The Good Left Undone(107)
“What happened to the Franzetti boys? The family that had the pizza parlor?”
“They were interned in Australia. They ended up staying there after the war ended. I understand the grandsons are still there operating a chain of pizzerias.” Matelda threw the coverlet across Anina. “You’re really interested in the Scottish side of the family, aren’t you?”
“It explains some things.” Anina pulled the coverlet around her. “When you talk about Scotland, I feel like I’ve been there.”
“I hope you will visit someday.”
“You’ll go with me.”
“We’ll see.” Matelda smiled. “I’ve never gone back to Scotland. When I was a little girl, I promised myself that when I grew up, I would live there again. But it remained a childhood dream, which was for the best. You see, I couldn’t hurt my mother. Scotland had caused my mother pain. She had endured enough of the ugly aspects of life, and I vowed not to make things worse or remind her of them. As time went on, living anywhere but here felt like a betrayal. Whenever I traveled with your grandfather, about three days in, I’d get antsy and start badgering him to come home. I missed my family, this house, and the ocean. I traveled a lot with your grandfather, and a few times we were close to the Lowlands. He’d say, Let’s go. I was tempted but didn’t follow through. Too many ghosts.”
“I wish I had a hundred years with you, Nonna. Ghosts and all. I like how you lived in the old days. All the families together in one house.”
“And we didn’t kill each other. That’s the miracle.” Matelda chuckled. “After my uncle Aldo died in the war, and we returned to Viareggio, we lived with my grandparents. My mother decided to stay with her parents after she married Silvio, and he was happy to do so. And I was happy too. I had a father.”
“Even though Netta didn’t like Silvio?”
“They figured out a nice way to get along with each other. I think she grew to love him eventually. It might have occurred to Nonna on her deathbed. My nonna wasn’t working with my father day-to-day. My grandfather was. I never heard the men argue about the business. They went to and from work together.”
“You and Nonno had your fights.”
“Most married couples fight about money, but I was the bookkeeper and knew the numbers. I had the facts on my side, you see. Your grandfather learned to be a businessman, but it took years. He’s an artist, and they’re dreamers. Never trust an artist to hold the purse, because it will be returned to you empty. Olimpio and I were good for each other. We worked together. We held each other accountable. You need that in a good marriage.”
“Paolo and I did fine with money. It was the intangibles we had trouble with—Don Vincenzo told me that the recipe for a happy marriage was Forgive. Forget. Repeat. I wrestle with forget.”
“I do too. I hope I’ve been forgiven for my shortcomings,” Matelda said quietly. “I hope you can forgive me, Anina. I know I’ve been difficult.”
“We’re good, Nonna.”
“I’m glad. When I was young, my nonna Netta was impossible. And I couldn’t understand why old ladies were so mean.”
“I wonder about that too.” Anina rolled her eyes.
“When you see an old lady who’s on the wrong side of a good mood, now you know why. She has a past that you can’t understand because you didn’t live it. As she ages, her feet hurt, her back aches, her knees click, she cooks, she cleans, she worries, she waits, and then she gets sick and dies. Be kind, Anina. Someday you’ll be the old lady.”
CARNEVALE
February 1946
Domenica followed the screech of the bruting wheel when she entered the shop. She found Silvio in the back room working. “Busy day at the clinic,” Domenica shouted over the sound before Silvio turned off the wheel. “One broken arm and two migraine headaches—the migraines are from the limoncello at Carnevale. Pretucci hates Carnevale. He says it’s an excuse for drunkards and daredevils to act like fools and drink like fish.”
“I’m almost done.” Silvio tapped diamond dust in the tray into a box.
When he was finished with his work, Domenica put her arms around him. Silvio pulled her close and kissed her. “What would you say if I told you I didn’t want to renew my agreement with Signora Pipino?”
“Where would you live?”
“I’d like to move closer to the shop.”
“There are lots of rentals.”
“I don’t want to rent another room. I don’t want to be in another room if you’re not in it. Would you—” Silvio stammered.
“Yes.”
“How do you know what I was going to ask?”
“I’m a strega,” Domenica joked before placing her head on Silvio’s chest. His heart was beating fast, which meant that she mattered to him. When Domenica had returned to Viareggio last fall with her daughter, it appeared that everything was broken, from the pier to the roads to her heart. She found herself tiptoeing around the pieces when she rediscovered the only thing that could make her whole. “I have to know if you love Matelda too. She is a good child, but the day will come when she will understand what she lost—and she may take it out on you.”
“I can’t be him. But I will love her as my own daughter. I will listen when she wants to talk about her father.”