Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [62]
“Mommy, wave.”
“You wave for me, honey.” I can’t look back. I won’t.
My daughter’s sadness at Jack’s absence gives way to the excitement of international travel in a matter of minutes. Our flight from Tri-Cities connects into Charlotte, North Carolina, we make a quick change, and head on to John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. Etta is shocked at how many people race through JFK from one terminal to another. “Mama, they look like ants!” she says, pointing to the crowd of travelers, which surges at a central point where the international terminal merges into one big space. “Stay with me,” I tell my daughter cheerfully. She latches her finger on to my belt loop lightly as we walk through the throng. I’m excited by the hub of activity too. I love the way the airport smells: of soap and leather and perfume from the duty-free shop. This is just what we needed, I think as I look down at Etta.
Everything about the transatlantic plane ride enthralls her: the pretty flight attendants with their long, shiny taupe nails and perfect haircuts; the Coke in small glass bottles on her seat-back tray; the kit of amenities, including navy blue cotton booties with Italian flags embossed on them. Etta sheds her small-town, Blue Ridge Mountain reserve and sits high in her seat. She is not missing one detail of this flight. How thrilled she is when they bring her dinner in courses.
“Mama, why is it so black out there?”
“That’s the ocean underneath us.”
“But shouldn’t there be ships with lights on them?”
“I don’t think ships come out this far.”
“If we crash, would anyone know?”
“Let’s not think about crashes.”
“We better not crash. What would Daddy do?”
“We won’t crash.”
“Daddy told me to be careful.”
“He did?”
“He told me that you and me were his life. And that I was to watch out for you and make sure that you had a good time.”
“You and Daddy talk about me?”
“There’s only the three of us,” Etta says, looking off down the aisle as though I am the biggest idiot in the world. Maybe I am.
Milan is a city of crisp vertical stripes, navy blue, gray, and black. Everything here is angular, from the architecture to the bone structure on the serious faces that brush past us. Even the Milanese bodies are simple and spare and thin; no Sophia Lorens here. No curves. Just straight, lean, no-nonsense shapes. Etta and I, in our cotton and denim, stick out like American tourists. (Forget that we actually are American tourists, we just don’t want to look like it.) So before we board the train for Bergamo (there is one every hour), I take Etta into a small women’s clothing shop. Lightweight wool trousers, navy blue with a flat placket and straight legs, a white cotton blouse with a gold hook and catch at the collar, and a beige cardigan are exactly what I’m looking for. I am not getting on that train with this Italian face in these American clothes. I need a uniform. And here it is. Etta thinks I’m nuts. My daughter likes her American jeans just fine and has no need to be anything but a MacChesney from Virginia, U.S.A.
As the train clicks north through the Italian countryside, low mossy hills of a deep green so rich it’s almost midnight blue give way to a deep and endless pink skyline, and I am amazed at how quickly we leave modern Milan behind. Soon the world chugging past turns ancient, untouched. The sun hangs low and