Authors: Rosemary Fifield
It
was the perfect question to get the old woman off the topic of Connie’s failed
relationship with her grandson. She had just begun enumerating her litany of
ailments when Nino’s sister Carmen approached, summoning her grandmother to
solve a problem in the kitchen.
Signora
Scarpa disappeared into the ever-increasing
crowd of well-wishers as quickly as she had come.
“You’re
such a pro,” Angie said as she pulled out the chair across from Connie and flopped
into it.
Connie
remained standing to survey the crowd. Frankie was near the stage, talking with
members of the band. He looked sharper than usual, his dark hair neatly combed
back and his clothes appropriate to the occasion. Frankie’s brother Carl must
have loaned him the sport coat..
She
continued to search for Nino, finally spotting him in the far corner, laughing
with his cousins. He was standing tall and straight, handsome in a pale blue
shirt and crisply creased trousers, his dark curls full the way she liked them.
A small, sharp pang of regret shot through her. But she couldn’t take
Signora
Scarpa’s words to heart. She wasn’t responsible for Nino’s decision to join the
marines.
“Hey,
Con.”
Connie
turned at the sound of the familiar male voice and looked into Paul Cefalu’s breath-taking
blue eyes. His expression was solemn, his lips unsmiling, and all she could
think about was how much she wanted to feel those lips pressed against hers
once more.
“Just
coming over to see my grandparents.” He gestured toward the elder Cefalus
seated beside her grandmother at the far end of the table, then turned toward
Angie and nodded. “Angela. You’re looking fine tonight.”
To
Connie’s surprise, Angie gave him a shy smile while two flaming red patches
colored her otherwise pale cheeks. But why not? The girl would be turning
sixteen soon, and being noticed by Paul Cefalu was no small thing.
“You
gonna miss him?” Paul asked, turning back to Connie. His mesmerizing gaze
traveled from her eyes to her mouth and back again.
Connie
did her best to keep her rapidly pounding heart from affecting her breathing. “Sure.
Aren’t you?”
“Yeah.
A lot. If it wasn’t for the damn apprenticeship, I’d be going with them.” The
emotion in his voice took Connie by surprise.
“You
don’t have to tell me that,” she said softly. “I know they’re your best buddies.”
Paul
nodded, then looked away, blinking rapidly as he said, “I gotta say hi to my
nonna. I’ll see you around.” He turned and walked away from her, then bent to
kiss his grandmother on the cheek and greet his grandfather. Connie watched
him, thinking about the effect Nino’s and Frankie’s departures were going to have
on a number of people in the neighborhood. While they might not be aware of it
on a daily basis, all of their lives were interwoven in ways one didn’t notice
until something caused the fabric to unravel.
The
accordion player in the band played a few chords into the microphone, and
Frankie’s father stepped up to the mike to ask everyone to be seated. As dozens
of chairs shuffled and conversations quieted, women and girls appeared from the
basement kitchen behind the stage with bowls of spaghetti and sauce and
platters of meatballs to bring to the tables. Scarpa and Fiorello men with
bottles of red wine in each hand approached the tables to fill the glasses
being turned upright by their guests.
Mamma
had settled into the chair beside Angie, and she led her family in the saying
of grace as a bowl of fragrant marinara sauce was placed in front of them.
Connie smiled into Angie’s eyes, then looked at Gianna beside her and gave her
a smile as well. These were definitely the best of times, being surrounded by
family and friends this way, and she knew things would not always be this good.
When
the entrée was finished, the women brought servings of spumoni and plates of
homemade biscotti to the tables, while the men poured more wine all around.
Father Ianelli was among the well-wishers invited to the meal, and he made a
point of not noticing how much wine was being distributed in his church
basement. Frankie’s father took the stage once more and drew their attention to
the baskets at the corners of the stage. Donations would be taken, he said, to
buy personal items to send to the troops in Vietnam—warm socks and soap and stationery—and
he hoped that people would write to his boy and to Nino wherever they might be
stationed to keep them from missing home too much. Someone in the crowd stood
up to tell a funny kindergarten story about Frankie, and soon the entire room
was laughing as more stories were told and more wine was poured. The band began
to play at some point, and people worked together to clear the tables and move
them to the sides of the hall to create a dance floor.
