The Shoemaker's Wife(154)

“Be clear. Ask God for exactly what you want. Forget all the poor slobs of the world—their lot in life is not your problem. Who is starving has to find their own food. Who is broken-hearted has to find his own woman. Thirsty? Jump in a lake. Worry about yourself. You pray for what you need, and see if you don’t get it.”

“Did you miss me, Iggy?”

“I worried about you like a son. Eduardo too.”

“Did you get my letters?”

“In twenty years, I got three. Not so good.” Iggy smiled.

“Not so good. But you knew I was thinking of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I knew. I could feel it.”

Ciro was walking the piazza as he waited for Eduardo to arrive with their mother. He paced under the colonnade, resisting the urge to run down the mountain to meet the carriage. He checked his watch repeatedly, hoping that time would pass more quickly if he did. He thought of this for a moment. Enza wanted to stop the clock, and here he was, bidding it to speed up toward the reunion he had dreamed about.

At the appointed hour, a black carriage pulled into the piazza, headed toward the convent. Ciro, at the far side of the colonnade, broke into a run to meet the carriage.

When it stopped, Ciro reached up and opened the shiny black door. Twenty-six years had come and gone since Ciro last saw his mother. She emerged from the carriage, dressed in blue, just as she had been when she left. Her hair was gray now, but still long, and braided, twisted into a chignon.

Her face was still beautiful. The arc of her nose, the fullness of her lips, all was as he remembered. Age had faded the intensity and colors of her beauty, but not the structure. Her long tapered fingers, graceful carriage, and slim figure were still hers. But her hands shook, and she was anxious, neither characteristics that had been apparent before.

“Mama,” Ciro said. He cried, though he had promised himself he wouldn’t.

“Help your mother, Ciro.” She smiled as Ciro helped her to step out of the carriage and onto the cobblestones. He took his mother in his arms and rested his head against her neck. She still had the same scent of freesia. Ciro took it in and did not want to let go.

Eduardo emerged from the carriage, in the plain, mud-brown robe of the Franciscans. Ciro was so happy to see him that he shouted, “My brother!”

Eduardo threw his arms around Ciro.

“Please, let’s go inside,” Ciro said.

The sisters had prepared a room for Caterina, for Ciro would stay with Eduardo. Sister Teresa showed them to the library, where she had placed a tray with coffee and pastries. The Lazzaris thanked her, and she caught Ciro’s eye before she left the room, closing both doors behind her.

Eduardo and Ciro knelt next to their mother as she sat in a chair. She began to weep, soft, quiet tears, like a gentle rainfall after years of torrents. She didn’t want to be sad in front of her sons; she wanted to be a good mother before them, and act as though the suffering they had endured was over, and the wounds of their childhood had healed. She knew better, but she wanted to offer them as much solace as she could, knowing she herself would never find it.

She kissed each of her boys and then stood, walking to the windows to catch her breath. Ciro and Eduardo looked at one another. Eduardo had warned Ciro that sometimes their mother’s behavior could be odd, but he was not to take it personally, as she had suffered from deep depression for so many years that she could not stand away from her own pain to ease theirs.

Caterina walked away from the windows to the bookshelves, where she perused the titles. “Some of these books were bound in our shop,” she said. “I know the endpapers and the leather. The Montinis were meticulous.”

“Would you like some coffee, Mama?” Eduardo asked.

“Grazie,” she said.

Eduardo looked at Ciro, who watched his mother as though he were studying a work of art from a safe distance. “Mama, Ciro came all the way from America to see us.”

Ciro could see that his mother had suffered mental trauma, but that she was still the same woman that he remembered in most ways. He decided to cling to those things that were wonderful about her, and to ignore the ravages of time and insecurity, instability, and anxiety. He had so much to say to her.

“I have something for you, Mama.” Ciro reached into his pocket and removed the tracing of his father’s grave, with the date of his death upon it. “My wife, Enza, made sure Papa had a proper gravestone. He died in the Burt-Sellers mining disaster of 1904. It was a terrible fire. But now he has a proper memorial,” he said, handing her the paper.

She looked down at it. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for this.” She put her arm around Ciro.

“Mama, when he died, the company issued reparations. Stock. We cashed it and put it in the bank. This”—he gave her an envelope—“is the balance. I paid for my ticket with some of it.”

She gave Ciro the envelope without opening it. “You keep this for my grandson. And kiss him for me.”

“Mama, don’t you need the money?”

Caterina put her hands on Ciro’s face. “You’re just like your father. He would give his last lira to someone if it might help them.”

“Keep the money for your family, Ciro,” said Eduardo. “Mama is provided for.”

“I want to hear about you, Mama. Tell me how you’ve been.”