Hope's Angel (28 page)

Connie had no response.

“What did he say?”

Connie kept walking, her eyes straight ahead as she shook her head. “I
can’t tell you.” The irony of the situation was almost too much to bear.

“Why not? Are you crying?”

Connie swallowed back her tears and focused on a brightly decorated
evergreen tree in a yard midway down the block. Snow was rapidly collecting on
the multi-colored bulbs in its branches, turning them into glowing mounds of
pastel light. “He says he and Tina were
not
the two people Tony saw.”

“They weren’t? Then who was?”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? Paul didn’t cheat on me.” Connie’s
voice broke as she spoke the terrible truth out loud.

“And you believe him?” Angie put her arm through Connie’s , looking up
into her face with serious dark eyes. “If that’s true, why did he let his
grandma think it was him?”

“Because he’s covering … for somebody else.” Connie closed her eyes and
brushed her free hand over her face in an attempt to control her tears. And the
thought hit her—what if he decided to stop covering now that he assumed she had
agreed to marry Greg? Would he do that to her? Or did he care about her enough
to keep protecting her?

When she dropped her hand, Angie was staring at her, her brow furrowed,
her eyes troubled. But if she had suspicions about who he was covering for, she
kept them to herself.

They had reached the front of the store. Snow was collecting on the
front steps, and Angie silently broke away to head for the shovel leaning
against the side of the building under the stairs. It was barely five o’clock;
the store would need to be accessible for another hour.

Connie did not stop to help. Her heart was aching, and all she wanted
was to find a place where she could be alone long enough to think things out.

***

Papa and Mamma left after dinner to visit friends who were in town for
the Christmas holiday. Gianna was still with David, Christmas shopping for his
family.

Angie and Connie worked side by side in the kitchen, rolling and
cutting batches of dough to make
cartellate
, traditional Christmas cookies they would deep-fry
and dip in a mixture of honey and lemon. The cookies were among several contributions
to the big family party at Nonna’s house after midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

The radio was blaring their favorite rock and roll station, and Simon
and Garfunkel were crooning an ode to Mrs. Robinson. Neither Connie nor Angie
had been allowed to see
The Graduate
, as the Catholic Church had rated the movie “morally
objectionable.” But both were big fans of Simon and Garfunkel, and Connie
smiled to herself as she listened, for she was giving Angie the album
Bookends
for Christmas, and she wondered if Angie was
planning the same gift for her.

“I’ve decided to stay here for Christmas Day,” Angie said, as if reading
her mind. “I’ll go to Swanton in the evening.”

“That’s okay with them?”

“Yeah. They understand. We’re always up so late after midnight Mass,
I’d just be tired and crabby anyway.” Angie looked over at her. “Are you going
to Greg’s for Christmas Day?”

“I’m afraid so. Dinner at one o’clock.”

Angie’s brow creased, and her eyes telegraphed her concern. “Is this
going to work, Connie?”

“Is what going to work?”

“Isn’t it important to like his family?”

Connie looked away from Angie’s questioning eyes and concentrated on
folding the dough. “It’s not that I don’t like them. I’m just not comfortable
with them—yet.”

“They don’t seem to be anything like us.”

Connie kept her eyes on her work. “According to David, that’s a good
thing. It forces me out of my comfort zone. Broadens my horizons.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Connie smiled at her younger sister’s astuteness. But the smile soon
faded as she thought about the genesis of that conversation with David—how comfortable
she was with Paul and Paul’s family.

“I, uh, kind of know what that feels like,” Angie said, “being forced
out of your comfort zone.”

Connie glanced at her. “I guess you would.”

“They didn’t do it because they were poor, you know.” Angie kept her
profile to Connie and her gaze on the dough she was mixing.

“Why did they do it?” Connie asked.

“Because of the Vermont Eugenics Survey.”

Connie did her best not to seem too excited that Angie was ready to
talk. “I’ve heard of that, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Was. Supposedly it’s been over for a long time, but it seems the
persecution went on for years afterwards. I guess it still does, but in more
subtle ways.”

Connie waited, her heart pounding as Angie continued.

