The Shoemaker's Wife(39)

“Why did they come to Vilminore?”

“Your father got a job in the mines. But then he was told he could get twice the wages for the same job in America. And your mother came from some means, and he felt that he had to provide her with a life like the one she knew as a girl. So he set off to make his fortune.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“He went to a place in America called the Iron Range, in Minnesota.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“I know only what you boys have been told, that he died in a mining accident.”

“But they never found his body,” Ciro said, a phrase repeated whenever he spoke of his father.

“Ciro,” Iggy said solemnly, “you’re a man now. It’s not good for you to believe that he’ll return. Put your hopes in something real, something that will bring you happiness.”

Ciro stared ahead, wondering what, if anything, would ever bring him happiness. Eduardo nudged Ciro to say something.

“Va bene, Iggy,” Ciro said.

“You just do your best, and life will follow. That’s what my papa used to tell me.”

They stopped in Clusone to deliver a package to the local stonemason. Iggy tied the horse to the railing outside the post office. Eduardo and Ciro sat on the bench and ate their lunch. Ciro squinted and looked across the street, taking in the homes staggered on the hillside like dollhouses, painted yellow and white, pale blue with eggshell trim, moss green with black shutters. Ciro never tired of looking at houses. He was fascinated by their design and longed for the permanence they represented.

Across the street, a girl closed the door of a white house with dark blue trim. She pulled on a straw hat with a long red ribbon and tied it under her chin. Ciro saw the ruffles of her white skirt as they grazed the top of her brown leather ankle boots. She turned and walked out onto the street. It was Concetta Martocci.

“Where are you going?” Eduardo called out as Ciro leaped from the bench. “We’ll be late for the train!”

“I’ll be right back.”

Ciro ran across the road and followed her. Concetta turned and saw him, then quickened her pace.

“No, please . . . stop, Concetta!” Ciro called after her.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said as Ciro raced alongside her, until he overtook her. She stopped.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Ciro said.

“Too late for that.” Concetta moved around him and kept walking.

“Why are you in Clusone? Did Don Gregorio send you away?”

“No, my mother decided it was best. I’m staying with my aunt.”

“He should have been the one to leave, not you and not me.”

Concetta stopped and faced Ciro. “Why did you have to ruin everything?”

“He was taking advantage of you!”

“No, he wasn’t. I didn’t want to end up a miner’s wife, I wanted something more for myself.” Concetta’s eyes burned with tears.

“You couldn’t make a life with him,” Ciro said, frustrated by her ignorance. “He’s a priest.”

“Just so you understand,” Concetta said, “I never would have fallen in love with you. I don’t like the way you would strut on the piazza, lifting stones and hauling wood, talking loudly and making jokes. Your clothes were always dirty, and when you’d eat, you ate with both hands and hungrily, as though you would never eat another meal again. I watched you too, Ciro, just like you watched me, and I was not impressed. You deserve the work camp. Maybe they can straighten you out.”

“Maybe they can.” Instead of defending himself, instead of trying to convince her to see what he believed to be true, he surrendered. What had always been impossible would remain so forever.

Eduardo waved to Ciro from across the road.

“Good-bye, Concetta,” Ciro said as he turned to the carriage. He didn’t look back, but this time it was because he didn’t want to.

In the days that followed Stella’s death, Giacomina hardly spoke. She took care of the house, washed the clothes, and cooked the meals as she had always done, but joy was lost along with her baby girl. She knew that she should be grateful that she had five other healthy children, but the comfort of many could never make up for the loss of one.

Slowly, Enza was beginning to feel the suffocating bonds of her grief break loose. She picked up after the children and took care of chores her mother usually attended to. Marco kept busy running the carriage from Schilpario to Bergamo.

“I have a package to deliver to Vilminore,” Marco said as he came into the house before supper.

“I’ll take it for you, Papa,” Enza volunteered. She had waited a week to hear from Ciro Lazzari. He had promised to come to see her, and she believed he meant it.

A practical girl never pines; she takes action, Enza told herself. She knew Ciro lived at the convent in Vilminore.

As she hitched up the carriage and the horse, she remembered the camaraderie she had felt with Ciro the night they drove down to Vilminore. He was easy to be with, and she loved the way he looked, that offbeat thick sandy hair, the funny ring of keys on his pants loop, and the red bandana tied around his neck, just like the miners wear after they’ve cleaned up after a long shift. He was original, on a mountain where that was rare.