why two?” Roma asks.

“Because fate would bring two of us together. Mama arranged us by age, boy-girl, boy-girl, and so on around the circle. Mama was hopeful that my eldest sister—”

“Assunta,” Elena and I say in unison.

“—yes, Assunta would find one of the Castelluca boys pleasing, because as the eldest, she must marry first.”

“That’s so silly. What if you have an eldest who doesn’t want to marry?” Elena asks as she empties Dianna’s apronful of strawberries into the bucket.

“Every girl wants to marry. Anyway, Papa’s eldest brother, Enrico, liked Assunta, but she did not like him. So that left the chairs in the center open for most of the evening. But I was talking with your papa, just friendly, and as Mama was about to put the lanterns out and send everyone home, your father asked me to sit in the chair next to him.”

“In the center?”

“And we were married the next week.”

“Was Zia Assunta angry?”

“Do you see any letters from my sister Assunta?”

“No,” Elena admits.

“She’s still angry.” Mama sighs. “And still unmarried. Now let’s gather these berries. We need to put up the jam.”

Elena collects the buckets as I pick a nettle out of my thumb. My hands are stained from the red juice, and even though the afternoon sun is setting on my back, I feel a shiver. My hands look as though there is blood on them. I try not to take this as an omen, but I can’t help it. I’ve always been superstitious and shared my fears with Elena. She looks at my hands and then me, knowing what I am thinking. “Come on, we’ll wash up in the springhouse.”

We follow Mama and the little ones back down the path to the farmhouse. Assunta and Alessandro pull up in his old Ford with the rumble seat. Assunta is screaming and comes running toward us. “It’s Papa! Papa has been hurt! Come!” But Mama is frozen in place. She cannot move. She always said something terrible would happen to Papa in the quarry, and now the news she has always dreaded has come.
“Vieni
, Mama,
vieni!”
Assunta looks at me desperately. I take one arm and she the other and we lift Mama into the car. The girls pile onto the rumble seat and Alessandro steps on the gas.

“Please don’t let him die,” I say to myself. “Not my papa.”

As Alessandro drives us to the hospital, miles from the farm, I see so many new things. Since our family has always had to ride the trolley or walk to Roseto, I see there are lots of small villages beyond our town that I never knew existed. As we pass storefronts and homes with porches that sit on the edges of the sidewalks, I notice that the people don’t look Italian. Johnny Bulls, I realize.

Mama has not said a word. She stares straight ahead, but it doesn’t look like she’s praying. Dianna and Roma hold hands and stay quiet. Elena has tears running down her face, but makes no sound as she cries. Assunta is angry. And me, I’m just numb.

Alessandro turns onto a wide road, which is evidently the main street in a town called Easton. Suddenly the world looks like it does in books. There are sprawling homes set back off the road with green
lawns and screened-in porches. Shiny convertible cars sit in garages the size of our barn, and nicer too, with painted doors and small windows. So this is Easton, I think as I look around. This is where the quarry owners live. What a fancy place for Papa to be.

Alessandro parks the car outside the hospital, an enormous gray stone building with pristine white columns in the front. Assunta helps Mama out and we rush into the main entrance. Once inside, we look for help. Assunta points to a nurse behind a large desk. We go to her. Mama tries to speak:
“Mio marito ha avuto un incidente …”
Elena and I look at each other. Why is Mama speaking Italian? She knows English as well as we do.

Assunta looks at Mama. “Mama, speak English.”

I look at the nurse, a pretty lady with blond hair and a gold cross around her neck. She wears a small gold bar on her white uniform that says
L
. A
NDERSON
,
R
.
N
. She looks at Mama and then at each one of us. Suddenly, I see in her eyes an expression of such disdain, I am ashamed. She looks at us as though we are animals. She takes a step back and looks down at her notebook.

“We were picking strawberries.” I apologize for our appearance. “We own a farm in Delabole. My father’s name is Salvatore Castelluca. He was working in the quarry in Pen Argyl. We understand there was an accident.”

“There was an accident. An explosion. Your father is in intensive care. That’s all I can tell you at this point,” she says without looking up from her chart. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re here.” She turns to go.

“Miss Anderson?” She turns back and looks at me, surprised. “Please take Mama with you. Her name is Celeste Castelluca. She wants to see my father. Please.”

Mama’s eyes fill with tears and she begins to cry. Even the nurse, who has a heart of ice and a pinched mouth that forms a small red
o
, finally softens. “All right. Mrs. Castellini—”

“Castelluca,” I correct her.

