Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [69]
Nonna is waiting on a swing in the patch of grass between the street and the front door of her house when we pull up. (Nonna and Papa’s home is dead center on Main Street, the perfect spot for the mayor.) She pulls herself up with a cane and opens one arm to Etta, who runs to meet her great-grandmother. Nonna’s body, thick through the middle with short muscular legs, is as hearty as it was when I first met her. She is instantly in love with Etta, whom she spins around like a top, checking her out from every angle. My grandmother is as sharp as she was the day she entered my house on Poplar Hill in the Gap. I have to remember to ask Papa how old she is, because she hasn’t changed a bit. What’s her secret?
Mafalda, my father’s first cousin, is around fifty, petite with a sweet, round face, clear, pink skin, small lips, and the trademark Barbari nose. She is bustling around the kitchen, setting the table for supper. She takes orders from my grandmother without complaint. That’s just the way things are in Italy; I never hear anyone arguing with their elders. (I hope Etta makes a note of this!) Nonna runs this homestead like a general, and for her size, she packs more punch than the Italian army. Etta can’t believe how loud she is, how she barks orders and seems to get angry, which then passes over like a storm cloud dissipating into mist before it can explode. My grandmother grabs Etta, hugs her, and rubs her cheeks at every opportunity. She promises to teach Etta everything about life in Schilpario—the cooking, the manners, and the family history. I have a feeling Etta will be a good student. Nonna wouldn’t have it any other way.
Giacomina wasn’t kidding when she told us that she has lots of plans. She brings out a calendar, and the days are full of trips and activities. She tells me when Etta leaves the room that these trips are especially for Etta, not for me. Papa wants me to rest. Only my father can see what I truly need (isn’t that true of all parents?).
Nonna treats my father like a king. He is the boss, his every whim indulged. Mafalda tells me Papa has lots of company, “town business,” men from Bergamo who come north with ideas for local trade. Something is always going on with Papa. He may disappear at a moment’s notice, without explanation. When he returns hours later, he’ll simply tell you he got caught up in a conversation. Mafalda tells me she has learned never to set the table until she sees his hat on the hook.
Papa takes us upstairs and shows Etta her own bedroom, a small, charming room with a balcony on the front and a sloped ceiling. A hand-painted yellow daybed piled high with goose-feather pillows (those poofs!) fits neatly under the eave. There is a long pillow shaped like a sausage and tied at the ends with ribbon like a hard candy. Etta holds it up and shows it to me. She’s never seen one like it before. There is a trunk, an old rocker with another blanket on it, and a vase full of edelweiss that climbs out of a small silver flute. Etta loves the walls, painted beige, with the dark brown beams on the ceiling.
“Mama, don’t the beams on the ceiling look like Little Debbie Snack Cakes?” She points overhead.
“They do.” I laugh.
“Everything in this house looks like something to eat. Like Hansel and Gretel’s house.”
“You know something? You’re right.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re so far north in Italy, it’s almost Switzerland. So you have that Tyrolean look to everything.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like a cuckoo clock. Gingerbread roof. Windows with shutters. Low ceilings to keep it warm and cozy in the cold. And round-topped doorways. Do you like it here?”
“I love it. I just wish Daddy was here.”
I unpack Etta’s things as she dresses for bed. She says her prayers and climbs under the covers. A cold breeze flaps the shutter open. I go to the window and look down on the narrow main street of Schilpario, lit only by the light that pours out of the houses in soft pools. An old man carrying a box shuffles up the street and disappears into a doorway. I can smell