The Shoemaker's Wife(155)

“Tell Ciro where you were, Mama,” said Eduardo.

“I worked at the convent in Montichiari-Fontanelle on Lake Garda.”

He thought about how close his mother had been, and how as a boy, he could have hitched a ride to Lake Garda so easily and seen her. The loss of her was not only poignant; it was irreversible, and there was no healing his broken heart.

“I was too sick to find you boys again. By the time I was feeling better, you were in America, and Eduardo was in the priesthood. The sisters didn’t tell me much, because they were afraid I would try to leave the hospital. They told me to imagine you on the mountain, healthy and happy and living with the good sisters. So that’s how I got through. I prayed to be stronger and to get well so we could all be together again.”

“Mama, you’ll never be alone again. I am taking you to live near me, and I’ll be able to see you,” Eduardo promised her.

Caterina sat on the settee and pulled her sons close to sit next to her, holding their hands. “Eduardo and I will have many years together. And I’m so sorry, Ciro. We lost a lifetime. And it was all my fault. I see strong women everywhere, some with six or seven children, and I marvel at them. But I just wasn’t well enough to do it. And I knew that if you were with the sisters, they would guide you to develop your talents, as I would have had I had the strength. But when your father died, I couldn’t come up with a plan. It was only bleak and dark, and I was desperate. There was nothing.”

Ciro hadn’t known that his mother had tried her best. He had always assumed that he was too much trouble, and she couldn’t handle him. Eduardo had taken the pain and turned it inward. It made him spiritually strong, as he believed that only sacrifice leads to redemption. He gave up the idea of his mother to earn a place closer to God, while Ciro was adrift.

That night, the Lazzari boys and their mother dined on cassoeula, a pork stew with onions, celery, and carrots in a thick broth, poured over fresh bread. Ciro showed his mother a picture of Antonio and Enza. He explained about her friend Laura, who had worked at the Metropolitan Opera, and how they were like sisters. He explained about baby Henry. And when his mother asked about Ciro’s health, he didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that he was dying; he would leave that to his brother, the priest. He wanted his mother to have as many happy moments as her sons could provide.

Ciro climbed into the cot in the convent guest room. Eduardo sat on the floor by his cot, as he had when they were boys. It didn’t matter that they were older, nearing forty, grown men. They still longed for the comfort of their boyhood connection, which was as strong as ever. Whatever their mother had done or could not do, and no matter the fate of their young father, they had always had one another, and it had made all the difference.

“Eduardo, what do you think about our mother?”

“If she stops and realizes what she did, she will collapse.”

“She seemed so prim.”

“She is. It’s her way of showing us that she’s strong.”

“She didn’t cry when she saw the tracing of Papa’s headstone.”

“Mama is angry at him still.”

“We should be angry with her.”

“What good would that do now, Ciro?”

“I missed her.”

“And so did I. By the time we were old enough to leave the convent to look for her, they had sent you away, and I was in the seminary. You have to understand that her heart is frozen. She needs love too, Ciro. We all do.”

Ciro nodded. At long last, he understood his mother. The veneer had always been the thing that held her up. The surface had been strong, but beneath it, who knew?

Caterina brushed her hair in the chamber next door. Tears flowed freely and abundantly down her face, for all she had lost, all these many years. She’d believed that someone else could raise her sons better than she could. She’d thought the church knew best, and she, as a widow without savings, was worthless to her boys. She brushed her hair, one hundred strokes, and put the hairbrush in her duffel. That night, she did not sleep. She did not sit, and she did not read. She paced the chamber like a dutiful nun, hoping that the morning would bring some clarity, guide her to say something to the boys she’d left behind. She hoped that the words would come; that she would be able to explain why she had left them in the convent, changing the course of all of their lives.

On the other side of the wall, Ciro pulled the blanket over his legs and propped the pillow on the bed. He lay on his side, as he had during his youth when he needed to talk to his brother long into the night.

“Have you told her about me?”

“You should tell her.”

“Can you believe my diagnosis, Eduardo?” Ciro asked. “Not one good thing came of that war.”

“You can’t say that. You had courage, you were brave.”

“It was either that, or die then. And at the end, when I came in, when the Americans came in, there was nothing left to fight. We had food and guns, artillery, uniforms, tanks—the Germans had nothing. And we rolled over them like a leather presser. For what? I won’t know the joy I fought for. I tell myself I did it for the future, for my son.”

“None of us can know what God has in mind for us.”

“There’s the problem, brother. God doesn’t have me in mind.”

Eduardo began to speak, but Ciro stopped him.