As
Nino and Frankie led their mothers to the center of the room, Angie said, “It’s
like a wedding.”
Just
so it’s not instead of one
.
Before
long the dance floor was filled with couples, plus a few small children who
broke away from their caregivers to join them. When Nino stepped up and
offered his hand to Connie, she rose and moved into his arms with a smile, resting
her cheek against his as they danced a slow dance. He smelled of Canoe, her
favorite aftershave, and his embrace was familiar and welcome.
“A
bunch of us are going to Silvio’s when this is over,” he said into her ear. “You
wanna come?”
Connie
shook her head. “I’m not twenty-one.”
“Neither
am I. Paul’s got some ID’s. They aren’t going to check us, anyway. They never
do.”
“I
don’t think so. I’m not a drinker, Nino.”
He
brushed the tip of his nose playfully against hers. “I want to spend my last
night with you, Con,” he whispered. “Monday night. Can we do that?”
His
words made her feel like crying. “Don’t ask me that. You know I can’t do that.”
“It
doesn’t have to be the whole night. But I need something to remember, Con, when
I’m far away. And I want it to be you. You and me. Can’t you figure out
something?”
What
was he talking about? They had never gone all the way, and she wasn’t about to
give her virginity to him just because he was leaving. “Come on, this isn’t
fair.”
Nino
pulled her closer to him, pressing her breasts against his chest and burying
his face in the fullness of her hair. “What’s not fair, Con? I love you. I
always have.” His thigh pressed into the space between her legs.
He
was embarrassing and disrespecting her. “Stop it, Nino. Everybody we know is
here.”
“And
they all know how I feel about you.”
Connie
pulled back to look into his eyes, her jaw set in anger. “Bullshit. You and I
haven’t gone out for two years. You should be spending your last night with
Tina. What happened? She already said no?”
“All
right, all right, don’t get ticked.” Nino eased up his hold on her. His soft
brown gaze bored into hers, and he was his old boyish self once more. “Just
explain to me why I’m old enough to fight for this country, but not old enough
to drink or get laid.”
“You’re
old enough to get laid.” Connie smiled into his eyes. “Just not by me. And
that’s not personal. I’m not going there with anybody right now.”
“Paul’s
gonna ask you out.”
“What?
Why do you say that?”
Nino’s
expression hardened. “Because I’m leaving. I know he will. He’s always stayed
away from you because of me, but now he’ll ask you out.”
“Why
would he? He’s not short on girls to date.”
Nino’s
mouth set in a thin line. “That’s not exactly the answer I was hoping for.”
Connie
frowned at him.“What are you hoping for? That I’m going to wait for you? Nino,
what do I have to say? I love you as a friend. I only want the best for you,
but I’m not your girl.”
“So,
if he asks you out, you’ll go?”
Why
was he pursuing this? “I don’t know. That’s not even worth talking about.”
“So,
you’ll say no to me, but maybe yes to Paul? Why?”
Connie
widened her eyes at him and whispered through clenched teeth. “You’re making a
mountain out of a molehill! He hasn’t asked me! I haven’t said yes! Why are we
fighting about something that hasn’t happened? Is this really how you want to
remember our time together?”
“I
told you how I want to remember our time together,” he answered, nuzzling her
neck once more.
“And
that’s real great,” Connie said in disgust. “That’s just so compelling.” She
wanted to push him away, but too many people in the room would have noticed.
Nino
pulled back to look in her face. “Compelling? Who the hell says
compelling
?”
His eyes flashed with anger. “Is that what it is, Con? You’re just so much
better than me now that you go to fuckin’ UVM?”
Connie
glared back at him. “Yeah, that’s it. I knew you’d figure it out. So, do you
want to make a scene right here, in front of everyone, or do you want to keep
smiling and dancing like we’re having a good time? Because this is your party,
not mine.”