“Come with me.”

Mama follows the nurse through the doors.

“Girls, come,” I tell my sisters, except for Assunta, who stays with Alessandro. As I glance back at them, I see that even they are not dressed for town. Assunta probably had him moving furniture again, as he is in shirtsleeves and doesn’t have a hat on. Assunta is wearing an apron. We do look like a bunch of farmers.

I push open the door of the ladies’ room. Elena picks up Dianna and places her on one sink, and I pick up Roma and place her on the other. There are no
moppeens
or rags, only soap and water, but we cup our hands under the faucet and rub them full of soap. We wash down our sisters, hands first, and let them rinse under the warm stream of water, then we take my apron and soap the edges and wipe their faces until they are shiny and clean. Then we scrub ourselves.

“Papa would not want to see us dirty,” Elena tells the girls. “And you’ve been very good.” She gives them each a hug.

“Give me your aprons,” I instruct them. The girls lift them off and hand them to me. Their work jumpers underneath are not so bad. They’re shabby, of course, just brown shifts made from an old dress of Mama’s, but so what, we were working in the ground. I smooth my sisters’ skirts and fix their hair. Without a comb, it’s not easy. Then I take our four aprons and fold them into a small square, tying them with the sashes into a small knot. “Now remember, sit quietly,” I tell them. Elena takes Dianna’s hand and I take Roma’s and we go back out into the waiting room. We sit down next to Alessandro and Assunta.

Suddenly the swinging doors that Mama and the nurse went through open wide. Chettie has her arms around her mother, almost holding her up. I run to them but Mrs. Ricci looks through me as though I’m not there. “Mrs. Ricci? It’s me, Nella.” I look at Chettie. Her face, which I have never seen frowning or sad, seems to break into a thousand pieces as she weeps.

“What happened, Chettie?” Chettie shakes her head and I know.
Her father is dead. I can’t believe Carlo Ricci—who was so kind to me when I was afraid—is gone.

“Who is watching the children?” I ask her softly.

“Mrs.…” she begins to sob. “…  Mrs.… Mrs. Spadoni. Lavinia. We took the trolley.”

“I will take you home. Come,” Alessandro says, standing behind me.

“Thank you,” I say to my brother-in-law, who for the first time since he married my sister feels like real family. He puts his arms around Chettie and her mother. “Come,” he says again.

“Oh Jesu, Jesu,” Mrs. Ricci moans softly.

“Come on, Mama.” Chettie holds her mother’s waist tightly. I am sure if Chettie let go, her mother would fall to the ground. Alessandro opens the door and walks them out. My heart is so broken for my friend that for a moment I almost forget about my own troubles. Roma puts her hand in mine.

“Is our papa going to die too?” she asks.

“Just pray,” I tell her, kissing her on her head. But I am telling her to do something I cannot do myself. I don’t know if I believe it even helps, or if God is listening; in fact, I doubt it. If He were, why would He abandon the Ricci family? They are good people, and I know the depth of their goodness, because they have always treated me like one of their own.

“Mama!” Assunta rushes to Mama, who walks slowly through the swinging doors. “How is he?”

Elena helps Mama sit down. “He’s going to be all right …” she begins. We hug her and then one another. “But not for a while.”

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“Papa, Mr. Ricci, and two other men were in the quarry when dynamite exploded nearby. Mr. Ricci was closer to it than Papa. Papa’s leg was hurt.”

“And the other two men?”

“They got out all right. Papa got hurt trying to save Mr. Ricci.” Mama cries. “The doctor doesn’t know how well Papa will heal, it’s early yet.”

“He’ll be fine, Mama. I know it,” I reassure her. But we are all thinking the same thing: How can we run the farm without Papa? How can we deliver the milk he has promised to the stores? Without Papa, we are lost.

“I prayed,” Roma tells Mama.

“Keep praying. All of you. We must.”

“Mama … Mr. Ricci …” Assunta begins.

“I know. I know.” Mama puts her hand up. “I don’t know what they will do. All those children.”

The sun comes up over the barn so brightly it seems to set the cornfield ablaze in yellow light. Even the old fence around the cowshed sparkles as though it is gold-leafed like the Communion railing at Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I have always loved the summertime, but this year it is a burden. With Papa still in the hospital, we have been consumed with all the work that must be done. No wading in the creek, no climbing trees, and no making ice cream in the old vat; there is no time to play, only to work.