The Shoemaker's Wife(133)

“It’s difficile for a statue to change its pose,” Luigi said.

“I’ve changed for the better, brother.” Ciro smiled.

“We’ll take your word for it,” Pappina said to Ciro. “Would you take the platter to the table? I need a strong man, I left the bones in the turkey.”

Ciro lifted the platter and turned to take it to the living room. Enza watched him go. He seemed to get more handsome as time went on, and she imagined that when he was old, he would become even more attractive to her as his light brown hair turned white. She saw how other women looked at him, and knew that they were seeing on the surface what she had always known: there was no one else like him. She followed him into the dining room, where he placed the platter on the table. He stood up and rubbed his lower back with his hands.

“Honey, are you all right?” Enza asked as she massaged his lower back.

“He’s got the shoemaker’s stoop,” Luigi said. “Put blocks under your cutting table to make it higher. A few inches will save your neck and shoulders. My back was killing me until I put down the blocks, and now I’m much better.”

“I’ll try it,” Ciro said. “Can the blocks help me with my workload?”

“That they cannot do.” Luigi laughed.

“Wooden blocks really work?” Pappina asked.

“Absolutely,” Luigi said.

“Well, make me a pair of wooden shoes then.” Pappina laughed. “I’ve had a sore back for seven months.”

Enza went to early mass alone on Christmas Day. Ciro was tired from the long visit at the Latinis, and had made his once-a-year church appearance the previous evening. She let him sleep, leaving a note to tell him that she would be late coming home after mass.

Her Christmas gift to him was one she could not share until she was certain he would approve of it.

Enza tied the scarf around her neck and pulled her wool cloche over her ears. She set out on foot for Saint Joseph’s Cemetery, about a mile outside Chisholm. She loved to walk, and whenever she went far, she remembered doing the same on the mountain trails above Schilpario. There were small reminders of the place she came from everywhere.

Her feet crunched the dusting of snow on the frozen ground as she walked. The clean air had the scent of pine and, occasionally, the smoke of a hearth fire from a farm off the main road. The winter in Chisholm had a palette of white and gray, like the feathers of a snowy owl, or the gray jays that would return once spring came. As Enza walked along the plowed road, she thought how much easier it was to walk in Chisholm. There were no steep trails to climb, just long black ribbons of road leading to new destinations.

The fir trees along the road were dense and tall, with trunks so thick, she wouldn’t be able to put her arms around them. It was clear that this swath of forest had been untouched for a hundred years, just as they remained in the Italian Alps. She had seen the fields where the loggers had felled the forests along the road between Chisholm and Hibbing in the name of progress. It was only a matter of time before these old trees met the same fate. But this morning, they were all hers.

She pushed open the black wrought-iron gate to Saint Joseph’s Cemetery. There were barren shade trees scattered about, a few statues of the Blessed Lady and kneeling angels, but mostly she saw tasteful polished marble markers embedded in the earth, with carved inscriptions. Unlike in Schilpario, there were no marble mausoleums with altars, colorful frescoes, or gilded gates to house the granite sepulchers. This cemetery was as plain in presentation as a farm field.

The priest had given her a map. In the center of the cemetery, under a grove of leafless trees, were the burial plots of men who had died in the mines. She began to dust the stones with her glove to reveal the names: Shubitz, Kalibabky, Paulucci, Perkovich. These men, she had been told, had worked in the Mahoning mine, the Stevenson mine at Stutz, Burt-Pool, Burt-Sellers, and the Hull mine. The Catholics among them had been transported from Hibbing on the Mesaba Railway, where they received a funeral mass and proper burial. Photographs had been taken and sent back to the families in Europe, although in some cases, nothing had been sent because the miner had not left any instructions or forwarding information.

They had not found the remains of Carlo Lazzari. He had burned in the fire.

Enza leaned down and cleared a headstone with her glove.

Carlo Lazzari

1871–1904

She smiled. It was a smooth black granite stone with the engraving inset in gold. She made the sign of the cross.

“Enza!” Ciro said from the gate. He walked down the path to join her with a look of concern on his face. “You shouldn’t be out in the cold. Monsignor Schiffer said I would find you here.” He looked down at the gravestone and saw his father’s name carved into the polished black granite. “What is this?” he asked, perplexed.

“I had it placed here. I bought it with a portion of the money from the stock. I felt it was the right thing to do, even though they never found him.” Her voice broke, because she was afraid of his reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you any further, so I didn’t tell you.” Enza knelt next to the stone.

“Why would you place a gravestone when his body didn’t survive the fire?”

“Because he lived. Because he was your father. I buried a box with a picture of you and Eduardo, a letter from me, and a lock of your hair. The priest blessed it, and they placed the stone here a couple days ago. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”