The pale blue envelope postmarked Erhart, Ohio arrived several weeks later. Willa recognized her mother’s stationery. She took the letter to their bedroom where she would be alone and opened it, taking care not to tear it in case a money order or a check was inside. She removed the note and unfolded it. Nothing. She searched the floor. Nothing. Of course. They would have sent the money to Firenze as she had asked. Or perhaps the ticket. She read the note:
Dearest Willa,
It sounds as if you have become a little homesick. It’s something that often happens to new brides, especially those who have decided to live far from their families. I felt quite lonely as a newlywed. So much changes when a woman gets married, doesn’t it? We’re sure that you will feel much better after this period of adjustment. Meanwhile, if you and Gabriele would like to visit here, we’ll plan a reception for you at The Pavilion.
All our love, Mother.
Willa tore the letter into unreadable pieces and let them fall to the floor. Then she threw herself face down on the unmade bed, too exhausted to cry. I must leave before Orvieto swallows me up. Tomorrow! I’ll go tomorrow. Her thoughts whirled. At least in Firenze people understood my ambitions. But would they if I had a baby? Could I hide it? Give it to Gabriele or someone else? People do that, don’t they? Isn’t there a way to stop a baby? Signora Farnese would know.
Willa put some clean underwear, a nightgown, robe, and two of her loosest dresses in her suitcase. She put an extra pair of shoes in her carpetbag and some jewelry, but left the wedding necklace on the bureau. I’ll need work. She recalled the American businessman at Signora Farnese’s luncheon who had offered her a job. She scrambled through her drawers and suitcase. At last she found his business card inside her address book. She tore a small opening in the lining of her purse where she concealed what little money she could find, her Italian identity card, her American passport, and the business card. Then, despite the warm day, she put on her coat, picked up her carpetbag with one hand and her suitcase with the other, and made her way down the front stairs, wary in the silent house. Once outside, she closed the front door softly behind her, walked to the lane, and followed the main road in the direction of the station. The sounds of insects and birds played against the otherwise silent countryside. She inhaled the scents of grasses and herbs mixed with earth. I’ll miss the smell of Orvieto, she thought.
Ahead, a car approached. It was a large black Packard with chrome hubcaps like the one Eddie Ingersoll’s father had. She glimpsed the driver and the three passengers. They were laughing. The car passed on, stirring a cloud of dust that settled over her. She watched the car as it moved away from her. She had seen such cars in Orvieto before; they always belonged to day visitors, usually wealthy tourists from Firenze or Roma, occasionally more distant places. In the summer, the women wore dresses made of white lawn and fashionable shoes despite the difficulty of walking on cobblestoned streets. The men wore searsucker or linen suits, and some carried walking sticks with silver heads. Willa often tried to imagine what it might be like to participate in their glamorous, carefree lives and lively conversations, to be someone who traveled, who enjoyed what people called the finer things. The car came to a sudden halt, backed up, and stopped. A man in a pale suit and straw hat got out.
“I’ll be right back, Greta,” she overheard him say. He walked back to where Willa was standing.
“Buongiorno, signorina. We’ve come to see the Duomo and buy wine.” She couldn’t place his accent. “We need someone to guide us. Please, will you help us? We could pay you.” She hesitated, thinking of the other opportunities she had missed and how much she needed the money.
“Thank you, no. I’m on my way somewhere.” He nodded at her suitcase.
“I see you are traveling. We can drive you later.” Her stomach roiled. What if I threw up in their car? Unlike her, they were free to visit for a day, buy wine, dine out, and then return to lives far from this backward province where all the decisions were already made and where it was picturesque only if you lived someplace else.
“Thank you, but not today. You’ll find someone in town who can help you.” She continued on to the train station. Squinting in the bright sun, she returned to her thoughts of finding a job. She recalled Signora Farnese’s luncheon. If only I could go back to that day and start my life over again. Anyway, it hasn’t been so very long. Just a few months. It shouldn’t be too late. Keep a positive outlook and be confident, she told herself.
