The Shoemaker's Wife(129)
Ciro’s lean build and broad shoulders were an athletic counter to the willowy limbs of the girl, whose own green eyes shimmered like emeralds. At one point, the couples swayed toward the bystanders near Enza, and she tried again to wave to her husband. But he was no longer looking for her. He was laughing with abandon as the girl spun around him, pivoting back as she lifted the hem of her voluminous pale green velvet skirt, revealing her smooth calves and small ankles. Ciro drank the details of her in, and it made Enza’s stomach churn.
“She seems to have no idea he’s married,” Ida said.
Ida’s comment jolted Enza back into reality. “He doesn’t wear a ring. I wear his ring.” Enza twisted the signet ring on her finger.
“You should go out there and break it up right now,” Ida insisted. “There were too many barrels of plum wine at this shindig, and they’ve all been emptied. Go. Go get him!”
If Laura were here, she would probably have said the same thing. But for some reason, Enza couldn’t seem to make the move to claim her husband. Instead, she watched the scene unfold as though it was not her husband dancing with another woman, but a character in a novel she’d once read. This made what she witnessed less true, almost manageable. He didn’t mean anything by his actions. He couldn’t possibly. Wasn’t the nature of trust to let go? Enza tried hard to remember how the novel ended, but for the life of her, she couldn’t.
One of the Knezovich girls came by with a tray, and Enza placed her empty glass on it. When she looked up, she couldn’t find her husband on the dance floor. She pushed her way into the crowd, but it quickly became a morass, and she had no choice but to let the crush of the bodies push her along. Eventually she was shoved to the spot where she had seen Ciro and the girl dancing, but they were gone.
Enza felt her face flush. She reminded herself that Ciro loved her, and that she trusted him, but a wrenching pain twisted in her gut, perhaps a premonition of some kind, the kind her mother used to have but which Enza had never experienced before now. She closed her eyes, telling herself that the sweet sugar fermented in the wine had gone to her head.
Suddenly Enza was afraid. She felt so helpless, she almost began to cry. She shuddered at the thought that every decision she had made had been wrong; she was in a place that she did not choose, married to a man she could not find, and all she knew was that the nagging feelings of doubt within her had replaced reason in her mind.
Enza fought her way back through the crowd to reach Ida and Emilio, but they too had gone. Enza took a deep breath to calm herself. She told herself that she was just overtired, and not thinking straight. She told herself that her instincts were off, that her tears were simply a product of the gray smoke billowing from the firepits.
Enza walked out from under the tent. She couldn’t discern how much time had passed. It seemed as though Ciro had been dancing with the girl for a very long time. She returned to the house, hoping to find Ciro there, and went through every room. The volume of the conversation, music, and laughter was deafening, but there was no sign of her husband.
The trays and serving plates that had been full earlier were now being consolidated down to a few. Ana, the hostess, checked the urn of coffee, a signal that the night would soon end. Enza thought to ask Ana if she had seen Ciro, but she didn’t want her new neighbors to think that she was a flighty woman, or worse, a jealous one. She turned and went back outside.
Enza remembered what her father had taught her on the mountain: when you’re lost, don’t move, someone will find you. Enza wanted Ciro to find her. She stood and waited as the minutes stretched into an eternity. She stood on the cold field, by the edge of the tent, as the dance floor slowly emptied and the accordions eventually ceased.
Ciro had not come back for her. Ida and Emilio had left the party. Her new neighbors smiled as they piled into their wagons for the carriage ride home. Mrs. Selby, the librarian, waved the handkerchief Enza had made for her. The librarian offered Enza a ride, but she pretended that she didn’t need one. She stood a few minutes longer, until anger rose within her and she could no longer contain her fury. She belted her red wool coat tightly around her, pulled a silk scarf from her pocket, and tied it around her head. She pulled on her gloves, snapped her collar up to protect herself from the cold, and walked back toward West Lake Street alone.
Enza lay alone in their new bed on sheets from her trousseau trunk, her head resting on one of the two feather pillows she had brought from New York. Laura had embroidered “Mrs.” on one of the pillow shams, and “Mr.” on the other. The scent of fresh paint wafted through the apartment. Everything, including her marriage, was new. Enza looked over at Ciro’s side of the bed. It was four o’clock in the morning; she had arrived home at one.
The words of her father consumed her. Without the care of a mother and a father, and a solid example of marital love, what if Ciro did not know how to be a husband? He certainly didn’t know how to be a good husband tonight. What if his womanizing ways had returned, his vow of fidelity a short-lived hope after the long war, but a promise he could never keep? She fell asleep as disturbing thoughts consumed her.
Later still, Ciro pushed open the front door of the shop. The bells on the door jingled, and he silenced them by reaching up and placing his hand over the ringer. He locked the door behind him. He climbed the stairs slowly, having had too much to drink and not enough to eat. He was a bit dizzy, and had no idea what time it was. He made his way down the hall and into their bedroom. He undressed slowly. He looked over at Enza, who was asleep. Ciro slipped into bed and pulled the covers over him. His head sank into the pillow, fragrant with lavender. The sheets were soft, the mattress firm. He smiled at the thought of having a wife who had made him a lovely home. He rolled over to kiss her sleeping cheek. She opened her eyes.