The Shoemaker's Wife(140)

Enza looked at Ciro. “Honey, what do you think?”

“Whatever you want to do.”

“Jenny, go ahead and put the ad in the bulletin. I can do special orders. And how about this: if I sell twenty-five pairs of shoes, your girls get theirs for free.”

“You have a deal,” Jenny said as she picked up her delivery box and headed out the door. “I’ll grab Betsy on my way home.”

Ciro carried a box from the back of the shop and placed it on the table.

“How’s your back?”

“Soaking in the Epsom gave me some relief,” Ciro said.

“You work too hard.” Enza put her arms around Ciro.

“Do the camphor pack too, Ciro. I put one on Luigi, and it helps,” Pappina offered.

“Let’s face it. There are too many miners, and every single one of them has two feet. No wonder Luigi and I have sore backs.”

Ciro propped open the front door of the shop to let the summer breeze through. Every window was open, and the pattern table had been cleared for a poker game. Ciro’s friends, the two miners Orlich and Kostich, studied their cards. Emilio Uncini folded his hand into the pot on the table, reached for the grappa, and poured himself a slug. “I’m out,” he said.

“Go help your wife with the purse,” Orlich said, studying his cards. His fingernails were rimmed in black from the last shift at Burt-Sellers. Coal dust had settled in the fine lines of his face. With his sharp features and small mouth, he looked like a pen-and-ink drawing.

“I am not going near her,” Emilio said.

Ciro had closed the door to the hallway, but through the transom, the men could hear the laughter and chatter of mothers and daughters, at least fifty of them, lined up on the stairs to go up to the apartment to pick up their patent leather dance shoes. Ida worked as Enza’s secretary, while Enza took the measurements.

Enza had far exceeded her goal of selling twenty-five pairs of shoes; she had sold 76 pairs since the announcement was placed in the Eastern Orthodox church bulletin.

A stout woman in a straw hat entered the shop with her daughter. Ciro looked up from his cards.

“I’m looking for the shoemaker’s wife,” the lady said. “You don’t look like Mrs. Lazzari.”

Ciro pointed through the door and up the stairs in the direction of the noise. The lady left with her daughter, and when she was out of earshot, Ciro said, “And you, ma’am, do not look like a dancer.”





Chapter 25

A LUCKY CHARM

Un Ciondolo Portofortuna

Ciro followed his son up the hill on their way to see Doc Graham. Antonio skipped up the steep incline like a gazelle.

The sight of his son reminded Ciro of the days when he and Eduardo were boys, and Ciro had to run to keep up with his older brother. There were other reminders of the past in the present moment. Antonio had his uncle’s dark good looks, his height, and dexterity.

At eleven years old, Antonio had grown to five foot nine, and showed no signs of stopping. Ciro shook his head and smiled as he watched Antonio, who had proven to be a prodigy in every sport he attempted, whether it was basketball, baseball, speed skating, or alpine skiing. Ciro remembered his strength as a young man, but it paled in comparison to his son’s natural athletic ability.

“Come on, Papa, we’ll be late,” Antonio chided him from the top of the hill.

Ciro wondered why he was winded as he took the hill. He smoked infrequently now, only one cigarette when he played poker, but suddenly he felt the full brunt of his years. He was shocked that the physical changes he had always noticed in men twenty years his senior had come on so fast.

“Go ahead, son, I’ll be right there,” Ciro said.

Antonio pushed the door open to Doc Graham’s office and took a seat in the waiting area. The nurse called for him. “Can you tell my father—,” Antonio began.

“Of course, I’ll let him know you’re already in with Dr. Graham.”

Antonio followed the nurse into the examination room. Antonio jumped on the scale, the needle of which finally came to rest at 152 pounds. When the nurse told him how tall he was, Antonio clapped his hands together triumphantly. Ciro joined them in the examination room, removing his hat.

“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” the nurse said, taking Antonio’s file.

“Papa, I’m almost five foot ten!”

“You’re going to hit six feet soon,” Ciro told him. “You’ll be as tall as your Zio Eduardo. He’s six foot three. I’m the short one at six foot two.”

“I want to be taller than both of you.” Antonio smiled. His resemblance to Eduardo was striking. The thick black hair, wide brown eyes, and straight nose were just the window dressing in their similarities. There was also the serene countenance, the sense of fair play, and the good heart. Ciro recognized that Antonio might have the name Lazzari on his file, but he was all Montini.

Doc Graham pushed the door open. At middle age, Doc had white hair and jet black eyebrows, and thin lips that parted to reveal a warm smile.

“So you want to play junior varsity basketball, Antonio?” Doc wanted to know.

“They say I’m good enough, even though I’m young.”

“Coach Rukavina knows talent when he sees it,” Doc Graham said as he took Antonio’s blood pressure.