“Angela, how are you doing with Franco gone?” asked Sadie Malaci. She sipped her coffee and crossed her legs, her ankles so swollen that her elastic stockings bulged at her ankles.
Few people asked her how she was feeling since Franco’s death, so it was difficult to answer. There was an inevitability of death, and when it happened one embraced it as God’s will and part of life. Angela had experienced many death scenarios from violent to peaceful. The violent deaths she saw during the earthquake in Messina in 1908 and the quiet death of her sister-in-law, Speranza, from heart failure were opposite ends of the death spectrum. The time leading up to Franco’s death was a struggle, but when she thought of his last moments, she remembered his peace. Still, she felt he had left the earth with unfinished business.
“I’m fine. You know he worked his whole life but got little. He was too generous with people. He should have charged more for his services,” I said.
“As long as he had all those properties for income, I guess he didn’t have to charge so much,” said Sadie, sipping her coffee. “I seem to remember you have been generous with people too. You gave away your furniture to a newly arrived couple from Sicily, and you visited everyone in the Italian community who was sick. Raised your sister-in-law’s children and now Nunzio’s. Should I go on?”
“No, I do what I feel is right. Besides, I benefit too; it makes me stronger. When I came to this country, I was weak, but now I can contribute.”
“I don’t think you were ever weak.”
“I suppose,” said Angela. “Franco collected rents for many years and then sold the houses.”
“Well, that’s good for you,” said Sadie.
“Yes, and I am blessed with Felicia and the kids living here.”
“They were the second generation born in this country,” said Sadie. “It gets easier as future generations are born.”
“I guess we had to find our place,” said Angela.
In Sicily, there was a rigid social structure. People kept to their own social group or place in society. Angela’s father was of the merchant class, so all social activities revolved around other merchant families. In America, there appeared to be a fluid social structure, but there was still a framework.
“How’s the family?” Sadie asked.
“Very well. Felicia and Marie visited Joe in Manhattan not too long ago,” said Angela.
“It’s good that generations get to live together,” said Sadie. “People get to share what life was like for them. We all pave the way for each other.”
“I have never regretted leaving Sicily when I did. I avoided two world wars there,” said Angela. “It was clear that I was to leave.”
“You didn’t agonize over it?” asked Sadie.
“I did, but the Blessed Mother told me that I should take a chance, so I did.”
“You came to the new world because Mary the mother of God told you to? I thought you came because your family was killed in the earthquake, and you didn’t want to become a nun.”
“That is also true, but I know this is where I am supposed to be,” said Angela.
“So, you talk with spirits you can’t see and take advice?” asked Sadie.
“What do you mean?”
“I know you still talk to your sister-in-law Speranza and other people who have passed over,” said Sadie. “Who else do you talk to?”
“Should this be any of your business?” asked Angela.
“Nah, I guess not,” said Sadie. “Talk away if you like. We Italians like to say we mind our own business, but we both know we’re also nosey.”
Angela laughed and changed the subject. Sadie had been Angela’s friend for many years, and they shared many secrets, but Angela had never told Sadie about her unseen spirit friends. Angela thought it best to keep her spirit friends to herself. It was her secret weapon, her way of connecting with her deeper self and utilizing the information to benefit herself and other people.
“I need to be on my way,” said Sadie. “My daughter is coming by this afternoon.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Angela sipped espresso in her kitchen on Morning Glory Avenue. She looked out of her window into the garden and admired her ripening tomatoes and other vegetables. Her husband had been dead for a few months, and she remembered how he loved to turn the soil over for spring planting. Angela thought there would come a time when there would be no garden and that weeds would cover the soil.
Felicia, Angela’s nephew Nunzio’s widow, and her great-nieces and nephews lived upstairs, and she could not be happier. When Angela and Franco bought the house on Morning Glory Avenue, the second floor was a shell of potential to Angela. She visualized her family living and thriving upstairs, taking advantage of all America had to offer. Unable to bear children, Angela had wanted to adopt a child, but Franco was opposed. In hindsight, she saw that she was needed, first by her sister-in-law, Speranza’s children, and then by her nephew Nunzio’s children, all of which softened the blow of being childless. Her unseen friends told her that her mission was different from the women she knew.
Nunzio’s early death still loomed over the family dynamics, but it was not discussed. No one talked about Nunzio’s effect on the family, nor did it seem like he was missed. He had lived most of his life in the house on Morning Glory Avenue, he’d been gone for ten years, and people carried on. Felicia had decided to continue living on Morning Glory Avenue with Angela after Nunzio’s death, and when Angela awoke every morning, she was still heartened by the flurry of activity coming from upstairs. Felicia had gone into the workforce and found employment at as an office manager at a real estate title company. She was now so valued and successful that the owner had her doing closings on houses. Closings on homes were usually done by male attorneys, so whenever Felicia showed up, the other attorney was usually disgruntled that a woman was doing the closing.
Angela had helped Felicia create a stable home for the children. Even though she was a single mother, she had had assistance and support from Angela and Franco; the children did not have to want for anything and there was always someone in the house when the children returned from school. It was an extended family situation that worked.
When Angela first came to America, her sister-in-law, Speranza, was nine years old and in need of a mother figure. Childless herself, Angela filled that role, and when Speranza died at the age of twenty-eight, Angela and Franco had raised her children. Angela had been angered by Speranza’s choice of a husband, Salvatore, who had infantile paralysis and did not have a trade to support a family. The marriage was arranged by his sister Paolina, so Angela had blamed Salvatore and Paolina for Speranza’s ensuing ill health.
As a new American citizen, Angela was determined to integrate into her new situation but was also resolute about being herself. This was more important than culture or social class, it was about her essence. As the years passed and she became more connected to American culture, the unseen spirit world became more accessible, and she began to walk between the worlds.
When Angela had arrived in the United States, America was a young country that looked to the future instead of the past. Despite its youth, America had become a major power in the world.
The Italian-American community had integrated into mainstream America at a rapid rate. Angela had experienced America’s underbelly during the early 20th century—war, dark money, and political corruption—and now it was time to collect on America’s promise of freedom and equality. Angela was adept at navigating the changing American landscape. Felicia had provided the practical aspects of life to her children, but Angela provided them the vision.
She cleared the table and began to rearrange the pictures on the fireplace mantle. She liked to move pictures of family around; it was as if she gained a new perspective on events and relationships. She put pictures of her great-nieces and -nephews next to their grandmother Speranza. They had never met, but it was as if they were having a relationship.
She then straightened pictures on the dining room buffet. There was one of her nephew Nunzio and his wife Felicia and their two boys, Robert and Frank, taken in the backyard many years ago. Nunzio was the only one not smiling. He had a beautiful family, Angela thought, but he did not look happy. A photograph of Speranza’s children, Nunzio, Alicia, and Joe, sat beside the crystal bowl, taken when they were young. Nunzio stuck his tongue out at the camera, while Joe stood behind and held up his index and middle finger over his brother’s head. Alicia sat with legs crossed and her hands placed demurely in her lap. In another photo, Felicia’s daughters, Marie and Andrea, curtsied with wide-brimmed straw hats and flowered dresses.
A picture of Franco was beside the family photo, showing his full mustache, slicked back hair, and a suit and tie—all the accoutrements of style and success in the world. She had come to America fifty-five years ago, but she found as she grew older that distant memories seemed to move closer to the present. They did not want to die out with Angela; they wanted to be passed on.
Angela remembered her father’s funeral and how the priest talked about the need for more protection for silk traders who traveled the precarious silk trade road. Her father had been a trader and was robbed and killed along the silk trade route. The merchants encountered many hardships, hot deserts, cold snowy mountains, and many marauding tribes who stole their wares. The fragility of life was stamped in Angela’s consciousness on the day her father was lost to a bandit’s bullet. She had learned that physical safety was a prerequisite to surviving the unpredictable terrain of life.
The day Franco walked into the convent in Palermo when she was seventeen, she knew that she had to take a chance. She had to dive into whatever was presented to her so she could live life. Franco had been living in the United States from the age of twelve and when it was time to marry, he had sought a bride in his native city of Palermo, Sicily. When Angela first saw Franco at the convent in 1912, he was dressed in a suit with a fedora and gold pocket watch. When they could meet, he presented a dapper image that drew Angela to him. He was well versed in Italian, Sicilian, and English. He seemed to love his family and took good care of them. Little did Angela know that when she arrived in America, he would expect her to care for his mother. Arriving in America, she had encountered a different life than she had expected.
