The Glass Butterfly (30 page)
“I'll help you,” Hank said. As they headed up the beach toward the lights of the cottage, he took her hand. His skin was smooth, his fingers strong and warm. She found, when they reached the gate, that she regretted having to let it go.
She brought a towel to the front step. Hank scrubbed Johnson from head to tail, then shook the towel out over the thin layer of snow that covered the yard. “That should do it,” he said.
Tory, feeling shy again, stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Can I get you anything?”
He was brushing sand off his coat. He looked up and smiled. “It's late,” he said. “I have clinic hours in the morning, even though it's Christmas Eve.”
“And I'll be at the shop.”
“What are you going to do for Christmas, Paulette?”
She shrugged. “I don't think I'm going to do anything.”
“That's not good.” He wasn't smiling now, but looking at her intently. “Why not come to Mass with me?”
She was suddenly, sickeningly, overwhelmed by a flash of memory from her last dream, people on the steps of a church, shouting, threatening each other. A rush of panic made her heart thud in her ears. She said, with more force than she intended, “No! Oh, no, IâI don't thinkâI don't reallyâ” She wanted to say something that might make sense, something that would soften her refusal, but she couldn't think what it would be.
He said softly, “It's okay, Paulette.”
“I'm so sorry,” she said, weakly, but meaning it.
“Don't be sorry. I just wish you wouldn't be alone for Christmas.”
“I'll be okay,” she said. He hesitated, looking at her. She thought for a moment he might kiss her cheek, but he touched it instead, the slightest brush of his fingers as he said good night.
As he turned toward his car, she called after him, “Merry Christmas, Hank.”
He glanced back. “And to you.”
He lifted one hand to her as he drove away, and she gazed after him, wishing . . . wishing what? Wishing he wouldn't leave. Wishing it could all be different. Wishing she had met this lovely man at a better time, a time when she was free.
This was another way Ellice Gordon had hurt her, an unexpected wound. The anger that had flickered in her breast earlier that day grew into a flame.
28
Sorda ai consigli, sorda ai dubbi,
vilipesa, nell'ostinato attesa raccolse il cor.
vilipesa, nell'ostinato attesa raccolse il cor.
Â
Deaf to all entreaties, deaf to doubting, humiliated,
blindly trusting to your promise, her heart will break....
blindly trusting to your promise, her heart will break....
Â
âSharpless,
Madama Butterfly,
Act Three
Madama Butterfly,
Act Three
F
or weeks after Christmas Doria never left her mother's house. Not even to celebrate
capo d'anno,
the new year of 1909, could she bring herself to face the people of Torre. Father Michelucci took to calling every day, and for that she was grateful. Otherwise she saw no one.
or weeks after Christmas Doria never left her mother's house. Not even to celebrate
capo d'anno,
the new year of 1909, could she bring herself to face the people of Torre. Father Michelucci took to calling every day, and for that she was grateful. Otherwise she saw no one.
The priest knew all the news of the Puccinis. The
signore,
in a towering temper at Elvira's behavior on Christmas morning, had left Torre when their children did, leaving Elvira alone in Villa Puccini. Elvira was, Father Michelucci said, worse than ever. Her dresses were dirty, because no one but Zita would work for her now, and Zita flatly refused to do her laundry. Elvira's eyes were wild, and at night, her neighbors saw her stalking through the empty house, talking to herself. People had taken, Father Michelucci said, to ducking into doorways or alleys when they saw her coming. She prowled the lanes of the village, seizing people's arms, recounting her stories to anyone and everyone who would listen.
signore,
in a towering temper at Elvira's behavior on Christmas morning, had left Torre when their children did, leaving Elvira alone in Villa Puccini. Elvira was, Father Michelucci said, worse than ever. Her dresses were dirty, because no one but Zita would work for her now, and Zita flatly refused to do her laundry. Elvira's eyes were wild, and at night, her neighbors saw her stalking through the empty house, talking to herself. People had taken, Father Michelucci said, to ducking into doorways or alleys when they saw her coming. She prowled the lanes of the village, seizing people's arms, recounting her stories to anyone and everyone who would listen.
Doria said, “Stories about me?”
“About everyone, including her husband and her children. She imagines that everyone is against her, that everyone is plotting to harm her.”
Emilia poured more coffee for the priest, and then for herself. She set a biscuit on his saucer, but Doria saw she took none for herself, and she felt a rush of shame. There was little money for flour or sugar without Doria's modest salary. She had tried to make this up to her mother, darning socks and mending towels and linens until her fingers were sore, but such efforts brought in no money.
Emilia scowled. “Those children of hers can't stand to be with her, and I don't blame them. But one of these days she's going to do something really crazy, and then they'll be sorry!”
“I've written to Giacomo,” Father Michelucci said. “I have his address at the Hotel Quirinale. He's so angry at Elvira he won't even discuss her.”
“I hope he's working on his opera,” Doria said. She thought of him at his piano, candlelight flickering on his face, music emerging from his pencil one painful, tentative note at a time, the notes piling up, collecting, finally coalescing to make magic. She missed that magic, missed lying in bed at night and hearing his melodies and harmonies take shape in the studio. Surely she missed Puccini more than his wife did.