Donato, the clerk, looked up at her. He had lost his left eye in the Great War and wore a black eye patch. His hands trembled, though he was still young. “Battle fatigue,” people called it. Still, his infirmities did not hinder his knowing exactly who came and left each day, their starting points and their destinations, and the reasons for their trips. “Signora Marcheschi! Let me see. I’ll bet you’re going to Corfu today.” He chuckled.
Willa was thinking about what she might say to Signora Farnese. “I’m sorry for my behavior and I ask your forgiveness and your help,” she murmured.
Donato laughed. “Excuse me, Signora Marcheschi, the place for a confession is in the confessional. Here we sell only tickets.”
“Firenze,” Willa said quickly. “Today.” Donato took out the tickets and stamped each one carefully, slowly, in several places as if he were stamping them for the first time and wanted to do it perfectly. Then, he noted the transaction in his ledger in several places with equal care. I hope he doesn’t tell Gabriele where I’m going. She thought about Signora Farnese again, rehearsed a plan in her mind. Apologize. Chat pleasantly. Later, ask for “guidance” or “a suggestion,” “a recommendation” or maybe “a referral to someone who handles difficult situations.” Yes, that was how to put it. At that moment, Willa wanted to lie down on one of the worn benches in the dim waiting room. What would Donato think?
“Firenze is interesting, but you won’t enjoy it as much now that you’re going to be a mother,” Donato said. If he knows, then everyone does.
“No, I suppose not,” Willa said.
“Signora Marcheschi, I see that you’re going to Firenze today, too.”
Willa turned and looked into the round face of Sister Maria Cristina. She forced a smile. “Sister, how nice to see you.”
Sister Maria Cristina smiled back through crooked teeth. “We’ll sit together. You’ll tell me all about your happy news.” In that moment Willa understood that even in a city as large as Firenze neither her intentions nor her actions nor her condition could be concealed for long. She would have to go much farther away, to a place she didn’t know, couldn’t imagine. Her head ached.
“Your train arrives in fifteen minutes, and the trip takes two hours.” Donato handed her the tickets. “That will be four hundred lire, signora.”
“Is that for a round trip?”
“Yes, of course, unless you’re not planning to come back.” He shook with laughter at his own joke and winked at her with his good eye. If only I could say, “No, I’m only going one way and I’m never coming back,” Willa thought. What if I said that I’m not sure when I’ll be coming back? No. Even that would create questions.
Willa hesitated at the ticket window until Donato looked at her closely and spoke. “Are you all right, Signora Marcheschi? You don’t seem well today.” Willa gave Donato the money for the round-trip ticket and put the ticket in her purse.
“It’s your condition,” Sister Maria Cristina said. “Women who come from Orvieto are never sick during their pregnancies.” Willa nodded in agreement, knowing that her status as la straniera marked her as an unhealthy exception. “Tell me, how do you like your new life here?” Maria Cristina leaned forward slightly. A silver cross dangled from the thin silver chain around her neck.
“It’s very nice,” Willa said. She watched the cross swing back and forth.
“And what do you like best about our city of Orvieto?”
“The weather..,” Willa said.
Maria Cristina moved, and her cross continuted to swing back and forth. She waited like a cat waits for a bird.
“…and the Duomo is interesting,” Willa added, thinking this observation might make a favorable impression on Maria Cristina. The cross moved as if Maria Cristina controlled it by her will alone.
Willa looked away. “And what do you like best about Orvieto, Sister?”
“It’s been my family’s home for many generations.”
“I cannot say the same.”
Maria Cristina looked genuinely surprised. “Why not? The Marcheschi’s have been in Orvieto even longer than the Orsinis.”