Franco and Angela returned to Messina in 1929 to search for her sister, who had gone missing during the earthquake, but there were no records of her death, birth, or survival. Most of the records were lost during the eruption, and those who perished left no footprint that they ever lived. Still, the idea that she might have survived plagued Angela to this day in 1968.
During that visit, Angela had gone to the area where her house once stood, and in that space a new apartment building had been built. She went to another area of the city where, she remembered that through her communication with her unseen friends a few days after the earthquake, she had helped someone. She was only thirteen at the time. It was the same day she had found her brother, and they were walking with other children searching for their parents. They came upon a man who was kneeling in what used to be his home. He was crying and pointing to a pile of stone that was once the walls of his house. He was pleading with God to let his wife live.
“My wife is under here. Can you help me dig her out?” His eyes were wild with agony and his entreaties became more agitated.
A familiar inner voice told Angela to look up. Part of the ceiling was dangling over the man’s head by a thin piece of metal.
“Signore, you need to leave this place,” said Angela. “It is dangerous. The ceiling will fall on you.”
“I cannot leave my wife,” said the man. “My wife will die.”
“She is already dead,” Angela said. “Please move away from here.”
The ceiling creaked and the man looked up. His eyes widened.
Angela grabbed the man’s arm and, with the help of the other children, pulled him to safety. The ceiling fell where his wife was entombed. They escorted the grieving man back to the American rescue ships. Angela recognized the inner voice as one of her unseen friends. She had had a connection with voices from spirits since she was a child, and as she matured so did her communication abilities.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
At seventy-three, Angela was still designing dresses for clients and her great-nieces. When she first came to America, she sewed linens for St. Mary’s Episcopal School and faced ridicule from her co-workers who were less detailed about their work. The nuns wanted the other workers to produce the same quality linens that Angela produced, but they did not have her skill. They felt their jobs were in jeopardy, so they would not eat lunch with her. Angela spoke little English, but she knew they were saying unkind things.
“She thinks she’s superior to us because she’s European,” said one of the women. “But the nuns will see through that.”
“She will make double work for us,” said another. “Those designs will take us hours. If we don’t talk to her maybe she will leave.”
Angela continued to do superior work regardless of being ostracized. When she learned enough English, she decided to start a dressmaking business where she could sew for whom she wanted.
Today Angela was looking forward to a fitting for her great-niece Marie, still asleep upstairs. She delighted chatting with sixteen-year-old Marie and hearing her modern feminine sensibility and determination. Angela put her cup in the sink when the doorbell rang. She looked out of the hall window and saw two tall men in trench coats and fedoras. Were they insurance salesman?
“Sorry to bother you, Ma’am. We are from the FBI,” said one of the men. Both men took out their badges in a manner that was so synchronized they seemed like robots.
“What?” Angela asked. “Why are you here?”
In Sicily it did not bode well if the police came to your house. For over fifty years, she and Franco had avoided the authorities by ensuring that everything they did from paying taxes to parking was legitimate.
“We’d like to ask you about your nephew, Robert. He registered for the military draft, and then he disappeared. We are looking for him.”
Angela’s stomach turned. She and Marie were the only people in the house on this summer Monday morning. She wiped her sweaty hands on her apron. She didn’t think she’d have to deal with another war after World War II ended. Marie’s father, Nunzio, had come back from the Pacific theater a stranger. From the day he came home from the war until he died in 1958 from a heart attack, Angela felt that his soul had left his body and what was left was non-functioning. Everyone had been quiet about the change in Nunzio, not because they didn’t want to talk about it, but because they didn’t know if they should. She did not want his son, Robert, to suffer the same fate in Vietnam.
“I will get my great-niece, Robert’s sister. She will be able to talk to you better than I can.”
Angela fled upstairs into Marie’s bedroom, where she was sound asleep.
She talked while she shook Marie awake.
“Wake up, wake up—the government police are downstairs looking for your brother.”
“What?” asked Marie, wiping her eyes.
“The government police are here asking about Robert.”
“Tell them we don’t know where Robert is,” said Marie. She rolled over on her side.
“This is serious,” said Angela. “Please come downstairs and talk to them. They make me nervous.”
Marie threw off her covers and followed her aunt downstairs.
“This is my great-niece,” said Angela. “She can tell you we don’t know where he is.”
“We don’t know where he is,” said Marie.
Angela noticed that both men were the same height, had clear blue eyes, and wore the same red ties. It looked like they had stepped out of a play.
Angela suddenly stepped back from the two men. They looked oddly familiar to her. A distant memory began to surface, one that she had tucked away for decades. After closer observation, she remembered a man she had encountered after the 1908 earthquake in Messina. He had been immaculately dressed in a dark blue suit with a trench coat resting over his arm. He too had fair skin and clear blue eyes and held a fedora in his hands. Most people had not washed in days and were filthy, including herself. He did not experience the earthquake, Angela had thought at the time. He had come out of nowhere.
“What are you looking for, little girl?” asked the man. He was standing in what was left of Angela’s home.
“I am seeking my family,” said Angela. She stepped away from the man.
“There is no one left,” said the stranger. “Come with me, I’ll help you find your family.”
Angela had turned, run a few feet, and glanced over her shoulder. The man had disappeared. She had filed the incident away as a dream, but maybe it wasn’t.
“You haven’t heard from him at all?” asked one of the FBI men.
“No, I’ve been busy lately,” said Marie, thinking that the men could be in a Twilight Zone episode.
“We’d like to use your phone,” said one of the men.
“Over here,” said Angela.
They seemed mannequin-like to Angela. As the agent dialed, she noticed his hands were manicured and his skin was so smooth that it appeared transparent. The agent noticed Angela watching his hands as he dialed, so he turned his back and shielded the phone.
“You realize that we will have to keep looking for him,” said the other man.
“Well, if you find him, let us know where he is,” said Marie. “He owes me $10.”
Angela pinched Marie’s arm.
“Well, he does,” said Marie.
“He said he doesn’t want to kill people,” said Angela. She was wringing her hands.
“You’re upsetting my aunt,” said Marie. She knew that immediately after the agents left, Angela would get on the phone with her friends and broadcast what had transpired. That meant that Marie’s dress fitting would be delayed, and she would miss her horseback riding time. She enjoyed her summer riding and her time on the beach. One glitch like this and her day would fall apart. She resented that the Vietnam War interfered with her summer. The war seemed to seep into the energy in the household and infect every nuance like a disease—except there was no cure.
Marie often thought about how she might use her talents in the future. She was influenced by her aunt and had developed Angela’s intuition, able to anticipate events or know how someone’s choices would turn out in the end. Marie thought that she might study history in college, since it had to do with past events and how they influenced the future.
“Here is my card,” said one of the agents. “Let us know if you hear from him.”
“Sure,” said Marie. They’re like characters in a bad B movie, she thought as they turned and left.
Angela drew in a deep breath and became animated. “Go upstairs and get dressed. I need to make some phone calls.”
“But I need to get going. I’m supposed to be horseback riding this morning. I’ll be late.”
“If you want a new dress, then you will have to wait until I’m done talking on the phone.”
Angela dialed her friend Sadie’s phone number, hoping that she hadn’t already had her first glass of wine.
“Hi, Angie. What are you doing?” asked Sadie.
“How did you know it was me?”
“No one else calls me on a Monday morning.”
Angela and Sadie had been friends for many years and felt the same on many issues. Sadie lifted Angela’s spirits with her forthright attitude toward everything. There was no subject for which Sadie did not hold a deep irreverence.
“We just had the FBI government police here looking for Robert. I’m so afraid that something bad will happen.”
“They come by all the time when someone dodges the draft,” said Sadie. “I would ignore them.”
“They said we have to call them if we find out where he is. If we don’t tell them, they can put us in jail,” said Angela.
Marie came down the stairs dressed in frayed bell-bottom jeans and a peasant top. Angela assessed Marie’s garb.
“Sadie, hold on a minute,” said Angela.
“Marie, why are you dressed like a poor person?” asked Angela.
“I’m not dressed like a poor person. This is what everyone is wearing. And by the way, no one will send you to jail because you don’t tell them where Robert is.”
“Don’t go out of the house looking like that,” Angela said. “Take off those jeans and I will press and hem them.”
“Since I’m not having the fitting, I want to go riding.”
“You see what I struggle with, Sadie,’ said Angela. “I try to make her presentable, but she doesn’t listen.”
