The Shoemaker's Wife(144)

Antonio had studied the Great War in school. He remembered a question on the quiz about mustard gas, and when he asked Ciro about it, he said it had the scent of ammonia and garlic. At the time, it hadn’t registered with Antonio that if his father could identify the scent, he too had been hit with it. But now he knew it was true.

He rolled over and dried his eyes on his pajama sleeve and stared at the ceiling. His greatest fear had come true. He and his mother would be alone; how would they go on without his father?

Antonio had never argued with Ciro. Some said it was because Antonio was an only child, with little cause for conflict. Others said it was because Antonio was unusually serene, with no need to defy authority. But it was deeper than that. Antonio had visited the cemetery on every feast day and prayed near his grandfather’s gravestone. He had stood beside his father as Ciro wept. Antonio had promised himself that he would never add to his father’s sadness.

Antonio had heard the stories. He knew about his father’s life in the convent without any parents. He knew that Zio Eduardo had been placed in the seminary, and Ciro had been forced to come to America when he was scarcely older than Antonio himself. The stories broke Antonio’s heart, and they also made him realize that the last thing his father needed was a rebellious son. Enza was the disciplinarian, leaving Ciro free to love his son and coddle him in a way Ciro himself had never known. Antonio had always known he had a happy home. What would become of them now?

Silver moonlight poured through the skylight of Ciro and Enza’s bedroom. The clean Minnesota breeze carried the pungent scent of spring. The wind off Longyear Lake was cool. It relieved them.

Ciro and Enza were entwined in one another, having made love. Their bodies were like two skeins of silk, woven together, inseparable. Ciro kissed his wife’s neck, and closed his eyes to remember every detail of it.

“Should I draw the shade?” Ciro asked, and Enza knew he was thinking of the old wives’ tale from the mountain.

“The bad luck is already here. The moon won’t change it,” Enza said.

“How do you think Antonio is doing?”

“He would never let you see how scared he is,” Enza said. “It’s good to keep his routine. We’ll go to the games, and we’ll be here when he comes home from practice. All we can do is be here for him.”

“I wish he had a brother. Eduardo was always able to help me through things. I wish he had that.”

“He is close to the Latini boys.”

“Luigi and Pappina are going to tell the older boys, so that they can help Antonio. I didn’t know what to say,” Ciro said.

“I’m sure you said the right thing.” Enza kissed him.

Pappina and Enza centered the navy-blue-and-white-striped tablecloth on the ground, anchoring the edge with a picnic basket on one side, the children’s shoes along the other.

John Latini and Antonio were the same age, soon to turn twelve.

The Latini boys—Robert was ten, and Sebastian nine—waded in the lake, skimming stones and tossing a ball. The rose of the family, baby Angela, was now four. Angela had glossy black hair, wide brown eyes, and tiny rose-petal lips. In stark contrast to her rambunctious brothers, she played quietly on the edge of the cloth with her doll.

“What’s it like to have a little girl?” Enza asked.

“She’s my lucky charm. At least I can teach her my mother’s recipes. Someone will know the old ways when they’re grown.” Pappina offered Angela a fresh peach. The little girl took it and then offered a bite to her doll.

Ciro and Luigi decided to walk along the shore of the lake. In the distance they looked like two old men, huddled close, talking as they went.

Enza unwrapped chicken cutlets, while Pappina sliced tomatoes from her garden, added fresh mozzarella, drizzled them in lemon, and shredded basil on top. They brought loaves of crusty bread, wine for the adults, and lemonade for the children. Pappina made a peach cobbler and a thermos of espresso.

“I talked to the boys. They know what to say to Tony,” Pappina said.

“He’ll need them. They’re like brothers.”

“They’ll be there for him. And we’ll be there for you.”

“Pappina, I look at him and I can’t believe he’s sick. He eats well, he still works hard, he has some aches and pains, but nothing terrible yet. I keep hoping that the tests were wrong. I even went up to see Doc Graham, but he explained what’s ahead for us. Pappina, I don’t think I’ll be able to get through it,” Enza cried.

Pappina leaned over and comforted her. “That’s when your friends will help you. I’m here for you.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. I try not to cry in front of Ciro.”

“You can cry to me anytime.”

“I have so many regrets,” Enza said.

“Why? You have a good marriage.”

“I didn’t have another baby.”

“You tried.” Pappina looked over at Angela, feeling sad that her dear friend could not know the joy of a daughter.

“Ciro wanted another child so much. It was his dream. And I just accepted that I couldn’t. You know, I’m not one to pine for what I don’t have. But my husband is.”

“Remember something—children come into your life in many ways, all the days of your life. Antonio may be an only child today, but someday he’ll marry and who knows? He may have a house full of children.”