A Heart Most Worthy by Siri Mitchell

held its collective breath as Papa Rossi scowled at his wife.
    “It isn’t ready. Maglione the greengrocer gave us bad tomatoes. I can’t make salad with them, so I have to make a gravy instead. It isn’t ready.” What she really wanted to do was to remind him that seventy years ago, back in the old country when Maglione’s was run by the present Maglione’s great-grandfather, that man had overcharged her great-grandmother for a zucchini. And since then, hadn’t the Magliones always given her family the worst of the produce? Hadn’t the Magliones always taken great care to ensure that they received only the most rotten of fruit? And hadn’t they been a curse to her family ever since? They’d been eating terrible food for the past seventy years. And she didn’t see why it had to continue now that they were in America. Enough was enough! But of course, that wasn’t really worth mentioning.
    Papa opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then he gave up and shrugged instead.
    The family sighed in relief.
    “This is the third time this month that Maglione’s given me bad tomatoes.” Mama spoke over her shoulder as she stirred her gravy.
    Papa looked up from his wine to see if Mama was exaggerating. She wasn’t. “Third time.”
    Papa shrugged. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
    “I want to go to Zanfini’s.”
    “Zanfini’s? Who’s Zanfini?” Papa could be forgiven such a question. He worked as a pick and shovel man downtown on a public works project. That meant that he rose when it was still dark and came home late. He trudged, head down to his labors, and then he trudged, head down, all the way home. And who would have blamed him? But the rest of the family knew Zanfini’s. And they all turned to look at Mama as if she had suddenly gone mad.
    “Zanfini’s. Across the street.”
    “Across the street . . .” Papa’s eyes screwed up as if he couldn’t exactly picture where that might be. “Across the street?”
    Mama nodded.
    “Across the street. As in the other side of the street?”
    Mama nodded once more.
    “Where the Sicilians live?!”
    Everyone cringed when they heard the S word. Sicilians weren’t fit to speak to, let alone buy tomatoes from. Avellinesis bought tomatoes from Maglione, and Sicilians bought tomatoes from Zanfini. Only Sicilians bought tomatoes from Zanfini.
    “I want to buy tomatoes from Zanfini.”
    “Zanfini the Sicilian?” Papa Rossi tugged on an earlobe as if he weren’t quite sure he was hearing right. And then he shook his head. “No one in my house buys tomatoes from Sicilians.” And that was the end of that.
    But Mama Rossi was not to be swayed so easily from her course. She was sick to death of mushy tomatoes, and Zanfini’s produce always looked pretty good. At least what he displayed outside on his cart did. And those Sicilians seemed happy enough with it. She wanted nice, firm tomatoes, and she was going to have them. It would just take a bit more time. And a bit more convincing.
    But for now, Papa had spoken and there was a semblance of peace. Everyone was glad to be done talking of treason and tomatoes and Sicilians. And besides, when Papa said no, everyone knew what it meant. It meant that he meant no until Mama made him realize that what he really meant was yes.
    And so, Mama Rossi finished her gravy, and Papa Rossi ate his dinner in blissful ignorance, happy that for once his wife had listened to good reason. And all the while, his children sent sly glances down the table in their mama’s direction, wondering exactly how, this time, she would manage to get her way.

    The next morning, Julietta wondered the very same thing: How would she manage to get her way? That she would, eventually, get her way and wrangle one of Madame’s old gowns away from Luciana was not in question. And she quite intended to be up-front in the doing of it. She could have just as easily filched the thing, that pink and white silk embroidered net