Nino
pulled her to him once more and pressed his head against hers. “I’m sorry. I’m
just so damned on edge.”
“I
know.” Connie closed her eyes and leaned against him as they swayed to the
final bars of the song. “I’m sorry, too. For a lot of things. For disappointing
you too many times. But—“
“Shhh!
Let me just remember the part about you being sorry.” He leaned back to give
her his appealing grin, then moved forward and kissed her full on the lips. She
savored the feel of his mouth on hers as they held the kiss, until a few people
nearby clapped and whistled. Nino released her and laughed while Connie
blushed.
“Kiss
all the girls you can while they feel bad about you leaving!” someone shouted,
and more people began to clap and laugh.
A
grinning Nino turned away from Connie and opened his arms in a gesture of
welcome to all the girls in the room. The crowd burst into cheers and whistles,
and as a few girls boldly stepped forward with inviting smiles on their faces,
Connie quietly left his side. The familiar, satisfying pressure of his lips on
hers was still achingly intense, and she couldn’t bear to watch him sharing
that with anyone else, no matter how superficial the gesture.
Chapter Nine
Saturday,
October 5
Marilyn
sat cross-legged on the couch, the spine of her history textbook resting on her
ankles. She had come home with Connie to spend the weekend off-campus.
Her
gaze was currently directed toward the kitchen where Gianna and David were hovering
over the stove, working together on Saturday night’s family dinner. “Do you
think they do the dirty?” she whispered.
Connie
was seated next to her, reading about yellow journalism during the Spanish
American War. She glanced into the kitchen. Gianna had one hand on David’s bare
forearm, and the two of them were laughing together as she taught him to make
risotto.
“The
priest and the nun? I don’t think so.” Connie stared at them a moment longer,
pondering the possibility. “I don’t think they would. They’re both too
Catholic. They’ll wait.” She returned her attention to the book in her lap.
“You
think they’ll get married?”
“They
seem pretty happy. Very happy.”
“What
about the relatives?”
Connie
looked up at Marilyn. “She had a talk with our grandma and told her about him.
I guess she made it pretty clear that it wasn’t up for discussion, just a
courtesy announcement so she wouldn’t be surprised. I think she’s counting on
Nonna to spread the word.”
“How
did she take it? Your grandma.”
“Pooh!
They don’t even like to see non-Italians brought into the family, not to
mention another race.”
The
statement gave Marilyn the perfect segue for a remark about white-bread Greg,
but she didn’t take it. Ever since Nino’s departure for Parris Island, Connie had
been down, and her friends and family seemed to know better than to tease her.
Greg himself had noted her depression and had been giving her space, letting
her take the lead in conversations when they rode together the past two weeks,
respecting her silences when she didn’t feel conversational. On both Fridays,
he had made plans that kept him from carpooling with her, and he hadn’t asked
her again about joining his friends on a Saturday. She wouldn’t have gone
anyway; mostly she just wanted to keep to herself these days.
As
if reading her mind, Marilyn said, “Have you heard from Nino?”
Connie
shook her head. “No. But he said that might happen. I’ve written him twice now,
just letting him know about stuff and that we’re all thinking about him and
Frankie. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Marilyn
went back to reading her book, but Connie could no longer concentrate on William
Randolph Hearst. She left the couch and wandered into the kitchen in time to
see David plant a kiss on Gianna’s cheek.
He
laughed self-consciously when he realized she had entered the room, his golden-brown
eyes tracking her as she went past them to the refrigerator. “You weren’t
supposed to see that.”
Connie
opened the refrigerator. “Why not? Except that you’re making me jealous.” She bent
down and pulled out a pitcher of green Kool-Aid. “What’s for supper?”
“
Risotto
alla Milanese
,” he said, rolling his “r” perfectly, “breaded veal with
lemon juice and those little green things—”
“Capers,”
Connie said, as she straightened up and shut the door. “Good accent on the ‘
Milanese,’
by the way.”
