The Shoemaker's Wife(55)

Enza pushed the front door of the house on Gondolfo Street open. Her mother and father sat at the farm table, which took up most of the space in the smaller kitchen of this house. Every important family document lay neatly on the table. The brown tin money box rested by Mama’s accounting book, which had a series of figures recorded on a fresh page marked with the date. Papa rolled a cigarette while Mama wrote in the ledger, as Enza took off her coat and hung it on the hook.

“You’re so late, Enza,” Giacomina said.

“I know, Mama. It was my last day at the dress shop, and I didn’t want to leave Signora with a lot of work to do.” She fished in her apron pocket. “She gave me ten lire for the trip.” Enza placed the money in the box on the table.

“She should’ve given you fifty,” Giacomina said.

“Mama. It was a gift. You taught me to be grateful for them, no matter how small.” Enza went behind her mother and wrapped her arms around her. “You’re the best mother on the mountain. You taught me good manners and . . . patience. That’s why I expect so little from cheap bosses like Signora Sabatino. Besides, we don’t need her money. We saved all year long, and we have our passage.”

“Which is the money we usually use to survive the winter.”

“Mama, as soon as Papa and I get to America, we’ll get jobs and start sending you money. Please don’t worry,” Enza said. “Your tin box will be full by Christmas.”

“Maybe we should go in the spring, Enza,” Marco said.

Enza was tired of arguing with her father. He agreed to the plan, and then doubted Enza’s logic. Marco had had a terrible time making decisions since Stella died. Enza gradually took on more responsibility as her father grieved.

Enza spoke kindly but firmly to her father. “Papa, we’ve thought about this long enough. If we work hard for the rest of our lives in Schilpario, we will never save enough to buy a house. We need to make real wages. The scraps from summer tourists will never be enough. We’ll go to America, make the money, and come back as soon as we can. It’s the only way. Someday we’ll have the life we dreamed of.”

Giacomina handed an envelope to Enza. “From my cousin.”

Enza read the back of the envelope: Pietro Buffa, 318 Adams Street, Hoboken, New Jersey. “What’s he like, Mama?”

“I don’t know him very well. I know that he has a wife and three sons, and the sons have wives, and some have children. There’s a lot of work there for you to do.”

Enza tucked the letter into her apron pocket. She would find work in a factory and, in exchange for room and board, cook and clean for the Buffa family. How hard could it be? She had been helping her mother since she could remember.

Eliana came out of the bedroom. “I wish we could all go with you.”

“How long will it take you to make enough to buy a horse? Because I will keep the stable going until Papa returns,” Vittorio asked from his cot.

“We’ll make enough for a new horse,” Enza promised. “And then enough to build our own house.”

“You stay here and help Mama, and we’ll be back before you know it,” Marco said.

Enza smiled at her father gratefully. “As fast as we can.”

“What if you like America more and forget about us?” Alma said from her loft bed above the kitchen.

“That will never happen,” Papa assured her.

“I’m going to get a job sewing, and Papa will build all sorts of things: bridges, railroads.”

“Whatever they need,” Marco said.

“Just picture the house,” Enza said. “And it will come true.”

“Then we’ll be like Signor Arduini,” Battista said from his cot.

“Except Papa looks better in hats,” Enza said.

It seemed the entire village of Schilpario came out to see Enza and Marco Ravanelli off on their journey.

Their friends showered them with gifts—small soaps scented with peppermint from the Valle di Scalve, tins of cookies, and knit gloves that Giacomina carefully wrapped in brown paper and packed into their cloth duffels.

Battista walked Marcello Casagrande’s horse, a sleek black mare named Nerina, pulling the Ravanelli carriage, up to the street in front of the house. He climbed up onto the seat and took the reins.

When Enza climbed up to sit on the bench of the carriage, she looked down at the faces of neighbors and friends she had known since she was a girl, faces that expressed worry, apprehension, and support. From their smiles she drew confidence to go to America and do what she must for her family; seeing their tears, she felt regret that she could not achieve the same goal by staying at home.

Marco climbed up into the seat next to his daughter. Battista leaned forward and patted Nerina’s mane.

As the carriage pulled away, Giacomina waved her handkerchief and began to cry. She had a terrible feeling about the trip, but she didn’t share her worries with Enza. Enza was brave, and Giacomina would never tell her not to follow her heart’s desire. But she warned Marco to take especially good care of their daughter; when she had the bad dream, it was about Enza.

The dream had recurred over several months, after Cipi’s death and the decision to send Enza and Marco to America. Lately, Giacomina had dreaded falling asleep. The details were always the same, which made the dream seem true after a time. Giacomina pictured Enza aboard an ocean liner in a terrible storm, with deafening thunder and streaks of lightning illuminating sickly green waves that pummeled the ship.