The Good Left Undone(116)
“Nothing. Mama, I was thinking how rich we are. Not the shop and the business, but the important things. We had your parents live with us. And I had my great-grandparents too for a time.”
“Wasn’t it fun? When I was a girl, Nonna Vera came to visit during the summers. She took Nino and me to the beach a lot. She packed sandwiches made with ham and butter. They were so delicate and delicious, and she cut them up in shapes. Circles, triangles, and fish. She kept the sodas cold by wrapping them in a black cotton scarf.”
“Nonna Domenica taught me how to sew.”
“That’s right. You should get the machine out and make something!”
“I might.” Nicolina smiled.
“I hope all these stories don’t get lost. Women like Vera. My mother loved Vera, so I loved her too. She was my prize. My extra grandmother. Vera Vietro Salerno. Silvio’s mother. My mother’s wonderful mother-in-law. Nobody talks about her anymore. It’s so sad. The names get lost eventually, then forgotten. Great women gone and lost in our family history. Vera was a few years younger than my grandmother Netta. Vera had a lot of pep. But you know what I loved about her? She had been mistreated most of her life, and it did not turn her bitter. She was always looking to help people, to be of use. Always smiling.” Matelda placed the teacup and saucer on the table.
“I will remember her, Mama. I will tell her story. And Bisnonna Netta’s. And Nonna Domenica’s. And even yours. Do you need a friend?”
“I’d like that.”
Nicolina climbed into the bed and held her mother. “Mama, let’s remember all your best meals.”
“I was a good cook.”
“No one better.”
“Don’t tell Ida. She’s a little competitive.”
“I remember your pastina. It’s the first food I remember eating. The hard biscotti you made for Matteo and me when we were teething, and then you kept making them because we loved the taste. The tortellini. The manicotti with your crepes. The roasted chicken with sage, and the potatoes that went with them.”
“You didn’t like my ravioli?”
“I loved it.”
“I thought so. It’s so hard to make your children happy. The only way is through food.”
“Just having you as my mother made me happy. You know I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, Piccianina.” It had been years since Matelda had called her daughter by her childhood nickname, which had also been her own.
“I wouldn’t have wanted to be any other woman’s daughter.”
“You may have had a day or two.” Matelda smiled before she closed her eyes. “And it would have been completely understandable. I’m not easy.”
* * *
Anina lit the overhead work lamp with a single bright beam. She was alone inside Cabrelli’s Jewelers on the main boulevard in Lucca. Night had fallen but she didn’t notice it. She didn’t check the time because she didn’t care how long it would take. She could hear the laughter and conversations coming from the street as the young set in town headed out to the clubs. She looked up and smiled to herself. That used to be her routine. Soon, the sound of the car horns and their voices fell away as she concentrated on the task before her.
Anina slid the work goggles over her eyes. She flipped the switch to turn on the bruting wheel. She tapped her foot on the pedal, gently pumping the machine wheel. She cocked her head to listen for the sound it made when it was operating at the proper speed.
The apprentice picked up a sliver of peach quartz and held it against the rough edge of the wheel. It jumped between her fingers and out of her hands. She turned the machine off. Anina got down on her knees and looked for the stone. When she found it in a crack in the floorboard, she stood and held it under the light.
She heard her grandfather’s voice in her head. She examined the quartz, turning it over to find the stone’s point of strength. She adjusted the light and started the machine again. She hoped the stone would not shatter in her hand and tumble into the catch tray below the table. The stone felt substantial as she tilted it against the wheel, slowly grazing the quartz against the abrasive rim of the wheel. She held on to the stone, gently guiding it, shifting it slightly to create an edge on the cut. She heard the music of the cutting as the wheel spun faster, the notes climbing an octave. Anina stopped breathing as the quartz squared in her hand. The stone, cut by her own hands, had a top, smooth, without cracks or fissures. Anina stopped the wheel. She looked at the stone. The quartz grabbed the light. Cutting was all about the light. Yes, Anina said to herself, yes.
* * *
Anina sat with her grandmother on the terrace. “This is the best view in the village,” she decided.
“I think so. But it’s the only one I’ve ever known. Maybe the Figliolos have a better one.”
“Maybe.” Anina pulled the chair closer to her grandmother.
“I’m afraid, Anina.”
“Are you in pain?”
“I’m all right if I don’t move.” Matelda grinned.
“So don’t. Are you afraid of death?”
“No. Not at all. We’re promised that the afterlife will be beyond our imaginations. I’m looking forward to seeing what that could possibly be. But I am afraid I won’t recognize John McVicars when I meet him in heaven.”