“
Grazie.
And…” He gave Gianna an inquisitive look, regarding her with a tenderness Connie
couldn’t help but notice.
“
Finocchio
,”
Gianna answered, smiling into his eyes. “Fennel salad.”
“Sounds
great. Too bad Angie’s not here this weekend,” Connie said. “Risotto’s one of
her favorites.” She filled two glasses with Kool-Aid, then glanced toward
Gianna and David once more, lifting the pitcher toward them as if in a toast.
“Fake lime stuff, anyone?”
“Thanks,
but I’ll stick to
l’acqua
,” David replied, holding up a glass of water.
“She’s
turning you into a real linguist.” Connie put the pitcher back into the
refrigerator, then picked up her glasses from the counter.
“Whatever
it takes to impress your father.” David’s gaze rested on Gianna’s face as he
spoke, and Gianna kept her gaze on him.
Connie
carried her beverages into the living room. “It might be happening sooner than
I think,” she whispered as she handed Marilyn a glass. “It’s pretty steamy in
there, and I’m not talking about the risotto.”
***
Angie
came home on Sunday afternoon, just as Connie and Marilyn were taking their
turn at making dinner. Connie had learned not to ask Angie where she went; the
girl wouldn’t talk about it and neither would their parents. While the secrecy
irritated her, Connie had come to accept it as none of her business—albeit
resentfully—and so when Angie appeared at the kitchen door, Connie merely
introduced her to Marilyn and went back to browning meat for beef stew. Angie
went into the living room to join Mamma, leaving Connie and Marilyn working
side by side in the kitchen.
“She’s
very interesting,” Marilyn said as she peeled potatoes into a colander in the
sink.
“How
so?”
“She
doesn’t look like the rest of you at all.”
Connie
turned down the heat under the Dutch oven’s sizzling cubes of beef. “What are
you talking about? Of course she does.”
“I
don’t think so. She looks very French to me. She has smaller features and a
different way of carrying herself.”
“She’s
fifteen. She’s still growing.” Connie poured water and wine into the pot and
stirred up the browned bits on the bottom.
“It’s
not that. You and Gianna have a way about you that’s very similar. And your
mother, too. A certain bearing and a fullness to your face. Plus, I can see
your dad in your eyes. Angie’s very different from the rest of you. She’s got
almond-shaped eyes and finer hair. Finer bone structure in her face. Plus,
she’s more cat-like.”
Connie
stared at Marilyn, then burst out laughing. “Wow. That’s a lot to get out of a fifteen-second
introduction.”
Marilyn
looked offended. “I’m a visual person. I notice details.”
“So,
what are you saying?” Connie asked, still grinning. “My mother had an affair
with a Frenchman?”
“I’m
not saying anything. I’m just surprised at how different she is. But, you’re
the geneticist, not me. I suspect it’s all about retentive genes, or whatever
you call them.”
“Recessive.”Connie
considered her words for a moment, her mind going to Paul. “Maybe it is. I have
this friend who’s got the bluest eyes you could ever imagine, and everyone else
in his family has brown. But somewhere along the line, both sides had a
blue-eyed ancestor, and they’ve been passing along that gene behind the brown
eyes for generations. His parents finally gave two blue-eyed genes to the same
kid.”
Connie
concentrated on stirring the brown bits up from the bottom of the pot. Marilyn’s
comment about Angie looking French repeated in her head. Mr. LaCroix was
French-Canadian. He was small and wiry. But how absurd. Mamma would never cheat
on Papa. Anger with herself for even thinking that way flooded Connie. She
returned the meat to the pot, turned up the heat beneath it, and put on the
cover.
Mr.
LaCroix
? If so, why would he
dare to keep coming around, being a friend to Papa, bringing him presents? To
make up for what they had done? To see Angie, who was really his daughter?
That
was ridiculous. He was from Swanton, way up north near the Canadian border. He
had a wife and a son who was a year younger than Connie. He had brought the boy
down with him on one of his trips years ago. Connie remembered
him—Francis—because he was born with a cleft palate that had been poorly
repaired, leaving him with a malformed upper lip.
