The Shoemaker's Wife(138)

“Where are you going?” Colin asked. “I came all this way for you.”

Laura stopped. “Why?”

“Because I love you, and we’re going to get married.”

“We are?”

“If you’ll have me.” Colin smiled. “And my boys. They’re part of the deal.”

“What about your mother?”

“I reminded her that her own mother was a Fitzsimmons who worked in a glass factory.”

“Your mother is lace curtain Irish?”

“The laciest.” Colin laughed. “Don’t make me beg. Will you marry me? The deal is on the table.”

Ciro and Enza looked at one another, and then at Laura. Laura took a deep breath and said, “I’ll take the deal.”

Colin laughed, and soon Enza and Ciro joined in. But Laura began to cry. “You’re all I ever wanted.”

“Then why are you crying?” Colin went to her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

“Because I never get what I want.”

“You can’t say that anymore, Laura,” Ciro said gently.

“Never again,” Enza agreed.

Laura Maria Heery and Colin Cooper Chapin were married December 26, 1919, at the Chapel of the Blessed Lady at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Colin noted that it was Boxing Day, which meant they would either have lots of fights or none. They chose the day because the Met was dark through New Year’s, and the boys were on school break; William was eleven, and Charles was twelve. The four of them went on a vacation to Miami Beach, which doubled as a honeymoon. Laura sent a postcard to Minnesota with three words written in her perfect Palmer penmanship: “Never been happier.”

Enza kept a playpen next to her sewing machine in the workroom. There was no separation between work and home life; Enza and Ciro happily blurred the lines. The baby liked to take his bottle and watch the light dance through the shade tree and into the window, throwing petals of shadow on the old tin ceiling. While Antonio napped, Enza was able to help Ciro as he finished the work boots. Enza would buff the leather, and place a wooden rod inside the shoe to stretch the leather under the metal toecap.

Ciro often came from the front of the shop to play with Antonio, throw him in the air, or take him to the yard out back and let him crawl on the grass. They found their son endlessly fascinating. Now that Antonio was almost two years old, he had playmates who came by with their mothers. Enza’s experience taking care of her brothers and sisters held her in good stead as a mother. There were many experienced parents around them. Ida Uncini, whose children were grown, made it a point to stop in and help out. Friends like Linda Nykaza Albanase would drop off a coffee cake and take Antonio for a ride in his pram.

Ciro’s shop on West Lake Street continued to be a magnet for the miners who were looking for a card game after a long shift. Ciro would make sandwiches of mozzarella and tomato; he made the cheese himself, as he had back in his convent days. Enza made fresh bread twice a week, and made sure that Ciro had his friends over on baking day to take advantage of the fresh rolls.

Ciro and Enza took turns making lunch for one another. Ciro would flip the sign in the window, and for a half hour, they’d sit in the back under the shade tree, as their son played on a blanket close by. One warm August day, Enza joined her husband and son in the backyard with Ciro’s favorite meal, eggs poached in fresh tomato sauce over dandelion salad. The mail was tucked under her arm, tied with a string.

“Here, Antonio. Catch.” Ciro threw a ball to his son, who waited for it. Antonio reached up and grabbed the ball from the sky. “Big hands,” Ciro said.

“Like his father.”

“He is very quick.”

“Every father thinks his son is a great athlete.”

“Every father doesn’t have a son like Antonio.”

Enza handed the tray to her husband, who called Antonio to lunch. She gave her son a buttered roll, sat down on the bench, and sorted through the mail. “Bills,” she said.

“Have your lunch, Enza.”

She shuffled through the envelopes. “I will. After I read the letter from Laura.” Enza took the barrette from her hair and opened the letter carefully with it.

August 2, 1921

Dear Enza,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you on the death of Signor Enrico Caruso. I can hardly think of him without thinking of you. Remember how we made him macaroni? How about the time you pinned his hem and he jumped off the fitting stool and the pins went into his calves and he jumped around like a kid? You used to leave bowls of orange and lemon peels in his dressing room to soak up the fumes from his cigars. Remember when he called you Uno and me Due? “Always together, you two, like one and two,” he said.

What a gift he was to all of us. I will miss him terribly, but will remember him the night of the bond benefit for the Great War, when he stood on the opera stage, his arms outstretched, and took in the love of five thousand fans on their feet, as if he were gathering roses.

My heart breaks for you, as he was one of your own . . . a good man, a great singer, and the ultimate pride of the Italian people.

Sending you, Ciro, and Antonio my love,

Laura

P.S. Signore died in Italy, as was his wish.

Enza held Laura’s letter as she sat on the bench and cried. Ciro took the letter from Enza, read it quickly, and pulled Enza close. “I’m so sorry,” he said.