A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [60]
Two rectangular shapes caught Maud’s eye. Books. They lay on a footstool, under a workbasket: one plush covered, the other black. Maud stared at them, perplexed. Muffet had books? Automatically, she reached for them.
The black book was the Bible — a disappointment, but not a surprise. Big black books generally turned out to be Bibles. Muffet’s Bible, however, was a puzzle. It had thin paper and black numbers at the beginning of each section, but it was full of foreigners: Giovanni and Pietro and Giacomo. The name on the flyleaf was “Vicenzo Cerniglia.”
Maud tried to pronounce it. Then she turned to the other book, which was a photograph album. That, too, was a disappointment — Maud didn’t care much for pictures, particularly pictures of homely-looking people in old-fashioned clothes. Nevertheless, she leafed through them. There was a hollow-cheeked man with untidy whiskers and a woman whose hair was pulled back so tight that it made her ears stick out. There was also a child.
In Maud’s opinion, the child was the only person in the album who might lay claim to being pretty. She was doe-eyed, with a wide brow and curls that looked as round and dark as purple grapes. Maud pictured her in modern clothes and decided she would look nice. She turned over another page, and there was the child again: the woman was wearing the same dark, ill-fitting dress, but the child had grown taller. Her curls tumbled past her shoulders.
Maud turned another leaf, but there were no more pictures. The album was less than half filled. Between the last two pages was a piece of paper, much yellowed and folded in thirds. Maud unfolded it and read:
The Statement of Anzoletta Cerniglia,
wife of the late Vicenzo Cerniglia
November 12, 1871
I have asked Father Domenico to write these words for me because I cannot write English. The doctor says my heart is not strong. It is about my daughter Anna that I wish to speak, because she cannot speak for herself.
My husband and I came to America in 1850. Six years after, our only child was born. We called her Anna Maddalena. She was as beautiful as an angel and as good as gold. When she was almost four years old, she caught the whooping cough. She almost died. Afterward, she was deaf. When I first understood that she would never hear or speak, I was angry with God and I wept.
But I was wrong, because Anna was always a blessing. God gave her a good heart and she was intelligent. As she grew older, we made up our own language and we spoke to her with our hands. She understood everything. She learned quickly. I taught her to work hard.
I have taught her everything I know. She can sew and knit and do fine needlework. She can cook and keep house. Our neighbors let her work in their homes, and they showed her the sewing machine and the gas stove. She can cook with gas or coal. My husband taught her a little carpentry and how to count money.
I have tried to make sure she knows every useful thing, as I think no man will marry her. I write this letter to say that she is a good and useful girl. She is honest and will work very hard. I beg you who read this letter to treat her well, and I pray that God will reward you.
Maud refolded the letter and placed it between the pages. Her mind was so busy with what she had read that a sudden roar of thunder caught her unawares. She leaped to her feet, and the two books fell to the floor.
She gazed at them in consternation. The Bible had fallen open, and the thin pages were wrinkled; the cover to the photograph album, loose before, had ripped and hung crookedly. Maud knelt to repair the damage. She smoothed out the pages of the Bible, reversing the creases. It was unlikely