Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [64]
“Ave Maria, we are so happy you’re here.”
“I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
“Thank you. I feel as though I know you. Your father talks about you all the time.” Giacomina loads my bags onto her shoulders and arms without wrinkling her silk blouse.
“Where is Jack?” Papa wants to know.
“He had too much work.”
“He needs a rest, though.”
“Yes, he does. But you can’t tell my husband anything.” I say this all so gaily that my father looks at me curiously.
“The Vilminores are expecting us at Via Davide.”
Etta shrieks at the mention of Via Davide, Mama’s family homestead on the side street. She has heard all about the poofy beds and the hard biscuits and coffee with sweet, hot milk for breakfast. She wants to see the tiny handmade chocolates on a silver plate that Zia Antonietta left on our pillows each night.
“Giacomina and I will stay in her apartment nearby. You and Etta will stay with Meoli. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
“When I told her you were coming, Meoli didn’t want to wait until after you stayed in Schilpario. She wanted you first. Very bossy.” Papa clucks. “But I don’t argue.”
“Schilpario will be there tomorrow,” Giacomina says, and smiles.
Via Davide has not changed. The houses are close together and painted soft corals and blues. Long shutters flap against the houses in the breeze. Small, shiny cars are parked on the street.
“It’s just like the postcards,” Etta exclaims.
When we get to Zia Meoli’s house, I jump out of the car and race for the front door. Zia Meoli, in a simple navy blue pocodotte shirtwaist dress, greets us. Her beautiful black hair is streaked with white, and she wears shiny gold hoop earrings. Her daughter, Federica, joins her at the door, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her red hair a mop of curls and her brown eyes crinkled at the corners. Zio Pietro walks around from the side yard, having heard our noisy reunion. He brushes his thick white hair from his forehead, takes a final drag off his cigarette and tosses it into a rosebush. When I introduce Etta to them, they fuss over her like a new toy. They feel as though they know her from my letters; I am so glad that I write to my family here regularly. It’s as though they live an hour, not an ocean, away. We have a bond that connects us at the soul; we don’t have to be neighbors. Zia Meoli touches Etta’s hair and her face and holds her hands, examining them, all the while shooting questions in all manner of Italian—fast, slow, dialect—and broken English.
“She looks like her papa,” Zio Pietro decides.
“I think so too,” Zia Meoli agrees.
“Where is Zia Antonietta hiding?” I ask my aunt.
“Oh, Ave Maria. I’m sorry.” Zia Meoli looks down. Her face assumes the expression of grief that I know so well. “She passed away last month.”
“No!” I take Zia Meoli’s hand.
“She knew you were coming, and she tried so hard to stay. But she was very sick for a long, long time.”
“I’m sorry.” I had a deep connection with Zia Antonietta, Meoli’s twin. She never married, so the chores of housekeeping and managing the family home fell to her. That is the way it goes in Italy. The one without the husband takes care of the group. Meoli’s children were Antonietta’s life, and she spent it taking care of them. She wasn’t sad or bitter about it, though. It was as if she was only happy to have a role, an important role, in her family and in serving them. Zia Antonietta had been in love once, and her true love died. So she accepted fate and, instead of having her own family, invested herself in her sister’s. Zia Antonietta was the most unselfish person I know.
“Come. Let’s eat,” Zia Meoli says. I explain that Jack could not come because of work. Zio Pietro, in particular, is sad about that. He has a woodworking shop and wanted to show Jack a sideboard he made himself. (I have to remember to tell Jack this.)