importing nuts and candy from Italy. Is that a good business?”
“It doesn’t matter. Papa needs help here on the farm.”
“But Assunta wants to live in town.”
“First get them married. Then all the details can be worked out.”
“I hope they never arrange me.” Elena hands me the first pail.
“Me either.”
“It’s too upsetting. I’d rather stay home with Mama and Papa all my life.”
“Me too,” I lie. Really, I would rather live in town and marry Renato Lanzara. But I can’t tell Elena that. I can’t tell anyone but Chettie, because my Renato is as elusive as her Anthony Marucci.
As we carry the water back to the house, I imagine the day when we won’t have to haul water, milk the cows, stack the hay, and kill thehogs. Maybe one day when I’m a teacher, Papa will sell the farm and move into town, where we can join the other fine families who stroll up and down Garibaldi Avenue after supper stretching their legs. Maybe Delabole farm is just the beginning of our story and not our destiny.
“Girls, come inside!” Mama motions to us from the porch. As we approach, she says quietly, “We’re going to introduce Assunta to Alessandro.”
Elena and I almost drop the pails, but the thought of having to haul more from the springhouse makes us extra careful. We put the buckets by the door on the porch and follow Mama inside. Roma and Dianna sit on the settee with their hands folded as Papa pours wine into the small silver goblets Mama keeps in a velvet case.
“Elena, please go and get your sister,” Mama says.
I look at Alessandro, who inhales deeply through his nose. The sound of Elena’s footsteps going up the stairs is loud, like the ticking of a great clock. Soon Assunta appears in the doorway.
“Alessandro, I would like you to meet my daughter Assunta,” Papa says in a voice that booms and then falters. Mama begins to cry. Alessandro turns and looks at the girl who has been promised to him, and we all can see that he is well pleased. Assunta, who never smiles, beams at him as though he is the most handsome man she has ever seen, and in doing so, she becomes so beautiful that even those of us who know her well cannot believe the transformation. Love changes people. It has taken a stranger coming from Italy to show us exactly how.
CHAPTER THREE
F ather Impeciato is a stern priest with a long face and thin lips that form a single straight line. Under his vestments he wears a silver pocketwatch on a long link chain that he routinely fishes out of his pocket and checks as the organ plays the processional. His Masses begin precisely at eight o’clock in the morning. He has been known to throw out parishioners who arrive one minute after he has made it to the altar. Chettie believes he has eyes in the back of his head, as he spends most of the service with his back to the congregation yet seems to know if we move, whisper, or yawn, because suddenly he will pivot around and glare directly at the sinner who has offended him.
I find priests and the nuns who tend them strangely otherworldly. Perhaps it’s the black habits, the veils and vestments that obscure the person underneath, but whatever it is, it separates us from them. Maybe it is the design of the church itself, the great distance between the pews and the altar, or the forbidding marble Communion railing that makes the priest seem miles away. It is all so grand: the high ceilings, the crouching angels, the glass-eyed statues lurking in dark alcoves,the stations of the cross detailing Christ’s suffering at the end of His life, and especially the lifelike crucifix that hangs over the altar. It seems designed to frighten us into good behavior. It must be working, because Our Lady of Mount Carmel is filled to capacity for every Mass.
All of the rituals seem eerie to me too, from the smoking urns Father Impeciato waves around on a chain to the icy-cold holy water in the font that we bless ourselves with coming and going. The
“It doesn’t matter. Papa needs help here on the farm.”
“But Assunta wants to live in town.”
“First get them married. Then all the details can be worked out.”
“I hope they never arrange me.” Elena hands me the first pail.
“Me either.”
“It’s too upsetting. I’d rather stay home with Mama and Papa all my life.”
“Me too,” I lie. Really, I would rather live in town and marry Renato Lanzara. But I can’t tell Elena that. I can’t tell anyone but Chettie, because my Renato is as elusive as her Anthony Marucci.
As we carry the water back to the house, I imagine the day when we won’t have to haul water, milk the cows, stack the hay, and kill thehogs. Maybe one day when I’m a teacher, Papa will sell the farm and move into town, where we can join the other fine families who stroll up and down Garibaldi Avenue after supper stretching their legs. Maybe Delabole farm is just the beginning of our story and not our destiny.
“Girls, come inside!” Mama motions to us from the porch. As we approach, she says quietly, “We’re going to introduce Assunta to Alessandro.”
Elena and I almost drop the pails, but the thought of having to haul more from the springhouse makes us extra careful. We put the buckets by the door on the porch and follow Mama inside. Roma and Dianna sit on the settee with their hands folded as Papa pours wine into the small silver goblets Mama keeps in a velvet case.
“Elena, please go and get your sister,” Mama says.
I look at Alessandro, who inhales deeply through his nose. The sound of Elena’s footsteps going up the stairs is loud, like the ticking of a great clock. Soon Assunta appears in the doorway.
“Alessandro, I would like you to meet my daughter Assunta,” Papa says in a voice that booms and then falters. Mama begins to cry. Alessandro turns and looks at the girl who has been promised to him, and we all can see that he is well pleased. Assunta, who never smiles, beams at him as though he is the most handsome man she has ever seen, and in doing so, she becomes so beautiful that even those of us who know her well cannot believe the transformation. Love changes people. It has taken a stranger coming from Italy to show us exactly how.
CHAPTER THREE
F ather Impeciato is a stern priest with a long face and thin lips that form a single straight line. Under his vestments he wears a silver pocketwatch on a long link chain that he routinely fishes out of his pocket and checks as the organ plays the processional. His Masses begin precisely at eight o’clock in the morning. He has been known to throw out parishioners who arrive one minute after he has made it to the altar. Chettie believes he has eyes in the back of his head, as he spends most of the service with his back to the congregation yet seems to know if we move, whisper, or yawn, because suddenly he will pivot around and glare directly at the sinner who has offended him.
I find priests and the nuns who tend them strangely otherworldly. Perhaps it’s the black habits, the veils and vestments that obscure the person underneath, but whatever it is, it separates us from them. Maybe it is the design of the church itself, the great distance between the pews and the altar, or the forbidding marble Communion railing that makes the priest seem miles away. It is all so grand: the high ceilings, the crouching angels, the glass-eyed statues lurking in dark alcoves,the stations of the cross detailing Christ’s suffering at the end of His life, and especially the lifelike crucifix that hangs over the altar. It seems designed to frighten us into good behavior. It must be working, because Our Lady of Mount Carmel is filled to capacity for every Mass.
All of the rituals seem eerie to me too, from the smoking urns Father Impeciato waves around on a chain to the icy-cold holy water in the font that we bless ourselves with coming and going. The
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