The Shoemaker's Wife(7)

Marco guided Cipi across the piazza to the entrance of San Nicola, then jumped off his perch, greeted the nun, and helped Caterina Lazzari into the governess cart. He placed her suitcases inside the drop box by her feet and flipped the cover shut, draped the lap robe over her blue coat, and secured the canopy.

Sister Domenica handed him an envelope, which he tucked into his pocket. He thanked her before climbing into the cart on the driver’s side. The nun went back inside the convent.

As Marco guided the horse across the piazza, he heard a boy calling out for his mother. Caterina Lazzari asked Marco to stop as Ciro, out of breath, ran up to the side of the carriage. She looked down at her son. “Go back inside, Ciro. It’s cold.”

“Mama, don’t forget to write to me.”

“Every week. I promise. And you must write to me.”

“I will, Mama.”

“Be a good boy and listen to the sisters. It won’t be long until summer.”

Marco snapped the reins and guided Cipi down the main street to the mountain road. Ciro watched his mother go. He wanted to run after the cart, grab the handle, and hoist himself up on to the seat, but his mother did not look back at him, nor did she lean over the side, holding out her hand, beckoning him to join her, as she had done on every carriage ride, train trip, or swing as long as he could remember.

All Ciro could see was his mother’s choice to ride away from him, to leave him there like a broken chair on the side of the road waiting for the junkman. As she rode off, he saw the frame of her collar and the back of her neck, straight as the stem of a rose. Soon she became a blue blur in the distance as the cart turned toward the entrance road to the Passo Presolana.

Ciro’s chest heaved when she disappeared from view. He longed to open his mouth and cry out for his mother, but what good would that do? Ciro hadn’t learned the difference between sadness and anger. He just knew that he would have liked to smash everything in sight—the statuary, the vendor’s bin, and the windows in every shop on the colonnade.

Ciro was angry about every bad decision his mother had made since his father left, including selling everything Papa owned, including his gun and his belt buckle. He was angry that Eduardo was tolerant in the face of every setback and went along with everything their mother said. And now Ciro was furious that he had to live in a convent, which for him, was like asking un pesce di abitare in un albero (a fish to live in a tree). Nothing his mother had done made sense. Her explanations were not satisfactory. All he knew and had heard was that he must be good, and who decides what is good?

“Come inside, Ciro.” Eduardo held the door open.

“Leave me alone.”

“Now, Ciro.” Eduardo stepped outside, closing the door behind him. “I mean it.”

Eduardo’s tone ignited Ciro’s temper like a match to dry kindling. He was not Ciro’s mother or father. Ciro turned to his brother and tackled him. Eduardo’s head cracked against the bricks as Ciro pummeled him with his fists. Ciro heard the solid landing of the blows, but didn’t hold back, only hit his brother harder in his rage. Eduardo curled up into a ball to protect his face and rolled from his back onto his knees, crying out, “It won’t make her come back.”

Ciro’s strength gave out, and he fell onto the ground next to his brother. Eduardo held his knees tight as Ciro knelt and placed his face in his hands. He didn’t want Eduardo to see him cry. Ciro also knew if he began to weep, he wouldn’t stop.

Eduardo stood and pulled down the short cuffs on his shirt. He smoothed his pants and lifted them up by the waist. He patted his hair back into place. “They’ll throw us out if we fight.”

“Let them! I’m going to run away. I’m not going to stay here.” Ciro’s eyes darted around as he planned his escape. There were at least six ways out of the piazza. Once he was free of this town, he could go way up the mountain to Monte Isola, or a few miles down the road to Lovere. Someone might take him in.

Eduardo hung his head and began to cry. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Ciro looked at his brother, the only family he had, and felt worse for him than he did for himself. “Stop crying,” he said.

The full morning sun was up, the shopkeepers were opening their doors, lifting their shades, and rolling their carts on to the colonnade. Vendors dressed in shades of flat gray, the color of the low stone wall that encased the village, pushed hand carts painted bright red, yellow, and white filled with bins of polished walnuts, silver pails filled with braids of fresh white cheese in clean, icy water, spools of colorful silk thread on wooden dowels, fresh loaves of bread in baskets, packets of herbs in linen sacks for poultice—all manner of needs for sale.

The presence of the others helped Eduardo gain control of his emotions. He dried his tears with his sleeve. He looked out to where the main road curved to connect to the pass, but it held no meaning for him; it wouldn’t lead him or his brother out of their situation. The morning mist had lifted, and the air was so cold that Eduardo could barely breathe. “Where would we go?”

“We could follow Mama. We could change her mind.”

“Mama can’t take care of us right now.”

“But she’s our mother,” Ciro argued.

“A mother who can’t take care of her children is useless.” Eduardo held the door open for Ciro. “Come on.”