Spring peeked out through the blossoming trees in the backyard of Morning Glory Avenue as Angela brought her houseplants out to enjoy the sun. The light was returning, and a feeling of renewal was in the air. Blooming honeysuckle wrapped around the entrance to the backyard. It was a warm, glorious day in Nelsonville. She sat in a reclining chair on the side porch, closed her eyes, and offered her face to the sun. She remembered that spring was a special time in Sicily.
“A few more months and I will graduate,” said Marie, coming at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you taking a nap?”
“No, I was thinking about spring in Sicily. It was a time when my father would return from the silk trade in the Middle East and my mother would prepare an elaborate meal.”
“You have never talked about him. What was he like?”
Angela loved Marie’s curiosity about times past. It was not something young people thought much about. They seemed to care only for the moment.
“He was a silk trader and handsome with dark, wavy hair and kind eyes that sparkled when the sun hit them. One day we had received word that my father was on his way home and would reach Messina in a week. My mother began to prepare for his return. He was journeying through the overland silk trade road, which was fraught with treacherous terrain and bandits.”
“Bandits? That must have been dangerous.”
“It was, but he made good money. After two weeks, he still had not returned. My mother was frantic. She found a group of merchants who had traveled with my father. They were disheveled and exhausted. They had been robbed along the route, and they told her my father had been killed. The rest of the traders got away, but they were not able to retrieve his body. My mother buried an empty coffin.”
“That must have been awful,” Marie said.
“It was for my mother. He was traveling a lot when I was a child, so my memory of him is vague.”
Angela had not thought of her father in years. When she was young, she wondered what happened to his body. Did the birds devour him, or did some kind soul dig a grave so he could go to his rest? She never knew if her sister had survived the earthquake or if her father had found a resting place, so she had learned to embrace the uncertainty of life and carry on. Her unseen friends often applauded her choice to move ahead, regardless of the situation.
“I’m glad you told me about him. That just expands my perception of who you are. I’m going to the store; do you want to come?”
“No, I am going to rest here and enjoy May.”
Angela’s thoughts drifted and focused inward, expanding into her inner landscape. There were hills and valleys of feelings, thoughts, and images. She settled on top of a mountain looking down at what seemed to be her history on earth. She gazed below and focused on a brick wall. She saw herself telling a man that this was the last place her sister had been seen and pulling out a photograph of a young, unkempt girl with fearful eyes standing in front of the wall. Deep circles were embedded under the girl’s eyes, and the radiating fear in her eyes was combined with hopelessness.
“See,” the visionary said to what seemed to be the authorities. “This is where she was last seen. You need to look here. You need to find her. Find who took this picture.”
Angela felt she was drifting deeper, and images came streaming by her without sense or reason. She felt she was flying through time, past this lifetime and beyond space that only those with open hearts and minds could access. The space felt infinite, devoid of linear time. It was the well of possibility—a formless place that could be molded into form. She slowed and drifted past people she knew she had loved, but they were not from this lifetime. Angela saw that she had other connections in times past who had shaped who she was in the present and who she would be in the future. “Every experience is designed to teach, so the soul becomes stronger and more resilient,” she had been told by one of her unseen friends who was now present in her vision. She now saw that this disappointment, or that joy, was but fleeting on a vast landscape without boundaries.
“Aunt Angela,” said Marie, coming up the steps. “Do you have any rolls? I just bought some jam.”
She waited for Angela to respond, but her aunt did not move. A wave of anxiety washed over Marie. She gingerly approached Angela. She had never seen her aunt so still.
“Aunt Angela, are you alright?” She took measured steps to see if she was breathing. She placed her hand on Angela’s arm, and she opened her eyes.
“Were you sleeping?” asked Marie.
“I don’t know,” said Angela. She shook her head and rubbed her hands together. “I’m not sure, but think I was dreaming. It was a strange dream. It was as if I was visiting places.”
“Do you have any rolls in the oven? I heard your timer go off.”
“Yes, let us go inside.”
“You looked like you were far away,” said Marie.
“I was remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
“Something that happened a long time ago,” said Angela. “I think I saw a photograph of my sister, and I stood in front of a stone wall—the kind you would find in Sicily—and I told the people who were looking for this older version of her to start at the wall because she was there.”
“How do you know it was your sister? You didn’t find her when you returned to Sicily.”
“It just came to my mind when I woke up that it was her.”
“Maybe she’s trying to communicate with you,” said Marie. “But I’m sure she died in the earthquake. How could she have survived?”
Angela wondered why she had been shown her life on earth. She thought that was reserved for her physical death when God judged her, but it seemed that anyone could observe their deeds in this lifetime and change their ways.
“Sounds like what I saw at Bryant Park when I closed my eyes and drifted. Really felt like traveling through time.”
“Maybe.” Angela never thought about time travel within her mind, but it resonated.
“I think I’ll go to school today,” said Marie.
“Why today?” asked Angela. She took the rolls out of the oven and placed them in a basket with pats of butter.