“Okay,
the potatoes and the carrots are peeled. What next? Onions?” Marilyn’s words
brought Connie back to the task at hand.
She
adjusted the heat beneath the pot and went to retrieve an onion from the bag of
onions beside the stove.
***
As
she had once before, Connie found herself studying Angie when the family and
Marilyn sat down to supper. Frankie had caused her to do it last time, when he
said Angie was no run-of-the-mill Italian girl. But as before, all she saw was
her familiar dark-haired, dark-eyed sprite of a sister.
“You’re
quiet,” she said to Angie, seated across from her.
Angie
stirred the stew in her bowl. “I’m tired.”
“How
come?”
“I
was outside all day.” She picked up a spoonful of stew and focused on the steam
rising from it.
“Doing
what?”
“Hunting.”
The hint of a smile gave her away; she was purposely leading Connie on.
Connie
played along. “Hunting what? Boys?”
“Timberdoodles.”
Angie looked up with a grin, knowing Connie had no idea if her answer was valid
or not.
Marilyn
came to Connie’s rescue. “Woodcocks. They’re birds. My uncles hunt them.”
Connie
gawked at Angie. “Hunting birds? You don’t have the heart to kill anything.”
“I
don’t have a license either. I just went with.”
“With
who?”
“Whom,”
Angie corrected her. “Francis LaCroix.”
How
could that be?
“Say what?”
Angie’s
delight at Connie’s surprise was obvious.“I went hunting with Francis LaCroix—Mr.
LaCroix’s son.”
Connie
remained dumbfounded. “Why?”
“I
like him.”
“How
do you even know him? Mr. LaCroix brought him here once.” Connie glanced at Mamma,
curious to see her reaction to this conversation. A reference to the LaCroixs
was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Mamma was looking down the table at
Angie, apparently waiting to hear what her youngest child had to say.
“He’s
been here more than that.” Angie reached for a piece of bread from the plate on
the table. “You just haven’t been around.”
Connie
was incredulous. Mamma required an act of Congress to let Connie ride to
college with a fellow student, but fifteen-year-old Angie could spend the day
with Francis LaCroix, a boy three years her senior? Unless…
“Besides,
David was there,” Angie said as she buttered her bread.
“Gianna’s
David?” The story was becoming more bizarre by the minute.
“Yeah.
He knows the LaCroixs.”
That
seemed too unlikely to be a coincidence. “How? They live on opposite sides of
the state.”
Angie
bit into her bread. “Something to do with the museum. Mr. LaCroix brings them
specimens or something.”
“Was
David hunting?” Somehow that didn’t fit Connie’s image of him.
“Yeah.
Did you know he was in the army? He’s a crack shooter. But he prefers water
birds. He goes hunting for Canadian geese.”
Connie
shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know anything. So, was Gigi there, too, or
did she really go to a friend’s wedding shower today?”
“She
wasn’t there.” Angie giggled. “Can you see her in camo, sneaking through the
woods?”
No,
but I can see you. Because you are different somehow. Cat-like where the rest
of us resemble sturdy cocker spaniels.
Papa
cleared his throat. Too much conversation was taking place at his dinner table.
Angie gave him an apologetic smile, and they all went back to eating.
***
Greg
was obviously surprised to find two women waiting for him when he wheeled into
the Park and Ride on Monday morning. He slid onto the station wagon’s front
seat—which Marilyn had left open for him by settling in the back—and twisted
around to look over the seat as Connie made introductions.
“Marilyn
spent the weekend at my house,” Connie explained as she drove out of the lot. “Her
family’s in Brattleboro.”
Greg
and Marilyn chatted about UVM and her hometown in southern Vermont, and Connie
let her mind wander to other things, like Angie’s unexpected relationship with
the LaCroix family. Did she have a crush on Francis LaCroix, and her parents
considered it harmless because they knew the family? Angie wasn’t even sixteen
yet.