The Queen of the Big Time (28 page)

Celeste follows me up the walk. Assunta’s hair has been put up
in a lovely circle of curls. I help her into the gown, a white satin A-line gown with an embroidered bodice and long fluted sleeves and an overskirt of layered white tulle. The netting looks like a cloud of whipped cream.

Elena, in a chic pale blue suit, adjusts the skirt of Assunta’s gown. Mama looks at Assunta and gasps. “You look just like your mother.”

“I do?”

“Just as she did on her wedding day.” Tears spring into Mama’s eyes. Elena puts her arms around Mama.

Celeste fluffs the layers of tulle on Assunta’s gown. “Don’t touch that, Celeste,” I tell my daughter.

“Assunta, I want to give you something.” Mama reaches into her pocket and gives Assunta a small black velvet box. “Your mother was my eldest daughter, and someday I would have given her this.…”

Assunta opens the box and lifts out the gold locket with the blue sapphire that Papa gave Mama so many years ago. “Thank you, Nonna. I love it.”

Assunta leans down as I clip the locket around her neck. “You know, before you were born, your mother wanted you to be named Celestina, for your nonna.”

“Like me!” my Celeste says proudly.

“Yes, honey, like you.” Elena smooths my daughter’s hair.

I look at Assunta. “But when your father came home from Italy after your mother died, he took one look at you and named you after her.”

Assunta’s eyes fill with tears. “I wish she was here.”

“We all do,” Elena assures her, even though the story of her own life would have turned out far differently. We gather around Assunta, our queen of the Big Time, and embrace her. We can’t make up for her mother’s absence, but at least we can help her remember how much she was loved by our sister.

The July sun is hot on the plaza as Assunta crowns the statue of the Blessed Mother. After the war, the women in town donated their rings
to make new crowns for the statues, a glittering one for Mary and a smaller one for baby Jesus, who she holds in her arms. I donated a gold signet ring that Franco had given me, and I take great pride in looking up at the gold crowns and knowing that my love for Franco is a part of them. There are some women who gave their wedding bands, but I just couldn’t give mine up.

Celeste and Frankie do a wonderful job of carrying Assunta’s train as she walks up the front steps of the church to receive her crown. The ceremony is very moving, and we applaud Assunta as she is helped onto the float with a throne. As they parade down Garibaldi Avenue, Elena cries. Our niece, the little girl Elena mothered so tenderly, has grown up tall and strong, and now holds the highest honor a young woman in Roseto can achieve. Never mind she won the American way, selling tickets. She had the honor of crowning our patron saint; surely that means a life of good luck and happiness. I can’t help but think how far we’ve come from Delabole farm, how so many years ago, for one of us to become the queen of the Big Time seemed impossible. But we are outsiders no longer. All those years toiling in the Society of Mary, working in the mill proving my mettle, and defending the family name when Elena married our brother-in-law seem to float away like the white balloons let loose over the church plaza when the parade begins.

One of Assunta’s duties as queen is to attend the carnival. I remember so many years ago what a thrill it was when the queen made her rounds. Assunta does a good job, including everyone in the fun.

“Quite a day,” Renato says when he stops by Alessandro’s candy stand, which is still set up across from the church every year out of tradition. For several years now, Alessandro has given the profits to Our Lady of Mount Carmel.

“Yes, it was, Father.”

“Thank you for all your help selling tickets. You know you made me look good with the bishop.”

“It’s all for a good cause.”

“Yes, I want to put a cafeteria in the primary school. The profits from the carnival will help a great deal.”

“Father, you should have been an urban planner. You’ve changed this town with the new schools and the park. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

“Thank you, Nella.” He smiles. “I couldn’t have done it without your generosity.” Now when I look at Renato, I don’t see the face I used to dream about, or the lips I used to kiss. I concentrate on that Roman collar, and it keeps me on the straight and narrow.

“Nella, I wanted to tell you, I have some news. I’m leaving Our Lady of Mount Carmel. I’ve been assigned to a parish in New York.”

My heart sinks a little. Though we don’t go to church here, I always knew that Renato was up the street. I might run into him at firehouse suppers and on the street when I take my evening walk. He is so much a part of Roseto that it is hard to imagine the community without him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My replacement starts the first week of September. He’s a terrific priest. Father Schmidt.”