“I just think it would be good to show up. It’s amazing, but this semester I never attended gym class once, and I’ve passed.”
“I don’t see why that is important,” said Angela.
“Exactly,” said Marie. “I’m glad you see it that way. It is so boring. I would rather go horseback riding. That is exercise. What are you doing today?”
“I have two clients,” said Angela, massaging her fingers. “I’m beginning to have arthritis in my hands.”
Marie saw that her aunt’s knuckles were protruding from the bone and had become less nimble. She hoped that Angela would be able to continue her craft for a few more years. Marie knew how important it was to her aunt.
“I should take some aspirin,” said Angela.
“Move your hands around, Aunt Angela,” said Marie. “That will help.” Ever since Marie could remember, her aunt seemed old. But now with the changes in her fingers, Marie saw the results of aging, and that made her see her aunt as mortal. She recognized that one day Angela would no longer be baking bread or sewing. She would pass into the infinite space when she died.
“I would miss you if you weren’t here,” said Marie.
“You will be busy creating your own life, but if you think of me now and then I would be happy. Now, go on to school,” said Angela. “Grace them with your presence. You only have a few more weeks left.”
“You’re right, and then it is summer!”
Marie picked up her roll and ate it as she left the house.
“Where are your books?” called Angela.
“In my locker, where they’ve been all year.”
Marie reminded Angela of her sister-in-law, Speranza, Marie’s grandmother, who had to suppress the independent, confident part of herself to conform to what society found acceptable for a woman. This generation of Italian-Americans, especially Marie, would not be concerned with conforming or care about what someone else thought about her choices. The 1970s were about evolving past the generation that was raised by Italian immigrants, not just materially but intellectually and creatively. The new decade would be a harbinger of change.
Angela went into the dining room and began to cut out a dress pattern. She thought again about the frightened girl in the photograph. She remembered there was a sense of familiarity with the tattered garment the girl wore. Angela stopped cutting the pattern and stared at the oval mirror that hung on the dining room wall. Time had not existed in her vision, but it came to an abrupt stop now, and she heard her unseen friends. The garment the girl wore was the nightgown Angela wore the morning of the earthquake. She realized she was being shown a version of herself, not her sister, if she had made the choice to stay in Sicily with the nuns. Angela was shown that she might have ended up as a missing person who authorities would have had little interest in finding.
She surveyed her dining room and all that she had created and felt she could embrace the 1970s and all the changes the new decade would bring.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was a warm, late-summer day, and it was time for Marie to leave for college. Her mother and brother, Frank, would accompany her to the city. Angela stood at the front door and made sure that Marie was appropriately dressed to step into her new life. For Marie, it was a sad moment that she was leaving Angela, but she was happy to leave the small-town life of Nelsonville. She had often felt she was marking time, and now she was feeling movement in her life.
“You look happy,” said Angela. “I hope you will think of us occasionally and come home some weekends. You are just a short train ride away.”
“Sure, Aunt Angela,” said Marie. “Thank you for the new skirt and blouse.”
“It makes an impression when you meet new people,” said Angela. “Remember to visit your Uncle Joe when you can.”
Angela put her hand on Marie’s shoulder, and then she touched her cheek.
“I will miss you,” said Angela. “Everything I am, I hope I have given to you.”
“Is everything in the car?” asked Frank. “Let’s get going. Mom’s already in the car, and after I drop you off, I have a meeting in the city.”
“I’m ready,” said Marie. “Aunt Angela, I want you to know that I appreciate everything you have taught me. I know I will use my intuition and connection to the unseen world. If I have any problems, I know where to find you.”
Angela walked with Marie on the front porch and watched as the family drove away. She reflected on how it was so different from the time her nephew Joe left the confines of Nelsonville almost three decades ago. She and Franco had walked Joe to the train station and Joe had set out on his own. She had cried because she felt he was alone and there was no one to accompany him to his new life once he arrived in New York City. Now, Marie was accompanied by her family to her new life and would have support with this transition, so there was no need for her to go to the station. Angela hoped that she had had an influence in this positive outcome.
Angela’s great-nieces and -nephews had left the house one by one to start their lives, so the noise level had gradually declined. Like a play, each character was leaving the stage until only the main character was left.
Angela remembered how her influence had penetrated Marie’s awareness when Felicia and the children had spent the summer of 1959 at Felicia’s parents’ home in Cohasset, Massachusetts a year after Nunzio had died. Marie, age seven, had called Angela from Cohasset.
“Aunt Angela,” said Marie. “This is Marie. How are you? I miss you.”
“Marie, how nice to hear from you. I miss you too. Everything is okay here. I will be glad when you come home.”
“Me too,” said Marie.
“Are you having a good summer?” Angela asked.
“Yes, we go to the beach all the time. We’re having fun.”
“We should not talk too long because it will cost too much.”
“Will you make clothes for me when I get back?”
“Of course, you know I will. I am taking care of your Uncle Franco, so I will fill my days until you return.”
“I miss your stories and talking with you, Aunt Angela.”
