Bellagrand: A Novel (19 page)

“I don’t have to go,” she said, wiping her face. “If you don’t want me to.”

“Why would I not want you to work with Rose?” he said, turning to the sink. “It’s God’s work, isn’t it?”

Weeks crawled by. They talked around the borders of their life. They talked about the things they could talk about. Like current events. Joe Hill was put to death in Utah. Bill Haywood became the sole president of the IWW. And from Rose, Gina heard that Ben had sailed back to Panama just before Christmas. Not wanting Harry to see how upset she was, she didn’t return home until late that Saturday night, her eyes red and puffy, but her demeanor finally composed by the time she walked through her front door.

“Must have been a late night in Concord,” Harry said. “I’m surprised the trains are still running.”

When she told Harry about Ben he shrugged indifferently.

“I thought you would want to know.”

“It’s no concern of mine,” he said.

It became 1916. Now that Harry was back, Salvo didn’t come for New Year’s. Gina missed her brother, Mimoo missed her son. But one evening her mother’s grumbling became too much. “Listen, Mimoo, Salvo has a choice, but Harry and I have none. You don’t want Harry here? So go live with Salvo in Boston.”

“I’m going to leave my own house because your husband won’t leave mine?”

“You want us to move out, Mimoo? We’ll find a room somewhere, like Angela did. You do understand that if he goes, I go, too, right? Say the word. Is that what you want? I’ll do as you please. I’ve always been an obedient daughter.”

Mimoo scoffed.

“Outwardly obedient.”

“You’re a mule,” said Mimoo, relenting. “So now I’m not allowed to complain in my own house about your dirt-poor choices?”

“No,” Gina said. “You’re not.”

“Your husband is home,” Mimoo said. “He told me he got a job. I think he’s already in bed. Even the interview tired him out.”

“What did I say, Mimoo?
Basta
!
” Gina went upstairs.

Apparently Max Eastman had hired Harry to be his New England contributing editor for
The Masses
magazine. He was going to help Floyd Dell edit the literary fiction column called “Books That Are Interesting.” When Gina allowed herself to be excited and asked Harry how much he was going to be paid, he stared at her with what looked like contempt.

“What? Is this out of bounds to ask?”

“Max Eastman is the editor-in-chief of that historic publication,” said Harry. “He doesn’t get a penny.”

She flung her cardigan on the bed with rank exasperation. “So how can it be called
work
then? You said
work.
”

“I don’t know, Gina,” he said. “You spend all your weekends at the Wayside, and you don’t get paid. Do you call
that
work?”

She sat down on the bed to take off her shoes.

“John Reed doesn’t get paid,” Harry continued. “Neither do Sherwood Anderson or Upton Sinclair. But you want
me
to get paid?”

“I wouldn’t mind it if you got paid for something, yes,” Gina said. “Like me. Find something to do that makes you money, not leaches money away from our family. I know—what a harpy I am.”

“Did I say a word?”

She tried to remain calm and failed. There had been a countrywide depression the year before and it hit Lawrence hard. St. Vincent’s had cut her hours. Wood Mill eliminated her overtime pay in the mending room. Fewer women asked her for custom-sewn dresses, layettes for their babies, the darning of their old skirts. The sewing machine stood in the corner unused. Mimoo lost two of her five domestic jobs. They barely had enough money for two meals a day. If Salvo didn’t help with Mimoo’s half of the rent, they would go under, for sure.

Gina force-fed herself a generous helping of constrained Methodist manners—not Catholic manners, not Italian manners, certainly not the histrionic, passionate bowl of Sicilian agitation that overflowed from being constantly thwarted to bursting by the one she loved and had indulged beyond all reason.

“Well, Harry,” she said through a tight and proper mouth. “Sherwood Anderson must be making a living some other way. As is Max Eastman, no?”

“I really don’t know, Jane,” Harry said, using her Anglicized name, as if to detach himself from her true self. Any more detached and they’d be on different continents. “What I
do
know is that this is an incredible opportunity for me, a tremendous opportunity, to be asked, to be invited to work with people, all of whom are striving to change the world for the better, while
you
are doing nothing but obsessing about money.”