“Back
in the nineteen twenties, there were people at UVM who believed that poor
people were poor because of their genes. And that if they enforced selective
breeding—eugenics—they could improve society. So, they set out to find certain
families and make sure they didn’t reproduce.”

Connie
stopped working on the cookies and silently stared at her.

“They
started identifying families that they called ‘degenerate.’ They looked for
illegitimate children or alcoholics or people born with a birth defect or
epilepsy. They called people feebleminded if they couldn’t read. I guess it didn’t
occur to them that maybe the person never had a chance to go to school, that
maybe society had failed them.” An edge of anger had come into Angie’s voice. “Sometimes,
the families they called degenerate were just different, like native people who
didn’t live the same way white people lived.”

“Gypsies
and pirates,” Connie whispered, remembering her conversation with the librarian.

 Angie’s
brow creased as she turned to Connie in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“When
you told me you were part Abenaki, I wanted to know more about them. A
librarian told me that some people around here call them gypsies and pirates.”

“And
sometimes ‘river rats.’” Angie’s voice was heavy with disdain. “Because the
native way was not to live in the same place year-round. They moved with the
seasons. And some lived on or near the water—either Lake Champlain or the
Connecticut River—part of the time.”

“So,
the Abenaki were the families the survey targeted?”

“Along
with other poor people, like the French Canadians. But the Abenaki were definitely
targeted, not only because they weren’t white, but because they were usually
poor. And some were alcoholics, and some were criminals.” Angie’s eyes held
Connie’s. “And some had children out of wedlock and children with birth
defects.”

Francis
.

“My
parents had so many strikes against them, including being poor. My dad worked
as a logger and a trapper, but that wasn’t always enough.”

The
dough sat idle as Connie turned to stare at her sister. “So, you said they made
sure they didn’t reproduce.”

“They
put them in jail or in institutions. And they took their children away. And
sometimes they sterilized them ‘for the good of the state.’”

Connie’s
heart skipped a beat. “Who? The children or the parents?”

“Whatever
they could get away with. They wanted to keep the Yankee line pure and dominant.”

The
terrifying reality of Angie’s story was beginning to gel for Connie. “And you
were at risk of being taken away?”

“That’s
what my parents believed.”

“So,
they gave you to Mamma and Papa?”

“They
went to their priest for help in finding a family that would take care of me so
I wouldn’t be found if they were on a list. Their priest knew Father Ianelli,
and Father told him about Mamma carrying a baby that was expected to die. They
took a chance that she and Papa would say yes.”

It
was all starting to make sense. “And then, because Mamma was pregnant, they just
told everybody you were hers. Did they ever really adopt you?”

Angie
shook her head. “No. Nonna said Mamma had twins, and I had a new birth
certificate.”

Connie
took a moment to sort out what she had heard. “Did they ever come for your
parents? Or Francis?”

“No.”
Angie’s voice went soft. “But they did sterilize my mother’s sister and two of
my uncles.”

“How
could they do that without their consent?”

“My
aunt got pregnant when she was seventeen, and she was put in a home for
delinquents. Three doctors signed off on it being medically necessary, and they
sterilized her immediately after she gave birth.”

Connie
was stunned. “And your uncles?”

“They
were told they were getting an operation for something else. A hernia or
something.” Angie’s eyes were intent on Connie’s. “That’s when they all stopped
admitting who they were. If somebody asked, they said they were French-Canadian
and that’s all.”

Connie
sat quietly thinking about everything that Angie had said. She understood why
native people had gone underground, and why modern-day Abenaki couldn’t  prove
their continued existence in Vermont. Did Greg know about the Vermont Eugenics Survey?
Had UVM professors talked about that in his public policy class?

Her
mind was racing. She remembered Angie’s lecture about standing up for things
one believed in and protecting the rights of others against persecution. And
she realized why her father feared for Gianna’s happiness in a state whose
residents claimed to mind their own business when he knew that wasn’t true.

“Vermont
wasn’t the only state doing it,” Angie said, breaking into her thoughts. “There
were lots of them. The whole eugenics thing was going on around the world. In
Europe, it became the Holocaust.” 

