A Heart Most Worthy (13 page)

“Can I help?” Annamaria crossed the floor, picked up the baby, and cuddled it to her chest. “Where are his clothes?”

“He soiled them.”

“Where are his others?”

“Somewhere out there.” She gestured toward the window, where Annamaria could see a line of clothes fluttering in the evening’s breeze.

The baby lifted his head and shrieked in Annamaria’s ear.

“There now. Of course you’re mad. You’ve got no clothes!”

Not being able to bring in the wash with the baby in her arms, she concentrated on soothing it while Josie finished with the other children. She pressed kisses to his warm, fuzzy head as she rocked from side to side.

Once the other two children went to play underneath the bed, Josie pulled in the clothes and took the baby from Annamaria, putting him on top of the table for changing.

“
Mille grazie
. Someday I’ll return the favor. When you have children of your own.”

A sudden, fierce pain stole Annamaria’s breath and brought tears to her eyes. One of them splashed onto the baby’s chest as Josie struggled with the diaper. She looked up. “Annamaria?”

Annamaria put a hand to her mouth, shaking her head.

“What did I – ?”

“Nothing.” She backed away from the table and fled the apartment.

18

There had to be someplace where Annamaria could go. Someplace where she could mourn.
“Children of your own.”
The echo of Josie’s words rang in Annamaria’s ears long after she left her neighbor’s apartment. Long after she had run down the stairs into the basement. That dark, dank pit where she could rail against her fate. Where she could sink down to her heels on the damp, worm-eaten floor and cry out her misery.

Why, God?

Why does it have to be this way? Why do you demand this from me? Why would you give me a desire for children, for a family, if you never meant for me to have them? It’s too cruel! Is this really what you want? Is this what you want from me? You want everything? You want everything I dream of and all I have to give? That’s what they say. That’s what Father Antonio says. He says this is what I have to do. He and Aunt Rosina both.

But I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to pour out my life for my mama and my papa, my brothers and my sister. I want to give it to my own family. For myself. What’s so wrong with that?

No answer came back to her through the cobweb-ridden darkness.

“What’s so wrong with that!” She startled herself by saying the words aloud.

Was there anything wrong with it? When such things were commended to others? Like her sister? Why would it be honorable for Theresa and a sin for Annamaria to want the very same things? Why was she the one who had to look after everybody? Why couldn’t they all – all of her brothers and sisters – join in the caring for Mama and Papa? And for each other? Surely no one would begrudge her what they themselves wanted – and expected – from life.

She dried her tears on a sleeve as she contemplated that thought.

Maybe . . . maybe this wasn’t what God required at all. Maybe it was as simple as that! Perhaps all she had to do was figure out how to ask the others for help.

As Mauro walked Julietta home from the dance, there was something new, a growing awareness that hung suspended in the night air between them.

Julietta slid a look up at him from beneath her eyelashes. He looked almost . . .
handsome
, walking right there beside her. Didn’t he? She blinked. Looked again. Sì. Handsome. Definitely so. And she couldn’t quite understand it. Decided that it must have something to do with the light of the moon.

For his part, Mauro could hardly believe his good fortune. Walking Julietta Giordano home. After a dance. To which he had been her escort! They reached her building. He opened the door for her.

She walked through.

He followed her up the stairs to the Giordano apartment.

How many times had he climbed those stairs? How many times had he traversed that long hall? All those times before, he had done it as family, walking through the door, knowing he would be greeted by the Giordanos as both son and brother. But this time? This night? He did it with fear and trembling, if not a bit of euphoria. He walked those steps as a stranger. One hoping to establish a new relationship. He did it as a – dare he even think it! – suitor. Filled with a surge of confidence that being with her had given him, he decided to take the third great risk he had taken in less than a month.

She put her hand to the doorknob.

He saw it turn, knew he had little time left to speak to her. In private. “I was hoping to see you again. Soon. At the
festa
?”

The festa. Saint Marciano’s festa, the weekend next. With her cheeks still flushed from dancing and the memory of the mattchiche still swirling through her mind, she said yes.

Yes. Yes!

But was it the sort of yes that Mauro was hoping to hear? The sort of yes that meant Julietta would have eyes only for him?

It might have been. It was possible that she meant it to be. For
something
had happened between them at that dance. But Julietta being who she was and Mauro being someone that she had always known . . . it was difficult for her to focus clearly on a person who had always been – so obviously – there.

He might have stood a better chance at Julietta’s heart if there hadn’t been an Angelo. For not long after, as Julietta was walking down North Street that Monday on her way to work, an arm linked through hers as a pleasingly baritone voice said, “Buon giorno.”