“His wife needs him here!” Emilia pronounced.
“She would only shout at him,” Doria said. “Then he can't get anything done.”
Emilia tutted. “Family is more important than any opera.”
But Doria shook her head. “The
signore
can't help it if his wife is crazy. He tried to stop her, Mamma, you saw him.”
signore
can't help it if his wife is crazy. He tried to stop her, Mamma, you saw him.”
“Hah,” Emilia said, sounding for all the world like Zita. “You mark my words, that woman will harm herself one of these days.”
Father Michelucci gave an unhappy sigh. “Or she will harm someone else,” he said.
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It was the very next day, the twenty-fifth of January, that the message came from Villa Puccini. Emilia, still on the doorstep, called, “Doria! You have a letter! The Puccinis' gardener brought it!”
Doria was washing clothes on the icy porch. It was a nasty chore in the winter, because no matter how hot the water was when she poured it into the tin tub, it cooled quickly. It made her long for summer, when she could wash the family's clothes in the warm waters of the lake. She dried her reddened hands on her apron, and hurried into the kitchen, where Emilia had laid the envelope on the table and was standing to one side, her hands clasped hopefully beneath her chin.
Doria could see instantly that the letter was not from Puccini. It was from Elvira.
With trembling fingers, she picked it up and held it, gazing at the
signora
's handwriting, with its extravagant loops and scrolled capitals.
signora
's handwriting, with its extravagant loops and scrolled capitals.
“Doria!” her mother cried. “Open it, for pity's sake! What does it say?”
Doria, biting her lip, slid her finger under the flap of the envelope and drew out a small sheet of beige notepaper, elaborately embossed with the Puccini initials. She read the note quickly, then read it again, hardly believing what she saw.
“What is it? What is it?” her mother begged.
Doria lifted her eyes to her mother's, her heart lifting with wonder. “Mamma,” she said hoarsely. “The
signora
wants to see me!”
signora
wants to see me!”
“Why? Does she want you back?”
Doria read the note a third time. “He must have written to her. Perhaps he even called her on their telephone! She doesn't say that exactly, but she says she wants to talk to me.”
“I hope she means to give you your last two months' wages,” Emilia growled.
“
Non lo so,
Mamma, but she wants me to run an errand for her on the way, and I'm to come now. Today!”
Non lo so,
Mamma, but she wants me to run an errand for her on the way, and I'm to come now. Today!”
“Then you'd best change your clothes, Doria. I won't have you running through the village in that wet apron.”
Doria washed her face and hands in the basin, comforting herself as she shivered under the cold water with the thought that perhaps, soon, she could take a nice hot bath in the tub at Villa Puccini. She had pressed her best shirtwaist, and darned the moth holes in her woolen skirt. She had sewn the sleeve back onto her coat. Her shoes were spotless, and she had washed her black stockings just the day before. She brushed her hair up into its bun, perched her hat on top, and thrust the hat pin through. She smiled all the while, chiding herself for giving up hope. She should have known Puccini would not abandon her. She should have known he would take his wife in hand, sooner or later.
Her mother eyed her carefully, nodded without speaking, and opened the door for her. Doria, feeling as if the world had changed overnight, caught up a string bag and rushed out of the house. The
signora
's letter requested her to pick up some disinfectant at the chemist's. Surely that meant she had a job for her to do at the villa! No doubt it was some task she couldn't manage on her own, and she had realized at last how much she needed Doria to help her.
signora
's letter requested her to pick up some disinfectant at the chemist's. Surely that meant she had a job for her to do at the villa! No doubt it was some task she couldn't manage on her own, and she had realized at last how much she needed Doria to help her.
A cold drizzle began the moment she was out the door, but she didn't care about that. She felt buoyant, as if the summer sun had broken through winter's clouds just for her, come to burn away the cloud of despair that had enveloped her since Christmas. A surge of brittle energy drove her steps until she was almost running up the lane. Though she felt curious eyes following her, that didn't matter, either. Soon enough she would regain their respect.
In her hurry she nearly tripped over the sill of the chemist's shop. She caught herself, and stood for a moment inside the door, out of breath, looking around for what she needed. When she spied the proper shelf, she crouched to reach for the brown bottle, neatly labeled, tucked away beneath boxes of starch and bluing and peroxide. She carried it to the counter, and set it down with a decisive gesture.
“Put this on the Puccinis' account,” she said, with self-conscious pride. “The
signora
needs it.” It felt grand to say that again.
signora
needs it.” It felt grand to say that again.
The chemist was a round, balding man who wore thick glasses and always had ink and chemical stains on his hands and the cotton coat he wore over his vest. He frowned over the disinfectant, and pushed his glasses higher up his nose. “This is corrosive sublimate,” he said. “Chloride of mercury.”
“She asked for it particularly,” Doria said. “For mold, I expect. Could you hurry, please? She's waiting for me.”
He lowered his glasses again to peer doubtfully at her. “It's all right, signore,” she said. “I have her note. Would you like to see it?”