Angela had spent her life as a fine fashion dressmaker, and if someone Angela knew saw Marie dressed like that she would be mortified. She had made Marie’s clothing since she was an infant, and she loved the way Marie looked in her designs—feminine with structure. The world was changing, and so was women’s daily wear. Women no longer had time to fuss with ruffles, slips, and girdles.
Ever since Marie had become a teenager, she wanted to assert her independence and make her own choices. Angela understood this but urged Marie to develop her own identity and not go along with the crowd. Maybe that’s why she’s comfortable wearing cutoff jeans, thought Angela.
When Marie was a baby, she had blonde hair and light skin—different from her siblings’ black hair and olive skin. Angela had snipped a piece and kept it in her bureau. She had felt a strong connection to Marie from the very beginning.
Different than her siblings, who preferred to be out with their friends and participate in extracurricular activities at school, Marie spent hours with Angela. Marie’s innate, intuitive sensibility was supported and developed by Angela. Marie attended the local public school and was counting the days until she could go to college and live in Manhattan. She was aiming for early acceptance in 1969 after her junior year.
“Sadie, I have to go. She is going to go out in those clothes,” said Angela. She hung up and followed Marie into the kitchen.
“Where are you going looking like that?” Angela asked Marie.
“I’m supposed to go horseback riding, but now I’m going to be late.”
Marie picked up a roll Angela had just taken out of the oven and bit into it. “Yum, I love your bread, Aunt Angela.”
“I don’t like that you’re wearing those frayed jeans.”
“No one cares if I’m wearing cutoff jeans when I’m riding.”
“Don’t you wear riding pants?” asked Angela.
“I’m riding at a dude ranch. We don’t even wear helmets.”
“I don’t know what to think about your brother. I worry at night,” said Angela. “What if the military police catch him?”
“Aunt Angela, this isn’t World War ll. People don’t want this war because it isn’t about patriotism; it’s about money and control. They would not give Robert a 4F classification, so he left. He’s probably in Canada. He’ll be fine.”
Nobody wants to talk, thought Angela. Avoidance seemed to be the direction of the American culture, even with all the free love, protests, and self-expression by young people. With Franco gone and Felicia occupied with work and the children, Angela relied more on her friends and Marie for meaningful connection. When Angela came to America, it was the new world, but now it was evolving into something else. It was unrecognizable to her now, and she was going to have to reinvent herself according to all the changes.
Angela thought about her dressmaking client, Sarah Einbinder, and her view on World War II. Sarah’s view was that young men had been deceived into fighting for a hidden purpose. Angela was fitting Sarah for a dress the day Pearl Harbor was bombed, and her own views on America and war were changed forever on that day. Sarah believed that Henry Ford sold war vehicles to the Nazis.
“No war is good, not even World War II,” Angela said to Marie.
“But people wanted to go to war to stop the Nazis,” said Marie. “They were killing Jews, and Hitler had to be stopped.”
“You know Mrs. Einbinder?” asked Angela.
“Your client? Yes,” Marie mumbled with a mouthful of bread.
“Don’t eat standing up; you’ll get indigestion. And don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Angela. “Sit over here.” Angela pulled out a chair and put out a plate and some butter.
Marie was used to her aunt’s idiosyncrasies and would sometimes indulge her. At times, she found Angela exasperating, but she always knew when her aunt wanted her to expand her thinking. Marie looked at the time and decided her morning horseback ride was lost.
“When your father enlisted, I was against it,” said Angela. “I felt he was too young, but he did it without our knowledge. What could I do? Like now, there was nothing we could do about the draft. I just wanted to tell you that sometimes things are not what they seem. This war in Vietnam is no different than any other. It will all end the same.”
“What does this have to do with me? I’m not going to be drafted.”
“I am just telling you what I experienced,” Angela said. “Now take those jeans off so I can mend them.”
Marie knew that Angela would hound her until she allowed her to sew and press her jeans, so she obliged.
“I need them soon. Maybe I can ride this afternoon.”
“First I have to fit you for that dress. I should call your mother at the office and let her know about the FBI men.”
“Call her later,” said Marie. “There’s nothing she can do. She doesn’t know where Robert is.”
Felicia was angry about her son’s situation. He had grown his hair long and smoked a lot of pot and embraced the counterculture. It was not that she disagreed with the antiwar movement; she did not like the chaos it brought to the family. When Marie skipped school to horseback ride or go into Manhattan, she did not mind. “Do what you want but just don’t get caught,” she would say. “I will not come to your aid—I have enough to do.” Felicia believed that people should do what they wanted but should not talk about it, and they must accept the consequences if things go wrong.
“In the end, the war killed your father.”
“You told me that before,” said Marie. Angela repeated stories from the past so often that Marie had them all memorized. When Marie was a child, she loved to hear stories about Sicily and the earthquake and how Angela met and married Franco. She would describe the scenes from the 1908 earthquake in Messina to Marie in detail. It was epic, and Marie thought of her great aunt as a strong survivor who had come to America and built a dressmaking business from the ground up, in a new country, while not knowing the language or culture.
“This is my niece, Marie,” Angela would say when she introduced her to her clients. “She is doing well and will go to college.” She would beam when she said it, and Marie hoped she lived up to her great-aunt’s praise. Angela expected her to do great things and wanted to share with Marie her experience of taking risks and connecting with the unseen world.
Truthfully, Angela’s stories had expanded Marie’s interest in the world and made her question why things are as they are. Marie felt they were her stories now, too. Her aunt’s repetitive stories about survival gave Marie confidence, but with her friends she was quiet and did not share the wisdom she had gleaned from her aunt. This tended to make her vulnerable to others’ opinions. As Marie grew, Angela’s influence became more apparent.
When Marie was in seventh grade at the local Catholic school, the nun had assigned the students to write an essay on how to communicate with God and follow His divine direction. Marie was enthusiastic about the assignment and naively shared some of her otherworldly experiences. In her essay she did not use the word God but took on her aunt’s sensibility of expanding awareness and communicating with the unseen. Choice was also a theme she explored. She suggested that one could either accept or reject the communication, depending on the person’s evaluation of the message.
“Marie, you have not mentioned God in your essay,” said the nun. “You also talked about rejecting the communication and left it up to the receiver to decide if it was valid. God’s word is law. This is unacceptable. I am sorry but I have no other option but to give you an F.”
“But I spent a lot of time writing that essay,” said Marie.
“If you would like to rewrite it with the appropriate view, then I would reconsider my decision.”
“I stand by my essay. The messages come from the spiritual unseen realm. That is part of God.” Marie held firm, but she found she was breathing heavily.
“You have no idea who is giving you guidance. It could be the devil,” said the nun.
“It is not the devil. It is divine connection. Anyone can do it. My aunt does it.”
“Don’t be recalcitrant. You give me no choice but to inform your mother about your belligerence. She should be instructing you at home regarding Catholic doctrine.”
When the nun phoned Marie’s home, Angela was on the receiving end.
“I see, Sister. Marie has an active imagination, and I am sure she will be a writer one day. I try my best to encourage independent thinking. I don’t see why she should receive an F.”
“Mrs. Bellini, there are certain standards we uphold at this school. We cannot ignore such blatant radicalism.”
“I will give the message to Marie’s mother. As you know, she is a single working mother and has enough stress. It might be that she will send Marie to a public school. I am sure you will have to explain the loss of tuition to your superiors.”
There was silence on the end of the phone. The nun told Angela to have a good day and hung up. That was the last Angela heard about Marie’s essay, and Felicia was never informed about the incident.
Angela had taught Marie that she should not pay attention to the opinions of others, and she reinforced this sentiment as much as she could. She also told Marie she should follow her intuition and not involve herself in petty conversation.
“Your Uncle Joe called and said he was coming up from New York City on Sunday. He is looking forward to seeing you,” Angela told Marie.
Marie’s older brother Robert was named after their father’s brother, their uncle Joseph Robert. Because of his effeminate nature and trouble in Catholic school, Joe had moved to Manhattan in 1943 when he was sixteen and would often ride the commuter rail back to Nelsonville for family visits. Angela would say that Joe had a roommate named Dick, but the rest of the family knew that Dick was more than a roommate. The nature of their relationship was never spoken about within the family. Now, at age forty-three, Joe lived with Dick on East 57th and collected modern art.
Marie kissed Angela on the cheek, took the newly hemmed jeans, and left to go horseback riding. “I’ll have the dress fitting later today or tomorrow,” said Marie.
“You wanted new dresses for school, so don’t wait too long. I’ll never get them done in time.”
