The Shoemaker's Wife(160)

Enza was loyal to the town Ciro had chosen for them, and business was steady. She did alterations for the department stores and built wedding gowns, coats, and dresses for the ladies of Chisholm. She sewed draperies, slipcovers, and layettes. Customers marveled at her skill and returned time and again.

Luigi ran the shoe shop alone. The constant flow of company provided by the Latinis, especially Pappina, but also their sons and Angela, who was now nearly ten years old, had been a tonic for Enza. Only when she climbed the stairs and closed her bedroom door at night did her loneliness at the loss of Ciro consume her. Eventually her tears stopped, giving way to a dull ache that Enza accepted as the natural pain of widowhood, one for which there was no cure.

Antonio skated by, grinning and waving at his mother. Enza leaned against the wall and watched as Betsy Madich, also seventeen, in a short red velvet skating skirt, white tights, and a matching sweater, took Antonio’s hands and skated with him. Enza smiled, remembering when the pair had gone roller skating together down West Lake Street when they were children.

Antonio was madly in love with Betsy, a willowy Serbian beauty with her mother’s chestnut hair and blue eyes. She planned to attend nursing school at the University of Minnesota, one of the schools where Antonio hoped to play basketball. Enza had many talks with her son about girls, but she always found them difficult. During those conversations, she felt Ciro’s absence like a missing limb. Sometimes she even felt annoyed at her husband for leaving her behind to raise their son alone. It seemed that she needed Ciro more as time went by, not less.

Antonio and Betsy skated over to the wall where Enza stood.

“Mama,” Antonio said, “I’d like to go Betsy’s after skating.”

“Mom is making povitica,” Betsy added.

“Aren’t you going to help Mr. Uncini flood the rink?”

“Yeah. After that, I’d like to go to Betsy’s.”

“Okay. You have your key?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Not too late, va bene?”

“Va bene, Mama.” Antonio winked at his mother. Her native Italian had become a secret language between them. When they closed the door at 5 West Lake Street, mother and son spoke as though she had never left the mountain.

Later that night, Mr. Uncini, nicknamed “Oonch,” played “Goodnight, Irene” and closed the rink for the night. The teenagers piled into their cars to go home, or to Choppy’s Pizza, which had just opened on Main Street.

“Clear the ice for me, Antonio,” Mr. Uncini said.

Antonio lifted a long-handled wire broom from the storage bin next to the rink and skated in a circular pattern, clearing the loose shavings and chunks of ice off the rink. While Antonio smoothed the surface as best he could, Mr. Uncini unspooled the fire hose.

Antonio came off the ice and removed his skates. He pulled on his work boots and helped Mr. Uncini crank the wheel to release water onto the rink. Flooding the rink took some time. Antonio would sit with his father’s old friend and talk.

“How are you doing in school?” Mr. Uncini asked.

“Great except for calculus. I might get a B,” Antonio said.

“You’re getting serious with Betsy.”

“Have you been talking to my mom?”

“I have eyes, Antonio.”

“I’d like to marry her someday.”

“That’s pretty serious.”

“Not yet. After college.”

“That’s a good plan. A lot of things will change in four years. It’s a lifetime.”

“That’s what Mama says.”

“You know, your father came to see me before he died. And now that you’re going off to college, I think there are some things I should tell you. You know, he wanted me to look out for you.”

“And you always have, Oonch.”

“I hope I haven’t been too obvious.”

“You cried when I sang ‘Panis Angelicus’ at Saint Joseph’s—that was pretty obvious.”

“I just wanted you to know I was standing in for your father. It’s not the same, I know, but I promised him I would be there for you.”

“What was he like, Oonch? Mama cries when I ask her. I remember a lot about him, but I wonder what I would think of him now that I’m older.”

“He was a decent man. But he loved to have fun. He was ambitious, but not to the extreme. I liked him because he was a true Italian.”

“What’s a true Italian?”

“He loved his family and he loved beauty. For a true Italian, those are the only two things that matter, because in the end that’s what sustains you. Your family gathers around and shores you up while the beauty uplifts you. Your father was devoted to your mother. He made boots like I make scrambled eggs. You’d be talking to him, and he’d be measuring and pinning pattern paper on a sleeve of leather, and in no time, he was sewing and then polishing and buffing. It was as if it was nothing. But it was hard work.”

Antonio looked out over the ice as Mr. Uncini turned the water pump off by cranking the wheel in reverse. The clear water had settled above the old layer of blue ice, filling in every pit and crack. The air was so cold, the surface had already begun to harden, making patterns that under the lights looked like lace. The woods were quiet, and once the water was turned off, there was no sound.