if they do the same work?”
“Because they do. And there’s always fines. And rent for the machines, and then they have to buy needles and thread.”
As if we’d paid Paolo for the use of his buckets and brushes. “That’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to pay to work.”
Yolanda looked at me curiously. “If your mother doesn’t get sick or hurt, you could finish high school, I guess. Then if you have good English, you could clerk in a downtown store and make more money.”
“Italian girls do that?”
She considered. “Well, most shopgirls are Irish or Swedish or German. But you could be the first Italian. Let’s go, before the boss sees us.”
I must finish school, I determined secretly, and at least be a shopgirl. We had twenty words for a spelling test in school and forty for Hiram House. With others I’d pick up, I could learn a hundred this week. But what if Mamma tired of dipping, if she got sick or hurt or argued with Mr. Stingler and lost her job? My English would fade away over a sewing machine.
“I have to make dinner,” Yolanda announced. She plucked at my charity dress. “If you take it in here and here and add some ribbons, it would look nicer, you know.” Then she was gone, hurrying back to her flat.
I never did alter my dress. Not that I didn’t envy Yolanda’s effortless style, her deft use of ribbons, feathers, and dried flowers to make hair ornaments and hats. She said it was easy. I never found it so. I did study my face and body in a tall mirror at the boardinghouse. My body was changing and my face too, as if I were clay being molded by America. I was changing inside as well. In that first autumn, I got “the curse,” as Mamma glumly declared when my monthly blood began. “Be careful, don’t let what happened to me happen to you. Nothing’s the same afterward.”
Was I the curse? “It’s not like that, Lucia,” said Roseanne. But nobody said what it was like.
“Just be careful,” Mamma said briskly. “You don’t want trouble in America.”
I tried to keep hold of Naples. I reread letters from the countess about street festivals, a new opera or scandal, and the count’s increasing debts. There were always best wishes from Nannina and Paolo. They seemed so distant. I lay in bed imagining the villa. Was the bust of Julius Caesar on the right or left of the window? In what month did the setting sun spark more rainbows from the crystal chandelier? When, exactly, did the lilacs bloom? I missed the creamy tang of fresh mozzarella and rich, intense bite of tomatoes from the slopes of Vesuvius. Come back, I begged my memories. Don’t leave me in America with trouble.
Mamma still sang her street songs and arias for me at night. But she had discovered the old player piano in Roseanne’s parlor and eagerly memorized lyrics of popular tunes I sounded out for her. “If it wasn’t for the piano,” she said, “I couldn’t keep going.” And then quite calmly: “If Stingler ever says I can’t sing, I’ll drown him in a chocolate vat.”
“Mamma, don’t talk like that!” I saw the crystal decanter flying, the count’s face streaming blood, our flight through the dark streets, and exile in America. Where could we go if her temper flared again and we had no Paolo to arrange our escape?
“It’s just thoughts, Lucia,” she said, and yawned. “Go to sleep.” But thoughts can become acts: a sudden push, a body sinks in chocolate, police are called. Just thoughts, just thoughts, I repeated into the darkness. Ignore them. Think other thoughts.
When Hiram House announced a talent show for Christmas, I begged Mamma to sing “Santa Lucia” or “Maria Marì.” I was sure people would be amazed. “Listen,” they’d say, “she sings like an angel!”
“I’m too old,” she said flatly. “Remember Toscanini?” Like a horse balking at a weakened bridge, she wouldn’t budge, either to sing alone or to join the women’s choir. “But you do something, Lucia,”
“Because they do. And there’s always fines. And rent for the machines, and then they have to buy needles and thread.”
As if we’d paid Paolo for the use of his buckets and brushes. “That’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to pay to work.”
Yolanda looked at me curiously. “If your mother doesn’t get sick or hurt, you could finish high school, I guess. Then if you have good English, you could clerk in a downtown store and make more money.”
“Italian girls do that?”
She considered. “Well, most shopgirls are Irish or Swedish or German. But you could be the first Italian. Let’s go, before the boss sees us.”
I must finish school, I determined secretly, and at least be a shopgirl. We had twenty words for a spelling test in school and forty for Hiram House. With others I’d pick up, I could learn a hundred this week. But what if Mamma tired of dipping, if she got sick or hurt or argued with Mr. Stingler and lost her job? My English would fade away over a sewing machine.
“I have to make dinner,” Yolanda announced. She plucked at my charity dress. “If you take it in here and here and add some ribbons, it would look nicer, you know.” Then she was gone, hurrying back to her flat.
I never did alter my dress. Not that I didn’t envy Yolanda’s effortless style, her deft use of ribbons, feathers, and dried flowers to make hair ornaments and hats. She said it was easy. I never found it so. I did study my face and body in a tall mirror at the boardinghouse. My body was changing and my face too, as if I were clay being molded by America. I was changing inside as well. In that first autumn, I got “the curse,” as Mamma glumly declared when my monthly blood began. “Be careful, don’t let what happened to me happen to you. Nothing’s the same afterward.”
Was I the curse? “It’s not like that, Lucia,” said Roseanne. But nobody said what it was like.
“Just be careful,” Mamma said briskly. “You don’t want trouble in America.”
I tried to keep hold of Naples. I reread letters from the countess about street festivals, a new opera or scandal, and the count’s increasing debts. There were always best wishes from Nannina and Paolo. They seemed so distant. I lay in bed imagining the villa. Was the bust of Julius Caesar on the right or left of the window? In what month did the setting sun spark more rainbows from the crystal chandelier? When, exactly, did the lilacs bloom? I missed the creamy tang of fresh mozzarella and rich, intense bite of tomatoes from the slopes of Vesuvius. Come back, I begged my memories. Don’t leave me in America with trouble.
Mamma still sang her street songs and arias for me at night. But she had discovered the old player piano in Roseanne’s parlor and eagerly memorized lyrics of popular tunes I sounded out for her. “If it wasn’t for the piano,” she said, “I couldn’t keep going.” And then quite calmly: “If Stingler ever says I can’t sing, I’ll drown him in a chocolate vat.”
“Mamma, don’t talk like that!” I saw the crystal decanter flying, the count’s face streaming blood, our flight through the dark streets, and exile in America. Where could we go if her temper flared again and we had no Paolo to arrange our escape?
“It’s just thoughts, Lucia,” she said, and yawned. “Go to sleep.” But thoughts can become acts: a sudden push, a body sinks in chocolate, police are called. Just thoughts, just thoughts, I repeated into the darkness. Ignore them. Think other thoughts.
When Hiram House announced a talent show for Christmas, I begged Mamma to sing “Santa Lucia” or “Maria Marì.” I was sure people would be amazed. “Listen,” they’d say, “she sings like an angel!”
“I’m too old,” she said flatly. “Remember Toscanini?” Like a horse balking at a weakened bridge, she wouldn’t budge, either to sing alone or to join the women’s choir. “But you do something, Lucia,”
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