Angela smiled. Marie always found a way around things, she mused. That will help her in the future. She could have insisted Marie stay and have her fitting but felt that everyone deserves a good time.
Angela called her friend Lizzy Liamonte.
“We had the FBI police here today looking for my nephew Robert. I’m afraid he’s in a lot of trouble.”
“I know, Sadie called me.”
“You two don’t have any secrets, do you?” asked Angela.
“It saves time. I was waiting for your call, and now you don’t have to tell me the story.”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Angela. “He may go to jail.”
“Don’t you know anybody in the military who was close to his father that you could call? Nunzio was in the Reserves and worked with some big wigs at Camp Smith.”
“You mean Captain Bonifice?”
“Yeah, weren’t he and Nunzio close friends? Didn’t Bonifice and his wife have dinner at your house several times? Maybe you can persuade him to help your Robert.”
“I don’t think he would help a draft dodger.”
“Angie, you are persuasive. I am sure you’ll think of something. I’m sure he has a skeleton in his closet that you can use to your advantage.”
Captain Bonifice had been her nephew Nunzio’s closest friend. She would ask for his help, but first she would do some poking into his closet.
“You are good with plans,” said Angela. “I should have thought of this myself.”
“Just wanted to put a bug in your ear. Good to have a card to play,” said Lizzy. “Talk to you later.”
Over the years, Angela had recognized her own power to initiate change. The house would not run as smoothly had it not been for her, and she was willing to step up and take charge when necessary.
When Franco was adamantly opposed to renovating the upstairs into a separate apartment, she had convinced him that it was worth the money.
“I’m not spending money on any renovations,” Franco said as he waved his arm.
“We can rent it out and make extra money.”
“You’re making more work for me. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want strangers living here.”
“Maybe one of your nephews and nieces will have a family one day. They can live here. We’re alone in this big house and as we grow older, we could use the company.”
Franco paused, and Angela saw that it started to make sense to him.
“I’ll think about it. Maybe it’s not a terrible idea.”
Six months later, Angela found Franco and a friend upstairs installing plumbing for a kitchen. Sometimes you must change the physical environment to open to the future, thought Angela. Her unseen friends had told her to prepare the upstairs for the future, so she found a way to dissolve an obstacle. This was the power of persistence in action.
Angela was pinning a pattern for one of her afternoon clients when she heard the doorbell ring. Those FBI men have come back, she worried. She was the only one in the house and she felt trapped. Angela slowly approached the window and peeked out onto the porch, where her friend Sadie stood. She wore large sunglasses and the same clothes she did every day: a faded black skirt, a yellowing white blouse, and an embroidered frayed pocketbook.
“Sadie, come in,” said Angela, relieved.
“I came by to finish our conversation,” said Sadie. “The doctor says I need to walk more.”
“Sadie, your legs are swollen. Come in and put your feet up.”
“My heart condition,” said Sadie. “It’s getting the best of me.”
“Are you taking your medication?” asked Angela.
“Sure, when I feel like it. Sometimes my legs are fine. So, your morning wasn’t so good?”
“Robert does not want to go to war. I had a conversation with Lizzy this morning, and she gave me an idea.”
“Oh, yeah, she told me you’re blackmailing the captain?”
“Do you two live in each other’s back pocket? How do you know what we talked about? I am not blackmailing anyone. I am just going to present him with information if needed.”
“Sure, call it ‘presenting information.’ Where is everyone?”
“Felicia is at work, and Frank and Andrea are out. Marie just left for horseback riding. She is going to break a leg someday. You should have seen the clothes she wanted to wear. She looked like a poor person, but I fixed that.”
“You dote on her like you did Speranza and her children,” said Sadie.
Angela knew this was true but had no regrets.
“Don’t be disappointed when she doesn’t do what you say or she goes off and does something you don’t like,” said Sadie.
“Marie will not disappoint me. She has ambition and makes good choices. I can see she will do well. Joe is coming this weekend. I always love seeing him. He has done well for himself. He deserves it.”
“You are loyal, Angela.”
“I think my great-nieces and nephews will have more of a chance in this country than their parents did. Speranza’s children tried, but they made bad choices. I tried to tell them, but they did not listen.”
“Joe has done well in the city,” said Lizzy. “He attends the theater and has done well working at American Express.”
“I suppose, but I wanted him to get an education.”
“You can’t have everything. Anyway, I just dropped by to say hello. I have to go shopping,” said Sadie. “I’ll call you later.”
Angela was grateful that she had a friend like Sadie, even if she did drink too much and looked like an indigent person.
Angela was frustrated with her inability to have prevented Speranza’s children from making mistakes. Even though Joe was doing well, she was unable to convince him to stay in school and go to college. When he was a boy he was a charmer, and the Catholic school nuns did not appreciate his gift of gab. Joe had been bullied, and Angela set it straight. She stood up to the Mother Superior of the school when the nun said Joe was “inappropriate” and a troublemaker. She was so glad she did. In fact, after that, she did not have a problem standing up to the priests in the parish. Once, when a priest said he was disappointed with Franco and Angela’s contribution to support the church, they told him that they would have no problem going to the Episcopal church. The priest never complained again.
But that was the first generation born in America. This new generation, her great nieces and nephews, was different. American culture was evolving, and the Italian-American community was also in flux. It distressed her at first, because it appeared as if there was no structure. This generation wanted to tear structures down, but how and with what would they replace them? Still, the irreverence intrigued her. It ignited that part of her that never rebelled, because if she had, it would have made her life more difficult than it was.
Angela’s great-nieces and -nephews had more opportunity than the previous generation of Italian-Americans. She encouraged them to take advantage of those opportunities. Angela had always had a strategy to accomplish a goal, and if it failed, she tried a different pathway.
The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts, and Angela opened the door for her client. Isabella Pullini was a young woman in her early twenties. Her shoulder-length dark hair was elegantly styled, and she wore a navy blue dress with Queen Anne heels. Her mother had used Angela’s services on many occasions, so Isabella wanted Angela to make her a travelling suit. Isabella and her parents were flying to Sicily for a visit. When Angela and Franco travelled to and from Europe, they sailed on a ship. Air travel made the trip to Sicily quick and made short visits to Europe possible. Passengers dressed well to travel on airplanes: hats, gloves, and tailored suits. Isabella wanted to look her best, so she came to Angela.
“I am so glad you have time to make my suit, Mrs. Bellini,” said Isabella. She stepped into the hallway where Angela had her sewing machine and mirror. “How long have you been a seamstress?”
“I have sewed since I was a girl,” said Angela. “But I came to America fifty-five years ago and began to design clothing.” Angela had sewn for many of the wealthy women in town, but the population had changed over the years. In the early 20th century, most of her clients had inherited wealth. The women did not work, and their husbands made a good living. Now, women worked and had disposable income, so Angela’s business thrived.
“Mom says you transform people with your designs. She says you bring beauty into the world with what you do.”
“What would you want people to think when you put on a garment?” asked Angela.
“I would like an A-line skirt and matching top for the plane trip. I want to look sophisticated on this trip. Mom says there are many young men in Sicily who are interested in marriage.”
“Marriage? Have you finished college?” asked Angela.
“I didn’t go to college. I work in my father’s liquor store. I don’t need to go to college.”
“I can make a traveling skirt and top that would suggest you are a worldly woman,” said Angela. “Wouldn’t you like to get an education and do something in the world?”
“I really haven’t thought about it,” said Isabella. She looked in the mirror and primped her hair.
If someone wanted to get married, who am I to suggest otherwise? thought Angela. She would create a garment that would transform Isabella into an elegant, available young lady.
Angela heard the door unlock. Marie came in with muddy boots and jeans.
“Take those boots off before you walk on my rug. Why couldn’t you clean them after you got off the horse? And why are your jeans so filthy?”
“I fell off. We were galloping deep in the forest, and hit a slippery patch.” Marie pulled off her boots. Dried mud dropped on the rug, and Marie brushed it under the radiator.
“Isabella, this is my niece, Marie,” said Angela. “She never looks like this.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” She went to climb the stairs.
“When I’m done with Isabella, I’ll fit your dress.”
“You are so lucky to have your dressmaker living with you,” said Isabella. “I would love that. Your aunt is so talented.”
“Yeah, she is great,” said Marie, smiling.
“I wish I could be as free as you are with your appearance,” said Isabella. “My mother would kill me if I went out with jeans and a baggy shirt.”
Marie looked at Isabella, thinking that Isabella appeared to be sentenced to a life of dull conservatism without creative thinking.