“The bishop is going with a non-Italian?”

“Change is good. The people will like him, I’m sure.”

“You did a great job for Roseto, Father.”

“I didn’t reach all of my goals. I wanted to build a hospital here.”

The din of the crowd and the sizzle and shouts from the sausage and pepper stand make it hard to hear. I look at Renato, and he smiles at me.

“I’m thirty-five years old now,” I tell him. “I’ve known you half of my life.”

“And I’m still seven years older than you.”

“I know. You’re an old man,” I joke.

He laughs. “Nella, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him, looking away because suddenly I can’t bear to look at him.

“I’ll miss you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to leave a second time without saying good-bye.”

“Thank you.”

“You see, there is redemption. Sometimes we don’t have to make the same mistakes twice.”

Renato is pulled away by a parishioner, anxious to introduce him to her family. I don’t know it for sure, but I feel that this is the last I will see of him for many years.

The fall of 1959 brings big changes in our household. Soon after my daughter, Celeste, has turned twenty, she decides that her November wedding to Giovanni Melfi, a nice Neopolitan boy from Philadelphia, should somehow top the Queen of England’s. Our Lady of Mount Carmel is filled with calla lilies, the Hotel Bethlehem has been festooned with dozens more, and the glamorous New York City boutique Sully of Fifth Avenue has built her a gown with more beads than a Moroccan temple.

“Are you surprised?” my husband says as he hunts for his shoehorn. “Celeste is no farm girl.”

“She’s a chicken-in-every-pot baby, and, boy, does she act like it. Spoiled rotten.”

“I can hear you,” Celeste says from her room. “I need some help in here.”

I go into Celeste’s room. She stands in her slip, stockings, and garter. When I look at her, I am amazed that she is a woman. Where did the time go?

“The train is going to be a problem.”

“Because it’s eight feet long?” I joke.

But Celeste looks lovely, like one of those carved cameo beauties from the old world. Her brown eyes sparkle under a cap of short black curls. She looks like an Italian movie star. She has her father’s strong jaw and my nose. She is prettier than me; in fact, she has the best features
of the Castellucas and the Zolleranos. She is far too young to get married, I think, but this is her choice. She was in her first year of college at Marywood and decided it wasn’t for her. Giovanni was willing to wait until she graduated, but she wasn’t. As we all know, my Celeste doesn’t take no for an answer.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell my daughter.

“You think so?”

“Of course I do.”

“You never say it.” There is a sudden sting to her voice.

“What do you mean? I say it all the time.”

“Ma, you have never said it.”

“That’s just not true,” I argue.

“Oh, please. Let’s not fight on my wedding day. Let’s make it the one day we don’t fight. Okay?” Celeste sits down at her vanity and gently presses powder to her forehead.

“I know we squabble.”

“That’s a polite word for it.” She laughs.

“It’s not funny.” I put my hands on her shoulders, and she looks up at me.

“Ma, please. Let’s not get started. I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too.” I turn to go.

“You just don’t get it,” Celeste says to my back.

“What is it I don’t get? That you have everything you’ve ever wanted? That you live in a nice house and went to a good college? That you have a big wedding with three hundred people in the Hotel Bethlehem, a place I didn’t set foot in until I was thirty-four years old?”

“Here we go … the Delabole farm stories. The poor Castellucas who made good. They went from the cowshed to Garibaldi Avenue.”

“And don’t forget it.”

“Oh, Ma, you don’t let anybody forget it.”

“Because it’s important. What you come from is who you are—it’s
your starting place. To come from nothing and make something of yourself, to provide for a family, is no small feat. You will see what I’m talking about when you’re a mother.”

“Oh, please. You want everybody to know how hard you’ve worked. Well, I’m going to tell you something: You did work hard. You worked so hard you were never home. I barely ever had a meal with you—”

“You were with your grandparents. I never had both sets of my grandparents when I was growing up on the farm.”

“Mom, this isn’t about what
you
had, this is about
me
. You were never here, which is why I left Marywood. What is the point in getting a degree when I have no intention of leaving my children?”

“I never
left
you, Celeste.”

“You didn’t have to—you weren’t here in the first place. Ask Frankie. I’m not the only one who felt abandoned.”

