The Shoemaker's Wife(152)

The door pushed open, and Battista entered. Lanky, dark, and sinewy, he was thirty-six years old, had yet to marry, and showed no signs of interest in it. He had a sullen expression, and Ciro noticed that he seemed resentful of the family, and that his presence caused tension in the room. Ciro embraced him anyway, and called him fratello.

Eliana, who lived down the hill now, showed Ciro the house. It was not grand, but it was exactly enough for the family—five bedrooms, a loft, the kitchen, and the living room. Four windows along the front of the house gave beautiful light within. Ciro remembered the windows he’d wanted in the house of his dreams, and here they were, letting in the pale blue light of the Italian afternoon.

Vittorio and Marco showed Ciro the smokehouse, built of fieldstone and set into the side of the mountain. Another small structure served as a spring house; fresh, cold water from the mountain stream pulsed through it through two open troughs into a pool lined with stones.

Giacomina prepared a meal just like one Enza would serve: soup, followed by gnocchi, with a dish of greens and cake and espresso for afterward.

Eliana poured her brother-in-law a cup of espresso.

“Alma, do you think you could draw the house for me? I think Enza would love to see it on paper.”

“I would be happy to. How long are you staying?”

“A week.”

“It took you as long to get here as your visit will be.”

“It’s very hard to be away from Enza and Antonio.”

“I understand,” Giacomina said.

“I’m sure she explained about my health.”

Giacomina and Marco nodded that she had.

“Antonio is a wonderful son. You would love him.”

“We love him already,” Vittorio said. “He’s our nephew.”

“He’s an athlete. But he’s intelligent too. I hope you will find a way to visit Enza and Antonio in Minnesota sometime.”

Ciro did not want to make the pleasant visit somber in any way. He told funny stories about Enza, and described New York City, and living on Mulberry Street. He talked about the Great War and the decision to go to Minnesota. He told a few stories about Antonio, and what a wonderful young man he was. They shared photographs, and stories of Enza’s youth. After dinner, the entire family took la passeggiata and went to the cemetery, where Ciro did as Enza had requested, kneeling to kiss the blue angel marking Stella’s grave. He stood back and put his hands in his pockets. As the sun began to set, the sky turned the exact blue it had been the night he’d first kissed Enza, after digging the grave. It seemed so long ago, and yet, standing in this place, he felt as though it were happening all over again. It seemed to Ciro that so much of life was about not holding on, but letting go and in so doing, the beauty of the past and the happiness he felt then came full circle like a band of gold. The night sky, the cemetery, the memory of places past and the people who had been there to bear witness, provided all the constancy his heart required. This is what it means to be part of a family.

When Ciro went to hitch the horse that night, to return to Vilminore, Eliana went outside to help him. Ciro climbed up into the bench of the cart.

Eliana handed him a small leather-bound book, with endpapers of Florentine paisley. “This belongs to Enza. Will you take it to her?”

“Of course,” he said.

The ride down the mountain to Vilminore filled Ciro with a deep longing for his wife. How he wished he could have made her come on this trip! But there had been no convincing her. As he put Rollatini in the barn and unhitched the cart, hung up the reins, and unbuckled the harness, he began to weep. He was ending where he began, and the irony was not lost on him.

Sister Teresa made up the bed in the guest room near the chapel. Ciro saw a nun kneeling inside, but he walked past the glass doors and into his room, closing the door gently behind him. He undressed, sat on the bed, and opened Enza’s book.

As he turned the pages, he saw his wife’s youth blossom all over again. She sketched dresses, wrote silly poems, and attempted to draw all the members of her family. As Ciro turned the pages, he smiled at her rudimentary attempts at portraiture.

He stopped when he saw “Stella” written at the top of the page. Enza had been fifteen when she wrote,

Stella

My sister died, and her funeral was today. I prayed so hard for God to save her. He did not listen. I promised God that if he spared her, I would not ask Him for children of my own later. I would give up being a mother to keep her here. But he did not listen. I am afraid that Papa will die from a broken heart. Mama is strong, he is not.

I met a boy named Ciro today. He dug Stella’s grave. I wasn’t afraid of him even though he was tall and twice my size. I felt sad for him. He doesn’t have a father, and his mother left him. Someday I’ll ask the sisters at San Nicola why his mother left him there.

Here’s what I can tell you about him. He has blue-green eyes. His shoes were too small, and his pants were too big. But I never met a boy more handsome. I don’t know why God would send him up the mountain, but I hope there’s a purpose in it. He doesn’t believe in God very much. He doesn’t seem to need anyone. But I think if he thought about it, he would realize he needs me.

My Stella is gone, and I will never forget her because I see how it goes when someone dies. First there are tears, then there is grief, and soon, the memory fogs and they disappear. Not Stella. Not for me. Not ever. E.