“Everyone wears jeans,” said Marie. “I’m sure you don’t dress like that all the time.”
“I work in my father’s store, so yes, I make sure I look good. You never know who you will meet.”
“Meet who?” asked Marie. She knew what she meant but she wanted Isabella to say it.
“A man, of course,” said Isabella.
“You’re not serious?”
“Marie, go upstairs and take those dirty clothes off right now,” said Angela.
Angela knew Marie’s tactics in spinning the conversation so she could put forth her ideas. Marie was the poster child for 1960s counterculture. But Angela wanted to do Isabella’s fitting, not hear a lecture on why conservatism was dead.
“Ok, I’m going. It’s been really weird, Isabella.”
“Isabella, take this in my bedroom and try it on,” said Angela.
As Isabella waked away, Angela waved Marie to go upstairs as if she was chasing away a fly.
“So annoying,” mumbled Marie.
“What did you say?” asked Angela.
“Not a thing,” said Marie, running up the stairs.
Angela smiled. In her heart she was glad that Marie had a rebellious streak.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Marie bounded down the stairs for her fitting.
“This print will suit you,” said Angela. She held up a small, flowered print dress with sleeves that billowed at the wrist. It was fitted at the waist, and the hem was just below the knee.
“I love the sleeves,” said Marie. “But let’s make it a mini.”
“That’s too short for school.”
“It’s not for school. It’s a fun dress.”
“I’ll ask your mother when she comes home.”
“She doesn’t care about my hem.”
“Try it on please,” said Angela. “I wish you would try to get along with your mother. She works so hard.”
“We get along as long as she doesn’t tell me what to do.”
For Marie, the hustle and bustle in the house on Morning Glory Avenue made it possible for her to be a fly on the wall and observe. Her friends interpreted this as shy passivity, but it was strategy; Marie had no desire to be criticized for her choices. Quiet by nature, she kept a low profile and made detachment an art.
“You have the reputation of being a miracle worker with clothes,” said Marie. “Every time I wear one of your dresses, my friends comment that I look different. Your work is so beautiful.”
“That is what I do. I transform through what I create.”
“You transform human beings,” Marie said, “and that is a miracle worker.”
“Choose work that transfigures people for good. Listen to your intuition.”
“You keep saying that, but how do I know I’m using my intuition? You talk to people who aren’t here. Tell me about that.”
Angela felt her spiritual beliefs that were outside of church doctrine were not to be revealed or discussed. To Angela, her connection to her unseen friends was deep alchemy and should be practiced privately, but for Marie she made an exception.
“When I was young, my life needed help from the other side. Because of that need, I have communicated with unseen beings, or people, and they have never failed me.”
“Is that your intuition?”
“I think it is connected, but I’m not certain. I think you should follow your inner insights and see where that leads you.”
“You mean visions?” asked Marie, turning to look at Angela. Their conversations never lacked insight and inspiration. Their deep connection was obvious.
“Or a strong feeling, like a nudge.”
“You know, when I was a little girl I remember jumping up and down on my bed with my eyes closed and sensing different beings and feeling uplifted to a higher space, but as soon as I opened my eyes and stopped jumping, I was in my room. I thought I had left the room, but I think I left my body.” Marie thought of that experience from time to time, it was as if she had taken a brief vacation from her present life.
“It could have been your imagination,” said Angela. “You always had a great imagination.” It was clear to Angela that Marie’s experience was beyond imagery or vision and that she was making a connection to other spaces, but she felt that was a conversation for another time.
Marie stepped up on the platform in front of the full-length mirror. Angela had fitted two generations of family before Marie. They had all stood in front of the same mirror, and every time the mirror seemed to spark a universal conversation. The pettiness of everyday life melted away, and a space opened to talk about subjects that otherwise would not be discussed.
Angela remembered cautioning Marie about staring into the mirror when she was a child. Marie usually found it difficult to stay still during a fitting, but when she was nine years old and Angela was busy marking the hem on her dress, Marie remained still and seemed to tilt toward the mirror. Angela looked up and saw Marie transfixed, eyes wide open, staring into the mirror.
“Marie,” Angela had said to the girl, shaking her. “Look away from that mirror. How many times have I told you not to stare into the mirror?”
It was obvious Marie was drawn to the looking glass and the world inside, but she was too young at that time for the experiences waiting in the mirror’s environment, so Angela discouraged it. From then on, Angela had Marie face away from the mirror when she did alterations or fitted her for a garment.
When Angela had her own experience with the full-length mirror at the convent, she was older and had a relationship with her unseen friends. Convent life was the perfect ambiance to develop a connection with the unseen world. The interior was designed for a contemplative, prayerful life even though it was part of Palazzo Butera and the surroundings were lush. The nuns stressed focus and a connection to the divine. Life in America had sped up, and it was easy to become distracted and lose all contact with the unseen world.
“Who was that girl you were fitting?”
“She is the daughter of Mrs. Pullini. You remember her.”
“Isn’t she the one who lost her son in the Second World War?”
“Yes, that’s right. Then she was blessed with Isabella later in life.”
Angela gazed at Marie’s reflection. Speranza, Marie’s grandmother, had stood here as Angela fitted her for her wedding dress. That was over thirty years ago, but memories were energy that could be ignited with a wisp of a thought. The past and present could mesh with a memory that came crashing into one’s mind.
“There were Pullinis who lived on the Lower East Side where your uncle and I lived when we first came here. I wonder if they are related,” thought Angela out loud.
“You lived on the Lower East Side when you came to New York City?”
“We lived on Goerck Street. I had never experienced such tight quarters. The convent had been large and spacious with corridors that were so long they seemed to extend into the next town.”
“Was it a tenement?”
“Yes, we were there for a few months until our home was ready in Nelsonville. I met your grandmother in that tenement, and I felt I had found my purpose; to take care of Speranza.”
On the first night in the tenement on Goerck Street, Angela had dreamed that her unseen friends were leading her down a path. There were always two of them, and they appeared to her differently each time. In this dream, they were two Botticelli-like women with wavy shoulder-length hair and round eyes. They gently escorted her past opulent trees with deep green oval-shaped leaves until they came to a meadow where the foliage turned to gold and yellow, and Black-eyed Susans peppered the landscape. The women gestured Angela forward. She would take the rest of the journey on her own. Angela looked back at her unseen friends and they both nodded, and she waved. They would be close by, but she would have to walk her new path alone.
Angela awoke early that next morning comforted that her unseen friends had made the journey with her, as it increased her confidence to face the new world. The shared apartment was still asleep as she walked to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. This was her home now, and she wanted to make a good impression; she wanted to be helpful.
Maybe the benevolence of the universe and her connection to her unseen friends saved her from the earthquake. Why she deserved such favor she did not know, but since God had been so generous in sparing her life, she felt she needed to share her good fortune with everyone in her orbit.
“You’re my sister now,” said the young Speranza as she entered the kitchen. Her long braids were frayed at the ends, and she had holes in her nightgown.
“I will sew the holes in your nightgown today.”
“That would be nice of you. My brother loves you, so I love you.”
Angela soon had forgotten about her dream and focused on the care of her new sister-in-law.
When the house renovations were finished in Nelsonville, Angela, Franco, Franco’s mother and Speranza moved in. The house had three bedrooms with a small dining room, living room, and kitchen. It was a dwelling with a large backyard and plenty of room to extend the house. Angela felt she was looking at her new life from a precipice with innumerable opportunities below her. She was certain she had made the right choice in leaving Sicily.
“You were brave,” said Marie. “Why did you marry Uncle Franco and come to America? You didn’t know what you were in for.” Marie loved hearing this story about Angela’s fortitude.
“What choice did I have? I could have stayed at the convent where it was safe and become a nun. But after meeting your uncle, I knew that he chose me for a reason.”
“I guess you’d heard stories about America,” said Marie. “Maybe you thought everyone was rich.”
“No, but I was sure that my life would be freer. That is the key: freedom.”
Angela surprised herself with her response. She had never thought about freedom as a concept. She developed her business, became successful, and helped raise a new generation of Americans, all by choice. Maybe that is what freedom is, thought Angela, the ability to contribute your talents and ideas to anyone able to accept them. Freedom was not just about the ability to travel and live where you wanted. It was about controlling your destiny and not feeling like you’re fated. One had to take control and write one’s own story.
“I agree with you,” said Marie. “I just have to figure out how I’m going to be free in the future.”
“That is a good goal,” said Angela. “You should think about a time when you were a child that made you feel happy. That took you away.”