“We will see each other soon,” said Angela. “When you get back, we will have a pizza party and I will measure you for new outfits. I am sure you will grow over the summer. Enjoy your time by the sea, and play with the other children. When you are on the beach, think of me.”
“I do think of you all the time.” Angela’s heart was warmed by that phone call from a seven-year-old. It got her through the summer.
That year, Felicia and the children arrived back in Nelsonville just before Labor Day. As soon they pulled in the driveway, Angela ran to the car and embraced Felicia and the children.
“I have missed you all so much. It has been a long summer without you.”
When her family left for Felicia’s summer house, Angela disliked the quiet even though she was often surly about how much noise the children made. Franco spent his days in the basement workshop or in the garden, making the house feel even emptier.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Angela had settled into the next phase of her life after Marie left for college. There were several deaths within the Italian-American community, so their cultural influence was diminishing. She was sad that friends were dying, but the progressive ideas that were taking over the new decade interested her. Marie was coming home from college for her first weekend visit, and Angela had prepared a pizza.
“Here I am,” called Marie as she opened the front door. “Aunt Angela, are you around?”
“You’re early,” said Angela. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and opened her arms. “Did your mother pick you up at the station?”
“Yeah, she dropped me off and went back to the office. My professor let us out early. I’ve missed you. I’m glad we have this time alone.”
“I have coffee on the stove if you would like some. You need to tell me all about college.”
They sat at their usual places at the kitchen table. Marie looked out the window at the fall foliage, breathing in the scents of her childhood. The leaves, coated in various shades of oranges, reds, and olive greens, swayed as the fall breeze swept through. She hated to see the warm weather wane. The fall always signaled the end to her time on New England beaches when she was a kid. She loved spring, summer, and fall, but winter was the most unpredictable season, full of frigid temperatures and snow that interrupted life’s flow. Everything contracted in winter.
“How is your arthritis?” Marie asked.
“Oh, it is about the same. I take aspirin. I can still sew, but it is more difficult.” She poured the coffee. “I have some anisette cookies.”
“Thank you, Aunt Angela.”
“Do you like college?” asked Angela.
“A lot more than I liked high school,” said Marie. “Aunt Angela, do you remember you used to tell us the story of the good and bad angels?”
“Yes, I remember. You and your sister came into my sitting room every night to hear the story. You especially requested the good and bad angel story.”
“Where did you get the stories? Did someone tell you?”
“The story was about the fall of Lucifer. Everyone knows the story. He disobeyed God, so he was cast into Hell.”
“Yes, but you talked about other angels who disagreed with God, but they weren’t cast into Hell. Like Archangel Michael, who threatened God with mutiny if he could not act without God’s permission. You also had other spiritual beliefs. Where did they come from?”
“Why are you asking these questions? I told those stories so long ago. Are you having more experiences with mirrors? You know there is a dark side to that.”
“I am taking a class in comparative religions and alternative spiritual beliefs, and I thought who better to ask about alternative beliefs? For example, your altar to The Blessed Mother.”
“An altar to The Blessed Mother is not an alternative belief,” said Angela.
“If you worship and consult Mary before you worship God, it is an alternative way of thinking. There is an entire ancient goddess culture around the sacred feminine.”
“Your uncle prayed to Mary years ago to save my life when I was seriously ill. The next day I was sitting up in bed, so I created an altar to The Virgin, and I still light candles every week in thanks. To this day, I am grateful. This is not worship.”
“What about necromancy, talking to the dead? That is an alternative belief. Remember, we talked about this, and we’ve both had visions.”
“Necro what?”
“Necromancy. It is the practice of communicating with the dead. It is considered a magical practice, and the class goes into those practices. It is what you have done your whole life.”
“You’re talking about this in class?”
“Yes, people practice necromancy. Like yourself. The experiences in the mirror are vivid in my mind. I think that is a kind of necromancy. Is it taught or just innate like yours?”
“You should be careful. Remember what I told you about the mirror. I know you are interested in the unseen, but you must control it so it does not control you.”
Andrea came in through the side door.
“Hey, Sis, what are you doing here?”
“I’m home for the weekend.”
Andrea picked up an anisette cookie.
“Wash your hands first,” Angela said. She turned to Marie. “We can finish this conversation later.”
Angela felt that revealing her spiritual beliefs or practices would weaken their power and open her up to more criticism. Over the years, she had dropped enough hints about her inner world so that Marie could cultivate her own relationship with the unseen. She did not want to tell Marie what to believe. She wanted her to find out for herself how to move forward. The idea of alternative spiritual practices was in its infancy, but Angela’s unseen friends told her that eventually many people would seek a new spirituality.
When she was at the convent in Palermo, one of the nuns overheard Angela talking to her missing sister, begging her sister to tell her if she was alive or dead.
“You should not contact the dead,” said the nun. “To speak to the dead, you must go through God. He will decide if you are worthy of an answer. It is a blasphemy to think you are talking to your sister. It could be the devil.”