Connie’s
mind went to footage she had seen on TV of the horrors in Europe. But this wasn’t
a history lesson, something she could close within a book or walk away from by
turning off the television. This was real life for Ethan and Marie LaCroix. And
for their daughter, Hope Marie. “So, when your parents came with the meat and
the fish, they really were coming to see you.”

“And
to contribute what they could. But they never said anything because they could
see I was happy and I was safe. And if I didn’t know, and you and Gianna didn’t
know, then I would be okay. But then, my mother got Hodgkin’s. And she wanted
me to know who she was before she died.”

Connie
had forgotten about Marie LaCroix’s illness. “How is she?”

“I
think the treatment’s helping. But her outlook isn’t good.”

“I’m
sorry.” Connie watched Angie for a moment, her curiosity sparked. “How does
that work now, if you don’t mind me asking? Do you love them because now you
know who they are?”

Angie
smiled. “Yes. Every time I’m with them, I see more and more of myself in them.
I see the connections. I understand. And I realize what they did was all about
me, about keeping me safe. It was terrible for them, but they did it. How could
I not love them for that?” Angie reached out to rest her hand on Connie’s arm.
“But that doesn’t mean I love this family any less. I know now, I don’t have to
make choices. I can love you all.”

Connie
nodded and smiled back at her, a sudden sadness filling her. If only she could
say the same thing about loving both Greg and Paul. “Where does David fit in?”

“David?
He’s a family friend.”

“So,
it’s a coincidence that he knows both the LaCroixs and us?”

Angie
gave her a look of confusion. “I guess. Why?”

 “Because
we always thought
Mr. LaCroix
was just a family friend.”

 Angie
grinned. “Well, I can tell you right now, David’s not a relative.” Her eyes
danced with delight at her own joke. “But he could be soon, if Gigi says yes.”

Connie
grinned back at her. “You know something I don’t know?”

Angie
turned away and picked up the dough once more, a devilish smile still on her
face. “We’d better get going on these cookies before Mamma and Papa get back.”

Chapter Twenty

Saturday, December 21

Greg came home on Saturday after three days in Providence. He called
from Glenn’s before leaving that morning, and Connie waited to share lunch with
him, covering the store while the rest of her family ate together upstairs.

He came through the store’s front door wearing a long dark coat she
hadn’t seen before, his cheeks rosy from the wintry mix of snow and below-zero
wind chill swirling about outdoors. He looked older somehow, more business-like,
less like the blue-jeaned student she rode to school with most days. His soft chestnut
curls were shorter and neater, the hair no longer hanging over his collar. But
when his gray eyes found her watching him from behind the counter, they lit up
with a familiar look of delight, and a grin spread across his handsome face. She
stepped out from behind the counter as he approached, and he pulled her into
his arms. He smelled of spicy aftershave and fresh air, snowy coldness emanating
from him. They were alone in the store, and when he covered her mouth with his,
she kissed him back with a hunger that surprised her. They had been apart for
five days, but the days had been busy, and she hadn’t consciously missed him as
much as she had anticipated. Yet now, having him back, holding him in her arms
once more, feeling his lips on hers, she was overwhelmed with love and longing
for him.

He pulled back and gave her a crooked smile, his eyes dancing with
light. “God, I missed you,” he said, his gaze roaming over her face as though trying
to make up for days of not seeing her.

“I missed you, too.” She gave him a teasing smile. “You look
different—citified. More like that ambassador to Russia.”

“I was embarrassing Glenn with my country ways.” He held his arms out
to each side. “What do you think?”

“You look good.” She was losing herself in his eyes, thinking that
maybe lunch was the least of what they needed to share. “
So
good.”

Greg laughed. “So do you. Maybe we can take a ride after lunch.”

Papa came in to relieve Connie of her duties, and she and Greg went out
the back door and up the ice-glazed staircase to the warmth of the kitchen upstairs.
Gianna and Angie were putting on their coats to leave, the former for choir
practice for Christmas Eve, the latter to go shopping with a friend. Mamma
greeted Greg with a smile and pointed out the soup on the stove, then left to
join Papa downstairs. Connie and Greg were alone.