“That’s easy! It was when you took me to St. Mary’s Episcopal School, and I sat by the pond and communicated with the tadpoles. That took me away.”
Marie remembered watching the tadpoles that lived in the pond, picking them up and placing them on lily pads. She felt she was invited into their home, and a blanket of peace surrounded her. She felt at home then, and she was able to reach into the tadpoles’ reality and see the gifts they showered on the natural world. She loved being accepted into their environment. It made sense to her.
“Tadpoles represent a desire for adventure. I think that suits you.”
“I would love to have many adventures like the one you had when you came to America.”
“I hope you get everything you wish for.”
“You’ve had a lot of people stand in front of this mirror,” said Marie.
“You will probably be the last generation I’ll sew for. I am glad it ends with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are the generation that is the furthest away from life in Sicily, so you will be the freest to choose your destiny.”
“You mean after I graduate high school, you won’t sew anymore?”
“I will sew for you and your sister for as long as I can, and then I will give it up.”
Angela accepted her aging body and realized she had a certain amount of time left. Her hair was completely gray, but she still had a straight posture and smooth skin with very few lines. She was in her seventies, and she could still walk up the steep hill to St. Mary’s Convent where she occasionally sewed for the nuns. Angela’s posture was one of the most noticeable physical characteristics that attracted Franco when he visited the convent in Sicily. It suggested to him that this was someone who could stand up to the challenges in life. And he was right. Angela had sailed through every storm with her posture intact. A strong spine suggested a strong foundation.
She wanted to leave her story to someone. Marie was the perfect person to begin sharing more of her experiences with, not only as being an immigrant woman in America, but as someone with a connection with the unseen world. With every tragedy in her life, she turned to her connection with the concealed world. After a serious illness that prevented her from having children, her disembodied friends told her that one day, she would have a family. She now had her four great nieces and nephews living upstairs who she now influenced, and she had helped to raise Speranza’s three children. Sometimes you just had to wait for things to happen.
“At the convent, there was only one full-length mirror and that was near the Mother Superior’s office. Vanity was considered a sin, so we only had small mirrors to make sure our hair was in place.”
Angela pinned the hem on Marie’s dress below her knees.
“Can you make the hem above my knees? This is the 1960s, not the 1860s.”
Marie yawned and turned to look at the hall clock as Angela shortened the hem.
“But there was an unspoken reason that the girls were cautioned against full length mirrors. There were whispers, especially from the nuns, that mirrors were doorways to other places and that souls could be trapped in the dimension of the looking glass.”
Marie had never heard that mirrors were portals. This was new.
“What do you mean? People were stuck in the mirrors?”
“I think the mirror can catch people’s energy, and they feel drained,” said Angela.
“Really? You mean I could get trapped?”
“We don’t stare into it for any length of time, so we don’t have to worry. But if you were to stare, things might start to appear. When I am done with sewing, I will take it into the yard and smash it.”
“I think I see into other spaces,” said Marie. “I have a gut feeling about things.”
“And that is a good thing. You should also daydream, because that opens more of what you can see. Your Uncle Joe was the same. He could see, but he never developed it.”
Angela recalled an incident at the convent with the only full-length mirror permitted by the Mother Superior. Angela had stood in front of the mirror in her wedding dress to see if any more alterations were needed. As Angela gazed into the looking glass, she descended deeply into its environment and she saw shapes appearing, then disappearing. Angela touched the glass and energy rippled out like water, but she was afraid to go any further. She shared her experience with one of the girls, and the next day the girl decided to have her own experience with the mirror. She was found that evening lying unconscious in front of the mirror. When the girl woke, she said she had seen her dead mother and sister attempting to ascend into heaven, but they were pulled down by evil creatures dressed in black.
Angela thought that maybe if she had peered long and hard enough into the looking glass, she would have found her parents and siblings. Angela longed to see her family again. Maybe she would have, if she had conquered her fear.
“Probably because it is kind of wild to think about,” Marie said.
“You know, when I left Sicily, I worried that my connection to my inside voices would leave. My voices said that time and place would not affect our communication.”
“Do you talk to them every day? Are they listening to us now?”
“I don’t know, but I can talk to them whenever I want, even late at night.”
“Were they once alive?”
“Yes, I think so; that’s why their advice is so valuable.”
Marie experienced a connection to home within herself when her aunt talked about the occult world. Her own existence seemed validated, and it strengthened her sense of self. She knew Angela loved the Blessed Mother and believed that Mary had saved her life when she was ill years ago. She had never shared her aunt’s story with any of her friends; she kept it close to her heart. She had the sense that her aunt’s stories would prove to be useful someday, but she was cautious about sharing them. But Marie was ready to explore and see what she could experience. Many people used drugs to attain such levels of awareness—all her aunt did was believe and connect.
While Angela focused on reshaping a dart on the dress and feeling she was at the precipice of a new life, Marie decided to stare as hard as she could into her reflection to see if she could access this other world. At first, she focused on looking into her eyes. She turned her head to the side while keeping her gaze on the mirror and placed her fingertips on the glass, attempting to reach into the other dimension. Suddenly she began to see beyond her eyes into a small dark space that expanded as she focused. As she investigated the glass, the reflection of the back wall faded, and the glass began to ripple under her fingertips. Marie felt a vibration under her fingers, the sensation soothing but ominous. She sensed the mirror was beckoning her, and she felt if she could let go of her traditional views of reality, she could fall through. She lifted her foot and wondered if she should take that step forward.
She was drawn to travel the planet but also to other densities. To Marie it was not extraordinary—it was her birthright. Once she accessed the mirror’s interior, a white emptiness surrounded her, and it felt like she had entered a blank canvas waiting for her intention to paint her vision. In that space, Marie walked around and wondered what she should create. A clear vision was missing, so the area remained white and anticipatory, waiting for Marie to begin.
“Is anybody here?” called Marie in her mind. She felt a coolness caress her skin and a slight movement under her feet.
A small figure emerged from the distance and waved her forward.
“Hello,” said Marie as she waved.
The figure hesitated to come forward, so Marie walked toward it. As Marie drew closer, she saw that it was a young woman dressed in 1920s vintage garb.
“Do I know you?” asked Marie.
The woman stared at her as if waiting for Marie to recognize her.
“Tell me who you are and why you’re here,” Marie said.
As Marie looked closer, she recognized her grandmother Speranza’s features: the strong nose, long neck, and soft brown eyes she’d seen in family photos.
“Speranza, right?”
The woman smiled and radiated a warm yellow light toward Marie. She heard her grandmother talking, but her lips did not move. She somehow threw Marie her thoughts.
“I was like you,” said Speranza. “Use your talents. Do not waste them. Listen to Aunt Angela. I should have.”
Marie felt a conflict between her personal ambitions and her natural talents. No one would understand or consider her capabilities valid. How could she use her talent for listening and problem-solving through her intuition, and pick a college major that would develop them? She doubted that she could major in mirror gazing.
“I won’t be accepted by people,” said Marie. “I would like to fit in.”
She shared her experiences once with some girlfriends, but it did not seem to make her popular in high school.
“You will become more popular if you become a cheerleader,” said one of her friends. “You need to try out.”
“But I don’t know anything about sports, and I don’t know the players,” Marie had said. “Why would I cheer for people I don’t know?”
“Nobody really knows them. It’s how you become part of the important crowd. There’s nothing else to do in this town.”
“You could develop your intuition,” said Marie. “You could spend the day in New York City and explore. Those are things to do.”
“What do you mean develop your intuition? What is that? My parents say New York City is dangerous and dirty. We never go there. Tryouts are this afternoon. I’ll put you on the list. Say you’ll come.”
Her friend turned and walked away before Marie could respond, holding her books to the chest. Marie thought maybe she should try out. If she were a cheerleader, maybe she would enjoy high school more and the time would go faster. She did not like to cheer and could care less about winning, but she could feign interest. She wasn’t surprised when she didn’t make the team.
“I thought that once,” Speranza replied. “I told myself that people would not listen to me, but I was wrong—some will. You must find them. There will be those who ridicule, but keep in mind those are the ones who lack vision.”
Speranza faded, and Marie turned to leave the white space when a dark image appeared in front of her. It was a ragged woman with moth-eaten clothes and black, deep-set eyes. Marie stepped back and then suddenly found herself standing in front of the mirror.
She kissed and hugged Angela.
“I just saw grandma in the mirror. I just saw her!”
“I had hoped you would not do that. You need to be careful. You never know what is in there.”
“I’m not sure what it all means,” said Marie. “Is it real?”
