Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [65]
The parlor is just as it was when I came here on my honeymoon. The walls are eggshell white; the rug on the floor is a simple tapestry of gold and sage green, and it looks like there’s a needlepoint tree woven in the center of it. The furniture is sleek and low and dark wood, Italian from the 1930s. A rocker, painted black with gold swirls, sits in the alcove between the windows. The fireplace is full of wood, waiting for winter. The kindling next to the mantel is tied in a bundle with a white velvet bow. The windows have no shades, only long panels of ecru lace. (The shutters close out light and noise when need be.) The mantel is crowded with framed photographs, some as old as the turn of the century, others new. The faces of my mother’s family give me a sense of belonging, a point of origin. Right here. In this room. In the old black-and-white photographs, the expressions are stern; as the years pass and the pictures turn to color, the mood lifts.
If only my mother could have been a part of these new days, not the old times, when a daughter would shame her family by choosing a man they didn’t approve of. I would have had my parents together. My mother never would have fled and come to America, pregnant with me. And she wouldn’t have had to marry Fred Mulligan. How different our lives would have been! There are several framed pictures of Etta and Joe. This moves me. I feel that we are a part of their daily lives, even though we rarely visit.
On the screened-in porch off the kitchen, where there is a cool breeze, Zia Meoli has set the table with white linen and white dishes. In the center of the table, a cluster of delicate gardenias float in a crystal bowl. Zia directs my father to the head of the table, her husband to the other. We fill in around the men.
“Madame Vilminore?” a voice says from the doorway.
“Ciao, Stefano. Come. Sit. Eat with us,” she says to him. Stefano comes out onto the porch. He’s around fourteen, with brown eyes, small half-moons that disappear when he smiles. His hair is thick and unruly but beautiful: gold curls that spiral into tight corkscrew ringlets. He has a broad nose, the tip of which lifts up ever so slightly. It’s a big nose, but it suits his face. He walks with his hands in his pockets, more self-effacing than shy.
“I’m Ave Maria. And this is my daughter, Etta,” I tell him. He smiles at us. I hear Etta gasp. Her eyes widen ever so slightly. (Oh, no. Here we go—puberty.)
Stefano takes a seat next to Etta, who is thrilled to have A Boy sitting next to her at her very first sit-down meal in the country of Italy. And I can’t blame her. He is really cute.
“I speak English,” Stefano says proudly.
“Where did you learn it?” I ask him.
“School. I must learn English so I can come to America and make a lot of money,” he announces.
My father laughs. “Did they tell you the streets were paved with gold?”
“Yes. Paved with gold, and you ride on them in gold Cadillacs. But I like a Ford truck better.”
“Then you would like my husband. He has a Ford pickup truck,” I say.
“What color?”
“Bright red,” Etta pipes up, happy to have something to add.
“I like red.” Stefano breaks off the end of the hard-crusted bread Zia has placed by his plate.
“Stefano is a good worker. He helps me in the shop,” Zio tells us.
Zia Meoli explains that Stefano is an orphan who lives up the street in a boys’ school. Evidently, orphanages aren’t sad in Italy. Stefano paints a picture of a happy place, with good friends and nice rooms. I have to remember to ask Meoli later if this is true. Stefano sips the Chianti my uncle has poured.
“You drink wine?” Etta asks him, unnerved at the idea.
“Every day. What do you drink in America?”
“Milk. Pop.”
“What’s pop?”
“Soda pop.”
“Coca-Cola?” Stefano guesses.
“Yes!” Etta says, thrilled to break through the language barrier.
“Maybe someday I try to come to America and drink your soda pop.”
“Anytime, Stefano,” I tell him. Etta nods in agreement.
Zia Meoli leans in. “He was Antonietta’s favorite. Since she died, he’s come here every day.”
“You were good friends with my