Angela then hid her beliefs, fearful of the consequences. But it was natural for Angela to communicate with the unseen world, like breathing.
“What are we talking about?” asked Andrea.
“I was just asking your sister about college,” said Angela.
“How’s it going, sis?”
Marie was not sure how much she should tell her family about her experience so far. Living in New York was exceptional on many levels, but the most enlightening part was meeting people from all over the world. Her life would never be the same. Even if at times it was a struggle, she did not miss living at home. When Marie grew up, there were many influences in the house at Morning Glory Avenue. There had always been a steady stream of at least three generations of her family that came and went at the house on various occasions. Sadie and Lizzy provided comic relief, and Angela’s more traditional friends from the Italian-American community gave Marie a sense of tradition. Together with Angela’s spirituality and her mother’s success in business, it all came together to create an acceptance of who people were. When she ventured off to college, she was able to integrate her new surrounding easier than most.
“I’m doing well,” said Marie. “I love living in New York, and I hope to go to grad school.”
“You’re thinking about that already?” Andrea asked. “You just started college.”
“All the girls are thinking about it,” said Marie. “Everyone looks ahead.”
“That is nice,” said Angela. “Always good to think about your future. When your mother gets home, we’ll all have dinner together.”
Angela wondered what Nunzio would have thought about his daughter attending college. He had not finished high school even though Angela had tried to convince him to. It had been a mammoth effort to wake Nunzio up in the morning to go to school. Sometimes she had to wet a facecloth and press it on his head to get him to move. At least when Marie refused to go to school, it was because she had interests elsewhere. Her father had just slept.
“I think I will major in history,” said Marie. “I’ve always had a connection to historical events and how the world has evolved, and I love storytelling.”
“What kind of job will you get?” Andrea asked. “Mom’s not going to like that.”
“I am sure she will be able to get a job,” said Angela.
Marie knew that her mother did not care for Angela’s storytelling. Felicia felt it encouraged an air of self-indulgence that was inappropriate for success in the world. Her brother Frank was an electrical engineer, Robert designed and installed tiles, and it was discussed that Andrea would become a retail merchandiser, given her interest in fashion and business. Marie was not interested in following a traditional job path, and Felicia disliked Angela’s encouragement.
For dinner that night, Angela made her special pizza and a salad. It was an informal gathering around the dining table where everyone talked at once and there was a feeling of lightness, of homecoming. Angela felt that the years were catching up to her a bit, like the arthritis in her hands and her hips that sometimes bothered her. She had not thought much about aging, but the process had begun. She wanted to keep sewing for as long as she could continue to provide beauty in the world through garments.
She’d revealed to Marie that ever since the earthquake and the tsunami that followed, she had been terrified of thunderstorms. As soon as grey skies and wind rolled in, she would close all the windows and pull the shades. Beads of sweat would appear on her upper lip, and her breathing would become shallow. As she aged, the fear became more forceful, and Angela could not hide from her experience.
“I picked up some wine in the city today,” Frank said. He uncorked the bottle of Merlot.
“Let’s all have a glass,” said Marie.
“Do you know that Marie is going to major in history?” asked Andrea.
“Did you have to say that?” Marie hissed.
“History?” asked Felicia. “Are you going to teach? Teachers don’t make much money.”
“I figure I can study what I want since it’s a city college and it’s free to the residents of New York City. I’m a resident now.”
“You know, I can’t figure you,” Felicia said. “That is impractical, and you know it. You could go into the medical profession where you’re guaranteed a job, or get a business degree.”
Free college added to Marie’s independence. Her mother’s opinion was inconsequential.
“Keep trying,” said Marie. “You’ll figure me out.”
Felicia wanted to reach across the table to slap her daughter, but a long day at the office quelled her anger.
“We should invite Sadie over; she would love this wine,” said Robert.
“Nah, she’ll drink it all,” said Frank.
Everyone laughed, enjoying the levity that Sadie brought even though she was not there.
“I’m home for the weekend. What shall we do?” asked Marie.
“I have a lot going on with my friends,” said Andrea.
“You can come shopping with me,” said Felicia.
Perfect, thought Marie, a day drowning in complaints. Felicia disliked browsing but Marie enjoyed the quest of finding the perfect item, whether it be clothing or groceries. Her mother’s attitude was more hit and run.
“Sounds like fun,” said Marie. “But Aunt Angela, weren’t you going to fit me for a new dress?”
“Oh, we can do that when you get back from shopping,” Angela said.
“Wonderful,” said Marie. “I’m looking forward to shopping with you, Mom.”
“Huh,” Felicia replied. Sarcasm was not lost on her.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Marie moved the grocery cart along store aisles as her mother plucked items off shelves.
“What do you want to eat tonight?”
“Anything is fine. I don’t want you to have to cook,” Marie offered.
“If I don’t cook, we don’t eat.”
“Aunt Angela always has food,” said Marie. “Has she stopped cooking?”
“You shouldn’t rely on your aunt so much now. You need to be more independent. She has spoiled you over the years.”