“You know it is, but you don’t need to worry about that now. When you go to college there is no need to talk about seeing things. You will just create problems for yourself.”
“I want to travel first, before I do anything.”
“That is what your Uncle Joe said, and he never went to college. Do not forget he will be here this weekend. And another thing, do not tell your mother.”
“About what?”
“Your experiences and wanting to travel before college. You will start a war.”
They both knew that Felicia was steeped in the material world and did not consider the possibility of life beyond the physical. In her view, any spiritual needs one had should be dictated by the Catholic Church. The teachings of the church were ordered and clear. She sensed that Marie had a strong ethereal side and felt it was her obligation to bring Marie back to earth.
“Don’t you want to know what grandma said?”
“I know she wants you to follow your way, but remember you live in this world. You do not want to get them mixed up.”
“You always talk about unseen beings.”
“With you, and because I am old and have lived my life. You need to be more cautious because your life is just beginning, and people may ridicule you and that may make you isolated and angry. You don’t have time for that. You, your sister, and brothers are on the road to success in this country. You need to do that.”
“What about my intuitive ability?”
Finishing making the dress, Angela said, “You will need to be mindful about who you share it with. You need to live between the worlds.”
“How do you do that?”
“You speak with the unseen world and you do it in private and then take what you learned into your life. People will notice that you have wisdom. Now let’s talk about what to make for Uncle Joe’s visit this coming Sunday.”
Marie loved and looked forward to visits with Joe. He and Dick had travelled the globe, and she loved hearing stories about where they had been and the people they met. Joe influenced her love of New York City and adventure from an early age. When she was seven years old, Joe had taken Marie’s entire family on a tour of Manhattan. She remembered eating at Horn and Hardart across from Grand Central Station, having lunch in Chinatown, and dinner at a Swedish smorgasbord. The rest of the day was seeing all the sights: The Empire State Building, The Statue of Liberty, Little Italy, and Greenwich Village.
On that day, Marie developed a love of new places and connected with the vibrant energy of the city, becoming a “city person” from that day forward. Now at the age of sixteen, her favorite pastime was skipping school and exploring New York. Whenever she stepped off the train in Grand Central, she felt completely free.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Angela busily prepared a special Sunday dinner and waited for Joe to arrive. Felicia was setting the dining room table, and the household was filled with chatter. Felicia was petite with bright, dark eyes and wavy hair; a vivacious, impeccably dressed woman who enjoyed parties and lively gatherings.
When they had guests, Angela and Felicia cooked an elaborate meal where everyone would sit at the table all afternoon. Marie’s oldest brother, Frank, came up the porch stairs.
“Where is everyone?” asked Frank. He had long black hair, a trimmed beard, and wore a t-shirt and jeans. He looked the part of the New York University engineering student with a deferment from the Vietnam War because he was in college. Felicia intended to educate all her children but demanded that they choose a practical major.
“Inside cooking,” said Marie. “Where do you think?”
“Another marathon meal, huh?” commented Frank.
“Yeah, they’ve made two cakes for dessert. By the time lunch, is done it will be time for dinner. I think Aunt Angela has invited a few of her friends. Sadie and Lizzy are coming—it should be a free-for-all.”
Lizzy and Sadie made Joe laugh, and the more he laughed the more outrageous the conversation became. It was entertainment at its best, and it was free for those who were invited.
Marie could hear her mother’s purposeful step in the vestibule. Felicia started to talk before she opened the screen door.
“What are you two doing?” asked Felicia.
“Nothing,” said Marie.
“Get dressed for lunch. I have to pick your uncle up at the station in a few minutes.”
“I’m dressed,” said Frank.
“I can wear my jeans,” said Marie. “What difference does it make?”
“Your uncle will probably be in a suit, so put on something else. I don’t know why you give me so much trouble. Just put on something else.”
“Let’s just wait and see if Uncle Joe approves. I won’t change until he tells me to.” Uncle Joe won’t care what I have on and my mother knows it, thought Marie.
“Felicia,” called Angela, “help me turn over the chicken before it burns.”
“Get changed now,” said Felicia.
Proper dress for Sunday dinner was a household tradition, but over the years had become lax. In past decades, all the women wore dresses and men wore suits. Now such a dress code seemed silly in the turbulent 1960s.
Marie went inside to look in the full-length mirror to see how her jeans and peasant top looked. Hippy chic and perfect, she thought. There was bohemian in her uncle, so he would not mind her attire. She paused to look deeper into the mirror but heard her mother’s car pull up.
The screen door opened, and Joe and Felicia sauntered in.
“Joe, it’s so good to see you,” said Angela. She embraced and kissed him on both cheeks.
“How are you, Aunt Angela?” asked Joe. “You’re looking as elegant as ever. You never change.”
Joe was dressed in a silk Armani suit complete with gold cufflinks. A diamond pinky ring sparkled on his finger as the sun streamed in through the stained-glass window and reflected its light on the diamond. The silk suit seemed to glow in the sunlight, creating an aura around him.
Angela stood back and looked at her nephew. It didn’t seem that long ago that she had stood at the Nelsonville train station and seen sixteen-year-old Joe off to his new life in New York City. She remembered crying and holding on to her Franco. Here it was almost thirty years later, and Joe had made himself a success working at the American Express travel office selling exotic vacations to the rich. Angela felt that she had had a hand in developing his drive and success as Joe’s mother, Speranza, had died when Joe was a young boy and his father, needing a new wife, went back to Sicily and married his niece. This was something Angela would never forgive.
“Marie, love the outfit,” said Joe.
“Aunt Angela wanted me to change,” said Marie. “I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s very hippy chic,” said Joe.
“That’s exactly what I said,” said Marie.
Joe winked at Marie. He gets me, she thought, and she looked at her mother with a self-satisfied smile.
“Never mind that, let’s go to the table,” said Felicia. She disliked fuss being made over her children. She feared that if they received too much praise and approval, they would not try hard enough to succeed. Angela provided the praise, and Felicia the criticism.
“What about Sadie and Lizzy?” asked Marie.
Marie’s younger sister, Andrea, rushed in dripping wet.
“Have you been jumping into other people’s pools again?” asked Felicia. “Go upstairs and dry off and put on some decent clothes.”
“She must be a handful,” said Joe.
“I’m sorry, Joe, she’s very stubborn,” said Felicia.
When Angela was raising Joe and his siblings, children did not talk back, and discussion was saved for the dining room table. There was an order to behavior and speech. It pleased Angela that her nieces were bold and thought for themselves, even if she complained about it.
Everyone went into the dining room and took their seats.
“Oh, homemade bread,” said Joe, “it’s just scrumptious. Where are the other guests?”
On cue, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” called Andrea.
Loud laughter radiated from the hallway into the dining room.
“They’re here,” called Andrea, on her way upstairs to change.
“Hello, ladies,” said Joe. He lit a Gauloise cigarette and took a long drag. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, Joe,” said Lizzy. “It’s been a while.”
“I know,” said Joe. “So, anyone find a new husband? I know you ladies are flying solo. Attractive women like yourselves should have no problem.”
“I’ll sit next to you, Sadie,” said Andrea, wearing dry clothes.
“Why not? You seem like a good person to sit next to,” said Sadie. “Joe, you devil, you know I’m too old.”
“Nonsense, you still have life in you,” said Joe. He flicked his ashes in the glass ashtray.
Angela placed the antipasto on the table.
“Don’t you think Sadie should marry again, Aunt Angela?” asked Joe.
Everyone laughed, including Sadie. Angela loved the lightness of the conversation. After a lifetime of taking care of an invalid husband and three generations of family, she was glad to have the levity.
“You’re a good sport, Sadie,” said Angela. “Everyone, eat the antipasto.”
“I’d be a better sport if you poured me some wine,” said Sadie.
“Where is Robert?” Joe whispered in Marie’s ear.
“Don’t ask,” said Marie.
“Ooh, sounds intriguing.”
Angela poured everyone a glass of red wine.
“To peace,” said Angela. She lifted her glass and hoped the war would come to an end before they found Robert.
“I agree, Aunt Angela,” said Joe. “Thank God I’m too old to fight. I’m just useless when it comes to marching, and the guns are too heavy for my delicate physique.”
Lizzy and Sadie laughed.
“There is nothing wrong with being delicate,” said Angela. “I always tell Marie to marry someone delicate, someone simpatico, someone who is not afraid of change.”