Buon giorno
.

What was it about that phrase that sent such a thrill of delight through Julietta’s soul? We can’t fault the man for lack of imagination. In fact, he had plenty of imagination. It’s just that he squandered it on things like treatises and speeches, which left very little imagination left to think of anything better to say to Julietta. And in any case, he hadn’t ever, not once in his young life, had to think of anything different to say in order to beckon a girl to his side. What worked for Bianca and Alessandra, Mimi and Carmela, worked for Julietta as well.

Would she have cared? If she had known about the others?

It’s difficult to say. She had kissed other boys herself and she understood the yearnings of a restless heart. But she also longed to be The One for someone’s heart in a way that no one else ever had or ever would be. But caring and being seen to care were two different things, so Julietta simply smiled and said, “Buon giorno, Angelo,” as if he walked her to work every day of the week.

He winked down at her. “Where are we going?”

“I’m going to work. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to amuse myself.”

“Amuse yourself!” She wondered what exactly he had in mind to do.

“Just so. Why don’t you come with me?” He tightened the loop of his arm enough to stop her. And then he threaded that arm back around her waist and turned her toward him.

“And what would we do?”

Catching up her free hand with his, he spun her beneath his arm right there on the sidewalk. “Whatever we wanted to.”

She dropped a playful curtsy. “How I’d like to, Signore, but I’m afraid I’d lose my job.”

He scowled. “Who needs one anyway?”

“I do.” She smiled as she said it to try and assuage his frown.

“Why? To bow and scrape to someone? To serve as a pawn for the capitalists until you’re old and gray? What good does that do anyone?”

Capitalists? Pawns? She didn’t know what he was talking about. But since he had mentioned it, she wondered what good work
did
do anyone? Anyone but Papa to whom she always handed over her paychecks just as soon as she got them. How she wished she could do as Angelo did and just walk through the streets as though she owned them, as though the city had been made for her pleasure alone. But she couldn’t. “I can’t.”

He dropped her hand. “I thought you were more modern than that.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m not.” She walked off down the street without a wave. Without one look back. And oh, what it cost her! It wasn’t a strategy she was sure of. She hadn’t had to use it much before. Only with him, in fact. And so, she worried. And she would have worried even more if she had seen how his face darkened as he watched her walk away.

Once Julietta got to work, she stewed.

All morning long, while Madame was up and down the stairs, asking for Luciana to do this and that, Julietta relived her conversation with Angelo. It was the second time she had refused to accompany him. And it was the second time she had turned her back on him and walked away. She went over each word she had said and each word that he had spoken in reply.

Dozens and dozens of times.

Would she ever see him again?

Because there was no way to know and because she had never before cared so much what any man thought, she let fear and doubt worry away at her. They gnawed at her self-confidence until she could think of a hundred reasons why Angelo Moretti was lost to her forever. And because she couldn’t bear to think that she had failed, she found an alternate person to blame for all her problems. It wasn’t so difficult a thing to do. As she emerged from her remembered conversations and self-recrimination, there was one name that rang constant in her ears.

Luciana.

Luciana, do this. Luciana, do that.

Luciana, come take the car and go up to Beacon Hill.

Julietta was the one who deserved to take the car! She’d worked for Madame longest. Julietta was sick to death of Luciana! Hadn’t everything been just fine before the girl had started working? And hadn’t Julietta been the one Madame had always favored? If there was any tribulation in Julietta’s world, it had to do with Luciana.

When Annamaria left early for confession that afternoon, Julietta’s pent-up anxiety, her imagined inadequacies, and her jealousy exploded into a rage. “You think you can just come in here and take over the shop? Well, you can’t. I’m the one who’s worked here longest. I’m the one Madame’s chosen to replace her.”

“I don’t – ”

Julietta came at the girl, eyes blazing, finger pointing. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t care where you’re from. You and your northern accent. I’d take bets you’re no more than a fisherman’s daughter.”

“I’m not – ”

“I’m the one who knows how things work here. I’m the one that Madame asks to – ”

Luciana had put up her hands, hoping to deflect Julietta’s wrath. At the very least to stop the blows she was quite certain were going to come. “I don’t want the shop.”

“It’s me that Madame trusts.
Me
that she’s chosen.”

“I don’t want your shop!”

19

Luciana’s words reverberated in the sudden stillness.

Julietta looked at Luciana through the fog of her resentment and jealousy.

“I don’t want the shop.” At least – she hadn’t. Not until then. But the more Julietta insisted she couldn’t have it, the more it seemed to make sense that she should. Why shouldn’t she? She couldn’t spend the rest of her life sewing beads onto gowns. If that was to be her fate, she would dig her grave herself. Right now. This minute.

