The Good Left Undone(98)
“This is about your son. He should be remembered.”
“I have my memories.”
Domenica thought it odd that her Victorian mother-in-law possessed the same demeanor in tragedy that she displayed under ordinary circumstances. Grizelle didn’t appear to grieve but to sulk, as if it were an inconvenience that her son had gone off and gotten himself killed in service to his country.
Grizelle poured hot water from the kettle into the teapot. She did not offer a cup to Domenica. She covered the pot in a tea cozy shaped like a cottage sewn from bits of velvet and felt. The cottage had windows and a door. Tiny felt lilacs spilled out of the corduroy window boxes. The whimsical tea cozy was a touch of warmth in a house with none, and an indication that there was a time when Grizelle imagined a happy home.
Domenica tried to picture Grizelle McVicars in her youth as a loving mother, but it was impossible. Grizelle clung to disappointment like the morning glories on the roof with their twisted arabesque stems that gripped the copper gutters like fingers. A lifetime of disappointment had hobbled her good nature. Grizelle was on an emotional crawl that dug her deeper into the pit of her own unhappiness. There was no way to comfort her. Nurses called these patients “malcontents.”
There was no common courtesy either. There was not to be an offer of a cup of tea, or a biscuit, or a memory to share with her daughter-in-law.
“Mrs. McVicars, I know you are heartbroken, and I am too.”
Grizelle did not respond.
Domenica continued. “I must ask you for something, because you’re the only person in the world who could help me going forward.”
Grizelle spun around. “There is no money. You are entitled to nothing. If I had an extra quid, I wouldn’t give it to you. You were barely in his life.”
“You misunderstand. Let me finish. I don’t want money. You’re his mother and you should keep all reminders of him, including any change you find in his pockets. But if you could spare a photograph of him, I would be grateful.”
Grizelle’s eyes were wild with fury. “If I had a photograph, I would rip it into pieces before I would ever give it to you. You are the reason I lost my son.”
Domenica was ushered out of the house. Grizelle slammed, then locked the front door behind her. The gray clouds that had gathered over Glasgow dropped low in the sky like a clutter of pots. The rhythmic tings of rain on the roof made a sound that reminded Domenica of the inn in Manchester on their wedding night. There hadn’t been a radio with music, so they danced by the fire to the sound of the falling rain.
John had chided her because the Italian girl never remembered her umbrella in bonny Scotland. His wife was not one to think of rain when the sun was shining. Domenica waited for the storm to pass, but it soon became clear that the downpour was the beginning of something far worse. She ran out into the rain and did not look back.
VIAREGGIO
Now
Anina placed the sleek strands of fresh linguini on the drying rack in Matelda’s kitchen. “How did I do?” She stood back and wiped her hands, dusted in flour, on the apron.
“More flour will prevent them from clumping.” Matelda pointed at the intersecting strands of linguini on the board. “Try it. Dust the board and pull them out, one strand at a time.”
Anina separated the strands and hung them one by one on the wooden dowel. “The extra egg made the difference. The consistency is just right.”
“Good.” Matelda’s arms felt heavy that morning. She rested them on the handles of her wheelchair. She couldn’t help Anina cut the pasta dough, but she was still strong enough to bark a few orders.
Anina handed her grandmother a glass of fresh juice.
“I really don’t want it,” Matelda said.
“You need the vitamins. Drink it.”
“You people and your healthy drinks.” Matelda took a sip. “They are a medical miracle for no one.”
“Just trying to help you get better, Nonna.” Anina sat down on the stool. “Mama gave me some good advice.”
“To put Campari in the juice?” Matelda winked.
“No. She said I should make a list of all the questions that I never asked you but meant to.”
“I must be on my way out.” Matelda took another sip. “If that’s true, do you really think disgusting green juice can save me?”
“It might, if you ever finished a glass. Nonna, I just want to clarify a few things. Where were you born?”
“At the convent in Dumbarton, Scotland.”
“And your mother named you for a nun there, right?”
Matelda nodded. “I lived there with my mother for almost five years of my life. My mother spent every day of those five years trying to get home to Viareggio. But as long as the war was on, it was impossible. But in spite of all the obstacles, Mama continued to try. There was always some scheme brewing. Maybe Mama and I could go to Sicily and wait, or some priest promised to write a letter on our behalf to get us extradited through Switzerland. But nothing ever came through. The truth was, we were safer in Scotland with the nuns than we would have been in Viareggio, so we stayed.” Matelda brushed away a tear. “Here’s the sad part. When the time came to return to Italy, I wanted to stay in Scotland. It was the only home I had ever known. The stories my mother told me about my Italian grandparents and all my cousins seemed like fairy tales to me. They weren’t people in my life; they were characters in a story for which no book had been written. So, the night before we left, I got out of bed and went to the convent and told the Sisters that I was running away. I didn’t want to go to Italy. I wanted to stay with them.”