Angela had identified as an orphan and earthquake survivor since she immigrated, but she was more than that now. In a sense she helped mold this country into what it was and what it was becoming. The consensus was that nothing could hold you back in America if you were determined to succeed, and if you were held back, it was because you did not see the abundance of opportunity available.
“Felicia, how about a New York shopping trip?” Joe asked. “It’s on me. I know that Dick would love to spend time with you.” Joe lifted his pinky finger and sipped his wine.
“I don’t need anything,” said Felicia. “But I would love to come down and have a visit.”
Marie’s mother and uncle had had a deep connection ever since her father first introduced Felicia to Joe in New York in the early 1940s. They both loved to dance and gossip about family, and she made sure Joe was invited to all the family gatherings. He praised her on how well she was raising the children, and she basked in that praise. Regardless of whether she had help, she was still a widowed single mother who struggled to have a career and make sure the children were cared for as best she could.
“Marie and Andrea, would you two care to come?” asked Joe.
“I’ll go,” said Marie.
“Don’t know,” said Andrea. “It depends on what my friends are doing.”
Angela was glad that Joe shared some of his life with his family. She had favored him as a child, while Franco had connected more with Nunzio. Angela attempted to impart her heritage’s culture to Joe. He expressed interest in cooking, opera and fashion. She could see that Joe was carrying on their tradition of dressing well. Not in the same way, but she could see that he maintained a sense of Italian culture.
“You ladies have not said a word about my suit,” said Joe. He took off his jacket and held it up.
“That’s a beautiful suit,” Lizzy said, winking at him.
“Yeah,” said Sadie. “I’d marry you myself if you were my age. You’re fairly good eye candy.”
Angela lit the taper candles in the center of the table, standing like sentries next to the fresh cut flowers. Silver flatware graced the sides of the china that Franco had bought when they first married, and the pressed white linen tablecloth was fine enough to create a garment.
Angela and Felicia brought out platters of chicken, pasta, and eggplant parmesan. The meal extended into the late afternoon. Angela sat at the head of the table and passed the platters around the table. The aroma of each dish permeated the dining room; garlic, parmesan cheese, and red sauce created a feast for the senses.
“Tell me what everyone is doing,” said Joe, cutting a piece of chicken.
“I have great professors in mechanical technology and drafting,” said Frank. “I’m looking forward to landing a job in Manhattan.”
“At least you got out of the draft,” said Joe. “I always like to see a man in uniform, but I don’t like the fighting.”
“I agree with you,” said Marie.
“What about you, Andrea? What do you think?”
“I don’t care. I don’t think about it, except the police are after Robert and I miss him.”
“Let’s not talk about the war and enjoy our meal,” said Angela.
“Why not?” asked Frank. “We’re all against it.”
“They’re all killing each other over there,” said Felicia. “I think they need to pull out so my son can come home.”
“There are a lot of protests,” said Marie. “They will have to pull out eventually. Who wants to fight this war?”
“I sure don’t,” said Frank. “I’m glad I’m in college.”
“But once you graduate, you could be drafted,” said Joe. “You need to think ahead. I don’t blame Robert for not wanting to go into the army.”
“No more talk about the war,” said Felicia. Silence fell over the dining room like a wet blanket, as everyone knew that when Felicia spoke, it was best not to challenge her. It was times like these that she felt most alone. She felt she had no one to assist her when she was up against a force like the government.
“So, Joe, how is your job at American Express going?” asked Sadie, sipping her wine.
“I am no longer working. Dick has produced a few successful B movies, and I am now a free man.”
“Here’s to you,” said Sadie as she lifted her wine glass.
“What films?” asked Marie.
“Horror films,” said Joe. “He produced Corridors of Blood and The Haunted Strangler.”
“That is wonderful news, Joe,” Angela said. “How will you spend your time?”
“I have plenty to do at home. I am going to redecorate our apartment and Dick’s office.”
A cacophony of voices filled the air as everyone spoke simultaneously.
Joe smiled, sat back and pushed his plate away. “I am stuffed. This was delicious—as good as any restaurant in New York.”
“It’s time for dessert,” said Angela. “Italian cheesecake and lemon meringue pie.”
“Not for me, said Joe. “I have to watch my figure. I’ll take a slice home.”
“Do you remember when we made cannoli when you were a kid?” asked Angela.
“I do, Angela, and those are my best memories. You were good to me, and I appreciate it every day. I felt loved.”
“Pass the wine,” said Sadie.
“It’s been lovely dining with you, family.” Joe glanced at his gold watch. “My train leaves in a half hour.”
Marie and Angela began to clear the table.
“I’ll take you to the station. Lizzy and Sadie, I can take you home too.”
“Oh, Felicia, you are a gem,” said Lizzy. “I can’t walk as fast as I used to.”
Angela felt grateful for a day that included laughter and lively conversation; it brightened the week ahead.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I will help finish the dishes,” said the returning Felicia as she closed the side door.
“I think we can get Captain Bonifice to help get Robert home,” Angela offered.
“I know,” said Felicia. “Sadie told me what you were thinking.”
“That woman. She never keeps quiet. Let’s invite him for dinner. I want to get this over with.”
Angela and Felicia finished putting the dishes away in silence.
“You should not worry so much about the kids. They’re my children, so they’re my responsibility.”
“They are my concern too,” said Angela. “I want to help.”
“You don’t help by codling them. They need to grow up.”
“Listen, I was all alone in the world at the convent. I grew up without parents. So, what you call codling I call love and concern. They’re my nephew’s children, and my joy was to help raise them.”
“Yes, but I make the decisions about discipline.”
“You do, but I am there when those decisions don’t work.”
Felicia knew that Angela’s input and help had been invaluable. Her children grew up in a supportive and stable environment, partly due to Angela.
“Let’s talk about planning this dinner tomorrow. I’m tired and need to get some sleep,” said Felicia.
“See you tomorrow. Thank you.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Angela sat in Franco’s smoking chair in the dining room. She felt an opening sensation at the crown of her head and knew her unseen friends wanted to communicate. She could hear them most often when she was tired and ready to rest. Sometimes they worked in images, but tonight they presented a distant memory. When she was young, before the 1908 earthquake, she remembered a conversation with her parents.
“Mario, I don’t understand why they want you out of the guild,” Angela’s mother, Rosa, had said. “I would consult the head of the guild and see if he can help. They cannot just throw you out without an inquiry.”
Mario travelled to many exotic countries buying and selling silk. He loved his job, and it supported his family, but the poor who made the silk were paid little.
“I will continue to do business, but not in the way they want,” said Mario.
“You’ll just make more trouble for yourself,” said Rosa. Mario paid workers extra out of his wages when he picked up the silk. The guild was against this, even though there was not a law stipulating differently.
Angela breathed deeply and brought herself back to the present, confused about what she had been shown. It felt random to Angela, but sometimes it took months to understand why she was shown an image or conversation. She understood how that conversation molded her, and to this day she never hesitated to help someone less fortunate. Angela looked around the dining room and smiled.
She had survived all the challenges in her seventy-three years, but there was still work to be done with the new generation. The oppression of women who pursued financial independence through business was less obvious in America than Sicily, but it was there, lurking in the background like a silent, indiscernible shadow. This challenge did not come from the government or from the aristocracy but from within the Italian-American community.
When Angela first started to sew for private clients, her friends discouraged her.
“Why not work in a factory where they make clothes? You would have a steady income. If you work on your own, people may not come.”
“I agree,” had said Ramina Galucci. Her husband was a respected tailor in town, and she did not want the competition.
Even though Angela primarily designed women’s clothes, she had also made men’s suits and shirts. In the Italian-American community, the possibility of Angela becoming successful on her own was beyond their realm of possibility. Her unseen friends encouraged her to persevere, and she had. She had her doubts at first, but she had accomplished her goal.
Angela rested her head against the back of her husband’s chair and closed her eyes, content. It had been a long day. Joe was successful, and she had a business because she did not give up.
“Aunt Angela, can I have a piece of cake?” asked Marie. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you asleep?”
“No, I was resting my eyes. Come in the kitchen, I’ll have a piece too.”
“Uncle Joe looked good,” said Marie. She sat at the kitchen table as Angela cut two pieces of cheesecake.
“Yes, your uncle has done well, and you will too,” said Angela.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to afford an Armani suit.”
“Women don’t wear suits,” said Angela. “Doing well in life does not mean you can buy an Armani suit. It is just a representation of good quality. Now eat your cake.”
“Doing well in life means you can afford an Armani suit,” said Marie, “but choose not to because you live a quality life. Like you, Aunt Angela.”