Connie led him to the dining room, out of sight of the kitchen door but
not too far to hear it open. He hung his coat on the back of a chair, and she
moved into his waiting arms. His hands slid over her back as they kissed, down
to the curve of her hips. He pushed her from him, his gaze on hers, then ran
his hands up to cover her breasts as he watched her face, his eyes full of
longing. She wanted so badly for him to undress her then and there. Instead,
they stepped apart with reluctant smiles and returned to the kitchen to eat.

“So, Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve,” Connie said as she set two bowls
of soup on the kitchen table. “It’s traditional. Then we go to my grandmother’s
for a big family party. My aunt and uncle are coming in from Pittsburgh with a
couple of my cousins, and there’ll be lots of other relatives from Boston and
Rutland and all over. We stay up all night and eat.”

“I can probably handle that.”

Connie settled into the chair across from his and sprinkled grated
cheese into her soup, then drizzled it with olive oil from the cruet on the
table. Greg watched her with an amused look on his face, then picked up the
cheese and the olive oil and did the same.

“Peasant food,” she said as he tasted it.

“It’s good.” He glanced up at her. “Glenn took me to Federal Hill, by
the way. A lot of the Italians in Providence live there. Kind of like Boston’s
North End. We’ll have to go some time. Great restaurants.”

Connie smiled at the thought that his brother would take him to an
Italian neighborhood. Maybe she was over-thinking how his family felt about
her.

She sipped at a spoonful of soup, then said, “What do you know about a
Vermont eugenics project?”

Greg shook his head as he ate. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“You never talked about it in a class?”

Greg’s eyes came up to meet hers. “Nope. Why?”

“It was a social engineering thing that started in the nineteen
twenties, a move to rid Vermont of certain types of people. They sterilized
them and took their kids away.”

Greg sipped at his soup. “Who told you that?”

“It wasn’t just in Vermont, it was a movement all over the world. It
became the Holocaust in Germany. But it did happen here. I thought maybe they
would have talked about it in your political science courses.”

Greg shook his head, his eyes still on hers. He seemed genuinely
confused.

“It was called the Vermont Eugenics Survey,” Connie said, “and it
started at UVM.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“Angie told me.”

“She learned about it in school?”

“No.” Connie kept her gaze on his. “It happened to her family.”

Greg stared at her, his spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. “What do
you mean?”

“They were a potential target. That’s why they gave her to my parents—to
keep her safe.”

His frown deepened, and he set down the spoon. “Because she’s Abenaki?”

“And French Canadian. And because they were poor and they already had a
boy with a birth defect—a cleft palate. She told me her aunt and two of her
uncles were sterilized by the state.”

“How could they get away with that?”

“I don’t know, but she’s not making it up. Remember what you said about
the Abenaki not being able to prove they’ve always lived here? They went into
hiding because of the eugenics survey.”

Greg’s face took on a troubled look and his gaze went distant; he was
thinking about something disturbing, something that drew him away from her and
their conversation.

“Greg?”

 “I had no idea,” he said, his eyes coming back to focus on her. “That’s
terrible.”

“What were you just thinking about?”

He looked down at the spoon he was swirling aimlessly in the soup. “Angie.
About how sweet she is and how awful that is.”

Connie frowned as she watched him; something about his answer felt
disingenuous.

They finished eating without further conversation. Greg carried his
bowl and spoon to the sink, then went into the dining room for his coat. When
he returned, his smile was apologetic. “I guess I should go home and see my
folks,” he said as he slipped his arms into the coat sleeves.  “I haven’t been
there in five days.” He leaned forward and quickly kissed her lips. “They have
some kind of round-robin cocktail party with their friends tonight, so they’ll
be busy later. I’ll pick you up for dinner around five-thirty, okay?”

Connie followed him to the kitchen door. The sudden change in plans worried
her. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you with that story about Angie. It was just a
question.”

“You didn’t disturb me.” He gave her a smile as he pulled the door open
and stepped out onto the porch. “I’ll be back. I love you, Connie.”

He hurried down the stairs into the icy wind before Connie could
answer.

***

 The eugenics survey and Angie’s story did not come up again for the
remainder of the weekend. Greg was in a good mood when he returned, and they
enjoyed their evening out together. He came to dinner at her house on Sunday,
and on Monday they went to Barre for last-minute Christmas shopping. Tuesday
was Christmas Eve, and he joined her family for dinner that evening before
going to Midnight Mass, his first experience in a Catholic church.