“I could cook for us.”
“Really? Have you ever cooked a meal before?”
“No, but someday I’ll have to. I might as well practice on my family.”
“Experiment on your friends.”
Marie said nothing and kept moving the cart along the aisles. She did not want to bring up her choice of a major, but she could tell that her mother had that in the back of her mind by her curt statements.
“I’ll make fish like my mother used to make,” said Felicia. “Since you’re so interested in history, that is a bit of culinary history.”
Felicia had a way of weaving her displeasure into the conversation in the most indirect manner. Marie chose to turn the table.
“Culinary history is certainly important,” said Marie. “Although it isn’t explored as much. You will have to give me the recipe.”
“You have never cooked anything in your life. That is what I mean by independence. Life skills.”
“I just offered to cook tonight. I know how to order in a restaurant; that’s a life skill.”
“You’re impossible. I don’t know what kind of job you’ll get after graduation.”
Marie knew her mother still harbored disappointment about not having gone to art school, so she chose to drop the subject. There was a certain satisfaction for Marie in goading her mother, but she had to tread lightly. Everyone had limits.
“You know I think you should do what you want,” said Felicia as she loaded the groceries into the car. “But it has to be within reason. You do not want to end up without prospects. You need to live in the real world.”
“I know, Mom, but I just want to explore my options.”
Her daughter’s determination exasperated her. Felicia’s other children were set on careers that would generate funds and new opportunities. Why couldn’t Marie aspire to the same?
“I want all of you to get an education, but I don’t want you to flounder,” said Felicia.
“I won’t flounder. I’m not the floundering type,” Marie said. “Let’s get these groceries home.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Marie was packing her case to return to New York City when Angela came into her room.
“I have something for you,” said Angela. “This is a St. Christopher medal for protection on your travels.” She put it around Marie’s neck.
“But I’m only going back to school. And I’m not religious.”
“It is for protection on your life’s journey,” said Angela. “Like the lions on my mantle, it will protect you from mishaps when you travel, whether inside your mind or on the earth.”
“Thank you,” said Marie. “I have never seen you wear this medal,” said Marie.
“The nuns in Palermo gave it to me, and I wore it on my journey to this country and when I returned to Sicily in 1929. Now it is yours. I won’t be traveling anymore, but you will.”
“Are you ready?” asked Felicia. “Hurry and pack your bag. You’ll miss your train.”
Marie kissed her aunt and said goodbye. She had always wanted to travel, but college came first.
Angela felt lighter after she had relinquished her St. Christopher medal. She had all the protection she needed from her unseen friends and her lions. Her preservation did not come from an object. She felt that passing it down to Marie added extra security to a young life just beginning, as hers was waning. Angela was in the dormitory packing for her voyage to America when the nuns presented her with the medal.
“Angela,” said one of the nuns, “we have something for you.”
A group of the sisters stood around her. The nun who spoke stepped forward and presented her with the St. Christopher medal.
“This is for protection on your travels. This way you take us with you—your family.”
Now, almost sixty years later, Angela had a new family and had passed on the love and connection she was gifted at the beginning of her journey.
After Marie and Felicia left for the train station, Angela decided to clean her sewing area. She swept the floor and dusted and oiled the sewing machine cabinet. She sprayed the mirror with glass cleaner, removing the dust that prevented her from seeing clearly. Her sister-in-law, Speranza, had spent many hours in front of the mirror as Angela pinned her garments—some celebratory, others pedestrian. The garment that combined both celebration and sadness was Speranza’s wedding gown. Angela had wanted to pretend she was happy about her marriage to Salvatore, but she could not. Now Angela wished she had been happy for her sister-in-law to give her a boost, regardless of how she felt. The image captured in the mirror was one of sadness for Angela.
Other memories embedded in the mirror were humorous. She had fitted Sadie with a new blouse and skirt upon Sadie’s request because she was tired of some of the women gossiping about her well-worn outfit. She wanted Angela to make the same black skirt and white blouse to shut up the gossipers. Try as she might, Angela could not convince Sadie to consider different clothes. Angela did, however, get Sadie to buy a new pair of elastic stockings because the pair she wore drooped at the knees and ankles.
Then there was the multitude of stylish women who came to Angela to seek her advice on what would look the best for a dinner, luncheon, or evening gala. Her ability to transform an ordinary design into a reflection of what the client aspired to be was what brought her clients. These images of metamorphosis were also submerged in the mirror’s landscape. These figures carried more lightness, so they came forward more easily and inspired creativity instead of regret or sadness. The memories with family held more weight. Angela felt she had achieved a balance in her clients and designs. She wondered how many more years she had left to sew. Maybe she would not smash the mirror so those in its inner landscape would live as they were, without aging or illness.
The phone rang, snapping Angela out of her daydream.
“Oh, hello, Joe,” said Angela. “How are you doing? How was London?”
“Dick and I had a wonderful time. I wanted to visit you this weekend.”
“We would love to have you. Why don’t you stay overnight?”
