The Shoemaker's Wife(163)

“I want to be in the war, sir. I want to serve my country. I don’t want to be benched.”

“Your mother may disagree with you. Mrs. Lazzari?”

Enza wanted to tell the officer that she wanted her son to take the exemption. As a mother, she couldn’t imagine offering her only son to the war. She had already lived through the loss of her husband; the thought of losing her son as well was devastating. Enza looked at Antonio, who had the calm confidence that begat courage. So instead of taking the offer, she said quietly, “Sir, my son goes like every other young man. He should not be exempt from the war to take care of me. It means more to me as a mother that he wants to emulate his father. It means he understands the great debt we have to this country.”

“I’ll be all right, Mama.”

Enza and Antonio walked back to the trolley from the recruitment office. They didn’t say much on the ride back to Chisholm, and walked in silence from the trolley station. Enza’s heart was heavy as she unlocked the door. Antonio pushed the door open. The scent of tomato and basil gravy simmering on the stove permeated the hallway.

“Angela?” Enza called out.

“I made dinner, come on up!” she hollered.

Enza and Antonio entered the kitchen. The table was set with a cloth, candles, and china. Antonio’s girlfriend, Betsy—beautiful and collegiate in a Pendleton wool skirt, blouse, and loafers who was home from nursing school—was tossing the salad, wearing an apron.

Angela, now fourteen, had tied a moppeen around her head and wore faded blue jeans and one of Antonio’s old jerseys. “Sorry,” she apologized to Enza. “I didn’t have time to change. And I didn’t want to get tomato sauce on my good blouse.”

Betsy put her arm around Angela. “I told her she was beautiful just as she is.”

Antonio kissed Betsy. “And so are you.”

That night, they feasted on spaghetti pomodoro, fresh salad, and chocolate cake. They told stories of the ice rink, high school basketball games, and the night Betsy fell in the dance competition during Serbian Days. Enza sat back and watched her son, taking in every detail of him, wishing the night would never end and praying he would be very, very lucky and return home safely to her someday.

Antonio shipped out from New Haven with the navy the following summer. He called his mother the night before. She buckled under the anxiety of his decision, and hers. She fretted so much, and so deeply, that within a year of Antonio’s leaving, her raven hair had turned quickly and completely white.

Month after month, she waited for Antonio’s letters, opening them as soon as they were placed in her hands. She’d remove a hair clasp from her head, then rip open the envelope with the sharp metal end. After poring over the words a dozen times, she would carry each letter in her apron pocket until the next letter arrived. The most recent letter he sent had given her cause for concern. He spoke of his father in it, which he had never done before.

February 15, 1943

My dearest Mama,

I can’t tell you exactly where I am, but every morning all I see is blue. It’s hard to believe that something so beautiful could hide the enemy with such depth and dexterity.

I have been thinking of Papa a lot. I miss you terribly, and don’t like that you are alone in Chisholm. Mama, when I come home, let’s go to your mountain. I want to see the fields of Schilpario and see the convent where Papa lived. He wanted us to go, and we should. Please don’t cry yourself to sleep. I am safe and with a good regiment, very smart fellows. There are recruits from the University of Minnesota, a few from Texas, others from Mississippi, and one fellow from North Dakota who we call No Dak. He tells long-winded stories about the history of the moose in middle America. Sometimes we tell him we can’t take it, and other times, we just let him talk. It’s almost like the radio.

I love you Mama, you have my heart, and I will be home soon,

Antonio

P.S. Give Angela a hug for me.

Enza put aside her alterations, neatly folding a coat from Blomquist’s.

She checked the mailbox each morning, hoping for word from her son. When no letter came, she pulled on her coat and took the long walk up the street to the post office building to check the rosters of the war dead. She was not alone in this habit; every mother in Chisholm with a son or daughter in the war did the same, though they would pretend to be running an errand, or dropping off a package. But when one mother looked into the eyes of another, she knew.

In the spring of 1944, Laura Heery Chapin returned to Chisholm, Minnesota. Her son Henry was in boarding school, and Laura was free to accompany Colin around the country, as he was now in charge of production for the Metropolitan Opera’s road companies.

As soon as Angela was accepted to the Institute of Musical Art, Enza had called her old friend, who was going to be in Chicago for the opening of La Traviata. Laura had agreed to visit and take Angela safely back with her to New York City, because that’s what friends were for.

Laura was still tall, slim, and grand, though her red hair had faded to a shiny auburn. Her suit was Mainbocher, and even her suitcases had style, French made and Italian trimmed.

“I wish Colin’s mother could see you now. She would say you were to the manor born.”

“Probably not. She’d think that I should’ve chosen white gloves instead of blue.”

“Hasn’t Chisholm grown since your last visit?”