Celeste’s words go through me like tiny knives, each one splintering my heart as it sinks in my chest. What is she talking about? Abandoned? She and Frankie were surrounded by family. We worked within walking distance of our children when we bought a mill down the street, we gave them all the things we never had. Celeste traveled! She had vacations; what did I ever know of vacations? She went to Atlantic City and Miami Beach and places I only dreamed of and could never go because I was working. Working for what? For my children. If it weren’t her wedding day, I would tell her these things. But I doubt she’d hear them; she is not interested in anything I have to say.

“Nella, come and get ready.” Franco pulls me out of the doorway. “Let her be.”

I go into our room and dress. Franco goes into Celeste’s room and closes the door. I don’t want to know what they’re talking about. If Celeste knew what it was like to do without, she could never say such hateful things to me.

When Franco returns he takes my hand and says, “Honey, Celeste wants to talk to you before we go to the church.”

I go into her room. She wears a glittering tiara and a veil of tulle that surrounds her like a cloud.

“I’m sorry, Celeste.”

Celeste’s eyes fill with tears, and it dawns on me that she was never much of a crier. “I know, Ma. And I’m sorry for my smart mouth.”

“I did the best I could, honey. I hope you understand that someday.”

“I do understand it. I just get impatient.”

“I want you to be happy. I want it more for you than myself. That was always my dream for you. To do better. To be better.”

“And I’ll try.”

Instead of riding up to Our Lady of Mount Carmel, which we rejoined when the new Catholic school opened in 1952, Franco, Celeste, and I walk up the hill in the bright November sun. Frankie and his wife have gone ahead to make sure the ushers are in place before we arrive. Franco holds Celeste’s left hand while I hold her right. This is the last time we will have her to ourselves. Maybe my daughter is right, maybe we didn’t have enough of these moments.

“Thank you, Ma,” Celeste says to me as I go up the stairs to take my place in church.

I turn to my only daughter. “Be happy.” And I mean it down to my bones.

“I’m taking you to Italy for your fiftieth birthday,” Franco says from his desk at the mill.

“It’s a bad time of year, hon. We have our biggest shipment for the spring line in January.”

“If we don’t go now, we’re never going to go,” he warns. “I want to take you to Venice, Florence, and Rome. And then we’ll drive south to Roseto Valfortore.”

“Okay, plan it.” I kiss Franco on his head. “But make sure it’s two weeks between shipping and starting the new line.”

“You got it, boss.” My husband pinches me as I pass.

My husband, always the romantic, wants to see Roseto Valfortore.

“The house is too quiet with Frankie and Celeste married. I can’t believe both of my kids left Roseto.” Franco shakes his head. “We need some new interests.”

“We have plenty to do with this mill,” I remind him.

“Why don’t we sell it?”

“What? Are you crazy? We’re making money hand over fist.”

“I know. But how much do we need? We own the house outright, and this building. Who knows what we would get for the business? Probably what we ask. Let’s just let it go and see the world.”

I sit down on the edge of my husband’s desk and fold my arms. “And then do what?”

“Relax.” He slides his hand under my skirt.

“Oh, for God’s sake, that’s only a few minutes of activity a day.”

He laughs. “I could make it last longer.”

I lean down and kiss the top of his head.

“Aren’t you tired of working?” he asks. “You’ve been doing this since you’re fifteen.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve grown to love it.”

“But it can’t love you back.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. It does a pretty good imitation of it when the checks come in.”

“Okay, you win. Two weeks in Italy. That’s it. No early retirement.” Franco goes back to his paperwork. I watch him put on his glasses and put his head in his hand as he works. He reminds me of Mr. Jenkins, who must have been around Franco’s age when he hired me. Would I ever make a sixteen-year-old girl a forelady? Never. But old Jenkins saw something in me.

Sometimes it seems like it was yesterday, and then there are days when my life feels double the fifty years and I can stop moments in my memory and relive them, actually feeling the things I used to feel. When it’s bitter cold on a winter morning, I remember going to the
barn at Delabole farm and milking the cows with Mama. When the weather turns to spring, I think of Renato Lanzara giving me books on the shore of Minsi Lake. When the summer comes, I remember Franco’s kisses on the porch on Dewey Street, and then, when it’s winter, I remember my sister who died as her baby was born.