“All right. Dick will be out of town on business.”
“Ok, I’ll see you this weekend. Felicia will pick you up Saturday morning.”
Having Joe around was like having his mother Speranza back. Angela was sure Speranza would have been proud of Joe and how he rose above his childhood. Angela always treated Joe and Marie similarly: they could do no wrong. She was delighted that Marie had inherited Joe’s interest in travel and the opportunities in Manhattan.
When Angela reflected on her marriage, there was a weight of disappointment that bound her to the past. She had transcended much in her life, but one truth about her life in America was a wound that would open occasionally to remind her of its presence. After World War II and her nephew Nunzio’s death, she had buried her resentment for his loss. She felt he had died in Hiroshima along with his men, even though he had survived the trauma. When he came home, he was a shell and was unable to climb out of a deep dark space. The fact that she had gotten Captain Bonifice to bring his son Robert home through bribery gave her more than just satisfaction: it taught her those with power were not untouchable.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Hi, Angela,” said Felicia. She had just returned from work and carried a pile of large envelopes.
“You brought work home again,” said Angela. “They should pay you for that.”
“We’re just so busy I couldn’t get to all the paperwork. Title companies are busy.”
“Listen, Joe is coming this weekend. His birthday is soon, so I thought we’d have a cake.”
“All right. I’ll make veal,” said Felicia. “He’ll like that.”
It was a good day for Felicia when her brother-in-law visited. It was a time to relax, enjoy his dry sense of humor, and experience life through his perceptions. He would talk about his travels and New York life. Andrea came in and threw off her jacket and books.
“Take those upstairs,” said Felicia. “You shouldn’t throw your things around like that.”
“Maybe we should let Marie know that Joe will be here this weekend and they could come together on the train,” said Angela.
“Marie was just here,” said Felicia. “She may have plans with her friends.”
“I will invite Paolina,” said Angela. “Joe enjoys Paolina.”
Angela had already invited Salvatore’s sister, Paolina. She was Joe’s aunt, and Angela felt that it was important for extended family to get together.
“All right,” said Felicia. “I will shop tomorrow.”
Angela’s feelings of resentment toward Paolina had softened over the years. There was a time Paolina’s presence would cause Angela’s blood pressure to rise, and then she would hyperventilate because Paolina had encouraged the relationship between her brother, Salvatore, and Speranza. But she was now able to view her as an amusing dinner companion.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
On Saturday morning, Joe carried two leather bags as he and Felicia walked through the front door.
“Aunt Angela, I’m here,” Joe said.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you, Joe,” said Angela. “Put your bags down.”
She embraced him and stood back as if she was stepping back to observe a sculpture she had created.
“How do you like my new suit?” He unbuttoned his jacket and displayed the interior. “All Italian silk, even better than my last Armani. It is this season.”
“It is beautiful,” said Angela. She examined the seams and touched the silk as she lifted the jacket. “It has good weight, and the silk is the finest. Perfectly tailored.” Tailoring this refined made Angela feel that the world still possessed a semblance of order and tradition. “I am so glad you are looking so well. Why have you brought two bags for an overnight visit?”
“I have to have a change of clothes, shoes, and my personal items. Felicia, thank you for picking me up.”
“Sure,” said Felicia. “I have to go back to work. I’ll see everyone later.”
“Your Aunt Paolina is coming for dinner tonight,” said Angela.
“Really? I think she’s a riot,” said Joe, lighting a Gauloise cigarette.
“Put your bags in my sitting room and come in the dining room for some coffee,” said Angela.
A plush sofa sat facing the marble fireplace, and piles of fabric were neatly piled on a table in the center of the sitting room. It was a large room off Angela’s bedroom that contained sewing remnants, patterns, and a desk. Joe remembered sitting on the couch with Angela as a child and listening to her stories. As he grew, she had talked about his mother and how much she missed her. He found these conversations tedious, needing to look forward in his life and not drown in someone else’s pain. He had his own pain to contend with because of his mother’s death. When he left Nelsonville to make a life in New York City, he’d never looked back.
But like most of his family members, he owed a debt of gratitude to Angela. She had stepped up when his mother died and had taught him to cook and to speak Italian. Joe took off his Armani suit jacket, hung it in the closet, and ran his hand down the front as if it were an exotic pet.
“Coffee is ready,” said Angela. She opened the French doors to the sitting room that opened into the dining room. Bright sun streamed in through the windows, creating a spotlight on the photographs sitting on the buffet. Joe walked over to the buffet.
“You still have these pictures,” Joe said.
He picked up a black and white photograph of his mother, maternal grandmother, and Angela.
“That was taken in 1914,” said Angela, “not long after I arrived in this country. You mother is about ten in that picture.”
Angela was standing behind Speranza with her hands on her young sister-in-law’s shoulders. Angela looked to the right slightly while Franco’s mother peered into the camera. It was the image of an immigrant family frozen in time at the precipice of a new life in America.
“My mother looks happy,” said Joe. “I was five when she died. That was a long time ago.”