“But . . . you don’t – why not?” The thought that someone didn’t want the same thing she did was almost as offensive to Julietta as a woman wearing a gown three seasons old. Why wouldn’t anyone want what she wanted?

Luciana folded her arms across her chest as she glowered at the girl. She would not be told what it was she could and couldn’t do. Not by this girl. “Actually, you’re right. I’ve changed my mind. You’ve convinced me. Maybe I do want the shop.”

“But you can’t – ”

“I can. You might know how to sew, but I know how to wear the clothes you make. And I can get on better with Madame’s clients. Much better than you do.”

Julietta eyes flashed. “Not if you can’t speak English. Not if you keep cringing at shadows. You don’t know the first thing about America.”

“And you don’t know the first thing about class.”

They exchanged looks across a vast expanse of resentment and envy.

Julietta broke the silence, eyes spitting fire. “Fine. What do you want? More than the store?”

More than the store? Luciana had to admit that the idea of spending her life as a shopkeeper was just as distasteful as spending it sewing beads. More than the store? There was in fact one thing she wanted. One thing she needed quite badly.

“I need to learn English.”

English? That was what she wanted? Then why hadn’t she just said so? “Go to the Settlement House. Over on Parmenter Street. Like I told you.”

“I don’t . . . I – I can’t.”

“Why not?”

How much should she say? “I can’t.”

Julietta’s brows crimped in annoyance.

“I really can’t. There’s someone looking for me. And if he finds me . . . I’m afraid of what he’ll do. I saw him once. Here in the city.”

“Why is he looking for you?”

“Because of something that happened in Roma.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Sì.”

She’d known Luciana wasn’t from the south. The only mystery was just how northern she’d been. She was from Roma? Then she was among the worst of all northerners. Among the first of all those who had taxed and ignored and oppressed their countrymen into poverty. She was the cause of all the country’s troubles. One more reason to despise her.

Like most of us, Julietta had no trouble holding conflicting opinions about a certain set of facts. Angelo and Luciana were both from Roma. The prejudices Julietta, as an Avellinesi, could easily dismiss for the one, she pressed like an iron against the other. And had you or I informed her of the inconsistency, she wouldn’t have seen any fault in herself at all.

“My grandmother and I came here to America because we had no other choice. We had to escape him. And we can’t let him find us now. We have to survive.”

Survive. Julietta could understand that. That’s all that any of them had wanted. At first. But Julietta was beginning to want more. She wanted more than existence, more than mere survival. She wanted triumph. That’s why Madame’s shop was so important. She wanted to become a part of America. She wanted to belong. To walk down any street in Boston knowing that she had a right to be there. Know that everyone else knew it too. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to . . .” What
did
Luciana want? “I want you to show me where the school is. I can’t afford to wander around looking for it. He might see me. I want you to take me there, and I want you to help me sign up.”

“That’s what you want.” That’s all she wanted? “If I help you sign up, you won’t take the shop from me?”

Luciana shook her head.

“All you had to do was ask.”

Mauro searched the crowds all day on Saturday, pushing through the packed streets in vain. Julietta was nowhere to be found. As it happened, Angelo had driven by in his truck just before Saint Marciano’s procession had started. When Julietta saw him there sitting high in his cab, when she saw him reach across the seat and push the passenger door open, there was nothing for her to do but get in, to see where the ride would take her.

And what a ride it was!

Good thing she’d decided to wear the messaline. She always knew Saint Marciano was looking out for her! And she never imagined how exciting riding in a truck could be. It wasn’t like the electric car at all! No. There were only the two of them and somehow, enclosed in the cab, it was very private. For several blocks she didn’t know quite what to say. She snuck a look at his dashing form. Overcome with the intimacy of the moment and the speed at which things passed by her window, she lost her ability to speak. Though not for long. Soon she was smiling as if she went for rides in trucks every day of the week.

“Where are we going?”

Angelo winked at her. “Where do you want to go?”

She shrugged. It wouldn’t have done to look too excited, to seem too eager. A man like Angelo wouldn’t be interested in a naïve country girl. He was probably used to girls with much more sophistication. Julietta surreptitiously pushed herself back against the seat and folded her hands into her lap.

And so they proceeded, away from the city and out into the farmlands that surrounded the metropolis, lurching over potholes and honking at groups of children playing in the dusty streets, warning them to get out of the way. And once, when they came to an intersection blocked by a sturdy if stubborn cow, Angelo let Julietta press the horn herself.

After a while he turned the truck off the main road, and they jounced down a rutted, rocky lane. When the road ended at the start of a field, Angelo set the hand brake and turned off the engine.