“Excuse me,” Willa said. She hurried to the bathroom at the end of the platform, leaving her suitcase and coat outside the door. Inside, the smell of the open toilet overwhelmed her. She braced her hands on the wooden seat and vomited into the round opening. Her skin felt cold and hot at the same time. She wanted some water. Never mind. I’ll get some on the train. She opened the rough, wooden door, saw that her train was about to leave. She stumbled over the rocky path and boarded the second-class coach just as the conductor blew his whistle. He closed the door after her. She entered the first vacant compartment and sank down onto the faded red plush seat, pressing her cheek against the cool window. If no one came, she could lie down and sleep. The train began to move. She glanced out the window and saw her coat and suitcase next to the door to the toilet where she had left them. She clutched her carpetbag and her purse close to her chest. Maria Cristina opened the door and entered the compartment.
“Are you all right?” she said. “You left quite abruptly.” At that moment Willa felt grateful even for Maria Cristina’s false concern.
“A little ill.”
Maria Cristina took out her breviary and placed it in her lap. She glanced around the compartment and then smiled, raptor-like. “I don’t see your things,” she said.
“What will you enjoy most when you go to Firenze?” Willa said, thinking it a safe change of subject.
“I suppose you have time for enjoyment, but pleasure isn’t part of my calling. I’m going to Firenze on behalf of my convent.” Maria Cristina folded her hands in a steeple and placed them on the breviary. “And you?”
“I’m visiting a friend.” Willa took the blue sketchbook out of the carpetbag. Perhaps she could capture Maria Cristina’s ominous bulk. She opened the sketchbook to a blank page.
“Does Gabriele know?”
“What do you mean?” Willa asked.
“The Marcheschis never leave Orvieto. All of their friends and relatives are here.” It had only been a social question, Willa thought, relieved.
“I have a friend in Firenze, just the same.” Willa tried to smile, but her upper lip felt tight, as if it had been stretched and tacked down. She drew a sweeping curve across the page.
“Another artist-type like you?” Maria Cristina leaned forward to examine the line. The conductor came for their tickets.
“What?” Willa said absently. She handed the conductor her ticket. Sister Maria Cristina pounced.
“Your friend. Is he an artist-type?”
“No. Not really.”
“A lover then.” Stunned, Willa felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment and anger. Maria Cristina watched her discomfort. The conductor raised his eyebrows. He punched Maria Christina’s ticket and returned it to her.
“Why would you say that?” Willa asked so that the conductor would hear. “My friend is a woman.”
“My vocation doesn’t preclude knowledge of more worldly things.” Maria Cristina handed the conductor her ticket.
“But why would you say that to me?”
“It’s what everyone says,” Sister Maria Cristina replied. Willa recoiled at Maria Cristina’s revelation.
“Bless you, sister,” the conductor said, returning Maria Cristina’s ticket.
“And you think this, too?” Willa said.
Maria Cristina nodded. “Yes. Everyone thinks that you’re a woman of ill repute.”
The conductor stared at Willa.
“If I were what you said, then why would Gabriele have married me?” she asked Maria Cristina.
“You tricked him. One day, he’ll see his mistake.”
“And this is what you think, too?”
Maria Cristina nodded.
Willa realized how swiftly and fully she had been judged. It was worse than she had imagined. Worse than she could have imagined. Angry, she put her sketchbook away and stood up. “Then everyone is as ignorant as you are.”
“The truth is what it is,” Maria Cristina said, smiling. “You can’t walk away from it.”
In another car, Willa found a seat in an empty compartment. Trembling, she leaned into the corner and turned her face toward the wall, checking the scream that welled up inside her, allowing silent tears to course down her cheeks. It doesn’t matter what they think because I’m never going back. Ever. Still, why would strangers think such a thing? Was Maria Cristina telling the truth? Could that be why people had been so unpleasant? What about Signora Marcheschi? Doesn’t she know me as a daughter-in-law, a wife, and soon a mother?
Outside the window Willa looked at the village where the train had stopped. Here, too, are people who don’t know me. What if I get off and stay? What would these strangers imagine about me? That I’m an artist? A peasant? A loose woman? Una straniera? Am I responsible for what people see in me? A whistle sounded, and the train churned ahead. She imagined that it left behind a hole in the village into which everyone’s ideas about everyone else tumbled together in a stew of truths and falsehoods.