“That’s what you think? That I do nothing but obsess over money?”

“You’re always running from one place to another to make a buck. You’re always lamenting the silence of your sewing machine because you can’t make another dollar.”

“But Harry,” Gina said, “if you and Max Eastman are tirelessly changing the world for free, someone’s got to pay our light bill, no?”

He waved at her dismissively as if both she and her comments were irrelevant. “Are you or are you not willing to move to Greenwich Village?”

“Will you get paid if we do?”

“Do you see what I mean? Are you willing to move even to Boston?”

“Will you get paid if we do?”

“Gina!”

Gina’s meager wage started going not just toward the living expenses they could barely afford, but also toward Harry’s train commute and money he needed in Boston, where he often stayed so late he started borrowing a couch at someone’s apartment—Gina didn’t know whose and Harry wouldn’t say. When she complained about his hours, he said, “I thought you’d be happy. I’m trying to do what you want. Work.”

“But you’re not making any money!”

“I’m away from the house like you’re away from the house with your nuns and your sewing circles.”

“Except I make money. And I’ve stopped going to Rose’s, haven’t I?”

“Did I ask you to?”

“No, but—” Rose had told her not to come anymore in her condition. She bit her tongue.

“I’m working just like you and just as hard,” Harry said. “I’m just not getting paid. By staying overnight in Boston, I’m saving money on my train fare. I thought you’d be happy. But no, you’re never satisfied.”

“Yes, that’s me, I expect too much.”

“Don’t you, oh snide one?” He paused. “Don’t you keep expecting from me what I cannot give you?”

She ran outside and threw up.

Mimoo consoled Gina after the argument subsided. “What’s wrong with the both of you? Salvo promised he would give us extra until we get some of our work back. But you have to stop it. You have to take care of yourself this time.”

“I’m doing my best, Mimoo. I don’t feel good, but I can’t rest, I can’t lie down.”

“I don’t know why you won’t just tell him.”

“I want a little time to pass.”

“Why?”

“In case I’m not lucky again.”

“The first time it was that horrible man’s fault. But now you have to be smarter. Don’t scream and carry on like you do. Relax. Tell him. Make him happy. Let him help you.”

“You think it will make him happy?” She hugged her mother. “I just want a little more time to pass. I want to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

Four

THEY SAT DOWN TO DINNER
on a rare Saturday night when they were all home. Well, Harry and Gina sat down to dinner. Mimoo was in the back, in the washroom. They both heard her crying.

“What’s the matter with your mother?” asked Harry, cutting the bread.

“I don’t know.”

“Why is she sobbing as if someone died?”

Gina’s pale lips trembled. “She’s just blowing her nose. Mimoo! Come!”

“She was so distraught today, you had to go and clean two of her houses.”

“I don’t mind helping. She’s feeling poorly.”

“I didn’t go to Boston to work this weekend so we could spend the day together. I thought I was going to take you to the market.”

“Maybe next week. Mimoo! Please come. Dinner’s getting cold.”

Her mother finally appeared at the table. She wouldn’t look at either Harry or Gina. “I’m not feeling poorly,” she said, sitting down. “
You’re
feeling poorly.”

Harry glanced at Gina, at her mother. “Have you two caught the flu or something? Gina, I heard you throwing up a few days ago. And you both look white.”

Mimoo started to cry again, right at the table. Gina gave her mother a withering look. “
Basta!
”
she mouthed as she served the rigatoni with mozzarella and garlic to a troubled husband and a disconsolate mother.

“Nice Saturday dinner we’re having,” Harry said. “Mimoo, why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“Ah.”

“That’s right,” said Gina. “She’s not. Have some bread, Mimoo. Butter for you, Harry? A glass of wine?”

Harry studied Gina’s wan face.

For a long time he was silent as the two women ate. He did not pick up his fork.

“Aren’t you going to eat,
marito
?”

“How many weeks was it this time?” he asked.

No one spoke.

He raised his voice. “How many?”