“Well, she was a jolly person,” said Angela. “She was always smiling. You have her sense of humor.”
After his mother died, his life had been derailed onto a new timeline. The house felt empty and when his father, Salvatore, went to Sicily and married his seventeen-year-old niece, Joe had begun his plan his escape from Nelsonville.
“I remember once when my mother forgot to make dinner,” said Joe. She played with my brother, my sister and me all day, and the time just flew by. My father came home and expected dinner to be ready. We laughed and laughed. She loved fun.”
“She liked to play practical jokes on everyone,” said Angela. “Once she hid under my bed and I looked for her for a half hour. I called your grandmother to see if she had gone out, when suddenly she came out and nearly scared me to death.”
“That sounds like her,” Joe said.
Angela poured the coffee and sliced the cake.
“Are you happy?” Angela asked.
“Yes, I have a good life. Dick and I travel and buy what we want. It’s the life I had always imagined. Dick makes good money as a producer, and we have a rent control apartment on the East Side.”
“I am glad. You deserve it after what you went through as a child. No one knows more than me.”
“You were there for me and helped me when I moved to New York. I’ll never forget.”
Moments like these validated her purpose in life: to assist her family in achieving their dreams. She experienced a deep satisfaction when one of the people she had cared for became happy and successful.
“It was my pleasure,” said Angela. She poured the coffee and handed Joe a piece of cake.
“Have you seen Marie in the city?” asked Angela.
“No, I haven’t seen her. I figure she is involved with school and prefers hanging out with friends. She’s the independent type and very much like her mother.”
“Yes, she is,” said Angela. She smiled to herself, knowing that her influence stretched into Marie’s consciousness. She may appear like her mother on the surface, thought Angela, but outer appearances were superfluous. It was underneath the shell that Angela had molded.
“Your mother, you, and Marie are the same,” said Angela.
“The same? What do you mean?”
“All of you are simpatico,” said Angela. She sipped her coffee and waited for Joe’s response.
Joe paused and searched his memory for anything that would connect the three generations. He had been close to his mother and preferred her company to his father, but that was a brief amount of time to draw any connections. Marie had been his favorite niece because he found her to be engaging.
“I never had children,” said Angela, “but I will live on in you and Marie. That is what I will leave here on earth.”
“You are not going anywhere yet,” said Joe, snuffing out his cigarette. “You’ll die at your sewing machine. Maybe we can bury it with you.”
“See, you have your mother’s wicked sense of humor. Many people do not understand it.”
“Well, if you can’t take a joke…”
“How is Dick?” asked Angela. “How is his business doing?”
“Dick is producing two more movies. That should set us up for life.”
“I am glad you are not alone,” said Angela. “You have found a partner.”
“I think I will rest before dinner,” said Joe. “I want to be fresh as a daisy for our guest.”
“Go in and lie down on the couch in the sitting room,” said Angela. “I am going to prepare the cheesecake.”
“Sounds yummy,” said Joe. He kissed Angela on both cheeks and disappeared into the sitting room.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Joe awoke and looked at his watch. It was four o’clock and time to get up and prepare for the evening. He heard Angela working in the kitchen, and the aroma of sautéed onions and garlic permeated the air. He remembered a time he had awakened from a nap as a child and walked into the kitchen to find his mother sautéing garlic. She had looked down and smiled at him, and a feeling home and safety had enveloped his body. He hugged her, and she smoothed his hair back, bent down and kissed the top of his head. That was the most tender memory he had of his mother. There was no one else around, just he and Speranza with a shared moment that belonged to him. Joe dressed and went upstairs to see Felicia.
“Felicia, are you busy?” he called. He stood at the top of the stairs and gazed in the hall mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He was dressed in his country black slacks, Gucci loafers, and a tailored red shirt.
“In the living room,” Felicia responded.
“I wanted to come up and see how you’re doing.”
“Nice shirt,” Felicia kissed him on the cheek.
“I bought it in Rome last year. We flew Alitalia. Boy, that was an experience. All airlines are bad, but when you fly Alitalia, they throw things at you.”
They laughed and sat on the couch.
“I’m glad the children are doing well. I tell people I love my sister-in-law and that she has done such a fantastic job with the family.”
“Thank you, Joe,” said Felicia. She wondered if he was saying that because he did not want to have to deal with Angela as she aged, or if he meant it.
“We have been friends for a long time, and I wanted to say…”
“Hey, Uncle Joe,” said Andrea, “when did you get here?”
“A while ago. Look how grown up you are. You look like you’re ready to take on the world.” Andrea wore a red, cotton one-piece slack set with platform shoes. The red complemented her black hair, olive skin and fiery personality.
Andrea smiled and brimmed with energy.
“I heard Aunt Paolina is coming tonight,” said Andrea.
“Yes, and we’ll have some fun with her,” said Joe.
“Make sure you hang up your clothes,” said Felicia.
“Can I go out after dinner?” asked Andrea.
“Go and hang up your clothes. We are visiting with your uncle,” Felicia said.