“You’re going to love it,” Angie reassured him as the family gathered
around the dinner table. “It’s so beautiful. The altar’s full of flowers, and
the priest wears his most beautiful robes, and the music is all joyful. Christmas
and Easter—they’re the best.”

Greg gave her a slow smile, his amusement at her enthusiasm evident in
his eyes. He had taken off his dark suit coat but kept his tie, and Connie
watched him from across the table, marveling at how heart-stopping handsome he
was in a dress shirt and tie.

Nonna and Mamma broke her train of thought as they entered the room
carrying platters of steaming seafood. Nonna spoke to Greg in Italian as she
set her platter in the center of the table, and Gianna, who was seated beside
him, translated. “She says she hopes you like seafood. Tonight we celebrate the
Feast of the Seven Fishes.”

Greg grinned. “So Connie tells me. I’m not sure I could name seven
fishes.”

“Well, as you can see, they’re not all fish.” Gianna’s smiling eyes
traveled to David, who was seated next to Connie. “David brought the octopus
and the mussels from Boston. And the eel.”

Greg’s eyes widened, and several people at the table laughed.

“You’re a New Englander; you’ll like this.” Connie passed a casserole
to him. “It’s salt cod—
baccal
á
. It’s
baked with potatoes, olives, and tomatoes.”

“And the lake trout are from
mon père
,”
Angie said proudly.

“That’s five,” Greg answered, eyeing the platter with caution.

“
Calamari
.”
Connie pointed to the clusters of deep-fried squid tentacles and body parts.
“And shrimp scampi over here.”

A grin spread across his face. “And this is supposed to be a hardship?”

Angie nodded. “We don’t eat meat or dairy on Christmas Eve.”

“Puglia has two seas, the Ionian and the Adriatic,” Gianna said. “Fish
is plentiful. Meat is not.” She glanced at her father with an affectionate
grin. “Except for rabbit.”

Papa nodded; it was time to get down to eating. Mamma made the Sign of
the Cross, and the family quietly bowed their heads to say grace.

***

Dinner culminated in nuts and fruit and cookies dipped in wine or
coffee and lasted until almost nine o’clock. Afterwards, Greg and David tried
to help in the kitchen, but Mamma shooed them out, telling them to keep Papa
company in the living room while the women made short work of the cleanup.

“I like your mother’s style,” Greg said with a grin when Connie finally
joined him on the couch. Gianna and David were taking Nonna home to get ready
for church, and Angie was in the kitchen helping Mamma and Papa assemble
homemade pizzas for the big family party after Mass.

“Well, don’t get used to it; it’s not my style.” Connie kept her eyes
on the brightly lit Christmas tree across from them. “Not that things were a
lot different at your house. I didn’t see you or your brothers march into the
kitchen at any point.”

Greg stretched his arm across the couch behind her shoulders and rested
it against her. “That’s not one of the things they teach you in boarding school.”

“Too bad. It’s kind of a life skill, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can cook, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t know. You’ve never shown me that side.” Connie gave
him a smile, her eyes traveling over his face. “Actually, there’s a lot about
you I don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know if you’re a slob or a neat freak or somewhere in between.
I don’t know if you ever do your own laundry or can fix a car or nail two
pieces of wood together or—“

“Whoa!” Greg’s smile had a worried edge. “Where’s this coming from?”

Connie looked away from him, not sure of the answer herself. What was
wrong with her? “I don’t know.”

“I haven’t invited you to my house since Thanksgiving because I didn’t
think you’d want to come. But if you want to see my room and watch me start a
washing machine, we can arrange for that. And no, I’m not good at carpentry,
but I am pretty good with cars.”

Connie closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the
defensive.”

“I’m not on the defensive. I just don’t get what the problem is. You
want me to cook something for you? I can do that. When do you want to come
over?”

Connie drew a deep breath. Whatever it was that was eating at her, she
needed to stop it now. She turned to him with a smile. “It depends. What’s your
specialty?”

The concern in Greg’s eyes turned to mischief as a small smile teased
at his mouth. “Breakfast.”