He pushed his door open, hopped down, and reached behind the seat for something. Paused when he saw her still sitting there. “Aren’t you coming?”

Julietta was surveying the field, just as she had surveyed the road that had brought them there. They were both rather . . . rough. And covered with a dense layer of dust. Being made denser still by the dust they’d stirred in their coming. It was settling down all around them – on them – she could taste it on her tongue.

Dust was one thing she hadn’t thought of.

A romantic walk in a park. A picnic. But trudging through a dusty field had not been part of her plan. And anyway, she was dressed in her best. For the festa.

She put one long leg up on the bench of the truck. “I’ll ruin my shoes.”

He took one look up that nicely shaped, incredibly long leg, and then fixed his gaze on her eyes. “So take them off.”

“Take them – take them off?”

“Take them off.”

Well. She could. But why should she? And risk her gown being ruined by the dust and the dirt! She pouted, just the tiniest of pouts. “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

He leaned an arm against the steering wheel. “Like where?” He thought of the picnic hidden behind the seat and his growing hunger.

“Like . . .” They couldn’t very well go back to the city and risk being seen. What she’d done by leaving with him was risky enough. She didn’t want to be caught in the doing of it. “ . . . like . . . your place. I could meet your family.” They couldn’t be half as bad as her own. And if she met them and they liked her . . . wouldn’t that be grand!

Angelo had raised a brow in apparent surprise. “My place?” He hopped onto the bench, slammed the door shut, and reversed the truck so quickly that Julietta’s head knocked against the back window.

“Is it very far?”

“What?”

“Your place. Is it very far?”

“No.” Angelo turned off the main road onto a lane that bordered more fields. Tall cornstalks rose up from one of them like spears. Hardy green bouquets of cabbages sprouted from another. He took a sharp turn onto a narrow, rutted path that outlined the perimeter of the cornfield, following until it dead-ended at a stand of trees. The engine died with a jerk.

He stepped down from the cab, inviting her to do the same.

She slid down from the seat onto gravel. This was no better. They might as well have stayed where they were.

Angelo had already started down the lane, carrying a basket in his hand.

“Wait!
Scusi
. I just . . . I can’t . . .” The gravel was poking at her feet as if she weren’t wearing any shoes at all.

He strode back to her, gestured for her to get back into the cab, and then he knelt on the gravel below her. “Here. I’ll give you a ride.” He tugged on one of her feet, seeming to indicate that she should mount his shoulders.

“I don’t think . . . I really shouldn’t – ”

“And how else are we going to get there?”

With a scramble up onto his back and a lot of clinging to his chin, she finally settled herself onto his shoulders.

“Ready?”

“I guess I – ” she shrieked as he pushed to standing. Then she began to grasp at her skirt, which had ridden up past her knees.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, placing an arm over her shins and pulling them toward his chest. He felt her straighten, pushing against his neck, centering her weight across his shoulders. “I can’t see anything anyway.”

In fact, he could. He could see quite a bit. Shapely calves, a very fine pair of knees. But he was careful not to let on. He was enjoying the view. And besides, she was a cute little thing. He didn’t want to ruin anything before it had even gotten started.

As he strode down the lane, she felt rather liberated. She’d never ridden on anyone’s shoulders. Not since the age of eight. Or nine. And then, it had been . . . had it been Mauro’s shoulders she’d ridden on?

Mauro!

To Julietta’s credit, she did feel bad about not being at the festa with Mauro. A little bit. A very tiny bit. But in the next moment she sent the thought away. Who wanted to think about Mauro on a day like this? With a man like this one? Mauro would never have been able to hoist her to his shoulders. Some days he seemed too weary to even carry around his old doctor’s bag.

As they came to a curve in the lane, a shack came into view. A shack that Angelo seemed to be headed for. Was it . . . his house? It couldn’t have been big enough for a family. Although the Giordanos somehow managed to fit themselves into their tiny apartment.

She tugged on his chin.

“Ow!”

“Shouldn’t you let me down?” She didn’t want his family to see her like this!

He bent his knees and released his hold on her shins to allow her to slide off his back. He nearly got choked in the process, and Julietta’s gown was pulled up even higher, but neither let the other know of those indignities.

Angelo pushed the door open wide and let Julietta walk in.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The sole window was coated with dusty grime. A table and two chairs sat in one corner. A bed in another. A crate overflowing with pink-colored papers in a third. There was hardly enough room to pass between the furniture. “And . . . where is your family?”

He reached out a hand over her head, shoved the door shut, and caught her about the waist with a hand. He bent his head and kissed her. “Family? I don’t have one.”