Andrea grumbled and left to change.
“Wear something fun and sassy,” said Joe.
Joe was adept at cutting tension in any situation, with a talent for making peace and redirecting an uncomfortable moment. Joe had learned to do this at an early age when his father had married his own niece, Immacolatta. Joe had longed for a mother after his mother passed and saw potential in his father’s new bride. When his stepmother had children, he endeared himself to her by helping her care for the children. She found him to be an invaluable asset in the household, but she ultimately took advantage of his need to be loved.
One day, after Angela had observed the situation, she had taken Joe by the hand and brought him to live in the house on Morning Glory Avenue. Joe was grateful and learned he had to do extraordinarily little to illicit praise from Angela.
“Felicia, I wanted to say I appreciate you picking me up from the station every time I visit. You have been a godsend to this family. I wish my brother was alive to see how well you’ve raised the children.”
“Thank you, Joe. I do my best, and Angela is a great help.”
“We have both struggled to become who we are; we know what it takes.”
“I focus on what I have, not what I have lost,” said Felicia.
“It’s best to focus on the future,” said Joe. “Not what didn’t work in the past. Sometimes it is good to walk away from your previous life.”
“Let’s go downstairs and see if we can raid the liquor cabinet,” said Joe. “I need a drink. Will you join me?”
“Have I ever said no?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Angela served veal cutlets and pasta Bolognese. Paolina and Joe sat across from one another.
“Paolina, let me fill your plate,” said Joe. He dug the serving fork into the pasta and piled a huge amount on Paolina’s plate. His father’s sister had always been a big eater.
“That enough,” said Paolina. “You are going to make me fat.” Like many older Italian ladies, she had expanded over the years.
“Oh, come on, you still have your girlish figure,” said Joe.
“You are funny,” said Paolina. “You know I should lose weight.”
“You still look good,” said Joe. “Just stand up and be who you are.”
Most people who spent time with Joe fell in love with him and his charm. Waiters, shop girls, or anyone in his orbit found him to be endearing and marvelous company. He knew that Angela could never completely forgive his father for marrying his own niece after his mother’s death, but he believed that families should stay together regardless of mistakes. Immacolatta and Salvatore had moved out of Nelsonville to Queens, New York ten years ago, and the distance helped ease tensions.
“You are just charming me,” said Paolina.
“He is like his mother,” said Angela. “Everyone loved Speranza. She had an interest in people, and so does our Joe.”
Paolina cleared her throat, making her voice ready for a retort in case Angela chastised her about supporting Salvatore when he went to Sicily to marry Immacolatta.
“So, have you remarried, Aunt Paolina?” asked Joe. “I’m sure a woman like you would have no problem.”
“Look at Felicia,” said Paolina. “She is attractive, and she is still single even through her husband died twelve years ago.”
“I don’t need to be married,” said Felicia. For Felicia it was tiring when people asked why she had not remarried. This was 1970, and it was no longer necessary for a woman, certainly not a successful one, to be married.
“How about it, Felicia?” asked Joe. “No romance?”
“I’m much too busy. Besides, who wants to stay home and wash someone’s clothes? And I will not have someone tell my children what to do. That’s my job.”
“I agree,” said Joe. “I have our clothes sent out. I tell Dick: ‘I am not a maid. If you want a maid, hire one.’ You and me, Felicia, we think alike.”
“I have to go out after dinner,” said Andrea.
“Where are you going?” asked Felicia.
“Out with friends,” said Andrea.
“You’d better not be late,” said Felicia.
Andrea did not respond. She knew that silence would send her mother over the edge.
“Did you hear me?”
“How could I not hear you? You’re sitting across the table. I’d have to be deaf.”
“I’m sure she’ll be home early,” said Joe. “I thought we would sit on the porch later and tell stories. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”
“God no, I live for stories about people I’ve never met. See you later.” Andrea chewed on an olive as she went out the side door.
“She’s a firecracker,” said Joe. “Both girls are so independent.”
“She is like Speranza,” said Angela. “I could never talk sense into her, either. She got married too young.”
“Well,” said Paolina. “She was in love with my brother, so why not get married?”
“Why not get married?” said Angela, her face turning red. “I can give you a few good reasons.”
“Water under the bridge,” said Joe. “It happened many years ago. Let’s not bring up my mother.”
“That’s right, Joe,” said Paolina. “One should not speak ill of the dead.”
“Who is speaking ill of Speranza?” asked Angela. “I was just saying she was too young to get married. She was a wonderful person, and her death was a tragedy.”
“Anyone want more veal?” asked Felicia.
“I’ll take some,” said Joe. “Come on, ladies, let us talk less about family and more about what’s in store in the 1970s. It’s a new decade.”
Angela could not help but bring up Speranza. Having Paolina around brought up such anger in Angela that she thought she would have a stroke. She decided that for the rest of the dinner she would not speak about Speranza.
“You are right, Joe,” said Angela. “It is a new world, and the past is gone, not to be revisited.”