The Shoemaker's Wife(132)

Mr. Renna unfolded the stock certificate. His face broke into a wide grin. “Mrs. Lazzari, this is your lucky day. This stock is now worth a dollar a share. That is, if you sell it today. You can hold on to it, and watch it grow, if that’s your preference.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are many safety deposit boxes in this bank with unclaimed stock certificates. After the mining disaster in 1904, Burt-Sellers almost went under. They couldn’t afford to make a cash settlement to each family, but reparation was clearly required. So they issued stock. Some of the men that died left no survivors. Others had provided no information for contacting their survivors. But each of them had a box in this bank. It was lucky that we thought to check today. We didn’t catch it when your husband and Mr. Latini came in for the loan. I guess you’d call this fate,” Renna said kindly.

On the trolley ride back to Chisholm, Enza guardedly peeked into the envelope over and over again, scarcely able to take in this stroke of luck. When the trolley pulled into the station, she ran down West Lake Street and burst into the shop. Ciro was buffing a pair of work boots on the brushes. She ran to him and flipped the switch of the machine off.

“Ciro, you are not going to believe it. I went to talk to the bank about my shoe business, and Mr. Renna found a safety deposit box in your father’s name. Since I’m a signatory, he let me open it. Look!” She handed Ciro the envelope. “Your father left you stock.” He sat down on the work stool and opened it as she prattled on with the details. “Honey, it’s worth a hundred dollars.”

Ciro placed the stock certificate on the worktable. He stood, picked up the work boot he had been working on, flipped the switch on the brushing machine, and commenced polishing the boot. Enza was mystified, her excitement and impatience slowly giving way to anger. She went to the machine and turned it off. “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why? It was your father’s. You always tell me that you wished you had something of his. This stock was given as reparations for his death.”

“And it wouldn’t change a thing, now, would it, Enza?”

“He would want you to have it.”

“Buy furniture with it. Or send it to my brother for the poor. That stock is blood money. It could have meant everything fourteen years ago, when my mother had to sell all our belongings to pay off our debts forcing her to leave Eduardo and me in the convent. But now she’s gone, and my brother is a priest, and I don’t need it.” He put down the boot and looked up at the shelves he had built, loaded with boots, laces tied together, each pair affixed with a small tag showing the customer’s name and a pick-up time. “This is my legacy. My hard work. You. Us. The rest of it doesn’t matter. It’s just money. And it isn’t money that I earned. It will just remind me of all I lost and will never recover.”

Enza stood for a moment, holding the certificate. She folded it and placed it in her pocket. She didn’t bring up the subject again. Instead, she cashed the stock and opened a bank account in Chisholm in their names. Then, like Ciro, she put it out of her mind.

Luigi opened the door of his apartment in Hibbing, festooned with fresh greens, tied with a bright blue bow. “Buon Natale!” Luigi embraced Enza and then Ciro. He helped Enza with the packages she carried.

Pappina had set their holiday table with candles and white china. The scent of butter and garlic simmering on the stove wafted through the three-room apartment. An empty bassinette in the corner was covered in small white ribbons. Pappina was in the kitchen, very pregnant and cheerful and delighted to see Enza and Ciro.

“What are you making?” Ciro asked.

“Escargot in butter and garlic.”

“Did you put the nickel in?” Ciro asked.

“Go ahead,” said Pappina.

Ciro fished in his pocket for a nickel and dropped it into the pan where the snails, in their copper-and-white shells, simmered.

After a few moments Pappina sifted out the nickel, still a shiny silver, returning it to Ciro. The Italians never eat escargot if the coin turns black. It means the snails are rotten. “They’re good.”

“They better be. We’re starving,” Enza said, pitching in to help Pappina with the pasta. Luigi poured Ciro a glass of wine in the living room, and they joined their wives in the kitchen.

“Ciro came to mass with me this morning.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Luigi.

“We went to Saint Alphonse,” Pappina said.

“We have to. If we want the baby baptized, we have to tithe,” said Luigi.

“Oh, you make it sound like all the church wants is your money,” Pappina said.

“They don’t mind your money, but they’d prefer your soul,” Ciro said.

“Your brother is a priest, and you talk like that?” Enza gently slapped her husband’s cheek. “You know you enjoyed it—you liked the kyries and the hymns. Right?”

“I did. And looking at the statues brought me right back to San Nicola. It’s funny how the things you do as a boy never leave you.”

“I hope some of the things you did left you,” Luigi joked.

“I’m a happy husband now. I only have eyes for Enza.”

“Smart man.” Pappina laughed.