“Just a few,” said Gina.

“Twelve!” cried Mimoo.

“Mimoo!”

“Twelve . . .” Harry repeated, going pale himself.

“Does that seem like a few to you? A third of a baby! Gone, gone!
O forza mia, affretti ad aiutarmi!
”

Harry shot up. He wiped his mouth on a napkin, though he hadn’t eaten a bite. “Will you please excuse me, Mimoo?” He did not forget his manners. “I’m not very hungry.” He fled the house, taking care not to slam the door.

Gina threw down her napkin. “Why?” she cried. “Can’t you help me once, just once, by not making
everything
harder?”

“I’m sorry! I can’t help it.”

“I wish you could help it, just once! I told you I didn’t want him to know. Everything would have been all right if you had just kept your mouth shut.”

The old woman was sobbing.

Gina grabbed her coat and, slamming the door, ran to follow him.

He was halfway down the street.

“Harry.”

He didn’t stop, or answer her.

“Where are you going?” she panted, catching up.

“To clear my head.”

“Please. Slow down. I can’t keep up.”

“So don’t keep up.”

“Please.” She grabbed his arm, held on to him. Reluctantly he was forced to slow down. They crossed the street and entered the Common, smiling thinly at another couple passing them arm in arm. Gina liked this park. In late spring the ducks had babies, and dozens of them waddled after their mothers along the paths, over the lawns, and among the flowers. Sometimes she would come here at lunchtime to watch them.

They found a quiet perch, sank onto it, and were themselves mute, like the bench, like the overhanging willows.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Tell you what?”

“Are there so many things to tell me that you honestly don’t know what I’m talking about or are you just pretending to be dense?”

She suppressed a sigh. “I was going to tell you. I wanted to make sure everything was okay first. And then when it wasn’t . . . well, you were busy. I thought the less said the better.”

“Really, you thought that. How many other pregnancies have you kept from me?”

“Harry, please.”

“Please what?” He was staring straight ahead. “Tell me. How many?”

“What are you asking me? None, of course.”

“Is that so? How many failed pregnancies did you keep from me while I was in prison for fifteen months?”

She jumped up, but couldn’t face him.

“None,” she breathed. “Stop it.”

“Am I being irrational?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best. I just wanted to get on with things, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Is that right? So tell me now.”

“What do you want to know? There’s little to say at this point.”

“Is there really little to say?”

“Yes.” The less said the better. She crumpled back into the corner of the wet bench, away from him.

“Mimoo said twelve weeks.”

Gina couldn’t help it, she started to shake.

Harry pretended to count backward three months from March. “About December, then?”

She found her smallest voice. “You were home in December, were you not? In our bed?”

He said nothing. The unsaid was so crashingly loud that Gina put her mittened hands over her ears as if words were being screamed, as if the sound were deafening.

It was the end of March, and wet, and cold. It was so cold.

“What about the ice skates in your closet?”

Gina swallowed. “What about them?”

“I didn’t know you knew how to skate.”

“I didn’t know
you
knew how to skate.”

“How do you know now?” Harry said. “Did you find my skates in our closet?”

“No.” She stared straight ahead, never looking at him. “What does this have to do with the baby?”

“You tell me. And why do I suspect everything?”

She was flush out of words and defenses.

“I don’t care,” he said. “But when you hide things so poorly it really makes me think you
don’t give a shit. I mean, if you didn’t want me to know, you might have considered throwing out the skates. Doing with them what you’re doing with the bloodied gauze. Putting them into the trash so I wouldn’t find them.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. And . . . I’m not hiding anything. I have nothing to hide. You’re busy.
Economic Interpretation of the Constitution, Winesburg, Ohio.
You have a lot to do. Buried in your books and pamphlets. I didn’t want to disturb.”

“I bury myself in what I can so I don’t come home and see what rags of life you’re scattering for me all over our house.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not what you do.”

“It is what I do.”

“Harry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his eyes like windows paved over with cement to keep her out. “What do you want?” he said. “For me to weep?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I will weep an eternity in hell before you take my pride from me too.”