He hesitated, but he shook his head. “No, no. I know you. Doria Manfredi, isn't it?”
“Sì, signore!”
Doria bounced impatiently on her toes. “Could you wrap it? And hurry, please. I don't want to keep Signora Puccini waiting.”
Doria bounced impatiently on her toes. “Could you wrap it? And hurry, please. I don't want to keep Signora Puccini waiting.”
“Hmph,” he said, and she supposed he, too, had heard the stories of Elvira's behavior.
“Va bene.”
He took the bottle of tablets, wound a strip of brown paper around it, and tied the whole with a bit of string. He held it out to Doria across the counter. As she took it, he said, “This is dangerous, you know. Be careful with it.”
“Va bene.”
He took the bottle of tablets, wound a strip of brown paper around it, and tied the whole with a bit of string. He held it out to Doria across the counter. As she took it, he said, “This is dangerous, you know. Be careful with it.”
“Sì, signore!”
Doria smiled, dropped a curtsy, and scurried out of the shop and down the lane toward the lake and her beloved maestro's golden tower.
Doria smiled, dropped a curtsy, and scurried out of the shop and down the lane toward the lake and her beloved maestro's golden tower.
Â
Old Zita met her at the back door. Doria threw her arms around her, making Zita say, “Hah! About time you cheered up, Doria
mia
.”
mia
.”
“The
signora
sent for me, Zita! When the note came, I thought perhaps it was from Signor Puccini, sent from Roma, butâ” Doria hurried in through the pantry, unbuttoning her coat as she went, unpinning her hat. “But I think a note from the
signora
is just as good, don't you? She even asked me to run to the chemist's for her.” She kept the package under her arm as she hung her hat and coat on the rack. “Should I put on an apron, do you think? Or should I wait until she offers me my job back?”
signora
sent for me, Zita! When the note came, I thought perhaps it was from Signor Puccini, sent from Roma, butâ” Doria hurried in through the pantry, unbuttoning her coat as she went, unpinning her hat. “But I think a note from the
signora
is just as good, don't you? She even asked me to run to the chemist's for her.” She kept the package under her arm as she hung her hat and coat on the rack. “Should I put on an apron, do you think? Or should I wait until she offers me my job back?”
“Is that what the note said?” Zita asked. “That she wants you back?”
“Wellânot exactly, at least not yet. She saysâ” Doria stepped into the kitchen, and stopped, staring around her. “
Mamma mia,
what have you been doing?” Things were stacked everywhere, lamps and books and ashtrays and empty picture frames.
Mamma mia,
what have you been doing?” Things were stacked everywhere, lamps and books and ashtrays and empty picture frames.
“She's cleaning,” Zita said sourly. “She says when the
signore
returns, everything must sparkle. All these things”âshe waved one wrinkled handâ“all of these have to go down to the church to be given away. A fresh start in Villa Puccini, she says. A new broom sweeps clean! She's ordered all sorts of new things from Milano.” She dropped her voice. “She says she's getting rid of everything that ever troubled her.”
signore
returns, everything must sparkle. All these things”âshe waved one wrinkled handâ“all of these have to go down to the church to be given away. A fresh start in Villa Puccini, she says. A new broom sweeps clean! She's ordered all sorts of new things from Milano.” She dropped her voice. “She says she's getting rid of everything that ever troubled her.”
“I don't know if the
signore
will like that. Some of these things are his.”
signore
will like that. Some of these things are his.”
“
Lo so, lo so,
but it's not my problem. She'll have to explain to him.” Zita tapped her temple and rolled her eyes.
“Pazza,”
she whispered. “Worse than ever.”
Lo so, lo so,
but it's not my problem. She'll have to explain to him.” Zita tapped her temple and rolled her eyes.
“Pazza,”
she whispered. “Worse than ever.”
“Where is she now?”
For answer, Zita pointed her finger up at the ceiling. Doria nodded. “I'll take her some tea,” she said. “Oh, and her package.” She took it from under her arm and set it on the counter next to a jumble of things she had dusted many times. She wouldn't mind a few of them going away, really. So many little gifts from people all over, given to Puccini in appreciation! They did take up a lot of space and gather an impressive amount of dust.
She filled the kettle and began to gather the tea things, fill the creamer, set a tray with a pretty cup and saucer from the breakfront in the dining room. At the last moment she decided the apron was a good idea. Zita lent her one of hers, and though it was a little short, it was clean and pressed.
She put the package on the tray next to the teacup, and carried everything up the narrow stairs. She stopped outside the bedroom door, and called in her most polite voice, “Signora Puccini? It's Doria. I came as you asked me to, and I have the package from the chemist's.”
The door flew open with a bang, making Doria start, and the tray tilt in her hands. She stared at Elvira Puccini, hardly recognizing her as the same strong woman who had assaulted her on the church steps on Christmas Day.
The roots of Elvira's hair showed shockingly gray. Her cheeks were sallow, and her eyes glittered so that Doria wondered if she had taken opium. Her shirtwaist was stained across the bosom, and the hem of her skirt had come loose to drag unevenly on the floor. She had an enormous black shawl around her shoulders. She looked, indeed, like a madwoman.
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