The Shoemaker's Wife(61)

Marco nodded, dug into his shirt, and pulled out a devotional medal on a chain he wore around his neck.

“You’re Catholic, all right. You gonna work for them?” he asked. “They got a lot of jobs at the hospital. And them nuns will find you a place to stay too. They’re good about that. Something about those habits makes ’em want to help people. They wear veils with wings, makes you think they’re fairies, flying around doing good works. Now, just nuns I’m talking about. Not women in general, if you know what I’m saying. They don’t wear the wings, and they don’t fly. They got other pluses. And the first plus: they ain’t nuns.” The driver threw his head back again and laughed.

Marco smiled. He may not have understood the words, but the animated delivery by this stranger was entertaining.

“Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna do a good deed for the hell of it. I’m gonna give you a lift to Saint Vincent’s.” The stranger pointed to his horse and carriage. Marco understood the man and nodded appreciatively.

“My treat.” The driver snapped his fingers. “Regalo.”

Marco formed his hands in the prayer position. “Grazie, grazie.”

“Not that I’m a good Catholic or nothin’,” the man said as he picked up Marco’s bags. Marco followed him to the carriage. “I’m planning on repenting at the very end of my life, when I’m takin’ that last gasp. I’m the kind of guy who eats a rib eye rare on Good Friday. I know, I know, it’s a mortal sin. Or maybe it’s venial. See that? I don’t even know the difference. The point is, I wouldn’t mind seeing the face of God once I’m on the other side, but I got a hard time with rules on this one. Ya know what I mean?”

Marco shrugged.

“Hey, what am I doin’, unloading on you when you got your own problems. Ya look like a sad sack, my friend, like ya just heard the most miserable opera they ever wrote.”

Marco nodded.

“Ya like the opera? All them Italian guys, Puccini, Verdi . . . I know about ’em. How about the Great Caruso? He’s one of youse guys too. I seen him for twenty-five cents at the Met. Standing room. Ya gotta go to the Met sometime.”

As Marco climbed into the carriage, the driver hoisted the bags on to the bench next to him. The driver with the gold tooth climbed up to his perch and took the reins.

For the first time since he’d left Schilpario, Marco had caught a lucky break. He sank into the leather seat and held hope in his heart like a hundred stars.

Ciro practically filled up the tiny examination room on the second floor of Saint Vincent’s Hospital. He was so tall, his head nearly touched the ceiling before he sat down on the table. A young nun in blue, who had introduced herself as Sister Mary Frances, wrapped a clean bandage around the stitches that sealed the wound on his hand.

Remo and Carla stood against the wall and watched her bind Ciro’s hand. In the months since Ciro had arrived and breathed new life and energy into the shop, the childless couple had begun to enjoy a late-in-life experience of parenting. Even their styles in that regard were different. Remo thought of the pain Ciro was in, while Carla thought of the lost hours the accident would cost her.

“I could’ve used you this morning,” Sister Mary Frances said as she wrapped the bright white strips of cloth around Ciro’s hand. “We admitted an Italian girl, and I couldn’t communicate with her.”

“Is she pretty?” Ciro asked. “I’ll be her translator.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Carla said.

“How did you learn English?” Sister asked Ciro.

“The girls on Mulberry Street,” Carla answered for him, and cackled.

“There you have it, Signora,” Ciro said to Carla. “It pays for me to spend time with the girls. I learn English, and I learn about life.”

“You know enough about life,” Carla said drily.

“How bad is the wound, Sister?” Ciro asked.

“It’s quite a gash. I want you to keep the wound covered, and don’t think of pulling out the stitches yourself. You come back, and I’ll take them out. About three weeks?”

“Three weeks in a bandage?” Ciro complained. “I have to make shoes.”

“Do whatever you can one-handed,” Sister told him.

Enza watched the sun as it slipped past the trees over Greenwich Village. From her hospital window on Seventh Avenue, Enza saw rows of connected houses. The colors of New York City were new to her, burnt orange and earthy browns with an apricot glaze so different from the vivid blues and soft greens of her mountain town. If light itself was different in this new country, imagine what else would be.

Sister Josephine wrote, Enza Ravanelli. “Is that your full name?”

“Vincenza Ravanelli.” She corrected the nun without taking her eyes off the streets below. She couldn’t imagine what was taking her father so long.

“Did you know this hospital is called San Vincenzo’s?”

Enza turned to her and smiled.

Sister asked, “Do you believe in signs?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Me too. Well, that’s a good omen.”

“Where is Hoboken from here?” Enza asked.

“Not far at all. Look out the window. It’s across the Hudson River, where the sun sets.”